Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

CHAPTER 27

ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG

June 1994

It seemed only appropriate that the offices of Steve Madden Shoes would be shaped like a shoe box. Actually, there were two shoe boxes: the one in the rear, which was thirty by sixty feet and housed a tiny factory, consisting of a handful of antiquated shoe-making machines manned by a dozen or so Spanish-speaking employees, all of whom shared a single green card and none of whom paid a dollar in taxes; and the shoe box in front, which was of similar size and housed the company’s office staff, most of whom were girls in their late teens or early twenties, and all of whom sported the sort of multicolored hair and visible body piercings that so much as said, “Yes, I’ve also had my clit pierced, as well as both my nipples!”

And while these young female space cadets pranced around the office, teetering atop six-inch platform shoes—all bearing the Steve Madden label—there was hip-hop music blasting and cannabis incense burning and a dozen telephones ringing and countless new shoe styles in the designing and a smattering of traditionally garbed religious leaders performing ritual cleansings, and somehow it all seemed to work. The only thing missing was an authentic witch doctor performing voodoo, although I was certain that would come next.

Anyway, at the front of the aforementioned front shoe box was an even smaller shoe box—this one perhaps ten by twenty feet—which was where Steve, aka, the Cobbler, kept his office. And for the last four weeks, since mid-May, it was where I’d kept my office too. The Cobbler and I sat on opposite sides of a black Formica desk, which, like everything else in this place, was covered in shoes.

At this particular moment I was wondering why every teenage girl in America was going crazy over these shoes that, to me, were hideous-looking. Whatever the case, there was no denying that we were a product-driven company. There were shoes everywhere, especially in Steve’s office, where they were scattered about the floor, hanging from the ceiling, and piled upon cheap folding tables and white Formica shelves, which made them seem that much uglier.

And there were more shoes on the windowsill behind Steve, piled so high I could barely see out that gloomy window into the gloomy parking lot, which, admittedly, was well suited to this gloomy part of Queens, namely, the gloomy groin of Woodside. We were about two miles east of Manhattan, where a man of my “somewhat” refined tastes was much better suited.

Nevertheless, money was money, and for some inexplicable reason this tiny company was on the verge of making boatloads of it. So this was where Janet and I would hang our hats for the foreseeable future. She was just down the hall, in a private office. And, yes, she, too, was surrounded by shoes.

It was Monday morning, and the Cobbler and I were sitting in our shoe-infested office, sipping coffee. Accompanying us was Gary Deluca, who, as of today, was the company’s new Operations Manager, replacing no one in particular, because up until now the company had been running on autopilot. Also in the room was John Basile, the company’s longtime Production Manager, who doubled as the company’s Head of Sales.

It was rather ironic, I thought, but dressed the way we were you would have never guessed that we were in the process of building the world’s largest women’s shoe company. We were a ragtag lot—I was dressed like a golf pro; Steve was dressed like a bum; Gary was dressed like a conservative businessman; and John Basile, a mid-thirties chubster, with a bulbous nose, bald skull, and thick, fleshy features, was dressed like a pizza delivery boy, wearing faded blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt. I absolutely adored John. He was a true talent, and despite being Catholic, he was blessed with a true Protestant work ethic—whatever thatmeant—and he was a true seer of the big picture.

But, alas, he was also a world-class spitter, which meant that whenever he was excited—or simply trying to make a point—you’d best be wearing a raincoat or be at least thirty degrees in either direction of his mouth. And, typically, his saliva was accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures, most of which had to do with the Cobbler being a fucking pussy for not wanting to place large-enough orders with the factories.

Right now he was in the midst of making that very point. “I mean, how the fuck are we gonna grow this company, Steve, if you won’t let me place orders for the fucking shoes? Come on, Jordan, you know what I’m talking about! How the fuck can I build”– Shit!The Spitter’s Bs were his most deadly consonant, and he just got me in the forehead!—“relationships with the department stores when I don’t have product to deliver?” The Spitter paused and looked at me quizzically, wondering why I had just put my head in my hands and seemed to be smelling my own palms.

I rose from my chair and walked behind Steve, in search of spit protection, and said, “The truth is I see bothyour points. It’s no different than the brokerage business: Steve wants to play things conservative and not hold a lot of shoes in inventory, and you want to step up to the plate and swing for the fences so you have product to sell. I got it. And the answer is—you’re both right and both wrong, depending on if the shoes sell through or not. If they do, you’re a genius, and we’ll make a ton of money, but if you’re wrong—and they don’t sell through—we’re fucked, and we’re sitting on a worthless pile of shit that we can’t sell to anyone.”

“That’s not true,” argued the Spitter. “We can always dump the shoes to Marshall’s or TJ Maxx or one of the other closeout chains.”

Steve swiveled his chair around and said to me, “John’s not giving you the whole picture. Yeah, we can sell all the shoes we want to people like Marshall’s and TJ Maxx; but then we destroy our business with the department stores and specialty shops.” Now Steve looked the Spitter directly in the eye and said, “We need to protect the brand, John. You just don’t get it.”

The Spitter said, “Of course I get it. But we also have to growthe brand, and we can’t grow the brand if our customers go to the department stores and can’t find our shoes.” Now the Spitter narrowed his eyes in contempt and stared the Cobbler down. “And if I leave this up to you,” spat the Spitter, “we’ll be a mom-and-pop operation forever. Fucking pikers, nothing more.” He turned directly toward me, so I braced myself. “I’ll tell ya, Jordan”—his spitball missed me by ten degrees—“thank God you’re here, because this guy is such a fucking pussy, and I’m sick of pussyfooting around. We got the hottest shoes in the country, and I can’t fill the fucking orders because this guy won’t let me manufacture product. I’ll tell you, it’s a Greek fucking tragedy, nothing less.”

Steve said, “John, do you know how many companies have gone out of business by operating the way you want? We need to err on the side of caution ’til we have more company-owned stores; then we can take our markdowns in-house,without bastardizing the brand. There’s no way you can convince me otherwise.”

The Spitter reluctantly took his seat. I had to admit I was more than impressed with Steve’s performance, not just today but over the last four weeks. Yes, Steve was a Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing too. Despite his outward appearance, he was a born leader—blessed with all the natural gifts, especially the ability to inspire loyalty among his employees. In fact, like at Stratton, everyone at Steve Madden prided themselves on being part of a cult. The Cobbler’s biggest problem, though, was his refusal to delegate authority—hence, his nickname, the Cobbler. There was a part of Steve that was still a little old-fashioned shoemaker, which, in truth, was both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. The company was doing only $5 million right now, so he could still get away with it. But that was about to change. It had been only a year ago that the company was doing a million. We were shooting for $20 million next year.

This was where I’d been focusing my attention over the last four weeks. Hiring Gary Deluca was only the first step. My goal was for the company to stand on its own two feet, without either of us. So Steve and I needed to build a first-class design team and operational staff. But too much too fast would be a recipe for disaster. Besides, first we needed to gain control of the operations, which were a complete disaster.

I turned to Gary and said, “I know it’s your first day, but I’m interested to hear what you think. Give me your opinion, and be honest, whether you agree with Steve or not.”

With that, the Spitter and the Cobbler both turned to our company’s new Director of Operations. He said, “Well, I see both your points”– ahhh, well done, very diplomatic—“but my take on this is more from an operational perspective than anything else. In fact, much of this, I would say, is a question of gross margin—after markdowns, of course—and how it relates to the number of times a year we plan on turning our inventory.” Gary nodded his head, impressed with his own sagacity. “There are complex issues here relating to shipping modalities, inasmuch as how and where we plan to take delivery of our goods—how many hubs and spokes, so to speak. Of course, I’ll need to do an in-depth analysis of our true cost of goods sold, including duty and freight, which shouldn’t be overlooked. I intend to do that right away and then put together a detailed spreadsheet, which we can review at the next board meeting, which should be sometime in…”

Oh, Jesus H. Christ!He was drizzling on us! I had no tolerance for operational people and all the meaningless bullshit they seemed to hold so dear. Details! Details!I looked at Steve. He was even less tolerant than me in these matters, and he was now visibly sagging. His chin was just above his collarbone and his mouth was agape.

“…which more than anything else,” continued the Drizzler, “is a function of the efficiency of our pick, pack, and ship operation. The key there is—”

Just then the Spitter rose from his seat and cut the Drizzler off. “What the fuck are you talking about?” spat the Spitter. “I just wanna sell some fucking shoes! I couldn’t give two fucks about how you get them to the stores! And I don’t need any fucking spreadsheet to tell me that if I’m making shoes for twelve bucks and selling them for thirty bucks then I’m making fucking money! Jesus!” Now the Spitter headed directly toward me with two giant steps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Steve smirking.

The Spitter said, “Jordan, you gotta make a decision here. You’re the only one Steve will listen to.” He paused and wiped a gob of drool off his round chin. “I want to grow this company for you, but my hands are being tied behind my—”

“All right!” I said, cutting off the Spitter. I turned to the Drizzler and said, “Go ask Janet to get Elliot Lavigne on the phone. He’s in the Hamptons.” I turned to Steve and said, “I want Elliot’s take on this before we make a decision. I know there’s an answer to this, and if anyone has it it’s Elliot.” And, besides, I thought, while we’re waiting for Janet to put him through, I’ll have a chance to tell my heroic story again.

Alas, I never got the chance. The Drizzler was back in less than twenty seconds, and a moment later the phone beeped. “Hey, buddy, how ya doing?” said Elliot Lavigne through the speakerphone.

“I’m good,” replied his hero. “But, more important, how are youdoing, and how are your ribs feeling?”

“I’m recovering,” replied Elliot, who’d been sober for almost six weeks now, which was a world record for him. “Hopefully, I’ll be back to work in a few weeks. What’s going on?”

I quickly plunged into the details, careful not to tell him whose opinion stood where—so as not to prejudice his decision. Ironically, it made no difference. By the time I was done, he already knew. “The truth is,” said the sober Elliot, “this whole idea of not being able to sell your brand to discounters is more hype than reality. Every major brand blows out their dead inventory through the discount chains. It’s a must. Walk into any TJ Maxx or any Marshall’s and you’ll see all the big labels—Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, and Perry Ellis too. You can’t exist without the discounters, unless you have your own outlet stores, which is still premature for you guys. But you have to be careful when you deal with them. You sell them in blips, because if the department stores know you’re there on a consistent basis, you’re gonna have problems.”

“Anyway,” continued the recuperating Garmento, “John’s right for the most part; you can’t grow unless you have product to sell. See, the department stores will never take you seriously unless they know you can deliver the goods. And as hot as you guys are right now—and I know you’re hot—the buyers won’t step up to the plate unless they’re convinced you can deliver the shoes, and right now your reputation is that you can’t. You gotta get your act together on that quick. I know it’s one of the reasons why you hired Gary, and it’s definitely a step in the right direction.”

I looked at Gary to see if he was beaming, but he wasn’t. His face was still set in stone, impassive. They were a weird bunch, these operations guys; they were steady Eddies, hitting singles all day long but never swinging for the fences. The thought of being one was enough to make me want to fall on my own sword.

Elliot plowed on: “Anyway, assuming you get your operations in order, John is still only half right. Steve has to consider the bigger picture here, which is to protect the brand. Don’t kid yourselves, guys—at the end of the day, the brand is everything. If you fuck that up you’re done. I can give you a dozen examples of brands that were red-hot once and then fucked up their name by selling to the discounters. Now you find their labels in a flea market.” Elliot paused, letting his words sink in.

I looked at Steve and he was slumped over in his chair—the mere thought of the name Steve Madden—his own name!—being synonymous with the words fleaand markethad literally knocked the wind out of him. I looked at the Spitter; he was leaning forward in his seat, as if he were preparing to jump through the phone line to strangle Elliot. Then I looked at Gary, who was still impassive.

Elliot went on: “Your ultimate goal should be to license the Steve Madden name. Then you can sit back and collect royalties. The first thing should be belts and handbags, then move to sportswear and denim and sunglasses, and then everything else…your last stop being fragrance, where you can really hit it out of the park. And you’ll never get there if John has his way in everything. No offense, John, but it’s just the nature of the beast. You’re thinking in terms of today, when you’re red-hot. Eventually you’ll cool down, though, and when you least expect it something won’t sell through, and you’ll wind up knee-deep in some retarded-looking shoe that no one outside a trailer park will wear. Then you’ll be forced to go to the dark side and put the shoes where they don’t belong.”

At this point Steve interrupted. “That’s exactly my point, Elliot. If I let John have his way, we’ll end up with a warehouse full of shoes and no money in the bank. I’m not gonna be the next Sam and Libby.”

Elliot laughed. “It’s simple. Without knowing everything about your business, I’m willing to bet that the bulk of your volume comes from a handful of shoes—three or four of them, probably—and they’re not the ridiculous-looking ones with the nine-inch heels and the metal spikes and zippers. Those shoes are what you guys create your mystique with—that you’re young and hip and all that shit. But the reality is you probably sell hardly any of those facocktashoes, except maybe to some of the freaks down in Greenwich Village and in your own office. What you’re really making your money on are your basic shoes—the staples, like the Mary Lou and the Marilyn, right?”

I looked at Steve and the Spitter, both of whom had their heads cocked to the side and their lips pursed and their eyes wide open. After a few seconds of silence, Elliot said, “I’ll take that lack of response as a yes?”

Steve said, “You’re right, Elliot. We don’t sell too many of the crazy shoes, but those are the ones we’re known for.”

“That’s exactly the way it should be,” said Elliot, who six weeks ago couldn’t tie two words together without drooling. “It’s no different than those wild couture outfits you see on the runways in Milan. No one really buys that crap, but that’s what creates the image. So the answer is to only step up to the plate with the conservative items—and only in the hottest colors. I’m talking about the shoes you know you’re going to blow out, the ones you sell season after season. But under no circumstance do you risk serious money on a funky shoe, even if you guys are personally in love with it—and even if it’s getting good reads in your test markets. Always err on the side of caution with anything that’s not a proven winner. If something really takes off and you’re short inventory, it’ll make it that much hotter. Since you guys manufacture in Mexico, you can still beat the competition on the reorder.

“And on the rare occasions when you swing for the fences and you’re wrong—then you dump your shoes to the discounters and take your loss right away. Your first loss is your best loss in this business. The last thing you want is a warehouse full of dead inventory. You also need to start partnering with the department stores. Let them know you’ll stand behind your shoes, that if they don’tsell you’ll give them markdown money. Then they can put your shoes on sale and still maintain their margins. Do that, and you’ll find the department stores closing out your garbage for you.

“On a separate note, you should be rolling out Steve Madden stores as fast as possible. You guys are manufacturers, so you get the wholesale markup andthe retail markup. And it’s also the best way to move your dead inventory—putting things on sale in your own stores. Then you don’t risk fucking up the brand. And that’s the answer,” said Elliot Lavigne. “You guys are heading for the stars. Just follow that program and you can’t lose.”

I looked around the room, and everyone nodded.

And why wouldn’t they? Who could argue with such logic? It was sad, I thought, that a guy as sharp as Elliot would throw his life away to drugs. Seriously. There was nothing sadder than wasted talent, was there? Oh, Elliot was sober now, but I had no doubt that as soon as his ribs were healed and he was back in the swing of things, his addiction would come roaring back. That was the problem with someone like Elliot, who refused to accept the fact that drugs had gotten the best of them.

Anyway, I had enough on my own plate to keep five people occupied. I was still in the process of crushing Victor Wang; I still had to deal with Danny, who was running amok at Stratton; I still had issues with Gary Kaminsky, who, as it turned out, spent half his day on the phone with Saurel, in Switzerland; and I still had Special Agent Gregory Coleman running around with subpoenas. So to focus on Elliot’s sobriety was a waste of my time.

I had pressing issues to discuss with Steve over lunch, and then I had to catch a helicopter out to the Hamptons to see the Duchess and Chandler. Under those circumstances, I would have to say that the appropriate dosage of methaqualone should be small, perhaps 250 milligrams, or one Lude, taken now, thirty minutes before lunch, which would give me just the right buzz to enjoy my pasta while allowing me to escape detection at the hands of the Cobbler, who’d been sober for almost five years. A killjoy.

Then I would snort a few lines of coke just before I got behind the helicopter’s controls. After all, I always flew best when I was on my down from Ludes but still crawling out of my own skin in a state of coke-induced paranoia.

Lunch on a single Lude! An innocuous buzz while dining in the armpit of Corona, Queens. Like most formerly Italian neighborhoods, there was still one Mafioso stronghold that remained, and in each stronghold there was always one Italian restaurant that was owned by the local “man of most respect.” And, without fail, it had the best Italian food for miles around. In Harlem, it was Rao’s. In Corona, it was Park Side Restaurant.

Unlike Rao’s, Park Side was a large, high-volume operation. It was decorated beautifully with a couple of tons of burled walnut, smoked mirrors, carved glass, flowering plants, and perfectly trimmed ferns. The bar was a Mob scene (literally!), and the food was to die for (literally!).

Park Side was owned by Tony Federici, a true man of respect. Not surprisingly, he was a reputed this and a reputed that—but in my book he was nothing more than the best host in the five boroughs of New York City. Typically, you could find Tony walking around his restaurant in a chef’s apron, holding a jug of homemade Chianti in one hand and a tray of roasted peppers in the other.

The Cobbler and I were sitting at a table in the fabulous garden section. At this particular moment we were talking about him replacing Elliot as my primary rathole.

“Fundamentally, I have no problem with it,” I was saying to the greedy Cobbler, who had become obsessed with the rathole game, “but I have two concerns. The first is how the fuck are you gonna kick me back all the cash without leaving a paper trail? It’s a lot of fucking money, Cobbler. And my second concern is that you’re already Monroe Parker’s rathole, and I don’t want to be stepping on their toes.” I shook my head for effect. “A rathole is a very personal thing, so I’d first have to clear it with Alan and Brian.”

The Cobbler nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, and as far as kicking back the cash goes, it won’t be a problem. I can do it through our Steve Madden stock. Whenever I sell stock I’m holding for you, I’ll just overpay you on it. On paper I owe you over four million dollars, so I have a legitimate reason to be writing you checks. And at the end of the day, the numbers will be so big, nobody’s gonna be able to keep track of it anyway, right?”

Not such a bad idea, I thought, especially if we drew up some sort of consulting agreement where Steve would pay me money each year for helping him run Steve Madden Shoes. But the fact that Steve was ratholing 1.5 million shares of Steve Madden stock for me raised a more troubling issue—namely, that Steve owned hardly any stock in his own company. It was something that needed to be rectified now, lest it create problems down the road when Steve realized that I was making tens of millions and he was making only millions. So I smiled and said, “We’ll work something out with the rathole. I think using the Madden stock is a pretty good idea, at least to start, but it leads to a more important subject, which is your lack of ownership in the company. We need to get you more stock before things really start to crank. You have only three hundred thousand shares, right?”

Steve nodded. “And a few thousand stock options; that’s about it.”

“Okay, well, as your general scheming partner, I strongly advise you to grant yourself a million stock options at a fifty percent discount to the current market. It’s the righteous thing to do, especially since you and I are gonna be splitting them fifty–fifty, which is the most righteous part of all. We’ll keep them in your name so NASDAQ won’t flip a lid, and when it comes time to sell, you’ll just kick me back along with everything else.”

The Master Cobbler smiled and extended his hand toward me. “I can’t thank you enough, JB. I never said anything, but it’s definitely been bothering me a bit. I knew that when the time came, though, we would work it out.” Then he rose from his chair, as did I, and we exchanged a Mafia-style hug, which in this restaurant didn’t elicit a shrug from a single patron.

As we both retook our seats, Steve said, “But why don’t we make it a million-five, instead? Seven-fifty for each of us.”

“No,” I said, with a pleasant tingle in my ten fingertips, “I don’t like working with odd numbers. It’s bad luck. Let’s just round it off to two million. Besides, it’ll be easier to keep track of—a million options for each of us.”

“Done!” agreed the Cobbler. “And since you’re the company’s largest shareholder, we should bypass the hassle of a board meeting. It’s all strictly legitimate, right?”

“Well,” I replied, scratching my chin thoughtfully, “as your general scheming partner, I strongly advise you to refrain from using this word legitimate,except under the most dire circumstances. But since you already let the genie out of the bottle, I’ll go out on a limb here and give this transaction a hearty two thumbs-up. Besides, this is something we mustdo, so it’s not our fault. We’ll chalk it up to a sense of fair play.”

“I agree,” said the happy Cobbler. “It’s beyond our control. There are strange forces at work here that are far more powerful than a humble Cobbler or a not-so-humble Wolf of Wall Street.”

“I like the way you think, Cobbler. Call the lawyers when you get back to the office and tell them to backdate the minutes from the last board meeting. If they give you a hard time, tell them to call me.”

“No problem,” said the Cobbler, who had just increased his stake by four hundred percent. Then he lowered his voice and changed his tone to one of a conspirator. “Listen—if you want, you don’t even have to tell Danny about this.” He smiled devilishly. “If he asks me, I’ll tell him they’re all mine.”

Christ! What a fucking backstabber this guy was!Could he possibly think this made me respect him more? But I kept that thought to myself. “I’ll tell you the truth,” I said, “I’m not happy with the way Danny’s running things right now. He’s like the Spitter when it comes to holding inventory. When I left Stratton, the firm was short a couple million dollars of stock. Now it’s basically flat. It’s a real fucking shame.” I shook my head gravely. “Anyway, Stratton’s making more money nowthan ever, which is what happens when you trade long. But now Danny’s vulnerable.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Whatever. I’m done worrying about it. Regardless, I still can’t cut him out.”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t take what I said the wrong way”– Oh, really? How else am I supposed to take it, you fucking backstabber!—“but it’s just that you and I are gonna spend the next five years building this company. You know, Brian and Alan aren’t thrilled with Danny either. And neither are Loewenstern and Bronson. At least that’s what I hear through the grapevine. You’re gonna have to let those guys go their separate ways eventually. They’ll always be loyal to you, but they want to do their own deals, away from Danny.”

Just then I saw Tony Federici heading our way, wearing his white chef’s ensemble and carrying a jug of Chianti. So I rose to greet him. “Hey, Tony, how are you?” Kill anyone lately? I thought.

I motioned to Steve and said, “Tony, I’d like you to meet a very close friend of mine: This is Steve Madden. We’re partners in a shoe company over in Woodside.”

Steve immediately rose from his chair, and with a hearty smile he said, “Hey, Tough Tony! Tony Corona! I’ve heard of you! I mean, I grew up out on Long Island, but even there everyone’s heard of Tough Tony! It’s a pleasure to meet you!” With that, Steve extended his hand to his newfound friend, Tough Tony Corona, who despised that nickname immensely.

Well, there are many ways to go, I figured, and this was one of them. Perhaps Tony would be kind and allow Steve the honor of keeping his testicles attached to his body, so he could be buried with them.

I watched the Master Cobbler’s bony, pale hand hover suspensefully in the air, waiting to be grasped by a return hand, which was nowhere in sight. Then I looked at Tony’s face. He seemed to be smiling, although this particular smile was one a sadistic warden would offer a death-row inmate as he asked, “What would you like for your last meal?”

Finally, Tony did extend his hand, albeit limply. “Yeah, nice to meet ya,” said a toneless Tony. His dark brown eyes were like two death rays.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Tough Tony,” said the increasingly dead Cobbler. “I’ve heard only the best things about this restaurant, and I plan on coming here a lot. If I call for a reservation, I’ll just tell them I’m a friend of Tough Tony Corona! Okay?”

“Okay, then!”I said with a nervous smile. “I think we’d better get back to business, Steve.” Then I turned to Tony and said, “Thanks for coming over to say hello. It was good seeing you, as always.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head, as if to say, “Don’t mind my friend; he has Tourette’s syndrome.”

Tony twitched his nose two times and then went on his way, probably down the street to the local social club, where he would sip an espresso while ordering Steve’s execution.

I sat down and shook my head gravely. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Cobbler? No one calls him Tough Tony! Nobody! I mean, you’re a fucking dead man.”

“What are you talking about?” replied the clueless Cobbler. “The guy loved me, no?” Then he cocked his head to the side nervously and added, “Or am I totally off base here?”

Just then, Alfredo, the mountainous maître d’, walked over. “You have a phone call,” said Mount Alfredo. “You can take it up front by the bar. It’s quiet over there. There’s no one around.” He smiled.

Uh-oh!They were holding me responsible for my friend’s actions! This was serious Mafia stuff, impossible for a Jew like me to fully grasp the nuances of. In essence, though, by bringing the Cobbler into this restaurant I had vouched for him and would now suffer the consequences for his insolence. I smiled at Mount Alfredo and thanked him. Then I excused myself from the table and headed for the bar—or, perhaps, the meat freezer.

When I reached the phone I paused and looked around. “Hello?” I said skeptically, expecting to hear nothing but a dial tone and then feel a garrote around my neck.