Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

“Hi, it’s me,” said Janet. “You sound weird; what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Janet. What do you want?” My tone was a bit curter than usual. Perhaps the Lude was wearing off.

“Excuse me for fucking living!” said the sensitive one.

With a sigh: “What do you want, Janet? I’m having a bad time of it here.”

“I have Victor Wang on the phone, and he said it’s urgent. I told him that you were out for lunch, but he said he would hold on until you got back. I think he’s an asshole, if you want to know my opinion.”

Who—cares—about—your—fucking—opinion—Janet!“Yeah, well, put him through,” I said, smiling at my own reflection in a smoked-glass mirror behind the bar. I didn’t even look stoned. Or maybe I wasn’tstoned. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a Spanish Quaalude, examined it for a brief second, and then threw it down—dry.

I waited for the sound of the Depraved Chinaman’s panic-stricken voice. I had been shorting him into oblivion for almost a week now, and Duke Securities was up to its ears in stock. Yes, it was raining stock on Victor, and he was looking for my help, which I had every intention of giving him…sort of.

Just then came the voice of the Depraved Chinaman. He greeted me warmly and then began explaining how he owned more stock in this one particular company than there was physical stock. In fact, there were only 1.5 million shares in the entire float, and he was currently in possession of 1.6 million shares.

“…and the stock is still pouring in,” said the Talking Panda, “and I just don’t understand how that’s possible. I know Danny fucked me over, but even he’sgotta be out of stock now!” The Chinaman sounded thoroughly confused—unaware that I had a special account at Bear Stearns that allowed me to sell as much stock as my little heart desired, whether I owned it or not and whether I could borrow it or not. It was a special kind of account called a prime-brokerage account, which meant I could execute my trades through any brokerage firm in the world. There was no way the Chinaman could figure out who was selling.

“Calm down,” I said. “If you’re having capital problems, Vic, I’m here for you—a hundred percent. If you need to sell me three or four hundred thousand shares, just say the word.” That was about how much I was short right now, but I was short at higher prices, so if Victor was dumb enough to sell me the stock I would lock in a huge profit—and then turn around and reshort the stock again. Before I was done, the stock would be trading in pennies, and the Chinaman would be working on Mott Street, rolling wontons.

“Yeah,” replied the Talking Panda, “that would really help. I’m running tight on capital, and the stock is already below five dollars. I can’t afford it to drop anymore.”

“No problem, Vic. Just call Kenny Kock at Meyerson; he’ll buy fifty thousand share blocks from you every few hours.”

Victor thanked me, and then I hung up the phone and immediately dialed Kenny Kock, whose wife, Phyllis, had been the minister at my wedding. I said to Kenny, “The Depraved Chinaman is gonna be calling you every few hours to sell you fifty thousand share blocks of you know what”—I had already shared my plan with Kenny and he was well aware that I was waging a secret war against the Chinaman—“so go out and sell another fifty thousand shares now, before we actually buy any from him. And then keep selling fifty thousand share blocks every ninety minutes or so. Make the sales through blind accounts, so Victor won’t know where it’s coming from.”

“No problem,” replied Kenny Kock, who was head trader at M. H. Meyerson. I had just raised $10 million for his company in an IPO, so I had unlimited trading authority with him. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it,” I replied. “Just keep the sales small, in blocks of five or ten thousand. I want him to think it’s coming from random short-sellers.” Ahh, a lightbulb.“In fact, feel free to short as much as you want for your own account, because the stock’s going to fucking zero!”

I hung up the phone, then went downstairs to the bathroom to do a few hits of coke. There was no doubt that I deserved it after my Academy Award–winning performance with Victor. I didn’t feel a twinge of guilt over the rise and fall of Duke Securities. Over the last few months, he had fully lived up to his reputation as the Depraved Chinaman. He had been stealing Stratton brokers under the guise of them not wanting to work on Long Island anymore; he’d been selling back all the stock he owned of Stratton new issues and of course denying it; and he was openly bashing Danny, referring to him as a “bumbling buffoon” who was incapable of running Stratton.

So this was payback.

I was in and out of the bathroom in less than a minute, ingesting a quarter gram of coke in four enormous blasts. On my way back up the stairs, my heart was beating faster than a rabbit’s and my blood pressure was higher than a stroke victim’s, and I loved it. My mind was in overdrive and I had everything under control.

At the top of the stairs I found myself staring into the blimp-size chest of Mount Alfredo. “You have another phone call.”

“Really?” I said, trying to hold my jaw in one place.

“I think it’s your wife.”

Jesus! The Duchess! How does she do that? She always seems to know when I’m up to no good!Although, since I was always up to no good, the law of averages dictated that she would always be calling at the wrong time.

With my head hung low, I walked over to the bar and picked up the phone. I would just have to bluff it out. “Hello?” I said open-endedly.

“Hi, honey. Are you okay?”

Am I okay? Such a pointed question! Very sneaky, this Duchess of mine. “Yeah, I’m fine, sweetie. I’m having lunch with Steve. What’s up?”

The Duchess let out a deep sigh, then said, “I have bad news: Aunt Patricia just died.”

CHAPTER 28

IMMORTALIZING THE DEAD

Five days after Aunt Patricia’s death I was back in Switzerland, sitting in the wood-paneled living room of the Master Forger’s house. It was a cozy place, about twenty minutes outside Geneva, somewhere in the Swiss countryside. We had just finished Sunday dinner, and the Master Forger’s wife, who I’d come to think of as Mrs. Master Forger, had just loaded a beveled-glass coffee table with all sorts of fattening desserts—a fabulous array of Swiss chocolates, French pastries, rich puddings, and stinky cheeses.

I had arrived two hours ago, wanting to get right down to business, but the Master Forger and his wife had insisted on stuffing me with enough Swiss delicacies to choke a brood of Swiss mountain dogs. At this particular moment, the Forgers were sitting across from me, leaning back in a pair of leather reclining chairs. They had on matching gray sweat suits, which, to my eyes, made them look like matching Good Year blimps, but they were terrific hosts and had kind hearts to match.

Since Patricia’s stroke and subsequent passing, Roland and I had had only one brief phone conversation—from a pay phone at the Gold Coast Equestrian Center, as opposed to the Brookville Country Club, which seemed to be cursed. He had told me not to worry, that he would take care of it. But he had refused to get specific over the phone, which, given the nature of our dealings, was understandable.

Such was the reason I had flown to Switzerland last night—to sit down with him face-to-face and get to the bottom of things.

This time, however, I was smart.

Rather than taking a commercial flight and running the risk of getting arrested for stewardess-groping, I had flown over on a private jet, a plush Gulfstream III. Danny had flown over too, and he was waiting for me at the hotel, which is to say there was a ninety percent shot that he was getting scrummed by four Swiss hookers.

So here I was, with a smile on my face and frustration in my heart, as I watched Roland and his wife devour the dessert table.

Finally I ran out of patience, and said with great kindness, “You know, you guys are truly wonderful hosts. I can’t begin to thank you enough. But, unfortunately, I have to catch a flight back to the States, so if it’s okay, Roland, can we get down to business now?” I raised my eyebrows and smiled bashfully.

The Master Forger smiled broadly. “Of course, my friend.” He turned to his wife. “Why don’t you start preparing dinner, my darling?”

Dinner? I thought. Sweet Jesus!

She nodded eagerly and excused herself, at which point Roland reached over to the coffee table and grabbed two more chocolate-covered strawberries, numbers twenty-one and twenty-two, if memory served me correctly.

I took a deep breath and said, “In light of Patricia’s death, Roland, my biggest concern is how to get the money out of the UBP accounts. And, then, after that, what name do I use going forward? You know, one of the things that made me feel comfortable was being able to use Patricia’s name. I really trusted her. And I loved her too. Who would’ve thought she’d pass away so fast?” I shook my head and let out a deep sigh.

The Master Forger shrugged and said, “Patricia’s death is sad, of course, but there is no need to worry. The money has been moved to two other banks, neither of which has ever laid eyes on Patricia Mellor. All necessary documents have been created, and each of them bears Patricia’s original signature, or what would certainly pass for it. The documents have been backdated to the appropriate dates, of course, before her death. Your money is safe, my friend. Nothing has changed.”

“But whose name is it in?”

“Patricia Mellor’s, of course. There is no finer nominee than a dead person, my friend. No one at either of the new banks has seen Patricia Mellor, and the money is in the accounts of your bearer corporations, to which you hold the certificates.” The Master Forger shrugged, as if to say, “None of this is a big deal in the world of master forgery.” Then he said, “The only reason I moved the money out of Union Banc is because Saurel has fallen out of favor there. Better safe than sorry, I figured.”

Master Forger! Master Forger!He had turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Yes, the Master Forger was worth his considerable weight in gold, or close to it. Still, he had managed to turn death into… life!And that was just how Aunt Patricia would have wanted it. Her name would live on forever in the seedy underbelly of the Swiss banking system. In essence, the Master Forger had immortalized her. Dying the way she had…so fast…she had never gotten the chance to say good-bye. Oh, but I’d be willing to bet that one of her final thoughts was a tiny worry that her unexpected passing would cause her favorite nephew-in-law a problem.

The Master Forger leaned forward and picked up two more chocolate-covered strawberries, numbers twenty-three and twenty-four, and started chomping. I said, “You know, Roland, I was very fond of Saurel when I first met him, but I’m having second thoughts now. He speaks to Kaminsky all the time, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’d just as soon not do any more business with Union Banc, if that’s okay with you.”

“I will always abide by your decisions,” replied the Master Forger, “and in this case I think your decision is a wise one. But, either way, you need not worry about Jean Jacques Saurel. In spite of him being French, he still lives in Switzerland, and the United States government has no power over him. He will not betray you.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I replied, “but it’s not a matter of trust. I just don’t like people knowing my business, especially a guy like Kaminsky.” I smiled, trying to make light of the whole thing. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to reach Saurel for over a week now, but his office says he’s away on business.”

The Master Forger nodded. “Yes, he is in the United States, I believe. Seeing clients.”

“Really? I had no idea.” For some odd reason, I found that troubling, although I couldn’t have explained why.

Matter-of-factly, Roland said, “Yes, he has many clients there. I know a few, but not most of them.”

I nodded, dismissing my premonition as nothing more than worthless paranoia. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside his front door, holding a doggie bag of Swiss delicacies. The Master Forger and I exchanged a warm hug. “Au revoir!”I said, which was French for until I return.

In retrospect, good-byewould have been much more appropriate.

I finally walked through the door of our Westhampton Beach house on Friday morning, a little after ten. All I wanted was to go upstairs and hold Chandler in my arms and then make love to the Duchess and go to sleep. But I never got the chance. I was home for less than thirty seconds when the phone rang.

It was Gary Deluca. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” said the Drizzler, “but I’ve been trying to reach you for over a day. I thought you’d want to know that Gary Kaminsky got indicted yesterday morning. He’s sitting in a Miami jail, being held without bail.”

“Really?” I replied casually. I was in that state of extreme weariness where you can’t fully fathom the consequences of what you’re hearing, or at least not immediately. “What did he get indicted for?”

“Money laundering,” Deluca said tonelessly. “Does the name Jean Jacques Saurel ring a bell?”

That one got me—woke me right the fuck up! “Maybe…I think I met him when I was in Switzerland that time. Why?”

“Because he got indicted too,” said the Bearer of Bad News. “He’s sitting in jail with Kaminsky; he’s also being held without bail.”

CHAPTER 29

DESPERATE MEASURES

As I sat in my kitchen, plowing through the indictment, I found the whole thing mind-boggling. How many Swiss bankers were there? There had to be at least ten thousand of them in Geneva alone, and I had to choose the one who’d been dumb enough to get himself arrested on U.S. soil. What were the chances of that? Even more ironic was that he’d gotten himself indicted on a completely unrelated charge, something having to do with laundering drug money through offshore boat racing.

Meanwhile, it didn’t take the Duchess long to realize that something was terribly wrong, simply because I hadn’t pounced on her the moment I’d walked through the door. But without even trying, I knew I couldn’t get it up. I had resisted letting the word impotententer my thoughts, because it had so many negative connotations to a true man of power, which I still considered myself to be, in spite of falling victim to the reckless behavior of my Swiss banker. So I preferred to think of myself as being a limp dick or a spaghetti dick, which was far more palatable than the heinous Iword.

Either way, my penis had sought refuge inside my lower abdomen—shrinking to the size of a number-two pencil eraser—so I told the Duchess that I was sick and jet-lagged.

Later that evening I went into my bedroom closet and picked out my jail outfit. I chose a pair of faded Levi’s, a simple gray T-shirt with long sleeves (just in case it got cold inside the jail cell), and some old beat-up Reebok sneakers, which would reduce the chances of any seven-foot black men named Bubba or Jamal taking them from me. I had seen this happen in the movies, and they always took your sneakers before they raped you.

On Monday morning I decided not to go to the office—figuring it was more dignified to get arrested in the comfort of my own home rather than in the gloomy groin of Woodside, Queens. No, I would not allow them to arrest me at Steve Madden Shoes, where the Cobbler would view it as a perfect opportunity to fuck me out of stock options. The Maddenites would have to read about it on the front page of The New York Times,like the rest of the Free World. I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me taken away in handcuffs; that pleasure I would reserve for the Duchess.

Then something very odd happened—namely, nothing. There were no subpoenas issued, no unannounced visits from Agent Coleman, and no FBI raids at Stratton Oakmont. By Wednesday afternoon I found myself wondering what the fuck was going on. I’d been hiding out in Westhampton since Friday, pretending to be sick with a horrible case of diarrhea, which was basically true. Still, it now appeared that I was hiding for no good reason—perhaps I wasn’t on the verge of being arrested!

By Thursday, the silence was overpowering and I decided to risk a phone call to Gregory O’Connell, the lawyer whom Bo had recommended. He seemed like the perfect person to gather intelligence from, since he had been the one who reached out to the Eastern District and spoke to Sean O’Shea six months ago.

Obviously, I wouldn’t come clean with Greg O’Connell. After all, he was a lawyer, and no lawyer could be fully trusted, especially a criminal one, who couldn’t legally represent you if he became aware that you were actually guilty. It was an outlandish concept, of course, and everyone knew that defense lawyers made their livings defending the guilty. But part of the game was an unspoken understanding between a crook and his lawyer, wherein the crook would swear innocence to his lawyer and the lawyer would help the crook mold his bullshit story into a criminal defense that was consistent with the loose ends of his bullshit story.

So when I spoke to Greg O’Connell I lied through my teeth, explaining how I’d gotten caught up in someone else’s problem. I told him that my wife’s family in Britain shared the same banker as some corrupt offshore boat-racers, which was, of course, a complete coincidence. As I went about running this first version of my bullshit story to my future lawyer—telling him all about the lovely Aunt Patricia, still alive and kicking, because I felt it made my case stronger—I started seeing thin rays of hope.

My story was entirely believable, I thought, until Gregory O’Connell said in a somewhat skeptical tone: “Where did a sixty-five-year-old retired schoolteacher come up with the three million in cash to get the account started?”

Hmmm…a slight hole in my story; probably not a good sign, I thought. Nothing to do but play dumb. “How am I supposed to know?” I asked matter-of-factly. Yes, my tone had been just right. The Wolf could be a cool character when he had to be, even now, under the most dire circumstances. “Listen, Greg, Patricia—may she rest in peace—was always going on about how her ex-husband was the first test pilot for the Harrier jump jet. I bet the KGB would have paid a bloody fortune for some hard intel on that project; so maybe he was taking cash from the KGB? As I recall, it was pretty cutting-edge stuff back then. Very hush-hush.” Christ!What the fuck was I rambling about?

“Well, I’ll make a few calls and get a quick heads-up,” said my kind attorney. “I’m just confused about one thing, Jordan. Can you clarify whether your aunt Patricia is alive or dead? You just said she should rest in peace, but a couple of minutes ago you told me she lived in London. It would be helpful if I knew which of the two was accurate.”

I had clearly dropped the ball on that one. I would have to be more careful in the future about Patricia’s life status. No choice now but to bluff it out: “Well, that depends on which one bodes better for my situation. What makes my case stronger: life or death?”

“ Welllllllllllllll,it would be nice if she could come forward and say the money was hers, or, if not that, at least sign an affidavit attesting to that fact. So I would have to say that it would be better if she were alive.”

“Then she’s very much alive!” I shot back confidently, thinking of the Master Forger and his ability to create all sorts of fine documents. “But she likes her privacy, so you’re gonna have to settle for an affidavit. I think she’s in seclusion for a while, anyway.”

Nothing but silence now. After a good ten seconds my lawyer finally said, “Okay, then! I think I’ve got a pretty clear picture here. I’ll be back to you in a few hours.”

An hour later I did receive a call back from Greg O’Connell, who said, “There’s nothing new going on with your case. In fact, Sean O’Shea is leaving the office in a couple a weeks—joining the ranks of us humble defense attorneys—so he was unusually forthcoming with me. He said your whole case is still being driven by this Coleman character. No one in the U.S. Attorney’s Office is interested in it. And as far as this Swiss banker goes, there’s nothing going on with him in relation to your case, at least not now.” He then spent a few more minutes assuring me that I was pretty much in the clear.

Upon hanging up, I dropped those first two hedge words, prettyand much,and held on to the last three, in the clear, like a dog with a bone. I still needed to speak to the Master Forger, though, to gauge the full extent of the damage. If he were sitting in a U.S. jail, like Saurel—or if he were in a Swiss jail, pending extradition to the United States—then I was still in deep shit. But if he wasn’t—if he was in the clear too, still able to practice the little-known art of master forgery—then perhaps everything might work out for me.

I called the Master Forger from a pay phone at Starr Boggs restaurant. With bated breath, I listened to the troubling story of how the Swiss police had raided his office and seized boxes full of records. Yes, he was wanted for questioning in the United States, but, no, he was not officially under indictment, at least not to his knowledge. He assured me that under no circumstances would the Swiss government turn him over to the United States, although he could no longer safely travel outside Switzerland, lest he be picked up by Interpol on an international arrest warrant.

Finally, the subject turned to the Patricia Mellor accounts, and the Master Forger said, “Some of the records were seized, but not because they were specifically targeted; they were just scooped up with all the others. But have no fear, my friend, there is nothing in my records indicating that the money doesn’t belong to Patricia Mellor. However, since she is no longer alive I would suggest that you stop doing business in those accounts until this whole thing blows over.”

“That goes without saying,” I replied, hanging on to the two words blowand over,“but my main concern isn’t so much having access to the money. What I’m really worried about is Saurel cooperating with the U.S. government and saying that the accounts are mine. That would cause me a big problem, Roland. Perhaps if there were some documents that showed the money was clearly Patricia’s, it would make a big difference.”

The Master Forger replied, “But those documents already exist, my friend. Perhaps if you could give me a list of what documents might help you and what dates Patricia signed them on, I would be able to dig them out of my files for you.”

Master Forger! Master Forger!He was still with me. “I understand, Roland, and I’ll let you know if I need anything. But for right now, I guess it just makes the most sense to sit back and wait and hope for the best.”

The Master Forger said, “As usual, we are in agreement. But until this investigation runs its course, you should steer clear of Switzerland. Remember, though, that I am always with you, my friend, and I will do everything in my power to protect you and your family.”

As I hung up the phone, I knew my fortunes would rise and fall with Saurel. Yet I also knew that I had to get on with my life. I had to take a deep breath and suck it up. I had to get back to work, and I had to start making love to the Duchess again. I had to stop jumping out of my skin every time the phone rang or there was an unexpected knock at the front door.

And that was what I did. I reimmersed myself in the very insanity of things. I plunged into the building of Steve Madden Shoes and kept advising my brokerage firms from behind the scenes. I did my best to be a loyal husband to the Duchess and a good father to Chandler, in spite of my drug addiction. And as the months passed, my drug habit continued to escalate.

As always, I was quick to rationalize it, though—to remind myself that I was young and rich, with a gorgeous wife and a perfect baby daughter. Everyone wanted a life like mine, didn’t they? What better life was there than Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional?

Either way, by mid-October, there were no repercussions from Saurel’s arrest, and I breathed a final sigh of relief. Obviously, he had chosen not to cooperate and the Wolf of Wall Street had dodged another bullet. Chandler had taken her first steps and was now doing the Frankenstein walk—sticking her arms out in front of her, keeping her knees locked, and walking around stiffly. And, of course, the baby genius was talking up a storm. By her first birthday, in fact, she had been speaking full sentences—an astonishing achievement for an infant—and I had no doubt that she was well on the road to a Nobel Prize or at least a Fields Medal for advanced mathematics.

Meanwhile, Steve Madden Shoes and Stratton Oakmont were on divergent paths—with Steve Madden growing by leaps and bounds and Stratton Oakmont falling victim to ill-conceived trading strategies and a new wave of regulatory pressure, both of which Danny had brought upon himself. The latter was a result of Danny’s refusal to abide by one of the terms of the SEC settlement—namely, for Stratton to hire an independent auditor of the SEC’s choosing, who would review the firm’s business practices and then make recommendations. One of these recommendations was for the firm to install a taping system to capture the Strattonites’ phone conversations with their clients. Danny refused to comply, and the SEC ran into federal court and secured an injunction ordering the firm to install the taping system.

Danny finally capitulated—lest he be thrown in jail for contempt of court—but now Stratton had an injunction against it, which meant all fifty states had the right to suspend Stratton’s license, which, of course, they slowly began doing. It was hard to imagine that after everything Stratton had survived, its demise would be tied to the refusal to install a taping system, which, in the end, hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. Within days Strattonites had figured out how to circumvent the system—saying only compliant things over Stratton’s phone lines and then picking up their cell phones when they felt like going to the dark side. But the handwriting was now on the wall: Stratton’s days were numbered.

The owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker expressed their mutual desire to go their separate ways, to no longer do business with Stratton. Of course, it was done with the utmost respect, and they each offered to pay me a $1 million tribute on each new issue they took public. It amounted to somewhere around $12 million a year, so I gladly accepted. I was also receiving a million dollars a month from Stratton, pursuant to my noncompete agreement, as well as another four or five million every few months as I cashed out of large blocks of inside stock (144 stock) in the companies Stratton was taking public.

Still, I considered it a mere drop in the bucket compared to what I could make with Steve Madden Shoes, which seemed to be on a rocket ship to the stars. It reminded me of the early days of Stratton…those headydays…those glorydays…in the late eighties and early nineties, when the first wave of Strattonites had taken to the phones and the insanity that had come to define my life had yet to take hold. So Stratton was my past, and Steve Madden was my future.

At this particular moment I was sitting across from Steve, who was leaning back in his seat defensively as the Spitter shot spit streams at him. Every so often, Steve would give me a look that so much as said, “The Spitter is relentless when it comes to ordering boots, especially since the boot season is almost over!”

The Drizzler was also in the room, and he was drizzling on us at every opportunity. Right now, though, the Spitter had center stage. “What’s the big fucking deal about ordering these boots?” spat the Spitter. Because this morning’s debate involved a word beginning with the letter B,he was doing an inordinate amount of spitting. In fact, each time the Spitter uttered the word boot,I could see the Cobbler cringe visibly. And now he turned his wrath on me. “Listen, JB, this boot”– oh, Jesus!—“is so fucking hot there’s no way we can lose. You gotta trust me on this. I’m telling you, not a single pair will get marked down.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “No more boots, John. We’re done with fucking boots. And it’s got nothing to do with whether or not they’ll get marked down. It’s about running our business with a certain discipline. We’re going in eighteen different directions at the same time, and we need to stick to our business plan. We’ve got three new stores opening; we’re rolling out dozens of in-store shops; we’re about to pull the trigger on the unbranded business. There’s only so much cash to go around. We gotta stay lean and mean right now; no huge risks this late in the season, especially with some leopard-skin fucking boot.”

The Drizzler took this opening to do some more drizzling. “I agree with you, and that’s exactly why it makes so much sense to move our shipping department down to Flor—”

The Spitter cut the Drizzler right off, using a word with a double– P,the Spitter’s second-deadliest consonant. “That’s fucking preposterous!” spat the Spitter. “That whole fucking concept! I have no time for this shit. I gotta get some fucking shoes made or else we’ll be out of fucking business!” With that, the Spitter walked out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

Just then the phone beeped. “Todd Garret’s on line one.”

I rolled my eyes at Steve, then I said, “Tell him I’m in a meeting, Janet. I’ll call him back.”

Janet, the insolent one: “ ObviouslyI told him you’re in a meeting, but he said it’s urgent. He needs to speak to you right now.”

I shook my head in disgust and let out a great sigh. What could be so important with Todd Garret—unless, of course, he had managed to get his hands on some Real Reals! I picked up the phone and said in a friendly yet somewhat annoyed tone, “Hey, Todd, what’s going on, buddy?”