Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

CHAPTER 32

MORE JOY

September 1995

(Five Weeks Later)

It was appropriate, I thought, for the Cobbler to be sitting on his side of the desk and wearing the proud expression of a man who had the world by the balls. For the calendar year 1996, we were shooting for $50 million in revenue, and each division was hitting stride simultaneously. Our department-store business was off the charts; our private-label business was booming; our licensing of the Steve Madden name was way ahead of schedule; and our retail stores, of which there were now nine, were making money hand over fist. On Saturdays and Sundays, in fact, there were lines out the doors, and Steve was becoming a celebrity of sorts, the shoe designer of first choice to an entire generation of teenage girls.

What wasn’tappropriate was what he said to me next: “I think it’s time to move out the Drizzler. If we get rid of him now, we can still take his stock options from him.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Anyway, if he works for us much longer, his options are gonna vest, and then we’re fucked.”

I shook my head in amazement. The true irony was that the amount of stock options the Drizzler owned was so minuscule that it didn’t matter to anyone, except, of course, the Drizzler, who would be rocked if his stock options were to simply vanish into thin air—a victim of the fine print in his employment contract.

I said, “You can’t do that to Gary; the guy has worked his ass off for us for over a year now. I’m the first to admit he’s a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but, still, you just don’t do that to one of your employees, especially one like Gary, who’s been a hundred ten percent loyal. It’s fucking wrong, Steve. And just imagine the signal it sends to everyone else. It’s the sort of shit that destroys a company’s morale. Everyone out there takes pride in their stock options; they make them feel like owners; they feel secure about their futures.”

I took a weary breath, then added, “If we’re gonna replace him, that’s fine, but we give him what he’s due, and a little bit extra, if anything. That’s the only way to do it, Steve. Anything else is bad business.”

The Cobbler shrugged. “I don’t get it. You’re the first one to make fun of the Drizzler, so why the fuck would you care if I take his stock options?”

I shook my head in frustration. “First of all, I only make fun of him so the day passes with a few laughs. I make fun of everyone, Steve, including myself and including you. But I actually love the Drizzler; he’s a good man, and he’s loyal as hell.” I let out a great sigh. “Listen, I’m not denying that Gary might’ve outlived his usefulness, and maybe it istime to replace him with someone with industry experience, someone with a pedigree who can talk to Wall Street—but we can’t take away his stock options. He came to work for us when we were still shipping shoes out of the back of the factory. And as slow as he moves, he’s still done a lot of good things for the company. It’s bad karma to fuck him.”

The Cobbler sighed. “I think your loyalty is misplaced. He’d fuck us in two seconds if he had the chance. I’ve—”

Cutting off the Cobbler, I said, “No, Steve, he wouldn’t fuck us. Gary has integrity. He’s not like us. He lives by his word, and he never breaks it. If you want to fire him, that’s one thing. But you should let him keep his stock options.” I realized that by using the word should,I was giving Steve more power than he deserved. The problem was that, on paper, he was still the majority owner of the company; it was only through our secret agreement that I maintained control.

“Let me talk to him,” said the Cobbler, with a devilish look in his eye. “If I can convince him to go peacefully, then why should you care?” He shrugged. “I mean, if I can get his stock options back, we can divide ’em up fifty–fifty, right?”

I dropped my chin in defeat. It was 11:30 a.m., and I felt so fucking tired. Too many drugs, I thought. And life at home…well, it hadn’t been a bowl of cherries lately. The Duchess was still a wreck over Carter, and I had basically thrown in the towel on my back pain, which haunted me twenty-four hours a day now. I’d set October 15 as a tentative date to have my spine fused. That was only three weeks from now, and the very thought of it terrified me. I would be undergoing general anesthesia—going under the knife for seven hours. Who knew if I’d ever wake up? And even if I did, who was to say I wouldn’t wake up paralyzed? It was always a risk when you underwent spine surgery, although with Dr. Green I was definitely in the best hands. Either way, I was going to be out of commission for at least six months, but then my pain would be gone once and for all, and I would have my life back. Yes, the summer of 1996 would be a good one!

Of course, I had used this as a rationalization to step up my drug habit, promising both Madden and the Duchess that once my back was fixed I would push the drugs aside and become the “real Jordan” again. In fact, the only reason I wasn’t stoned right now was because I was just about to leave the office and pick up the Duchess in Old Brookville. We were heading into Manhattan for a romantic night together at the Plaza Hotel. It had been her mother’s idea—that it would be good for us to get away from all the worry that seemed to have gotten the better of us since Carter’s heart debacle. It would be an excellent chance to rebond.

“Listen, Steve,” I said, forcing a smile, “I already have enough stock options and so do you. And we can always print more for ourselves, if we get the urge.” I let out a great yawn. “Anyway, do whatever the fuck you want. I’m too tired to argue about it right now.”

“You look like shit,” said Steve. “I mean that in a loving way. I’m worried about you, and so is your wife. You gotta stop with the Ludes and coke or you’re gonna kill yourself. You’re hearing it from someone who knows. I was almost as bad as you”—he paused as if searching for the right words—“but I wasn’t as rich as you, so I couldn’t sink as deep.” He paused again. “Or perhaps I sank just as deep, but it happened a whole lot quicker. But with you it could drag on for a long time, because of all your money. Anyway, I’m begging you—you gotta stop or else it’s not gonna end well. It never does.”

“Point taken,” I said sincerely. “You have my promise that as soon as I get my back fixed I’m done for good.”

Steve nodded approvingly, but the look in his eyes so much as said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The brand-new, pearl-white, twelve-cylinder, 450-horsepower Ferrari Testarossa screamed like an F-15 on afterburners as I punched down the clutch and slapped the stick into fourth gear. Just like thatanother mile of northwestern Queens zipped by at a hundred twenty miles an hour, as I weaved in and out of traffic on the Cross Island Parkway with a joint of premium-grade sinsemilla dangling from my mouth. Our destination was the Plaza Hotel. With one finger on the wheel, I turned to a terrified Duchess and said, “Don’t you just love this car?”

“It’s a piece of shit,” she muttered, “and I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t put out that joint and slow down! In fact, if you don’t, I’m not gonna have sex with you tonight.”

In less than five seconds the Ferrari was doing sixty and I was putting the joint out. After all, I hadn’t had sex with the Duchess since two weeks before Carter was born, so it had been over two months. Admittedly, after seeing her on the delivery table with her pussy looking big enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa, I hadn’t been too much in the mood. And the fact that I’d been consuming an average of twelve Ludes a day, along with enough coke to send a band marching from Queens to China, hadn’t done wonders for my sex drive.

And then there was the Duchess. She had stayed true to her word: Despite Carter remaining perfectly healthy, she was still on edge. Perhaps two nights at the Plaza Hotel would do us some good. I took one eye off the road and replied, “I’ll gladly keep the speedometer below sixty, if you agree to fuck my brains out for the entire night; deal?”

The Duchess smiled. “It’s a deal, but first you gotta take me to Barneys and then to Bergdorfs. After that, I’m all yours.”

Yes, I thought, tonight was going to be a very good night. All I had to do was make it through those two overpriced torture chambers and then I’d be home free. And, of course, I’d keep it under sixty.

Barneys had been nice enough to rope off the top floor for us, and I was sitting in a leather armchair, sipping Dom Perignon, while the Duchess tried on outfit after outfit—spinning and twirling deliciously, pretending she was back in her modeling days. After her sixth spin, I caught a pleasant glimpse of her loamy loins, and thirty seconds later I was following her into the dressing room. Once inside, I attacked. In less than ten seconds I had her back against the wall and her dress hiked up above her waist and I was deep inside her. I was pounding her against the wall as we moaned and groaned, making passionate love to each other.

Two hours later, just after seven, we were walking through the revolving door of the Plaza Hotel. It was my favorite hotel in New York, despite the fact that it was owned by Donald Trump. Actually, I had a lot of respect for the Donald; after all, any man (even a billionaire) who can walk around town with that fucking hairdo and still get laid by the most gorgeous women in the world gives new meaning to the concept of being a man of power. Anyway, trailing us were two bellmen, holding a dozen or so shopping bags with $150,000 of women’s clothing inside. On the Duchess’s left wrist was a brand-new $40,000 Cartier watch studded with diamonds. So far, we’d had sex in three different department-store dressing rooms, and the night was still young.

But, alas, once inside the Plaza, things began to quickly go downhill. Standing behind the front desk was a rather pleasant-looking blonde in her early thirties. She smiled and said, “Back so soon, Mr. Belfort! Welcome! It’s good to see you again!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!

The Duchess was a few feet to the right, staring at her new watch and, thankfully, still a bit wobbly from the Lude I’d convinced her to take. I looked at the check-in blonde with panic in my eyes and started shaking my head rapidly, as if to say, “Good God, my wife is with me! Pipe the fuck down!”

With a great smile, the blonde said, “We have you staying in your usual suite, on the—”

Cutting her off: “Okay then! That’s perfect. I’ll just sign right here! Thank you!” I grabbed my room key and yanked the Duchess toward the elevator. “Come on, honey; let’s go. I need you!”

“You’re ready to do it again?” she asked, giggling.

Thank God for the Ludes! I thought. A sober Duchess would never miss a trick. In fact, she’d already be swinging. “Are you kidding me?” I replied. “I’m always ready with you!”

Just then the resident midget came scampering by, in a lime-green Plaza outfit with gold buttons running up the front and a matching green cap. “Welcome back!” croaked the midget.

I smiled and nodded and kept pulling the Duchess toward the elevator. The two bellmen were still trailing us, carrying all our shopping bags, which I had insisted we bring to the room so she could try everything on for me again.

Inside the room, I tipped each bellman one hundred dollars and swore them to secrecy. The moment they left, the Duchess and I jumped on the king-size bed and started rolling around and giggling.

And then the phone rang.

The two of us looked at the phone with sinking hearts. No one knew we were here except Janet and Nadine’s mother, who was watching Carter. Christ!It could only be bad news. I knew it in my very heart. I knew it in my very soul. After the third ring I said, “Maybe it’s the front desk.”

I reached over and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Jordan, it’s Suzanne. You and Nadine need to come home right now. Carter has a hundred-and-five fever; he’s not moving.”

I looked at the Duchess. She was staring at me, waiting for the news. I didn’t know what to say. Over the last six weeks she’d been as close to the edge as I’d ever seen her. This would be the crushing blow—the death of our newborn son. “We need to leave right now, sweetie. Carter’s burning up with fever; your mom said he’s not moving.”

There were no tears from my wife. She just closed her eyes tightly and compressed her lips and started nodding. It was over now. We both knew it. For whatever reason, God didn’t want this innocent child in the world. Just why, I couldn’t figure out. But right now there was no time for tears. We needed to go home and say good-bye to our son.

Tears would come later. Rivers of them.

The Ferrari hit 125 miles per hour as we crossed over the Queens–Long Island border. This time, though, the Duchess’s take on things was slightly different. “Go faster! Please! We have to get him to the hospital before it’s too late!”

I nodded and punched down the accelerator, and the Testarossa took off like a rocket. Within three seconds the needle was pegged at 140 and still climbing—we were passing cars doing seventy-five as if they were standing still. Just why we’d told Suzanne not to take Carter to the hospital I wasn’t quite sure, although it had something to do with wanting to see our son at home one last time.

In no time we were pulling into the driveway; the Duchess was running to the front door before the Ferrari had even come to a stop. I looked at my watch: It was 7:45 p.m. It was usually a forty-five-minute ride from the Plaza Hotel to Pin Oak Court: I had made it in seventeen minutes.

On our way back from the city, the Duchess spoke to Carter’s pediatrician on her cell phone, and the prognosis was horrific. At Carter’s age, an extreme fever accompanied by lack of movement pointed to spinal meningitis. There were two types: bacterial and viral. Both could be deadly, but the difference was that if he made it through the initial stages of viral meningitis, he would make a complete recovery. With bacterial meningitis, however, he would most likely live out the rest of his life plagued with blindness, deafness, and mental retardation. The thought was too much to bear.

I had always wondered how a parent learns to love a child who suffers from such things. Occasionally, I would see a small child who was mentally retarded playing in the park. It was a heart-wrenching affair—to watch the parents doing their best to create even the slightest bit of normalcy or happiness for their child. And I had always been awed by the tremendous love they showed their child in spite of it all—in spite of the embarrassment they might feel; in spite of the guilt they might feel; and in spite of the obvious burden it placed upon their own lives.

Could I really do that? Could I really rise to the occasion? Of course, it was easy to say I would. But words are cheap. To love a child whom you never really got to know, whom you never really had the chance to bond with…I could only pray that God would give me the strength to be that sort of man—a goodman—and, indeed, a true man of power. I had no doubt my wife could do it. She seemed to have an unnaturally close connection to Carter, as he did to her. It was the way things had been between myself and Chandler, from the time she was old enough to be self-aware. Even now, in fact, when Chandler was inconsolable, it was always Daddy to the rescue.

And Carter, at less than two months old, was already responding to Nadine in that very miraculous way. It was as if her very presence calmed him, and soothed him, and made him feel that everything was just as it should be. One day I would be that close with my son; yes, if God would give me the chance, I most certainly would be.

By the time I made it through the front door, the Duchess already had Carter in her arms, swaddled in a blue blanket. Rocco Night had pulled the Range Rover to the front, ready to rush us to the hospital. As we headed out to the car I put the back of my hand to Carter’s tiny forehead and was completely taken aback. He was literally burning upwith fever. He was still breathing, albeit barely. There was no movement; he was stiff as a board.

On the way to the hospital the Duchess and I sat in the back of the Range Rover, and Suzanne sat in the front passenger seat. Rocco was an ex-NYPD detective, so red lights and speed limits were lost on him. And given the circumstances it was appropriate. I dialed Dr. Green, in Florida, but he wasn’t home. Then I called my parents and told them to meet us at North Shore Hospital, in Manhasset, which was five minutes closer than Long Island Jewish. The rest of the ride was spent in silence; there were still no tears.

We ran into the emergency room, the Duchess leading the charge, with Carter cradled in her arms. Carter’s pediatrician had already called the hospital, so they were waiting for us. We ran past a waiting room full of expressionless people, and in less than a minute Carter was on an examining table, being wiped down with a liquid that smelled like rubbing alcohol.

A young-looking doctor with bushy eyebrows said to us, “It looks like spinal meningitis. We need your authorization to give him a spinal tap. It’s a very low-risk procedure, but there is always the chance of an infection or—”

“Just give him the fucking spinal tap!” snapped the Duchess.

The doctor nodded, seeming not the least bit insulted over my wife’s use of language. She was entitled.

And then we waited. Whether it was ten minutes or two hours, it was impossible to say. Somewhere along the way his fever broke, dropping to 102. Then he started crying uncontrollably. It was a high-pitched, ungodly shriek, impossible to describe. I wondered if it was the sound an infant makes as he’s being robbed of his very faculties, as if instinctively he was crying out in anguish, aware of the terrible fate that had befallen him.

The Duchess and I were sitting in light-blue plastic chairs in the waiting room, leaning against each other, hanging on by a thread. We were accompanied by my parents and Suzanne. Sir Max was pacing back and forth, smoking cigarettes in spite of the no-smoking sign posted on the wall; I pitied the fool who would ask him to put it out. My mother was sitting beside me, in tears. I had never seen her look so terrible. Suzanne was sitting beside her daughter, no longer talking about conspiracies. It was one thing for a baby to have a hole in his heart; it could be patched. But it was quite another for a child to grow up deaf, dumb, and blind.

Just then the doctor emerged through a pair of automatic double doors. He was wearing green hospital scrubs and a neutral expression. The Duchess and I popped up out of our chairs and ran over to him. He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Belfort; the spinal tap came back positive. Your son has meningitis. It—”

I cut off the doctor: “Is it viral or bacterial?” I grabbed my wife’s hand and squeezed it, praying for viral.

The doctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s bacterial,” he said sadly. “I’m very sorry. We were all praying it would be viral, but the test is conclusive. We checked the results three times and there’s no mistake.” The doctor took another deep breath and then plowed on: “We’ve been able to get his fever down to a little over a hundred, so it looks like he’s gonna make it. But with bacterial meningitis there’s significant damage to the central nervous system. It’s too soon to say exactly how much and where, but it usually involves a loss of sight and hearing and”—he paused, as if he were searching for the right words—“some loss of mental function. I’m very sorry. Once he’s out of the acute stages we’ll need to call in some specialists to assess how much damage was actually done. Right now, though, all we can do is pump him with high doses of broad-spectrum antibiotics to kill the bacteria. At this point, we’re not even sure what bacteria it is; it seems to be a rare organism, not typically found in meningitis. Our head of infectious disease has already been contacted, and he’s on his way to the hospital right now.”

In a state of absolute disbelief, I asked, “How did he contract it?”

“There’s no telling,” replied the young doctor. “But he’s being moved to the isolation ward, on the fifth floor. He’ll be quarantined until we get to the bottom of this. Other than you and your wife, no one can see him.”

I looked at the Duchess. Her mouth was hanging open. She seemed to be frozen solid, staring off into the distance. And then she fainted.

Up in the fifth-floor isolation unit, it was sheer bedlam. Carter was flailing his arms wildly, kicking and screeching, and the Duchess was pacing back and forth, crying hysterically. Tears were running down her face and her skin was an ashen gray.

One of the doctors said to her, “We’re trying to get an IV in your son, but he won’t remain still. At this age it can be very difficult to find a vein, so I think we’re just going to stick the needle through his skull. It’s the only way.” His tone was rather nonchalant, entirely unsympathetic.

The Duchess was right on him. “You motherfucker! Do you know who my husband is, you bastard? You go back there right now and get an IV in his arm or I’ll fucking kill you myself before my husband has the chance to pay someone to do it!”

The doctor froze in horror, mouth agape. He was no match for the sheer ferocity of the Duchess of Bay Ridge. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Go!”

The doctor nodded and ran back over to Carter’s hospital crib, lifting up his tiny arm to search for another vein.

Just then my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I said tonelessly.

“Jordan! It’s Barth Green. I just got all your messages. I’m so sorry for you and Nadine. Are they sure it’s bacterial meningitis?”

“Yes,” I replied, “they’re sure. They’re trying to get an IV in him, to pump him with antibiotics, but he’s going crazy right now. He’s kicking and screaming and flailing his arms—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Barth Green, cutting me off. “Did you just say he’s flailing his arms?”

“Yes, he’s going absolutely crazy, even as we speak. He’s been inconsolable ever since his fever broke. It sounds like he’s possessed by an evil—”

“Well, you can relax, Jordan, because your son doesn’t have meningitis, viral orbacterial. If he did, his fever would still be a hundred and six, and he’d be as stiff as a board. He probably has a bad cold. Infants have a tendency to spike abnormally high fevers. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

I was bowled over. How could Barth Green be so irresponsible as to create false hope like that? He hadn’t even seen Carter, and the spinal tap was conclusive; they’d checked the results three times. I took a deep breath and said, “Listen, Barth, I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but the spinal tap showed that he has some sort of rare org—”

Cutting me off again: “I really don’t give a shit what the test showed. In fact, I’m willing to bet it was a contaminant in the sample. That’s the problem with these emergency rooms: They’re good for broken bones and an occasional gunshot wound, but that’s about it. And this, well, this is absolutely egregiousfor them to have worried you like this.”

I could hear him sigh over the phone. “Listen, Jordan, you know what I deal with each day with spinal paralysis, so I’ve been forced to become an expert on giving bad news to people. But this is complete horseshit! Your son has a cold.”

I was taken aback. I had never heard Barth Green utter so much as a single curse. Could he possibly be right? Was it plausible that from his living room in Florida he could make a more accurate diagnosis than a team of doctors who were standing at my son’s bedside using the world’s most advanced medical equipment?

Just then Barth said in a sharp tone: “Put Nadine on the phone!”

I walked over and handed the phone to the Duchess. “Here, it’s Barth. He wants to speak to you. He’s says Carter’s fine and all the doctors are crazy.”

She took the phone, and I walked over to the crib and stared down at Carter. They’d finally been able to get an IV going in his right arm, and he had calmed down somewhat—only whimpering now and shifting uncomfortably in his crib. He really was handsome, I thought, and those eyelashes…Even now they stood out regally.

A minute later the Duchess walked over to the crib and leaned over and put the back of her hand to Carter’s forehead. Sounding very confused, she said, “He seems cool now. But how could all the doctors be wrong? And how could the spinal tap be wrong?”

I put my arm around the Duchess and held her close to me. “Why don’t we take turns sleeping here? This way one of us will always be with Channy.”

“No,” she replied, “I’m not leaving this hospital without my son. I don’t care if I have to stay here a month. I’m not leaving him, not ever.”

And for three straight days my wife slept by Carter’s bedside, never leaving the room once. On that third afternoon, as we sat in the backseat of the limousine on our way back to Old Brookville, with Carter James Belfort between us and the words It was a contaminant in the sampleringing pleasantly in both our ears, I found myself in awe of Dr. Barth Green.

First I’d seen him shake Elliot Lavigne out of a coma; now, eighteen months later, he’d done this. It made me feel much more comfortable that he’d be the one standing over me next week with a scalpel in his hand—cutting into my very spine. Then I would have my life back.

And then I could finally get off drugs.