The Wolf of Wall Street (28 page)

Bo nodded slowly and replied, “As would any real man. But my point is that they know that too, and they might view that as a point of weakness. Again, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. The investigation is in its very early stages, more a fishing expedition than anything else right now. If you’re lucky, Coleman will stumble onto something else…an unrelated case…and he’ll lose interest in you. Just be careful, Bo, and you’ll be fine.”

I nodded. “You can count on it.”

“Good. Well, Barsini should be here in a second, so let’s go over a few ground rules. First, don’t bring up your case. It’s not that kinda meeting. It’s just a bunch of friends shooting the shit. No talk of investigations or anything like that. You start by developing a casual friendship with him. Remember, we’re not trying to get this guy to give you info he’s not supposed to give you.” He shook his head for emphasis. “The truth is that if Coleman
really
has a bug up his ass for you, there’s nothing Barsini can do. It’s only if Coleman doesn’t have anything on you and he’s just being a prick—then Barsini could say, ‘Hey, I know the guy and he’s not so bad, so why don’t you cut him a break?’ Remember, Bo, the last thing you want to be accused of is trying to corrupt an FBI agent. They’ll throw you in jail for a long time for that.”

Then Bo raised his eyebrows, and added, “But, on the flip side, there’s some information that we
can
get from Barsini. See, the truth is that there are some things that Coleman might
want
you to know, and he can use Barsini as a conduit for that. Who knows? You might actually strike up a friendship with Barsini. He’s a pretty good guy, actually. He’s a crazy bastard but, then again, which of us isn’t, right?”

I nodded in agreement. “Well, I’m not the judgmental type, Bo. I hate judgmental people. I think they’re the worst sort, don’t you?”

Bo smirked. “Right. I figured you’d feel that way. Trust me when I tell you that Barsini is not your typical FBI type. He’s a former SEAL—or maybe Marine Force Recon—I’m not sure which. But one thing you should know about Barsini is that he’s an avid scuba diver, so you two have that in common. Maybe you could invite him on your yacht or something, especially if this whole Coleman thing turns out to be no big deal. Having a friend in the FBI is never a bad thing.”

I smiled at Bo and resisted the urge to jump across the table and plant a wet kiss on his lips. Bo was a true warrior, an asset so valuable that it couldn’t be calculated. How much was I paying him, between Stratton and personal? Over half a million a year, maybe more. And he was worth every penny. I asked, “What’s this guy know about me? Does he know I’m under investigation?”

Bo shook his head. “Absolutely not. I told him very little about you. Just that you were a good client of mine as well as a good friend. And both of those statements are true—which is why I’m doing this, Bo, out of friendship.”

In lockstep, I replied, “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Bo. I won’t forget—”

Bo cut me off. “Here he is now.” He gestured toward the window, to a fortyish man entering the restaurant. He was about six-two, two-twenty, and was sporting an extreme crew cut. He had gruff, handsome features, piercing brown eyes, and an incredibly square jaw. In fact, he looked like he belonged on a recruiting poster for a right-wing paramilitary group.

“Big Bo!” exclaimed the world’s least likely FBI agent. “
Myyyyyy
man! What the fuck are you up to, and where the fuck did you find this restaurant? I mean—Jesus Christ, Bo—I could get some target practice in this neck of the woods!” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, as if to imply the very logic of his observation. Then he added, “But, hey, that’s not my concern. I only shoot bank robbers, right?” That last insane comment was directed at me, accompanied by a warm smile, to which Special Agent Barsini then added, “And you must be Jordan. Well it’s nice to meet you, bud! Bo told me you got a kick-ass boat—or ship, actually—and he said you like to scuba dive. Let me shake your hand.” He extended his hand to me. I quickly reached for it and was surprised to find that his hand was nearly twice the size of my own. After nearly pulling my arm out of my shoulder socket, he finally released me from his clutches and we all sat down.

I was about to continue the subject of scuba diving, but I never got the chance. Special Agent Madman was immediately off on a rant. “I’ll tell you,” he said with piss and vinegar, “this neighborhood’s a real fucking cesspool.” He shook his head in disgust and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, which had the effect of exposing the enormous revolver on his waist.

“Well, Bo,” said Bo to Barsini, “you got no argument from me in that department. Know how many people I locked up when I worked this neighborhood? You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Half of them were the same fucking people over again! I remember this one guy, he was the size of a fucking gorilla. He snuck up behind me with a garbage-can lid and smashed me over the top of the head, nearly turning my lights out. Then he went after my partner, and he knocked him out cold.”

I raised my eyebrows and said, “So what happened to the guy? Did you catch him?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” replied Bo, almost insulted. “He didn’t knock me out cold; he only fazed me. I came to while he was still whaling on my partner, and I took the lid from him and pounded him over the head for a few minutes. But he had one of those extra-thick skulls, like a fucking coconut.” Bo shrugged, then finished his story with: “He lived.”

“Well that’s a damn fucking shame,” replied the federal agent. “You’re too soft, Bo. I woulda ripped out the guy’s trachea and fed it to him. You know, there’s a way to do that without even getting a drop a blood on your hands. It’s all in the snap of the wrist. It makes a sort of popping sound, like”—the federal agent pressed the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth and compressed his cheeks and then released—
“POP!”

Just then the restaurant’s owner, Frank Pellegrino—also known as Frankie No, because he was always saying no to people who asked him for a table—came over to introduce himself to Agent Barsini. Frank was dressed so smartly, and matched so perfectly, and was so freshly pressed, that I would’ve sworn he’d just emerged from a dry cleaner. He wore a dark-blue three-piece suit with thick chalk-gray pinstripes. From out of his left breast pocket a white hanky debouched perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, in the sort of way only a man like Frankie could pull off. He looked rich and sixtyish, trim and handsome, and he had a unique gift of being able to make every last person at Rao’s feel like they were a guest in his own home.

“You must be Jim Barsini,” Frank Pellegrino said warmly. He extended his hand. “Bo told me all about you. Welcome to Rao’s, Jim.”

With that, Barsini popped out of his chair and began pulling Frank’s arm out of its socket. I watched in fascination as Frank’s perfectly coiffed grayish hair stayed stock-still while the rest of him shook like a rag doll.

“Jesus, Bo,” said Frank to the real Bo, “this guy’s got a handshake like a grizzly bear! He reminds me of…” and with that, Frank Pellegrino began expounding on one of his many tales of men with no necks.

I immediately tuned out, smiling every so often, while I quickly settled on the primary task at hand, which was: What could I possibly say, do, or, for that matter, give to Special Agent Barsini to entice him to tell Special Agent Coleman to leave me the fuck alone? The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to simply bribe Barsini. He didn’t seem like a guy of such high moral standing, did he? Although perhaps this whole soldier-of-fortune thing would make him incorruptible, as if taking money for greed’s sake would somehow dishonor him. How much did they pay an FBI agent? I wondered. Fifty grand a year? How much scuba diving could a man do on that? Not a lot. Besides, there was scuba diving and then there was scuba diving. I’d be willing to pay a pretty penny to have a guardian angel within the FBI, wouldn’t I?

For that matter, what would I be willing to pay Agent Coleman to lose my number forever? A million? Certainly! Two million? Of course! Two million was chump change in the face of a federal indictment and the possibility of financial ruin!

Eh, who was I kidding? These thoughts were all pie in the sky. In fact, a place like Rao’s served as a clear reminder that the government could never be trusted for the long term. It was only three or four decades ago when mobsters did whatever they wanted: They paid off the police force; they paid off politicians; they paid off judges; for Chrissake, they even paid off schoolteachers! But then came the Kennedys, who were mobsters themselves, and they viewed the Mob as competition. So they reneged on all the deals—all those wonderful quid pro quos—and…well, the rest was history.

“…so that was the way he settled it back then,” said Frankie No, finally completing his yarn. “Although he didn’t actually kidnap the chef; he just held him hostage for a while.”

With that, everyone, including me, starting laughing hysterically, in spite of the fact that I’d missed ninety percent of what he’d said. But at Rao’s, missing a story was merely incidental. After all, you kept hearing the same handful of stories over and over again.

CHAPTER 24

PASSING THE TORCH

G
eorge Campbell, my tongueless chauffeur, had just brought the limousine to a smooth, gentle stop at the side entrance to Stratton Oakmont, when he literally knocked me out of my seat by breaking his self-imposed vow of silence and asking, “Wha’s gonna happen now, Mr. Belfort?”

Well, well, well! I thought. It’s about time the old devil broke down and said a few words to me! And while his question might have seemed a bit vague, he had actually hit the nail right on the head. After all, in a little more than seven hours, at four p.m., I would be standing before the boardroom, giving a farewell speech to an army of extremely worried Strattonites, all of whom, like George, had to be questioning what the future had in store for them, financially and otherwise.

I had no doubt that in the days to come there would be many questions burning in the minds of my Strattonites. Questions like:

What would happen now that Danny was running the show? Would they still have desks in six months? And if they did, would they be treated fairly? Or would he favor his old friends and a few of the key brokers he dropped Ludes with? And what fate awaited the brokers who’d been friendlier with Kenny than with Danny? Would they be punished for that friendship? Or, if not punished, treated like second-class citizens? Was it possible for Broker Disneyland to endure? Or would Stratton slowly devolve into a run-of-the-mill brokerage firm, no better or worse than anyplace else?

I chose not to share any of those thoughts with George, and all I said was, “You have nothing to worry about, George. Whatever happens, you’ll always be taken care of. Janet and I will get an office close by, and there’s a thousand things Nadine and I need you for.” I smiled broadly and made my tone very upbeat. “Just think, one day you’ll be chauffeuring Nadine and me to Chandler’s wedding. Can you imagine?”

George nodded and smiled broadly, revealing his world-class choppers, and he humbly replied, “I like my job very much, Mr. Belfort. You’re the best boss I ever have. Mrs. Belfort too. Everybody love you two. It’s sad you gotta leave here. It won’t be the same no more. Danny ain’t like you. He don’t treat people good. People gonna leave.”

I was too baffled over the first half of George’s statement to even focus on the second half. Had he actually said he liked his job? And that he
loved
me? Well, admittedly, the whole love thing was a figure of speech, but there was no denying that George had just said he loved his job and respected me as a boss. It seemed ironic after everything I’d put him through: the hookers…the drugs…the midnight rides through Central Park with strippers…the gym bags full of cash that I’d had him pick up from Elliot Lavigne.

Yet, on the other hand, I had never disrespected him, had I? Even in my darkest and most decadent hours, I’d always made an effort to be respectful to George. While it was true that I’d had some very bizarre thoughts about him, I had never shared them with another living soul, except, of course, the Duchess, who was my wife, which made her exempt. And even then, it was all in good fun. I was not a prejudiced man. In fact, what Jew in their right mind could be? We were the most persecuted people on earth.

All at once I found myself feeling bad that I had ever questioned George’s loyalty. He was a good man. A decent man. Who was I to read a thousand and one things into everything he said or, for that matter, didn’t say?

With a warm smile, I said, “Truth is, George, no one can predict the future, certainly not myself. Who’s to say what becomes of Stratton Oakmont? I guess only time will tell.

“Anyway, I remember when you first came to work for me, you used to try to open the limo door for me. You’d run around the side and try to beat me to it.” I chuckled at the memory. “It used to drive you crazy. Anyway, the reason I never let you open the door for me was because I respected you too much to just sit in the back of the limo and pretend like I had a broken arm or something. I always thought of it as an insult to you.”

Then I added, “But since today’s my last day, why don’t you open up the door for me, just once, and make believe you’re a real fucking limo driver! Pretend like you’re working for a fat-ass WASP. You can escort me into the boardroom. In fact, you might actually get a kick out of Danny’s morning meeting. He should be giving it right now.”

“…and the study sampled more than ten thousand men,” said Danny over the loudspeaker, “following their sexual habits for more than five years. I think you’re gonna be absolutely shocked when I tell you some of the findings.” With that, he pursed his lips, nodded his head, and began pacing back and forth, as if to say, “Prepare to hear the truly depraved nature of the male animal.”

Jesus Christ! I thought. I’m not even gone yet and he’s already running amok! I turned to George and took a moment to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem that shocked. He had his head tipped to the side and a look on his face that so much as said, “I can’t wait to find out how this whole thing relates to stocks!”

“You see,” continued Danny, wearing a gray pinstripe suit and phony WASP glasses, “what the study found is that ten percent of the entire male population are stone-cold faggots.” And here he paused to let the full implication of his words sink in.

Here comes another lawsuit! I looked around the room…and I saw a lot of confused looks, as if everyone was trying to make heads or tails of what he was saying. There were a few isolated snickers but no outright laughter.

Apparently, Danny wasn’t pleased with the crowd’s response—or lack thereof—so he plowed on with relish: “I say again,” continued the man the SEC considered the lesser of two evils, “the study found that ten percent of the male population takes it up the ass! Yes, ten percent are fudge-packers! It’s a huge number! Huge! All those men taking it up the Hershey Highway! Sucking cock! And—”

Danny was forced to give up his rant as the boardroom quickly degenerated into a state of pandemonium. The Strattonites began hooting and howling and clapping and cheering. Half the room was now standing; many were exchanging high-fives. But toward the front, in the section where the sales assistants were concentrated, no one was standing. All I could see were a bunch of long blond manes tilted at extreme angles, as the young females leaned over in their chairs and whispered in one another’s ears, shaking their heads in amazement.

Just then George said in a confused tone, “I don’ understand. What’s this gotta do with the stock market? Why’s he talkin’ ’bout gay people?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “It’s complicated, George, although there really is no reason other than that he’s trying to create a common enemy, kind of like Hitler did in the thirties.” And it’s only by sheer coincidence, I thought, that he’s not bashing black people right now. That very thought inspired me to add, “Anyway, you don’t have to listen to this shit. Why don’t you come back at the end of the day, around four-thirty, okay?”

George nodded and walked away, more nervous than ever, no doubt.

As I stood there, watching the morning riot, I couldn’t help but wonder why Danny always distilled his meetings down to sex. Obviously, he was looking for a few cheap laughs, but there were other ways to get them, ways that didn’t interfere with getting the hidden message across. The hidden message being that, in spite of everything, Stratton Oakmont was a legitimate brokerage firm trying to make its clients money—and the only reason it
wasn’t
making its clients money was because of an evil conspiracy of short-sellers, who plagued the markets, like locusts, spreading vicious rumors about Stratton Oakmont and any other honest brokerage firm that stood in their way. And, of course, also embedded in that message was the fact that one day, in the not-so-distant future, the fundamental value of all these companies would come shining through, and the stocks would come roaring back, rising up like a phoenix amid the ashes, at which time all Stratton’s clients would make a fortune.

I had explained this to Danny on numerous occasions, how deep down all human beings (save a handful of sociopaths) were possessed with a subconscious desire to do the right thing. That was why a subliminal message was supposed to be embedded within each meeting—that when they smiled and dialed and ripped people’s eyeballs out, they were fulfilling not only their own hedonistic desires of wealth and peer recognition but also their subconscious desire to do the right thing. Then and only then could you motivate them to achieve goals they had never dreamed themselves capable of.

Just then, Danny extended his arms out to the side, and slowly the room began to quiet down. He said, “Okay, now here’s the truly interesting part, or, should I say, the disturbing part. See, if ten percent of all men are closet homosexuals, and there are one thousand men sitting in this room, that means that camping out within our midst are one hundred homos, looking to butt-fuck us every time we turn our backs!”

All at once heads began turning suspiciously. Even the little blond sales assistants were looking around—casting suspicious gazes from their heavily made-up orbital sockets. There was a low-level murmur in the room, which I couldn’t quite make out. But the message was clear: “Find ’em and lynch ’em!”

I watched with great anticipation as a thousand necks craned this way and that…accusatory glances were thrown around the room by the hundreds…young, toned arms extended in all directions, each one with a pointed finger on the end of it. Then came some random screaming of names:

“Teskowitz
^*7
is a homo!”

“O’Reilly’s
^*8
a fucking queer! Stand up, O’Reilly!”

“What about Irv and Scott
^*9
?” two Strattonites screamed in unison.

“Yeah, Scott and Irv! Scott blew Irv!”

But after a minute of finger-pointing and some not-so-baseless accusations against Scott and Irv, no one had come clean. So Danny lifted his arms once more and asked for quiet. “Listen,” he said accusingly, “I know who some of you are, and there are two ways we can do this: the easy way or the hard way. Now, look: Everybody knows Scott blew Irv, and you didn’t see Scott losing his job over it, did you?”

From somewhere in the boardroom came the defensive voice of Scott: “I didn’t blow Irv! It’s just—”

Danny cut him off with a booming voice over the loudspeakers: “Enough, Scott, enough! The more you deny it, the more guilty you seem. So drop it! I just feel sorry for your wife and kids to have to be shamed by you like that.” Danny shook his head in disgust and then turned away from Scott. “Anyway,” continued Stratton’s new CEO, “that heinous act had more to do with power than sex. And Irv has now proved to us that he’s a true man of power—getting one of the junior brokers to blow him. So the whole act is exempt, and Scott is forgiven.

“Now that I’ve shown you how tolerant I am of that sort of behavior, isn’t there one true man among you who has the balls—and, for that matter, the common fucking decency—to stand up and show themselves?”

Out of nowhere, a young Strattonite with a weak chin and an even weaker sense of judgment stood up and said in a loud, forthright voice, “I’m gay, and I’m proud of it!” And the boardroom went wild. In a matter of seconds, objects were flying in his direction like lethal projectiles. Then came hisses and catcalls, and then screams:

“You fucking homo! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Tar and feather the cocksucker!”

“Watch your drinks! He’s gonna try to date-rape you!”

Well, I thought, this morning’s meeting was officially over, called early on account of insanity. And what, if anything, had this meeting accomplished? I wasn’t quite sure, other than it painted a truly grim picture of what was in store for Stratton Oakmont—starting tomorrow.

Why should I be surprised?

An hour later I was sitting behind my desk and using those five words to console myself, as I listened to Mad Max go ballistic on Danny and me over my buyout agreement, which had been the brainchild of my accountant, Dennis Gaito, nicknamed the Chef due to his love of cooking the books. In short, the agreement called for Stratton to pay me $1 million a month for fifteen years, with most of it being paid under the terms of a noncompete agreement, meaning I was agreeing not to compete with Stratton in the brokerage business.

Nevertheless, in spite of the agreement raising a few eyebrows, it wasn’t actually illegal (on the face of it), and I had been successfully able to bully the firm’s lawyers into approving it although the collective wisdom was that while the agreement was legal, it didn’t quite pass the smell test.

At this particular moment there was a fourth person sitting in my office, namely Wigwam, who so far hadn’t really said much. But that was no surprise. After all, Wigwam had spent the better part of his youth eating dinner at my house, so he was acutely aware of Mad Max’s capabilities.

Mad Max was saying, “…and you two morons are gonna get your tits caught in a wringer over this one. A hundred-eighty-million-dollar buyout? It’s like pissing right in the SEC’s face. I mean—Jesus fucking Christ! When are you two gonna learn?”

I shrugged. “Calm down, Dad. It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s a bitter pill I’m being forced to swallow, and the hundred eighty million serves as lubrication.”

With a bit too much glee, Danny added, “Max, you and I are going to be working together for a long time, so why don’t we just chalk this one up to experience, eh? After all, it’s your own son who’s getting the money! What could be so bad?”

Mad Max spun on his heel and stared Danny down. He took a world-class pull from his cigarette and puckered his lips into a tiny O. With a mighty exhale, he focused the smoke stream into a tight laser beam a half inch in diameter, and he projected it at Danny’s smiling face with the force of a Civil War cannon. Then, with Danny still enveloped in his smoke cloud, he said, “Let me tell you something, Porush. Just because my son is leaving tomorrow, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna show you any newfound respect. Respect has to be earned, and if this morning’s meeting is any indication, maybe I should just go to the fucking unemployment office right now. Do you know how many laws you broke with that cockamamy routine of yours? I’m just waiting for a phone call from that fat bastard, Dominic Barbara. That’s who that young fruitcake is gonna call with this shit.”