Part 23 (1/2)

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 d.u.c.h.ess and a good father to Chandler, in spite of my drug addiction. And as the months pa.s.sed, 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 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 astonis.h.i.+ng achievement for an infant-and I had no doubt that she was well on the road to a n.o.bel 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 circ.u.mvent 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 s.h.i.+p to the stars. It reminded me of the early days of Stratton...those heady heady days...those days...those glory glory days...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. days...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 f.u.c.king deal about ordering these boots?” spat the Spitter. Because this morning's debate involved a word beginning with the letter B, B, he was doing an inordinate amount of spitting. In fact, each time the Spitter uttered the word he was doing an inordinate amount of spitting. In fact, each time the Spitter uttered the word boot, boot, I could see the Cobbler cringe visibly. And now he turned his wrath on me. ”Listen, JB, this boot”- I could see the Cobbler cringe visibly. And now he turned his wrath on me. ”Listen, JB, this boot”-oh, Jesus!-”is so f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 s.h.i.+pping 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 f.u.c.king the Spitter's second-deadliest consonant. ”That's f.u.c.king preposterous preposterous!” spat the Spitter. ”That whole f.u.c.king concept! I have no time for this s.h.i.+t. I gotta get some f.u.c.king shoes made or else we'll be out of f.u.c.king 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: ”Obviously I told him you're in a meeting, but he said it's urgent. He needs to speak to you right now.” I 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?”

”Well,” replied Todd, ”I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but some guy named Agent Coleman just left my house and told me that Carolyn is about to get thrown in jail.”

With a sinking heart: ”For what what? What did Carolyn do?”

I felt the world crash down on me when Todd said, ”Did you know that your Swiss banker is in jail and he's cooperating against you?”

I clenched my a.s.s cheeks for all they were worth and said, ”I'll be there in an hour.”

Like its owner, Todd's two-bedroom apartment was mean-looking. From top to bottom, the whole place was black, not an ounce of color anywhere. We were sitting in the living room, which was completely devoid of plant life. All I could see was black leather and chrome.

Todd was sitting across from me, as Carolyn paced back and forth on a black s.h.a.g carpet, teetering atop some very high heels. Todd said to me, ”It goes without saying that Carolyn and I will never cooperate against you, so don't even worry about that.” He looked up at the pacing Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l and said, ”Right, Carolyn?”

Carolyn nodded nervously and kept on pacing. Apparently Todd found that annoying. ”Will you stop pacing!” he snarled. ”You're driving me f.u.c.king crazy. I'm gonna smack you if you don't sit down!”

”Oh, fahak fahak you, Tahad!” croaked the Bombsh.e.l.l. ”This no laughing business. I have two kids, in case you forget. It is all because of that stupid pistol you carry.” you, Tahad!” croaked the Bombsh.e.l.l. ”This no laughing business. I have two kids, in case you forget. It is all because of that stupid pistol you carry.”

Even now, on the day of my doom, these two maniacs were determined to kill each other. ”Will you two please stop?” I said, forcing a smile. ”I don't understand what Todd's gun charge has to do with Saurel getting indicted.”

”Don't listen to her,” muttered Todd. ”She's a f.u.c.king idiot. What she's trying to say is that Coleman found out what happened in the shopping center, and now he's telling the Queens District Attorney not to plea-bargain my case. A few months ago they were offering me probation, and now they're telling me I gotta do three years unless I cooperate with the FBI. Personally, I couldn't give a s.h.i.+t about that, and if I gotta go to jail I gotta go to jail. The problem is my idiot wife, who decided to strike up a friends.h.i.+p with your Swiss banker instead of just dropping off the money and not saying a word like she was supposed to. But, nooooo, nooooo, she couldn't resist having lunch with the f.u.c.k and then exchanging phone numbers with him. For all I know she probably f.u.c.ked him.” she couldn't resist having lunch with the f.u.c.k and then exchanging phone numbers with him. For all I know she probably f.u.c.ked him.”

”You know,” said a rather guilty-looking Bombsh.e.l.l, in her white patent leather go-to-h.e.l.l pumps, ”you got nerves upon nerves, dog-man! Who be you to throw stones in my direction? You don't think I know what you do with that steel-cage dancer from Rio?” With that, the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l looked me directly in the eye and said, ”Do you believes this jealous man? Will you please tell Tahad Tahad that that Jean Jacques Jean Jacques not like that? He is old banker, not ladies' man. Right, Jordan?” And she stared at me with blazing blue eyes and a clenched jaw. not like that? He is old banker, not ladies' man. Right, Jordan?” And she stared at me with blazing blue eyes and a clenched jaw.

An old banker? Jean Jacques? Jesus Christ-what a tragic turn of events! Had the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l f.u.c.ked my Swiss banker? Unreal! If she had just dropped off the money like she was supposed to, then Saurel wouldn't have even known who she was! But, no, she couldn't keep her mouth shut, and, as a result, Coleman was now connecting all the dots-figuring out that Todd's arrest in the Bay Terrace Shopping Center had nothing to do with a drug deal but with the smuggled millions of dollars to Switzerland.

”Well,” I said innocently, ”I wouldn't exactly characterize Saurel as an old man, but he's not the sort of guy who'd have an affair with another man's wife. I mean, he's married himself, and he never really struck me as being that way.”

Apparently they both took that as a victory. Carolyn blurted out, ”You see, dog-man, he is not like that. He is-”

But Todd cut her right off: ”So why the f.u.c.k did you say he's an old man, then, you lying sack of s.h.i.+t? Why lie if you have nothing to hide, huh? Why, I...”

As Todd and Carolyn went about ripping each other's lungs out, I tuned out and wondered if there was any way out of this mess. It was time for desperate measures; it was time to call my trusted accountant Dennis Gaito, aka the Chef. I would offer him my humblest apology for having done all this behind his back. No, I had never actually told the Chef that I had accounts in Switzerland. There was no choice now but to come clean and seek his counsel.

”...and what will we do for money now?” asked the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l. ”This Agent Coleman watch you like bird now”-Did she mean hawk?-”so you can no more sell your drugs. We will starve now for sure!” With that, the soon-to-be starving Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l-along with her $40,000 Patek Philippe watch, her $25,000 diamond-and-ruby necklace, and her $5,000 clothing ensemble-sat down in a black leather chair. Then she put her head in her hands and began to shake her head back and forth.

How very ironic that, at the end of the day, it was the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l, with her b.a.s.t.a.r.dized English and gigantic b.o.o.bs, who'd finally cut through all the bulls.h.i.+t and distilled things down to their very essence-it all came down to buying their silence. And that was fine with me; in fact, I had a sneaky suspicion it was fine with them too. After all, the two of them now had a pair of first-cla.s.s tickets on the gravy train, and they would be good for many years to come. And if somewhere along the line the heat in the kitchen grew too hot, they could always apply for exit visas downtown, at the New York Field Office of the FBI, where Agent Coleman would be waiting for them with open arms and a smile.

That evening, in my bas.e.m.e.nt in Old Brookville, Long Island, I was sitting on the wraparound couch with the Chef, playing a little-known game called Can You Top This Bulls.h.i.+t Story. The rules of the game were simple: The contestant spewing out the bulls.h.i.+t would try to make his story as airtight as possible, while the person listening to the bulls.h.i.+t would try to poke holes in it. In order to achieve victory, one of the contestants had to come up with a bulls.h.i.+t story that was so airtight that the other contestant couldn't poke a hole in it. And since the Chef and I were Jedi Masters of unadulterated bulls.h.i.+t, it was pretty obvious that if one of us could stump the other, then we could also stump Agent Coleman.

The Chef was boldly handsome, sort of like a trimmed-down version of Mr. Clean. He was in his early fifties and had been cooking the books since I was in grade school. I looked at him as an elder statesman of sorts, the lucid voice of reason. He was a man's man, the Chef, with an infectious smile and a million watts of social charisma. He was a guy who lived for world-cla.s.s golf courses, Cuban cigars, fine wines, and enlightened conversation, especially when it had to do with f.u.c.king over the IRS and the Securities and Exchange Commission, which seemed to be his life's foremost mission.

I had already come clean with him this evening, baring my very soul and apologizing profusely for having done all this behind his back. I started bulls.h.i.+tting him even then, before the game had officially started, explaining that I hadn't brought him into my Swiss affair because it might've put him at risk. Thankfully, he'd made no effort to poke any holes in my feeble bulls.h.i.+t story. Instead, he'd responded with a warm smile and a shrug.

As I told him my tale of woe, I found my spirits sinking lower and lower. But the Chef remained impa.s.sive. When I was done, he shrugged nonchalantly and said, ”Eh, I've heard worse.”

”Oh, really?” I replied. ”How the f.u.c.k could that that be possible?” be possible?”

The Chef waved his hand dismissively and added, ”I've been in much tighter spots than this.”

I'd been greatly relieved by those words, although I was pretty sure he was just trying to ease my worried mind. Anyway, we had started playing the game and now, after a half hour, we'd been through three evolutions of unadulterated bulls.h.i.+t. So far, there was no clear winner. But with each round our stories grew tighter and cleverer and, of course, more difficult to poke holes in. We were still hung up on two basic issues: First, how had Patricia come up with the initial $3 million to fund the account? And, second, if the money was really Patricia's, then why hadn't her heirs been contacted? Patricia was survived by two daughters, both of whom were in their mid-thirties. In the absence of a contraindicating will, they were the rightful heirs.

The Chef said, ”I think the real problem is the outgoing currency violation. Let's a.s.sume this guy Saurel has spilled his guts, which means the feds are gonna take the position that the money made it over to Switzerland on a bunch of different dates. So what we need is a doc.u.ment that counteracts that-that says you gave all the money to Patricia while she was still in the United States. We need an affidavit from someone who physically witnessed you handing the money to Patricia in the U.S. Then, if the government wants to say different, we hold our piece of paper and say, 'Here ya go, buddy! We got our own eyewitness too!'”

As an afterthought, he added, ”But I still don't like this business with the will. It smells bad. It's a shame Patricia's not alive. It would be nice if we could parade her downtown and have her say a few choice words to the feds, and, you know-bada-beep bada-bop bada-boop-that would be that.”

I shrugged. ”Well, I can't raise Patricia from the dead, but I bet I could get Nadine's mother to sign an affidavit saying that she witnessed me handing the money to Patricia in the United States. Suzanne hates the government, and I've been really good to her over the last four years. She really has nothing to lose, right?”

The Chef nodded. ”Well that would be a very good thing, if she would agree to do it.”