He nodded proudly. “As long as he knows you’ll back him, he’ll wait as long as you want.”
As long as? What a fool the Blockhead was! Was it just my imagination or had he proved yet again how clueless he was? By uttering those very words, he confirmed what I’d already known—that the Depraved Chinaman’s allegiance was subject to.
Yes, today the Blockhead was loyal; he was still Stratton through and through. But no man can serve two masters for long, and certainly not forever. And that was what the Depraved Chinaman was: another Master. He was waiting in the wings, manipulating the Blockhead’s feeble mind as he sowed seeds of dissension within my very ranks, starting with my own junior partner.
There was a war brewing here. It was looming just over the horizon—heading for my doorstep in the not-too-distant future. And it was a war I would win.
BOOK II
CHAPTER 11
THE LAND OF RATHOLES
August 1993
(Four Months Earlier)
Where the fuck am I, for Chrissake?
Such was the first question that popped into my mind as I woke up to the unmistakable screech of landing gear being lowered from out of the enormous belly of a jumbo jetliner. Slowly regaining consciousness, I looked at the red and blue emblem on the seat back in front of me and tried to make sense of it all.
Apparently, the jumbo jetliner was a Boeing 747; my seat number was 2A, a window seat in first class, and at this particular moment, although my eyes were open, my chin was still tucked between my collarbones in sleep mode, and my head felt like it had been smacked by a pharmaceutical nightstick.
A hangover? I thought. From Quaaludes? That made no sense!
Still confused, I craned my neck and looked out the small oval window on my left and tried to get my bearings. The sun was just over the horizon—morning! An important clue! My spirits lifted. I panned my head and took in the view: rolling green mountains, a small gleaming city, a huge turquoise lake in the shape of a crescent, an enormous jet of water shooting up hundreds of feet in the air—breathtaking!
Wait a minute. What the fuck was I doing on a commercial plane? So tawdry it was! Where was my Gulfstream? How long had I been asleep? And how many Quaaludes—Oh, Christ! The Restorils!
A cloud of despair began rising up my brain stem. I had disregarded my doctor’s warning and mixed Restorils with Quaaludes, both of which were sleeping pills but from two competing classes. Taken separately, the results were predictable—six to eight hours of deep sleep. Taken together, the results were—what were the results?
I took a deep breath and fought down the negativity. Then it hit me—my plane was landing in Switzerland. Everything would end up fine! It was friendly territory! Neutral territory! Swiss territory! Full of things Swiss—velvety milk chocolate, deposed dictators, fine watches, hidden Nazi gold, numbered bank accounts, laundered money, bank secrecy laws, Swiss francs, Swiss Quaaludes! What a fabulous little country this was! And gorgeous from the air! Not a skyscraper in sight and thousands of tiny homes dotting the countryside in storybook fashion. And that geyser—unbelievable! Switzerland! They even had their own brand of Quaaludes, for Chrissake! Methasedils they were called, if memory served me correctly. I made a quick mental note to speak to the concierge about that.
Anyway, you had to love the Swiss—despite the fact that half the country was full of Frogs and the other half was full of Krauts. It was the end result of centuries of warfare and political backstabbing; the country had literally been divided in two, with the city of Geneva being Frog Central, where they spoke French, and the city of Zurich being Kraut Central, where they spoke German.
Insofar as my own humble Jewish opinion went, the Geneva-based Frogs were the ones to do business with—as opposed to the Zurich-based Krauts, who passed their time speaking disgusting glottal German while binge-drinking piss-warm beer and eating Wiener schnitzel until their stomachs bulged out like female kangaroos after a birthing cycle. And, besides, it didn’t take any great leap of logic to realize that there had to be a few Nazi bastards still hiding out among the populace, living off the gold fillings they’d forcibly extracted from my ancestors before they gassed them to death!
Anyway, there was an added benefit to doing business in French-speaking Geneva—namely, the women. Oh, yes! Unlike your average Zurich-based German woman, who was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested enough to play for the NFL, the average French woman—who roamed the streets of Geneva with shopping bags and poodles—was slender and gorgeous, in spite of her hairy armpits. With that thought, my smile broke through the surface; after all, my destination was none other than Geneva.
I turned from the window and looked to my right, and there was Danny Porush—sleeping. He had his mouth open, in fly-catching mode, while those enormous white teeth of his blazed away in the morning sunlight. On his left wrist he wore a thick gold Rolex watch with enough diamonds on the face to power an industrial laser. The gold gleamed and the diamonds twinkled, but neither was a match for his teeth, which were brighter than a supernova. He had on his ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, the ones with the clear lenses in them. Unbelievable! Still a Jewish WASP—even on an international flight.
Seated just to his right was the trip’s organizer, self-proclaimed Swiss-banking expert Gary Kaminsky, who also happened to be the (slippery) Chief Financial Officer of Dollar Time Group, a publicly traded company of which I was the largest shareholder. Like Danny, Gary Kaminsky was sleeping. He wore a ridiculous salt-and-pepper toupee that was an entirely different color than his sideburns, which were ink black—apparently dyed that way by a colorist with a good sense of humor. Out of morbid curiosity (and habit), I took a moment to study his awful toupee. Probably a Sy Sperling special, if I had to take a guess; the good-old Hair Club for Men!
Just then, the stewardess walked by—ah, Franca! What a hot little Swiss number! So perky! She was gorgeous, especially the way her blond hair fell on that creamy white blouse with its high-necked collar. Such repressed sexuality! And that sexy pair of gold pilot’s wings she had pinned on her left jug—a stewardess! What a terrific breed of woman! Especially this one, with her tight red skirt and those silky black panty hose, such a wonderful swooshing sound they made as she passed by! Cut right through the landing gear and everything!
In fact, last I could recall I was striking up quite a rap with Franca, while we were still on the ground at Kennedy Airport in New York. She liked me. Perhaps there was still a chance. Tonight! Switzerland! Franca and me! How could I ever get caught in a country where mum’s the word? With a great smile and in a tone loud enough to cut through the mighty roar of the jet’s Pratt & Whitney engines, I said, “Franca, my love! Come here. Could I talk to you for a second?”
Franca turned on her heel and struck a pose, with her arms folded beneath her breasts, her shoulders thrown back, her back slightly arched, and her hips cocked in a display of contempt. That look she gave me! Those narrowed eyes…that clenched jaw…that scrunched-up nose…absolutely poisonous!
Well, that was a bit uncalled for. Why, the—
Before I could even finish my thought, the lovely Franca spun on her heel and walked away.
What happened to Swiss hospitality, for Chrissake? I had been told that all Swiss women were sluts. Or were those Swedish women? Hmmm…yes, on second thought it was Swedish women who were the sluts. Still—that didn’t give Franca the right to ignore me! I was a paying customer of Swissair, for crying out loud, and my ticket cost…well, it must’ve cost a fortune. And what had I gotten in return? A wider seat and a better meal? I had slept through the fucking meal!
All at once I felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate. I looked up at the seat-belt sign. Shit! It was already illuminated, but I couldn’t hold it in. I had a notoriously small bladder (drove the Duchess crazy), and I must’ve been asleep for a good seven hours. Oh, fuck it! What could they do to me if I got up? Arrest me for going to take a piss? I tried getting up—but I couldn’t.
I
looked down. There wasn’t one but—Christ almighty!—there were four seat belts on me. I had been tied down! Ah … a practical joke! I turned my head to the right. “Porush,” I snapped loudly, “wake up and untie me, you asshole!”
No response. He just sat there with his head back and his mouth open, a gob of drool glistening in the morning sunlight.
Again, but louder this time: “Danny! Wake up, God damn it! Pooorussshhhhh! Wake up, you piece o’ shit, and untie me!”
Still nothing. I took a deep breath and slowly tilted my head back, then with a mighty thrust forward I head-butted him in the shoulder.
A second later Danny’s eyes popped open and his mouth snapped shut. He shook his head and looked at me through those ridiculous clear lenses. “What—what’s wrong? Whaddidya do now?”
“Whaddaya mean, whaddid I do now? Untie me—you piece o’ shit—before I rip those stupid glasses off your fucking head!”
With half a smile: “I can’t, or else they’re gonna Taser you!”
“What?” I said, confused. “What are you talking about? Who’s gonna Taser me?”
Danny took a deep breath and said in hushed tones, “Listen to me: We got some problems here. You went after Franca”—he motioned his chin in the direction of the shimmering blond stewardess—“somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. They almost turned the plane around, but I convinced them to tie you up instead and I promised that I’d keep you in your seat. But the Swiss police might be waiting at Customs. I think they plan on arresting you.”
I took a moment to search my short-term memory. I had none. With a sinking heart, I said, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Danny. I don’t remember anything. What did I do?”
Danny shrugged. “You were grabbing her tits and trying to stick your tongue down her throat. Nothing so terrible if we were in a different situation, but up here in the air…well, there’s different rules than back at the office. What really sucks, though, is that I think she actually liked you!” He shook his head and compressed his lips, as if to say, “You let a fine piece of pussy get away, Jordan!” Then he said, “But then you tried to lift up her little red skirt and she got offended.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried, but you started going wild on me. What did you take?”
“Uhhhhh…I don’t know for sure,” I muttered. “I think maybe…uh, maybe three or four Ludes…and then…three of those little blue Restorils…and, uh…ummm—I don’t know—maybe a Xanax or two…and, maybe some morphine for my back. But the morphine and the Restoril were prescribed by a doctor, so it’s really not my fault.” I held on to that comforting thought as long as I could. But slowly the reality was sinking in. I leaned back in my comfortable first-class seat and tried to draw some power from it. Then all at once, panic: “Oh, shit—the Duchess! What if the Duchess finds out about this? I’m really screwed, Danny! What am I gonna say to her? If this hits the papers—oh, God, she’ll crucify me! All the apologies in the world won’t—” I couldn’t bear to finish the thought. I paused for a brief second, until a second wave of panic overtook me. “Oh, Jesus—the government! The whole reason for flying commercial was to be incognito! And now…an arrest in a foreign country! Oh, Christ! I’m gonna kill Dr. Edelson for giving me those pills! He knows I take Ludes”—desperately I looked for a doorstep to lay the blame at—“yet he still prescribed me sleeping pills! Christ, he’d prescribe me heroin for a fucking splinter if I fucking asked him to! What a fucking nightmare, Danny! What could be worse? An arrest in Switzerland—the money-laundering capital of the world! And we haven’t even laundered any money yet, and we’re already in trouble!” I started shaking my head gravely. “It’s a bad omen, Danny.
“Untie me,” I said. “I won’t get up.” All at once, a flash of inspiration: “Maybe I should go apologize to Franca, smooth things out with her? How much cash you have on you?”
Danny began untying me. “I have twenty grand, but I don’t think you should try talking to her. It’ll only make things worse. I’m pretty sure you got your hand in her underwear. Here, let me smell your fingers!”
“Shut up, Porush! Stop fucking around and keep untying me.”
Danny smiled. “Anyway, give me the rest of your Ludes to hold on to. Let me take them through Customs for you.”
I nodded and said a silent prayer that the Swiss government wouldn’t want any bad publicity to tarnish their reputation for discretion. Like a dog with a bone I held on to that thought for dear life, as we slowly made our descent into Geneva.
With my hat in my hand and my butt in a steel-gray chair, I said to the three Customs officials seated across from me, “I’m telling you, I don’t remember anything. I get very bad anxiety when I fly, and that’s why I took all those pills.” I pointed to the two vials resting on the gray metal desk between us. Thankfully, both vials contained my name on the label; under my present circumstances, this seemed to be the most important thing. As far as my Quaaludes were concerned, at this particular moment they were safely tucked away up Danny’s descending colon, which, I assumed, had passed safely through Customs by now.
The three Swiss Customs officials started jabbering away in some off-the-wall French dialect. They sounded like their mouths were full of rotten Swiss cheese. It was amazing—even as they spoke at near light speed, they somehow managed to keep their lips tight as snare drums and their jaws locked firmly into place.
I began scoping out the room. Was I in jail? There was no way to tell with the Swiss. Their faces were expressionless, as if they were mindless automatons going about their lives with the mundane precision of a Swiss clock, and all the while the room screamed out, “You have now entered the fucking Twilight Zone!” There were no windows…no pictures…no clocks…no telephones…no pencils…no pens…no paper…no lamps…no computers. There was nothing but four steel-gray chairs, a matching steel-gray desk, and a wilted fucking geranium, dying a slow death.
Christ! Should I demand to speak to the U.S. embassy? No—you fool! I was probably on some sort of watch list. I had to stay incognito. That was the goal—incognito.
I looked at the three officials. They were still jabbering away in French. One was holding the bottle of Restorils, another was holding my passport, and the third was scratching his weak Swiss chin, as if he were deciding my fate—or did he just have an itch?
Finally, the chin-scratching Swissman spoke: “You would please repeat your story to us again.”
You would? What was all this would bullshit? Why did these stupid Frogs insist on speaking in some bizarre form of the subjunctive? Everything was based on wishes, and everything was phrased in woulds and shoulds and coulds and mights and maybes. Why couldn’t they just demand that I repeat my story? But nooo! They only wished I would repeat my story! I took a deep breath—but before I began speaking, the door opened and a fourth Customs official entered the room. This Frog, I noticed, had captain’s bars on his shoulders.
In less than a minute the first three officials left the room, wearing the same blank expressions they had come in with. Now I was alone with the captain. He smiled a thin Frog smile at me, then took out a pack of Swiss cigarettes. He lit one up and started calmly blowing smoke rings. Then he did some sort of amazing trick with the smoke—letting a dense cloud of it escape his mouth and then sucking it up right through his own nose in two thick columns. Wow! Even in my current position I found it impressive. I mean, I had never even seen my father do that, and he wrote the book on smoking tricks! I would have to ask him about that if I ever made it out of this room alive.
Finally, after a few more smoke rings and a bit more nasal inhaling, the captain said, “Well, Mr. Belfort, I apologize for any inconvenience you would have suffered from this unfortunate misunderstanding. The stewardess has agreed not to press charges. So you are free to go. Your friends would be waiting for you outside, if you wish to follow me.”
Huh? Could it be that simple? Had
the Swiss bankers bailed me out already? Just to speculate! The Wolf of Wall Street—bulletproof, once more!
My mind was relaxed now, free from panic, and it went roaring right back to Franca. I smiled innocently at my new Swiss friend and said, “Since you keep talking about wishes and such, what I would really wish is if somehow you could put me in touch with that stewardess from the plane.” I paused and offered him my Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing smile.
The captain’s face began to harden.
Oh, shit! I lifted my hands, palms facing him, and said, “Of course, only for the purposes of making a formal apology to the young blonde—I mean, the young lady—and perhaps to make some sort of financial restitution, if you know what I mean.” I fought the urge to wink.
The Frog cocked his head to one side and fixed me with a look that so much as said, “You are one demented bastard!” But all he said was, “We would wish you not to contact the stewardess while you are in Switzerland. Apparently she is…how would you say it in English…she is…”
“Traumatized?” I offered.
“Ah, yes—traumatized. This is the word we would use. We would wish that you please do not contact her under any circumstances. I have not the slightest doubt that you will find many desirable women in Switzerland if that is your goal. Apparently you have friends in the right places.” And with that, the Captain of Wishes personally escorted me through Customs, without so much as stamping my passport.
Unlike my plane flight, my limousine ride was quiet and uneventful. That was appropriate. After all, a bit of peace was a welcome respite from this morning’s chaos. My destination was the famed Hotel Le Richemond, purportedly one of the finest hotels in all of Switzerland. In fact, according to my Swiss-banking friends, Le Richemond was a most elegant establishment, a most refined establishment.
The Wolf of Wall Street Page 14
