The Duchess rolled onto her side to face me, and she put her arm across my chest and hugged me gently. Then she told me that she loved me. I kissed her on the top of her blond head and took a deep breath to relish her scent. Then I told her that I loved her back and that I was sorry. I promised her that nothing like this would ever happen again.
I would be right about that.
Worse would.
CHAPTER 26
DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES
Two mornings later, I woke up to a phone call from licensed Florida real estate broker Kathy Green, wife of world-renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Barth Green. I had enlisted Kathy to find the Duchess and me a place to live while I was going through the four-week outpatient program at Jackson Memorial Hospital.
“You and Nadine will just adore Indian Creek Island,” said a kindhearted Kathy. “It’s one of the quietest places to live in all Miami. It’s so serene and so uneventful. They even have their own police force—so given how security-conscious you and Nadine are, it’s another plus.”
Quiet and uneventful? Well, I was looking to get away from it all, wasn’t I? So how much harm could I create in four short weeks, especially in a place as boring and peaceful as Indian Creek Island? A place where I’d be insulated from the pressures of a cold, cruel world, namely: Quaaludes, cocaine, crack, pot, Xanax, Valium, Ambien, speed, morphine, and, of course, Special Agent Gregory Coleman.
I said, “Well, Kathy, it sounds like just what the doctor ordered, especially the part about the place being peaceful. What’s the house like?”
“The house is absolutely breathtaking. It’s a white Mediterranean mansion with a red tile roof, and there’s a boat slip big enough for an eighty-foot yacht…” Kathy’s voice trailed off for a moment. “…which, I guess, wouldn’t quite fit the Nadine, but perhaps you can buy a boat while you’re down here, right? I’m sure Barth could help you with that.” The sheer logic of her wacky suggestion oozed over the phone line with each of her words. “Anyway, the backyard is fabulous; it has an Olympic-size swimming pool, a cabana, a wet bar, a gas barbecue, and a six-person Jacuzzi overlooking the bay. It’s absolutely perfect for entertaining. And the best part is that the owner’s willing to sell the house, completely furnished, for only $5.5 million. It’s quite a bargain.”
Wait a second! Who said anything about wanting to buy a house? I was only going to be in Florida for four weeks! And why would I consider getting another boat when I despised the one I already had? I said, “To tell you the truth, Kathy, I’m not looking to buy a house right now, at least not in Florida. You think the owner would consider renting it for a month?”
“No,” said a glum Kathy Green, whose hopes and dreams of a six percent real estate commission on a $5.5-million sale had just evaporated right before her big blue eyes. “It’s only listed for sale.”
“Hmmm,” I replied, not quite convinced of that fact. “Why don’t you offer the guy a hundred grand for the month and see what he says?”
On April Fool’s Day, I was moving in and the owner was moving out—skipping and humming, no doubt, all the way to a five-star hotel in South Beach for the month. That aside, April Fool’s Day was the perfect move-in date, given my discovery that Indian Creek Island was a sanctuary for a little-known endangered species called the Old Blue-haired WASP, which, as Kathy had previously indicated, was about as lively a species as the sea slug.
On the brighter side, in between my car accident and the back clinic I’d managed to jet into Switzerland and meet with Saurel and the Master Forger. My goal was to find out how the FBI had become aware of my Swiss accounts. To my surprise, though, everything seemed to be in order. The U.S. government had made no inquiries—and both Saurel and the Master Forger assured me they would be the first to know if it had.
Indian Creek Island was only a fifteen-minute car ride to the back clinic. And there was no was shortage of cars; the Duchess had seen to that—shipping down a brand-new Mercedes for me and a Range Rover for herself. Gwynne had come to Miami too, to look after my needs, and she also needed a car. So I bought her a new Lexus, from a local Miami car dealer.
Of course, Rocco had to come too. He was like a part of the family, wasn’t he? And Rocco also needed a car, so Richard Bronson, one of the owners of Biltmore, saved me the headache of buying yet another one and loaned me his red convertible Ferrari for the month. So now everyone was covered.
With lots of cars to choose from, my decision to rent a sixty-foot motor yacht to get myself back and forth to the clinic became ridiculous. It was $20,000 per week for four smelly diesel engines, a well-appointed cabin I would never set foot in, and a flybridge without a canopy, which resulted in a third-degree sunburn on my shoulders and neck. The boat came complete with an old white-haired captain, who shuttled me back and forth to the clinic at an average cruising speed of five knots.
At this particular moment we were on the Intracoastal Waterway, cruising north on our way back to Indian Creek Island from the clinic. It was a Saturday, a little before noon, and we’d been chugging along for almost an hour now. I was sitting atop the flybridge with Dollar Time’s Chief Operating Officer, Gary Deluca, who bore a striking resemblance to President Grover Cleveland. Gary was bald, broad, grim-faced, square-jawed, and extremely hairy, especially on his torso. Right now we both had our shirts off and were basking in the sun. I had been sober for almost a month, which was a miracle unto itself.
Early this morning Deluca had accompanied me on my morning boat ride down to the clinic. It was a way for him to get some uninterrupted face time, and our conversation had quickly turned into a mutual bitching session over Dollar Time, whose future, we agreed, was hopeless.
But none of Dollar Time’s woes were of Deluca’s making. He had come after the fact—part of a workout team—and over the last six months he’d proven himself to be a first-class operations guy. I had already convinced him to move up to New York and become Chief Operating Officer of Steve Madden Shoes, which was in desperate need of someone with his operational expertise.
We had discussed all that earlier this morning, on the trip south. Now, on the trip north, we were discussing something I found infinitely more troubling, namely, his thoughts on Gary Kaminsky, Dollar Time’s CFO—the same CFO who’d introduced me to Jean Jacques Saurel and the Master Forger almost a year ago.
“Anyway,” Deluca was saying, from behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses, “there’s something strange about him that I can’t put my finger on. It’s like he’s got a different agenda that has nothing to do with Dollar Time. Like the place is a front for him. I mean, a guy his age should be flipping out over the company going down the tubes, yet he couldn’t seem to care less. He spends half his day trying to explain to me how we could divert our profits to Switzerland—which makes me wanna rip his fucking toupee off, considering we don’t have any profits to divert.” Gary shrugged. “Anyway, sooner or later I’ll figure out what that bastard’s up to.”
I nodded slowly, realizing that my initial instincts about Kaminsky had been right on target. The Wolf had been very shrewd not to allow that toupeed bastard to worm his way into my overseas dealings. Still, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Kaminsky hadn’t smelled a rat, so I figured I’d launch a trial balloon in Deluca’s direction. “I definitely agree with you. He’s totally obsessed with the whole Swiss-banking thing. In fact, he actually pitched it to me.” I paused, as if to search my memory. “Maybe a year ago, I think. Anyway, I went over there with him to check it out, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth, so I took a pass. He ever mention anything to you?”
“No, but I know he’s still got a bunch of clients over there. He’s pretty tight-lipped about it, although he’s on the phone to Switzerland all day long. I always make it a point to check the phone bill, and I’m telling you, he must make half a dozen overseas calls a day.” Deluca shook his head gravely. “Whatever he’s doing, it better be on the up and up—because if it’s not, and his phone is tapped, he’s
gonna find himself in some deep shit.”
I turned the corners of my mouth down and shrugged, as if to say, “Well, that’s his problem, not mine!” But the truth was that if he were in constant contact with Saurel and the Master Forger, I would find it troubling. I said casually, “Just for curiosity’s sake, why don’t you pull the phone records and see if he keeps calling the same numbers over and over again. If he is, make some blind phone calls and see who he’s speaking to. I’d be curious to find out, okay?”
“No problem. As soon we get back to the house I’ll jump in the car and take a quick ride over to the office.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; the phone records will still be there on Monday.” I smiled to reinforce my lack of concern. “Anyway, Elliot Lavigne should be at my house by now, and I really want you to meet him. He’ll be a huge help to you in restructuring Steve Madden’s operations.”
“Isn’t he kind of wacky?” asked Deluca.
“Kind of? The guy’s a complete fucking loon, Gary! But he happens to be one of the sharpest guys in the apparel industry—maybe the sharpest guy. You just gotta catch him at the right time—when he’s not slurring, snorting, tripping, or paying a hooker ten grand to squat over a glass table and take a shit over him while he’s jerking off.”
I’d first laid eyes on Elliot Lavigne four years ago, while I was vacationing in the Bahamas with Kenny Greene. I was lying by the pool at the Crystal Palace Hotel and Casino when Kenny came running up to me. I remember him screaming something like: “Hurry up! You gotta go into the casino right now and check this guy out! He’s up over a million dollars, and he’s not much older than you.”
In spite of being skeptical over Kenny’s version of things, I popped out of my lounge chair and headed for the casino. On the way, I asked, “What’s the guy do for a living?”
“I asked one of the casino people,” replied the Blockhead, whose use of the English language didn’t include words like dealer, pit boss, or croupier, “and they said he’s the president of some big Garment Center company.”
Two minutes later I was staring at this young Garmento, in a state of utter disbelief. In retrospect, it’s hard to say what bowled me over more: the sight of dashing young Elliot—who was not only betting $10,000 a hand but had the whole blackjack table to himself and was playing all seven hands at once, which is to say he was risking $70,000 on every deal—or the sight of his wife, Ellen, who appeared to be no more than thirty-five yet had already acquired a look that I had never seen before, namely, the look of the supremely rich and the supremely starved.
I was blown away. So I stared at these two anomalies for a good fifteen minutes. They seemed like an awkward couple. He was on the short side, very good-looking, with bushy, shoulder-length brown hair and a sense of style that was so fabulous he could walk around in a diaper and bow tie and you would swear it was the latest thing.
She, on the other hand, was short and had a thin face, thin nose, collapsed cheeks, bleached-blond hair, tan leathery skin, eyes that were too close together, and a body that was emaciated to near perfection. I figured she must have one of the world’s great personalities—a loving, supportive wife of the highest order. After all, why else would this handsome young guy who gambled with the poise and panache of 007 be attracted to her?
I was slightly off the mark.
The next day Elliot and I happened to meet by the pool. We moved right past the normal pleasantries and plunged into what each of us did for a living, how much we were making, and how we’d arrived at this point in our lives.
Elliot, as it turned out, was the President of Perry Ellis, one of the Garment District’s premier menswear companies. He didn’t actually own the company; it was a division of Salant, a public company that traded on the New York Stock Exchange. So, in essence, Elliot was a salaried employee. When he told me his salary I nearly fell off my lounge chair: It was only $1 million a year, plus a small bonus of a few hundred grand, based on profitability. It was a paltry sum, in my book—especially with his penchant for high-stakes gambling. In point of fact, he seemed to be gambling two years’ salary each time he sat down at the blackjack table! I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous. I chose impressed.
Yet, he had hinted at an additional source of income with Perry Ellis—a perk, so to speak, associated with the manufacturing of dress shirts, which was being done overseas, in the Orient. And while he hadn’t gotten specific, I quickly read between the lines: He was skimming cash from the factories. Still, even if he were skimming $3 or $4 million a year, it was only a fraction of what I was making.
Before departing, we exchanged phone numbers and promised that we would hook up back in the States. The subject of drugs never came up.
We met for lunch a week later, at a trendy Garment District hangout. Five minutes after we sat down, Elliot reached into his inside suit pocket and pulled out a small plastic Baggie filled with cocaine. He dipped a Perry Ellis collar stay inside; in one fluid motion he brought it to his nose and took a blast. Then he repeated the process once more, and then once more, and then once more again. Yet he had done it so fluidly—and with such nonchalance—that not a single soul in the restaurant noticed.
Then he offered me the Baggie. I declined, saying, “Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the day!” to which he replied, “Just shut up and do it,” to which I replied, “Sure, why not!”
A minute later I was feeling wonderful, and four minutes after that I was feeling miserable, grinding my teeth uncontrollably and in desperate need of a Valium. Elliot took pity on me. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two brown-speckled Quaaludes, and said, “Here, take these; they’re bootlegs, so they have Valium in them.”
“Do Ludes now?” I asked incredulously. “In the middle of the day?”
“Yeah,” he snapped, “why not? You’re the boss. Who’s gonna say anything?” and he pulled out a couple more Ludes and swallowed the pills with a smile. Then he stood up and started doing jumping jacks in the middle of the restaurant to hasten the process of getting off. I took my own Ludes, since he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
A few minutes later, a heavyset man walked into the restaurant, drawing a lot of attention. He looked sixtyish, and he reeked of wealth. Elliot said to me, “That guy’s worth half a billion. But look how ugly his tie is.” With that, Elliot picked up a steak knife and walked over to the big shot, hugged him, and then sliced his tie off, in the middle of the crowded restaurant. Then he removed his own tie, which was gorgeous, and turned up the big shot’s collar, placed his tie around his neck, and made a perfect Windsor knot in less than five seconds flat, at which point the big shot hugged him and thanked him.
An hour later we were both getting laid by prostitutes, with Elliot introducing me to my first Blue Chip. And in spite of the fact that I had a terrible case of coke dick, the Blue Chip worked her oral magic on me, and I came like gangbusters—paying her $5,000 for her troubles, at which point she told me that I was very handsome and, despite the fact that she was a hooker, she was still marriage material, if I was interested.
Soon after, Elliot walked in the room and said, “Come on! Get dressed—we’re going to Atlantic City! The casino is sending us a helicopter and they’re gonna buy each of us a gold watch,” to which I said, “I only have five grand on me,” to which he replied, “I spoke to the casino, and they’re gonna set you up with a half-million-dollar credit line.”
I wondered why they were willing to advance me so much money, considering I had never gambled more than $10,000 in my entire life. But an hour later I found myself playing blackjack at Trump Castle to the tune of $10,000 a hand, as if it were no big deal. At the end of the night I walked away a quarter million richer. I was hooked.
Elliot and I began traveling around the world together; sometimes with wives, sometimes without. I made him my primary rathole, and he kicked me back millions in cash—using money he skimmed from Perry Ellis and money he’d won at casinos. He was
a first-rate gambler, and he was adding no less than two million a year to his bottom line.
Then came my divorce from Denise—and then my bachelor party in honor of my upcoming union to Nadine. This would mark a turning point in the life of Elliot Lavigne. The party was in Las Vegas at the Mirage Hotel, which had just opened and was considered the place to be. A hundred Strattonites flew in, accompanied by fifty hookers and enough drugs to sedate Nevada. We rounded up another thirty hookers from the streets of Vegas and had a few more flown in from California. We brought a half dozen NYPD cops along for the ride, the very cops I had been paying off with Stratton new issues. And once there, the NYPD cops quickly hooked up with local Vegas cops, so we hired a few of them too.
The bachelor party took place on a Saturday evening. Elliot and I were downstairs, sharing a blackjack table; there was a crowd of strangers surrounding us, as well as a handful of bodyguards. He was playing five of the seven available hands; I was playing the other two. We were each betting $10,000 per hand, we were both hot, and we were both higher than kites. I was five Ludes deep and had snorted no less than an eight ball of coke; he was five Ludes deep too and had snorted enough coke to ski-jump off. I was up $700,000; he was up over $2 million. Through clenched teeth and a grinding jaw, I said, “Less call is quis and zo upzairs and chess out da fezividees.”
Of course, Elliot understood Lude-speak as well as I did, so he nodded and we headed upstairs. I was so stoned at this point that I knew I was done gambling for the evening; I made a pit stop at the cage and cashed out to the tune of $1 million. I tossed the cash into a blue Mirage knapsack and threw it over my shoulder. Elliot, though, wasn’t done gambling yet, so he left his chips at the table, under armed guard.
Upstairs, we walked down a long hallway, at the end of which was a prodigious set of double doors. On either side of the doors was a uniformed police officer, standing watch. They opened the doors, and there was the bachelor party. Elliot and I walked into the room and froze: It was the reincarnation of Sodom and Gomorrah. The rear wall was floor-to-ceiling plate glass and looked out over the Strip. The room was filled with people dancing and carrying on. The ceiling seemed to be pressing down; the floor seemed to be rising up; the smell of sex and sweat mixed with the pungent smell of premium-grade sinsemilla. Music was blasting so loud that it seemed to resonate with my very gizzard. A half dozen NYPD cops were supervising the action, making sure everyone behaved themselves.
The Wolf of Wall Street Page 35
