The Wolf of Wall Street

by Jordan Belfort

  All at once I was overtaken by this terrible urge to snatch the needle of morphine and inject myself in the ass. Just why, I wasn’t sure. I had been sober for almost a month now, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. I looked around the room and everyone was hovering over Elliot, still in awe over this remarkable turn of events. I edged over to the metal tray, casually snatched the needle, and stuck it in my shorts pocket.

  A moment later I felt my pocket growing warm…and then warmer…Oh, sweet Jesus! The morphine was burning a hole in my pocket! I needed to inject myself right this instant! I said to Barth, “That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, Barth. I’m gonna go outside and tell everyone the good news.”

  When I informed the group in the waiting room that Elliot had made a miraculous recovery, Ellen began crying tears of joy and she threw her arms around me. I pushed her away and told her that I was in desperate need of a bathroom. As I started walking away, the Duchess grabbed me by the arm and said, “Are you okay, honey? You don’t seem right.”

  I smiled at my wife and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just have to go to the bathroom.”

  The moment I turned the corner I took off like a world-class sprinter. I swung the bathroom door open, went inside one of the stalls, locked it, and then took out the syringe and pulled down my shorts and arched my back, so my ass was perched in the air. I was just about to plunge in the needle when disaster struck.

  The needle was missing the plunger.

  It was one of those newfangled safety needles, which couldn’t be injected without first being put into a plunging mechanism. All I had was a worthless cartridge of morphine with a needle on the end of it. I was devastated. I took a moment to regard this needle. A lightbulb!

  I pulled up my shorts and ran to the gift shop and purchased a lollipop, then ran back to the bathroom. I plunged the needle into my ass. Then I took the stick of the lollipop and pushed down on the center of the syringe until every last drop of morphine was injected. All at once I felt a keg of gunpowder exploding inside me, rocking me to my very core.

  Oh, Christ! I thought. I must’ve hit a vein, because the high was overtaking me at an incredible rate. And just like that, I was down on my knees and my mouth was bone-dry, and my innards felt like they’d just been submerged in a hot bubble bath, and my eyes felt like hot coals, and my ears were ringing like the Liberty Bell, and my anal sphincter felt tighter than a drum, and I loved it.

  And here I sat, the hero, on the bathroom floor, with my shorts pulled down below my knees and the needle still sticking in my ass. But then it occurred to me that the Duchess might be worried about me.

  A minute later I was in the hallway, on my way back to the Duchess, when I heard an old Jewish woman say, “Excuse me, sir!”

  I turned to her. She smiled nervously and pointed her index finger at my shorts. Then she said, “Your tushie! Look at your tushie!”

  I had been walking down the hallway with a needle sticking out of my ass, like a wounded bull that had just been darted by a matador. I smiled at the kind woman and thanked her, then removed the needle from my ass, threw it in a garbage can, and headed back to the waiting room.

  When the Duchess saw me she smiled. But then the room began to grow dark and…Oh, shit!

  I woke up in the waiting room, sitting on a plastic chair. Standing over me was a middle-aged doctor in green surgical scrubs. In his right hand he was holding smelling salts. The Duchess was standing next to him, and she was no longer smiling. The doctor said, “Your breathing is depressed, Mr. Belfort. Have you taken any narcotics?”

  “No,” I said, forcing a weak smile for the Duchess. “I guess being a hero is very stressful, right, honey?” Then I passed out again.

  I woke up in the back of a Lincoln limousine as it pulled into Indian Creek Island, where nothing exciting ever happens. My first thought was that I needed to snort some cocaine to even out. That had been my problem all along. To inject morphine without a balancing agent was a fool’s errand. I made a mental note to never try that again and then thanked God that Elliot had brought coke with him. I would snatch it from his room and deduct it from the $2 million he owed me.

  Five minutes later, the guesthouse looked like a dozen CIA agents had spent three hours searching for stolen microfilm. There were clothes strewn about everywhere, and every piece of furniture had been tipped over on its side. And still no cocaine! Fuck! Where was it? I kept searching—searching for over an hour, in fact, until finally it hit me: It was that rat fuck, Arthur Wiener! He’d stolen his best friend’s cocaine!

  Feeling empty and alone, I went upstairs to my sprawling master bedroom and cursed Arthur Wiener until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG

  June 1994

  It seemed only appropriate that the offices of Steve Madden Shoes would be shaped like a shoe box. Actually, there were two shoe boxes: the one in the rear, which was thirty by sixty feet and housed a tiny factory, consisting of a handful of antiquated shoe-making machines manned by a dozen or so Spanish-speaking employees, all of whom shared a single green card and none of whom paid a dollar in taxes; and the shoe box in front, which was of similar size and housed the company’s office staff, most of whom were girls in their late teens or early twenties, and all of whom sported the sort of multicolored hair and visible body piercings that so much as said, “Yes, I’ve also had my clit pierced, as well as both my nipples!”

  And while these young female space cadets pranced around the office, teetering atop six-inch platform shoes—all bearing the Steve Madden label—there was hip-hop music blasting and cannabis incense burning and a dozen telephones ringing and countless new shoe styles in the designing and a smattering of traditionally garbed religious leaders performing ritual cleansings, and somehow it all seemed to work. The only thing missing was an authentic witch doctor performing voodoo, although I was certain that would come next.

  Anyway, at the front of the aforementioned front shoe box was an even smaller shoe box—this one perhaps ten by twenty feet—which was where Steve, aka, the Cobbler, kept his office. And for the last four weeks, since mid-May, it was where I’d kept my office too. The Cobbler and I sat on opposite sides of a black Formica desk, which, like everything else in this place, was covered in shoes.

  At this particular moment I was wondering why every teenage girl in America was going crazy over these shoes that, to me, were hideous-looking. Whatever the case, there was no denying that we were a product-driven company. There were shoes everywhere, especially in Steve’s office, where they were scattered about the floor, hanging from the ceiling, and piled upon cheap folding tables and white Formica shelves, which made them seem that much uglier.

  And there were more shoes on the windowsill behind Steve, piled so high I could barely see out that gloomy window into the gloomy parking lot, which, admittedly, was well suited to this gloomy part of Queens, namely, the gloomy groin of Woodside. We were about two miles east of Manhattan, where a man of my “somewhat” refined tastes was much better suited.

  Nevertheless, money was money, and for some inexplicable reason this tiny company was on the verge of making boatloads of it. So this was where Janet and I would hang our hats for the foreseeable future. She was just down the hall, in a private office. And, yes, she, too, was surrounded by shoes.

  It was Monday morning, and the Cobbler and I were sitting in our shoe-infested office, sipping coffee. Accompanying us was Gary Deluca, who, as of today, was the company’s new Operations Manager, replacing no one in particular, because up until now the company had been running on autopilot. Also in the room was John Basile, the company’s longtime Production Manager, who doubled as the company’s Head of Sales.

  It was rather ironic, I thought, but dressed the way we were you would have never guessed that we were in the process of building the world’s largest women’s shoe company. We were a ragtag lot—I was dressed like a golf pro; Steve was dressed like a bu
m; Gary was dressed like a conservative businessman; and John Basile, a mid-thirties chubster, with a bulbous nose, bald skull, and thick, fleshy features, was dressed like a pizza delivery boy, wearing faded blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt. I absolutely adored John. He was a true talent, and despite being Catholic, he was blessed with a true Protestant work ethic—whatever that meant—and he was a true seer of the big picture.

  But, alas, he was also a world-class spitter, which meant that whenever he was excited—or simply trying to make a point—you’d best be wearing a raincoat or be at least thirty degrees in either direction of his mouth. And, typically, his saliva was accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures, most of which had to do with the Cobbler being a fucking pussy for not wanting to place large-enough orders with the factories.

  Right now he was in the midst of making that very point. “I mean, how the fuck are we gonna grow this company, Steve, if you won’t let me place orders for the fucking shoes? Come on, Jordan, you know what I’m talking about! How the fuck can I build”—Shit! The Spitter’s Bs were his most deadly consonant, and he just got me in the forehead!—“relationships with the department stores when I don’t have product to deliver?” The Spitter paused and looked at me quizzically, wondering why I had just put my head in my hands and seemed to be smelling my own palms.

  I rose from my chair and walked behind Steve, in search of spit protection, and said, “The truth is I see both your points. It’s no different than the brokerage business: Steve wants to play things conservative and not hold a lot of shoes in inventory, and you want to step up to the plate and swing for the fences so you have product to sell. I got it. And the answer is—you’re both right and both wrong, depending on if the shoes sell through or not. If they do, you’re a genius, and we’ll make a ton of money, but if you’re wrong—and they don’t sell through—we’re fucked, and we’re sitting on a worthless pile of shit that we can’t sell to anyone.”

  “That’s not true,” argued the Spitter. “We can always dump the shoes to Marshall’s or TJ Maxx or one of the other closeout chains.”

  Steve swiveled his chair around and said to me, “John’s not giving you the whole picture. Yeah, we can sell all the shoes we want to people like Marshall’s and TJ Maxx; but then we destroy our business with the department stores and specialty shops.” Now Steve looked the Spitter directly in the eye and said, “We need to protect the brand, John. You just don’t get it.”

  The Spitter said, “Of course I get it. But we also have to grow the brand, and we can’t grow the brand if our customers go to the department stores and can’t find our shoes.” Now the Spitter narrowed his eyes in contempt and stared the Cobbler down. “And if I leave this up to you,” spat the Spitter, “we’ll be a mom-and-pop operation forever. Fucking pikers, nothing more.” He turned directly toward me, so I braced myself. “I’ll tell ya, Jordan”—his spitball missed me by ten degrees—“thank God you’re here, because this guy is such a fucking pussy, and I’m sick of pussyfooting around. We got the hottest shoes in the country, and I can’t fill the fucking orders because this guy won’t let me manufacture product. I’ll tell you, it’s a Greek fucking tragedy, nothing less.”

  Steve said, “John, do you know how many companies have gone out of business by operating the way you want? We need to err on the side of caution ’til we have more company-owned stores; then we can take our markdowns in-house, without bastardizing the brand. There’s no way you can convince me otherwise.”

  The Spitter reluctantly took his seat. I had to admit I was more than impressed with Steve’s performance, not just today but over the last four weeks. Yes, Steve was a Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing too. Despite his outward appearance, he was a born leader—blessed with all the natural gifts, especially the ability to inspire loyalty among his employees. In fact, like at Stratton, everyone at Steve Madden prided themselves on being part of a cult. The Cobbler’s biggest problem, though, was his refusal to delegate authority—hence, his nickname, the Cobbler. There was a part of Steve that was still a little old-fashioned shoemaker, which, in truth, was both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. The company was doing only $5 million right now, so he could still get away with it. But that was about to change. It had been only a year ago that the company was doing a million. We were shooting for $20 million next year.

  This was where I’d been focusing my attention over the last four weeks. Hiring Gary Deluca was only the first step. My goal was for the company to stand on its own two feet, without either of us. So Steve and I needed to build a first-class design team and operational staff. But too much too fast would be a recipe for disaster. Besides, first we needed to gain control of the operations, which were a complete disaster.

  I turned to Gary and said, “I know it’s your first day, but I’m interested to hear what you think. Give me your opinion, and be honest, whether you agree with Steve or not.”

  With that, the Spitter and the Cobbler both turned to our company’s new Director of Operations. He said, “Well, I see both your points”—ahhh, well done, very diplomatic—“but my take on this is more from an operational perspective than anything else. In fact, much of this, I would say, is a question of gross margin—after markdowns, of course—and how it relates to the number of times a year we plan on turning our inventory.” Gary nodded his head, impressed with his own sagacity. “There are complex issues here relating to shipping modalities, inasmuch as how and where we plan to take delivery of our goods—how many hubs and spokes, so to speak. Of course, I’ll need to do an in-depth analysis of our true cost of goods sold, including duty and freight, which shouldn’t be overlooked. I intend to do that right away and then put together a detailed spreadsheet, which we can review at the next board meeting, which should be sometime in…”

  Oh, Jesus H. Christ! He was drizzling on us! I had no tolerance for operational people and all the meaningless bullshit they seemed to hold so dear. Details! Details! I looked at Steve. He was even less tolerant than me in these matters, and he was now visibly sagging. His chin was just above his collarbone and his mouth was agape.

  “…which more than anything else,” continued the Drizzler, “is a function of the efficiency of our pick, pack, and ship operation. The key there is—”

  Just then the Spitter rose from his seat and cut the Drizzler off. “What the fuck are you talking about?” spat the Spitter. “I just wanna sell some fucking shoes! I couldn’t give two fucks about how you get them to the stores! And I don’t need any fucking spreadsheet to tell me that if I’m making shoes for twelve bucks and selling them for thirty bucks then I’m making fucking money! Jesus!” Now the Spitter headed directly toward me with two giant steps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Steve smirking.

  The Spitter said, “Jordan, you gotta make a decision here. You’re the only one Steve will listen to.” He paused and wiped a gob of drool off his round chin. “I want to grow this company for you, but my hands are being tied behind my—”

  “All right!” I said, cutting off the Spitter. I turned to the Drizzler and said, “Go ask Janet to get Elliot Lavigne on the phone. He’s in the Hamptons.” I turned to Steve and said, “I want Elliot’s take on this before we make a decision. I know there’s an answer to this, and if anyone has it it’s Elliot.” And, besides, I thought, while we’re waiting for Janet to put him through, I’ll have a chance to tell my heroic story again.

  Alas, I never got the chance. The Drizzler was back in less than twenty seconds, and a moment later the phone beeped. “Hey, buddy, how ya doing?” said Elliot Lavigne through the speakerphone.

  “I’m good,” replied his hero. “But, more important, how are you doing, and how are your ribs feeling?”

  “I’m recovering,” replied Elliot, who’d been sober for almost six weeks now, which was a world record for him. “Hopefully, I’ll be back to work in a few weeks. What’s going on?”

  I quickly plunged into the details, careful not to tell him whose opinion stood where—s
o as not to prejudice his decision. Ironically, it made no difference. By the time I was done, he already knew. “The truth is,” said the sober Elliot, “this whole idea of not being able to sell your brand to discounters is more hype than reality. Every major brand blows out their dead inventory through the discount chains. It’s a must. Walk into any TJ Maxx or any Marshall’s and you’ll see all the big labels—Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, and Perry Ellis too. You can’t exist without the discounters, unless you have your own outlet stores, which is still premature for you guys. But you have to be careful when you deal with them. You sell them in blips, because if the department stores know you’re there on a consistent basis, you’re gonna have problems.”

  “Anyway,” continued the recuperating Garmento, “John’s right for the most part; you can’t grow unless you have product to sell. See, the department stores will never take you seriously unless they know you can deliver the goods. And as hot as you guys are right now—and I know you’re hot—the buyers won’t step up to the plate unless they’re convinced you can deliver the shoes, and right now your reputation is that you can’t. You gotta get your act together on that quick. I know it’s one of the reasons why you hired Gary, and it’s definitely a step in the right direction.”

  I looked at Gary to see if he was beaming, but he wasn’t. His face was still set in stone, impassive. They were a weird bunch, these operations guys; they were steady Eddies, hitting singles all day long but never swinging for the fences. The thought of being one was enough to make me want to fall on my own sword.

  Elliot plowed on: “Anyway, assuming you get your operations in order, John is still only half right. Steve has to consider the bigger picture here, which is to protect the brand. Don’t kid yourselves, guys—at the end of the day, the brand is everything. If you fuck that up you’re done. I can give you a dozen examples of brands that were red-hot once and then fucked up their name by selling to the discounters. Now you find their labels in a flea market.” Elliot paused, letting his words sink in.