The Wolf of Wall Street (7 page)

As soon as Janet saw me she flashed a warm smile, and I took a moment to regard her. She was in her late twenties but looked a few years older. She had a thick mane of dark brown hair, fair white skin, and a tight little body. She had beautiful blue eyes, but there was a certain sadness to them, as if they’d seen too much heartache for someone so young. Perhaps that was why Janet showed up for work each day dressed like Death. Yes, from head to toe, she always wore black, and today was no exception.

“Good morning,” said Janet, with a bright smile and slight hint of annoyance in her tone. “Why are you so late?”

I smiled warmly at my ultraloyal assistant. In fact, in spite of Janet’s funeral ensemble and her undying urge to know every last ounce of my personal gossip, I found the sight of her immensely pleasing. She was Gwynne’s counterpart in the office. Whether it was paying my bills, managing my brokerage accounts, keeping my schedule, arranging my travel, paying my hookers, running interference with my drug dealers, or lying to whichever wife I was currently married to, there was no task either too great or too small that Janet wouldn’t gladly jump through a hoop to accomplish. She was incredibly competent and never made a mistake.

Janet had also grown up in Bayside, but her parents had both died when she was young. Her mother had been a good lady, but her father had mistreated her, a total scumbag. I did my best to make her feel loved, to feel wanted. And I protected her in the same way she protected me.

When Janet got married last month, I threw her a glorious wedding and walked her down the aisle with great pride. On that day she wore a snow-white Vera Wang wedding dress—paid for by me and picked out by the Duchess, who also spent two hours doing Janet’s makeup. (Yes, the Duchess was also an aspiring makeover artist.) And Janet looked absolutely gorgeous.

“Good morning,” I replied with a warm smile. “The room sounds good today, right?”

Tonelessly: “It always sounds good, but you didn’t answer me. Why are you so late?”

A pushy little broad, she was, and damn nosy too. I let out a deep sigh and said, “Did Nadine call, by any chance?”

“No. Why? What happened?” They were rapid-fire questions. Apparently she sensed a juicy piece of gossip.

“Nothing happened, Janet. I got home late, and Nadine got pissed and threw a glass of water at me. That’s it; although, actually, it was three glasses, but who’s counting? Anyway, the rest of it is too bizarre for words, but I need to send her flowers right now or else I might be hunting for wife number three before the day is out.”

“How much should I send?” she asked, picking up a spiral pad and Montblanc pen.

“I don’t know…three or four thousand worth. Just tell them to send the whole fucking truck. And make sure they send lots of lilies. She likes lilies.”

Janet narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, as if to say, “You’re breaching our silent understanding that as part of my compensation package it’s my right to know all the gory details, no matter how gory they might be!” But being a professional, driven by her sense of duty, all she said was, “Fine, you’ll tell me the story later.”

I nodded unconvincingly. “Maybe, Janet, we’ll see. So tell me what’s going on.”

“Well—Steve Madden’s floating around here somewhere, and he seems kind of nervous. I don’t think he’s gonna do such a good job today.”

An immediate surge of adrenaline.
Steve Madden!
How ironic it was that with all the chaos and insanity this morning it had actually slipped my mind that Steve Madden Shoes was going public today. In fact, before the day was out I’d be ringing the register to the tune of twenty million bucks. Not too shabby! And Steve had to stand up in front of the boardroom and give a little speech, a so-called dog-and-pony show. Now, that would be interesting! I wasn’t sure if Steve was the sort who could look into the wild eyes of all those crazy young Strattonites and not completely choke.

Still, dog-and-pony shows were a Wall Street tradition: Just before a new issue came to market, the CEO would stand before a friendly crowd of stockbrokers and give a canned speech, focusing on how glorious his company’s future was. It was a friendly sort of encounter with a lot of mutual back-scratching and phony palm-pressing.

And then there was Stratton, where things got pretty ugly sometimes. The problem was that the Strattonites weren’t the least bit interested; they just wanted to sell the stock and make money. So if the guest speaker didn’t captivate them from the moment he began speaking, the Strattonites would quickly grow bored. Then they would start booing and catcalling—and then spewing out profanities. Eventually, they would throw things at the speaker, starting with balled-up paper and then quickly moving to food products like rotten tomatoes, half-eaten chicken legs, and half-consumed apples.

I couldn’t let such a terrible fate befall Steve Madden. First and foremost, he was a childhood friend of Danny Porush, my second-in-command. And, second, I personally owned more than half of Steve’s company, so I was basically taking my own deal public. I had given Steve $500,000 in start-up capital about sixteen months ago, which made me the company’s single largest shareholder, with an eighty-five percent stake. A few months later I sold off thirty-five percent of my stock for a little over $500,000, recouping my original investment. Now I owned fifty percent for free! Talk about your good deals!

In point of fact, it was this very process of buying stakes in private companies and then reselling a portion of my original investment (and recouping my money) that had turned Stratton into even more of a printing press than it already was. And, as I used the power of the boardroom to take my own companies public, my net worth soared and soared. On Wall Street this process was called “merchant banking,” but to me it was like hitting the lotto every four weeks.

I said to Janet, “He should do fine, but if he doesn’t, I’ll go up there and bail him out. Anyway, what else is going on?”

With a shrug: “Your father’s looking for you, and he seems pissed.”

“Eh, shit!” I muttered. My father, Max, was Stratton’s de facto Chief Financial Officer and also the self-appointed Chief of the Gestapo. He was so tightly wound that at nine a.m. he was walking around the boardroom with a Styrofoam cup filled with Stolichnaya vodka, smoking his twentieth cigarette. In the trunk of his car he kept a forty-two-ounce Louisville Slugger, autographed by Mickey Mantle, so he could smash the “fucking windows” of any stockbroker who was insane enough to park in his glorious parking spot. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nope!” said my loyal assistant. “I asked him, and he growled at me, like a dog. He’s definitely pissed about
something,
and if I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s the November American Express bill.”

I grimaced. “You think?” All at once the number
half a million
came bubbling up, uninvited, into my own brain.

Janet nodded her head. “He was holding the bill in his hand and it was about yea thick.” The gap between her thumb and forefinger was a good three inches.

“Hmmmmm…” I took a moment to ponder the American Express bill, but something caught my eye from way out in the distance. It was floating…floating…what in the hell was it? I squinted. Jesus Christ—someone had brought a red, white, and blue plastic beach ball into the office! It was as if the corporate headquarters of Stratton Oakmont were a stadium, the floor of the boardroom was the orchestra section, and the Rolling Stones were about to give a concert.

“…of all this he’s cleaning his fucking fishbowl!” said Janet. “It’s hard to believe!”

I’d only caught the tail end of what Janet was saying, so I mumbled, “Yeah, well, I know whatya mean—”

“You didn’t hear a word I said,” she muttered, “so don’t pretend you did.”

Jesus! Who else besides my father would speak to me that way! Well, maybe my wife, but in her case I usually deserved it. Still, I loved Janet, in spite of her poisonous tongue. “Very funny. Now tell me what you said.”

“What I said is that I can’t believe that kid over there”—she pointed to a desk about twenty yards away—“what’s his name, Robert something or other, is cleaning his fishbowl in the middle of all this. I mean, it’s new-issue day! Don’t you think that’s kinda weird?”

I looked in the direction of the alleged perpetrator: a young Strattonite—no, definitely not a Strattonite—a young misfit, with a ferocious mop of curly brown hair and a bow tie. The mere fact that he had a fishbowl on his desk wasn’t all that surprising. Strattonites were allowed to have pets in the office. There were iguanas, ferrets, gerbils, parakeets, turtles, tarantulas, snakes, mongooses, and whatever else these young maniacs could procure with their inflated paychecks. In fact, there was even a macaw with a vocabulary of over fifty English words, who would tell you to go fuck yourself when he wasn’t busy mimicking the young Strattonites pitching stock. The only time I’d put my foot down with the whole pet thing was when a young Strattonite had brought in a chimpanzee wearing roller skates and a diaper.

“Go get Danny,” I snapped. “I want him to get a load of this fucking kid.”

Janet nodded and went to fetch Danny, while I stood there in utter shock. How could this bow-tied dweeb commit an act so…fucking heinous? An act that went against the grain of everything the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont stood for! It was sacrilege! Not against God, of course, but against the Life! It was a breach of the Stratton code of ethics of the most egregious sort. And the punishment was…what was the punishment? Well, I would leave that up to Danny Porush, my junior partner, who had a terrific knack for disciplining wayward Strattonites. In fact, he relished it.

Just then I saw Danny walking toward me, with Janet trailing two steps behind. Danny looked pissed, which is to say the bow-tied broker was in deep shit. As he drew nearer, I took a moment to regard him, and I couldn’t help but snicker at how normal he actually looked. It was really quite ironic. In fact, dressed the way he was, in a gray pin-striped suit, crisp white dress shirt, and red silk necktie, you would have never guessed that he was closing in on his publicly stated goal of banging every last sales assistant in the boardroom.

Danny Porush was a Jew of the ultrasavage variety. He was of average height and weight, about five-nine, one-seventy, and he had absolutely no defining features that would peg him out to be a member of the Tribe. Even those steel-blue eyes of his, which generated about as much warmth as an iceberg, hadn’t the slightest bit of Yid in them.

And that was appropriate, at least from Danny’s perspective. After all, like many a Jew before him, Danny burned with the secret desire to be mistaken for a WASP and did everything possible to cloak himself in complete and utter WASPiness—starting with those incredibly boiling teeth of his, which had been bleached and bonded until they were so big and white they looked almost radioactive, to those brown tortoiseshell glasses with their clear lenses (Danny had twenty-twenty vision), and all the way down to those black leather shoes with their custom-fitted insteps and fancy toe caps, the latter of which had been polished into mirrors.

And what a grim joke that was—considering by the ripe age of thirty-four, Danny had given new meaning to the term
abnormal psychology.
Perhaps I should have suspected as much six years ago, when I’d first met him. It was before I’d started Stratton, and Danny was working for me as a stockbroker trainee. It was sometime in the spring, and I had asked him to take a quick ride with me into Manhattan, to see my accountant. Once there, he convinced me to make a quick stop at a Harlem crack den, where he told me his life’s story—explaining how his last two businesses, a messenger service and an ambulette service, had been sucked up his nose. He further explained how he’d married his own first cousin, Nancy, because she was a real piece of ass. When I asked him if he was concerned about inbreeding, he casually replied that if they had a child who ended up being a
retard
he would simply leave
it
on the institution steps, and that would be that.

Perhaps I should have run the other way right then and there, realizing that a guy like this might bring out the worst in me. Instead, I made Danny a personal loan to help him get back on his feet, and then I trained him to become a stockbroker. A year later I started Stratton and let Danny slowly buy in and become a partner. Over the last five years Danny had proven himself to be a mighty warrior—squeezing out anyone in his way and securing his position as Stratton’s number two. And in spite of it all, in spite of his very insanity, there was no denying that he was smart as a whip, cunning as a fox, ruthless as a Hun, and, above all else, loyal as a dog. Nowadays, in fact, I counted on him to do almost all my dirty work, a job he relished more than you can imagine.

Danny greeted me Mafia style, with a warm hug and a kiss on either cheek. It was a sign of loyalty and respect, and in the boardroom of Stratton Oakmont it was a greatly appreciated gesture. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I saw Janet, the cynic, rolling her eyes in the oh-brother mode, as if to mock Danny’s display of loyalty and affection.

Danny released me from his Mafia embrace and muttered, “I’m gonna kill that fucking kid. I swear to God!”

“It’s a bad showing, Danny, especially today.” I shrugged. “I think you should tell him that if his fishbowl ain’t out of here by the end of the day, then the fishbowl is staying and he’s leaving. But it’s your call; do what you want.”

Janet the instigator: “Oh, my God! He’s wearing a bow tie! Can you imagine?”

“That rat fucking bastard!” said Danny, in a tone used to describe someone who’d just raped a nun and left her for dead. “I’m gonna take care of this kid once and for all, in my own way!” With a huff and a puff, Danny marched over to the broker’s desk and began exchanging words with him.

After a few seconds the broker started shaking his head no. Then more words were exchanged, and the broker began shaking his head no again. Now Danny began shaking his own head, the way a person does when they’re running out of patience.