I took a moment to consider Ike’s wisdom, which was only partially true. In point of fact, the SEC’s offer wasn’t really that much of a surprise to me. After all, Al Abrams had predicted it. It had been at one of our countless breakfast meetings at the Seville Diner. Al said, “If you play your cards right, you’ll wear the SEC down until there’s no one left in the office who knows anything about your case. The turnover there is mind-boggling, especially when they get caught up in an investigation that’s not going well.
“But never forget,” he added, “that just because they settle, it doesn’t mean it’s over. There’s nothing to stop them from coming right back at you with a new case the day after you settle the old one. So you need to get it in writing that there’re no new cases pending. And even then there’s still the NASD to contend with…and then the individual states…and then, God forbid, the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the FBI…although chances are they would’ve already gotten involved if they were planning to.”
With the wisdom of Al Abrams still in my mind, I asked Ike, “How do we know the SEC isn’t planning on coming right back at us with another lawsuit?”
“I’ll have it worked into the agreement,” Ike replied. “The settlement will cover all acts up to the present. But remember—if Danny goes off the reservation again, there’s nothing to stop them from bringing a new case going forward.”
I nodded slowly, still unconvinced. “And what about the NASD…or the states…or, God forbid, the FBI?”
Sorkin the Great leaned back in his throne and crossed his arms once more, and he said, “There’s no guarantee on that. I’m not gonna mislead you. It would be nice if we could get something like that in writing, but it doesn’t work that way. If you want my opinion, though, I’ll tell you that I think the chances are very slim that any other regulator will pick the case up. Remember, the last thing any regulator wants is to get involved with a losing case. It’s a career killer. You saw what happened to all the lawyers the SEC assigned to the Stratton case: Every last one of them left the office in shame, and I can assure you that none of them got generous offers in the private sector. Most SEC lawyers are just there to gather experience and develop a track record. After they’ve made a name for themselves, they move on to the private sector, where they can make some real money.
“Now, exempt from that is the U.S. Attorney’s Office. They’d have a lot more luck with the Stratton investigation than the SEC had. Funny things start to happen when criminal subpoenas are floating around. All those stockbrokers who were subpoenaed down to the SEC and supported you so admirably…well, they probably would’ve jumped ship if those same subpoenas had come from a grand jury.
“But that being said, I don’t think the U.S. Attorney has any interest in your case. Stratton’s out on Long Island, which is the Eastern District. And the Eastern District isn’t particularly active with securities cases, unlike the Southern District, in Manhattan, which is very active. So that’s my best guess, my friend. I think if you settle this thing right now and walk away, you can live your life happily ever after.”
I took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “So be it,” I said. “It’s time for peace with honor. And what happens if I go near the boardroom? Does the FBI show up at my door and arrest me for violating a court order?”
“No, no,” answered Ike, waving the back of his hand in the air. “I think you’re making more of this than it really is. In fact, theoretically, you could keep an office on the same floor, in the same building, as Stratton. For that matter, you could stand out in the hallway with Danny all day long and offer him your opinion on every little move he makes. I’m not encouraging you to do that or anything, but it wouldn’t be illegal. You just can’t force Danny to listen to you, and you can’t spend half your day inside the boardroom. But if you wanted to drop in and visit once in a while, there would be nothing wrong with that.”
All at once I found myself taken aback. Could it really be as easy as that? If the SEC were to bar me, could I really stay that much involved with the firm? If I could, and I could somehow make that known to all the Strattonites, then they wouldn’t feel like I’d abandoned them! Sensing daylight, I asked, “And how much could I sell my stock to Danny for?”
“Anything you want,” replied Ike the Spike, seeming to have no idea what my devilish mind was conjuring up. “That’s between you and Danny; the SEC couldn’t care less.”
Hmmmm! Very interesting, I thought, with the righteous number of $200 million bubbling up into my brain. “Well, I guess I could come to a meeting of the minds with Danny. He’s always been pretty reasonable when it comes to money. Although I don’t think I’ll keep an office on the same floor as Stratton. Perhaps I should take one a few buildings over. Whaddaya think, Ike?”
“I think that sounds like a good idea,” replied Ike the Spike.
I smiled at my wonderful lawyer and went for broke: “I have only one more question, although I think I already know the answer. If I’m barred from the securities business, then theoretically I’m just like any other investor. I mean, I’m not barred from investing for my own account and I’m not barred from owning stakes in companies going public, right?”
Ike smiled broadly. “Of course not! You can buy stocks, you can sell stocks, you can own stakes in companies going public, you can do anything you want. You just can’t run a brokerage firm.”
“I could even buy Stratton new issues now, couldn’t I? I mean, if I’m no longer a registered stockbroker, then that restriction no longer applies to me, right?” I said a silent prayer to the Almighty.
“Believe it or not,” replied Ike the Spike, “the answer is yes. You would be able to buy as many shares of Stratton new issues as Danny would offer you. That’s the long and short of it.”
Hmmm…perhaps this could work out pretty well! In essence, I could become my own rathole, and not only at Stratton but at Biltmore and Monroe Parker too! “All right, Ike, I think I can convince Kenny to take a lifetime bar. He’s been trying to convince me to help his friend Victor get into the brokerage business, and if I agree to, it’ll probably seal the deal. But I need you to keep this quiet for a few days. If word of this gets out, all bets are off.”
Sorkin the Great shrugged his beefy shoulders once more and then threw his palms up in the air and winked. No words were necessary.
Having grown up in Queens, I’d had the distinct pleasure of traveling on the Long Island Expressway, the LIE, a good twenty thousand times, and for some inexplicable reason this godforsaken highway seemed to be under perpetual construction. In fact, the section my limousine was traveling on right now—where the eastern portion of Queens meets the western portion of Long Island—had been under construction since I was five years old, and it didn’t seem to be getting any closer to completion. A company had secured some sort of permanent construction contract, and they were either the most incompetent road pavers in the history of the universe or the savviest businessmen to ever walk the planet.
Whatever the case, the fact that I was less than three nautical miles from Stratton Oakmont hadn’t the slightest bearing on when I might actually arrive there. So I settled back deep in my seat and did the usual: focused on George’s wonderful bald spot and let it soothe me. I wonder what George would do if he ever lost his job? In fact, it wasn’t only George who would be affected if I botched this thing but the rest of the menagerie too. If I were forced to cut back my expenses as a result of Danny not being able to keep Stratton in business, it would affect many people.
What would become of the Strattonites? For Chrissake, every last one of them would have to dramatically cut back their lifestyles or face immediate financial ruin. They would have to start living like the rest of the world—as if money meant something and you couldn’t just go out and buy whatever the hell you wanted whenever the hell you pleased. What an unbearable thought!
From my perspective, the smart thing to do would be to walk away from this thing—clean. Yes, the prudent
man wouldn’t sell the firm to Danny for an exorbitant price…or take an office across the street…or run things from behind the scenes. It would be another case of the Wolf of Wall Street acting like Winnie the Pooh and sticking his head in the honeypot once too often. Look what had happened with Denise and Nadine: I had cheated on Denise dozens of times until…Fuck it. Why torture myself with that thought?
Anyway, there was no doubt that if I walked away, I wouldn’t be risking what I already had. I wouldn’t feel compelled to offer my advice, my guidance, nor would I even go near the boardroom to show any moral support for the troops. I wouldn’t have any clandestine meetings with Danny or, for that matter, the owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker. I would simply fade off into the sunset with Nadine and Chandler, just the way Ike had advised me to.
But how could I walk around Long Island knowing that I’d deserted the ship and left everybody hanging out to dry? Not to mention the fact that my plan with Kenny centered around my agreeing to finance Victor Wang, to assist him in opening Duke Securities. And if Victor found out I was no longer behind Stratton, he would turn on Danny faster than lightning.
In truth, the only way to do this was to let everyone know that I still had an ax to grind at Stratton and that any attack on Danny was an attack on me. Then everyone would stay loyal, except, of course, Victor, who I would deal with on my terms, at the time of my own choosing—long before he was strong enough to wage war. The Depraved Chinaman could be controlled, so long as Biltmore and Monroe Parker stayed loyal and so long as Danny kept his head glued on straight and didn’t try spreading his wings too fast.
Danny spreading his wings too fast: Yes, it was an important variable not to be discounted. After all, there was no doubt that eventually he’d want to run things according to his own instincts. It would be an insult to him if I tried holding on to the reins of power any longer than necessary. Perhaps there should be some sort of transition period that we verbally agreed to—a period of six to nine months, where he would follow my directives without question. Then, after that, I would slowly let him assume full control.
And the same would apply to Biltmore and Monroe Parker. They, too, would take orders from me, but only for a short period of time; then they would be on their own. In fact, their loyalty was so great that they would probably still make me just as much money, even if I didn’t lift a finger. There was no doubt that would be the case with Alan; his loyalty was unquestioned, based on lifelong friendship. And Brian, his partner, owned only forty-nine percent of Monroe Parker—having agreed to that as a precondition to me coming up with the original financing. So it was Alan who called the shots there. And in the case of Biltmore, it was Elliot who owned the extra percentage point. And while he wasn’t quite as loyal as Alan, he was still loyal enough.
Anyway, my holdings were so vast that Stratton represented only one aspect of my financial dealings. There was Steve Madden Shoes; there was Roland Franks and Saurel; and there were a dozen other companies that I currently owned stakes in that were preparing to go public. Of course, Dollar Time was still a complete disaster, but the worst of it was over.
Having worked things out in my mind, I said to George, “Why don’t you get off the highway and take local streets. I need to get back to the office.”
The mute nodded two times, obviously hating my guts.
I ignored his insolence and said, “Also, stick around after you drop me off. I’m gonna have lunch at Tenjin today. All right?”
Again the mute nodded, not uttering a single word.
Go figure! The fucking guy won’t say a goddamn word to me, and here I am worrying what his life would be like without Stratton. Perhaps I was completely off the mark. Perhaps I owed nothing to the thousands of people who depended on Stratton Oakmont for their very livelihoods. Perhaps they would all turn on me in a New York second—and tell me to go fuck myself—if they no longer thought that I could help them. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps…
How ironic it was that with all this internal debating I had missed one very important point: If I no longer had to worry about getting stoned inside the boardroom, there would be nothing to stop me from doing Quaaludes all day long. Without realizing it, I was setting the stage for some very dark times ahead. After all, the only thing holding me back now would be my own good judgment, which had a funny way of deserting me…especially when it came to blondes and drugs.
CHAPTER 22
LUNCHTIME IN THE ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE
Every time the restaurant door opened, a handful of Strattonites came marching in to Tenjin, causing three Japanese sushi chefs and half a dozen pint-size waitresses to drop whatever they were doing and scream out, “Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa!” which was Japanese for good afternoon. Then they offered the Strattonites deep formal bows and changed their tone to a dramatic high-pitched squeal: “Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh! Yo-say-nosah-no-seh! Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh!” which meant God only knew what.
The chefs ran over to greet the new arrivals, grabbing them by the wrists and inspecting their gleaming gold wristwatches. In heavily accented English, they would interrogate them: “How much watch cost? Where you buy? What car you drive to restaurant? Ferrari? Mercedes? Porsche? What kind golf club you use? Where you play at? How long for tee time? What your handicap?”
Meanwhile, the waitresses, who dressed in salmon-pink kimonos with lime-green rucksacks on their backs, rubbed the backs of their hands against the fine Italian wool of all those custom-made Gilberto suit jackets, nodding their heads approvingly, and making cooing sounds: “Ohhhhhhh…ahhhhhhhh…nice-a-fabric…so-a-soft!”
But then, as if by silent cue, they all stopped at precisely the same moment and returned to whatever it was they’d been doing. In the case of the sushi chefs, it meant rolling and folding and slicing and dicing. In the case of the waitresses, it meant serving oversize vats of Premium sake and Kirin beer to the young and the thirsty, and enormous wooden sailboats filled with overpriced sushi and sashimi to the rich and the hungry.
And just when you thought it was safe, the door swung open once more, and the madness repeated itself, as the wildly animated staff of Tenjin came swooping down on the next group of Strattonites and bathed them in Japanese pomp and circumstance, as well as heaping doses of what I was certain was unadulterated Japanese bullshit.
Welcome to lunch hour—Stratton style!
At this very moment, the alternative universe was exerting its full force on this tiny corner of planet earth. Dozens of sports cars and stretch limousines blocked traffic outside the restaurant, while inside the restaurant young Strattonites carried on their time-honored tradition of acting like packs of untamed wolves. Of the restaurant’s forty tables, only two were occupied by non-Strattonites, or civilians, as we called them. Perhaps they had inadvertently stumbled upon Tenjin while searching for a quiet place to enjoy a nice relaxing meal. Whatever the case, there was no doubt they had been entirely unaware of the bizarre fate about to befall them. After all, as lunch progressed, the drugs would start kicking in.
Yes, the clock had just struck one and some of the Strattonites were already getting off. It wasn’t hard to tell which of them were Luded out; they were the ones standing on the tabletops, slurring and drooling and reciting war stories. Fortunately, the sales assistants were required to stay in the boardroom—manning the phones and catching up on paperwork—so everyone still had their clothes on and nobody was rutting away in the bathrooms or under the tables.
I was sitting in a private alcove at the rear of the restaurant, watching this very madness unfold while pretending to listen to the ramblings of Kenny Greene, the blockheaded moron, who was spewing out his own version of unadulterated bullshit. Meanwhile, Victor Wang, the Depraved Chinaman, was nodding his panda-size head at everything his moronic friend was saying, although I was certain he knew Kenny was a moron too and was only pretending to agree with him.
The Blockhead was saying, “…is the exact reason why you stand to make so much money here,
JB. I mean, Victor is the sharpest guy I know.” He reached over and patted the Depraved Chinaman on his enormous back. “Next to you, of course, but that goes without saying.”
I smiled a bogus smile and said, “Well, gee, Kenny, thanks for the vote of confidence!”
Victor chuckled at his friend’s idiocy, then flashed me one of his hideous smiles, causing his eyes to become so narrow they all but disappeared.
Kenny, however, had never really mastered the concept of irony. In consequence, he had taken my offering of thanks at face value and was now beaming with great pride. “Anyway, the way I figure it, it’s only gonna take four hundred thousand or so in start-up capital to really get this thing off the ground. If you want, you can give it to me in cash and I’ll filter it to Victor through my mother”—his mother?—“and you don’t have to even worry about it leaving a bad paper trail”—a bad paper trail?—“because my mother and Victor own some real estate together, so they can justify it like that. Then we’ll need a few key stockbrokers to help get the pump going and, most importantly, a big allocation of the next new issue. The way I figure it is…”
I quickly tuned out. Kenny was bursting at the seams with excitement, and every word that escaped his lips was utter nonsense.
Neither Victor nor Kenny was aware of the SEC’s settlement offer. I wouldn’t let them in on that for a few more days, not until both of them had gotten themselves so wet in the pants over the fabulous future of Duke Securities that Stratton Oakmont would seem all but expendable. Only then would I tell them.
Just then I caught a glimpse of Victor out of the corner of my eye, and I took a moment to regard him. Just looking at the Depraved Chinaman on an empty stomach made me want to eat him! Why this massive Chinaman looked so succulent had always baffled me, although it probably had most to do with his skin, which was smoother than a newborn baby’s. And beneath that velvety soft skin were a dozen layers of lavish Chinese fat, which would be perfect for cooking; and beneath that were a dozen more layers of indestructible Chinese muscle, which would be perfect for eating; and on the very surface of it all, he sported the most delicious Chinese tint, which was the exact color of fresh tupelo honey.
The Wolf of Wall Street Page 27