The Wolf of Wall Street

by Jordan Belfort

  It was the generally accepted way for brokerage firms under regulatory heat to stay one step ahead—essentially, closing down and reopening under a different name, thereby starting the process of making money and fighting the regulators all over again. It was like stepping on a cockroach and squashing it, only to find ten new ones scurrying in all directions.

  Anyway, given Stratton’s current problems, it was the appropriate course of action, but Danny didn’t subscribe to the Cockroach Theory. Instead, he had developed his own theory, which he referred to as Twenty Years of Blue Skies. According to this theory, all Stratton had to do was get past its current wave of regulatory hurdles, and it could stay in business for twenty more years. It was preposterous! Stratton had a year left at most. By now all fifty states were circling above Stratton like vultures over a wounded carcass, and the NASD, the National Association of Securities Dealers, had joined the party too.

  But Danny was in complete denial. In fact, he had become a Wall Street version of Elvis in his final days—when his handlers would cram his enormous bulk into a white leather jumpsuit and push him onstage to sing a few songs. Then they would drag him back off before he passed out from heat exhaustion and Seconals. According to Wigwam, Danny was now climbing on top of desks during sales meetings and smashing computer monitors onto the floor and cursing the regulators. Obviously, the Strattonites ate this sort of shit up, so Danny was now kicking it up a notch—pulling down his pants and pissing on stacks of NASD subpoenas, to thunderous applause.

  Wigwam and I locked eyes, so I motioned with my chin, as if to say, “Offer up your two cents.” Wigwam nodded confidently and said, “Listen, Danny, the truth is I don’t know how much longer I can even get deals through. The SEC’s been playing four-corners defense, and it’s taking six months to get anything approved. If we start working on a new firm now, I could be in business by the end of the year—doing deals for all of us.”

  Danny’s reply wasn’t exactly what Wigwam had hoped for. “Let me tell you something, Wigwam. Your motives are so obvious it’s fucking nauseating. There’s lots of time left before we need to consider cockroaching it, so why don’t you take your fucking rug off and stay awhile.”

  “You know what, Danny? Go fuck yourself!” snapped Wigwam, running his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look more natural. “You’re so drugged out all the time you don’t even know which way is up anymore. I’m not wasting my life away while you drool in the office like a fucking imbecile.”

  The Undertaker saw an opportunity to put a hatchet in Wigwam’s back. “That’s not true,” argued the Undertaker. “Danny doesn’t drool in the office. Maybe he slurs once in a while, but even then he’s always in control.” Now the Undertaker paused, searching for a spot to inject his first dose of embalming fluid. “And you shouldn’t be one to talk, by the way. You spend your whole day chasing around that smelly slut Donna, with her putrid armpits.”

  I was fond of the Undertaker; he was a real company guy—way too dumb to actually think for himself, expending most of his mental energy conjuring up devilish rumors about those he was looking to bury. But in this particular instance his motives were obvious: He had a hundred customer complaints against him, and if Stratton went under he would never be able to get registered again.

  I said, “All right, enough of this shit—please!” I shook my head in disbelief; Stratton was totally out of control. “I gotta get to the hospital. I’m only here because I want the best for everyone. I personally couldn’t care less whether or not Stratton pays me another dime. But I do have other interests—selfish interests, I admit—and they have to do with all the arbitrations being filed. A lot of them are naming me, in spite of the fact that I’m not with the firm anymore.” I looked directly at Danny. “You’re in the same position as me, Dan, and my sense is that even if there are Twenty Years of Blue Skies ahead, the arbitrations aren’t gonna stop.”

  The Weasel chimed in: “We can take care of the arbitrations through an asset sale. We would structure it so that Stratton sold the brokers to the new firms, and, in return, they would agree to pay for any arbitration that came up for a period of three years. After that, the statute of limitations will kick in and you guys will be in the clear.”

  I looked at the Chef, and he nodded in agreement. It was interesting, I thought. I had never paid close attention to the wisdom of the Weasel. In essence, he was the legal counterpart to the Chef, but unlike the Chef, who was a man’s man—overflowing with charisma—the Weasel lacked those traits entirely. I had never thought him to be stupid; it was just that every time I looked at him, I imagined him nibbling a block of Swiss cheese. Nevertheless, his latest idea was brilliant. The customer lawsuits were troubling me, totaling more than $70 million now. Stratton was paying them, but if Stratton went belly-up, it could turn into a real fucking nightmare.

  Just then Danny said, “JB, let me talk to you by the bar for a second.”

  I nodded, and we headed to the bar, where Danny immediately filled two glasses to the rim with Dewar’s. He lifted one of the glasses, and said, “Here’s to Twenty Years of Blue Skies, my friend!” He kept holding his glass up, waiting for me to join the toast.

  I looked at my watch: It was ten-thirty. “Come on, Danny! I can’t drink right now. I gotta go to the hospital and pick up Nadine and Carter.”

  Danny shook his head gravely. “It’s bad luck to refuse a toast this early in the morning. You really willing to risk it?”

  “Yes,” I snarled, “I’m willing to risk it.”

  Danny shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and he downed what had to be five shots of scotch. “Ho baby!” he muttered. Then he shook his head a few times and reached into his pocket and pulled out four Ludes. “Will you at least take a couple Ludes with me—before you ask me to shut the firm down?”

  “Now you’re talking!” I said, smiling.

  Danny smiled broadly and handed me two Ludes. I walked over to the sink, turned on the water, and stuck my mouth in the water stream. Then I casually stuck my hand in my pocket and dropped the two Ludes in there for safekeeping. “Okay,” I said, rubbing my fingertips together, “I’m a ticking time bomb now, so let’s make it fast.”

  I smiled sadly at Danny and found myself wondering how many of my current problems could be attributed to him? Not that I had deluded myself to the point where I was laying all the blame on his doorstep, but there was no denying that Stratton would have never spun this far out of control without Danny. Yes, it was true that I had been the so-called brains of the outfit, but Danny had been the muscle, the enforcer, so to speak—doing things on a daily basis that I could have never done, or at least couldn’t have done and still looked at myself in the mirror each morning. He was a true warrior, Danny, and I didn’t know whether to respect him or loathe him for it anymore. But above all I felt sad.

  “Listen, Danny, I can’t tell you what to do with Stratton. It’s your firm now, and I respect you too much to tell you what you have to do. But if you want my opinion, I’d say close it down right now and walk away with all the marbles. You do it just the way Hartley said: You have the new firms assume all the arbitrations and then you get paid as a consultant. It’s the right move, and it’s the smart move. It’s the move I would make if I were still running the show.”

  Danny nodded. “I’ll do it, then. I just wanna give it a few more weeks to see what happens with the states, okay?”

  I smiled sadly again, knowing full well that he had no intentions of closing down the firm. All I said was, “Sure, Dan, that sounds reasonable.”

  Five minutes later I had finished my good-byes and was climbing into the back of the limousine, when I saw the Chef coming out of the restaurant. He walked over to the limo and said, “In spite of what Danny’s saying, you know he’s never gonna close down the firm. They’re gonna have to take him out of that place in handcuffs.”

  I nodded slowly and said, “Tell me something I don’t know, Dennis.” Then I hugged the Chef, climbed in
to the back of the limousine, and headed for the hospital.

  It was only by coincidence that Long Island Jewish Hospital was in the town of Lake Success, less than a mile from Stratton Oakmont. Perhaps that was why no one seemed surprised as I made my way around the maternity ward passing out gold watches. I had done the same thing when Chandler was born and had made quite a splash then. For some inexplicable reason I got an irrational joy out of wasting $50,000 on people I would never see again.

  It was a little before eleven when I finally completed my happy ritual. As I walked into the room where the Duchess was staying, I couldn’t find her. She was lost amid the flowers. Christ! There were thousands of them! The room was exploding with color—fantastic shades of red and yellow and pink and purple and orange and green.

  I finally spotted the Duchess sitting in an armchair. She was holding Carter, trying to give him his bottle. Once more, the Duchess looked gorgeous. Somehow she had managed to lose the weight in the thirty-six hours since she’d given birth, and she was now my luscious Duchess again. Good for me! She had on a pair of faded Levi’s, a simple white blouse, and a pair of off-white ballet slippers. Carter was swaddled in a sky-blue blanket, and all I could see was his tiny face poking out from beneath it.

  I smiled at my wife and said, “You look gorgeous, sweetie. I can’t believe your face is back to normal already. You were still bloated yesterday.”

  “He won’t take his bottle,” said the maternal Duchess, ignoring my compliment. “Channy always took her bottle. Carter won’t.”

  Just then a nurse walked into the room. She took Carter from the Duchess and started to give him his exit exam. I was still packing the bags when I heard the nurse say, “My, my, my, what wonderful eyelashes he has! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautiful ones on a baby. Wait until he unfolds a bit. He’s gonna be awfully handsome, I bet.”

  The proud Duchess replied, “I know. There’s something very special about him.”

  And then I heard the nurse say, “That’s strange!”

  I spun on my heel and looked at the nurse. She was sitting in a chair, holding Carter—pressing a stethoscope against the left side of his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” replied the nurse, “but his heart doesn’t sound right.” She seemed very nervous now, compressing her lips as she listened.

  I looked over at the Duchess, and she looked like she’d just taken a bullet in her gut. She was standing, holding on to the side of the bedpost. I walked over and put my arm around her. No words were exchanged.

  Finally the nurse said in a very annoyed tone: “I can’t believe no one’s picked this up. Your son has a hole in his heart! I’m certain of it. I can hear the backflow right now. It’s either a hole or some sort of defect with one of the valves. I’m sorry, but you can’t take him home yet. We need to get a pediatric cardiologist up here right now.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded slowly, vacantly. Then I looked at the Duchess, who was in tears—crying silently. In that very instant we both knew our lives would never be the same again.

  Fifteen minutes later we were in the lower bowels of the hospital, standing in a small room filled with advanced medical equipment—banks of computers, monitors of various shapes and sizes, IV stands, and a tiny examining table, on which Carter was now lying naked. The lights had been dimmed and a tall, thin doctor was now in charge.

  “There, you see it?” said the doctor. He was pointing his left index finger at a black computer screen, which had four amoebalike swaths in the center of it, two of them red, two of them blue. Each swath was the size of a silver dollar. They were interconnected and seemed to be draining into one another in a slow, rhythmic fashion. In his right hand he was holding a small device, shaped like a microphone, and he was pressing it against Carter’s chest and moving it in slow, concentric circles. The red and blue pools were echoes of Carter’s blood as it flowed through the four chambers of his heart.

  “And there,” he added. “The second hole—it’s a bit smaller, but it’s definitely there, between the atria.”

  Then he turned off the echocardiogram apparatus and said, “I’m surprised your son hasn’t gone into congestive heart failure. The hole between his ventricles is large. There’s a strong likelihood he’ll need open-heart surgery in the next few days. How’s he doing with his bottle? Is he taking it?”

  “Not really,” said the Duchess sadly. “Not like our daughter did.”

  “Has he been sweating when he feeds?”

  The Duchess shook her head. “Not that I’ve noticed. He’s just not that interested in feeding.”

  The doctor nodded. “The problem is that oxygenated blood is mixing with deoxygenated blood. When he tries to feed it puts a great strain on him. Sweating during feeding is one of the first signs of congestive heart failure in an infant. However, there’s still a chance he might be okay. The holes are large, but they seem to be balancing each other out. They’re creating a pressure gradient, minimizing backflow. If it weren’t for that, he’d be exhibiting symptoms already. Only time can tell, though. If he doesn’t go into heart failure in the next ten days, he’ll probably be okay.”

  “What are the chances of him going into heart failure?” I asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “About fifty–fifty.”

  The Duchess: “And if he does go into heart failure? Then what?”

  “We’ll start by giving him diuretics to keep fluid from building up in his lungs. There are other medications too, but let’s not put the cart before the horse. But if none of the medications work, we’ll need to perform open-heart surgery to patch the hole.” The doctor smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry to give you such bad news; we’ll just have to wait and see. You can take your son home, but watch him carefully. At the first sign of sweating or labored breathing—or even a refusal to take his bottle—call me immediately. Either way, I’ll need to see you again in a week”—I don’t think so, pal! My next stop is Columbia-Presbyterian, with a doctor who graduated from Harvard!—“to take another echocardiogram. Hopefully, the hole will have started to close by then.”

  The Duchess and I immediately perked up. Sensing a ray of hope, I asked, “Do you mean it’s possible that the hole could close on its own?”

  “Oh, yes. I must have forgotten to mention that”—Nice detail to leave out, slime bucket!—“but if he doesn’t have any symptoms in the first ten days, then that’s most likely what’ll happen. You see, as your son grows, his heart will also grow, and it’ll slowly envelop the hole. By his fifth birthday it should be completely closed. And even if it doesn’t close completely, it’ll be so small that it won’t give him a problem. So, again, it comes down to the first ten days. I can’t stress it enough—watch him carefully! In fact, I wouldn’t take my eyes off him for more than a few minutes.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said a confident Duchess. “There’s gonna be at least three people watching him at all times, and one of them is gonna be a registered nurse.”

  Rather than going to Westhampton, which was a good seventy miles to the east, we headed straight to Old Brookville, which was only fifteen minutes from the hospital. Once there, our families quickly joined us. Even the Duchess’s father, Tony Caridi, the world’s most lovable loser, showed up—still looking like Warren Beatty, and still looking to borrow money, I figured, once all the commotion died down.

  Mad Max led the vigil, quickly turning into Sir Max—assuring the Duchess and me that everything would work out fine; then he went about making phone calls to various doctors and hospitals without losing his temper once. In fact, there would be no sign of Mad Max until the crisis resolved itself, at which point Mad Max would magically reappear—making up for lost time with vicious verbal tirades and belligerent smoking strategies. My mother was her usual self—a saintly woman who prayed Jewish prayers for Carter and offered moral support to the Duchess and me. Suzanne, the closet anarchist, chalked Carter’s hole
s up to a government conspiracy, which included the doctors, who, for some inexplicable reason, were in on it.

  We explained to Chandler that her brother was sick, and she told us that she loved him and that she was glad we decided to bring him home from the hospital. Then she went back to playing with her blocks. Gwynne and Janet stood vigil, too, but only after they’d recovered from six hours of hysterical crying. Even Sally, my lovable chocolate brown Lab, got into the act—setting up camp at the base of Carter’s crib, leaving only for bathroom breaks and an occasional meal. However, the Duchess’s dog, Rocky, evil little bastard that he was, couldn’t have cared less about Carter. He pretended nothing was wrong and continued to annoy every person in the house—barking incessantly, peeing on the carpet, pooping on the floor, and stealing Sally’s food from her dog bowl, while she was busy sitting vigil and praying with us like a good dog.

  But the biggest disappointment was the baby nurse, Ruby, who came highly recommended from one of those WASPy employment agencies that specialize in providing wealthy families with Jamaican baby nurses. The problem started when Rocco Night picked her up from the train station, and he thought he smelled alcohol on her breath. After she’d finished unpacking her bags, he took it upon himself to search her room. Fifteen minutes later she was in the backseat of his car, being led away, never to be heard from again, at least by us. The only fringe benefit was the five bottles of Jack Daniel’s that Rocco had confiscated from her, which were now in my downstairs liquor cabinet.

  The replacement nurse showed up a few hours later. It was another Jamaican woman, named Erica. She turned out to be a real gem—instantly clicking with Gwynne and the rest of the crowd. So Erica joined the menagerie and stood vigil too.

  By day four Carter still hadn’t shown any signs of heart failure. Meanwhile, my father and I had made dozens of inquiries as to who the world’s foremost pediatric cardiologist was. All our inquiries pointed to Dr. Edward Golenko. He was the Chief of Cardiology at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.