Catching the Wolf of Wall Street: More Incredible True Stories of Fortunes, Schemes, Parties, and Prison

CHAPTER 6

THE BASTARD AND THE WITCH

he New York field office of the FBI occupied the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second floors of a glass-and-concrete tower that rose up forty-two stories above Lower Manhattan. The area, which was known as Tribeca, for “triangle below Canal Street,” was the part of town that included Wall Street, the federal courthouses, the World Trade Center, and the least respected of all government institutions: the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

I walked down a long narrow hallway in the building's subbasement, with Coleman and McCrogan on either side of me. Coleman had just finished explaining how we were in the part of the building that was used for debriefings.

I nodded dutifully and kept on walking, resisting the urge to ask him if the FBI considered the word debriefing to be synonymous with interrogation. Either way, I had no doubt that many things had gone on down here that hadn't exactly jived with the Bill of Rights. (Probably some light torture, some sleep deprivation, and garden-variety habeas corpus violations.) But I decided to keep those stray thoughts to myself, and I just kept nodding and walking—maintaining a neutral expression—as they escorted me into a small debriefing room at the end of the hall.

Inside the room, three people were sitting in cheap black armchairs around a cheap wooden conference table. There were no windows in this room, just fluorescent lights emitting a blue tubercular glow. The walls were completely bare, painted a disturbing shade of hospital white. On one side of the table sat my trusted lawyer, Gregory J. O'Connell, aka Magnum, smiling broadly, looking as towering and dapper as ever. He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit, a white dress shirt, and a red striped tie. He looked right at home down here, a former prosecutor himself, who now had the pleasure of defending the guilty.

Across from Magnum sat a man and a woman, the former of whom I knew from the day of my arraignment, when he'd said all those kind things at my bail hearing. His name was Joel Cohen, and a little over two years ago he had teamed up with OCD to bring me to justice, succeeding where a half-dozen AUSAs before him had failed.

In essence, as sharp and as dedicated as OCD was, he had needed an equally sharp counterpart within the U.S. Attorney's Office to handle the legal end of things. OCD on his own could only investigate; he needed a bastard like Joel Cohen to prosecute me.

At this particular moment, the Bastard was leaning forward in his armchair with his bony elbows resting on the desktop. He was staring at me with narrowed eyes, licking his chops inwardly, no doubt. He wore a cheap gray suit, a cheap white dress shirt, a cheap red tie, and a sinister expression. He had a short mop of curly brown hair, a high forehead, a fleshy nose, and a pasty-faced complexion. He wasn't bad-looking, though; he just looked unkempt, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the office. But that was by design, I figured. Oh, yes, the Bastard was trying to make a statement—that now that we were in his world, the price of your suit, the reputation of your dry cleaner, and the fashion sense of your barber didn't matter a lick. It was the Bastard who had the power, and I was his prisoner—regardless of appearance. The Bastard was of average height and weight, although he had that aforementioned degenerate slouch, which made him appear shorter. I had no doubt that he held me in as much contempt as I held him. Right now, in fact, he had a look on his face that so much as said, “Welcome to my underground lair, prisoner! Let the torture begin!”

The room's third occupant was a mousy little creature named Michele Adelman. She was sitting to the Bastard's left. I had never met her before, but her reputation preceded her. Her nickname was the Wicked Witch of the East, something she'd earned due to her uncanny likeness—both physically and personality-wise—to that conniving old hag from The Wizard of Oz. And since Michele (and Joel) worked as assistant U.S. attorneys for the Eastern District of New York, the nickname made that much more sense.

The Witch was a squat five foot two, with a great mane of dark frizzy hair, dark beady eyes, thin maroon lips, and an abbreviated chin. I could only imagine how mousy she'd look if she picked up a block of Swiss cheese between her paws and started nibbling on it. And I could only imagine how witchlike she'd look if she straddled a broomstick and took a cruise around the debriefing room. She wore a dark blue pantsuit and a stern expression.

“Good morning!” said Magnum. “I'd like to introduce you to two people whom you're going to be spending quite a bit of time with over the next few months.” He motioned to the Witch and the Bastard, who both nodded dutifully. Then he said, “Jordan, this is Joel Cohen, whom I believe you've had the pleasure of meeting before”—I reached over and shook the Bastard's hand, wondering if he might try to slap a handcuff on me—”and this is Michele Adelman, whom I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting before,” and now I shook the Witch's hand, wondering if she might try to turn me into a newt.

“Anyway, I want everyone to know that Jordan is fully committed to his cooperation.” Magnum nodded a single time. “He plans on being both honest and forthright at all times, and I can assure that the information he has is invaluable in your fight against crime and injustice on Wall Street.” And Magnum nodded once more.

What a load of crap! I thought. I mean, really!

“That's good,” replied the Bastard, motioning for me to take a seat next to Magnum. “We all look forward to your cooperation, Jordan, and I speak for all those present when I say that we hold no ill feelings toward you”—out of the corner of my eye I could see OCD rolling his eyes, as he and the Mormon took seats on either side of the Witch and the Bastard—”and that if you do the right thing here you'll be treated fairly.”

I nodded gratefully, not believing a word he said. OCD would treat me fairly; he was a man of honor. But not the Bastard; he had it out for me. The Witch, however, I wasn't sure about it. According to Magnum, she hated all men—including OCD and the Bastard—so I would be of no special interest to her. My problem was the Bastard. Hopefully he would leave the office before I got sentenced. Then everything would be okay.

With great humility, I said, “I believe you, Joel, and like Greg said, I'm totally committed to my cooperation. Ask whatever you want, and I'll answer as best I can.”

“So did you sink your yacht for the insurance money?” snapped the Witch. “Let's hear the truth.”

I looked at the Witch and offered her a dead smile. On the table was a tall pitcher of water with six glasses next to it, one of which was half full. What would happen if I threw the glass of water on the Witch? She'd probably scream, “Help me! I'm melting! I'm melting!” But I decided to keep that thought to myself, and all I said was, “No, Michele. If I wanted to sink it for the insurance money, I wouldn't have done it with myself and my wife on it.”

“Why?” countered the Witch. “That would be the perfect alibi.”

“And it would also be a perfect way to get himself killed,” snapped OCD. “He got caught in a storm, Michele. Go read Yachting magazine. It's in there.”

With great confidence, Magnum said, “I can assure all those present that Jordan did not sink his yacht for the insurance money. Right, Jordan?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “But I won't deny that I hated the thing. It was a hundred and seventy feet of floating heartache. It was constantly breaking down, and it burned through money faster than Haiti.” I shrugged innocently. “Anyway, I was glad it sank.” Would they really make me tell them the story of the yacht sinking? It really had been an accident. The only thing I'd been guilty of was poor judgment, which at the time had been slightly impaired. I was under the influence of enough drugs to sedate Guatemala, so I pressured the captain to take out the boat into the middle of a Force 8 gale, to quell my drug-induced boredom.

“Anyway,” said Magnum, “you have your answer, Michele. It was an accident.” I nodded in agreement, feeling confident in our first exchange. It had been entirely innocuous, and Magnum and I had handled ourselves beautifully, neutralizing the Witch's spell. Or so I'd thought, until the Bastard said, “And when the boat was sinking, isn't it true that you called Danny Porush and told him that you had ten million dollars in cash buried in your backyard, and that if you and your wife died he should dig it up and make sure it went to your children?”

I looked around the debriefing room and all eyes were on me, including Magnum's. OCD had a wry smile on his face that so much as said, “You see, Jordan, I know things about you that you had no idea I knew!” The Mormon, however, had a rather mischievous smile on his face that so much as said, “I'd be willing to split the ten million with you if you hand me a treasure map and keep the others out of it!” But the Witch and the Bastard both bore grim expressions that so much as said, “Just go ahead and lie to us and see what happens!”

Ironically, I had no idea what they were talking about. In fact, I was now astonished for three reasons: first, because I hadn't buried even ten dollars in my backyard, much less ten million; second, because there was no way of proving it, short of taking OCD into my backyard with a pick and a shovel and digging up six acres of some very expensive Bermuda grass; and, third, because the way the Bastard had phrased his question, he'd insinuated that the information had come from Danny Porush himself, which meant he was cooperating too.

And that was both good and bad. On the bright side, it meant that I wouldn't have to cooperate against him, which was something Magnum had predicted. But on the not-so-bright side, Danny had been my right-hand man, which meant everything I said would be cross-checked for accuracy. I would have to be extremely careful with that; outright lies would have to be avoided. It would simply be too easy to get caught. Omissions of fact were my only hope. After all, withholding information could just as easily be a lapse of memory.

With a hint of disdain, I replied, “That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, Joel.” I shook my head and let out a cynical chuckle. “You know, I don't know where you're getting your information from, but I promise you that it's completely bogus.” I looked at OCD. His expression was neutral, his hawk eyes slightly narrowed, as if he was sizing me up. I looked him right in the eyes and said, “Trust me, Greg; whoever told you that is yanking your chain. Think about it for a second: Who in their right mind would bury ten million dollars in their backyard? I would've had to dig the hole in the middle of the night and then resod my lawn before sunup. And I'm not exactly the manual-labor type. In fact, the last time one of my lamps blew a bulb, I threw out the lamp.” I stared right into the bastard's eyes.

“You have a very competent lawyer,” Joel sputtered, “so I'm sure he's explained to you that if you get caught lying, or try to deceive us in any way whatsoever, we have the right to rip up your cooperation agreement and throw it in the garbage can.” He flashed me a dead smile. “That means you'd be sentenced without the benefit of a 5K letter, which translates into about thirty years in a—”

Magnum cut the Bastard off with, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Joel! Settle down! Jordan is fully aware of his obligations, and he has every intention of living up to them.”

The Bastard shrugged. “And I'm not saying he won't,” he shot back. “But it's my legal obligation to inform him of the terrible fate that would befall him”—and how happy it would make me, his tone implied—”if he were sentenced without the benefit of a 5K letter.” The Bastard looked me right in the eye and added, “And remember that all the information you provide us with can be used against you if you should change your mind and decide to go to trial.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” I said calmly. “Greg explained all this to me yesterday. But you don't have to worry: I won't put you in a position where you'd have to ruin my life, Joel.” Try as I might, the last few words slipped out with a healthy dose of irony.

“You know, I think this might be a good time to confer with my client,” said Magnum. “Would you give us a few moments?”

“No problem,” said the Bastard, rising from his armchair. He smiled at the Wicked Witch of the East, who rose from her seat too, followed by OCD and the Mormon. Then, in single file, they exited the room and closed the door behind them. The moment they were gone, I popped out of my chair and snarled, “This is total horseshit, Greg, total fucking horseshit! You were right about him; he's a real fuckhead! And the other one, Michele Adelman— Jesus! What a cunt she is! Someone oughtta give her a fucking broomstick and tell her to fly herself back to Oz!”

Magnum nodded in agreement, slowly rising from his chair until he was a good two heads above me. With a friendly smile, he said, “First of all, I want you to calm down. Take a deep breath and count to ten; then, when you're done, we can talk about the ten million buried in your backyard.”

I looked up at Magnum, whose head now seemed to be scraping the fluorescent bulbs. “Will you please sit down!” I demanded. “You're too fucking tall. I lose my perspective when we're both standing.” I motioned for him to take a seat.

“You're not that short,” he replied, staring down at the top of my head, as if I were a midget. “I think you have a complex.” He reached down and placed his large hand on my shoulder. “In fact, when all this is over, I think you should seek help.”

I expelled a gust of air. “Yeah, well, I'll take it up with the prison shrink when I'm not busy getting butt-fucked by Bubba the Bull-queer.” I shook my head in frustration. “Anyway, I didn't bury any money in my backyard, Greg, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“That's fine,” said Magnum, taking his seat. “You have nothing to worry about, then. Joel has to write you the 5K letter, even if he doesn't believe you. He can only withhold the letter if he catches you in an outright lie. But you are going to have to give him a financial statement.” He paused for a brief instant. “And it's going to have to include any cash you might have. If something should surface down the road”—he rolled his eyes—”it would be very bad for you; very, very bad. How much cash are you sitting on right now?”

“Not much,” I replied. “Maybe a million, slightly less.”

“That's it?”

“Yeah, that's it. Maybe you're forgetting about all the cash I smuggled overseas. Why the fuck do you think I'm sitting here, for a traffic violation?”

“I understand you smuggled money overseas, but that doesn't account for all of it.” He paused and rolled his long, rangy neck, eliciting half a dozen dull vertebral cracks. Then he said, “Listen, I'm just playing devil's advocate here, trying to anticipate what Joel might think, and I think he might be skeptical.”

I shook my head in consternation. “Let me explain something, Greg: For the last four years I didn't actually own a brokerage firm. I was just controlling them from behind the scenes, right?”

He nodded.

“Right, so follow me for a second: Since I didn't actually own the brokerage firms, it was me who was getting shares in hot new issues, and it was me who was kicking back cash to the owners.” I paused, searching for a simple way to explain to Magnum (who wasn't a crook) how things went down in a crooked world. “In other words, in the early nineties, back when I owned Stratton, I was the one who was getting the cash kickbacks. But after I was thrown out of the brokerage business and was operating from behind the scenes, the whole process reversed itself, and I was the one who was paying the kickbacks—paying off the owners of the brokerage firms. You understand?”

He nodded again. “Yes, I do,” he said confidently. “That makes perfect sense to me.”

I nodded back. “Good, because it happens to be the truth.” I shrugged. “Anyway, I don't even have the million dollars. My mother-in-law is holding it for me.”

“Why is that?” asked Magnum, taken aback.

How naive! I thought. Magnum was a fine lawyer, but he didn't think like a true criminal. I would just have to educate him. “Because the night I was arrested, I thought Coleman would come back with a search warrant. So I told Nadine to give the cash to her mother for safekeeping. But I can get it back anytime I want. You think I should?”

“Yes, you should. And if the subject of cash comes up again, you should offer that information proactively. Remember, as long as you're honest, you can't get into trouble.” He reached into his suit-jacket pocket and pulled out a single sheet of yellow legal paper that had been folded lengthwise, into thirds. Then he smiled and raised his eyebrows three times in rapid succession and placed the sheet of paper on the conference table. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and unfolded the precious document and said, “This is the list of people you said you have information on. There are ninety-seven names on it, and some of them are pretty damn juicy.” He shook his head. “Did you really commit crimes with all these people?” he asked incredulously. “It seems almost impossible.”

I pursed my lips and nodded slowly. Then I sat down beside him and took a moment to study this esteemed list, which read like a who's who of Wall Street villains. And accompanying the villainous Wall Streeters were some corrupt politicians, some crooked police officers, a corrupt judge or two, a handful of mobsters, and some accountants and lawyers and CEOs and CFOs, and then a dozen or so civilians—people who weren't actually in the brokerage business but had acted as my nominee, which was Wall Street lingo for front man.

With a sinking heart, I said, “What a fucking shame this is.” I scanned the list, shaking my head in despair. “This is really ugly, Greg, really fucking ugly. I thought you were gonna leave some of these names off, some of my friends like Lipsky… and Elliot Lavigne… and… uh, Andy Greene?”

He shook his head slowly. “I couldn't do it,” he said gravely. “It would make matters worse. If I left one of your friends off the list, it would pique the government's interest that much more.”

I nodded in resignation, knowing that Magnum was right. Only yesterday, when we'd made the list, it'd seemed like no big deal. We'd even had a few laughs over it, finding humor in how people from all walks of life could be corrupted by the allure of fast money on Wall Street. It seemed that greed, in the shape of instantaneous profits, knew no strangers. It crossed over all ethnic lines, infecting all age groups. On the list were blacks, whites, Asians, Hispanics, Indians (dots, not feathers), Indians (feathers, not dots), the young, the old, the healthy, the infirm, males, females, homosexuals, bisexuals, you name it. It seemed that no one could resist the temptation of making hundreds of thousands of dollars with no risk. What a sad commentary, I thought, on the state of twentieth-century capitalism.

Five minutes later, the list was still lying on the conference table, although it had a much larger audience now. The Bastard, the Witch, OCD, and the Mormon were back in the room, all of them hunched over in their armchairs, staring down at the list as if it were the Holy Grail.

“This is a pretty inclusive list,” marveled the Bastard. Then he looked up and smiled a reasonably friendly smile at me and said, “If this is a sign of things to come, Jordan, then everything should work out very well for you.” He looked down at the list again and kept muttering, “Very well, indeed… this is excellent…”

I smiled dutifully and tuned out. And as the Bastard kept fawning over my list, I found myself wondering what he would be thinking right now if I'd left all the hookers on the list. There must have been a thousand of those, or at least five hundred. What would the Witch think of that? Would she try to cast an impotence spell on me? She had heard the stories, no doubt, of how we Strattonites classified our hookers like stocks—with the best hookers being Blue Chips and the skankiest hookers being Pink Sheeters (the Pink Sheets was where stocks of little or no value were listed). And somewhere, occupying some murky middle ground, were the NASDAQs, who were either fallen Blue Chips or had never been hot enough to qualify for true Blue Chip status.

“… best place to start is from the beginning,” said the Bastard, who'd finally stopped his muttering. He picked up a cheap Bic pen and said, in a dead-serious tone: “Where did you attend grade school?”

“P.S. One Sixty-nine,” I replied.

He nodded a single time, then scribbled down my answer on a yellow legal pad. “And that was in Bayside?”

“Yes. Bayside, Queens.”

He scribbled that down too and then stared at me, as if he were expecting me to say more. But I didn't. I remained silent, waiting for him to ask the next question.

“Feel free to expand on your answers,” the Bastard said. “Less is not more in this situation.” He smiled thinly.

I nodded in understanding. “Sure,” I said, and I said no more.

I wasn't even trying to give the Bastard a hard time; it was just that, over the years, I'd been trained to give brief answers during legal inquisitions. In point of fact, I had been deposed no less than fifty times—mostly by the NASD (in customer arbitrations), but also by the SEC and the Senate Ethics Committee, the latter of which had been conducting a bribery investigation into one of their less esteemed senators.

Whatever. I'd been conditioned to give only yes or no answers— to offer no extraneous information based on what I thought my interrogator wanted to hear. And while I was aware that the ground rules were different now, old habits died hard.

A few more moments of silence passed, then the Bastard finally said, “You were an A student in grade school?”

“Yes,” I said proudly. “Straight A's all the way.”

“Any disciplinary problems?”

“None to speak of, although I did get in trouble once for pulling a girl's hat off her head on the way home from school.” I shrugged. “It was in the third grade, though, so it didn't end up on my permanent record.” I thought back for a moment. “You know, it's funny, but I can trace pretty much every problem I've ever had in my life back to a female.” Or, more accurately, I thought, to the pursuit of pussy.

There was silence, and then more silence. Finally I took a deep breath and said, “Do you want me to tell you the story of my life? Is that what you're looking for?”

“Yes,” the Bastard answered, nodding his head slowly, “that's exactly what we're looking for.” He put his pen down, leaned back in his seat, and said, “I'm sure some of the last few questions seemed a bit ridiculous to you, but I assure you they're not. When you're on the witness stand, the defense is going to try to paint you as a career criminal, a born liar who'll say anything to get himself off the hook. And wherever they think there's dirt—even if it's in your childhood—that's where they'll dig. They'll use whatever they find to try to discredit you.”

“Joel's correct,” added Magnum. “They'll dredge up anything and everything. And the way the prosecution counters that is by disclosing your misdeeds to the jury before the defense even gets a chance. In other words, we air your dirty laundry proactively, as if it's no great secret, entirely irrelevant to the proceedings.”

“Exactly,” chirped the Bastard. “We leave the defense nowhere to go.”

Now OCD chimed in: “What we can't afford are surprises. That serves none of our purposes. We need to know the most intimate details about your life—anything and everything you've done for as long as you can remember.”

And now the Witch said, “And that includes not only your drug use but also your fondness for prostitutes, both of which have been duly noted in the press,” to which the Bastard added, “And both of which are certain to be exploited by a good defense attorney.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, I said, “That's all fine and good, but I was under the impression”—I resisted the urge to stare directly into Magnum's eyes and shoot death rays at him— “that people rarely go to trial in these cases, that they usually plea-bargain. Or, if not that, cooperate.”

The Bastard shrugged. “For the most part, that's true, but I wouldn't count on it. In the end, there's always one holdout, someone who takes it all the way to trial.”

Everyone nodded in unison, including Magnum, who was now in the process of revising history. Well, fuck it! I thought. It was time for the chips to fall where they may. “You know,” I said casually, “I might be only thirty-six years old, but I've had a very full life. This could take a very long time.”

OCD smiled wryly. “I've been trying to make sense of your life for the last five years,” he said. “I, personally, have as much time as it takes.”

“Yeah, let's hear it,” added the Bastard.

“It's your only hope of getting a reduced sentence,” snapped the Witch.

I ignored the Witch and looked at the Bastard and said, “Fine; since you've already brought up the subject of Bayside, let's start there. It's as good a place to start as any, considering that's where most of the early Strattonites came from.” I paused, thinking back for a moment. “And even the ones who didn't actually come from Bayside ended up moving there after the firm got started.”

“Everyone moved to Bayside?” the Bastard asked skeptically.

“Not everyone,” I replied, “but most everyone. You see, moving to Bayside was a way of proving your loyalty to the firm, a way of showing that you were truly a Strattonite. I know it sounds slightly absurd—that moving to a certain neighborhood could make that much of a statement—but that was how it was back then. We were like the Mafia, always looking to keep outsiders out.” I shrugged my shoulders. “When you worked at Stratton, you socialized only with other Strattonites, and that's what living in Bayside was all about. You were blocking out outsiders, proving that you were part of the cult.”

“You're saying Stratton was a cult?” sputtered the Witch.

“Yes,” I said calmly. “That's exactly what I'm saying, Michele. Why do you think it was so hard to penetrate?” Now I looked at OCD. “How many doors you think you knocked on over the years—just a ballpark?”

“At least fifty,” he replied. “Probably more.”

“And every last one of them was slammed in your face, right?”

“Pretty much,” he said wearily. “No one would talk to me.”

“A big part of that was that everyone was making so much money, no one wanted to upset the applecart.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “But it was more than that: What was at the very core of it was protecting the Stratton way of life. That's what everyone was doing: protecting the Life.”

“Define ‘the Life,’” said the Bastard, with a hint of sarcasm.

I shrugged. “Well, among other things, it meant driving the fanciest car, eating at the hottest restaurants, giving the biggest tips, wearing the finest clothes.” I shook my head in amazement. “I mean, we did everything together. We spent every waking moment together. And not just at work, but at home too.” I looked at the Witch, staring into her black-as-night eyes. “That's why Stratton was a cult, Michele. It was all for one and one for all, and lots for oneself, of course. And there were no outsiders around—ever.” I looked around the room. “Understand?”

Everyone, including the Witch, nodded.

The Bastard said, “What you're saying makes sense, but I thought most of your early recruits came from Long Island, from Jericho and Syosset.”

“About half of them did,” I replied quickly. “And there's a reason for that, but we're jumping ahead here. It would be best to take things in order.”

“Please,” said the Bastard. “This is very productive.”

I nodded, gathering my thoughts. “So back to Bayside, then. It's rather ironic, considering that when I was a teenager I swore I'd leave Bayside as soon as I struck it rich. I was about fifteen when I first realized there was a different kind of life out there—a better life, I thought at that time—meaning, a life of wealth and affluence. Remember, I didn't grow up with money, so extravagances like mansions, yachts, private jets—things that people now associate me with—were all completely foreign to me then. Bayside was strictly middle class, especially the part I was raised in.” I smiled nostalgically. “It happened to be a wonderful place to grow up. There wasn't an ounce of crime there, and everyone knew everyone. Everyone had moved there from the Bronx or from other parts of Queens, from neighborhoods that had… you know… turned. My parents moved there from the South Bronx, from a place that's a real shithole now—and you're not writing any of this down, Joel.”

“Anything I write down, I have to turn over to the defense, whoever that ultimately might be.” The Bastard smiled conspiratorially. “So, in my particular case, less is more. Anyway, just keep talking; I have an excellent memory.”

I nodded. “All right. Well, my parents moved to Bayside to spare me the heartache of growing up in the Bronx. We lived in a six-story apartment building in one of those planned communities that were springing up like hotcakes back then. And it was beautiful; there were grassy fields to play ball on, playgrounds, concrete walking paths, trees for tree houses, bushes for hide-and-seek. But, most importantly, there were hundreds of kids, which meant there were lots of future Strattonites to recruit from. And they were all getting good educations”—I paused, reconsidering my words— “although the education part was sort of a double-edged sword.”

“Why is that?” asked OCD, who seemed to be getting a kick out of me.

“Well,” I said, “by the time we hit our teens we were educated enough to know how little we actually had. In other words, we knew that, yeah, maybe we weren't starving like the kids in Africa, but there was definitely more out there.” I paused for effect. “That's how everyone in my neighborhood thought. There was a sense of unlimited hope—or a sense of entitlement, you might call it—that one day we would all strike it rich and move out to Long Island, where the real money was, where people lived in houses and drove Cadillacs and Mercedes.”

“Alan Lipsky grew up in the same apartment building as you, didn't he?” asked OCD.

“Yes,” I said, “on the same floor. And Andy Greene, who you probably know as Wigwam, lived only a few blocks away. Although no one called him Wigwam back then; he didn't actually go bald until the eleventh grade.” I shrugged. “He didn't get his first toupee until he was in his junior year of college. That's when he became Wigwam.” I shrugged again, wondering if Andy Greene would be sitting in this very room in the not-too-distant future. After all, he had been the head of Stratton's Corporate Finance Department, responsible for finding deals to take public and getting them cleared at the SEC. He was a good man, although he would be devastated if he had to go to jail and was forced to take his toupee off—despite the fact that he had the worst toupee this side of the former Iron Curtain.

“Anyway,” I said, “Alan lived in apartment Five-K and I lived in Five-F, and we've been best friends since diapers. I'm sure you're all aware of the fact that I provided Alan with training and financing and that I showed him how the game works.” Everyone nodded. “And, in return, he and Brian paid me upward of five million a year in royalties, in sort of a quid pro quo. But I'm jumping ahead again; that happened many years later.”

The Bastard nodded. “You said before that you never had any disciplinary problems growing up: You had no arrests? No history of juvenile delinquency?”

I shook my head no, wanting to smack the Bastard for insinuating that I'd been a bad seed from the start. But all I said was, “I was a good kid, a straight-A student, just like I said.” I thought for a moment. “And so was the rest of my family. My oldest two first cousins both went to Harvard and graduated at the top of their classes. They're both doctors now. And my older brother—I think you know, Joel—he's one of the most well-respected health-care lawyers in the country. He used to play poker with some of your friends in the U.S. Attorney's Office, although he left the game once my investigation started heating up. I guess it was too uncomfortable for him.”

The Bastard nodded deferentially. “I never met your brother, but I've heard only the best things about him. It's amazing you two are even related.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “it's a total fucking miracle. But we are related, and I was just like him when we were younger. Maybe our personalities were different—I mean, I was the outgoing one and he was the introvert—but I was just as good a student as him. Probably even better. School came ridiculously easy to me. Even after I started smoking pot—back in the sixth grade—I was still getting straight A's. It wasn't until tenth grade that the drugs started catching up with me.”

OCD recoiled visibly. “You started smoking pot in sixth grade?” he asked.

I nodded with a twisted sense of pride. “Yeah, Greg, when I was eleven. My friend's older brother was a pot dealer, and one night Alan and I slept over our friend's house and his brother turned us on.” I paused, smiling at the utter insanity of having smoked pot at the age of eleven. “Anyway, pot wasn't as strong back then, so I only caught a minor buzz. I didn't end up bouncing off the walls, like I did as an adult.” I let out a tiny chuckle. “Anyway, I continued dabbling with pot for a couple more years, but it never caused me a problem. My parents still thought everything was okay.”

I paused and took a moment to study everyone's expressions, which were at various stages of incredulity. I continued my story: “I think the first time they noticed something was wrong was when I was in eighth grade, when I got a ninety-two on a math test. My mother was devastated. Before that, I'd never gotten anything below a ninety-eight, and even that would cause a raised eyebrow from her. I remember her saying something like, ‘Is everything okay, honey? Were you sick? Was something bothering you?’” I shook my head at the memory. “Of course, I didn't tell her that I'd smoked two fat joints of Colombian Gold before the test and that I was finding it difficult to add two plus two that afternoon.” I shrugged innocently. “But I do remember her being very concerned about that test, as if, somehow, getting a ninety-two would reduce my chances of getting into Harvard Medical School.” I shrugged again. “But that was how my mother was; she was an overachiever who held us to a very high standard.” I lit up. “In fact, just a few years ago, she became the oldest woman in New York State to pass the bar. She practices law on Long Island now, doing everything pro bono.” Ah, a way to redeem myself with the Witch! I thought. “She defends battered women, ones who can't afford a lawyer,” and I looked into the Witch's beady eyes, hoping to win her over with my mother's fabulous deeds.

Alas, the Witch remained impassive, entirely unmoved. She was a tough son of a bitch. I decided to kick it up a notch. “You know, back in the day, Michele, my mother was a successful CPA, when there were very few professional women in the workplace.” I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head quickly, as if to say, “Pretty impressive, eh?” Then I stared at her, waiting for her expression to soften. Still nothing. She just kept staring back at me, shooting daggers. After a few moments, I looked away. She was so poisonous that I now found myself looking to the Bastard for salvation, hoping he would approve of my mother, in spite of the Witch's insolence. I said to the Bastard, “She's a genius, my mother. A truly wonderful lady.”

The Bastard nodded, apparently buying into the righteousness of my mother, although there was also a hint of “Who gives a fuck?” in his body language. But then, with great sincerity, he said, “Well, it sounds like she's a really great lady,” and he nodded his head some more.

“Yeah, she really is great,” I said. “And then there's my father, who I'm sure you're all familiar with.” I smiled ruefully. “He's also a CPA, and a genius in his own right, althoughhhh…” I paused, trying to find the right words to classify my father, Max, whose Stratton nickname was Mad Max, due to his wildly ferocious temper.

Mad Max was a serial chain-smoker, a great advocate of premium Russian vodka, a human ticking time bomb, and a surprisingly dapper dresser. Mad Max played no favorites; he hated everyone equally. “Well,” I said with a mischievous smile, “let's just say that he's not as benevolent a creature as my mother.”

With a hint of a smile, OCD asked, “Is it true he used to smash brokers’ car windows if they parked in his spot?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah,” I said, “and if he was in a bad mood he would go to work on your body and fenders too. Then he'd have your car towed.” I shrugged. “But the brokers still parked in his spot anyway. It became just one more way of proving your loyalty to the firm: Suck up a beating from Mad Max and then you're truly a Strattonite.”

There were a few moments of silence, then the Bastard said, “So when did you first start breaking the law? How old were you?”

I shrugged. “That depends on how you define breaking the law. If you consider the consumption of dangerous recreational drugs breaking the law, then I was a criminal at age eleven. Or if it's cutting school, then I was an archcriminal at age sixteen, because I cut most of the tenth grade.

“But if you want to know the first time I did something that I considered illegal—something that I was doing day in and day out—I would say that it was when I started selling ices on Jones Beach.”

“How old were you?” asked the Bastard.

“Almost seventeen.” I thought for a moment, back to my beach days. “What I would do was walk around the beach with a Styrofoam cooler, selling ices, blanket to blanket. I'd walk around screaming, ‘Italian ices, Chipwiches, Fudgsicles, frozen fruit bars-Milky Ways and Snickers,’ and I'd go on and on, all day. It was the greatest job ever, the absolute greatest! In the morning—like at six a.m.—I would go down to this Greek distributor where all the Good Humor trucks went, in Howard Beach, Queens, and I'd load up on ices and ice cream. Then I'd pack the coolers in dry ice and head to the beach.” I paused, relishing the memory. “And I made a bloody fortune doing it. On a good day, I'd clear more than five hundred dollars. Even on a slow day I'd still clear two-fifty, which was ten times what my friends were making.

“That's where I first met Elliot Loewenstern; we hustled ices together on the beach.” I motioned to my villains, thieves, and scoundrels list. “I'm sure you're all familiar with Elliot. He's on there somewhere, pretty close to the top.” I shrugged, not the least bit concerned about implicating Elliot Loewenstern. After all, I knew that Elliot, whose nickname was the Penguin—due to his long, thin nose, his compact potbelly, and his slightly bowed legs, which caused him to waddle around like a migrating penguin-would cooperate if he were facing anything more than a few hours in jail. In fact, I'd seen him crack under police questioning when the stakes were considerably lower. It was during our ice-hustling days, and he was facing only a fifty-dollar fine for vending without a license. But rather than paying the fine and keeping his mouth shut, he ratted out every other vendor on the beach, including me. So, yes: If OCD and the Bastard secured an indictment against the Penguin, he would be singing on Court Street with the relish of Celine Dion.

I was about to continue with my tale, when the Bastard said, “I find it a bit odd that after everything you've done you still consider selling ices breaking the law.” He shrugged his bastardly shoulders. “Most people would consider it an honest way for a kid to make a buck.”

Interesting, I thought. The Bastard had raised a very profound issue—namely, what constitutes breaking the law? Back in the day, virtually everyone I knew (both peers and adults alike) had considered my ices-hustling to be completely righteous. In fact, I'd received accolades from one and all. Yet, the simple fact was that it was illegal, because I was vending without a license.

But was it really illegal? Weren't some laws not really meant to be enforced? After all, we were just trying to make an honest buck, weren't we? In fact, we were enhancing the beachgoing experience for thousands of New Yorkers, who otherwise would have had to walk all the way up to the boardwalk (which was full of splinters) and wait in line at the concession stand, which was manned by a grim-faced adolescent who probably spit on their food the moment they turned their backs. So one could definitely make the case that Elliot and I had been doing “good,” despite the fact that, technically speaking, we were breaking the law.

“Well, the short answer,” I said to the Bastard, “is that we were breaking the law. We were vending without a license, which, for better or worse, is a Class B misdemeanor in New York State. And to take it one step further, we were also guilty of income-tax evasion, because we were making twenty grand a summer and not declaring a dime of it. And to take it even further, when I turned eighteen, I started selling puka-shell necklaces as a side item. I figured, hey, as long as I'm walking around the beach selling ices, why not take advantage of the underserved costume-jewelry market?” I shrugged a capitalist's shrug. “So I went down to the jewelry exchange in Manhattan's Chelsea district and bought a couple of thousand puka necklaces and then hired junior high school kids to walk around the beach with them. I had three kids working for me, and they charged four dollars a necklace. Meanwhile, my cost was only fifty cents apiece, so even after I paid the kids fifty bucks a day, I was still netting two hundred for myself. And that was on top of my ices money!

“But, of course, I hadn't taken out workman's comp, nor was I taking out taxes for them. Not to mention the fact that I had them vending without a license. So now it wasn't only me who was breaking the law, but I was corrupting a bunch of innocent fourteen-year-olds as well.

“I even got my mother into the act. I had her waking up at five a.m. to butter bagels, which I sold between the hours of nine and eleven, before the sun was high enough to stimulate ices demand. And then there were all the sanitary laws we were violating by preparing food in an uninspected plant, although my mother did keep a very clean household, and she was kosher. So I don't think anyone ever got sick.

“But, hey, it was all in the name of good old-fashioned capitalism, so I wasn't really breaking the law, was I? It was all very harmless, all very commendable.” I looked at the Bastard and smiled. “Like you said, Joel, it was a very honest way for a kid to make a buck.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “Anyway, I could go on and on here, but I think you get the point: Everyone, including my own law-abiding parents, thought selling ices was the greatest thing on earth. The act of a budding entrepreneur!

“But is there really any such a thing as a righteous crime? When did I cross the line with the ices? In the very beginning, when I chose to vend without a license? Or was it when I recruited the junior high school kids? Or was it with my mother? Or choosing not to pay taxes…”

I took a deep breath and said, “Understand: You don't start out on the dark side of the force, unless, of course, you're a sociopath, which I hope you all know I'm not.” Everyone nodded. In a dead-serious tone, I said, “The problem is that you become desensitized to things; you cross over the line a tiny bit and nothing bad happens, so you figure it's okay to step over again, except this time you step a bit further. It's human nature to do that; whether you're an action junkie or adrenaline junkie, or even if you're not a junkie at all, and you're simply dipping your foot into a piping hot bathtub. At first you can't keep your toe in, because the water's too hot. And then, a minute later, your whole body is submerged, and the water feels just fine.

“When I went off to American University, all these things were reinforced. I started dating a girl from a very wealthy family, whose father was in the bookbinding business. His name was David Russell, and he was worth millions. Not surprisingly, he thought what I was doing on the beach was the greatest thing ever. In fact, one day he had this big party at his house, and he paraded me around, saying, ‘This is the kid I was telling you about!’ Then he made me tell everyone the story of how I would go down to the Greek distributor at six o'clock in the morning and load up coolers full of Italian ices and then walk around the beach hawking my ices from blanket to blanket, running from the cops when they chased after me for vending without a license. And, of course, every last one of his guests thought it was the best thing they ever heard. They even made a toast to me. ‘Here's to the millionaire of tomorrow!’ they all said.”

I smiled at the memory. “I was only a junior in college back then, but I knew they were right. I knew that I'd be rich one day, and so did all my friends. Even when I worked at the beach, I always made twice as much as any other vendor. And I'm not even talking about the buttered bagels or the puka-shell necklaces. I just worked longer and harder than anyone else—even Elliot, who was a hard worker in his own right. But at the end of the day, when Elliot and I would sit down, I'd always outgrossed him by fifty percent.”

I paused to catch my breath, and I took a moment to gauge the temperature of my captors. What were they thinking? I wondered. Could they possibly relate to someone like me? I was a breed apart from them. In the Witch's case, I was a species apart. Either way, they all looked dumbfounded. They were just staring at me, as if I had a screw loose or something.

I plunged forward into my first years of adulthood. “Anyway, after I graduated from college, I decided to go to dental school, because I wanted to make lots of money. It's funny how ridiculous that seems now—that I thought dentistry would be a path to wealth—but I guess all that malarkey my mother had whispered in my ear when I was growing up had had an impact on me.” I shrugged. “In fact, I thought my only other option was to go to medical school, but becoming a doctor seemed like an insanely long haul. Between internship, residency, fellowship, it just seemed too far out of reach. And then I overslept for the MCATs, which pretty much sealed the deal. I mean, how was I supposed to tell my mother that I'd overslept for a test that she'd been waiting for the results from since I'd emerged from her womb? She would've been heartbroken!

“So I figured, as a good son, it was my obligation to lie to her, and I told her that I'd decided not to take the MCATs because being a doctor wasn't for me. I told her that dentistry was my calling.” I shook my head slowly, amazed at how I sealed my fate all those years back. “Anyway, we're now at the part of the story where the true insanity begins: my first day of dental school.” I smiled cynically. “You ever hear that old expression about all roads leading to Rome?”

Everyone nodded.

“Right—well, in my case, all roads led to Stratton, and I stepped onto the road on day one, which was orientation. We were sitting in the school's auditorium, a hundred and ten dental students, waiting to hear the first words of wisdom from the dean of the school. I remember this like it was yesterday. I was looking around the auditorium, trying to size up my competition, trying to figure out if everyone was as money-hungry as I was or if some of them were just there for the true love of dentistry, like to serve their fellow man or something.” I shook my head, as if my last few words defied logic.

“The room was packed—about half men, half women. The dean was standing up front, behind a cheap wooden podium. He looked like a decent-enough guy, in his mid-fifties and reasonably well dressed. He had a full head of gray hair that made him look successful, respectable, and very dental, at least to my way of thinking. But he did have this sort of grim expression on his face, like he could've been moonlighting as a warden in a state penitentiary.” Like you, Joel, you mangy bastard! “But, in spite of that, he still looked like a basically okay guy. So when he grabbed the mike off the podium, I leaned forward in my seat to listen.

“In a surprisingly deep voice, he said, ‘I want to welcome everyone to the Baltimore College of Dental Surgery. You all deserve to be very proud of yourselves today. You've been accepted into one of the finest dental programs in the country.’ And he paused, letting his words hang in the air. So far, so good, I thought. Then he said, ‘What you're going to learn over the next four years will assure you an esteemed place in society, as well as a life of reasonable comfort. So, please, give yourselves a warm round of applause, everyone. You sure as hell deserve it. Welcome, everyone! Welcome!’ and he lifted his mike in the air and everyone started clapping, right on cue.

“Everyone except me, that is. I was devastated. In fact, I knew it right then that I'd made a huge mistake.” I rolled my neck, trying not to let the memory upset me. “It was the way he'd used the word reasonable. It was a fucking hedge word, for Chrissake! That bastard knew—he fucking knew—that the golden age of dentistry was over, so he couldn't bring himself to say that we'd have absolute comfort. Instead, he'd hedged and said reasonable comfort, which is an entirely different thing.

“Yet, to my utter shock, when I looked around the room, no one else seemed worried. Everyone else was fine and dandy; they were all clapping their hands merrily—la-de-fuck-in-da!—and they all had these expectant looks on their faces. The Dentists of Tomorrow! I'll never forget it, or at least I'll never forget the irony of it, because while they were busy clapping, I was on the verge of slitting my wrists.” I paused and let out a deep sigh. With a hint of sadness in my tone, I said, “The truth is that I knew I'd made a mistake long before that. I knew it even as a kid.

“I mean, who was I kidding? I didn't have the patience to go through that much schooling!” I shook my head in resignation. “I was born with only half the equation: I was smart as a whip and had the gift of gab, but I lacked patience. I wanted to get rich quick; I wanted everything now. That was my downfall. And after making so much money on the beach all those summers, I had the taste of blood on my lips. I was like an accident waiting to happen. Like a high-performance race car zooming down the highway at two hundred miles an hour: Either I'd win the race or I'd crash and burn like the space shuttle. It could've gone either way.”

I compressed my lips and shook my head gravely. “Well, unfortunately, my instincts had been right on target. As soon as the applause died down, the dean put the mike to his lips and said, ‘I want to let you all in on a little secret: The golden age of dentistry is over.’ He nodded his head a single time. ‘If you're here simply because you're looking to make a lot of money, you're in the wrong place. So take my advice and leave right now, and never come back. There are better ways in the world to get rich; save yourself the heartache.’ Then he said a few more things, which blew right past me, because I was too busy looking for a fire exit. Then he twisted the knife in deeper. ‘Remember, your goal is to practice preventive dentistry. So if you practice your profession well, you'll be seeing less and less of your patients.’ And he started nodding his head, as if he'd just let out a major pearl of wisdom. Then he started talking again, although I was done listening. In fact, I was doing a bit of talking myself at that point, saying, ‘Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me…’ as I walked out of the auditorium right in the middle of his speech. I remember getting some funny looks from everyone, and I also remember not giving a shit about them.” I paused for effect. “That's how I became a dental-school dropout my first day. It was all the dean's fault. The only question was how to break the news to my mother.”

“That's terrible!” exclaimed the Witch. “She must've been devastated!” The Witch compressed her thin lips and stared at me menacingly.

Well, well, well! I thought. The Witch had a soft spot for my mother, after all! Apparently, my mother's goodness was irresistible. I said, “Yes, Michele, my mother would have been very upset if I had told her, which, of course, I didn't.” I shrugged my good son's shrug. “I mean, I loved her way too much to be honest with her. Besides, she was my mother, and I'd been lying to her since I was five.” I flashed the Witch an impish smile. “So why tell her the truth now, right, Michele?”

The Witch responded with no words, just two twitches of her nose.

Christ! I shook my head quickly, trying to rid myself of her spell. “Anyway,” I said, with a bit of a quiver in my tone, “I told my mother that dental school was going great, and then I hid down in Maryland for four months and worked out all day and laid in the sun. Baltimore's pretty nice that time of year, so the time passed quickly. I still had beach money left over from the summer, so I was living pretty well. In the end, I auctioned off my dental equipment to supplement things. All the drills and drill bits, the scalers, the gauze pads—they made us buy all this shit before we got started, so now I was stuck with it.”

Scratching his head, OCD said, “You really auctioned off your dental equipment? Seriously?”

I nodded. “You bet I did! In fact, I posted signs all over campus so I'd draw a good crowd.” I smiled proudly. “You see, Greg? I was aware of the importance of supply and demand even then. I knew that if I wanted to have a successful auction I'd need to have lots of bidders. So I advertised.” I shrugged another capitalist's shrug. “Anyway, you should've seen the auction; it was a real hoot. I held it in the dental lab, surrounded by beakers and Bunsen burners. Fifty or sixty kids showed up, most of them in their white dental smocks. I wore one of those blue plastic visors, like a bookie.

“In the beginning, they were all a bit gun-shy, so I played up the theatrics a bit. I started speaking really fast, like a true auctioneer would, and then things started to roll. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said quickly, ‘I got a beautiful high-speed hand piece, manufactured by our good friends over at Star Dental Labs. She's stainless steel, self-cooling, and spins at twenty thousand rpms a minute. She comes straight from the box, with a lifetime warranty. Just look at her— she's a real beaut!’ And I held up the drill for public inspection. ‘She's an absolute must,’ I said. ‘A must for any dentist who's serious about providing his patients with first-class dental care. Brand-new, she'll set you back nine hundred fifty dollars. Do I have an opening bid of two hundred dollars… Do I have two hundred… I'm looking for two hundred

“And some kid with a ferocious mop of red hair and horn-rimmed glasses raised his hand and said, ‘I'll take it for two hundred!’ to which I said, ‘Excellent! We have an opening bid of two hundred dollars from the very smart man in the white smock and horn-rimmed glasses. Do I have a bid of two-fifty now… I'm looking for two-fifty… Does anybody have two-fifty? Sweet Jesus! Come on, everyone! She's a steal down here! Remember, this drill is self-cooling and sprays out a jet of water to prevent heat buildup. It's state of the art all the way…’ And then some Asian girl with flawless skin and the body of a fire hydrant raised her hand and said in an eager voice, ‘I'll pay two-fifty!’ to which I said, Ahhh, we have a two-hundred-fifty-dollar bid from the lovely lady in white, who knows a bargain when she sees one. Good for you, young lady!’ And I went on and on until I had the whole room in a frenzy.”

I paused, catching my breath. Then, with great pride, I said, “I netted over three thousand dollars that day. And it was the first time in my life I felt like a true salesman. And I was good at it. My auctioneer's rap came pouring out of my mouth as if there was no tomorrow.” I smiled at the memory. “Toward the end of the auction, the dean came walking into the room, and he just stood there, staring at me. After a minute, he shook his head and walked away, too dumbfounded to comment. I'm sure it was the first auction at the Baltimore College of Dental Surgery, and I'm also sure it was the last. And it was a grand success, I might add.”

By now everyone in the room was chuckling, even the Witch and the Bastard. It was a good sign, I thought, so I decided to jump right into the insanity of the meat-and-seafood business: “What I failed to mention, though, was what inspired me to hold the auction that day.”

“You said you were running low on funds,” said OCD.

I shrugged noncommittally. “That had something to do with it, but it wasn't what was really driving me. What happened was that, a few days before, I received a phone call from Elliot, the Penguin. I was home at the time, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck I was gonna do with the rest of my life. I was living in a tiny studio apartment, just outside Baltimore, and it had two pieces of furniture in it: the bed and a rotting tweed couch. The Penguin was living in Queens, and when he called me, he was in a very agitated state, almost out of breath. He said, ‘I found a way to make beach money all year ‘round. I'm working as a salesman for a meat-and-seafood company, and I'm clearing two-fifty a day in cash. They even gave me a company vehicle.’ I think it was the last part that shocked me most. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘They gave you a car? Jesus, that's amazing.’

“ ‘Yeah, it is,’ he answered. ‘And I can get you a job there if you want.’”

I thought back on the Penguin's words. “In retrospect, I should've realized that something wasn't on the up-and-up. Remember, Elliot didn't actually say they'd given him a company car. He said, ‘company vehicle,’ which is kind of an odd way to put it, you know? I mean, if you went to work at IBM and they gave you a car, you wouldn't refer to it as a company vehicle: You would say, ‘IBM gave me a company car!’ Still, the thought of making beach money all year ‘round was so enticing that I chose not to read too much into things. Before I hung up, I asked, ‘Are you sure they're gonna hire me, Elliot? I don't have any real sales experience.’”

I began chuckling. “You have no idea how ironic that question was.” I started shaking my head.

“What's so ironic?” the Bastard asked tonelessly. “I don't get it.”

“Well, companies like Great American Meat and Seafood— which was the name of Elliot's company—are always looking for salesmen. The same goes for companies like Stratton Oakmont or Monroe Parker or Kirby vacuum cleaners or any other company that employs fast-talking commission-based salesmen.” I paused and took a moment to think back. Then I said, “At Stratton, we used to give our job applicants the mirror test—meaning, we would stick a mirror under their noses and wait for it to fog up. If it did, we hired them; if it didn't, it meant they were dead, which was the only reason we wouldn't hire them—unless, of course, they were already licensed stockbrokers. Then we definitely wouldn't hire them, because they knew too much. We wanted our brokers young and naive, hungry and stupid.” I shrugged. “Give me someone like that, and I'll make them rich, with no problem. But give me someone with brains and imagination—well, that's a bit more difficult.

“But, to get back to the story, I spent a few more minutes on the phone with the Penguin, listening to him chirp about how wonderful the meat-and-seafood business was. ‘It's all restaurant-quality food,’ he assured me. ‘Nothing but the best.’

“I mean, the whole thing sounded too good to be true, but I'd never known Elliot to be a liar. He was a bit gullible, maybe, but he definitely wasn't a liar. So I put aside my skepticism, packed up my 1973 Mercury Cougar, and drove up to New York to drop the bomb on my parents. It was February 1985. I was twenty-two at the time. I had my whole life in front of me.”