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

CHAPTER 20

ALL MEN BETRAY

his time was different.

The Nagra was my shield, the microphone was my sword, and the words rolled off my tongue with such ease and fluidity that I could have gotten John Gotti to share every last detail of how he and his crew whacked Paul Castellano in front of Sparks Steak House.

Yes, I thought, having a clear conscience is a wonderful thing for a cooperator.

A rat? No, no. I was no such thing. After all, a rat gives up his friends, and I didn't have any. I had been betrayed by everyone: Dave Beall, Elliot Lavigne, my own wife, for Chrissake, and, if given the chance, by the Jersey Chef too.

So now it was my turn.

It was Friday afternoon, a little past two, and the Chef and I had just arrived at a small, well-appointed office I kept in Plainview, Long Island, which was halfway between Manhattan and the Hamptons. Plainview was a boring town—so boring, in fact, that in the entire history of Long Island no conversation had ever begun with: “You'll never believe what happened in Plainview the other day…”

Well, that was about to change!

I was determined to make, before the afternoon was out, the most incriminating consensually recorded conversation in the history of not only Plainview but also of Manhattan, New Jersey, the eastern seaboard of the United States, and, for that matter, the entire world.

But, first, opening pleasantries. We exchanged hugs and hellos as I led the Chef to a small seating area. An oxblood-colored leather couch and two matching club chairs surrounded a brass-and-glass coffee table. As we took seats on the couch, the Chef said, “I didn't even know you still had this place!”

“Yeah,” I said casually. “I didn't have the heart to get rid of it. I'm sentimental, I guess.” I smiled warmly at the Chef, who, as usual, looked as cool as a cucumber in his light-gray business suit and red shepherd's check necktie. I was dressed more casually, in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white polo shirt, both of which were doing a fine job of concealing my sword and shield.

The Chef smiled back. “Well, it's a nice place. I always liked it.”

I watched with an icy detachment as the Chef looked around the room. In the past, I had always found the Chef's presence soothing—that proud way he carried his baldness, the very squareness of his jaw, his aquiline nose, that infectious smile—yet I had also found the Duchess to be soothing, hadn't I? And where was she now? And where was Dave Beall now? And where was that bastard Elliot Lavigne now? All men betray, I reminded myself, and all women too. So why feel guilty? No reason to; no reason at all.

“It is,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, what's the latest and greatest? How's the wife, the kids, your golf swing…” and, with that, we spent the next few minutes engaged in meaningless small talk.

Actually, it wasn't so meaningless, because ever so subtly I was making two very important points: first, that I was in fine spirits and feeling better every day, and second, that once my legal problems were resolved I was looking forward to a bright future, which included the Chef as my friend, confidant, and adviser. My demeanor said that I was calm and confident, a man who deals with his problems with strength and honor.

After a few minutes, I casually steered the conversation to the status of my court case. “It's obvious that my best option is to cop a plea, because if I go to trial and lose, I'm gonna get slammed so hard, it'll be fucking ridiculous!” I shrugged. “Each money-laundering count carries ten years, and I'm facing five of them. But, on the flipside, if I plea-bargain it'll only be to securities fraud, which carries a lot less time.”

The Chef nodded. “How much time would you have to do?”

I shrugged. “Six years, according to Greg, but that's before my deductions; after good time, the drug program, and six months in a halfway house, I'm looking at closer to three, which—believe me—I can do standing on my head.”

“I like it,” said the Chef. “I like it a lot. And what about Danny?”

“The same as me, I'm sure. Our lawyers are still working together on a joint defense, but it's only for cosmetic reasons. If the U.S. Attorney's Office thinks we're going to trial, it'll make it easier to cut a deal when the time comes.”

“Clearly,” said the Chef. “That's always been my philosophy: You fight tooth and nail, and then—badaboom!—you cut a deal on the courthouse steps.” He paused briefly and started nodding again. “Well, this is good, this is real good. How big a fine you think you'll have to pay?”

“I'm not really sure,” I said, seeming unconcerned. Then I stopped, looked around the room suspiciously, and I lowered my voice to just above a whisper (no problem for the Nagra, of course) and added, “And, personally, I couldn't give a shit. I got so much money socked away, I'm set forever. And I got it here and there”— I swung my head toward the door—”on both sides of the Atlantic.”

The Chef nodded in understanding. “Good,” he whispered, although his tone was not quite as hushed as mine. “That's your safety net.”

I nodded and whispered back, “You always told me that, Dennis. Maybe if I would've used your people in the first place, I wouldn't be dealing with all this shit now.”

The Chef pursed his lips and nodded. “This is true,” he said. “But it's not worth crying over. It's spilt milk.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. And a man must learn from his mistakes, right?” I winked. “Well, this man has learned, the hard way. The only problem is”—I started lowering my voice again— “that I still got a ton of cash overseas. More than ten million, and I'm not too comfortable with who I got it with. It's only two steps away from Saurel, and he's the bastard who ratted me out in the first place!”

The Chef threw his palms up in the air. “Sooo, let's move it! What's the big deal?”

“No, uh, it's no big deal!”—and Jesus Christ! I thought. The Chef had just buried himself right on tape! “It's just that you're the only one I trust. I mean, my days of being reckless are over—seriously!”

“They better be,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “What country is the money in?”

“Actually, it's in two countries: Switzerland and Liechtenstein,” I answered, and my mind began double-tracking wildly. On track one, the words were coming automatically, as if on tape. “I have it spread over seven different accounts, five in Switzerland and two in Liechtenstein….” As I kept on speaking, track two began organizing all the topics I needed to discuss to make sure that my tape would secure a money-laundering indictment against the Chef—he had to know that my money was the proceeds of illegal activity; he had to know that I had no intention of reporting the transaction to the government; the amount had to be in excess of one million dollars (to receive the maximum penalty); and, peculiar to this case, I had to figure out a way to tie in my money-laundering activities with those of the Blue-eyed Devil's. “… which is no problem,” track one was saying to the Chef. “It's the cash Lavigne kicked me back from all the new issues, and most of it came from Hong Kong. So I know it's untraceable.”

“What we need to do,” said the Chef, “is set up new accounts over there, and we need to do it immediately. I got some good people for that; they're the same people I used with Bob.” Bingo! I thought. “What I'm thinking, though, is that we should stay away from Switzerland for a while, at least until the dust settles.”

“I completely agree,” I said quickly. “I would hate to see my money get snatched by the feds. I had to rathole a lot of new issues to generate ten million in cash.”

“Don't worry,” the Chef said confidently. “They'll never find the money, not with my people. They're experts.”

I nodded quickly, as my mind raced ahead. Clearly, the Chef had already incriminated himself in money laundering, but only in conspiracy. Could I push the envelope even further? I would try. “Let me ask you this,” I said, lowering my voice, as if I were still paranoid. “What if I wanted to move more cash overseas? I still got five million that Lavigne kicked back to me. I would love to get that money out of the country.”

“Not a problem,” said the Chef. “I know just the guy for it.”

You do? I thought. Holy Christ! “Oh, really? Who?” I asked, not expecting him to answer.

“His name is James Loo,” answered the Chef, as if I had just asked him for the name of his carpenter. “I think you might even know the guy. Bob took him public a while back. He's as straight a shooter as they come.”

I nodded eagerly, wondering what the fuck had come over the Chef. He was one of the shrewdest men I'd ever met, yet for some inexplicable reason he had let his guard down. I said, “So James Loo has connections in Switzerland?”

The Chef shrugged. “Fuhgedabouddit! This guy has connections everywhere! Half his family still lives over in Asia, for Chrissake! He'll get your money over to Hong Kong faster than you can get to your local Citibank. And he's got people in Singapore, Malaysia… you name it.”

I nodded in understanding, almost too shocked to ask the next question. But I asked it anyway: “So you're saying I could actually give James Loo the cash I got from Lavigne and he'll smuggle it overseas for me without anyone finding out?”

The Chef nodded slowly, deliberately, and with the hint of a smile on his face. “Yes,” he finally said. “This is not a problem for James Loo.”

I decided to throw the Hail Mary pass: “And he already did this for Bob?”

The Chef nodded again. “Yes, he did, and with no problems. Bob gave him the money, and schhhwiitttt!” The Chef clapped his hands, with his patented sliding motion, sending his right arm flying out toward what he probably thought was Asia.

I threw an even longer Hail Mary pass: “Can I meet him?”

This time the Chef recoiled in his seat, as if I were crazy for even asking such a thing. I had expected that; after all, my question was highly inappropriate, wasn't it? Apparently not, because the Chef then said, “Of course you can! How's next week for you?”

“Next week is perfect,” I replied.

Without further prompting, the Chef immediately plunged into the various ways I could filter my cash back to the United States once we had it safely tucked away in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Orient. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to explain this to me, as if the whole thing were a giant game of cat and mouse, with no serious consequences if the cat won.

Afterward, when I met OCD in yet another random parking lot, I handed him the tape and said, “You have to listen to it yourself, Greg, to believe it.” I shook my head slowly, still in disbelief over the Chef's recklessness. “It's totally off the charts.”

“Why—what's on it?”

“Everything,” I replied, “including Brennan's head on a platter.” I shrugged, not feeling so pleased with myself suddenly. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. All men betray! Dave Beall! Elliot Lavigne! My own wife! “Anyway, I gotta roll. It's my weekend with the kids and I wanna beat the traffic out to the Hamptons.”

“All right, I'll call you Monday and we'll see what's what.”

“Sounds good,” I said, although I had a sneaking suspicion we'd be speaking before that. In point of fact, he called me later that night, while I was lying awake in bed with the kids sleeping next to me.

His first three words were: “Jesus fucking Christ!” Then he said, “Has Gaito lost his mind?”

“I told you,” I said softly. “It's like he has a death wish or something. I don't know, it's fucking mind-boggling. Anyway, what comes next? Do I set a meeting with James Loo?”

“Of course you do! In fact, we need to memorialize it on videotape! But we'll talk on Monday. I know you have your kids, so I don't want to keep you. Have a good weekend; you've earned it.”

Yeah, I thought, another worthless weekend of model-mongering and one-night stands. I've earned it. It was all so sad and so very lonely. What I really needed was to find a nice girl and fall in love again.

Alas, only half my wish was about to come true.