Yes, I thought, I had done what any sensible man would do under such extraordinary circumstances, perhaps with the exception of giving myself the enema before I’d made myself vomit. But I had washed my hands thoroughly with scalding hot water, so I redeemed myself for that tiny faux pax.
Then I called Danny and urged him to do the same, which, of course, he did.
At five p.m., Danny and I were playing pool in my basement, waiting impatiently for Alan Chemical-tob. The game was eight ball, and Danny had been kicking my ass for almost thirty minutes. As the balls clicked and clacked, Danny bashed the Chinaman: “I’m a hundred percent sure the stock is coming from the Chinaman. No one else has that much.”
The stock Danny was referring to was Stratton’s most recent new issue, M. H. Meyerson. The problem was that as part of my quid pro quo with Kenny, I had agreed to give Victor large blocks of it. Of course, the stock had been given with the explicit instructions that he wasn’t to sell it back—and, of course, Victor had completely disregarded those instructions and was now selling back every share. The truly frustrating part was that by the very nature of the NASDAQ stock market, it was impossible to prove this transgression. It was all supposition.
Nevertheless, by process of elimination it wasn’t too difficult to put two and two together: The Chinaman was f**king us. “Why do you seem so surprised?” I asked cynically. “The Chinaman’s a depraved maniac. He’d sell the stock back even if he didn’t have to, just to spite us. Anyway, now you see why I told you to stay short an extra hundred thousand shares. He’s sold all he can sell, and you’re still in perfect shape.”
Danny nodded glumly.
I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, buddy. How much of that other stock have you sold him so far?”
“About a million shares.”
“Good. When you get to a million-five, I’m gonna turn the Chinaman’s lights out, and—”
I was interrupted by the doorbell. Danny and I turned to each other and froze in place, our mouths agape. A few moments later, Alan Chemical-tob came thumping down the basement stairs and started in with the personal crap, asking, “How’s Chandler doing?”
Oh, Jesus! I thought. Why couldn’t he just be like any other drug dealer and hang out on street corners and sell drugs to schoolchildren? Why did he feel the need to be liked? “Oh, she’s doing great,” I replied warmly, and can you hand over the f**king Lemmons? “How are Marsha and the kids?”
“Oh, Marsha’s Marsha,” he replied, grinding his jaw like the true coke fiend that he was, “but the kids are doing fine.” He did some more jaw-grinding. “You know, I’d really love to open up an account for the kids, if that’s okay. Maybe a college fund or something?”
“Yeah, sure.” Just hand over the Ludes, you fat fuck! “Call Danny’s assistant and she’ll take care of it, right, Dan?”
“Absolutely,” replied Danny through clenched teeth. On his face was a look that said, “Hand over the f**king Lemmons or suffer the consequences!”
Fifteen minutes later, Alan finally handed over the Ludes. I took one out and examined it. It was perfectly round, just larger than a dime, and it had the thickness of a Honey Nut Cheerio. It was snow-white…very clean-looking…and had a magnificent sheen, which served as visible reminder that in spite of it resembling a Bayer aspirin, it was the furthest thing from it. On one side of the pill, the brand name, Lemmon 714, was etched in thick grooves. On the other side was a thin line that ran the full diameter of the pill. Around the pill’s circumference were the trademark beveled edges.
Chemical-tob said, “They’re the real deal, Jordan. Whatever you do, don’t take more than one. They’re not like the Palladins; they’re much stronger.”
I assured him I wouldn’t…and, ten minutes later, Danny and I were well on the road to paradise. Each of us had swallowed one Real Real, and we were now in my basement gym, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The gym was packed with state-of-tha-art Cybex equipment and enough dumbbells and barbells and benches and squat racks to impress Arnold Schwarzenegger. Danny was walking on a motorized treadmill at a brisk pace; I was on the StairMaster, climbing, as if Agent Coleman were chasing me.
I said to Danny, “Nothing kicks in a Quaalude better than exercise, right?”
“Absa-fuckin-lutely!” exclaimed Danny. “It’s all in the metabolism; the faster, the better.” He reached over and picked up a white porcelain sake cup. “And this is genius, by the way. Drinking hot sake after consuming a real Lemmon is inspirational. Like pouring gasoline on a raging fire.”
I grabbed my own sake cup and reached over to clink cups with Danny. Danny tried too, but the two pieces of equipment were six feet apart, and we found ourselves just out of reach.
“Nice try,” said Danny, giggling.
“At least I get an A for effort!” I giggled back.
The two giggling idiots toasted each other in the air and downed the sake.
Just then the door swung open, and there she was: the Duchess of Bay Ridge, in her lime-green riding ensemble. She took one aggressive step forward and struck a pose, with her head cocked to one side and her arms folded beneath her br**sts and her legs crossed at the ankles and her back slightly arched. Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and she said, “What are you two retards doing?”
Christ! An unexpected complication! “I thought you were going out with Hope tonight?” I asked accusingly.
“Ahhh…ahhh…chooo!” sneezed my aspiring horseback rider, giving up her pose. “My allergies were so bad I had…had…ahhhh chooo!” sneezed the Duchess once more. “I had to cancel on Hope.”
“Bless you, young Duchess!” said Danny, using my wife’s pet name.
The Duchess’s reply: “Call me Duchess again, Danny, and I’ll pour that f**king sake over your head.” Then, to me: “Come inside, I want to talk to you about something.” With that, she spun on her heel and headed to the other side of the basement, to a wraparound couch. It was just across from the indoor racquetball court, which had recently been converted into a clothing showroom in support of her latest aspiration: maternity designer.
Danny and I followed dutifully. I whispered in his ear: “You feel anything yet?”
“Nothing,” he whispered back.
The Duchess said, “I was speaking to Heather Gold today, and she thinks it’s the perfect time to get Chandler started horseback riding. So I want to buy her a pony.” She nodded a single time, to emphasize her point. “Anyway, they have one there that’s so cute, and it’s not too expensive either.”
“How much?” I asked, taking a seat beside the Duchess and wondering how Chandler was going to ride a pony when she hadn’t even started walking yet.
“Only seventy thousand dollars!” answered a smiling Duchess. “Not bad, right?”
Well, I thought, if you’ll agree to have sex with me while I’m getting off on my Real Real, then I’ll gladly purchase this overpriced pony for you, but all I said was, “Sounds like a real f**king bargain. I didn’t even know they made ponies that expensive.” I rolled my eyes.
The Duchess assured me that they did, and then to reinforce her point she nuzzled up next to me so I could smell her perfume. “Please?” she said in an irresistible tone. “I’ll be your best friend.”
At that very moment, Janet came walking down the stairs with a great smile on her face. “Hey, everybody! What’s going on down here?”
I looked up at Janet and said, “Come downstairs and join the f**king party!” Obviously, she missed the sarcasm, and a moment later the Duchess had recruited Janet into her camp, and the two of them were now talking about how fine Chandler would look on horseback, in a cute little English riding ensemble, which the Duchess could have custom-made for God only knew how much.
Sensing an opportunity, I whispered to the Duchess that if she would come into the bathroom with me and allow me to bend her over the sink, I would be more than happy to make a special trip to Gold Coast Stables tomorrow and purchase the pony, just as soon as the eleven o’clock showing of Gilligan’s Island was finished, to which she whispered, “Now?” to which I nodded yes and said, “Please,” three times fast, at which point the Duchess smiled and agreed. The two of us excused ourselves for a moment.
With little fanfare, I bent her over the sink and plunged inside her without even the slightest bit of lubrication, to which she said, “OW!” and then she sneezed and coughed again. I said, “Bless you, my love!” then I pumped in and out, twelve times fast, and came inside her like a rocket. Soup to nuts, the whole thing had taken about nine seconds.
The Duchess turned her pretty little head around and said, “That’s it? You’re done?”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, rubbing my fingertips together and still feeling no tingles. “Why don’t you go upstairs and use your vibrator?”
Still bent over the sink, the Duchess said, “Why are you so anxious to get rid of me? I know you and Danny are up to something. What is it?”
“Nothing; it’s just business talk, sweetie. That’s it.”
“Fuck you!” replied an angry Duchess. “You’re lying, and I know it!” And with one swift move, she pushed off the sink with her elbows and I went flying backward and smashed into the bathroom door with a tremendous force. Then she pulled up her riding pants, sneezed, looked in the mirror for a second, fixed her hair, pushed me off to the side, and walked out.
Ten minutes later Danny and I were alone in the basement, still stone-cold sober. I shook my head gravely and said, “They’re so old they must’ve lost their potency. I think we should take another.”
We did, and thirty minutes later: nothing. Not even one f**king tingle!
“Can you imagine this shit?” said Danny. “Five hundred bucks a pill, and they’re duds! It’s criminal! Let me check the expiration date on the bottle.”
I tossed the bottle to him.
He looked at the label. “December ’81!” he exclaimed. “They’re expired!” He unscrewed the top and took out two more Lemmons. “They must’ve lost their potency. Let’s each take one more.”
Thirty minutes later we were devastated. We’d each taken three vintage Lemmons and hadn’t gotten so much as a tingle.
“Well, that’s about all she wrote!” I sputtered. “They’re officially duds.”
“Yeah,” agreed Danny. “Such is life, my friend.”
Just then, over the intercom, came the voice of Gwynne: “Mr. Belfort, it’s”—iz—“Bo Dietl on the phone.”
I picked up the receiver. “Hey, Bo, what’s going on?”
His reply startled me. “I need to speak to you right now,” he snapped, “but not on this phone. Go to a pay phone and call me at this number. You got something to write with?”