I took a deep breath, coagulating all the loose ends of my bullshit story, and I went for broke. “First of all,” I said, with great confidence, “I know you were worried about all that crap Coleman spewed at you, and I just wanted you to know that none of that— not even one drop of it—was ever a possibility.” And that would be lie number one. “You and I both know that you never did anything wrong”—and that would be lie number two, considering she actually had witnessed me counting money, as Joel Cohen had alleged—”and, of course, the government knows that too. Coleman just said that to scare you and to make things difficult for me. That's it.”
She nodded slowly. “I know that,” she replied. “I mean, it bothered me when he first said it, but I never actually believed it.”
You didn't? Hmmm, okay, then! Ignorance is definitely bliss. I nodded in agreement and soldiered on: “Yeah, of course I know. It was all bullshit, Nae”—and here comes lie number three—”the whole damn lot of it. But, either way, it's all a moot point now. You see, Joel Cohen called Greg today; in fact, he called him right while I was sitting in the room, and he told him that what he really wanted—what he was really looking for—was for me to cooperate. That's it.” I shrugged. “Apparently, I know so much about what's going on in the stock market that I could save the government years of heartache, not to mention countless dollars.” Hmmm, I really liked the way that sounded. It made me sound smart, vital, important, altruistic, a necessary participant in the fight against greed and corruption on Wall Street; not like the cooperating rat I was about to become! I decided to milk that line of thinking for all it was worth. “Anyway, Joel said that if I did cooperate, if I was willing to help the government make sense of everything, I probably wouldn't have to spend even a day in jail. That's how valuable the knowledge I have is.” I nodded a single time, wondering if I had shot myself in the foot by using the word probably, so I added, “I mean, I already spent three days in jail, which is long enough, don't you think?” I smiled innocently.
She nodded slowly but remained silent. I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. A good sign, I thought. Wiping away a woman's tears brought you one step closer to her heart and, for that matter, her loins. It was a biological phenomenon. When a strong man wiped away a woman's tears, she could refuse him nothing.
Emboldened by the Duchess's tears, I continued with relish: “But it gets even better, Nae. You see, if I cooperate, I won't get sentenced for four or five years, and any fine I might”—might— “have to pay wouldn't be due until then. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's gonna be a pretty hefty fine, but it's not something that's gonna wipe us”—us—“out. We'll still be very rich when it's all over.” And there goes the biggest lie of all, the whopper, which was lie number four.
In fact, if the government were to leave me with a million dollars, as Magnum had indicated, the Duchess and I would be broke in three months. But I had rationalized that too, which was why I now added, “But however much money they leave us”—us—“with, it's not like I'm gonna retire or anything. I mean, in a few months from now, once all this commotion dies down, I'm gonna start trading stocks again.” I paused, not quite liking the way that sounded. “I mean honestly, of course. I'm talking big stocks, not small stocks. I'm not going back to all the craziness and everything.” I found myself desperately searching for an exit ramp. “Anyway, I could probably make five or ten million a year just trading for my own account, totally legitimately, without any risk.”
I studied her face for a moment. She seemed to be sobering up a bit. Hmmm, I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but I sensed a window of opportunity slamming shut. It was time to stop selling the future and to go for the close. I said confidently, “That's it, Nae. That's the whole ball of wax. I know it sounds too good to be true, but that's the way it is. I guess I should just count my lucky stars that the government is so desperate for the information I have.” Now I paused, and I shook my head gravely. “Anyway, the only thing I was really upset about was that I might have to give them information about my friends.” I smiled and shrugged, as if to say, “There's a silver lining here!” Then I said, “But, according to Mag—I mean, Greg, all my friends are going to cooperate too.” I shrugged again. “So in the end that won't really be a factor.” I edged myself closer to her and began running my fingers through her hair.
She smiled and said, “Well, that's really good news, honey. I'm really happy for you.”
You? Did she just say you?. Shit—that was bad! She should be happy for us, not just me! I was about to correct her when she added, “And I wouldn't be too worried about your friends. Other than Alan Lipsky, every last one of them would sell you down the river in two seconds flat. There's no loyalty on Wall Street. You always told me that, right?”
I nodded but didn't say a word. In fact, I had heard enough and spoken enough. Once more, the Duchess and I were back on the same page, which is to say, it was time to attack. I reached over and grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to me. Then I grabbed her by her cute Western tie and yanked her head toward me.
And then I kissed her.
It was a slow wet kiss, an altogether loving kiss, which ended quicker than I'd hoped, when she pulled away and said, “Stop it! I'm still mad at you.”
It was time to take charge. “I need you,” I groaned, reaching my hand up the slit of her dress, heading for the Promised Land. By the time I reached the top of her thigh, the heat was so terrific I was ready to come on the sheets.
So I pounced, throwing my full weight on top of her. I began kissing her ferociously. She tried to wriggle free, but she was no match for me. “Stop!” she whined, with a hint of a giggle. “Stop it!”
I hung on the giggle and pulled up her denim skirt, revealing her pretty pink vulva with its tiny Mohawk of blond peach fuzz. Ahh, I had always marveled at what a terrific vag**a the Duchess had! It was the most delectable vag**a I'd ever seen, and considering I'd slept with almost a thousand hookers, my opinion counted for something. But all that hooker business was in the past now. All I wanted was the Duchess—now and forever!
I slowed my tempo a bit, and I looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you, Nae. I love you so much.” My eyes began welling up with tears. “I've always loved you, from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I smiled at her warmly. “I missed you so much this week. I can't even begin to tell you how empty I've felt.” I pushed her hair back with my hand and went for the close: “Make love to me, baby. Make love to me right now, nice and slow.”
“Fuck you!” she sputtered. “I f**king hate you! You wanna f**k me? Fine—then go ahead and f**k me! Fuck me hard, because I f**king hate you. I hate your guts, you selfish little prick! You don't give a shit how I feel. All you care about is yourself.” She started grinding into me with contempt, purposely keeping out of tempo with me. It was as if she was trying to let me know that, in spite of me being inside her, she still wasn't mine.
I was shocked. And I was devastated. But, most of all, I was upset that she had called me little—a little prick, to be exact. The Duchess knew I was self-conscious about my height!
But I refused to get angry. Instead, I grabbed her cheeks and nailed her with a kiss, holding my lips to hers as I desperately tried to get some rhythm going. But it was difficult. She was moving her blond head from side to side, like an infant refusing a spoonful of applesauce, and she was swerving her h*ps in an exaggerated circular motion.
With a bit of anger slipping out around the edges, I snapped, “Hold still, Nadine! What's wrong with you!”
Her poisonous response: “Fuck you! I hate you—I f**king hate you!” She grabbed my cheeks and said, with venom: “Look in my eyes, Jordan. Look in my eyes right now.”
I looked. She continued: “Don't ever forget what went down with this marriage; don't you ever f**king forget.” Her blue eyes were like glassy death rays. “This is the last time I'm ever gonna f**k you. This is it; you can mark my words. You're never gonna have me again, so you better enjoy it while it lasts.” And she started grinding into me with deep, rhythmic thrusts, as if she were trying to make me come, right on the spot.
Jesus Christ! I thought. She'd turned the corner on her tequila high! She couldn't possibly mean what she was saying, could she? How could such a beautiful face spew out such venom? It made no sense. I knew the right thing to do would be to climb off her, to not give her the satisfaction of making me come while she was telling me how much she hated me… but she looked absolutely gorgeous in the burnt-apricot glow of the lamp shade. So f**k it! I thought. It was impossible to figure women out, and if she was genuinely serious about this being my last time, I better make it count or at least make myself come quickly, before she changed her mind and said that the last time was the last time… and with a single deep thrust I tried my best to hit the base of her cervix and… bang!… just like that I came inside her. I screamed, “I love you, Nae!” to which she screamed, “I f**king hate you, you a**hole!” and then I collapsed on top of her.
And there we lay for what seemed like a very long time, which turned out to be around five seconds, at which point she pushed me off and started crying hysterically. Her body was shaking volcanically, as she said through terrible, gut-wrenching sobs, “Oh, my God! What did I do? What did I do?” She kept repeating those same four words, as I lay next to her, frozen in horror.
I tried to put my arm around her, but she pushed it away.
Then came more sobs, and then she said something that I would never forget for the rest of my life. “It was blood money!” she sobbed. “It was all blood money!” She could barely get the words out through her sobs. “I knew it all along, and I did nothing. People lost money and I spent it. Oh, God—what did I do?”
All at once I found myself growing intensely angry. It was her reference to blood money, the thought that everything we shared-including my own success—was somehow tainted. It was as if our entire marriage had been a farce, as if nothing around me was real and genuine. I was a man of parts, the sum of which didn't equal a whole. I was surrounded by wealth and beauty and ostentation, yet I felt poor and ugly and hopelessly embarrassed. I longed for simpler days. I longed for a simpler life. I longed for a simpler wife.
Making no effort to hide my displeasure, I went right back at her. “Blood money,” I sputtered. “Give me a f**king break, Nadine! I work on Wall Street; I'm not a f**king mobster.” I shook my head in disgust. “Yeah—I cut a few corners, just like everybody else, so get a f**king grip!”
Through terrible sobs, from deep in the breadbasket: “Oh, God, you corrupted everyone—even my own mother! And I… I… just stood there and… and watched… and… and… spent… the… the… blood… mon… ney!” She was sobbing so uncontrollably that her words were coming out one at a time.
“Your mother?” I screamed. “You know how good I've been to your mother? When I met her she was getting thrown out of her f**king apartment for not paying her f**king rent! And I took care of your idiot brother and your idiot f**king father, and your sister and you and everybody else, God damn it! And this is what I get in return?” I paused, trying to collect myself. I was crying too now, although I was so angry my own tears were lost on me. “I can't f**king believe this,” I screamed. “I can't f**king believe this! How the f**k could you do this now? You're my wife, Nadine. How could you do this now?”
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.” She was shaking like a leaf. “I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to,” and she rolled off the bed, onto the $120,000 Edward Fields carpet, and she curled up in the fetal position and continued to cry uncontrollably.
And that was that.
I knew right then and there that I had lost my wife forever. Whatever bond the Duchess and I had once shared had now been severed. Whether or not I would ever get to make love to her again was still a matter of question, and, in truth, I couldn't have cared less. After all, I was facing much bigger problems than where to get my rocks off.
In fact, just down the hall were our two young children, the innocent victims in all this, who were about to wake up to one of the cruelest realities of life:
Nothing lasts forever.
CHAPTER 5
OCD AND THE MORMON
he next morning, I was back in the limousine again.
This time, however, the closet terrorist wasn't driving me through the gloomy groin of western Queens; rather, he was driving me through the rancid gullet of western Brooklyn. In fact, we were making our way through a demographic nightmare known as Sunset Park, a neighborhood so ethnically diverse-loaded with Chinese and Koreans and Malaysians and Vietnamese and Thais and Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Dominicans and Salvadorans and Guatemalans, along with a handful of remarkably dim-witted Finns, who were too slow on the uptake to realize that the rest of their Finnish brethren had fled for their lives thirty years ago, when the ethnic hordes invaded—that, staring out the side window, I felt like we were driving through the parking lot of the United Nations after a missile strike.
Yes, this part of Sunset Park was, indeed, a shithole. It was a flat swath of dirt and asphalt punctuated by dilapidated warehouses, deserted storefronts, rotting piers, and bird poop. Downtown Manhattan—where I would ultimately be heading this morning— was just a few miles to the west, on the other side of the polluted East River. From my current vantage point, in the limo's right backseat, I could see the swirling waters of the river, the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan, and the glorious arc of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, stretching to the not-so-glorious borough of Staten Island.
According to plan, at precisely nine a.m., Monsoir pulled in front of a grimy underground parking garage on the south side of a grimy two-way street. As I climbed out of the limousine, I said, “Stay put until I beep you, Monsoir,” and while I'm gone don't be blowing up any bridges, I thought. Then I slammed the door in his face and walked down a short flight of steps to the lower level of the parking garage.
I heard a familiar voice: “Jordan! Over here!”
I turned to my right, and there was Special Agent Gregory Coleman. He was standing in front of a typical government-issue car, which is to say: four doors, no dents, perhaps two years old, and made in America. In fact, it was a 1997 maroon Ford Taurus with lightly tinted windows and no siren. He was leaning against the rear passenger-side door with his arms crossed, the pose of the victorious warrior.
Standing beside him, with a kind smile on his face, was his partner-in-training, Special Agent Bill McCrogan. I had met McCrogan only once, on the night of my arrest, and for some inexplicable reason I had liked him. He seemed too kind to be an FBI agent, although I was certain that once Coleman got through with him he wouldn't be so kind anymore. McCrogan was a few inches taller than Coleman, the better part of five-ten, and he looked about thirty. He had a thick thatch of curly brown hair, broad features, and an entirely average build. Over his pale-blue eyes he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look God-fearing. A Mormon, I figured, probably from Salt Lake City or Provo, or maybe even the hills of Idaho… although who really gave a shit.
Coleman, on the other hand, looked Italian or Greek, although I had him figured as a German, because of his last name. Yes, he was probably from the hills of Bavaria. He was about the same height as me, a little over five-seven, and he weighed no more than one-sixty. He was broad in the chest, but not overly so. His features were fine and even, although they were a bit on the pointy side and seemed to ooze suspicion, especially at me. He had short brown hair, parted to the side, and there were a few strands of gray by his ears. But those must have been the result of him chasing after me for the last five years, which would be enough to make any man gray. He had smooth olive skin, an aquiline nose, a high forehead, and the most piercing brown eyes imaginable. They looked sharper than a hawk's. He was about my age, which meant that the bastard had been on my tail since he was in his late twenties! Christ—what kind of man could become so obsessed with bringing someone else to justice? I mean, really, how bad a case of OCD did this guy have? And why had he become OCD-ed with me? What a f**king shame that was.
“Welcome to Team USA!” said Agent OCD, smiling broadly and extending his right hand, the wrist of which sported a black plastic watch with a circular face and a suggested retail price somewhere below $59.99.
I shook his hand warily and searched his face for irony. But all I found was what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Thanks,” I muttered, “but I figured you'd be gloating a bit.” I shrugged. “I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you did.”
The Mormon chimed in: “Gloating? He's been miserable since the day he caught you! It was the chase he loved”—he looked at Agent OCD—”right, Greg?”
OCD rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Yeah, whatever,” and he smiled at me once more, except this smile was peppered with sadness. “Anyway, I'm glad you finally decided to join the good guys. You're doing the right thing here. You really are.”
I shrugged again. “Yeah, well I feel like a bit of a louse.”
“You're not a louse,” he shot back.
“Definitely not,” added the Mormon, with a toothy Mormon smile. “You're much worse than a louse!” And he laughed a warm Mormon laugh and then extended his God-fearing hand for a Mormon handshake.
I smiled at the kindhearted guy and shook his hand dutifully. Then I took a moment to regard my two new friends. They both wore dark blue suits, crisp white dress shirts, conservative blue neckties, and black lace-up shoes. (Typical G-man's ensemble.) They looked pretty good, actually; everything fit together nicely, and their suits had been pressed to near perfection.
Either way, my ensemble was terribly smarter than theirs. I had felt it was important to look good on my first day of ratting, so I'd chosen my outfit carefully. I was wearing a $2,200 single-breasted navy serge suit, a white oxford dress shirt with a conservative button-down collar, a solid navy crepe de chine necktie, and black lace-up shoes. But unlike their shoes, which were clodhoppers, mine were made of buttery-soft napa leather. In fact, they had been custom-made in England for $1,800. Good for me! I thought. I had them beaten hands down in the shoe department.