She said, “I'm your counselor, Mrs. Strickland.”

What happened to Snaggletooth? I thought. “What happened to Ms. Richards?” I asked.

“She was filling in for me last week.” She stared at me for a moment, then said, “Well, you don't look like a guy who stole a hundred million dollars. You seem much too innocent.”

“Yeah, I've heard that before, but I'm definitely guilty as charged.”

With a chuckle: “You don't hear thattoo often around here! Everyone in Taft is innocent. In fact, speaking of that, how was your week in the hole with Sam Hausman?”

“He's a fucking maniac! Did he file a lien against you yet?”

She started laughing. “No, but I'm in the minority around here; he's done it to pretty much everyone else. I think he likes me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I'm moving you after count; your new bunk is 42-Lower. That's Chong'scube.”

“Tommy Chong?”

“Yeah, I might as well have you both in the same place. It'll be easier to keep an eye on you.” With that, Mrs. Strickland smiled and walked off without saying another word.

I had heard that Tommy Chong was in Taft; he was serving time on some ridiculous charge having to do with selling “bongs” over the Internet. From what little I knew of his case, it was a ridiculous miscarriage of justice. In fact, selling bongs wasn't even illegal; it was only because he had sold them over the Internet (thereby crossing state lines) that he'd violated the law. In consequence, he received a ten-month sentence.

I resisted the urge to calculate the comparative fairness of our two sentences; after all, if selling bongs translated into ten months in the slammer, then what should stealing $100 million from thousands of investors, smuggling millions of dollars to Switzerland, and engaging in acts of depravity that defied the laws of man and God translate into? About ten thousand years, I figured.

“What a load of crap that is!” snapped my bunkie.

“What's a load of crap?”

“That people like you get special treatment around here.”

“What are you taking about?”

My bunkie shrugged. “I'm not saying it's your fault, but I've been here nineteen months and the only time Strickland ever said a word to me was when she told me to make my bed. Yet you're here a few hours and she comes prancing around in her pink shirt and moves you in with Tommy Chong. Watch: She won't even assign you to the kitchen, like every other new inmate. She'll probably make you an orderly, which is the cushiest job here.” Then, in a friendly tone: “Anyway, it's all good; what I'd really like to do is be your laundry man. I'll charge you two bucks a week, plus another fifty cents for the fabric softener. You can pay me either in stamps or with cans of tuna, whatever's easier for you.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll pay you in tuna.”

Just then a booming male voice from the front of the unit: “Count time, count time! All rise for the four p.m. stand-up count.” Mark popped off the bed and faced the entrance to the cube, as did I. A hush fell over the unit.

A few moments later, two guards came walking by at an overly brisk pace, glancing in as they passed. Their pace was so brisk, in fact, that I was certain that they hadn't even counted us; they just assumed we were all here. Either way, a few minutes later the same booming voice screamed, “Clear,” and the noise level picked up again and campers began strolling about the unit, like athletes in a locker room.

With a bang of knuckles, I bid my new laundry man farewell and headed down the narrow corridor to 42-Lower. When I reached the cubicle, I found Tommy sitting on his bed, going through a stack of mail. He was much more handsome than I remembered from his movies, although I was always so stoned when I'd watched them that I might have been hallucinating at the time. He was slender and tan, with a full head of silvery gray hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same rich color.

“Tommy…” I said open-endedly.

He looked up and smiled. “Yeah. Jordan, right?”

I nodded, and we shook hands in the traditional fashion, which is to say, without banging knuckles. We then spent the next few minutes making small talk. Apparently news traveled fast here, because Tommy seemed to know as much about my case as I knew about his.

“So they actually made that Boiler Roommovie about you?” he asked.

“Not really,” I answered. “It's loosely based on the firm I owned, but it was written from the perspective of a very low-level employee. It doesn't even begin to tell the story. I mean, there was a scene where they took a bus to Atlantic City…” and as I went about explaining the many shortfalls of Boiler Room,my mind began to double-track.

On track one, the words were coming out automatically: “… and I can promise you that my brokers never took a bus anywhere; in fact, they would have been stoned to death if they got caught. It was all private jets and limousines…”

And on track two, my internal monologue was saying, Jesus, I can't believe how different Tommy Chong is than I expected him to be. Just look at his face drop as I tell him about my former life of insanity. I would have thought this stuff would be second nature to him, yet he seems genuinely shocked at my depravity!

Just then another inmate appeared at the entrance to the cube. He was in his mid-fifties and looked like a broken-down version of Robin Williams. He had a wavy gray beard, lush enough for a family of sparrows to live in. With mock formality, he said, “Mr. Belfort: David, humbly at your service.” He bowed. “I would like to be your butler. I will do anything you ask of me—make your bed, clean your cube, bring you coffee in the morning; there is no task too great or too small.” Now he looked at Tommy. “Mr. Chong, I'm sure, will vouch for the professionalism of my services.”

I looked at Tommy, trying to keep a straight face.

“David's a good man,” Tommy said. “You should hire him.”

“How much?” I asked David.

“Seven books a month,” he replied proudly. “And I make an excellent vanilla latte. I steal syrup from the kitchen.”

“Sure, why not?” I said. After all, a book of stamps was only $7.20. So, for $50.40, I would have myself a real jailhouse butler. “You can start tomorrow.”

David bowed and then walked away.

Tommy said, “Just be careful if he offers you any cooked food. He's been in jail for twenty years, and he spends most of his day catching squirrels; then he marinates them in soy sauce and cooks them in the microwave.” He shrugged. “They taste pretty good, from what I hear.”

I took a moment to run that scenario through my mind and found myself wondering how he was actually catchingthe squirrels. Must be setting traps, I figured. Then I heard another voice. “Hey, Jordan?”

I looked up and saw a short Mexican man standing there. “What's up?” I said with a smile.

“I'm Jimmy, the head orderly. Mrs. Strickland told me you'll be working for me.” Good old Mrs. Strickland!“I assume you don't actually want to work, right?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied quickly. “How much will it cost?”

“A hundred bucks a month, and you'll never touch a broom handle.”

“Done,” I said. “How do you want to get paid?”

“Have a friend on the outside send a money order to my sister each month. Then she'll send it to me.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and the moment he walked away, an Italian-looking guy with an enormous rack of pearly whites poked his head in. “Are you Jordan?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, how can I help you?”

“I'm Russo, the guy who gets things around here. I was watching you play tennis before. You're pretty good, but I think you'd be much better with the right racquet.”

“What do you got?”

“A Head, Liquidmetal. In mint condition.”

“How much?”

“ Seventy-five bucks.”

“I'll take it. How do you want to get paid?”