“Oh, yeah?” I snapped. “Well, I hope you die of codependency!” And I slammed down the phone. “Fucking whore!” I muttered to the phone of the future. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Then the phone rang: Broooo!—Broooo!I picked it up in a millisecond: “What the fuck do you want now?”
“Well, fuck you too!” snapped my attorney. “What, are you having a bad morning over there?”
“Oh, hey, Greg!” I said happily. “What's going on?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “What's going on with you?”
I thought about that for a second. “Oh, nothing really. Just a little spat with my soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“I see,” said Magnum. “And can I ask why you're blasting Michael Bolton at eight-thirty in the morning? The guy sucks!”
“Oh, shit! Hold on a second.” I pressed pause on the remote control. “Sorry about that. I'm not a Michael Bolton fan; trust me. In fact, I'm gonna toss that fucking CD right in the microwave, just as soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“And why is that?” asked my attorney.
“Is this conversation privileged?”
“All our conversations are privileged.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Well, I just found out that the Duchess was fucking Michael Bolton. Can you imagine?”
“Really?” said Magnum. “The guy's a loser! She could do better.”
“Oh, thanks a lot, Greg. Maybe you're not catching my drift here: Michael—Fucking—Bolton was porking my wife!”
“While you were together?”
“No! Not while we were married! Afterward!”
“So what are you so upset about? You haven't exactly been sitting on your hands out there. Anyway, can you come into the city today?”
“Why? Did something bad happen?”
“I wouldn't say bad,” he replied, “but it's not the bestnews in the world. I worked out your deal with Joel.”
“How long can I keep the houses for?” I asked quickly.
“Well, it's different for you and Nadine,” he answered cautiously. “But I'd rather discuss it in person. Take a ride into the city, and we'll order up some sandwiches and have a working lunch. I'd like Nick to be a part of this too.”
I thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to press for more details, but then he said, “And I have some good news for you too, and it concerns your friend Joel. So keep your chin up and I'll see you in a few hours, okay?”
I smiled into the phone. “You got it!” I said heartily. “I'll be there by noon.” And I hung up the phone of the future, knowing that Magnum could mean only one thing: The Bastard was leaving the U.S. Attorney's Office.
My towering attorney was sitting behind his desk, the starchy Yale-man was sitting to my right, and I was sitting directly across from Magnum at justthe right angle to sneak peeks at a photograph of him and Judge Gleeson, which had been taken when they worked together at the U.S. Attorney's Office. And as the three of us engaged in idle chatter about the deficiencies in our golf swings, I found myself tuning in and out—focusing on the picture of Judge Gleeson instead and praying that when the time came he would remember that Magnum and he were good friends.
“… causes me to shank the ball,” Magnum was now saying. “That's why I keep my right elbow close to my hip.” He shrugged knowingly. “It's the key to any good golf swing.”
Who gives a shit! I thought. “Yeah, that's true,” I said, and can we please get down to my case, for Chrissake?
The Yale-man chimed in. “It is,” he added, “but that's not your problem, Greg. It's your grip. It's much too weak; that's why you keep hitting off the hozzle.” He shrugged. “It's simple geometry, really. When you cut across…”
Oh, Jesus Christ! Save me!I tuned out again. I had been in their office for fifteen minutes, and so far so good. As I'd suspected, the Bastard was planning to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office. Just when, Magnum wasn't so sure, although he'd heard from “reliable sources” that the Bastard would be gone before the year was out. The goodnews was, that meant someone else would be writing my 5K letter, and, chances were, they'd be more benevolent than the Bastard.
The bad news, however, was that the Bastard would want my cooperation made public before he resigned. There were a multitude of reasons for this, Magnum explained, not the least of which was that my guilty plea (and subsequent cooperation) was a big-time feather in the Bastard's cap, which he would use to secure a partnership at a major law firm. In addition, there was an emotional component involved, inasmuch as the Bastard wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, where he would get to hold a press conference and say: “Not only have I brought the Wolf of Wall Street to justice, but I've also turned him into a world-class rat—thereby making unprecedented leaps toward the eradication of small-cap securities fraud in America.”
What the Bastard wouldn't say, however, was that small-cap securities fraud was more prevalent nowthan in Stratton's heyday. In fact, with the proliferation of the Internet, stock scams had been elevated to an entirely new level, and God only knew how many millions were being lost each day as a result of puffed-up e-mails, fraudulent message boards, and dot-com mania.
Still, there was no denying that the Bastard's departure was good news for me, so the three of us had felt entitled to spend the last few minutes congratulating ourselves. My lawyers seemed to be chalking it up to some clever legal strategy on their part, although I was convinced that it had more to do with my long-term value as a rat exceeding the Bastard's patience to work for the federal government at near slave wages. Whatever the case, this information was strictly on the QT, and I was not to breathe a word of it to anyone.
Now the Yale-man was saying, “… inside-out swing plane, above everything. That's mysecret for keeping the ball in the short grass.” He offered Magnum and me a single nod, to which Magnum nodded back accordingly.
I smiled and said, “You know, my problem with this conversation is that all three of us suck in golf “—I raised my chin toward Magnum—”especially you, Greg. So, if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you guys would stop fucking torturing me and tell me when I have to forfeit my houses.”
My towering attorney smiled. “Of course: Yourhouse has to be forfeited on January first, and Nadine's the following June.”
“That sucks,” I said. “What happened to four years from now?”
Magnum shrugged. “Like I've always said, Joel is not an easy person to deal with—especially now, while he's getting ready to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office. He wants to extract as much blood as possible before he departs.”
The Yale-man said, “In fact, things were even bleaker yesterday.”
“Indeed,” added Magnum. “As of yesterday morning, Joel wanted Nadine to forfeit the Old Brookville house on the same date as you, but we convinced him to back off because of the children. So, in that sense, it was somewhat of a victory.”
“Yeah,” I said sarcastically, “a victory. And it stillsucks!” I took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slowly. “And how much money do I get to keep?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars,” replied Magnum, “plus you each get to keep a car, your furniture, and all your personal possessions, and you get to keep the IOUs you listed. Are any of them collectible?”
I took a moment to run them through my mind. There were three, the biggest of which was with Elliot Lavigne, who owed me $2 million. Back in the day, Elliot had been my primary rathole, kicking me back millions of dollars in cash. At the time he had been a garment-center legend, ascending to the presidency of Perry Ellis while still in his thirties. But he'd also been a world-class drug addict, a degenerate gambler, and a serial whoremonger (which was why we'd gotten along so well), and ultimately he had lost everything, including his job. We hadn't spoken since I'd gotten sober, and there was no way, I knew, he could ever pay me back. He was completely broke.