None, I thought; so I called the casino, ordered the helicopter, took Kiley clothes shopping, and then took a short-term loan from the federal government and headed for the heliport.
Now, however, six hours later, I was stranded at Teterboro, in a dilapidated hangar, with an underage girl, and about to break curfew. Being in Jersey, I figured, was the least of my crimes.
“Does this mean we're not going?” chirped Kiley.
I looked at my watch and shook my head gravely. “I don't know, Kiley. It's nine o'clock already, and I'm supposed to be home by midnight.”
With a pout: “That's sad.”
“Yeah, it is,” I agreed with a sympathetic nod, and then I thought for a moment, focusing on the fact that my curfew wasn't reallya curfew. Or was it? Well, technically it was, but on a practical level it wasn't, especially on a Sunday evening where a harmless violation (like this) would likely slip through the cracks. Yes, perhaps the monitoring company would place a call to Patrick Mancini, my PO, but Pat was a pretty decent guy, and he would just assume that the bracelet had malfunctioned. I mean, the thing was always malfunctioning, wasn't it? Yes, it most certainly was, and, besides, Pat knewI wasn't a flight risk, didn't he? Yes, he most certainly did, and he was well aware that I wasa cooperating witness with the federal government (on the side of righteousness).
Just then the pilot walked over, smiling. “It's only a fuel gauge,” he said happily. “The good news is that we should have it fixed within twenty minutes.”
Kiley grabbed my hand and started shaking it up and down, as if to say, “Yippee! Yippee! Now we can go to Atlantic City!”
“And what's the bad news?” I said, knowingly.
The pilot shrugged. “Well, we got a late start tonight, so the copilot and I are out of duty time. You have to wait for two fresh pilots to come. They'll be here in about an hour.”
Kiley looked at me, confused. “What does that mean?” she asked sadly.
What I felt like saying was: “It means that this is what happens when you travel with the former Wolf of Wall Street. Anything that can go wrong will gowrong!” But instead I said, “It means that we're stranded here for a while.”
Another pout: “So we're not gonna go now?”
I looked at Kiley and shrugged. “Let me think for a second.” I ran the scenario through my mind again. Well, obviously I couldn't sleep with Kiley; she was just too young. But, on the other hand, I was a very good gambler, so perhaps I could win a few bucks! “Is there a phone around here?” I asked the pilot.
He pointed his finger in the direction of a wall phone.
“Thanks,” I said, and a second later I was leaving a message on Pat Mancini's voice mail—explaining that I was stuck in “the city,” without saying whichcity, and that I would be back either late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Then I hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, wondering if I had just made a big mistake. No!I thought. Patrick had his hands full with murderers and rapists, and I had already made the decision not to have sex with Kiley. And, with that thought, I walked back to Kiley and offered her an avuncular smile. “All right, honey, we're going!”
“Yehhhh!”she screamed, and that was that.
There was no denying that Donald Trump sported the worst hairdo this side of the Iron Curtain, but the bastard sure knew how to make money! In Atlantic City, he owned three casinos: Trump Plaza, the Taj Mahal, and Trump Castle. I preferred the Castle because it had a heliport on the roof, which allowed for quick entrances and exits. And that's important in a town like Atlantic City, where the sheer decadence of it can throw a down-and-out gambler into an emotional tailspin when he's already on the verge of jumping out a window.
But something was bothering me now.
I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned forward and slid open the Plexiglas. “Excuse me,” I said to the evening's second copilot, pointing to the roof of the Castle as it grew smaller in the distance. “Why aren't we landing on the roof tonight?”
The pilot shrugged. “I'm not sure,” he replied. “We were told to land on the pier. That's all I know.”
“Hmmm,” I muttered. “Maybe the roof is closed for repairs.”
“Not that I know of,” answered the copilot, and a few minutes later Kiley and I were sitting in the back of an electric golf cart, with a driver from Trump Plaza behind the wheel. Sitting next to the driver was a sharply dressed casino host, also from Trump Plaza. He had a terrific shock of gray hair and a slick demeanor. I leaned forward and said to him, “I don't get it: When I called information this afternoon, I specifically asked for the number for Trump Castle.”
He smiled a toothy smile. “Well, they must've made a mistake; it happens all the time. Anyway, we're allpart of the Trump family, right?”
“Is everything okay?” asked Kiley. “You seem upset.”
I grabbed her hand and held it. “No, everything is fine, sweetie. It's just a slight mix-up. It's par for the course when you travel with me.”
Kiley giggled like a schoolgirl.
“By the way,” said the sleazy casino host, “I saw your old friend Elliot Lavigne down here. He was knocking ’em dead at the tables!”
“You mean gambling?”I said incredulously.
“Yeah; why are you so surprised? He isa compulsive gambler, no?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, of course he is. But last I heard he was broke.”
The host shook his head and smiled. “Not anymore!” he said knowingly. “He's making millions again. He's got some hip-hop line called uh, Fat Farm, or maybe Fubu.”
Kiley, the budding fashionista: “Oh! I know Phat Farm!”
I looked at Kiley and couldn't resist: “Why've you been to a fat farm?”
She released my hand and smacked me in the shoulder. “It's not that kind of fat farm, wise guy! The fatis spelled P-H-A-T.And it's slang, for cool or good-looking. You know, like you'd say, ‘That girl is phat!’or ‘This casino is phat!“
“I think she's right,” said the casino host.
“I think so too,” I agreed, and I smiled at Kiley, who was fairly beaming. Then she said, “Who's Elliot Lavigne?”
The casino host and I exchanged a look. “Oh, he's just an old friend of mine,” I said casually— who happens to owe me two million fucking dollars, which I can now collect!“He's kind of a colorful guy.”
“Oh,” said a clueless Kiley. “He sounds very nice.”
With that, the host and I exchanged another look, and five minutes later Kiley and I were walking through the casino arm in arm, like two young lovers. She was looking this way and that, staring at all the gaming tables and slot machines and mirrors and strobe lights, with the sort of awestruck expression that you would normally find on the face of a five-year-old girl from Dubuque, Iowa, who was walking through Times Square for the first time.
With a confident gait, I led her to a craps table.
There were six people surrounding it, all bearing the desperate expression of craps degenerates. “Watch this,” I said to Kiley, and with a devilish smile and a knowing wink I opened my blue Nike gym bag and poured out $50,000 in cash on the craps table. Then I looked up at the towering Box-man, a six-and-a-half-footer with a handlebar mustache that seemed to defy gravity, and I said, “Chips, please!”
There was a moment of silence while the rest of the table looked on, astonished. Oh, yes! The Wolf was back! And wait until they see him gamble!Ohhh… I was good, all right! Like James-fucking-Bond!
The towering Box-man smiled and said, “Give Mr. Belfort twenty thousand dollars to play with while we count him out.” And just like that I was handed twenty thousand in chips.
Kiley seemed impressed. “How do they know you?” she whispered.