“Hello!” sputtered the blond prosecutor. “Aren’t you gonna answer me?”

“Oh—it was uneventful. Just the way it should be. Know what I mean?”

A long pause.

Jesus! The Duchess was testing me, waiting for me to crack under the weight of her silence! She was devious, my wife! Maybe I should start laying the blame on Danny, in anticipation.

But then she said, “Oh, that’s good, sweetie. How was the service in first class? You meet any cute stewardesses on the plane? Come on, you can tell me! I won’t get jealous.” She giggled.

Unbelievable! Had I married the Amazing Kreskin? “No, no,” I replied, “they were nothing special. Germans, I think. One of them was big enough to kick my ass. Anyway, I slept most of the way. I even missed the meal.”

That seemed to sadden the Duchess. “Ohhhhh, that’s too bad, baby. You must be starving! How was it going through Customs—any problems?”

Jesus! I had to end this phone call instantly!“Pretty smooth, for the most part. A few questions—just typical stuff. Anyway, they didn’t even stamp my passport.” Then, a strategic subject change: “But more importantly, how’s little Channy doing?”

“Oh, she’s fine. But the baby nurse is driving me crazy! She never gets off the stupid phone. I think she might be calling Jamaica. Anyway, I found two marine biologists who’ll come to work for us full-time. They said they can get the algae out of the pond by lining the bottom with some type of bacteria. Whaddaya think?”

“How much?” I asked, not anxious to hear the response.

“Ninety thousand a year—for both of them. They’re a husband-and-wife team. They seem nice.”

“Okay, that sounds pretty reasonable. Where did you find—” Just then, a knock at the door. “Hold on a second, sweetie. It must be room service. I’ll be right back.” I put the phone down on the bed and walked over to the door and opened it— what the hell!I looked up…and up…and wow!A six-foot-tall black-skinned woman, at my own door! An Ethiopian, by the looks of her. My mind started racing. Such smooth young skin she had! Such a warm, lubricious smile! And what a set of legs! They were a mile long! Was I really that short? Well—whatever. She was gorgeous. And she also happened to be wearing a black minidress the size of a loincloth. “Can I help you?” I asked quizzically.

“Hello” was all she said.

My suspicions were confirmed. It was a black hooker straight from Ethiopia, who could only say hello and good-bye! My favorite!I motioned her into the room and led her over to the bed. She sat down. I sat down next to her. I slowly leaned back and put my right elbow on the bed and leaned my cheek on the palm of my hand— OH, FUCK! MY WIFE! THE DUCHESS! SHIT!I quickly put a forefinger to my lips and prayed that this woman understood the international sign language known to all hookers, which in this particular instance translated into: “Shut the fuck up, you whore! My wife’s on the phone, and if she hears a female voice in the room, I’m in deep shit and you’re not getting a tip!”

Thankfully, she nodded.

With that, I picked up the phone and explained to the Duchess that there was nothing worse in the world than cold eggs Benedict. She was sympathetic and told me that she loved me unconditionally.I hung on this word for all it was worth. Then I told her that I loved her too, and that I missed her and that I couldn’t live without her, all of which was true.

And just like that, a terrible wave of sadness came over me. How could I feel those things for my wife and still do the things I did? What was wrong with me? This wasn’t normal behavior for any man. Even for a man of power—no, especially for a man of power! It was one thing to have an occasional marital indiscretion; that was to be expected. But there had to be some line, and I…well, I chose not to finish the thought.

I took a deep breath and tried to drive the negativity out of my head, but it was difficult. I loved my wife. She was a good girl, despite breaking up my first marriage. But I was just as much to blame for that.

I felt like I was being driven to do things, not because I really wanted to do them but because they were expected of me. It was as if my life was a stage, and the Wolf of Wall Street was performing for the benefit of some imaginary audience, who judged my every move and hung on my every word.

It was a cruel insight into the very dysfunction of my own personality. I mean, had I really given a shit about Franca? She couldn’t hold a candle to my wife. And that French accent of hers—I’d take my wife’s Brooklyn accent any day! Yet even after I had come out of my blackout, I still asked the Customs officer for her phone number. Why? Because I thought it was something that the Wolf of Wall Street would be expected to do. How bizarre that was. And how sad too.

I looked over at the woman sitting next to me. Did she have any diseases? I wondered. No, she looked pretty healthy. Too healthy to be carrying the AIDS virus, right? Then again, she was from Africa…No, no way! AIDS was an old-fashioned disease: You had to earn it by sticking your dick in a hole it didn’t belong in. Besides, I never seemed to catch anything, so why should this time be any different?

She smiled at me, so I smiled back. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs akimbo. So immodest! So incredibly sexy! That loincloth of hers was almost above her hips. This would be my last time, then! To pass up this chocolate-brown towering inferno would be a travesty of justice—nothing less!

With that thought, I pushed all the negative garbage out of my mind and decided right there, on the spot, that just as soon as I shot the back of her head off, I would flush the rest of my Quaaludes down the toilet and start my life anew.

And that was exactly what I did, in exactly that order.

CHAPTER 12

DARK PREMONITIONS

Afew hours later, at 12:30 p.m., Swiss Frog time, Danny was sitting across from me in the back of a blue Rolls-Royce limousine that was wider than a commercial fishing trawler and longer than a hearse, which gave me this eerie feeling that I was heading to my own funeral. That was the day’s first dark premonition.

We were on our way to Union Bancaire Privée for the first meeting with our prospective Swiss bankers. I was staring out the rear window—looking up at the towering geyser, still in awe of it—when Danny said with great sadness, “I still don’t see why I had to flush my own Ludes down the toilet. I mean, really, JB! I’d just shoved them up my asshole a couple of hours ago! That’s pretty raw, don’t you think?”

I looked at Danny and smiled. He had a valid point. In the past, I had stuck drugs up my ass too—going through this country or that—and it wasn’t a barrel of laughs. I had once heard that it was easier if you sealed the drugs in a vial and then coated the vial with a hefty amount of Vaseline. But the mere thought of putting that much planning into drug smuggling had precluded me from giving the Vaseline strategy a whirl. Only a true drug addict, after all, would ever consider such an undertaking.

Anyway, I also respected Danny for looking out for me, for always being there to protect the golden goose. The real question, though, was how long would he continue to protect the goose if he ever stopped laying golden eggs? It was a good question, but not one worth dwelling on. I was on a big-time roll now, and the money was pouring in faster than ever. I said, “Yeah, it’s pretty raw; I won’t deny that. But don’t think I don’t appreciate the gesture—especially you ramming them up there without any K-Y jelly or anything—but the time for getting Luded out is over. I need you to be on top of your game now, for the next couple of days, at least, and I need to be on top of my game too. Okay?”

Danny leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs insouciantly and said, “Yeah, I’m fine with that. I could use a little break myself. I just don’t like things being stuck up my ass.”