I paused and waited for a response, but none came. Christ!She wanted a full-blown description of the room—her vicarious thrill of the day. What a pain in the ass she was! I smiled into the phone and said, “Anyway, like I was saying, the room is really nice. According to the hotel manager it’s decorated in the British traditional fashion—whatever the fuck that means! But the bedroom’s really nice, especially the bed. It’s got a huge canopy with lots of blue fabric everywhere. The Brits must like blue, I guess. And they also must like pillows, because the room has about a thousand of them.
“Anyway, the rest of the place is stuffed with all sorts of British crap. There’s a huge dining-room table with one of those sterling-silver candelabras on it. It reminds me of Liberace. Danny’s room is on the opposite side of the suite from mine, but he’s gallivanting around the streets of London right now—like that song ‘Werewolves of London.’
“And that’s it. No other info to relay, other than my precise location, which I’m sure you’d like to know too. So I’ll tell you before you ask: I’m standing on the room’s balcony, and I’m looking at Hyde Park and talking to you. I can’t really see that much, though. It’s too foggy. Are you happy now?”
“Uh-huh,” was all she said.
“How much is the room? I didn’t look when I checked in.”
“Nine thousand pounds per night, which is about thirteen thousand dollars. It sounds like it’s worth it, though, right?”
I took a moment to consider her question. It was a mystery to me why I felt compelled to always book the Presidential Suite, no matter how ludicrous the price. I was certain that it had something to do with watching Richard Gere do it in the movie Pretty Woman,which was one of my all-time favorites. But it was deeper than that. There was this feeling I got whenever I walked up to the check-in counter of a fancy hotel and uttered those magic words: “My name is Jordan Belfort, and I’m here to check into the Presidential Suite.” Well—I knew it was because I was an insecure little bastard, but what the hell!
With sarcasm, I said, “Thanks for reminding me of the exchange rate, Ms. World Banker. I’d almost forgotten. Anyway, the room’s definitely a fucking bargain at thirteen Gs a night. Although I really think it should come with a slave for that price, don’t you?”
“I’ll try to find you one,” said Janet. “But either way I got you a late checkout for tomorrow, so we only have to pay for one night. See how I’m always watching your money? By the way, how’s Nadine’s aunt?”
Instantly I plunged into paranoia mode—calculating the possibility of our phone conversation being bugged. Would the FBI have the audacity to tap Janet’s phone? No, it was inconceivable!There was a heavy cost to tapping someone’s phone and nothing meaningful was ever discussed on this line, unless of course the feds were intent on busting me for being a sexual deviant or a rip-roaring drug addict. But what about the British? Was there a possibility that MI6 was trailing me for a crime I hadn’t even committed yet? No, also inconceivable!They had their hands full with the IRA, didn’t they? Why would they give a shit about the Wolf of Wall Street and his devilish plans to corrupt a retired schoolteacher? They would not. Satisfied our conversation was secure, I replied, “She’s doing great. I just dropped her off at her flat. That’s what they call apartments here, Janet.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” said the obnoxious one.
“Oh, excuse me. I was unaware that you were such a world-fucking-traveler. Anyway, I need to stay in London an extra day. I have some business here. So book the hotel for an extra night and make sure the plane is waiting for me at Heathrow on Friday morning. And tell the pilot it’s gonna be a same-day turnaround. Patricia’s going back that afternoon, okay?”
With typical Janet sarcasm: “I’ll do whatever you say, boss”—why always such contempt with this word, boss?—“but I don’t see why you feel the need to bullshit me about why you’re staying in London an extra day.”
How had she known? Was it really that obvious I wanted to get Luded out in privacy—outside the prying eyes of the Swiss bankers? No, it was just that Janet knew me so well. She was sort of like the Duchess in that respect. But since I didn’t lie to Janet as much as to my wife, she was that much better at anticipating when I was up to no good.
Still, I felt compelled to lie. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response. But as long as you brought up the subject, I might as well put you to good use. It just so happens that there’s this really hot nightclub in London called Annabelle’s. It’s supposed to be impossible to get into. Get me the best table in the house for tomorrow night, and tell them I want three bottles of Cristal waiting for me on ice. If you have any problems—”
“Please don’t insult me,” interrupted Janet. “Your table will be waiting for you, Sir Belfort. Just don’t forget that I know where you come from, and Bayside isn’t exactly famous for its royalty. Do you need me to find you anything else or are you all set for tomorrow evening?”
“ Ooooh, you’re such a little devil, Janet! You know, I was really trying to turn over a new leaf in the female department, but since youput the idea in my head—why don’t you order two Blue Chips, one for me and one for Danny. Or, now that I think about it, you better make that three—just in case one’s a bust! You never know what’s gonna walk through the door in these foreign countries.
“Anyway, I’m off! I’m going downstairs to catch a quick workout, and then I’m heading over to Bond Street to do some shopping. That should make my father happy when he gets the bill next month! Now, quick—before I hang up—remind me of what a great boss I am and tell me how much you love me and miss me!”
Tonelessly: “You’re the greatest boss in the whole wide world and I love you and miss you and can’t live without you.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” I replied knowingly. Then I hung up the phone in her ear without saying good-bye.
CHAPTER 17
THE MASTER FORGER
Precisely thirty-six hours later, our chartered Learjet screamed and roared like a military fighter as it took off out of Heathrow and made its way into the Friday morning sky. Aunt Patricia was sitting to my left—a look of sheer terror frozen on her face. She was gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles had turned white. I looked at her for thirty seconds, and she blinked only once. I felt a twinge of guilt over her obvious discomfort, but what could I do? The simple fact was that climbing inside a fifteen-foot-long, hollowed-out bullet and being shot through the air at five hundred miles per hour wasn’t most people’s idea of fun.
Danny was facing me, with his back to the cockpit. He would be making the trip to Switzerland flying backward, which was something I’d always found disconcerting. But, like most things in life, it didn’t seem to bother Danny one iota. In fact, despite the noise and vibrations, he had already fallen asleep and was in his customary position, with his mouth wide open and his head tilted back and his enormous teeth blazing away.
I won’t deny that this incredible ability he had—to be able to fall asleep at the drop of a dime—drove me absolutely bonkers. How could you just stop your thoughts from roaring through your head? It seemed illogical! Well—whatever. It was his gift and my curse.
With frustration in my heart, I leaned my head toward the tiny oval window and banged my head against it with a gentle thud. Then I pressed my nose against the window and watched the city of London grow smaller and smaller beneath me. At this time of morning—seven a.m.—a dense layer of soupy fog still sat upon the city like a wet blanket, and all I could see was the shaft of Big Ben, rising up from the fog like an enormous erection in desperate need of a morning romp. After the last thirty-six hours, the mere thought of an erection and a romp was enough to send my frazzled nerves into a complete tailspin.