More forcefully this time: “Nadine! Open up the fucking door and let me in! You’re overreacting!”
I heard more footsteps from inside the house, then the mail slot at waist level opened. Nadine’s voice came through the slot. “If you want to talk to me, then you can talk to me through here.”
What choice did I have? I bent down and—
SPLASH!
“Owwww, shit!” I screamed, wiping my eyeballs with the bottom of my white Ralph Lauren T-shirt. “That water’s piping hot, Nadine! What the fuck is wrong with you? You could’ve burned me!”
The disdainful Duchess: “Could’ve burned you? I’m gonna do more than that before I’m through! How the fuck could you talk my mother into doing that? You don’t think I know you manipulated her? Of course she’s gonna offer after everything you’ve done for her! You just made it so fucking simple for her, you manipulative little bastard! You and your stupid fucking sales tactics or Jedi mind tricks or whatever the fuck you call them! You’re a despicable human being!”
In spite of everything she’d said, it was the word littlethat wounded me most. “You better watch who you call little, or I’ll smash you one and—”
“Just go ahead and try! If you lift a hand to me, I’ll cut your balls off while you’re sleeping and feed them to you!”
Christ! How could such a beautiful face spew out such terrible venom—and at her own husband! The Duchess had looked like an angel tonight, not to mention that she’d been showering me with kisses all night long! But then, after Patricia had finished making her toast, I caught a glimpse of her and Suzanne from a certain angle in those ridiculous straw hats, and they reminded me of the Pigeon Sisters from the movie The Odd Couple.I figured, what Customs agent in his right mind would stop the Pigeon Sisters? And the fact that both of them carried British passports made the whole idea that much more plausible. So I launched a trial balloon, to see if either of them would be receptive to smuggling money for me.
My wife’s voice, through the slot: “Come down here and look me in the eye and tell me that you won’t let her do it.”
“Come down there? Yeah, right!” I said mockingly. “You want me to look you in the eye? Why? So you can throw more boiling water in my face? What do you think, I’m fucking stupid or something?”
The toneless voice of the Duchess: “I’m not gonna throw more water at you. I swear on Chandler’s eyes.”
I stood my ground.
“You know, the problem is that my mother and Aunt Patricia think this whole thing is a giant fucking game. They both hate the government and they figure it’s all for a good cause. And now that my mother has this thing in her mind, she’s not gonna stop talking about it until you let her do it. I know her like a book. She thinks it’s exciting—to walk through Customs with all that money and not get caught.”
“I won’t let her do it, Nae. I should have never brought it up in the first place. I just had too much wine. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“You didn’t have too much wine; that’s the sad part. Even when you’re straight you’re a little devil. I don’t know why I love you so much. It’s me who’s the crazy one, not you! I really oughta have my head examined—really! I mean, dinner was twenty thousand dollars tonight! Who spends twenty thousand dollars on dinner unless it’s for a wedding or something? Nobody I know! But why would you care about that? You’ve got three million in the closet! And that’s not fucking normal either.
“Contrary to what you might think, Jordan, I don’t need all this. I just want to live a nice, quiet life, away from Stratton and away from all this madness. I think we should move before something bad happens.” She paused. “But you’ll never do it. You’re addicted to all the power—and to all those idiots who call you the King and the Wolf! Christ, the Wolf! What a fucking joke that is!” I could hear the disgust oozing through the keyhole. “My husband, the Wolf of Wall Street! It’s almost too ridiculous for words. But you can’t see that. All you care about is yourself. You’re a selfish little bastard. You really are.”
“Stop calling me little, for Chrissake! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Aw, you’re so sensitive,” she said mockingly. “Well, get this, Mr. Sensitive: Tonight you’re sleeping in the guest bedroom! And tomorrow night too! Maybe if you’re lucky I might have sex with you next year! But that’s a long shot!” A moment later I heard the door unlock…then the sound of her high heels clicking their way up the stairs.
Well, I guess I deserved it. But, still, what were the chances of her mother getting caught? Close to zero, one would think! It was just those stupid straw hats that she and Patricia were wearing that had made the thought bubble up to my brain. And the fact that I supported Suzanne financially counted for something, didn’t it? After all, that was why she’d offered in the first place! Her mother was a sharp, decent lady, and deep down she knew that there was some unspoken IOU that I could cash in on if I really needed to. I mean, when all the bullshit was stripped away, nobody just gaveout of the goodness of their own heart, did they? There was always some sort of ulterior motive, even if it was nothing more than the personal feeling of satisfaction you received from helping another human being, which in its own way was self-serving too!
On a brighter note, at least I’d had sex with the Duchess that afternoon. So a day or two without sex wouldn’t be that difficult to handle.
CHAPTER 20
A CHINK IN THE ARMOR
The doleful Duchess had been half right and half wrong.
Yes, she’d been right about her mother insisting on playing a small role in “this fabulous adventure of mine,” as she and Patricia had come to refer to my international money-laundering scheme. In fact, there had been no talking her out of it. But in both our defenses (Suzanne’s and mine), it was a rather sexy notion, wasn’t it? To stuff an obscene amount of money—$900,000, to be exact—into an oversize pocketbook and then throw it over your shoulder and walk straight through Customs without getting caught? Yes, yes, it was very sexy, indeed!
But, no, no, the Duchess had been wrong to worry herself sick over it. The simple fact was that Suzanne had breached the gauntlet on both sides of the Atlantic without a raised eyebrow—delivering the cash to Jean Jacques Saurel with a wink and a smile. Now she was safely back in England, where she would be spending the rest of September with Aunt Patricia, as the two of them basked in the glory of getting away with breaking a dozen or so laws.
So the Duchess had forgiven me and we were lovers once more—currently taking an end-of-summer vacation in the harbor town of Newport, Rhode Island. Joining us were my oldest friend, Alan Lipsky, and his soon to be ex-wife, Doreen.
At this particular moment it was just Alan and I, and we were walking along a wooden dock on our way to the yacht Nadine.We were shoulder to shoulder, but Alan’s shoulder was a good six inches above mine. He was big and broad, Alan, with a barrel of a chest and a big thick neck. His face was handsome, in a Mafia hit man sort of way, with big, thick features and big, bushy eyebrows. Even now, dressed in a pair of light-blue Bermuda shorts, a tan V-neck T-shirt, and tan boating moccasins, he looked menacing.
Up ahead, I could see the Nadinetowering above all the other yachts, its unusual tan color making it stand out that much more. As I drank up the glorious view, I couldn’t help but wonder why on earth I had bought the fucking thing. My crooked accountant, Dennis Gaito, had begged me not to—reciting the age-old axiom: “The two happiest days for a boat owner are the day he buys his boat and the day he sells his boat!” Dennis was as sharp as a whip, so I hesitated—until the Duchess told me that buying a yacht was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard, which left me no choice but to immediately write a check.