Anyway, my holdings were so vast that Stratton represented only one aspect of my financial dealings. There was Steve Madden Shoes; there was Roland Franks and Saurel; and there were a dozen other companies that I currently owned stakes in that were preparing to go public. Of course, Dollar Time was still a complete disaster, but the worst of it was over.
Having worked things out in my mind, I said to George, “Why don’t you get off the highway and take local streets. I need to get back to the office.”
The mute nodded two times, obviously hating my guts.
I ignored his insolence and said, “Also, stick around after you drop me off. I’m gonna have lunch at Tenjin today. All right?”
Again the mute nodded, not uttering a single word.
Go figure! The fucking guy won’t say a goddamn word to me, and here I am worrying what his life would be like without Stratton. Perhaps I was completely off the mark. Perhaps I owed nothing to the thousands of people who depended on Stratton Oakmont for their very livelihoods. Perhaps they would all turn on me in a New York second—and tell me to go fuck myself—if they no longer thought that I could help them. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps…
How ironic it was that with all this internal debating I had missed one very important point: If I no longer had to worry about getting stoned inside the boardroom, there would be nothing to stop me from doing Quaaludes all day long. Without realizing it, I was setting the stage for some very dark times ahead. After all, the only thing holding me back now would be my own good judgment, which had a funny way of deserting me…especially when it came to blondes and drugs.
CHAPTER 22
LUNCHTIME IN THE ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE
Every time the restaurant door opened, a handful of Strattonites came marching in to Tenjin, causing three Japanese sushi chefs and half a dozen pint-size waitresses to drop whatever they were doing and scream out, “Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa! Gongbongwa!”which was Japanese for good afternoon. Then they offered the Strattonites deep formal bows and changed their tone to a dramatic high-pitched squeal: “ Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh! Yo-say-nosah-no-seh! Yo-say-no-sah-no-seh!”which meant God only knew what.
The chefs ran over to greet the new arrivals, grabbing them by the wrists and inspecting their gleaming gold wristwatches. In heavily accented English, they would interrogate them: “How much watch cost? Where you buy? What car you drive to restaurant? Ferrari? Mercedes? Porsche? What kind golf club you use? Where you play at? How long for tee time? What your handicap?”
Meanwhile, the waitresses, who dressed in salmon-pink kimonos with lime-green rucksacks on their backs, rubbed the backs of their hands against the fine Italian wool of all those custom-made Gilberto suit jackets, nodding their heads approvingly, and making cooing sounds: “Ohhhhhhh…ahhhhhhhh…nice-a-fabric…so-a-soft!”
But then, as if by silent cue, they all stopped at precisely the same moment and returned to whatever it was they’d been doing. In the case of the sushi chefs, it meant rolling and folding and slicing and dicing. In the case of the waitresses, it meant serving oversize vats of Premium sake and Kirin beer to the young and the thirsty, and enormous wooden sailboats filled with overpriced sushi and sashimi to the rich and the hungry.
And just when you thought it was safe, the door swung open once more, and the madness repeated itself, as the wildly animated staff of Tenjin came swooping down on the next group of Strattonites and bathed them in Japanese pomp and circumstance, as well as heaping doses of what I was certain was unadulterated Japanese bullshit.
Welcome to lunch hour—Stratton style!
At this very moment, the alternative universe was exerting its full force on this tiny corner of planet earth. Dozens of sports cars and stretch limousines blocked traffic outside the restaurant, while inside the restaurant young Strattonites carried on their time-honored tradition of acting like packs of untamed wolves. Of the restaurant’s forty tables, only two were occupied by non-Strattonites, or civilians, as we called them. Perhaps they had inadvertently stumbled upon Tenjin while searching for a quiet place to enjoy a nice relaxing meal. Whatever the case, there was no doubt they had been entirely unaware of the bizarre fate about to befall them. After all, as lunch progressed, the drugs would start kicking in.
Yes, the clock had just struck one and some of the Strattonites were already getting off. It wasn’t hard to tell which of them were Luded out; they were the ones standing on the tabletops, slurring and drooling and reciting war stories. Fortunately, the sales assistants were required to stay in the boardroom—manning the phones and catching up on paperwork—so everyone still had their clothes on and nobody was rutting away in the bathrooms or under the tables.
I was sitting in a private alcove at the rear of the restaurant, watching this very madness unfold while pretending to listen to the ramblings of Kenny Greene, the blockheaded moron, who was spewing out his own version of unadulterated bullshit. Meanwhile, Victor Wang, the Depraved Chinaman, was nodding his panda-size head at everything his moronic friend was saying, although I was certain he knew Kenny was a moron too and was only pretending to agree with him.
The Blockhead was saying, “…is the exact reason why you stand to make so much money here, JB. I mean, Victor is the sharpest guy I know.” He reached over and patted the Depraved Chinaman on his enormous back. “Next to you, of course, but that goes without saying.”
I smiled a bogus smile and said, “Well, gee, Kenny, thanks for the vote of confidence!”
Victor chuckled at his friend’s idiocy, then flashed me one of his hideous smiles, causing his eyes to become so narrow they all but disappeared.
Kenny, however, had never really mastered the concept of irony. In consequence, he had taken my offering of thanks at face value and was now beaming with great pride. “Anyway, the way I figure it, it’s only gonna take four hundred thousand or so in start-up capital to really get this thing off the ground. If you want, you can give it to me in cash and I’ll filter it to Victor through my mother”—his mother?—“and you don’t have to even worry about it leaving a bad paper trail”—a bad paper trail?—“because my mother and Victor own some real estate together, so they can justify it like that. Then we’ll need a few key stockbrokers to help get the pump going and, most importantly, a big allocation of the next new issue. The way I figure it is…”
I quickly tuned out. Kenny was bursting at the seams with excitement, and every word that escaped his lips was utter nonsense.
Neither Victor nor Kenny was aware of the SEC’s settlement offer. I wouldn’t let them in on that for a few more days, not until both of them had gotten themselves so wet in the pants over the fabulous future of Duke Securities that Stratton Oakmont would seem all but expendable. Only then would I tell them.
Just then I caught a glimpse of Victor out of the corner of my eye, and I took a moment to regard him. Just looking at the Depraved Chinaman on an empty stomach made me want to eat him! Why this massive Chinaman looked so succulent had always baffled me, although it probably had most to do with his skin, which was smoother than a newborn baby’s. And beneath that velvety soft skin were a dozen layers of lavish Chinese fat, which would be perfect for cooking; and beneath thatwere a dozen more layers of indestructible Chinese muscle, which would be perfect for eating; and on the very surface of it all, he sported the most delicious Chinese tint, which was the exact color of fresh tupelo honey.
The end result was that every time I laid eyes on Victor Wang, I envisioned him as a suckling pig, and I felt like shoving an apple in his mouth and sticking a skewer up his ass and throwing him on a rotisserie and basting him in sweet and sour sauce and then inviting some friends over to eat him—luau style!