“You must be Jim Barsini,” Frank Pellegrino said warmly. He extended his hand. “Bo told me all about you. Welcome to Rao’s, Jim.”

With that, Barsini popped out of his chair and began pulling Frank’s arm out of its socket. I watched in fascination as Frank’s perfectly coiffed grayish hair stayed stock-still while the rest of him shook like a rag doll.

“Jesus, Bo,” said Frank to the real Bo, “this guy’s got a handshake like a grizzly bear! He reminds me of…” and with that, Frank Pellegrino began expounding on one of his many tales of men with no necks.

I immediately tuned out, smiling every so often, while I quickly settled on the primary task at hand, which was: What could I possibly say, do, or, for that matter, give to Special Agent Barsini to entice him to tell Special Agent Coleman to leave me the fuck alone? The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to simply bribe Barsini. He didn’t seem like a guy of such high moral standing, did he? Although perhaps this whole soldier-of-fortune thing would make him incorruptible, as if taking money for greed’s sake would somehow dishonor him. How much did they pay an FBI agent? I wondered. Fifty grand a year? How much scuba diving could a man do on that? Not a lot. Besides, there was scuba diving and then there was scuba diving. I’d be willing to pay a pretty penny to have a guardian angel within the FBI, wouldn’t I?

For that matter, what would I be willing to pay Agent Coleman to lose my number forever? A million? Certainly! Two million? Of course! Two million was chump change in the face of a federal indictment and the possibility of financial ruin!

Eh, who was I kidding? These thoughts were all pie in the sky. In fact, a place like Rao’s served as a clear reminder that the government could never be trusted for the long term. It was only three or four decades ago when mobsters did whatever they wanted: They paid off the police force; they paid off politicians; they paid off judges; for Chrissake, they even paid off schoolteachers! But then came the Kennedys, who were mobsters themselves, and they viewed the Mob as competition. So they reneged on all the deals—all those wonderful quid pro quos—and…well, the rest was history.

“…so that was the way he settled it back then,” said Frankie No, finally completing his yarn. “Although he didn’t actually kidnap the chef; he just held him hostage for a while.”

With that, everyone, including me, starting laughing hysterically, in spite of the fact that I’d missed ninety percent of what he’d said. But at Rao’s, missing a story was merely incidental. After all, you kept hearing the same handful of stories over and over again.

CHAPTER 24

PASSING THE TORCH

George Campbell, my tongueless chauffeur, had just brought the limousine to a smooth, gentle stop at the side entrance to Stratton Oakmont, when he literally knocked me out of my seat by breaking his self-imposed vow of silence and asking, “Wha’s gonna happen now, Mr. Belfort?”

Well, well, well! I thought. It’s about time the old devil broke down and said a few words to me! And while his question might have seemed a bit vague, he had actually hit the nail right on the head. After all, in a little more than seven hours, at four p.m., I would be standing before the boardroom, giving a farewell speech to an army of extremely worried Strattonites, all of whom, like George, had to be questioning what the future had in store for them, financially and otherwise.

I had no doubt that in the days to come there would be many questions burning in the minds of my Strattonites. Questions like:

What would happen now that Danny was running the show? Would they still have desks in six months? And if they did, would they be treated fairly? Or would he favor his old friends and a few of the key brokers he dropped Ludes with? And what fate awaited the brokers who’d been friendlier with Kenny than with Danny? Would they be punished for that friendship? Or, if not punished, treated like second-class citizens? Was it possible for Broker Disneyland to endure? Or would Stratton slowly devolve into a run-of-the-mill brokerage firm, no better or worse than anyplace else?

I chose not to share any of those thoughts with George, and all I said was, “You have nothing to worry about, George. Whatever happens, you’ll always be taken care of. Janet and I will get an office close by, and there’s a thousand things Nadine and I need you for.” I smiled broadly and made my tone very upbeat. “Just think, one day you’ll be chauffeuring Nadine and me to Chandler’s wedding. Can you imagine?”

George nodded and smiled broadly, revealing his world-class choppers, and he humbly replied, “I like my job very much, Mr. Belfort. You’re the best boss I ever have. Mrs. Belfort too. Everybody love you two. It’s sad you gotta leave here. It won’t be the same no more. Danny ain’t like you. He don’t treat people good. People gonna leave.”

I was too baffled over the first half of George’s statement to even focus on the second half. Had he actually said he liked his job? And that he lovedme? Well, admittedly, the whole love thing was a figure of speech, but there was no denying that George had just said he loved his job and respected me as a boss. It seemed ironic after everything I’d put him through: the hookers…the drugs…the midnight rides through Central Park with strippers…the gym bags full of cash that I’d had him pick up from Elliot Lavigne.

Yet, on the other hand, I had never disrespected him, had I? Even in my darkest and most decadent hours, I’d always made an effort to be respectful to George. While it was true that I’d had some very bizarre thoughts about him, I had never shared them with another living soul, except, of course, the Duchess, who was my wife, which made her exempt. And even then, it was all in good fun. I was not a prejudiced man. In fact, what Jew in their right mind could be? We were the most persecuted people on earth.

All at once I found myself feeling bad that I had ever questioned George’s loyalty. He was a good man. A decent man. Who was I to read a thousand and one things into everything he said or, for that matter, didn’t say?

With a warm smile, I said, “Truth is, George, no one can predict the future, certainly not myself. Who’s to say what becomes of Stratton Oakmont? I guess only time will tell.

“Anyway, I remember when you first came to work for me, you used to try to open the limo door for me. You’d run around the side and try to beat me to it.” I chuckled at the memory. “It used to drive you crazy. Anyway, the reason I never let you open the door for me was because I respected you too much to just sit in the back of the limo and pretend like I had a broken arm or something. I always thought of it as an insult to you.”

Then I added, “But since today’s my last day, why don’t you open up the door for me, just once, and make believe you’re a real fucking limo driver! Pretend like you’re working for a fat-ass WASP. You can escort me into the boardroom. In fact, you might actually get a kick out of Danny’s morning meeting. He should be giving it right now.”

“…and the study sampled more than ten thousand men,” said Danny over the loudspeaker, “following their sexual habits for more than five years. I think you’re gonna be absolutely shocked when I tell you some of the findings.” With that, he pursed his lips, nodded his head, and began pacing back and forth, as if to say, “Prepare to hear the truly depraved nature of the male animal.”

Jesus Christ! I thought. I’m not even gone yet and he’s already running amok! I turned to George and took a moment to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem that shocked. He had his head tipped to the side and a look on his face that so much as said, “I can’t wait to find out how this whole thing relates to stocks!”

“You see,” continued Danny, wearing a gray pinstripe suit and phony WASP glasses, “what the study found is that ten percent of the entire male population are stone-cold faggots.” And here he paused to let the full implication of his words sink in.