Chemical-tob replied, “He only has twenty.”

“Shit! Are you sure? You’re not glomming any for yourself, are you?”

“Of course not,” replied Chemical-tob. “I consider you a friend, and I would never do that to a friend, right?”

What a fucking loser, I thought. But my response was slightly different: “I couldn’t agree with you more, my friend. When can you be here?”

“The guy won’t be home ’til four. I can be in Old Brookville around five.” Then he added, “But make sure you don’t eat.”

“Oh, please, Chemical-tob! I resent the fact that you’d even suggest that.” With that, I bid him safe passage. Then I hung up the phone and rolled around on my $12,000 white silk comforter like a kid who’d just won a shopping spree at FAO Schwarz.

I went to the bathroom and opened up the medicine cabinet and took out a box labeled Fleet Enema. I ripped it open, then pulled my boxers down to my kneecaps and rammed the bottle’s pointed nozzle up my asshole with such ferocity that I felt it scrape the top of my sigmoid colon. Three minutes later, the entire contents of my lower digestive tract came pouring out. Deep down I was pretty sure that this wouldn’t increase the intensity of my high, but, nonetheless, it still seemed like a prudent measure. Then I stuck my finger down my throat and vomited up the last of this morning’s breakfast.

Yes, I thought, I had done what any sensible man would do under such extraordinary circumstances, perhaps with the exception of giving myself the enema before I’d made myself vomit. But I had washed my hands thoroughly with scalding hot water, so I redeemed myself for that tiny faux pax.

Then I called Danny and urged him to do the same, which, of course, he did.

At five p.m., Danny and I were playing pool in my basement, waiting impatiently for Alan Chemical-tob. The game was eight ball, and Danny had been kicking my ass for almost thirty minutes. As the balls clicked and clacked, Danny bashed the Chinaman: “I’m a hundred percent sure the stock is coming from the Chinaman. No one else has that much.”

The stock Danny was referring to was Stratton’s most recent new issue, M. H. Meyerson. The problem was that as part of my quid pro quo with Kenny, I had agreed to give Victor large blocks of it. Of course, the stock had been given with the explicit instructions that he wasn’t to sell it back—and, of course, Victor had completely disregarded those instructions and was now selling back every share. The truly frustrating part was that by the very nature of the NASDAQ stock market, it was impossible to prove this transgression. It was all supposition.

Nevertheless, by process of elimination it wasn’t too difficult to put two and two together: The Chinaman was fucking us. “Why do you seem so surprised?” I asked cynically. “The Chinaman’s a depraved maniac. He’d sell the stock back even if he didn’t have to, just to spite us. Anyway, now you see why I told you to stay short an extra hundred thousand shares. He’s sold all he can sell, and you’re still in perfect shape.”

Danny nodded glumly.

I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, buddy. How much of that other stock have you sold him so far?”

“About a million shares.”

“Good. When you get to a million-five, I’m gonna turn the Chinaman’s lights out, and—”

I was interrupted by the doorbell. Danny and I turned to each other and froze in place, our mouths agape. A few moments later, Alan Chemical-tob came thumping down the basement stairs and started in with the personal crap, asking, “How’s Chandler doing?”

Oh, Jesus! I thought. Why couldn’t he just be like any other drug dealer and hang out on street corners and sell drugs to schoolchildren? Why did he feel the need to be liked? “Oh, she’s doing great,” I replied warmly, and can you hand over the fucking Lemmons? “How are Marsha and the kids?”

“Oh, Marsha’s Marsha,” he replied, grinding his jaw like the true coke fiend that he was, “but the kids are doing fine.” He did some more jaw-grinding. “You know, I’d really love to open up an account for the kids, if that’s okay. Maybe a college fund or something?”

“Yeah, sure.” Just hand over the Ludes, you fat fuck!“Call Danny’s assistant and she’ll take care of it, right, Dan?”

“Absolutely,” replied Danny through clenched teeth. On his face was a look that said, “Hand over the fucking Lemmons or suffer the consequences!”

Fifteen minutes later, Alan finally handed over the Ludes. I took one out and examined it. It was perfectly round, just larger than a dime, and it had the thickness of a Honey Nut Cheerio. It was snow-white…very clean-looking…and had a magnificent sheen, which served as visible reminder that in spite of it resembling a Bayer aspirin, it was the furthest thing from it. On one side of the pill, the brand name, Lemmon 714, was etched in thick grooves. On the other side was a thin line that ran the full diameter of the pill. Around the pill’s circumference were the trademark beveled edges.

Chemical-tob said, “They’re the real deal, Jordan. Whatever you do, don’t take more than one. They’re not like the Palladins; they’re much stronger.”

I assured him I wouldn’t…and, ten minutes later, Danny and I were well on the road to paradise. Each of us had swallowed one Real Real, and we were now in my basement gym, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The gym was packed with state-of-tha-art Cybex equipment and enough dumbbells and barbells and benches and squat racks to impress Arnold Schwarzenegger. Danny was walking on a motorized treadmill at a brisk pace; I was on the StairMaster, climbing, as if Agent Coleman were chasing me.

I said to Danny, “Nothing kicks in a Quaalude better than exercise, right?”

“Absa-fuckin-lutely!” exclaimed Danny. “It’s all in the metabolism; the faster, the better.” He reached over and picked up a white porcelain sake cup. “And this is genius, by the way. Drinking hot sake after consuming a real Lemmon is inspirational. Like pouring gasoline on a raging fire.”

I grabbed my own sake cup and reached over to clink cups with Danny. Danny tried too, but the two pieces of equipment were six feet apart, and we found ourselves just out of reach.

“Nice try,” said Danny, giggling.

“At least I get an A for effort!” I giggled back.

The two giggling idiots toasted each other in the air and downed the sake.

Just then the door swung open, and there she was: the Duchess of Bay Ridge, in her lime-green riding ensemble. She took one aggressive step forward and struck a pose, with her head cocked to one side and her arms folded beneath her breasts and her legs crossed at the ankles and her back slightly arched. Then she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and she said, “What are you two retards doing?”

Christ! An unexpected complication! “I thought you were going out with Hope tonight?” I asked accusingly.

“Ahhh…ahhh…chooo!”sneezed my aspiring horseback rider, giving up her pose. “My allergies were so bad I had…had… ahhhh chooo!” sneezed the Duchess once more. “I had to cancel on Hope.”

“Bless you, young Duchess!” said Danny, using my wife’s pet name.

The Duchess’s reply: “Call me Duchess again, Danny, and I’ll pour that fucking sake over your head.” Then, to me: “Come inside, I want to talk to you about something.” With that, she spun on her heel and headed to the other side of the basement, to a wraparound couch. It was just across from the indoor racquetball court, which had recently been converted into a clothing showroom in support of her latest aspiration: maternity designer.

Danny and I followed dutifully. I whispered in his ear: “You feel anything yet?”

“Nothing,” he whispered back.

The Duchess said, “I was speaking to Heather Gold today, and she thinks it’s the perfect time to get Chandler started horseback riding. So I want to buy her a pony.” She nodded a single time, to emphasize her point. “Anyway, they have one there that’s so cute, and it’s not too expensive either.”