“Anyway,” Deluca was saying, from behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses, “there’s something strange about him that I can’t put my finger on. It’s like he’s got a different agenda that has nothing to do with Dollar Time. Like the place is a front for him. I mean, a guy his age should be flipping out over the company going down the tubes, yet he couldn’t seem to care less. He spends half his day trying to explain to me how we could divert our profits to Switzerland—which makes me wanna rip his fucking toupee off, considering we don’t have any profits to divert.” Gary shrugged. “Anyway, sooner or later I’ll figure out what that bastard’s up to.”

I nodded slowly, realizing that my initial instincts about Kaminsky had been right on target. The Wolf had been very shrewd not to allow that toupeed bastard to worm his way into my overseas dealings. Still, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Kaminsky hadn’t smelled a rat, so I figured I’d launch a trial balloon in Deluca’s direction. “I definitely agree with you. He’s totally obsessed with the whole Swiss-banking thing. In fact, he actually pitched it to me.” I paused, as if to search my memory. “Maybe a year ago, I think. Anyway, I went over there with him to check it out, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth, so I took a pass. He ever mention anything to you?”

“No, but I know he’s still got a bunch of clients over there. He’s pretty tight-lipped about it, although he’s on the phone to Switzerland all day long. I always make it a point to check the phone bill, and I’m telling you, he must make half a dozen overseas calls a day.” Deluca shook his head gravely. “Whatever he’s doing, it better be on the up and up—because if it’s not, and his phone is tapped, he’s gonna find himself in some deep shit.”

I turned the corners of my mouth down and shrugged, as if to say, “Well, that’s his problem, not mine!” But the truth was that if he were in constant contact with Saurel and the Master Forger, I would find it troubling. I said casually, “Just for curiosity’s sake, why don’t you pull the phone records and see if he keeps calling the same numbers over and over again. If he is, make some blind phone calls and see who he’s speaking to. I’d be curious to find out, okay?”

“No problem. As soon we get back to the house I’ll jump in the car and take a quick ride over to the office.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; the phone records will still be there on Monday.” I smiled to reinforce my lack of concern. “Anyway, Elliot Lavigne should be at my house by now, and I really want you to meet him. He’ll be a huge help to you in restructuring Steve Madden’s operations.”

“Isn’t he kind of wacky?” asked Deluca.

“Kind of? The guy’s a complete fucking loon, Gary! But he happens to be one of the sharpest guys in the apparel industry—maybe thesharpest guy. You just gotta catch him at the right time—when he’s not slurring, snorting, tripping, or paying a hooker ten grand to squat over a glass table and take a shit over him while he’s jerking off.”

I’d first laid eyes on Elliot Lavigne four years ago, while I was vacationing in the Bahamas with Kenny Greene. I was lying by the pool at the Crystal Palace Hotel and Casino when Kenny came running up to me. I remember him screaming something like: “Hurry up! You gotta go into the casino right now and check this guy out! He’s up over a million dollars, and he’s not much older than you.”

In spite of being skeptical over Kenny’s version of things, I popped out of my lounge chair and headed for the casino. On the way, I asked, “What’s the guy do for a living?”

“I asked one of the casino people,” replied the Blockhead, whose use of the English language didn’t include words like dealer, pit boss,or croupier,“and they said he’s the president of some big Garment Center company.”

Two minutes later I was staring at this young Garmento, in a state of utter disbelief. In retrospect, it’s hard to say what bowled me over more: the sight of dashing young Elliot—who was not only betting $10,000 a hand but had the whole blackjack table to himself and was playing all seven hands at once, which is to say he was risking $70,000 on every deal—or the sight of his wife, Ellen, who appeared to be no more than thirty-five yet had already acquired a look that I had never seen before, namely, the look of the supremely rich and the supremely starved.

I was blown away. So I stared at these two anomalies for a good fifteen minutes. They seemed like an awkward couple. He was on the short side, very good-looking, with bushy, shoulder-length brown hair and a sense of style that was so fabulous he could walk around in a diaper and bow tie and you would swear it was the latest thing.

She, on the other hand, was short and had a thin face, thin nose, collapsed cheeks, bleached-blond hair, tan leathery skin, eyes that were too close together, and a body that was emaciated to near perfection. I figured she must have one of the world’s great personalities—a loving, supportive wife of the highest order. After all, why else would this handsome young guy who gambled with the poise and panache of 007 be attracted to her?

I was slightly off the mark.

The next day Elliot and I happened to meet by the pool. We moved right past the normal pleasantries and plunged into what each of us did for a living, how much we were making, and how we’d arrived at this point in our lives.

Elliot, as it turned out, was the President of Perry Ellis, one of the Garment District’s premier menswear companies. He didn’t actually own the company; it was a division of Salant, a public company that traded on the New York Stock Exchange. So, in essence, Elliot was a salaried employee. When he told me his salary I nearly fell off my lounge chair: It was only $1 million a year, plus a small bonus of a few hundred grand, based on profitability. It was a paltry sum, in my book—especially with his penchant for high-stakes gambling. In point of fact, he seemed to be gambling two years’ salary each time he sat down at the blackjack table! I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous. I chose impressed.

Yet, he had hinted at an additional source of income with Perry Ellis—a perk, so to speak, associated with the manufacturing of dress shirts, which was being done overseas, in the Orient. And while he hadn’t gotten specific, I quickly read between the lines: He was skimming cash from the factories. Still, even if he were skimming $3 or $4 million a year, it was only a fraction of what I was making.

Before departing, we exchanged phone numbers and promised that we would hook up back in the States. The subject of drugs never came up.

We met for lunch a week later, at a trendy Garment District hangout. Five minutes after we sat down, Elliot reached into his inside suit pocket and pulled out a small plastic Baggie filled with cocaine. He dipped a Perry Ellis collar stay inside; in one fluid motion he brought it to his nose and took a blast. Then he repeated the process once more, and then once more, and then once more again. Yet he had done it so fluidly—and with such nonchalance—that not a single soul in the restaurant noticed.

Then he offered me the Baggie. I declined, saying, “Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the day!” to which he replied, “Just shut up and do it,” to which I replied, “Sure, why not!”

A minute later I was feeling wonderful, and four minutes after that I was feeling miserable, grinding my teeth uncontrollably and in desperate need of a Valium. Elliot took pity on me. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two brown-speckled Quaaludes, and said, “Here, take these; they’re bootlegs, so they have Valium in them.”

“Do Ludes now?” I asked incredulously. “In the middle of the day?”

“Yeah,” he snapped, “why not? You’re the boss. Who’s gonna say anything?” and he pulled out a couple more Ludes and swallowed the pills with a smile. Then he stood up and started doing jumping jacks in the middle of the restaurant to hasten the process of getting off. I took my own Ludes, since he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.