Of course, I had used this as a rationalization to step up my drug habit, promising both Madden and the Duchess that once my back was fixed I would push the drugs aside and become the “real Jordan” again. In fact, the only reason I wasn’t stoned right now was because I was just about to leave the office and pick up the Duchess in Old Brookville. We were heading into Manhattan for a romantic night together at the Plaza Hotel. It had been her mother’s idea—that it would be good for us to get away from all the worry that seemed to have gotten the better of us since Carter’s heart debacle. It would be an excellent chance to rebond.
“Listen, Steve,” I said, forcing a smile, “I already have enough stock options and so do you. And we can always print more for ourselves, if we get the urge.” I let out a great yawn. “Anyway, do whatever the fuck you want. I’m too tired to argue about it right now.”
“You look like shit,” said Steve. “I mean that in a loving way. I’m worried about you, and so is your wife. You gotta stop with the Ludes and coke or you’re gonna kill yourself. You’re hearing it from someone who knows. I was almost as bad as you”—he paused as if searching for the right words—“but I wasn’t as rich as you, so I couldn’t sink as deep.” He paused again. “Or perhaps I sank just as deep, but it happened a whole lot quicker. But with you it could drag on for a long time, because of all your money. Anyway, I’m begging you—you gotta stop or else it’s not gonna end well. It never does.”
“Point taken,” I said sincerely. “You have my promise that as soon as I get my back fixed I’m done for good.”
Steve nodded approvingly, but the look in his eyes so much as said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
The brand-new, pearl-white, twelve-cylinder, 450-horsepower Ferrari Testarossa screamed like an F-15 on afterburners as I punched down the clutch and slapped the stick into fourth gear. Just like thatanother mile of northwestern Queens zipped by at a hundred twenty miles an hour, as I weaved in and out of traffic on the Cross Island Parkway with a joint of premium-grade sinsemilla dangling from my mouth. Our destination was the Plaza Hotel. With one finger on the wheel, I turned to a terrified Duchess and said, “Don’t you just love this car?”
“It’s a piece of shit,” she muttered, “and I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t put out that joint and slow down! In fact, if you don’t, I’m not gonna have sex with you tonight.”
In less than five seconds the Ferrari was doing sixty and I was putting the joint out. After all, I hadn’t had sex with the Duchess since two weeks before Carter was born, so it had been over two months. Admittedly, after seeing her on the delivery table with her pussy looking big enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa, I hadn’t been too much in the mood. And the fact that I’d been consuming an average of twelve Ludes a day, along with enough coke to send a band marching from Queens to China, hadn’t done wonders for my sex drive.
And then there was the Duchess. She had stayed true to her word: Despite Carter remaining perfectly healthy, she was still on edge. Perhaps two nights at the Plaza Hotel would do us some good. I took one eye off the road and replied, “I’ll gladly keep the speedometer below sixty, if you agree to fuck my brains out for the entire night; deal?”
The Duchess smiled. “It’s a deal, but first you gotta take me to Barneys and then to Bergdorfs. After that, I’m all yours.”
Yes, I thought, tonight was going to be a very good night. All I had to do was make it through those two overpriced torture chambers and then I’d be home free. And, of course, I’d keep it under sixty.
Barneys had been nice enough to rope off the top floor for us, and I was sitting in a leather armchair, sipping Dom Perignon, while the Duchess tried on outfit after outfit—spinning and twirling deliciously, pretending she was back in her modeling days. After her sixth spin, I caught a pleasant glimpse of her loamy loins, and thirty seconds later I was following her into the dressing room. Once inside, I attacked. In less than ten seconds I had her back against the wall and her dress hiked up above her waist and I was deep inside her. I was pounding her against the wall as we moaned and groaned, making passionate love to each other.
Two hours later, just after seven, we were walking through the revolving door of the Plaza Hotel. It was my favorite hotel in New York, despite the fact that it was owned by Donald Trump. Actually, I had a lot of respect for the Donald; after all, any man (even a billionaire) who can walk around town with that fucking hairdo and still get laid by the most gorgeous women in the world gives new meaning to the concept of being a man of power. Anyway, trailing us were two bellmen, holding a dozen or so shopping bags with $150,000 of women’s clothing inside. On the Duchess’s left wrist was a brand-new $40,000 Cartier watch studded with diamonds. So far, we’d had sex in three different department-store dressing rooms, and the night was still young.
But, alas, once inside the Plaza, things began to quickly go downhill. Standing behind the front desk was a rather pleasant-looking blonde in her early thirties. She smiled and said, “Back so soon, Mr. Belfort! Welcome! It’s good to see you again!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!
The Duchess was a few feet to the right, staring at her new watch and, thankfully, still a bit wobbly from the Lude I’d convinced her to take. I looked at the check-in blonde with panic in my eyes and started shaking my head rapidly, as if to say, “Good God, my wife is with me! Pipe the fuck down!”
With a great smile, the blonde said, “We have you staying in your usual suite, on the—”
Cutting her off: “Okay then! That’s perfect. I’ll just sign right here! Thank you!” I grabbed my room key and yanked the Duchess toward the elevator. “Come on, honey; let’s go. I need you!”
“You’re ready to do it again?” she asked, giggling.
Thank God for the Ludes! I thought. A sober Duchess would never miss a trick. In fact, she’d already be swinging. “Are you kidding me?” I replied. “I’m always ready with you!”
Just then the resident midget came scampering by, in a lime-green Plaza outfit with gold buttons running up the front and a matching green cap. “Welcome back!” croaked the midget.
I smiled and nodded and kept pulling the Duchess toward the elevator. The two bellmen were still trailing us, carrying all our shopping bags, which I had insisted we bring to the room so she could try everything on for me again.
Inside the room, I tipped each bellman one hundred dollars and swore them to secrecy. The moment they left, the Duchess and I jumped on the king-size bed and started rolling around and giggling.
And then the phone rang.
The two of us looked at the phone with sinking hearts. No one knew we were here except Janet and Nadine’s mother, who was watching Carter. Christ!It could only be bad news. I knew it in my very heart. I knew it in my very soul. After the third ring I said, “Maybe it’s the front desk.”
I reached over and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jordan, it’s Suzanne. You and Nadine need to come home right now. Carter has a hundred-and-five fever; he’s not moving.”
I looked at the Duchess. She was staring at me, waiting for the news. I didn’t know what to say. Over the last six weeks she’d been as close to the edge as I’d ever seen her. This would be the crushing blow—the death of our newborn son. “We need to leave right now, sweetie. Carter’s burning up with fever; your mom said he’s not moving.”