The replacement nurse showed up a few hours later. It was another Jamaican woman, named Erica. She turned out to be a real gem—instantly clicking with Gwynne and the rest of the crowd. So Erica joined the menagerie and stood vigil too.
By day four Carter still hadn’t shown any signs of heart failure. Meanwhile, my father and I had made dozens of inquiries as to who the world’s foremost pediatric cardiologist was. All our inquiries pointed to Dr. Edward Golenko. He was the Chief of Cardiology at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.
Alas, there was a three-month wait for an appointment, which quickly turned into a surprise cancellation the following day, after Dr. Golenko was made aware of the $50,000 donation I was planning to make to Mount Sinai’s Pediatric Cardiology Unit. So on day five Carter was on another examining table, except this time he was surrounded by an elite team of doctors and nurses, who, after spending ten minutes marveling over his eyelashes, finally got down to business.
The Duchess and I stood silently off to the side, as the team used some sort of advanced imaging apparatus—looking much deeper into Carter’s heart and with much greater clarity than with a standard echocardiogram. Dr. Golenko was tall, thin, slightly balding, and had a very kind face. I looked around the room…and counted nine intelligent-looking adults, all in white lab coats, all peering down at my son as if he was the most precious thing on earth, which he was. Then I looked at the Duchess, who, as usual, was chewing on the inside of her mouth. She had her head cocked in an attitude of intense concentration, and I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking, which was: I had never been happier that I was rich than right now. After all, if anyone could help our son it would be these people.
After a few minutes of doctor-to-doctor medi-talk, Dr. Golenko smiled at us and said, “I have very good news for you: Your son’s going to be just fine. The holes have already started closing, and the pressure gradient has eliminated any backflow between—”
Dr. Golenko never finished, because the Duchess charged him like a bull. Everyone in the room laughed as she threw her arms around the sixty-five-year-old doctor’s neck, wrapped her legs around his waist, and started smooching him.
Dr. Golenko looked at me with a shocked expression, his face slightly redder than a beet, and he said, “I wish all my patients’ moms were like this!” And everyone laughed some more. What a wonderfully happy moment it was! Carter James Belfort was going to make it! God had placed a second hole in his heart to balance out the first, and by the time he was five, both holes would be closed, Dr. Golenko assured us.
On the limo ride home, the Duchess and I were all smiles. Carter was sitting between us in the backseat, and George and Rocco were sitting up front. The Duchess said, “The only problem is that I’m so paranoid now, I don’t know if I can treat him the way I treated Chandler. She was so big and healthy, I never thought twice about anything.”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetie. In a couple a days everything will be back to normal. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know,” said the Duchess. “I’m scared to even think what might happen next.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen next. We’re over the hump now.” And for the remainder of the ride I kept my fingers, toes, hands, legs, and arms crossed.
CHAPTER 32
MORE JOY
September 1995
(Five Weeks Later)
It was appropriate, I thought, for the Cobbler to be sitting on his side of the desk and wearing the proud expression of a man who had the world by the balls. For the calendar year 1996, we were shooting for $50 million in revenue, and each division was hitting stride simultaneously. Our department-store business was off the charts; our private-label business was booming; our licensing of the Steve Madden name was way ahead of schedule; and our retail stores, of which there were now nine, were making money hand over fist. On Saturdays and Sundays, in fact, there were lines out the doors, and Steve was becoming a celebrity of sorts, the shoe designer of first choice to an entire generation of teenage girls.
What wasn’tappropriate was what he said to me next: “I think it’s time to move out the Drizzler. If we get rid of him now, we can still take his stock options from him.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Anyway, if he works for us much longer, his options are gonna vest, and then we’re fucked.”
I shook my head in amazement. The true irony was that the amount of stock options the Drizzler owned was so minuscule that it didn’t matter to anyone, except, of course, the Drizzler, who would be rocked if his stock options were to simply vanish into thin air—a victim of the fine print in his employment contract.
I said, “You can’t do that to Gary; the guy has worked his ass off for us for over a year now. I’m the first to admit he’s a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but, still, you just don’t do that to one of your employees, especially one like Gary, who’s been a hundred ten percent loyal. It’s fucking wrong, Steve. And just imagine the signal it sends to everyone else. It’s the sort of shit that destroys a company’s morale. Everyone out there takes pride in their stock options; they make them feel like owners; they feel secure about their futures.”
I took a weary breath, then added, “If we’re gonna replace him, that’s fine, but we give him what he’s due, and a little bit extra, if anything. That’s the only way to do it, Steve. Anything else is bad business.”
The Cobbler shrugged. “I don’t get it. You’re the first one to make fun of the Drizzler, so why the fuck would you care if I take his stock options?”
I shook my head in frustration. “First of all, I only make fun of him so the day passes with a few laughs. I make fun of everyone, Steve, including myself and including you. But I actually love the Drizzler; he’s a good man, and he’s loyal as hell.” I let out a great sigh. “Listen, I’m not denying that Gary might’ve outlived his usefulness, and maybe it istime to replace him with someone with industry experience, someone with a pedigree who can talk to Wall Street—but we can’t take away his stock options. He came to work for us when we were still shipping shoes out of the back of the factory. And as slow as he moves, he’s still done a lot of good things for the company. It’s bad karma to fuck him.”
The Cobbler sighed. “I think your loyalty is misplaced. He’d fuck us in two seconds if he had the chance. I’ve—”
Cutting off the Cobbler, I said, “No, Steve, he wouldn’t fuck us. Gary has integrity. He’s not like us. He lives by his word, and he never breaks it. If you want to fire him, that’s one thing. But you should let him keep his stock options.” I realized that by using the word should,I was giving Steve more power than he deserved. The problem was that, on paper, he was still the majority owner of the company; it was only through our secret agreement that I maintained control.
“Let me talk to him,” said the Cobbler, with a devilish look in his eye. “If I can convince him to go peacefully, then why should you care?” He shrugged. “I mean, if I can get his stock options back, we can divide ’em up fifty–fifty, right?”
I dropped my chin in defeat. It was 11:30 a.m., and I felt so fucking tired. Too many drugs, I thought. And life at home…well, it hadn’t been a bowl of cherries lately. The Duchess was still a wreck over Carter, and I had basically thrown in the towel on my back pain, which haunted me twenty-four hours a day now. I’d set October 15 as a tentative date to have my spine fused. That was only three weeks from now, and the very thought of it terrified me. I would be undergoing general anesthesia—going under the knife for seven hours. Who knew if I’d ever wake up? And even if I did, who was to say I wouldn’t wake up paralyzed? It was always a risk when you underwent spine surgery, although with Dr. Green I was definitely in the best hands. Either way, I was going to be out of commission for at least six months, but then my pain would be gone once and for all, and I would have my life back. Yes, the summer of 1996 would be a good one!