The Wolf Of Wall Street Part 2

"Ohhhhkaii, well how 'bout some of them little white pills well how 'bout some of them little white pills fer yer fer yer back?" she asked innocently. "Would you like me to get you some of those?" back?" she asked innocently. "Would you like me to get you some of those?"

Christ! My own maid was offering to fetch me Quaaludes at seven-thirty in the morning! How was I supposed to stay sober? Wherever I was, there were drugs close behind, chasing after me, calling my name. And nowhere was it worse than at my brokerage firm, where virtually every drug imaginable lined the pockets of my young stockbrokers.

Yet my back did did actually hurt me. I was in constant chronic pain from a freak injury that occurred right after I'd first met the d.u.c.h.ess. It was her dog that did me in-that little white b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a Maltese, Rocky, who barked incessantly and served no useful purpose other than to annoy every human being he came into contact with. I had been trying to get the little p.r.i.c.k to come in from the beach at the end of a summer Hamptons day, but the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d refused to obey me. When I tried to catch him he ran circles around me, forcing me to lunge over to try to grab him. It was reminiscent of the way Rocky Balboa had chased around that greasy chicken in actually hurt me. I was in constant chronic pain from a freak injury that occurred right after I'd first met the d.u.c.h.ess. It was her dog that did me in-that little white b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a Maltese, Rocky, who barked incessantly and served no useful purpose other than to annoy every human being he came into contact with. I had been trying to get the little p.r.i.c.k to come in from the beach at the end of a summer Hamptons day, but the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d refused to obey me. When I tried to catch him he ran circles around me, forcing me to lunge over to try to grab him. It was reminiscent of the way Rocky Balboa had chased around that greasy chicken in Rocky II Rocky II before his rematch with Apollo Creed. But unlike Rocky Balboa, who became fast-as-lightning and ultimately won his rematch, I ended up rupturing a disk and being bedridden for two weeks. Since then I'd had two back surgeries, both of which had made the pain worse. before his rematch with Apollo Creed. But unlike Rocky Balboa, who became fast-as-lightning and ultimately won his rematch, I ended up rupturing a disk and being bedridden for two weeks. Since then I'd had two back surgeries, both of which had made the pain worse.

So the Quaaludes helped with the pain-sort of. And even if they didn't, it still served as an excellent excuse to keep taking them.

And I wasn't the only one who hated that little s.h.i.+t of a dog. Everyone did, with the exception of the d.u.c.h.ess, who was his sole protector and who still let the mutt sleep at the foot of the bed and chew on her panties, which for some inexplicable reason made me jealous. Still, Rocky would be sticking around for the foreseeable future-until I could figure out a way to eliminate him that the d.u.c.h.ess wouldn't pin on me.

Anyway, I told Gwynne thanks but no thanks for the Quaaludes, and, once more, she seemed a bit sadder for the fact. After all, she had failed to antic.i.p.ate my every need. But all she said was, "Ohhhhkaii, well, I already set the timer on your sauna so it's ready for you right now"- well, I already set the timer on your sauna so it's ready for you right now"-raghite nahow-"and I laid out your clothes for you late last night. Is your gray pinstripe suit and that blue tie with the little fishees on it ohhhhkaii ohhhhkaii?"

Christ, talk about service! Why couldn't the d.u.c.h.ess be more like that? True, I was paying Gwynne $70,000 a year, which was more than double the going rate, but, still...Look what I got in return: service with a smile! Yet my wife was spending $70,000 a month-on the low side! In fact, with all those f.u.c.king aspirations of hers, she was probably spending double that. And that was fine with me, but there had to be a certain trade-off here. I mean, if I needed to go out once in a while and swing the s.c.h.l.o.n.g here or dang the gong there, then she oughta cut me just a little bit of slack, shouldn't she? Yes, certainly so-in fact, so much so that I started nodding my head in agreement with my own thoughts.

Apparently, Gwynne took my nodding as an affirmative answer to her question, and she said, "Ohhhhkaii, well, I'll just go on out and get Chandler ready so she's nice and clean for you. Have a nice shower!" Cheery, cheery, cheery! well, I'll just go on out and get Chandler ready so she's nice and clean for you. Have a nice shower!" Cheery, cheery, cheery!

With that, Gwynne left the room. Well, I thought, at least she killed my hard-on, so I was better off for the encounter. As far as the d.u.c.h.ess was concerned, I'd worry about her later. She was a mutt, after all, and mutts were well-known for their forgiving nature.

Having worked things out in my mind, I downed my iced coffee, took six aspirin, swung my feet off the bed, and headed for the sauna. There I would sweat out the five Quaaludes, two grams of c.o.ke, and three milligrams of Xanax that I had consumed the night before-a relatively modest amount of drugs, considering what I was truly capable of.

Unlike the master bedroom, which was a testament to white Chinese silk, the master bathroom was a testament to gray Italian marble. It was laid out in an exquisite parquetlike pattern, the way only those Italian b.a.s.t.a.r.ds know how to do it. And they sure as h.e.l.l hadn't been scared to bill me! Nonetheless, I paid the thieving Italians in stride. After all, it was the nature of twentieth-century capitalism that everyone should scam everyone, and he who scammed the most ultimately won the game. On that basis, I was the undefeated world champ.

I looked in the mirror and took a moment to regard myself. Christ, what a skinny little b.a.s.t.a.r.d I was! I was very muscular, but, still...I had to run around in the shower to get wet! Was it the drugs? I wondered. Well, perhaps; but it was a good look for me, anyway. I was only five-seven, and a very smart person had once said you could never be too rich or too thin. I opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of extra-strength Visine. I craned back my neck and put six drops in each eye, triple the recommended dose.

In that very instant, an odd thought came bubbling up into my brain, namely: What kind of man abuses Visine? And, for that matter, why had I taken six Bayer aspirin? It made no sense. After all, unlike Ludes, c.o.ke, and Xanax, where the benefits of increasing the dose are plain as day, there was absolutely no valid reason to exceed the recommended doses of Visine and aspirin.

Yet, ironically, that was exactly what my very life had come to represent. It was all about excess: about crossing over forbidden lines, about doing things you thought you'd never do and a.s.sociating with people who were even wilder than yourself, so you'd feel that much more normal about your own life.

All at once I found myself becoming depressed. What was I going to do about my wife? Christ-had I really done it this time? Christ-had I really done it this time? She seemed pretty angry this morning! What was she doing right now? I wondered. If I had to guess, she was probably yapping on the phone to one of her friends or disciples or whatever the f.u.c.k they were. She was somewhere downstairs, spewing out perfect pearls of wisdom to her less-than-perfect friends, in the genuine hope that with a little bit of coaching she could make them as perfect as she was. Ahhh, that was my wife, all right-the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay f.u.c.king Ridge! The d.u.c.h.ess and all her loyal subjects, those young Stratton wives, who sucked up to her as if she were Queen Elizabeth or something. It was totally f.u.c.king nauseating. She seemed pretty angry this morning! What was she doing right now? I wondered. If I had to guess, she was probably yapping on the phone to one of her friends or disciples or whatever the f.u.c.k they were. She was somewhere downstairs, spewing out perfect pearls of wisdom to her less-than-perfect friends, in the genuine hope that with a little bit of coaching she could make them as perfect as she was. Ahhh, that was my wife, all right-the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay f.u.c.king Ridge! The d.u.c.h.ess and all her loyal subjects, those young Stratton wives, who sucked up to her as if she were Queen Elizabeth or something. It was totally f.u.c.king nauseating.

Yet, in her defense, the d.u.c.h.ess had a role to play and she played it well. She understood the twisted sense of loyalty that everyone involved with Stratton Oakmont felt for it, and she had forged ties with the wives of key employees, which had made things that much more solid. Yes, the d.u.c.h.ess was a sharp cookie.

Usually she would come into the bathroom in the morning while I was getting ready for work. She was a good conversationalist, when she wasn't busy telling me to go f.u.c.k myself. But usually I had brought that on myself, so I really couldn't blame her for it. Actually, I really couldn't blame her for anything, could I? She happened to be a d.a.m.n good wife, in spite of all that Martha Stewart c.r.a.p. She must've said "I love you" a hundred times a day. And as the day progressed she would add on these wonderful little intensifiers: I love you desperately! I love you unconditionally! I love you desperately! I love you unconditionally!...and, of course, my favorite: I love you to the point of madness! I love you to the point of madness!...which I considered the most appropriate of all.

Yet, in spite of all her kind words, I still wasn't sure I could trust her. She was my second wife, after all, and words are cheap. Would she really be there with me for better or worse? Outwardly, she gave every indication that she genuinely loved me-constantly showering me with kisses-and whenever we were out in public, she held my hand or put her arm around me or ran her fingers through my hair.

It was all very confusing. When I was married to Denise I never worried about these things. She had married me when I had nothing, so her loyalty was unquestioned. But after I made my first million dollars, she must have had a dark premonition, and she asked me why I couldn't get a normal job making a million dollars a year? It seemed like a ridiculous question at the time, but back then, on that particular day, neither of us knew that in less than a year I'd be making a million dollars a week. And neither of us knew that in less than two years, Nadine Caridi, the Miller Lite girl, would pull up to my Westhampton beach house on July Fourth weekend and step out of that banana-yellow Ferrari wearing a ridiculously short skirt and a pair of white go-to-h.e.l.l pumps.

I had never meant to hurt Denise. In fact, it was the furthest thing from my mind. But Nadine swept me off my feet, and I swept her off hers. You don't choose who you fall in love with, do you? And once you do fall in love-that obsessive sort of love, that all-consuming love, where two people can't stand to be apart from each other for even a moment-how are you supposed to let a love like that pa.s.s you by?

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to push all this Denise business back down below the surface. After all, guilt and remorse were worthless emotions, weren't they? Well, I knew they weren't, but I had no time for them. Forward motion; that was the key. Run as fast as you can and don't look back. And as far as my wife went-well, I would right things with her too.

Having worked things out in my mind for the second time in less than five minutes, I forced myself to smile at my own reflection and then headed for the sauna. Once there, I would sweat out the evil spirits and start my day anew.

CHAPTER 3

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Thirty minutes after beginning my morning detox, I emerged from the master bedroom feeling rejuvenated. I was wearing the very gray pinstripe suit that Gwynne had laid out for me. On my left wrist I wore an $18,000 gold Bulgari watch that was thin and understated. In the olden days, before the d.u.c.h.ess came to town, I had worn a solid gold Rolex that was thick and chunky. But the d.u.c.h.ess, being the self-proclaimed arbiter of taste, grace, and gentility, had immediately discarded it, explaining to me that it was gauche. Just how she would know such a thing I still couldn't figure out, given the fact that the nicest watch she'd seen growing up in Brooklyn probably had a Disney character on it. Nevertheless, she seemed to have a knack for these things, so I usually listened to her.

No matter, though. I still maintained my masculine pride with one holdout: a terrific pair of handmade black crocodile cowboy boots. Each boot had been cut from a single crocodile skin, making them absolutely seamless. They had cost me $2,400, and I absolutely loved them. The d.u.c.h.ess, of course, despised them. Today I wore them with great pride, hoping to send a clear signal to my wife that I couldn't be pushed around, in spite of the fact that she had just pushed me around.

I was on my way to Chandler's bedroom for my morning nip of fatherhood, which was my favorite part of the day. Chandler was the only thing in my life that was completely pure. Each time I carried her in my arms it was as if all the chaos and insanity was held in harness.

As I made my way toward her room, I felt my spirits lifting. She was almost five months old and she was absolutely perfect. But when I opened Channy's door-what a tremendous shock! It wasn't just Channy, it was Mommy too! She'd been hiding in Channy's room all along, waiting for me to come in! It wasn't just Channy, it was Mommy too! She'd been hiding in Channy's room all along, waiting for me to come in!

There they were, sitting in the very middle of the room on the softest, most glorious pink carpet imaginable. It was another outlandishly expensive touch from Mommy, the formerly aspiring decorator-who was looking mighty fine, for Chrissake! Chandler was sitting between her mother's slightly parted legs- Chandler was sitting between her mother's slightly parted legs-slightly parted legs!-with her delicate little back resting against Mommy's firm tummy and Mommy's hands clasped around her belly for added support. The two of them looked gorgeous. Channy was a carbon copy of her mother, having inherited those vivid blue eyes and glorious cheekbones.

I took a deep breath to fully relish the scent of my daughter's room. Ahhhh, the smell of baby powder, baby shampoo, baby wipes! And then another deep breath to relish the smell of Mommy. Ahhhh, her four-hundred-dollar-a-bottle shampoo and conditioner from G.o.d only knew where! Her hypoallergenic, custom-formulated Kiehl's skin conditioner; that tiny hint of Coco perfume she wore oh so insouciantly! I felt a pleasant tingling sensation shoot through my entire central nervous system and into my loins.

The room itself was absolutely perfect, a little pink wonderland. Countless stuffed animals were scattered about, all arranged just so. To the right was a white crib and ba.s.sinet, custom-made by Bellini of Madison Avenue, for the bargain price of $60,000. (Mommy strikes again!) Above it hung a pink and white mobile that played twelve Disney songs, while strikingly realistic Disney characters went round and round at a merry clip. It was another custom-made touch of my dear aspiring decorator, this one only $9,000 (for a mobile?). But who cared? This was Chandler's room, the most favored room in the house.

I took a moment to regard my wife and daughter. All at once the word breathtaking breathtaking popped into my mind. Chandler was naked as a blue jay. Her olive skin looked b.u.t.tery smooth and utterly flawless. popped into my mind. Chandler was naked as a blue jay. Her olive skin looked b.u.t.tery smooth and utterly flawless.

And then there was Mommy, who was dressed to kill or, in my case, to tease. Mommy wore a salmon-pink sleeveless minidress with a plunging neckline. Her cleavage was extraordinary! Her terrific mane of golden blond hair s.h.i.+mmered in the morning sunlight. The dress was hiked up above her hips, and I could see all the way up to the top of her waist. There was something missing from this picture...but what was it? I couldn't seem to place it, so I dismissed the thought and kept right on staring. Her knees were slightly bent, and I let my eyes run down the full length of her legs. Her shoes matched her dress perfectly, to the very shade and hue. They were Manolo Blahnik, probably cost a thousand bucks, but worth every penny, if you want to know what I was thinking at that particular moment.

So many thoughts were roaring through my head I couldn't keep track of them. I wanted my wife more than ever...yet my daughter was there too...but she was so little that it didn't really matter! And what about the d.u.c.h.ess? Had she already forgiven me? I wanted to say something, but I couldn't find the words. I loved my wife...I loved my life...I loved my daughter. I didn't want to lose them. So I made the decision right there, in that very instant: I was done. Yes! No more hookers! No more midnight helicopter rides! No more drugs-or at least not as much of them.

I was about to speak, to throw myself on the mercy of the court, but I never got the chance. Chandler spoke first. My daughter, the baby genius! My daughter, the baby genius! She smiled from ear to ear and in a little tiny voice she said, "Da-da-da-da-da-da-da...Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da." She smiled from ear to ear and in a little tiny voice she said, "Da-da-da-da-da-da-da...Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da."

"Good morning, Daddy!" said Mommy, in a little baby's voice. So sweet! So incredibly s.e.xy! "Aren't you going to give me a good-morning kiss, Daddy? I really, really want one!"

Whuhh? Could it really be this easy? I crossed my fingers and went for broke. "Do I get to kiss both of you, Mommy and and Daughter?" I pursed my lips and gave Mommy my best puppy-dog face. Then I said a prayer to the Almighty. Daughter?" I pursed my lips and gave Mommy my best puppy-dog face. Then I said a prayer to the Almighty.

"Ohhh, no!" said Mommy, bursting Daddy's bubble. "Daddy doesn't get to kiss Mommy for a very, very long time. But his daughter's dying for a kiss. Isn't that right, Channy?"

Good Lord-she doesn't fight fair, my wife!

Mommy soldiered on in her baby's voice: "Here, Channy, now go crawl over to your daddy right now. Now, Daddy, you bend down so Channy can crawl right into your arms. Okay, Daddy?"

I took a step forward- "That's far enough," warned Mommy, raising her right hand in the air. "Now bend down just like Mommy said."

I did as I was told. After all, who was I to argue with the luscious d.u.c.h.ess?

Mommy put Chandler down on all fours, ever so gently, and gave her a loving shove forward. Chandler started crawling toward me at a snail's pace, repeating: "Dadadadadadada...Dadadadadadada."

Ahhhh, such happiness! Such joie de vivre joie de vivre! Was I the luckiest man alive or what? "Come here," I said to Chandler. "Come to Daddy, sweetie." I looked up at Mommy, slowly lowering my gaze...and..."Holy s.h.i.+t! Nadine, what the...what the h.e.l.l is wrong with you! Are you out of-"

"What's wrong, Dada? I hope you don't see anything you want, because you can't have it anymore," said Mommy, the aspiring c.o.c.k-teaser, with her glorious legs spread wide open and her skirt hiked up above her hips and her panties nowhere in sight. Her pretty pink v.u.l.v.a was staring me right in the eye and was glistening with desire. All Mommy had was a tiny patch of soft blond peach fuzz, just above her mons pubis, and that was it.

I did the only thing any rational husband could do: I groveled like the dog that I was. "Please, honey, you know how sorry I am about last night. I swear to G.o.d I'll never-"

"Oh, save it until next year," said Mommy, with a flap of the back of her hand in the air. "Mommy knows how much you like to swear to G.o.d about this and that and everything else when you're about to burst. But don't waste your time, Daddy, because Mommy's only getting started with you. From now on it's going to be nothing but short, short skirts around the house! That's right, Dada! Nothing but short, short skirts, no underwear, and this..." said the luscious Mommy with great pride, as she put her palms down behind her and locked out her elbows and leaned all the way back. Then, using the very tips of her Manolo Blahnik high heels in a way the shoe designers had never imagined, she turned them into erotic pivots and let those luscious legs of hers swing open and closed and open and closed until on the third pivot she let them fall so wide open that her knees almost hit the glorious pink carpet. She said, "What's wrong, Dada? You don't look so well."

Well, it wasn't like I hadn't seen it before. In fact this wasn't the first time Mommy had pulled a fast one on me. There were elevators, tennis courts, public parking lots, even the White House. There was no venue completely safe from Mommy. It was just the f.u.c.king shock of it all! I felt like a boxer who never saw the punch coming and ended up getting knocked out cold-permanently!

Making matters worse, Chandler had stalled in mid-crawl and decided to take some time to inspect the glorious pink carpet. She was pulling on the fibers as if she'd discovered something truly wonderful, completely oblivious to what was transpiring around her.

I tried to apologize once more, but Mommy's response to that was to stick her right index finger inside her mouth and start to suck. It was then that I lost the power of speech. She seemed to know she'd just delivered the knockout punch, so she slowly pulled her finger out of her mouth and then poured on the baby voice even more: "Ohhh, poor, poor Dada. He loves to say how wrong he is when he's ready to come in his own pants, isn't that right, Dada?"

I stared in disbelief and wondered if any other married couples did things like this.

"Well, Daddy, it's too late for apologies now." She pursed her luscious lips and nodded slowly, the way a person does when they feel like they've just let you in on some great truth. "And it's such a shame shame that Daddy likes to fly around town in his helicopter at all hours of the night after doing G.o.d only knows what, because Mommy loves Daddy so, so much and there's nothing she wants to do more right now than to make love to Daddy all day long! And what Mommy's really in the mood for is for Daddy to kiss her in his favorite spot, right where he's looking right now." that Daddy likes to fly around town in his helicopter at all hours of the night after doing G.o.d only knows what, because Mommy loves Daddy so, so much and there's nothing she wants to do more right now than to make love to Daddy all day long! And what Mommy's really in the mood for is for Daddy to kiss her in his favorite spot, right where he's looking right now."

Now Mommy pursed her lips again and pretended to pout. "But, ohhh...poor, poor Daddy! There's no chance of that happening now, even if Daddy was the very last man on planet Earth. In fact, Mommy has decided to be like the United Nations and inst.i.tute one of her famous s.e.x embargoes. Daddy doesn't get to make love to Mommy until New Year's Eve"-Whuh? Why, the impudence of it!-"and that's only if he's a very good boy between now and then. If Daddy makes even one mistake it's going to be Groundhog's Day!" What the f.u.c.k? Mommy's lost it!

I was just about to sink to unprecedented levels of groveling when all at once something hit me. Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! Should I tell her? f.u.c.k it, the show's too good! Should I tell her? f.u.c.k it, the show's too good!

Mommy in baby voice: "And now that I think of it, Daddy, I think it's time for Mommy to break out her silk thigh-highs and start wearing them around the house, and we all know how much Daddy loves Mommy's silk thigh-highs, don't we, Daddy!"

I nodded eagerly.

Mommy plowed on: "Oh, yes, we do! And Mommy's so sick and tired of wearing underwear...uhhh! In fact, she's decided to throw them all away! So take a good look, Dada"-time to stop her? Uhhhn, not yet!-"because you're going to be seeing an awful lot of it around the house for a while! But, of course, under the rules of the embargo, touching will be strictly prohibited. And there'll be no jerking off either, Daddy. Until Mommy gives her permission it will be hands at your sides. Is that understood, Daddy?" In fact, she's decided to throw them all away! So take a good look, Dada"-time to stop her? Uhhhn, not yet!-"because you're going to be seeing an awful lot of it around the house for a while! But, of course, under the rules of the embargo, touching will be strictly prohibited. And there'll be no jerking off either, Daddy. Until Mommy gives her permission it will be hands at your sides. Is that understood, Daddy?"

With renewed confidence: "But what about you, Mommy? What are you going to do?"

"Oh, Mommy knows how to please herself just fine. Uhhhn...uhhhn...uhhhn," groaned the fas.h.i.+on model. "In fact, just the thought of it is getting Mommy all excited! Don't you just hate helicopters, Daddy?"

I went for the jugular: "I don't know, Mommy, I think you're all talk and no action. Please yourself? I don't believe you."

Mommy compressed those luscious lips of hers and slowly shook her head, then she said, "Well, I guess it's time for Daddy to be taught his first lesson"-ahhh, this was getting good! And Chandler, still inspecting the carpet, no comprehension-"so Mommy wants Daddy to keep his eye on Mommy's hand and watch very closely or else Groundhog's Day will become Easter Sunday faster than Daddy can say 'blue b.a.l.l.s!' Do you understand who's in charge here, Daddy?"

I played along, getting ready to drop the bomb. "Yes, Mommy, but what are you going to do with your hand?"

"Shhh!" said Mommy, and just like that she stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked and sucked until it glistened with saliva in the morning sunlight, and then, slowly, gracefully, lubriciously headed south...down her plunging neckline...past her cleavage...past her belly b.u.t.ton...and all the way down to her- "Stop right there!" I said, holding up my right hand. "I wouldn't do it if I were you!"

This shocked Mommy. And infuriated her too! Apparently she had been looking forward to this magic moment as much as I had. But it had gone far enough. It was time to drop the bomb on her. But before I had the chance, Mommy began scolding me: "That's it! Now you've done it! They'll be no kissing or lovemaking until July Fourth!"

"But, Mommy, what about Rocco and Rocco?"

Mommy froze in horror. "Huh?"

I leaned over and picked Chandler up off the glorious pink carpet, held her close to my chest, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Then, with her safely out of harm's way, I said, "Daddy wants to tell Mommy a story, and if after he's done Mommy is glad Daddy stopped her before she did what she was about to do, then she has to forgive him for everything he's done, okay?"

No reaction. "Okay," I said, "this is the story about a little pink bedroom in Old Brookville, Long Island. Does Mommy want to hear about it?"

Mommy nodded, a look of complete confusion on her perfect little model face.

"Does Mommy promise to keep her legs spread wide, wide open while Daddy tells the story?"

She nodded slowly, dreamily.

"Good, because it's Daddy's favorite view in the whole world, and it inspires him to tell the story just just right! Okay-now, there was a little pink bedroom on the second floor of a great stone mansion on a perfect piece of property in the very best part of Long Island, and the people who lived there had lots and lots of money. But-and this is very important to the story, Mommy-of all the possessions they had, and of everything they owned, there was one thing that was much more valuable than all the rest combined, and that was their little baby daughter. right! Okay-now, there was a little pink bedroom on the second floor of a great stone mansion on a perfect piece of property in the very best part of Long Island, and the people who lived there had lots and lots of money. But-and this is very important to the story, Mommy-of all the possessions they had, and of everything they owned, there was one thing that was much more valuable than all the rest combined, and that was their little baby daughter.

"Now, the daddy in the story had lots and lots of people working for him, and most of them were very, very young and barely housebroken, so Mommy and Daddy decided to put up big iron gates around the entire property so all these young people wouldn't be able to stop by uninvited anymore. But, believe it or not, Mommy, they still tried stopping by!" I paused and studied Mommy's face, which was slowly losing its color. Then I said, "Anyway, after a while, Mommy and Daddy got so sick and tired of being bothered that they went out and hired two full-time bodyguards. Now, as funny as it may seem, Mommy, they both happened to be named Rocco!" I paused again and studied Mommy's pretty face. Now she was as pale as a ghost.

I continued: "Anyway, Rocco and Rocco spent their time in a wonderful little guardhouse that was in that very backyard in the story. And since the mommy in the story always liked to do things just right, she went out and researched the very best in surveillance equipment, and she ended up buying the latest and greatest TV cameras that give the clearest and brightest and most detailed picture that money can buy. And the best part, Mommy, is that it's all in living color! Yeah!"

Mommy's legs were still spread wide open, in all their glory, when I said, "Anyway, about two months ago Mommy and Daddy were lying in bed on a rainy Sunday morning when she told him about an article she'd read about how some baby nurses and housekeepers mistreated the babies they looked after. This shocked Daddy terribly, so he suggested to Mommy that they have two hidden cameras and a voice-activated microphone installed in that very pink bedroom that I mentioned in the beginning of the story!

"And one of those hidden cameras is right over Daddy's shoulder"-I pointed to a tiny pinhole high up on the wall-"and as luck would have it, Mommy, it happens to be focused right on the very best part of your glorious anatomy"-and there go the legs, snapped shut, like a bank vault-"and since we love Channy so, so much, this is the room that they monitor on the big thirty-two-inch TV screen in the center of the guardhouse!

"So smile, Mommy! You're on Candid Camera Candid Camera!"

Mommy didn't move-for about an eighth of a second. Then, as if someone had just shot ten thousand volts of electricity through the glorious pink carpet, Mommy jumped up and screamed: "Holy s.h.i.+t! Holy f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t! Oh, my G.o.d! I can't f.u.c.king believe it! Oh-my-fuc-king-G.o.d!" She ran to the window and looked out at the guardhouse...then she spun around and ran back, and...BOOM!...down went Mommy, as one of the erotic pivots on her go-to-h.e.l.l pumps collapsed.

But Mommy was only down for a second. She quickly rolled onto all fours with the speed and dexterity of a world-cla.s.s wrestler and then popped right back up. To my complete and utter shock, she opened the door, ran out, and slammed it behind her as she left, entirely unconcerned with what the bizarre menagerie of help might think of all the ruckus. And then she was gone.

"Well," I said to Channy, "the real Martha Stewart would definitely not have approved of a slammed door, now, would she, sweetie!" Then I said a silent prayer to the Almighty, asking him-no begging him, in fact-to never allow Channy to marry a guy like me, much less date one. I wasn't exactly Husband of the Year material, after all. Then I carried her downstairs and handed her to Marcie, the jabbering Jamaican baby nurse, and made a quick beeline for the guardhouse, not wanting the videotape of Mommy to end up in Hollywood as a pilot for Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional. Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional.

CHAPTER 4

WASP HEAVEN

Like a dog in heat, I searched all twenty-four rooms of the mansion for Mommy. In fact, I searched every nook and cranny of all six acres of the estate until, finally, reluctantly, and with great sadness, I called off my search. It was almost nine o'clock, and I had to get to work. Just where my dear aspiring c.o.c.k-teaser was hiding, I couldn't figure out. So I gave up trying to get laid.

We pulled away from my Old Brookville estate just after nine a.m. I was sitting in the backseat of my midnight-blue Lincoln limousine, with my white-cracker-hating chauffeur, George Campbell, behind the wheel. In the four years George had worked for me, he'd said only a dozen words. On some mornings I found his self-imposed vow of silence rather annoying, but at this particular moment it was just fine. In fact, after my recent run-in with the luscious d.u.c.h.ess, a little bit of peace and quiet would be sublime.

Still, as part of my morning ritual I would always greet George in overly warm tones and try to get some sort of response out of him. Anything. So I figured I'd take another crack at it, just for s.h.i.+ts and giggles.

I said, "Hey, Georgie! How ya doing today?"

George turned his head approximately four and a half degrees to the right, so I could barely see the whites of his blazing white eyeb.a.l.l.s, and then he nodded, just once.

Never fails, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! The guy's a f.u.c.king mute!

Actually, that wasn't true: About six months earlier George had asked me if I could loan him (which, of course, meant give him) $5,000 to get himself a new set of choppers (as he referred to them). This I gladly did, but not until I tortured him for a good fifteen minutes, making him tell me everything-how white they'd be, how many there'd be, how long they'd last, and what was wrong with his teeth right now. By the time George was done, there were beads of sweat running down his charcoal-black forehead, and I was sorry I'd ever asked him in the first place.