And that was what I did. I reimmersed myself in the very insanity of things. I plunged into the building of Steve Madden Shoes and kept advising my brokerage firms from behind the scenes. I did my best to be a loyal husband to the d.u.c.h.ess and a good father to Chandler, in spite of my drug addiction. And as the months pa.s.sed, my drug habit continued to escalate.

As always, I was quick to rationalize it, though-to remind myself that I was young and rich, with a gorgeous wife and a perfect baby daughter. Everyone wanted a life like mine, didn't they? What better life was there than Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional?

Either way, by mid-October, there were no repercussions from Saurel's arrest, and I breathed a final sigh of relief. Obviously, he had chosen not to cooperate and the Wolf of Wall Street had dodged another bullet. Chandler had taken her first steps and was now doing the Frankenstein walk-sticking her arms out in front of her, keeping her knees locked, and walking around stiffly. And, of course, the baby genius was talking up a storm. By her first birthday, in fact, she had been speaking full sentences-an astonishing achievement for an infant-and I had no doubt that she was well on the road to a n.o.bel Prize or at least a Fields Medal for advanced mathematics.

Meanwhile, Steve Madden Shoes and Stratton Oakmont were on divergent paths-with Steve Madden growing by leaps and bounds and Stratton Oakmont falling victim to ill-conceived trading strategies and a new wave of regulatory pressure, both of which Danny had brought upon himself. The latter was a result of Danny's refusal to abide by one of the terms of the SEC settlement-namely, for Stratton to hire an independent auditor of the SEC's choosing, who would review the firm's business practices and then make recommendations. One of these recommendations was for the firm to install a taping system to capture the Strattonites' phone conversations with their clients. Danny refused to comply, and the SEC ran into federal court and secured an injunction ordering the firm to install the taping system.

Danny finally capitulated-lest he be thrown in jail for contempt of court-but now Stratton had an injunction against it, which meant all fifty states had the right to suspend Stratton's license, which, of course, they slowly began doing. It was hard to imagine that after everything Stratton had survived, its demise would be tied to the refusal to install a taping system, which, in the end, hadn't made the slightest bit of difference. Within days Strattonites had figured out how to circ.u.mvent the system-saying only compliant things over Stratton's phone lines and then picking up their cell phones when they felt like going to the dark side. But the handwriting was now on the wall: Stratton's days were numbered.

The owners of Biltmore and Monroe Parker expressed their mutual desire to go their separate ways, to no longer do business with Stratton. Of course, it was done with the utmost respect, and they each offered to pay me a $1 million tribute on each new issue they took public. It amounted to somewhere around $12 million a year, so I gladly accepted. I was also receiving a million dollars a month from Stratton, pursuant to my noncompete agreement, as well as another four or five million every few months as I cashed out of large blocks of inside stock (144 stock) in the companies Stratton was taking public.

Still, I considered it a mere drop in the bucket compared to what I could make with Steve Madden Shoes, which seemed to be on a rocket ship to the stars. It reminded me of the early days of Stratton...those heady heady days...those days...those glory glory days...in the late eighties and early nineties, when the first wave of Strattonites had taken to the phones and the insanity that had come to define my life had yet to take hold. So Stratton was my past, and Steve Madden was my future. days...in the late eighties and early nineties, when the first wave of Strattonites had taken to the phones and the insanity that had come to define my life had yet to take hold. So Stratton was my past, and Steve Madden was my future.

At this particular moment I was sitting across from Steve, who was leaning back in his seat defensively as the Spitter shot spit streams at him. Every so often, Steve would give me a look that so much as said, "The Spitter is relentless when it comes to ordering boots, especially since the boot season is almost over!"

The Drizzler was also in the room, and he was drizzling on us at every opportunity. Right now, though, the Spitter had center stage. "What's the big f.u.c.king deal about ordering these boots?" spat the Spitter. Because this morning's debate involved a word beginning with the letter B, B, he was doing an inordinate amount of spitting. In fact, each time the Spitter uttered the word he was doing an inordinate amount of spitting. In fact, each time the Spitter uttered the word boot, boot, I could see the Cobbler cringe visibly. And now he turned his wrath on me. "Listen, JB, this boot"- I could see the Cobbler cringe visibly. And now he turned his wrath on me. "Listen, JB, this boot"-oh, Jesus!-"is so f.u.c.king hot there's no way we can lose. You gotta trust me on this. I'm telling you, not a single pair will get marked down."

I shook my head in disagreement. "No more boots, John. We're done with f.u.c.king boots. And it's got nothing to do with whether or not they'll get marked down. It's about running our business with a certain discipline. We're going in eighteen different directions at the same time, and we need to stick to our business plan. We've got three new stores opening; we're rolling out dozens of in-store shops; we're about to pull the trigger on the unbranded business. There's only so much cash to go around. We gotta stay lean and mean right now; no huge risks this late in the season, especially with some leopard-skin f.u.c.king boot."

The Drizzler took this opening to do some more drizzling. "I agree with you, and that's exactly why it makes so much sense to move our shipping department down to Flor-"

The Spitter cut the Drizzler right off, using a word with a double-P, the Spitter's second-deadliest consonant. "That's f.u.c.king the Spitter's second-deadliest consonant. "That's f.u.c.king preposterous preposterous!" spat the Spitter. "That whole f.u.c.king concept! I have no time for this s.h.i.t. I gotta get some f.u.c.king shoes made or else we'll be out of f.u.c.king business!" With that, the Spitter walked out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

Just then the phone beeped. "Todd Garret's on line one."

I rolled my eyes at Steve, then I said, "Tell him I'm in a meeting, Janet. I'll call him back."

Janet, the insolent one: "Obviously I told him you're in a meeting, but he said it's urgent. He needs to speak to you right now." I told him you're in a meeting, but he said it's urgent. He needs to speak to you right now."

I shook my head in disgust and let out a great sigh. What could be so important with Todd Garret-unless, of course, he had managed to get his hands on some Real Reals! I picked up the phone and said in a friendly yet somewhat annoyed tone, "Hey, Todd, what's going on, buddy?"

"Well," replied Todd, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but some guy named Agent Coleman just left my house and told me that Carolyn is about to get thrown in jail."

With a sinking heart: "For what what? What did Carolyn do?"

I felt the world crash down on me when Todd said, "Did you know that your Swiss banker is in jail and he's cooperating against you?"

I clenched my a.s.s cheeks for all they were worth and said, "I'll be there in an hour."

Like its owner, Todd's two-bedroom apartment was mean-looking. From top to bottom, the whole place was black, not an ounce of color anywhere. We were sitting in the living room, which was completely devoid of plant life. All I could see was black leather and chrome.

Todd was sitting across from me, as Carolyn paced back and forth on a black s.h.a.g carpet, teetering atop some very high heels. Todd said to me, "It goes without saying that Carolyn and I will never cooperate against you, so don't even worry about that." He looked up at the pacing Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l and said, "Right, Carolyn?"

Carolyn nodded nervously and kept on pacing. Apparently Todd found that annoying. "Will you stop pacing!" he snarled. "You're driving me f.u.c.king crazy. I'm gonna smack you if you don't sit down!"

"Oh, fahak fahak you, Tahad!" croaked the Bombsh.e.l.l. "This no laughing business. I have two kids, in case you forget. It is all because of that stupid pistol you carry." you, Tahad!" croaked the Bombsh.e.l.l. "This no laughing business. I have two kids, in case you forget. It is all because of that stupid pistol you carry."

Even now, on the day of my doom, these two maniacs were determined to kill each other. "Will you two please stop?" I said, forcing a smile. "I don't understand what Todd's gun charge has to do with Saurel getting indicted."

"Don't listen to her," muttered Todd. "She's a f.u.c.king idiot. What she's trying to say is that Coleman found out what happened in the shopping center, and now he's telling the Queens District Attorney not to plea-bargain my case. A few months ago they were offering me probation, and now they're telling me I gotta do three years unless I cooperate with the FBI. Personally, I couldn't give a s.h.i.t about that, and if I gotta go to jail I gotta go to jail. The problem is my idiot wife, who decided to strike up a friendship with your Swiss banker instead of just dropping off the money and not saying a word like she was supposed to. But, nooooo, nooooo, she couldn't resist having lunch with the f.u.c.k and then exchanging phone numbers with him. For all I know she probably f.u.c.ked him." she couldn't resist having lunch with the f.u.c.k and then exchanging phone numbers with him. For all I know she probably f.u.c.ked him."

"You know," said a rather guilty-looking Bombsh.e.l.l, in her white patent leather go-to-h.e.l.l pumps, "you got nerves upon nerves, dog-man! Who be you to throw stones in my direction? You don't think I know what you do with that steel-cage dancer from Rio?" With that, the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l looked me directly in the eye and said, "Do you believes this jealous man? Will you please tell Tahad Tahad that that Jean Jacques Jean Jacques not like that? He is old banker, not ladies' man. Right, Jordan?" And she stared at me with blazing blue eyes and a clenched jaw. not like that? He is old banker, not ladies' man. Right, Jordan?" And she stared at me with blazing blue eyes and a clenched jaw.

An old banker? Jean Jacques? Jesus Christ-what a tragic turn of events! Had the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l f.u.c.ked my Swiss banker? Unreal! If she had just dropped off the money like she was supposed to, then Saurel wouldn't have even known who she was! But, no, she couldn't keep her mouth shut, and, as a result, Coleman was now connecting all the dots-figuring out that Todd's arrest in the Bay Terrace Shopping Center had nothing to do with a drug deal but with the smuggled millions of dollars to Switzerland.

"Well," I said innocently, "I wouldn't exactly characterize Saurel as an old man, but he's not the sort of guy who'd have an affair with another man's wife. I mean, he's married himself, and he never really struck me as being that way."

Apparently they both took that as a victory. Carolyn blurted out, "You see, dog-man, he is not like that. He is-"

But Todd cut her right off: "So why the f.u.c.k did you say he's an old man, then, you lying sack of s.h.i.t? Why lie if you have nothing to hide, huh? Why, I..."

As Todd and Carolyn went about ripping each other's lungs out, I tuned out and wondered if there was any way out of this mess. It was time for desperate measures; it was time to call my trusted accountant Dennis Gaito, aka the Chef. I would offer him my humblest apology for having done all this behind his back. No, I had never actually told the Chef that I had accounts in Switzerland. There was no choice now but to come clean and seek his counsel.

"...and what will we do for money now?" asked the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l. "This Agent Coleman watch you like bird now"-Did she mean hawk?-"so you can no more sell your drugs. We will starve now for sure!" With that, the soon-to-be starving Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l-along with her $40,000 Patek Philippe watch, her $25,000 diamond-and-ruby necklace, and her $5,000 clothing ensemble-sat down in a black leather chair. Then she put her head in her hands and began to shake her head back and forth.

How very ironic that, at the end of the day, it was the Swiss Bombsh.e.l.l, with her b.a.s.t.a.r.dized English and gigantic b.o.o.bs, who'd finally cut through all the bulls.h.i.t and distilled things down to their very essence-it all came down to buying their silence. And that was fine with me; in fact, I had a sneaky suspicion it was fine with them too. After all, the two of them now had a pair of first-cla.s.s tickets on the gravy train, and they would be good for many years to come. And if somewhere along the line the heat in the kitchen grew too hot, they could always apply for exit visas downtown, at the New York Field Office of the FBI, where Agent Coleman would be waiting for them with open arms and a smile.

That evening, in my bas.e.m.e.nt in Old Brookville, Long Island, I was sitting on the wraparound couch with the Chef, playing a little-known game called Can You Top This Bulls.h.i.t Story. The rules of the game were simple: The contestant spewing out the bulls.h.i.t would try to make his story as airtight as possible, while the person listening to the bulls.h.i.t would try to poke holes in it. In order to achieve victory, one of the contestants had to come up with a bulls.h.i.t story that was so airtight that the other contestant couldn't poke a hole in it. And since the Chef and I were Jedi Masters of unadulterated bulls.h.i.t, it was pretty obvious that if one of us could stump the other, then we could also stump Agent Coleman.

The Chef was boldly handsome, sort of like a trimmed-down version of Mr. Clean. He was in his early fifties and had been cooking the books since I was in grade school. I looked at him as an elder statesman of sorts, the lucid voice of reason. He was a man's man, the Chef, with an infectious smile and a million watts of social charisma. He was a guy who lived for world-cla.s.s golf courses, Cuban cigars, fine wines, and enlightened conversation, especially when it had to do with f.u.c.king over the IRS and the Securities and Exchange Commission, which seemed to be his life's foremost mission.

I had already come clean with him this evening, baring my very soul and apologizing profusely for having done all this behind his back. I started bulls.h.i.tting him even then, before the game had officially started, explaining that I hadn't brought him into my Swiss affair because it might've put him at risk. Thankfully, he'd made no effort to poke any holes in my feeble bulls.h.i.t story. Instead, he'd responded with a warm smile and a shrug.

As I told him my tale of woe, I found my spirits sinking lower and lower. But the Chef remained impa.s.sive. When I was done, he shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Eh, I've heard worse."

"Oh, really?" I replied. "How the f.u.c.k could that that be possible?" be possible?"

The Chef waved his hand dismissively and added, "I've been in much tighter spots than this."

I'd been greatly relieved by those words, although I was pretty sure he was just trying to ease my worried mind. Anyway, we had started playing the game and now, after a half hour, we'd been through three evolutions of unadulterated bulls.h.i.t. So far, there was no clear winner. But with each round our stories grew tighter and cleverer and, of course, more difficult to poke holes in. We were still hung up on two basic issues: First, how had Patricia come up with the initial $3 million to fund the account? And, second, if the money was really Patricia's, then why hadn't her heirs been contacted? Patricia was survived by two daughters, both of whom were in their mid-thirties. In the absence of a contraindicating will, they were the rightful heirs.

The Chef said, "I think the real problem is the outgoing currency violation. Let's a.s.sume this guy Saurel has spilled his guts, which means the feds are gonna take the position that the money made it over to Switzerland on a bunch of different dates. So what we need is a doc.u.ment that counteracts that-that says you gave all the money to Patricia while she was still in the United States. We need an affidavit from someone who physically witnessed you handing the money to Patricia in the U.S. Then, if the government wants to say different, we hold our piece of paper and say, 'Here ya go, buddy! We got our own eyewitness too!'"

As an afterthought, he added, "But I still don't like this business with the will. It smells bad. It's a shame Patricia's not alive. It would be nice if we could parade her downtown and have her say a few choice words to the feds, and, you know-bada-beep bada-bop bada-boop-that would be that."

I shrugged. "Well, I can't raise Patricia from the dead, but I bet I could get Nadine's mother to sign an affidavit saying that she witnessed me handing the money to Patricia in the United States. Suzanne hates the government, and I've been really good to her over the last four years. She really has nothing to lose, right?"

The Chef nodded. "Well that would be a very good thing, if she would agree to do it."

"She'll do it," I said confidently, trying to guess what temperature water the d.u.c.h.ess would be pouring over my head tonight. "I'll talk to Suzanne tomorrow. I just need to run it by the d.u.c.h.ess first. But, a.s.suming I get it taken care of, there's still the issue of the will. It does sound kinda hokey that she wouldn't leave any money to her kids..." All at once a fabulous idea came bubbling into my brain. "What if we were to actually contact her kids and get them involved? What if we had them fly over to Switzerland and claim the money? It would be like hitting lotto to them! I could have Roland draw up a new will, saying the money I'd loaned Patricia was to come back to me but all the profits were to go to her children. I mean, if the kids went and declared the money in Britain, then how could the U.S. government make a case that the money was mine?"

"Ahhhhh," said a smiling Chef, "now you're thinking! In fact, you just won the game. If we can pull this whole thing together, I think you're in the clear. And I've got a sister firm in London that can do the actual returns, so we'll have control of things the whole way through. You'll get your original investment back, the kids'll get a five-million-dollar windfall, and we can move on with our lives!"

I smiled and said, "This guy Coleman is gonna flip his f.u.c.king lid when he finds out Patricia's kids went over and claimed the money. I bet you he's already tasting blood on his lips."

"Indeed," said the Chef.

Fifteen minutes later I found the soon-to-be-doleful d.u.c.h.ess upstairs in the master bedroom. She was sitting at her desk, thumbing through a catalog, and by the looks of her she wasn't just in the market for clothes. She looked absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was brushed out to perfection, and she was dressed in a tiny white silk chemise of such fine material that it covered her body like a morning mist. She had on a pair of white open-toe pumps with a spiked heel and s.e.xy ankle strap. And that was all she wore. She had dimmed the lights, and there were a dozen candles burning, giving off a mellow orange glow.

When she saw me, she ran over to shower me with kisses. "You look so beautiful," I said, after a good thirty seconds of kissing and d.u.c.h.ess-sniffing. "I mean, you always look beautiful, but you look especially beautiful tonight. You're beyond words."

"Well, thank you thank you!" said the luscious d.u.c.h.ess in a playful tone. "I'm glad you still think so, because I just took my temperature and I'm ovulating. I hope you're ready, because you're in big trouble tonight, mister!"

Hmmm... there were two sides to this coin. On the one side, how mad could an ovulating woman get at her husband? I mean, the d.u.c.h.ess really wanted another child, so she might shake off the bad news in the name of procreation. But on the flipside, she might get so angry she would throw on her bathrobe and go to fisticuffs. And with all those wet kisses she'd just showered on me, a tsunami of blood had gone rushing to my loins. there were two sides to this coin. On the one side, how mad could an ovulating woman get at her husband? I mean, the d.u.c.h.ess really wanted another child, so she might shake off the bad news in the name of procreation. But on the flipside, she might get so angry she would throw on her bathrobe and go to fisticuffs. And with all those wet kisses she'd just showered on me, a tsunami of blood had gone rushing to my loins.

I dropped down to my knees and began sniffing the tops of her thighs, like a Pomeranian in heat. I said, "I need to talk to you about something."

She giggled. "Let's go over to the bed and talk there."

I took a moment to run that through my mind, and the bed seemed pretty safe. In truth, the d.u.c.h.ess wasn't any stronger than me; she was just an expert at using leverage, and the bed would minimize that.

On the bed, I maneuvered myself on top of her and I clasped my hands behind her neck and kissed her deeply, breathing in every last molecule of her. In that very instant I loved her so much that it seemed almost impossible.

She ran her fingers through my hair, pushing it back with gentle strokes. She said, "What's wrong, baby? Why was Dennis here tonight?"

The high road or the low road, I wondered, looking at her legs. And then it hit me: Why tell her anything? Yes! I would buy her mother off! What an inspired notion! The Wolf strikes again! Suzanne needed a new car, so I would take her tomorrow to buy one and then spring the idea of the phony affidavit on her during idle conversation. "Hey, Suzanne, you look really great in this new convertible, and, by the way, can you just sign your name here, right at the bottom, where it says signature?...Oh, what does I swear under penalty of perjury I swear under penalty of perjury mean? Well, it's just legal jargon, so don't even waste your time reading it. Just sign it, and if you happened to get indicted we can discuss it then." Then I would swear Suzanne to secrecy and pray that she'd keep her mouth shut to the d.u.c.h.ess. mean? Well, it's just legal jargon, so don't even waste your time reading it. Just sign it, and if you happened to get indicted we can discuss it then." Then I would swear Suzanne to secrecy and pray that she'd keep her mouth shut to the d.u.c.h.ess.

I smiled at the delectable d.u.c.h.ess and said, "It was nothing important. Dennis is taking over as auditor for Steve Madden, so we were going through some numbers. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that I want this baby as much as you do. You're the greatest mother in the whole world, Nae, and you're the greatest wife too. I'm lucky to have you."

"Aw, that's so sweet," said the d.u.c.h.ess, in a syrupy voice. "I love you too. Make love to me right now, honey."

And I did.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER 30

NEW ADDITIONS

August 15, 1995

(Nine Months Later)

You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" screamed the delivering d.u.c.h.ess, sprawled out on a birthing table in Long Island Jewish Hospital. "You did this to me, and now you're stoned during the birth of our son! I'm gonna rip your lungs out when I get off this table!"

It was ten a.m., or was it eleven? Who knew anymore?

Either way, I had just pa.s.sed out cold, my face on the delivery table, as the d.u.c.h.ess was in the middle of a contraction. I was still standing, though hunched over at a ninety-degree angle, with my head between her puffy legs, which were now propped up on stirrups.

Just then I felt someone shaking me. "Are you all right?" said the voice of Dr. Bruno, sounding a million miles away.

Christ! I wanted to respond, but I was just so d.a.m.n tired. The Ludes had really gotten the best of me this morning, although I had my reasons for getting stoned. After all, giving birth is a very stressful business-for the wife and and the husband-and I guess there are some things that women just handle better than men. the husband-and I guess there are some things that women just handle better than men.

It had been three trimesters since that very candlelit evening, and Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional had continued unabated. Suzanne had kept my confidence, and Aunt Patricia's children had gone to Switzerland and claimed their inheritance. Agent Coleman, I a.s.sumed, had s.h.i.t a pickle over the whole thing, and the last I'd heard of him was when he'd made an unannounced morning visit to Carrie Chodosh's house, threatening her with jail time and the loss of her son if she refused to cooperate. But those were desperate words, I knew, from a desperate man. Carrie, of course, had stayed loyal-telling Agent Coleman to go f.u.c.k himself, in so many words. had continued unabated. Suzanne had kept my confidence, and Aunt Patricia's children had gone to Switzerland and claimed their inheritance. Agent Coleman, I a.s.sumed, had s.h.i.t a pickle over the whole thing, and the last I'd heard of him was when he'd made an unannounced morning visit to Carrie Chodosh's house, threatening her with jail time and the loss of her son if she refused to cooperate. But those were desperate words, I knew, from a desperate man. Carrie, of course, had stayed loyal-telling Agent Coleman to go f.u.c.k himself, in so many words.

And as the first trimester had become the second, Stratton continued to spiral downward, no longer able to pay me a million dollars a month. But I'd been expecting that, so I'd taken it in stride. Besides, I still had Biltmore and Monroe Parker, and they were each paying me one million per deal. And further cushioning the blow was Steve Madden Shoes. Steve and I could hardly keep up with all the department-store orders, and the program Elliot had laid out was working like a charm. We had five stores now and plans to open five more over the next twelve months. We were also starting to license our name, initially with belts and handbags and moving on to sportswear. And most importantly, Steve was learning to delegate authority and we were well on the way to building a first-cla.s.s management team. About six months ago, Gary Deluca, aka the Drizzler, had finally convinced us to move our warehouse to South Florida, and it had turned out to be a fine idea. And John Basile, aka the Spitter, was so busy trying to keep up with our department-store orders that his spit storms were becoming less and less frequent.

Meanwhile, the Cobbler was making money hand over fist-although not from Steve Madden Shoes. Instead, it was coming from the rathole game, with Steve Madden Shoes representing his future. But that was fine with me. After all, Steve and I had become the closest of friends and were spending most of our free time together. On the other hand, Elliot had succ.u.mbed once more to his drug addiction-sliding deeper and deeper into debt and depression.

At the beginning of the d.u.c.h.ess's third trimester I had my back operated on, but the procedure was unsuccessful-leaving me in worse shape than before. Perhaps I deserved it, though, because I had gone against the advice of Dr. Green, electing to have a local doctor (of dubious reputation) perform a minimally invasive procedure called a percutaneous disk extraction. The pain going down my left leg was excruciating and ceaseless. My only solace, of course, was Quaaludes, which I was always quick to point out to the d.u.c.h.ess, who was becoming increasingly annoyed at my constant slurring and frequent blackouts.

Nevertheless, she had fallen so deeply into the role of the codependent wife that she, too, no longer knew which way was up. And with all the money and the help and the mansions and the yacht and the sucking up at every department store and restaurant or wherever else we went, it was easy to pretend things were okay.

Just then, a terrible burning sensation under my nose-smelling salts!

My head immediately popped up, and there was the delivering d.u.c.h.ess, her gigantic p.u.s.s.y staring at me with contempt.

"Are you okay?" asked Dr. Bruno.

I took a deep breath and said, "Yeah, I'm zine, Dr. Bruno. I just got a little bit queasy zrom zrom the blood. I need a splash some water on my face." I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, did two blasts of c.o.ke, and ran back to the delivery room, feeling like a new man. "Okay," I said, no longer slurring. "Let's go, Nae! Don't give up now!" the blood. I need a splash some water on my face." I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, did two blasts of c.o.ke, and ran back to the delivery room, feeling like a new man. "Okay," I said, no longer slurring. "Let's go, Nae! Don't give up now!"

"I'll deal with you later," she snapped.

And then she began to push, and then she screamed, and then she pushed some more, and then she grit her teeth, and then suddenly, as if by magic, her v.a.g.i.n.a opened up to the size of a Volkswagen and-pop!-out came my son's head, with a thin coating of dark black hair. Next came a gush of water and then a moment later a tiny shoulder. Dr. Bruno grasped my son's torso and twisted him gently, and just like that he was out.

Then I heard, "Waaaaahhhhhhhh..."

"Ten fingers and ten toes!" said a happy Dr. Bruno, placing the baby on the d.u.c.h.ess's fat stomach. "You have a name yet?"

"Yes," said the fat, beaming d.u.c.h.ess. "Carter. Carter James Belfort."

"That's a very fine name," said Dr. Bruno.

In spite of my little mishap, Dr. Bruno was kind enough to allow me to cut the cord, and I did a good job. Having now earned his trust, he said, "Okay, it's time for Daddy to hold his son while I finish up with Mommy." With that, Dr. Bruno handed me my son.