"You're not gonna like it," warned Wigwam. "He denies the existence of the escrow agreement. He says it's an illegal agreement and he knows you won't make it public."

I took a deep breath, trying to maintain control. "So he thinks I'm bluffing, huh?"

"Pretty much," said Wigwam, "but he said he wants to resolve things amicably. He's offering you two dollars a share."

I rolled my neck slowly in a great circle as I did the calculations. At two dollars a share he would be stealing more than $13 million from me, and that was just on the stock; he was also holding a million of my options, which had an exercise price of seven dollars. Today's market price-thirteen dollars-put them six dollars in the money. So that was another $4.5 million. All told, he was trying to steal $17.5 million from me. Ironically, I wasn't even that angry about it. After all, I had known it all along, from that very day in my office all those years ago, when I'd explained to Danny that his friend couldn't be trusted. It was for that very reason, in fact, why I had made Steve sign the escrow agreement and hand over the stock certificate.

So why should I be angry? I'd been forced down a foolish path by the bozos at NASDAQ; I had been given no choice but to divest my stock to Steve, and I had taken all necessary precautions-preparing myself for this very eventuality. I ran the entire history of the relationship through my mind, and I couldn't find one mistake I'd made. And while there was no denying that showing up at the office stoned hadn't been good business on my part, it had absolutely nothing to do with what was going on here. He would have tried to f.u.c.k me either way; all the drugs had done was bring it to the surface quicker.

"All right," I said calmly. "I have to head out to the Hamptons now, so we'll take care of this first thing Monday morning. Don't even bother calling Steve back. Just get all the paperwork together for the stock purchase. It's time to go to war."

Southampton! WASP-Hampton! Yes, that was where my new beach house was. The time had come to grow up, and Westhampton was just a bit too pedestrian pedestrian for the d.u.c.h.ess's discerning tastes. Besides, Westhampton was full of Jews, and I was sick and tired of Jews, despite being one. Donna Karan (a higher cla.s.s of Jew) had a house just to the west; Henry Kravis (also a higher cla.s.s of Jew) had a house just to the east. And for the bargain price of $5.5 million, I now owned a ten-thousand-square-foot gray and white postmodern contemporary mansion on the fabulous Meadow Lane, the most exclusive road on the entire planet. The front of the house looked out over Shinnec.o.c.k Bay; the rear of the house looked out over the Atlantic Ocean; and the sunrises and sunsets exploded with a nearly indescribable palette of oranges and reds and yellows and blues. It was truly glorious, a vista worthy of the Wild Wolf. for the d.u.c.h.ess's discerning tastes. Besides, Westhampton was full of Jews, and I was sick and tired of Jews, despite being one. Donna Karan (a higher cla.s.s of Jew) had a house just to the west; Henry Kravis (also a higher cla.s.s of Jew) had a house just to the east. And for the bargain price of $5.5 million, I now owned a ten-thousand-square-foot gray and white postmodern contemporary mansion on the fabulous Meadow Lane, the most exclusive road on the entire planet. The front of the house looked out over Shinnec.o.c.k Bay; the rear of the house looked out over the Atlantic Ocean; and the sunrises and sunsets exploded with a nearly indescribable palette of oranges and reds and yellows and blues. It was truly glorious, a vista worthy of the Wild Wolf.

As I pa.s.sed through the wrought-iron gates at the front of the property, I couldn't help but feel proud. Here I was, behind the wheel of a brand-new royal-blue $300,000 Bentley turbo. And, of course, I had enough cocaine in the glove compartment to keep the entire town of Southampton dancing the Watusi from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

I had been to this house only once, a little over a month ago, when there was still no furniture. I'd brought a business a.s.sociate named David Davidson here. Naming him that had been a cruel joke, although I found myself spending more time watching him blink his right eye than focusing on his name. Yes, he was a blinker, but only a one-sided blinker, which made it that much more disconcerting. Anyway, the Uniblinker owned a brokerage firm named DL Cromwell, which employed a bunch of ex-Strattonites; we were doing business together, making nothing but money. Yet the Uniblinker's most desirable trait-what I liked most about him-was that he was a c.o.ke addict, and on the very night I'd brought him to the house, we had first stopped at Grand Union and bought fifty cans of Reddi Wip. Then we sat on the bleached-wood floor and held the cans upright, pushed the nozzles to the side, and sucked out all the nitrous oxide. It was a h.e.l.luva buzz, especially when we alternated each hit with two blasts of cocaine, one up either nostril.

It had been a banner evening, but nothing compared to what was in store for tonight. The d.u.c.h.ess had furnished the house-to the tune of $2 million of my not-so-hard-earned money. She was so very excited about it that she'd been spewing her aspiring-decorator bulls.h.i.t ad nauseam, and all the while she never missed an opportunity to bust my b.a.l.l.s for being a c.o.ke addict.

And f.u.c.k her for that! Who the h.e.l.l was she to tell me what to do, especially when I'd become a c.o.ke addict for her benefit! After all, she had been threatening to leave me if I didn't stop falling asleep in restaurants. So that was why I'd switched to c.o.ke in the first place. And now she was saying things like: "You're sick. You've haven't slept in a month. You won't even make love to me anymore! And you only weigh a hundred thirty pounds. All you eat are Froot Loops. And your skin is green!" To have given the d.u.c.h.ess the Life and have her turn on me at the last second! Well, f.u.c.k her too! It was easy for her to love me when I was sick. All those nights when I was in chronic pain, she would come in and try to comfort me and tell me that she loved me no matter what. And now it turned out that it was all a clever plot. She could no longer be trusted. Fine. Good. Let her go her own way. I didn't need her. In fact, I didn't need anybody.

All these thoughts were roaring through my brain as I walked up the mahogany stairs and opened the front door to my latest mansion. "h.e.l.lo," I said, in a very loud voice, stepping through the front door. The entire rear wall was gla.s.s, and I was looking at a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. At seven p.m. at this time of spring, the sun was just setting behind me, on the bay side, and the water looked an interesting shade of Prince purple. Meanwhile, the house looked gorgeous. Yes, there was no denying that in spite of the d.u.c.h.ess being a world-cla.s.s pain in the a.s.s-a henpecking killjoy of biblical proportions-she had a flair for decorating. The entryway led to a vast living room. It was a wide-open s.p.a.ce with soaring ceilings. There was so much furniture crammed into this place it was f.u.c.king mind-boggling. Overstuffed sofas and love seats and club chairs and wing chairs and ottomans were scattered this way and that, each one a separate seating area. All of this fabulous f.u.c.king furniture was white and taupe, very beachy, very shabby chic.

Just then came the royal greeting committee. It was Maria, the fat cook, and her husband, Ignacio, a mean-spirited little butler, who at four-foot-eight was a shade taller than his wife. They were from Portugal and prided themselves on providing service in the formal, traditional way. I despised them because Gwynne despised them, and Gwynne was one of the few people who truly understood me-she and my children. Who knew if these two could be trusted? I would have to keep a close eye on them...and, if necessary, neutralize them.

"Good evening, Mr. Belfort," said Maria and Ignacio in unison. Ignacio bowed formally and Maria curtsied. Then Ignacio added, "How are you this evening, sir?"

"Never better," I muttered. "Where's my loving wife?"

"She's in town, shopping," replied the cook.

"What a f.u.c.king surprise," I snarled, walking past them. I was carrying a Louis Vuitton travel bag, loaded with dangerous drugs.

"Dinner will be served at eight," said Ignacio. "Mrs. Belfort asked me to inform you that your guests will be here around seven-thirty, and if you could please be ready by then."

Oh, f.u.c.k her, I thought. "Okay," I sputtered. "I'll be in the TV room; please don't disturb me. I have important business to attend to." With that, I went into the TV room, flicked on the Rolling Stones, and broke out the drugs. The d.u.c.h.ess had instructed me to be ready by seven-thirty. What the f.u.c.k did that mean? That I should be dressed in a f.u.c.king tuxedo-or top hat and tails? What was I, a f.u.c.king monkey? I was wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and that was just f.u.c.king fine! Who the f.u.c.k paid for all this s.h.i.t? Me-that's who! And she had the nerve to be giving me orders!

Eight p.m., dinner is served! And who needs it? Give me Froot Loops and skim milk, not this chichi bulls.h.i.t that Maria and the d.u.c.h.ess hold so dear. The dinner table was the size of a horseshoe pit. Still, the dinner guests weren't all that bad, with the exception of the d.u.c.h.ess. She was sitting across from me, on the other side of the pit. She was so far away I needed an intercom to converse with her, which was probably a good thing. Admittedly, she was gorgeous. But trophy wives like the d.u.c.h.ess were a dime a dozen, and the good ones wouldn't turn on me for no good reason.

Sitting to my right were Dave and Laurie Beall, who were up visiting from Florida. Laurie was a good blond egg. She knew her place in the general scheme of things, so she understood me. The only problem was that she was also under the influence of the d.u.c.h.ess, who'd crawled inside her very mind-planting subversive thoughts against me. So Laurie couldn't be fully trusted.

Her husband, Dave, was another story. He could be trusted-more or less. He was a big country b.u.mpkin-six-two, two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle. When he was in college he worked as a bouncer. One day someone had mouthed off to him, and Dave punched him in the side of the head and knocked his eye out. Rumor had it that the guy's eye was hanging by a couple of ligaments. Dave was an ex-Strattonite, who now worked at DL Cromwell. Tonight, I could count on him to repel intruders. In fact, he would do it with relish.

My other two guests were the Schneidermans, Scott and Andrea. Scott was a Bayside boy, although we hadn't been friends growing up. He was a confirmed h.o.m.os.e.xual who'd gotten married for inexplicable reasons, although, if I had to guess, it was to have children, of which he now had one, a daughter. He, too, was an ex-Strattonite, although he'd never possessed the killer instinct. He was out of the business now. He was here for only one reason: He was my c.o.ke dealer. He had a connection at the airport and was getting me pure cocaine from Colombia. His wife was innocuous-a chubby brunette with only a few words to say, all of which were meaningless.

After four courses and two and a half hours of torturous conversation, it was finally eleven o'clock. I said to Dave and Scott, "Come on, guys, let's go into the TV room and watch a movie." I rose from my chair and headed for the TV room, with Dave and Scott in tow. I had no doubt the d.u.c.h.ess wanted to talk to me as little as I wanted to talk to her. And that was fine. Our marriage was basically over; it was only a matter of time now.

What happened next started with an inspired notion I had to divide up my cocaine stash into two separate snorting parties. The first party would commence now and consist of eight grams of powdered cocaine. It would take place here, in the TV room, and last for approximately two hours. Then we would adjourn to the game room upstairs, where we would play pool and darts and get whacked on Dewar's. Then, at two a.m., we would head back downstairs to the TV room and start the second snorting party, which would consist of a twenty-gram rock of ninety-eight percent pure cocaine. To snort it in one sitting would be a conquest worthy of the Wolf himself.

And follow this plan we did-right down to the very f.u.c.king letter, in fact-spending the next two hours snorting thick lines of cocaine through an 18-karat-gold straw, while we watched MTV with no sound and listened to "Sympathy for the Devil" on repeat mode. Then we went upstairs to the game room. When two a.m. rolled around, I said with a great smile, "The time has come to snort the rock, my friends! Follow me."

We walked back downstairs to the TV room and sat in our previous positions. I reached over for the rock and it was gone. Gone? How the f.u.c.k was that possible? I looked at Dave and Scott and said, "Okay, guys: Stop f.u.c.king around. Which one of you took the rock?"

They both looked at me, astonished. Dave said, "What are you, kidding me? I didn't take the rock! I swear on my kid's eyes!"

Scott added, in a defensive tone, "Don't look at me! I would never do something like that." He shook his head gravely. "f.u.c.king around with another man's c.o.ke is a sin against G.o.d. Nothing less."

The three of us got down on our hands and knees and started crawling around on the carpet. Two minutes later we were looking at one another, dumbfounded-and empty-handed. I said skeptically, "Maybe it fell behind the seat cushions."

Dave and Scott nodded, and we proceeded to remove all the cushions. We found nothing.

"I can't believe this s.h.i.t," I said. "It makes no f.u.c.king sense." Then a wild inspiration came bubbling up into my brain. Perhaps the rock fell inside inside one of the seat cushions! It seemed improbable, but stranger things had happened, hadn't they? one of the seat cushions! It seemed improbable, but stranger things had happened, hadn't they?

Indeed. "I'll be right back," I said, and I ran to the kitchen, full speed, and slid a stainless-steel butcher knife out of its wooden holder. Then I ran back to the TV room, armed and ready. The rock was mine!

"What are you doing?" asked Dave, in the tone of the incredulous.

"What the f.u.c.k do you think I'm doing?" I sputtered, dropping to my knees and plunging the knife into a seat cushion. I began throwing the foam and feathers on the carpet. The sofa had three seat cushions and an equal number of backrests. In less than a minute I'd shredded all of them. "Motherf.u.c.ker!" I muttered. I switched my focus to the love seat, cutting the cushions open with a vengeance. Still nothing. Now I was getting p.i.s.sed. "I can't believe this s.h.i.t! Where'd the f.u.c.king rock go?" I looked at Dave. "Were we in the living room at all?"

He shook his head back and forth nervously. "I don't remember being in the living room," he said. "Why don't we just forget about the rock?"

"Are you f.u.c.king crazy or something? I'm gonna find that f.u.c.king rock if it's the last thing I do!" I turned to Scott and narrowed my eyes accusingly. "Don't bulls.h.i.t me, Scott. We were were in the living room, weren't we?" in the living room, weren't we?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm really sorry, but I don't remember being in the living room."

"You know what?" I screamed. "You guys are both worthless pieces of s.h.i.t! You know as well as I do that that f.u.c.king rock fell into a seat cushion. It's gotta be in there somewhere, and I'm gonna f.u.c.king prove it to you." I stood up, kicked the remains of the cushions out of my way, and walked through a littering of foam and feathers into the living room. In my right hand was the butcher knife. My eyes were wide open. My teeth were clenched in rage.

Look at all these f.u.c.king sofas! f.u.c.k her if she thinks she can get away with buying all this furniture! I took a deep breath. I was on the edge. I needed to get a grip. But I had come up with a perfect plan-saving the rock until two in the morning. It could've been perfect and now all this furniture. f.u.c.k it all! I dropped to my knees and went to work, making my way around the living room, stabbing wildly until every couch and chair was destroyed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dave and Scott staring at me.

And then it hit me-it was inside the carpet! How f.u.c.king obvious! I looked down at the taupe carpet. How much did this f.u.c.king thing cost? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? It was easy for her to spend my money. I started slicing up the carpet, like a man possessed.

A minute later, nothing. I sat on my haunches and looked around the living room. It was completely destroyed. Just then I saw a stand-up bra.s.s lamp. It looked human. With my heart palpitating out of my chest, I dropped the butcher knife. I picked the lamp up over my head and started swinging it the way the Norse G.o.d Thor swung his hammer. Then I released it in the direction of the fireplace, and it went flying into the stone...CRASH! I ran back over to the knife and picked it up. I ran back over to the knife and picked it up.

Just then the d.u.c.h.ess came running out of the master bathroom, wearing a tiny white robe. Her hair was perfect and her legs looked glorious. It was her way of trying to manipulate me, to control me. It had worked in the past, but not this time. I had my guard up now. I was wise to her game.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" she screamed, putting her hand to her mouth. "Please, stop! Why are you doing this?"

"Why?" I screamed. "You want to know f.u.c.king why? Well, I'll tell you f.u.c.king why! I'm James f.u.c.king Bond looking for microfilm! That's f.u.c.king why!"

She looked at me with her mouth agape and her eyes wide open. "You need help," she said tonelessly. "You're a sick man."

Her very words enraged me. "Oh, f.u.c.k you, Nadine! Who the f.u.c.k are you to tell me I'm sick? What are you gonna do-try to take a swing at me? Well, come over and see what happens!"

All at once a terrible pain in my back! Someone was pushing me to the floor! Now my wrist was being crushed. "Oww, f.u.c.k!" I screamed. I looked up and Dave Beall was on top of me. He squeezed my wrist until the butcher knife fell to the ground. Someone was pushing me to the floor! Now my wrist was being crushed. "Oww, f.u.c.k!" I screamed. I looked up and Dave Beall was on top of me. He squeezed my wrist until the butcher knife fell to the ground.

He looked up at Nadine. "Go back inside," he said calmly. "I'll take care of him. Everything's gonna be fine."

Nadine ran back into the master bedroom and slammed the door. A second later I heard the lock click.

Dave was still on top of me, and I turned my head around to face him and started laughing. "All right," I said, "you can let me up now. I was only kidding. I wasn't gonna hurt her. I was just trying to show her who's boss."

Clutching my right biceps with his enormous hand, Dave led me over to a seating area on the other side of the house-one of the few I hadn't destroyed. He placed me in an overstuffed club chair, looked up at Scott, and said, "Go get the vial of Xanax."

The last thing I remember was Dave handing me a gla.s.s of water and a few Xanax.

I woke up and it was nighttime, the following day. I was back in my office in Old Brookville, sitting behind my mahogany desk. Just how I got here I wasn't quite sure, but I did remember saying, "Thank you, Rocco!" to Rocco Day, for pulling me out of the car after I'd smashed it into the stone pillar at the edge of the estate on my way home from Southampton. Or had it been Rocco Night I'd thanked? Well...who really gave a s.h.i.t? They were loyal to Bo, and Bo was loyal to me, and the d.u.c.h.ess didn't say much to either of them-so she hadn't crawled inside their minds yet. I would be on alert, though.

Where was the Doleful d.u.c.h.ess? I wondered. I hadn't seen her since the butcher-knife episode. She was home, but she was hiding somewhere in the mansion-hiding from me! Was she in the master bedroom? No matter. The important thing was my children; at least I was a good father. In the end, that's how I would be remembered: He was a good father, a family man at heart, and a wonderful provider!

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out my Ziploc bag with nearly a pound of c.o.ke in it. I dumped it on my desktop and dropped my head into the pile and snorted with both nostrils simultaneously. Two seconds later I jerked my head up and muttered, "Holy f.u.c.king Christ! Oh, my G.o.d!" and then I slumped back in my chair and started breathing heavily.

At that moment the TV volume seemed to increase dramatically, and I heard a gruff, accusing voice say: "Do you know what time it is right now? Where's your family? Is this your idea of fun-sitting in front of a television set at this hour of the morning-alone? Drunk, high, strung out? Look at your watch for a second, if you still have one."

What the f.u.c.k? I looked at my watch: a $22,000 gold Bulgari. Of course I still had one! I focused back on the TV. What a face! Christ! Christ! It was a man in his early fifties, enormous head, huge neck, menacingly handsome features, perfectly coiffed gray hair. In that very instant the name Fred Flintstone came bubbling up into my brain. It was a man in his early fifties, enormous head, huge neck, menacingly handsome features, perfectly coiffed gray hair. In that very instant the name Fred Flintstone came bubbling up into my brain.

Fred Flintstone plowed on: "You want to get rid of me right now? How about getting rid of your disease right now! Alcoholism and addiction are killing you. Seafield has the answers. Call us today; we can help."

Unbelievable! I thought. How very f.u.c.king intrusive! I started muttering at the TV. "You motherf.u.c.king Fred Flintstone head-I'll kick your f.u.c.king caveman a.s.s from here to Timbuktu!"

Flintstone kept talking. "Remember: There's no shame in being an alcoholic or an addict; the only shame is doing nothing about it. So call right now and take..."

I looked around the room...there!...a Remington sculpture on a green marble pedestal. It was two feet tall, made of solid bra.s.s-a cowboy riding a bucking bronco. I picked it up and ran toward the TV screen. With all the strength I could muster, I winged it at Fred Flintstone and...CRASH!

No more Fred Flintstone.

I addressed the shattered TV: "You motherf.u.c.ker! I warned you! Coming into my f.u.c.king house and telling me I got a f.u.c.king problem. Look at you now, motherf.u.c.ker!"

I walked back to my desk and sat down, then I dropped my bleeding nose into the pile of c.o.ke. But rather than snorting it, I simply rested my face in it, using it as a pillow.

I felt a slight twinge of guilt that my children were upstairs, but since I was such a wonderful provider all the doors were solid mahogany. There was no way anyone had heard a thing. Or that was what I'd thought until I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. A second later came the voice of the d.u.c.h.ess: "Oh, my G.o.d! What are you doing?"

I lifted my head, fully aware that my face was completely covered in c.o.ke, and not giving a s.h.i.t. I looked at the d.u.c.h.ess, and she was stark naked-trying to manipulate me with the possibility of s.e.x.

I said, "Fred Flintstone was trying to come through the TV. But don't worry-I got him. You can go back to sleep now. It's safe."

She stared at me with her mouth open. She had arms crossed underneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and I couldn't help but stare at her nipples. What a shame the woman had turned on me. What a shame the woman had turned on me. She would be difficult to replace-not impossible, but difficult. She would be difficult to replace-not impossible, but difficult.

"Your nose is gushing blood," she said softly.

I shook my head in disgust. "Stop exaggerating, Nadine. It's barely even bleeding, and it's only because it's allergy season."

She started to cry. "I can't stay here anymore unless you go to rehab. I love you too much to watch you kill yourself. I've always loved you; don't ever forget that." And then she left the room, closing the door behind her but not slamming it.

"f.u.c.k you!" I screamed at the door. "I don't got a f.u.c.king problem! I could stop anytime I want!" I took a deep breath and used my T-shirt to wipe the blood off my nose and chin. What did she think, that she could bluff me into rehab? Please! I felt another warm gush under my nose. I lifted the bottom of my T-shirt again and wiped away more blood. Christ! Christ! If I only had ether, I could make the cocaine into crack. Then I could just smoke the c.o.ke and avoid all these nasal problems. If I only had ether, I could make the cocaine into crack. Then I could just smoke the c.o.ke and avoid all these nasal problems. But, wait! But, wait! There were other ways to make crack, weren't there? Yes, there were homespun recipes...something having to do with baking soda. There had to be a recipe for making crack on the Internet! There were other ways to make crack, weren't there? Yes, there were homespun recipes...something having to do with baking soda. There had to be a recipe for making crack on the Internet!

Five minutes later I had my answer. I stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed the ingredients, and dropped them on the granite countertop. I filled a copper pot with water and dumped in the cocaine and baking soda, then turned the burner on high and put a cover on it. I placed a ceramic cookie jar on top of the lid.

I sat down on a stool next to the stove and rested my head on the countertop. I started feeling dizzy, so I shut my eyes and tried to relax. I was drifting...drifting...KABOOM! I nearly jumped out of my own skin as my homespun recipe exploded all over the kitchen. There was crack everywhere-on the ceiling, floor, and walls. I nearly jumped out of my own skin as my homespun recipe exploded all over the kitchen. There was crack everywhere-on the ceiling, floor, and walls.

A minute later the d.u.c.h.ess came running in. "Oh, my G.o.d! What happened? What was that explosion?" She was out of breath, almost panic-stricken.

"Nothing," I muttered. "I was baking a cake and fell asleep."

The last thing I remember her saying was: "I'm going to my mother's tomorrow morning."

And the last thing I remember thinking was: The sooner the better.

CHAPTER 36

JAILS, INSt.i.tUTIONS, AND DEATH

The next morning-which is to say, a few hours later-I woke up in my office. I felt a warm, altogether pleasant sensation under my nose and on my cheeks. Ahhh, so soothing it was.... The d.u.c.h.ess was still with me...cleaning me...mothering me Ahhh, so soothing it was.... The d.u.c.h.ess was still with me...cleaning me...mothering me...

I opened my eyes and...alas, it was Gwynne. She was holding a very expensive white bath towel, which she'd dampened with lukewarm water, and she was wiping off the cocaine and blood that had caked on my face.

I smiled at Gwynne, one of the only people who hadn't betrayed me. Could she really be trusted, though? I closed my eyes and ran it through my mind.... Yes, she could. No two ways about it. She would see this through with me to the bitter end. In fact, long after the d.u.c.h.ess had abandoned me, Gwynne would still be there-taking care of me and helping me raise the children.

"Are you okay?" asked my favorite Southern belle.

"Yeah," I croaked. "What are you doing here on Sunday? Don't you have church?"

Gwynne smiled sadly. "Mrs. Belfort called me and asked me to come over today to keep an eye on the kids. Here, lift your arms up; I brought you a fresh T-shirt."

"Thanks, Gwynne. I'm kinda hungry. Can you bring me a bowl of Froot Loops, please?"

"They're raight raight there," she said, pointing to the green marble pedestal where the bra.s.s cowboy used to reside. "They're nice and soggy," she added, "just the way you like 'em!" there," she said, pointing to the green marble pedestal where the bra.s.s cowboy used to reside. "They're nice and soggy," she added, "just the way you like 'em!"

Talk about service! How come the d.u.c.h.ess couldn't be like that? "Where's Nadine?" I asked.