“It’s a piece of shit,” she muttered, “and I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t put out that joint and slow down! In fact, if you don’t, I’m not gonna have sex with you tonight.”

In less than five seconds the Ferrari was doing sixty and I was putting the joint out. After all, I hadn’t had sex with the Duchess since two weeks before Carter was born, so it had been over two months. Admittedly, after seeing her on the delivery table with her pussy looking big enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa, I hadn’t been too much in the mood. And the fact that I’d been consuming an average of twelve Ludes a day, along with enough coke to send a band marching from Queens to China, hadn’t done wonders for my sex drive.

And then there was the Duchess. She had stayed true to her word: Despite Carter remaining perfectly healthy, she was still on edge. Perhaps two nights at the Plaza Hotel would do us some good. I took one eye off the road and replied, “I’ll gladly keep the speedometer below sixty, if you agree to fuck my brains out for the entire night; deal?”

The Duchess smiled. “It’s a deal, but first you gotta take me to Barneys and then to Bergdorfs. After that, I’m all yours.”

Yes, I thought, tonight was going to be a very good night. All I had to do was make it through those two overpriced torture chambers and then I’d be home free. And, of course, I’d keep it under sixty.

Barneys had been nice enough to rope off the top floor for us, and I was sitting in a leather armchair, sipping Dom Perignon, while the Duchess tried on outfit after outfit—spinning and twirling deliciously, pretending she was back in her modeling days. After her sixth spin, I caught a pleasant glimpse of her loamy loins, and thirty seconds later I was following her into the dressing room. Once inside, I attacked. In less than ten seconds I had her back against the wall and her dress hiked up above her waist and I was deep inside her. I was pounding her against the wall as we moaned and groaned, making passionate love to each other.

Two hours later, just after seven, we were walking through the revolving door of the Plaza Hotel. It was my favorite hotel in New York, despite the fact that it was owned by Donald Trump. Actually, I had a lot of respect for the Donald; after all, any man (even a billionaire) who can walk around town with that fucking hairdo and still get laid by the most gorgeous women in the world gives new meaning to the concept of being a man of power. Anyway, trailing us were two bellmen, holding a dozen or so shopping bags with $150,000 of women’s clothing inside. On the Duchess’s left wrist was a brand-new $40,000 Cartier watch studded with diamonds. So far, we’d had sex in three different department-store dressing rooms, and the night was still young.

But, alas, once inside the Plaza, things began to quickly go downhill. Standing behind the front desk was a rather pleasant-looking blonde in her early thirties. She smiled and said, “Back so soon, Mr. Belfort! Welcome! It’s good to see you again!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!

The Duchess was a few feet to the right, staring at her new watch and, thankfully, still a bit wobbly from the Lude I’d convinced her to take. I looked at the check-in blonde with panic in my eyes and started shaking my head rapidly, as if to say, “Good God, my wife is with me! Pipe the fuck down!”

With a great smile, the blonde said, “We have you staying in your usual suite, on the—”

Cutting her off: “Okay then! That’s perfect. I’ll just sign right here! Thank you!” I grabbed my room key and yanked the Duchess toward the elevator. “Come on, honey; let’s go. I need you!”

“You’re ready to do it again?” she asked, giggling.

Thank God for the Ludes! I thought. A sober Duchess would never miss a trick. In fact, she’d already be swinging. “Are you kidding me?” I replied. “I’m always ready with you!”

Just then the resident midget came scampering by, in a lime-green Plaza outfit with gold buttons running up the front and a matching green cap. “Welcome back!” croaked the midget.

I smiled and nodded and kept pulling the Duchess toward the elevator. The two bellmen were still trailing us, carrying all our shopping bags, which I had insisted we bring to the room so she could try everything on for me again.

Inside the room, I tipped each bellman one hundred dollars and swore them to secrecy. The moment they left, the Duchess and I jumped on the king-size bed and started rolling around and giggling.

And then the phone rang.

The two of us looked at the phone with sinking hearts. No one knew we were here except Janet and Nadine’s mother, who was watching Carter. Christ!It could only be bad news. I knew it in my very heart. I knew it in my very soul. After the third ring I said, “Maybe it’s the front desk.”

I reached over and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Jordan, it’s Suzanne. You and Nadine need to come home right now. Carter has a hundred-and-five fever; he’s not moving.”

I looked at the Duchess. She was staring at me, waiting for the news. I didn’t know what to say. Over the last six weeks she’d been as close to the edge as I’d ever seen her. This would be the crushing blow—the death of our newborn son. “We need to leave right now, sweetie. Carter’s burning up with fever; your mom said he’s not moving.”

There were no tears from my wife. She just closed her eyes tightly and compressed her lips and started nodding. It was over now. We both knew it. For whatever reason, God didn’t want this innocent child in the world. Just why, I couldn’t figure out. But right now there was no time for tears. We needed to go home and say good-bye to our son.

Tears would come later. Rivers of them.

The Ferrari hit 125 miles per hour as we crossed over the Queens–Long Island border. This time, though, the Duchess’s take on things was slightly different. “Go faster! Please! We have to get him to the hospital before it’s too late!”

I nodded and punched down the accelerator, and the Testarossa took off like a rocket. Within three seconds the needle was pegged at 140 and still climbing—we were passing cars doing seventy-five as if they were standing still. Just why we’d told Suzanne not to take Carter to the hospital I wasn’t quite sure, although it had something to do with wanting to see our son at home one last time.

In no time we were pulling into the driveway; the Duchess was running to the front door before the Ferrari had even come to a stop. I looked at my watch: It was 7:45 p.m. It was usually a forty-five-minute ride from the Plaza Hotel to Pin Oak Court: I had made it in seventeen minutes.

On our way back from the city, the Duchess spoke to Carter’s pediatrician on her cell phone, and the prognosis was horrific. At Carter’s age, an extreme fever accompanied by lack of movement pointed to spinal meningitis. There were two types: bacterial and viral. Both could be deadly, but the difference was that if he made it through the initial stages of viral meningitis, he would make a complete recovery. With bacterial meningitis, however, he would most likely live out the rest of his life plagued with blindness, deafness, and mental retardation. The thought was too much to bear.

I had always wondered how a parent learns to love a child who suffers from such things. Occasionally, I would see a small child who was mentally retarded playing in the park. It was a heart-wrenching affair—to watch the parents doing their best to create even the slightest bit of normalcy or happiness for their child. And I had always been awed by the tremendous love they showed their child in spite of it all—in spite of the embarrassment they might feel; in spite of the guilt they might feel; and in spite of the obvious burden it placed upon their own lives.