I nodded and clenched my teeth, angry at the recent string of betrayals by men who had had the audacity to once call themselves my friends. “A little recipe on how to cook the Chef,” I said coldly, because if the shoe were on the other foot he would do the same fucking thing to me.

It seemed only appropriate that we would be in Brooklyn Heights when I finally told OCD the story of how the Duchess and I first met and how she ultimately stole my heart away from Denise. After all, it was here, in this very gentrified neighborhood, with the U.S. Attorney's Office a few blocks this way and the federal courthouse a few blocks that way, where I had picked the Duchess up on our first date.

At the time she was renting a one-bedroom apartment in a town house on Joralemon Street, which was just down the block from where OCD and I were now having lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Obviously, the main topic of today's lunch was not the sordidness of my personal life, but I felt that, after all OCD had done for me, I owed it to him. After all, no red-blooded American—even a dedicated FBI agent—can resist a story like this, where the primary ingredients are sex, drugs, greed, lust, divorce, betrayal, and blondes. I was now in the middle of explaining how our paths had crossed for the first time.

“… throw these wild parties at my beach house, and there was a total open-door policy. All you had to do was show up, smile, and you were in. It was the greatest recruiting method ever.” With that I paused and took a bite of a mu shu pork pancake that I had just rolled as if it were a joint, while OCD sampled a heaping forkful of his favorite chicken chow mein.

After a few seconds I said, “You were right; the food is really good here.”

OCD nodded. “The prices are dirt cheap too. To tell you the truth, I don't know how this place stays in business. It's not like the rents are cheap around here.”

I shrugged and stated the obvious: “They're probably paying the waiters six cents an hour and threatening to kill their relatives in China if they complain.”

“Probably,” said the FBI agent. “But if that's what it takes to get chicken chow mein at $5.95 a plate, then what can you do, right?” He scooped his fork back into the food and held it in the air suspensefully. “So you were saying?”

I nodded and put down my pancake. I said, “In the beginning, the parties were relatively small, maybe a few hundred people at most, but over time they grew into the thousands. And like everything else with Stratton, each party had to be more decadent than the last.”

OCD put down his fork. “Why is that?”

I shrugged. “Desensitization, mostly; you know, what seemed wild in 1989 didn't seem so wild in 1991. It was that, and also the fact that Stratton was a self-contained society. We were like ancient Rome, in that way—held together by a bloodlust to witness acts of depravity. In Rome they used to feed their slaves to the lions; at Stratton we used to toss midgets at a Velcro target.” I paused and picked up my pancake and took another bite.

“Anyway, the first parties were relatively harmless: There were DJs spinning records, there were people dancing, we had an open bar, some hors d'oeuvres, maybe a little bit of drugs, but that was about it.

“But flash-forward a few years later, and it's complete and utter insanity: Thousands of people are at my house, and they're literally pouringout onto the street and onto the beach, and on my rear deck are so many people that it's on the verge of collapse. Dune Road is completely impassable, because it's filled with drunk and drugged-out Strattonites, and it's all being supervised by the Westhampton cops—so the party goes on, despite complaints from my neighbors.

“Meanwhile, there's a live band playing and jugglers are juggling and dancers are dancing and hookers are hooking and strippers are stripping and acrobats are doing somersaults and a midget is walking around dressed in overalls, simply for the sake of amusement. On the beach itself there are giant hog snappers and even more giant lobsters, spinning on a rotisserie, next to a suckling pig with an apple stuffed in its mouth. And to make sure no one gets thirsty, two dozen half-naked waitresses are walking around, carrying sterling-silver trays with glasses of Dom Perignon on them.”

“Jesus,” muttered OCD, and he took another forkful of chow mein.

“Anyway, when I first met Nadine it was July Fourth weekend, 1990, which was still relatively early in the game, so she wasn't totally freaked out when she walked in the door. I was in my living room at the time, playing pool with Elliot Lavigne”— a wonderful thought!-“who, by the way, happens to be making a fortune again.”

“Really?” said OCD, putting down his fork. “I thought he was broke.”

I shook my head. “Not anymore! I heard he's flying high again.” Just how and where I heard, I chose to keep to myself. “He's got something going on in the garment center; I don't know all the details, but rumor has it he's making millions.”

“It's amazing,” said OCD, “considering the guy is a complete degenerate.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “and if I know Elliot, he's probably still smuggling cash over from Hong Kong.” I shrugged my shoulders. “You know, I'm surprised you and Joel never went after him. I mean, he kicked me back more cash than everyone else combined.”

OCD shrugged. “It's a difficult case. We subpoenaed his bank records a while ago, and there was just too much cash going in and out to find a pattern. In that sense, he was a good choice for a rathole.”

“Yeah?” I countered. “Well, I remember a time when his secretary loaded up a gym bag with seven hundred thousand dollars in cash and then gave it to my old driver, George, to deliver to me. And I know for a fact that all the money was withdrawn from the Bank of New York on the same day, and it went straight from the bank to his secretary, then to George, and then to me.”

OCD twisted his lips. “And how do you know that?”

“Because his secretary called and told me she'd just taken the money out of the bank and to have George come pick it up before Elliot gambled it away. And when George dropped the money off, he was sweating bullets and giving me this sort of strange look. He never said anything to me directly, but he did say something to Janet, and then she said something to me. Apparently George got curious and opened the gym bag and almost keeled over.” I shrugged. “Anyway, all you have to do is subpoena Elliot's secretary, George, Janet, and the bank records, and the rest is history.”

OCD stared at me for a second. Then he took another forkful of chow mein and started chewing. The unspoken message: “I'll check it out. Get back to your story.”

I took a deep breath and said, “So, anyway, Elliot and I were in the middle of playing pool when the Blockhead came running over all out of breath, and he said, ‘You gotta see the girl getting out of this Ferrari. She's off the charts,’ and, of course, since it was the Blockhead I took it with a grain of salt. But then he literally dragged me to the front door.

“And that's when I saw Nadine for the first time.” I smiled at the memory.

“I felt like Michael Corleone in The Godfather,when he sees Apollonia for the first time; she was walking through the olive fields in Sicily, and when Michael sees her he gets hit by the thunderbolt. Well, that's how I felt: I was totally blown away by her.” I paused and looked down at my pancake, considering whether or not to take a bite. I looked back up, realizing that I'd lost my appetite. “It was her legs I remember most. I always loved the Duchess's legs, and her ass too. It's rounder than a Puerto Rican's, in case you've noticed.” I winked.

OCD started laughing.

“Anyway, we said only a few words to each other, because she showed up with a date, and then the Strattonites immediately started torturing her.”