“Ironically, Denise still had no idea that I was even having an affair. I'd been pretty careful about things—at least in the beginning— but once I moved into the city that changed too. By mid-February Nadine and I were out dancing in nightclubs and holding hands across a table at Canastel's, which was one of the hottest restaurants in Manhattan back then. Everyone knew me there, and someone, I guess, called Denise one night to give her a heads-up that I was out for dinner with Nadine. A few hours later, when my limo pulled up in front of Olympic Towers, the door swung open, but instead of the doorman standing there, it was Denise. And, to make matters worse, I happened to be right on top of Nadine at the moment, engaged in a passionate kiss and telling her how much I loved her.

“‘Youstay the fuck in the car!’ Denise screamed at Nadine. ‘And youget the fuck out of the car!’ she screamed at me. Then she did a double take at Nadine and her face dropped. ‘You're the girl from the party,’ she said softly. Suddenly both of them were in tears at the same time.” I paused and shook my head sadly. “So I turned to Nadine, who was white as a ghost now, and I squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘I need to take care of this,’ I said gently. ‘Why don't you go home and I'll call you in a little while, okay?’

“ ‘I'm so sorry,’ she said through tears. ‘I didn't mean for this to happen, I feel terrible.’ And that was true, of course. Neither of us meant for it to happen, and we both felt terrible about it. But it didhappen, and the fact that we felt bad about it didn't make it any easier on Denise.” I shook my head slowly, trying to make sense of it all. “In a way, you don't choose who you fall in love with, you know? It just sort of happens. And when you dofall in love—that all-consuming love, that lusty love, where two people live and breathe each other twenty-four hours a day—what do you do then?” I shrugged and answered my own question: “There's nothing you cando. You can't be without the other person for more than a few hours without going crazy. And that was the sort of love Nadine and I had. We were spending every waking moment together. Even when I went to work, which was seldom, she would drive out to Long Island with me and then keep herself busy until lunch. And when she had modeling appointments, I would drop her off and wait outside until she was done. We were obsessed with each other.

“Anyway, the limousine pulled away and it was just Denise and me. The doorman had run inside the building when he heard Denise screaming at me. She was screaming at the top of her lungs: ‘How could you do this to me? I married you when you had nothing! I stuck with you through thick and thin! When you were bankrupt I cooked for you! And made loveto you! I was a good wife! And this is how you repay me? How could you do this?’

“At first I tried to put up an argument, mostly out of instinct, but there was nothing to say, really. She was a hundred percent right, and we both knew it. So I just stood there apologizing to her over and over again, telling her I didn't mean for it to happen. Finally she said, ‘Just tell me you don't love her; that's all I ask.’ She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye, and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She said, ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you're not in love with her, Jordan. Please.As long as you're not in love with her, we can work it out.’

“But after a few seconds, I shook my head and said, ‘I'm so sorry, but I am in love with her. I didn't mean for this to happen.’ And I started crying myself. ‘I'll always take care of you,’ I said. ‘You'll never want for anything.’ It was no use. She broke down and started shaking in my arms.

“I can tell you that I felt like the biggest louse on earth at that moment.” I shook my head sadly. “And Denise just kept sobbing uncontrollably, right there in the street. But then, out of nowhere, her friend Lisa emerged from the shadows, and she grabbed Denise and hugged her. Lisa said to me, ‘It's okay, Jordan. I'll take care of her now. She'll be all right,’ and then she winked at me and led Denise away.

“I was bowled over by that. I mean, I would've expected Lisa to be shooting daggers at me with her eyes, and she wasn't. But what I didn't know back then was that Lisa was in the middle of her own affair; that would come out a few months later, when she got caught cheating with some local playboy type on Long Island. Then she got divorced too.” I looked at OCD and shrugged. “And that's it, Greg. That's Lifestyles of the Dysfunctional on the North Shore of Long Island. And it's not a pretty picture.”

From there we spent a few minutes talking about what happened after—my marriage to Nadine, the birth of my children, my escalating drug habit, and, finally, we turned to the subject of the Chef.

“The problem,” I said, “is that people like Dennis and me get so caught up in the cover story that when we talk about the past we stick to the cover story and don't tell the truth. It has nothing to do with him thinking I'm wired. If he did, he wouldn't even be returning my call.

“It has more to do with protocol than anything—that when you discuss the past you hedge by mentioning the cover story. That's why when you listen to tapes of us, he always starts by saying things like, ‘You know, there are two versions of things: our version and their version,’ and then he goes on talking about juries and reasonable doubts.”

OCD nodded. “It's a valid point, and, of course, I'm aware of it. But over time people tend to get sloppy. So we wait for a break.”

I shook my head no. “It won't happen with the Chef. The cover story, to him, is more truthful than the truth. That's why we have to take a different tack.”

“What's that?”

“Well,” I said confidently, “I think it's time to leave the past behind and look to the future.” And, with that, I told OCD my plan.

CHAPTER 20

ALL MEN BETRAY

The Nagra was my shield, the microphone was my sword, and the words rolled off my tongue with such ease and fluidity that I could have gotten John Gotti to share every last detail of how he and his crew whacked Paul Castellano in front of Sparks Steak House.

Yes, I thought, having a clear conscience is a wonderful thing for a cooperator.

A rat? No, no. I was no such thing. After all, a rat gives up his friends, and I didn't have any. I had been betrayed by everyone: Dave Beall, Elliot Lavigne, my own wife, for Chrissake,and, if given the chance, by the Jersey Chef too.

So now it was my turn.

It was Friday afternoon, a little past two, and the Chef and I had just arrived at a small, well-appointed office I kept in Plainview, Long Island, which was halfway between Manhattan and the Hamptons. Plainview was a boring town— soboring, in fact, that in the entire history of Long Island no conversation had ever begun with: “You'll never believe what happened in Plainview the other day…”

Well, thatwas about to change!

I was determined to make, before the afternoon was out, the most incriminating consensually recorded conversation in the history of not only Plainview but also of Manhattan, New Jersey, the eastern seaboard of the United States, and, for that matter, the entire world.

But, first, opening pleasantries. We exchanged hugs and hellos as I led the Chef to a small seating area. An oxblood-colored leather couch and two matching club chairs surrounded a brass-and-glass coffee table. As we took seats on the couch, the Chef said, “I didn't even know you still hadthis place!”

“Yeah,” I said casually. “I didn't have the heart to get rid of it. I'm sentimental, I guess.” I smiled warmly at the Chef, who, as usual, looked as cool as a cucumber in his light-gray business suit and red shepherd's check necktie. I was dressed more casually, in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white polo shirt, both of which were doing a fine job of concealing my sword and shield.