Chapter 78 – Lawless
A few years earlier, Edward Zwick had directed the romantic comedy About Last Night, starring a then up-and-coming Demi Moore. Back then, she was still married to Freddy Moore.
Now, at twenty-eight, she was married to Bruce Willis—her surname still borrowed from her ex. Bold and modern, Demi carried herself with a sharp edge. With Bruce skyrocketing to fame off the Die Hard franchise, she too had become a constant presence in Hollywood's spotlight.
Aaron couldn't help but think: She was the original choice for Ghost. If not for fate, she might have been sitting where Nicole Kidman now stood.
"Demi," Zwick asked, "I heard Mortal Thoughts got pushed back after changing directors?"
Demi gave a weary nod. "Yeah. The original director, Claude Koven, clashed with us. So we replaced him with Alan Rudolph. The shoot dragged out. We were supposed to open this December, but now it's delayed until next spring."
She spoke casually, but Aaron filed it away. Next spring, his Boyz n the Hood would face yet another competitor.
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That night, Aaron's phone buzzed. Jack Wells' voice crackled down the line.
"Aaron… I think I just got scammed. Twelve thousand dollars, gone."
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Later, inside a Fountain Avenue bar in West Hollywood, Jack sat slumped over a glass, frustration all over his face.
"I got a call from a stockbroker," he muttered. "Said he had a hot pick. A cutting-edge aerospace company out in the Midwest, supposedly linked to the Defense Department—supplying parts for new fighter jets. Still in approval stages.
"Shares were only fifty cents. He swore it was the best thing he'd seen all year. I bought in."
Aaron buried his face in his hand. "Didn't I tell you? If you want to play, dabble in oil futures. Penny stocks? They're garbage. Investing in a field you don't understand is just throwing your money away."
Jack grimaced, downing his drink. "The brokerage was called Stratton Oakmont. Think the stock'll go up?"
Aaron shot him a glare. "Fuck no. That's trash. Worth as much as a bum's cardboard mattress."
Jack groaned. "So what now? That was twelve thousand dollars, not pocket change."
Aaron leaned back, thinking. "Selling junk like that is technically illegal, but hard to pin down. Still… Stratton Oakmont, you said? Based on Long Island?"
Jack nodded miserably. "Yeah. I'd have to get someone to dig up the exact address. God, this is humiliating."
Aaron only smirked faintly. Welcome to Wall Street, Hollywood style. Lawless as hell.
Aaron nodded. "Yeah, the name's ridiculous. But look—twelve grand isn't much. You're with me now, and you won't be hurting for money."
Jack Wells frowned. "And that's it? Just let it go?"
Aaron smirked. "What do you want to do—hunt him down and beat the crap out of him?"
"At least give him a lesson," Jack muttered. "I need to blow off steam."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying you're going to New York?"
Jack nodded firmly. "Yeah. I'll head out there. You'll need to cover the Angel Theater for a few days."
"No problem. You've still got money left, right?" Aaron pulled out two checks, each for ten thousand, and handed them over. "But remember—when you invest in a field you don't understand, you're basically handing over free cash."
Jack waved him off. "You've already put plenty into Boyz n the Hood." He was referring to the extra money Aaron had dropped to keep Blood gang members from causing trouble on set.
"Take it," Aaron insisted. "I know you've got connections. Keep them warm. I'm not worried about a little money."
After all, Aaron was a multimillionaire now. What was twenty grand to him?
Jack sighed, taking the checks. His income now far exceeded what he'd made at CAA. He wasn't rich, but at least middle-class comfortable. Still, losing twelve grand to a penny stock scam burned. Twenty-four thousand shares of worthless paper. He swore he'd never touch stocks again. And as for Aaron's futures game? He wanted no part of it.
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The next morning, Jack flew out with two friends to Long Island to track down the company that conned him.
Aaron, meanwhile, stayed in L.A., overseeing renovations at the Angel Theater.
But his mind kept circling back to stocks. Microsoft. At $62 a share, with a market cap around $9.1 billion, it was a golden opportunity. When Ghost hit next year, Aaron promised himself he'd start a long-term position.
In the meantime, oil futures kept climbing. And with every rise, Aaron's mood soared. He even threw in the remaining $700,000.
---
By early October, Aaron checked the ticker as usual.
"Forty-two dollars a barrel?" His eyes lit up.
He rushed to Nicole Kidman, kissing her quickly. "Darling, book us a candlelit dinner at the best hotel tonight. We're celebrating."
Nicole blinked at him, then glanced at the newspapers spread across the desk. So Aaron's playing finance now?
That day, Aaron sold every last futures contract he held, ignoring the banker's suggestion to stay in.
"No. I need the cash. Sell it all. Now."
Greed was death in a game like this. From $30 to $42 a barrel was plenty.
His initial $2 million, plus the later $700,000, had been leveraged 20-to-1. A 20–40% rise in crude meant astronomical returns. After taxes and fees, Aaron's $2.7 million had ballooned into $14.8 million.
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Meanwhile, in Long Island's Nassau County, Jack Wells and his two buddies stormed into a shabby garage—the so-called office of Stratton Oakmont.
"This is the asshole who scammed me out of twelve grand?"
Baseball bats swung. Papers and phones went flying. Employees—just four or five of them—were left groaning on the floor.
One young man, not yet thirty, took the worst of it. His clothes were torn, his face swollen, blood at his lip. The others had clearly let him take the brunt—he was the boss.
Jack stood over him, seething. "You're the one who called me, huh? Sold me twenty-four thousand shares of some bullshit Aerotyne International stock? A 'defense contractor'? 'Supplying fighter jet parts'? 'Pending government approval'?"
He kicked the man again, each question punctuated by a curse.
The guy cried out in pain.
"Name," Jack snarled. "Tell me your name. I bet you've scammed plenty of others!"
The man wheezed, spitting blood. "Sir… we just… we just sell stock."
Another brutal kick.
"Your name! Don't you know penny stock scams like this are illegal? You bastards think you're above the law?"
Finally, through a whimper, the man answered:
"M-my name is Jordan… Jordan Belfort…"
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