Wilbur Falcone

Two years ago, like a modern day Noah, Nicholas Jacinto arrived at the townhouse of billionaire Phillip Falcone with a menagerie of exotic animals. He carted a sloth, a king snake, a lemur, a marmocet, a hedgehog and a Brazilian aardvark into the hedge fund king’s $50 million Upper East Side home to set up for a birthday party. Jacinto had been hired to provide the entertainment, displaying the rare critters to gawking guests. But before the show could start, city Health Department inspectors swooped in. They ticketed Jacinto, a state and federally licensed wildlife expert, for not having a city permit for the animals, and sent him packing back to his Long Island farm with his tail between his legs. “It was a huge embarrassment what the department did to me,” he recalled. DNAinfo New York, January 21, 2014

Wilbur adjusted the towel around her head. She took a long drag off her Lucky Strike and stared out onto East 67th Street. Phil hated when she smoked in the house, so she’d cracked the bathroom window and had the fan going. But honestly, she didn’t much care what Phil thought right now.

Had she wanted to perform at the children’s birthday? No. Of course not. She wasn’t their monkey and she didn’t do children’s birthdays. But the fact that he’d made the call immediately after their fight felt especially cruel. Things weren’t great with them but she never thought he’d go out of his way to hurt her.

She flicked the rest of her cigarette out the window and stared at her pores in the mirror. Phil used to tease her for spending hours scrutinizing her skin. Lately, though, he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he was no longer paying attention. Maybe he’d noticed the fine lines where things were once smooth, and hoped she would, too. She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help but feeling like he was trading her in for a new model.

There was a knock at the door. “Wilbur, can I come in?” Phil asked from the other side.

After all of their fights, the big ones and the small ones, no matter what had been said, no matter how many objects were thrown (Wilbur) or how many tears were shed (Phil), they’d always found their way back to each other eventually. Wilbur was still hurting, but she was ready to hear what Phil had to say, ready to move on. In a couple hours the guests would be arriving, and a little while after that they’d sing Happy Birthday and eat cake, and Wilbur would do her standard, “Are you one, are you two, are you three…” In spite of herself, she was actually looking a little bit forward to the animal display.

She opened the door, ready to reconcile. But Phil didn’t come in. He stood at the threshold, without a hint on contrition on his face or in his bearing. There was no sign that he’d been crying at all. Read more »

The light streaming into the hotel room blinded Wilbur. Or at least she thought it was a hotel room. She didn’t actually know where she was, or what time it was, or who the guy passed out next to her was. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had a pounding headache and that there was something sticking to the back of her knee. She reached down and peeled it off– a greasy crumpled up wrapper that judging by the smell once held a Taco Bell Gordita. Not that she could remember eating one, let alone doing so laying in bed next to a guy with a barbed wired tattoo inked around his arm, and then writing “If found call 555-9768 and ask for Phil” down his back with a tube of lipstick, though it was clearly her handwriting, her color, and her artistic sensibility in the stick figure drawings next to the note.

The phone on the nightstand lit up. Wilbur let it ring through. It lit up again. Who could possibly calling? Who knew she or man-of-unknown-origin were here? It lit up again. On the third ring she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon!” a too chipper voice said on the other line. “This is your wake-up call.”

“I asked for a wake-up call?” From the looks of things she knew she certainly needed a wake up call, but not the kind that phoned you from the front desk, the kind that said splashed cold water on your face and said, “Wake up and take stock of your life lady you are in a hotel room with a guy with a barbed wire tattoo laying in a bed surrounded, literally, by trash, from Taco Bell. You don’t know what city or state you’re in and while you’re mercifully fully clothed and don’t have to contemplate what the spawn of this night of wrongs might look like, it appears somewhere in your travels you acquired a Credence Clearwater shirt that you turned into a crop top.”

“Why yes ma’am you did.”

“What time is it?”

“12:37PM on the dot, the exact time you asked us to call.”

“Do you know why I asked for that time?”

“I wasn’t working when you checked in ma’am but let me check the notes. Let me see, it says here you told Bobby ‘Must be up by 12:37, no earlier, not later, have business to tend to. Do not fuck me on this Bobert. Are you writing this down Bobert? Make sure you’re writing this down.’”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Wilbur muttered under her breath.

“Sorry ma’m I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing. Thanks.”

*************************************************************

24 hours earlier Read more »

  • 09 Aug 2013 at 3:51 PM

Phil Falcone Is Just Going To Start Suing Everyone

Once the Harbinger founder got a taste of how good it felt to serve someone papers, he just couldn’t stop. This morning it was the entire GPS industry; tomorrow, anyone who sold their LightSquared debt to Charlie Ergen, these guys, for not winning the Stanley Cup, and maybe the SEC, in some sort of countersuit. Which, if you were looking into the not too distant future, might go down something like this:

[Somewhere in midtown.]

Phil Falcone, to someone on the other line. It’s not clear who it is, but we get the impression she has hooves: Have you seen this American Express bill?! I told you we need to be cutting BACK, not spending MORE right now. [pauses to listen to Unknown Caller's response.] Well maybe I don’t care if Barney’s had a mumu that was speaking to you. [pauses to listen to Unknown Caller's response, with increasing impatience.] Well maybe I don’t care if you needed a pick-me-up, I told you we can’t be borrowing from the fund anymore. [deafening shrieking on the other end of the phone.] I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just really stressed these days…

[A knock at the door.] Read more »

It’s no secret that one of our favorite hedge fund wives is Lisa Maria Falcone. Whether she’s imploring bitches to throw their hands in air, hiring little people for her twin daughters’ birthday party, spooning her pet pig, or simply flitting about town in outfits that go from gladiator chic to deconstructed “Like A Virgin,” the woman is her own special brand of fabulous. LMF started keeping a considerably lower profile once her husband Phil’s hedge fund hit a streak of bad luck last year, though we always knew she’d be back. Unfortunately, we’d hoped the woman who does what she wants, haters of the Upper East Side be damned, would return to us with the news her production company was putting the finishing touches on Wilbur Falcone’s debut album or that she was launching a line of evening wear inspired by Merpeople and not this: Read more »

  • 16 Aug 2012 at 11:23 AM

Phil Falcone Is Turning His Life Around

To put it lightly, the last couple years have been a rather dark time for Phil Falcone. Though his woes are too numerous to mention in full, they include: the adversity he’s faced in getting people to believe in LightSquared; his unbelievably pissy investors, who still aren’t over the time he borrowed $113 million from a gated fund to pay personal taxes, or offered to pay out redemptions in illiquid LightSquared equity; the Securities and Exchange Commission, which wants him barred from the industry; the woman who once offered a respite from it all, who now won’t even come out of her room when she knows he’s home; and, of course, the plunging returns in his once highly profitable hedge fund. It would be enough to make a grown man say ‘Fuck, it. I’m done.’ Put a few things in a sack, tie it to the blade of a hockey stick, and hitchhike back to Minnesota. But Phil didn’t do that and now? After a merciless storm of shit that felt like it would never ease up? After long days of investors and regulators breathing down his neck and nights of having to pound on the front door because he was accidentally purposely locked out of the house? The tide feels like it’s turning for Philip Falcone. Read more »

Harbinger Global Corp is coming to an exchange near you. Read more »

If you knew nothing about Phil Falcone but what you read in the SEC’s assortment of complaints against him today, you would probably conclude that he’s kind of a dick. The loan thing, of course – Falcone borrowed $113mm from Harbinger at the same time he was preventing investors from withdrawing their money – but also a whole range of new and exciting charges announced today. Like that time he got mad at his prime broker and so bought 113% of the issue of a bond that the prime broker was short, and then called in the prime broker’s borrow to screw them (and gloated to them about it). Or the time – sorry, three times – that he shorted stock of companies that were doing equity offerings and then illegally covered his short with his allocation in those offerings.

Robert Khuzami is right about the marvelous variety and inventiveness of Harbinger’s scammy ways, but lots of people do lots of bad things on Wall Street. It’s just that usually their victims are either diffuse markets (insider trading) or widows and orphans (Ponzi schemes etc.) – it’s rare to spend so much time screwing so many big institutions. And it’s maybe even rarer for the SEC to stick up for those institutions.

Start with the thing that’s gotten the most attention so far: the loan that allowed Falcone to take $113mm out of his fund when investors were not allowed to redeem. How did no one tell him that that was a bad idea? Well: Read more »