Harvey Guillén

They drive parades of Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs, take first-class flights everywhere, go shopping on Rodeo Drive, buy a massive office in West Hollywood, luxury condos with neighbors like Julie Andrews, Mr. T, and a Saudi prince.

I pity the fool.

They travel in packs of 20, running up tabs wherever they go and leaving $500 tips like their pocket change.

Pretty soon, the members start referring to themselves as the Billionaire Boys Club, and the joke kind of sticks.

Everywhere they go, the Billionaire Boys Club makes an impression.

And that's what Joe has been missing, maybe even more than capital.

He's always been able to sell his promise, but now he can sell his success.

And that leads to real investors, real business deals, and real people begging him to invest their money for them.

Cut to about a year later.

It's June 7th, 1984.

Joe rushes into Dean's bedroom to wake him up.

It's 8.30 a.m.

Joe's hair is freshly wet from a shower.

He's wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase with something important inside, a check for $1.5 million.

And it's signed by Ron Levin, the man he just killed.

Some monster, it reminded me of Bigfoot.

Okay, so Billionaire Boys Club.

They're a bunch of rich kids who blow their parents' money doing rich kid things.

Blackjack in Vegas, polo lessons, safaris, which would be totally fine if that's all it was, but no.

They've convinced themselves and a bunch of other influential business people that they're incredibly successful investors and entrepreneurs.