American Desperado

by Jon Roberts

  The one guy it worked out for was James Caan. Joey Ippolito and I had introduced him to Steven Grabow and his wife, Linda, when they were visiting Miami. Caan had liked Linda from the moment he met her. After Steven got blown up, Caan gave her a shoulder to cry on, and they eventually married.* Good for him.

  By the early 1980s, my work life was so hectic, I needed something to take my mind away from it all. I found that escape in racehorses. This was a passion I shared with Toni in the life we built together. No matter how crazy my work got, I made time for our horses.

  * The Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston is one of the foremost veterinary hospitals in the world.

  * The Turnberry Towers form the heart of a luxury residential resort built by Soffer in Aventura in the 1970s and 1980s. In 2007 Soffer built a similar tower complex, also named the Turnberry, in Las Vegas.

  * Grabow was charged with trafficking seven hundred kilos of cocaine during a three-month period. He admitted to police that the source of his cocaine was in Miami, but he didn’t name his source. He was released on bond, pending trial.

  * Caan married Grabow’s widow, Linda Stokes, in 1996. They have two children.

  † While Jon has not provided proof of his or of Joey Ippolito’s alleged financial dealings with Soffer, Ippolito is reported to have lived in one of the Turnberry Towers and to have had a relationship with Soffer, who was no stranger to controversy. A close friend of boatbuilder Don Aronow, Soffer, like Aronow, was alleged to employ high-end party girls to entertain prospective customers, investors, and other friends. In 1987 leading presidential hopeful Gary Hart, a married man, saw his campaign implode when photographs were published of him on a yacht cavorting with party girl Donna Rice (now a prominent antipornography crusader). At the time of the scandal, Rice was reportedly a part-time employee of Soffer’s whom Hart had met at a party at the Turnberry. Monkey Business, the yacht on which the scandal took place, was owned by Soffer. Soffer was the subject of a fascinating profile written by Mark Muro for the Boston Globe, “Turnberry Isle: Where Stars Play and Also Fall,” May 31, 1987.

  † Grabow was blown up on December 8, 1985, by a powerful bomb placed in his car outside the Aspen Club, whose motto is “health, fitness, and pampering.” It was the first fatal car bombing in the history of Colorado. Reporting in the December 17, 1985, Lewiston Journal, Don Knox and Chance Conner quoted Grabow as having once said, “I’d rather be broke and washing dishes in Aspen, than be the king of France,” though their article noted that “Grabow had a penchant for fast sports cars, fancy suits, and good food. He drank from Waterford crystal glasses.” His murder was never officially solved, but when Miami investigators working on the 1991 racketeering case into Albert San Pedro discovered that he and Bobby Erra had been supplying Grabow with cocaine, they came to Aspen. They discovered, among other facts, that the bomb used to kill Grabow was similar to the type used in the attempted murder of Forge restaurant owner Al Malnik when his Rolls-Royce was blown up in 1982. Investigators planned to include Grabow’s murder as an additional predicate act in their racketeering case against San Pedro, but this avenue was closed to them following the discovery of his immunity deal.

  ‡ According to police reports I examined, Grabow was seated over the bomb when it detonated. His intestines were blown from his body. Nevertheless, he managed to run seventy-five feet while screaming for help before dying.

  62

  When Jon Roberts looks at horses he might buy, the ears have it.

  “I love horses with big ears,” Roberts says. “The first time I laid eyes on Best Game, she was a yearling, standing in a field. She was a big, good-looking filly, very rough. She took off like a lightning bolt. I had to have her.”

  In a little less than six weeks Best Game won a division of the Poinsettia. Best Game is the only filly in the world to have won two Hibiscus Stakes in 1983.

  Roberts says, “If she runs good in New York there’s a $100,000 grass stake in California.”

  Another claim Roberts made four years ago was equally fortuitous. He took Noholme’s Star for $30,000. The gelding has gone on to become a stakes winner with lifetime earnings of $170,369, winning 18 races.

  “When he won the Florida Turf Cup, it was the biggest thrill I’ve had,” Roberts says. “He bowed in both legs and came back to run his heart out for me.”

  Roberts was born in the Bronx 34 years ago and grew up in lower Manhattan. He moved to Miami in 1973 and sold cars. “I owned several car lots,” he says. “I met Danny Mones, who became my lawyer and my business partner. We bought a run-down building, very cheap, fixed it up and sold it. We made a real score and went on from there. We’ve done real well in real estate ever since.

  “I’ve never married. I don’t have any children. The horses become like children to me. I love going to Ocala and buying horses. It’s one of the prettiest spots in Florida, and some day I’m going to have a farm up there. My girl, Toni Moon, loves horses as much as I do.”

  Miss Moon, a very attractive lady, is a model and actress and appears in television commercials.

  “I’ve been offered half a million for Best Game but I don’t want to sell. Think what her babies will be worth. Breeding is what I’m most interested in now. I’m going to start building up a broodmare band and go from there.”

  Roberts’s first experience in breeding horses was sending his mare Winning Fate to Cerf Volant. “The foal came out with very crooked legs but I wouldn’t let them put her down. We raised her and I gave her to Toni for a riding horse.”

  —Art Grace, “The Best Game in Town,” a profile of Jon Roberts

  published in Florida Horse, June 1983

  APRIL 2009—AVENTURA AND BAY POINT ESTATES

  E.W.: The extent of Jon’s involvement in horse racing didn’t hit home for me until one night at Padrones, an upscale Cuban restaurant in Aventura. We were walking out with takeout food when a deep voice boomed, “Papa! Papa!”

  The owner of the voice—a small, dapper man—came up the sidewalk with his arms open. Jon said, “That’s Angel Cordero. The little son of a bitch calls me Papa.”

  Cordero, regarded as one of the greatest jockeys who ever lived, threw his arms around Jon. The two spent half an hour trading stories. When Jon owned Mephisto Stables, Cordero was one of his top jockeys. When they met again that evening in 2009, Cordero burst into tears while discussing the death of his wife, and Jon patted his shoulders to comfort him. As we left, Angel said to me, “Papa was one of the good guys.”

  It was a surprise to witness Jon outside the context of his life of crime and see him regarded as a beloved figure. Up until that point in interviewing Jon, I’d assumed racehorses were mostly about laundering drug money.

  After meeting Cordero, Jon arranged for me to meet Seymour “Sy” Cohen, who helped run Mephisto Stables. At the time he worked for Jon, Cohen was a columnist for the now-defunct Miami News who specialized in handicapping races. Cohen was also a fixture on the Miami social circuit. At Palm Bay Club, he was known as a fierce competitor on the tennis courts and played frequently with Oleg Cassini and Robert Duvall. Cohen helped advise the renowned painter and racehorse enthusiast Frank Stella in his purchases. As we drove to Cohen’s house, Jon explained, “The genius of Sy wasn’t just in looking at a horse. He knew where to run them so they’d win.”

  Cohen lives in Bay Point Estates, the same gated community where Gary Teriaca once stored cocaine in his home. After Jon and I are cleared for entry at the security gate, we drive past expansive homes set back from the road. Lawns are tended by small armies of gardeners whose gas-powered machines fill the air with buzzing. Cohen’s house has a brightly painted iron lawn jockey in front. When we enter, the housekeeper escorts us down a hallway where the paneled walls are covered by framed photographs of horses. Jon points to a picture of his younger self standing by a horse with Sy, a tall man with a confident grin. “That’s Sy,” Jon says. “See what a good-looking guy he was?”

  “I still am, you
motherfucker,” booms Sy’s voice from a room nearby.

  We enter the back bedroom. Sy, seventy-six, lies propped up on pillows on his bed. Wires and tubes dangle from nearby medical machines. He’s recently undergone surgery. Though his face is ashen, he pushes himself up and greets Jon, “What’s happening, baby?”

  Jon slips into banter with him that sounds like dialogue from a movie set in an old Miami Beach nightclub. It’s pure Rat Pack.

  “God Almighty, you look good, kid,” Jon says.

  “Sure, babe. I still have a cocktail in the evening.”

  “Just one? Don’t lie to me, you cocksucker.”

  They bring up good times at the old Palm Bay Club, which in the 1990s was converted into a residential community. Sy turns to me and says, “Kid, you should have been there. The Palm Bay was a real live joint.”

  Jon sits by the bed and takes Sy’s arm. I notice several Frank Stella paintings—hanging off-kilter and covered in dust—on the walls. I ask, “Are these real?”

  “Of course they’re real, kid. I help Frank buy his racehorses.”

  “Jesus, I studied him in college.”

  “College,” Jon says, amused and disdainful. He rolls his eyes to Sy, then turns back to me. “Frank was a madman. Frank liked to party. He gave me a bunch of those pictures he used to make, where he’d take squares and other shit and put all the shit together. Of all the famous people I ever was friendly with, Frank Stella was the only person who ever gave me anything. He was a good guy.”*

  “I hope you still got those paintings, Jon,” Sy says.

  Jon shrugs. “Those went away when I lost everything.”

  I ask Sy what Jon was like when he met him.

  Sy reflects a moment, then says, “When Jon asked me to help him with Mephisto Stables, he was serious. Jon wanted to learn. He made an intense effort. He listened explicitly and almost never second-guessed me. Later on, of course, he started to get his own opinions.”

  “Fuck you,” Jon says, laughing.

  “You want the truth, don’t you?”

  “You’re right, Sy. I got my own opinions, and I should’ve stayed with you.”

  Sy explains to me. “Jon got involved with that girl, Toni Moon. Jon thought she knew something about horses. It started to happen that I’d find a horse for Jon, and this girl would tell me that she didn’t like it. I wasn’t ready for that.”

  “I was an idiot, Sy. I should never have let a girl get between us.”

  “We ran some good races, kid. People still talk about Mephisto Stables in Ocala.”

  “They really do, Sy?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, babe.”

  As we get in the car to leave, Jon says, “I love that man to death because he gave me the most pleasure I had in my life through the horses.”

  Jon drives past the Bay Point security gate, lost in thought. He says, “How can I explain a horse to you? Honestly, if you compare racing a horse to fucking the most beautiful woman, it might only last a few minutes with the woman. Even if you screw that beautiful woman for hours, and your horse wins a two-minute race, you’ll still have better memories from the horse. There’s nothing stronger than a winning horse.”

  J.R.: Horses were the one good thing my father turned me on to. He loved the races. After I made my first big score selling coke to Bernie Levine in California, Danny Mones told me racehorses were a good way to launder money. Many horse sellers would take partial payment in cash. I’d claim the horse for a fake price that was low, and write a check for that amount. Then I’d give the owner cash to make up the difference. When I sold the horse later on, I’d sell it at its real price and pay taxes on the profit. Now my money was clean and legal.

  Danny Mones and I started Mephisto Stables in 1977. Buying horses was different from buying condos. I liked to look at horses. I liked to watch them run. I liked to talk to the people in the stables. I liked to think about them.

  Gary Teriaca introduced me to Sy Cohen at the Palm Bay Club. Sy gave such good advice about horses, I made him the president of my stables. He started taking me to Kentucky, Louisiana, California, and New York to buy horses. It got to where I was flying horses all over the country to run them in races. Obviously I met a lot of good pilots this way who I also got to help with my coke business.

  Dealing cocaine had promoted me into high society. Owning racehorses took me into the stratosphere. The first time Sy took me to Lexington, we were picked up at the airport by his friend Judge Joe Johnson,* who hosted horse auctions. Judge Johnson drove us himself in a stretch Mercedes limousine. This judge was drunk off his ass. We blew through red lights and stop signs. Nobody stopped him. He owned the cops. It was nuts. I was in a limo with a shoebox of coke money being driven by a drunk judge.

  We stayed at Judge Johnson’s house. He hosted buyers from all over the world. He had Japanese coming in, Arabs. We’d go to claiming races, which was where you’d bid on the horses. Judge Johnson took me under his wing and explained to me how to work cash payments in Kentucky. The judge didn’t know what I did for a living. He helped all his friends out this way. Even normal rich people need to launder cash now and then.

  Judge Johnson was the good kind of judge. He was what was called a “Kentucky hard boot.” He spoke his mind. He was drunk when he went to bed at night. He was drunk at the breakfast table, and he was a hell of a guy. I stayed with him for years. It was through him that I got friendly with Cliff Perlman, who owned Caesar’s Palace. When I’d go to Caesar’s and get comped, everybody assumed it was because of my Mafia connections. No, I was connected to Caesar’s Palace by a Kentucky judge.

  Horse-racing people were very genial. They made the rich doctors I used to do coke with look like garbage. No matter how high I rose in Miami, I was always “the coke guy.” In the horse world, I was just a man with a lot of money. One thing I truly learned about America is that once you have enough money to get in with the top, richest people, nobody asks where it came from. That’s one rule rich people live by as a courtesy to other rich people. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  IT TURNED out that Toni fit right in with these people. We ended up becoming friends with Al Tanenbaum and his girlfriend, Gloria. Al was a guy who’d made it big in stereos.* He and Gloria were an older couple we met at an auction in Ocala. Al and I were strangers standing next to each other at an auction, and out of the blue he asked if I wanted to go in on a horse with him. I said yes and bid on the horse. I ended up fronting Al $40,000 because he couldn’t write a check that high that day.

  “Gentlemen’s agreement,” he said. “I’ll send you the check when I get back to New York.”

  “No problem,” I said. Maybe he was a con artist, but I was curious to find out.

  A few days later the check came in the mail. After that we all became great friends. Al and Gloria lived in a suite at the Regency Hotel in New York.† Toni and I started going up there, and Al would send his driver to pick us up. All of us would go to Toni’s favorite places—the Russian Tea Room and Elaine’s.‡ One night after Al had a few drinks, he said, “Jon, men should never ask this, but I feel I know you. What’s your game?”

  It was very classy, the way he asked me. So I said, “All I’m going to tell you is this. I do real estate. I have my stables. But sometimes I also work in the importation business.”

  Al laughed. “Bolivian marching powder?” Funny guy. That was the phrase he used.

  “I guess you could say so.”

  “Money is money, Jon. Once you have it, what does it matter?” He pointed to his girlfriend, Gloria, and said, “Did you know that she’s divorced from a man who has more money than you and I combined? She’s so wealthy that she has a car and chauffeur just to take her little fucking dog on a drive around the park so he can look at the trees out the window. All the starving people in the world, and that’s what she does with her money. Who are we to judge her?”

  These people didn’t give a fuck about anything. They didn’t judge me. They didn’t want an
ything from me. They just wanted to have a good time.

  We bought several horses together and started running them in Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.* We’d stay at Al’s house up there, and he and Gloria would come down to Delray and stay with us. It was the best social relationship I’d had with anybody, and it lasted for years.

  IT WAS through Al that I became friendly with another very interesting man, Judge Tom Rosenberg, who was a top guy in Cook County.† Judge Rosenberg was a houseguest at Al’s place in Saratoga Springs when we met him. He ended up coming down to Florida, and we went in on some horses together. He was a real gambler,* and I turned him on to Bobby Erra, who would take bets on anything. At the end of Judge Rosenberg’s first visit to Miami, I took the judge to Joe’s Stone Crab for dinner, and he said, “I insist you visit me in Chicago. Come to Sportsman’s Park.† There’s a race called the Color Me Blue that you’re going to love. Bring one of your horses.”

  A few weeks later I had my stables send my horse Best Game up to Chicago. The afternooon Toni and I fly in, Judge Rosenberg has us picked up at the airport by a security detail of cops. They take us to a hotel by the Water Tower.‡ After we rest, the cops escort us to a restaurant. Inside, it is like the Roaring Twenties. Everybody is dressed to the nines. Judge Rosenberg is sitting like a prince at a table surrounded by ass-kissers and beautiful women. When he stands up to greet us, it is like the parting of the seas. Everybody in the room steps back and stares at him, then at me and Toni. Mostly at Toni, because she was always at her finest surrounded by money. After dinner the judge says, “I’m going to take you to a place I know you’ll like.”

  The cops chauffeur us across town to a cabaret theater. One of the goons at the door says, “Good evening, Judge. Would you like your table by the bar, or are you going upstairs?”

  “We’ll be going upstairs,” he says.