Scores

  I walked back to the main sitting area and struggled for something—anything—to occupy my thoughts. I needed to retreat to a comfortable place in my mind.

  “Goddamn Willie,” I shouted at the indifferent ceiling. “You swore there’d be no more crazy mafiosos allowed in the club. So much for mob protection.”

  I plopped myself onto a large sectional couch and sank deeply into its folds. I started to feel drowsy and my thoughts turned to the very first time I was personally confronted with a potentially violent and threatening situation, at a most tender age.

  It was sixth grade, at PS 209 in South Brooklyn. Our teacher was enthusiastically showing slides of her recent vacation to Italy. The few Italian kids in the class—the school had a 97 percent Jewish student body—were gloating over all the unusual attention being heaped on their ancestral land. In reaction, I unthinkingly started cracking a few jokes about the naked statues on the slides, and one of the Italian bullies, Nicholas Spano, got all bent out of shape by this perceived offense to all of Italy emanating from one small Jewish kid. In a show of Brooklyn bravado learned from the generations preceding him, Nick vowed in front of the entire class to pummel me into snot after school.

  I was terrified. Nobody ever taught me how to fight. My parents thought playing the accordion was macho. I slept in a tiny room with my Aunt Edythe and my aging goldfish. Physical confrontation was the stuff of movies, not real life at PS 209. But I was in trouble. I’d been called out—even the words gave me an exhilarating chill—and not by some soft, nearsighted Hebrew scholar angered over a Torah interpretation. This was to be a fight to the death with Italian Nick, a boy who probably had pubic hair.

  What to do? In an unmitigated panic, I requested a sit-down with Lora Nuzzo, indisputably the toughest girl in the world. I knew she liked me, something in her Amazon-like smiles told me so, and I shared with her the reason for my impending, pre–Bar Mitzvah doom.

  I watched her ponder the situation before stridently declaring, “You know what, you and me, we leave school together today.” I thought about it for a moment, solely for dramatic effect, and moved my head slowly up and down with reverent vigor. I knew my problem had just been solved; Nick Spano, on the other hand, was happily ignorant of his impending crisis.

  As the day’s closing bell sounded, I was absolutely prepared. If the theme to Rocky had yet been written, I would’ve insisted it be played. And with the stone faces of seasoned warriors, Lora and I descended the main school stairway. Halfway down, I spied Nick waiting below with a malevolent grin, surrounded by a crowd of blood-crazed spectators. There were shades of Spartacus running through my brain; only it was supposed to be a Christian fed to the lions—not the Jewish kid.

  Suddenly Spano made his move to confront me and, with the grace of a gazelle, my angel stepped between us and said in full New York accent, “Hey Nick, tough guy. You wanna fight this little kid here? Maybe you wanna fight me instead, huh?”

  Nick’s face was transformed into a mask of horror. And even I grew queasy as we all witnessed Lora Nuzzo beating the living shit out of Nicholas Spano—around and around the school yard fence they go. Nick was bleeding and crying and begging, and I was loving every minute of it. After all, I was winning my very first fight. Finally, and with gracious mercy, we let Nick run home to mommy.

  The next day, I arrived at school to find a pink note resting neatly in the middle of my desk. The pit of my stomach already knew what was in it, but I opened it anyway. It was from Lora, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I read her words, “I love you. How do you feel about me?”

  Talk about going from the frying pan to the fire. I probably neglected to mention Lora was not one of the brightest blooms of femininity ever created. She actually had to lift her nose to stuff food into her face. But I knew what I had to do—look what she did to Nick, and he hadn’t toyed with her tender heart—so I quickly scrawled “I love you too” on the bottom of the note before sending it back to its maker.

  Not to worry though. Luck was with me and we never married, never even dated. The very next day, a sad and apologetic Lora told me her father had nixed our budding union. Her exact words, delivered without a hint of potential offense, were, “My father says I can’t date no Jesus-killing fucking Jew bastard.” Who says anti-Semitism is always a bad thing? In any event, Lora and I returned to our usual roles of respectful boy and female ogre, and Nick Spano continued to flinch every time I looked at him.

  I never had another fight after that, and I believe it’s probably a matter of projected aura. But sometimes I like to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s my reputation from my first fight preceding me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Taking Control and Promoting the HBO Fight

  JUNE 22, 1996, 9:30 AM

  For the second time that morning, a ringing telephone jolted me into the real world.

  The voice of Mark Yackow, one of the Scores partners, boomed through the receiver. “Have you seen the local morning paper?”

  “I don’t need the paper. Andrew called me early this morning with details.”

  “How the fuck would Andrew know about Roberto Durán’s interview?” Realizing Yackow and I were on different pages, I took a breath. “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We had a shooting at the club last night. Two of our guys are dead including Jon Segal. I don’t know any other specifics; Andrew is trying to sort things out.”

  “Oh my God,” Mark stammered. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Me neither. But what are you calling about?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Mark, you just said something about the morning paper.”

  “Oh, right. It just doesn’t seem very important now. The lead story is that Durán is accusing us of breaching his contract for tonight’s bout with Camacho. It’s just stupidity.”

  I laughed. “It’s beyond stupid and total bullshit. I’ll go read it, and why don’t you call home and find out the latest there? Please call me when you know more.”

  “You got it. I’ll do it right now.”

  I hung up the phone and went straight to the suite’s front door. Opening it, I recovered the morning paper from the doorstep. The headline piece was a lengthy story about Durán’s claims that his contract had been breached as to rooms and food. The story actually made it sound as if Durán and his family were being starved and housed in an overcrowded slum.

  Hearing it from Mark, it had been amusing; seeing it as a front-page newspaper story was less entertaining. I snapped, grabbed the nearest phone, and dialed Durán’s room.

  When a child answered, I asked to speak to Roberto. Several minutes went by until he finally came to the phone.

  “Roberto. It’s Blutrich. I just read the piece in the paper. Have you lost your mind? You’ve received everything you’re entitled to under your contract—more. And as to food, after luckily squeaking through that official weigh-in yesterday, you ate so many hot dogs, I thought your fight strategy was now to fart Macho into submission! How dare you?”

  “Miguel, yo no entiendo lo que dices. Por qué estas molesto?”

  “Roberto. Don’t start that Spanish crap with me. You understand every word I’m saying. Did someone tell you to say this nonsense? Was this a publicity stunt?”

  “Espera, voy a poner alguien que habla mejor Inglés.”

  “No, Roberto. Stay on the phone. Roberto. Roberto.”

  The phone remained silent for a pregnant pause. Finally, a timid voice said, “Miguel. Roberto say he doesn’t know why you are angry with him.”

  I pulled the receiver from my ear and shook my head. “OK. Just tell him I will come to the suite later. By the way, do you need me to bring food, blankets, and medical supplies, or are you doing all right with the unlimited room service?”

  * * *

  JUNE 22, 1996, 9 PM

  Despite the incomprehensible events happening at Scores, I still had a figh
t to promote. As was the custom, I spent fight night fielding complaints about seat locations and rooms from friends and clients. I lost my own seat when I arrived to find Governor Christie Whitman of New Jersey parked on it. Trump arrived with Marla Maples plus entourage and secured his assigned front row of prime seats on the opposite side of the ring from my people.

  Mike Tyson slayer, Buster Douglas, back from retirement, had beefed up public interest in a main event of aging champions past their primes, and fought an impressive match, knocking out his opponent. Camacho won a unanimous and obvious decision over Durán—probably the result of poor room conditions for Roberto’s family. Plainly, the spark was gone for Durán, the former “Hands of Stone,” and he was now just sadly fighting to satisfy old tax bills.

  Happily, more than anticipated numbers of cable viewers bought the fight from HBO-TVKO, Trump’s arena had sold out, and my boxing company’s future was never brighter.

  Unknown to me, as I was packing my bags the following morning for the return to the city, Jack Karst and Bill Ready, two special agents of the FBI assigned to an Organized Crime Task Force investigating the Gambino crime family, were also packing their gear, in one of the smallest—and definitely the cheapest—rooms at the Taj. The accommodation was a far cry from the opulence of the Leonardo da Vinci Suite on the penthouse floor.

  “Blutrich didn’t look too happy last night,” Karst mused.

  “True,” Ready replied, “and we didn’t get much.”

  “I know. But it’s just the beginning. And we just keep fishing.”

  Andrew and I flew back to the city by helicopter. By the time we landed, the police had already identified the perpetrators of the double homicide, and the Albanians were reportedly on the run. Pearlstein scheduled meetings with Marshall to talk things out with the mafia contingent, and a slew of calls from investigating police detectives were awaiting responses.

  In the next month, revenues at Scores spiked by an unprecedented 30 percent. After a few well-placed calls to politicians in Albany, the State Liquor Authority never contacted us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Scores-Style Softball

  FIVE DAYS LATER: JUNE 27, 1996—NEW YORK CITY

  Central Park was nothing less than spectacular as the summer day stretched toward its close. The air was refreshingly clean and crisp, and a strong breeze contained none of the agonizing humidity that would plague New York City in July and August.

  Public shock over the lurid double homicide finally began to ebb, even as the local press continued to focus on the ongoing manhunt for the accused killers. For the owners of Scores, the decision to immediately cooperate with police had kept the club out of harm’s way. Employee eyewitnesses had been cajoled into furnishing investigators with details of the gruesome crime, and their cooperation had apparently satisfied police as to the club’s lack of culpability.

  Despite the enormity of the crime and its crushing impact on every person affiliated with the club, there was nothing to be done except grieve and offer condolences. And it was Thursday—Scores’ day to compete in the city’s slow-pitch softball league, a reminder that life somehow goes on.

  When I arrived at the designated softball diamond in Central Park, the scene was practiced chaos. Hundreds of fans had taken their places in the stands and in an adjacent copse. Hot dog and pretzel vendors were maneuvering umbrella carts into position to accommodate sales, and players for both teams were tossing balls, stretching, and otherwise preparing themselves for combat. Scores’ cheerleaders, who otherwise plied their trade as topless dancers at the club, were busy posing for pictures with admiring fans, as clusters of police mingled and laughed loudly amidst the amiable throng. An unmistakable aroma of illegal herbs permeated the outdoor arena as the contest drew closer to the opening pitch.

  Today’s lineup included yours truly as pitcher and Pearlstein as catcher. Scores’ house mom, Camille, would be at her usual shortstop position and, as the team’s leading hitter and captain, would bat cleanup. The Penthouse “Pet of the Quarter Century” and longtime club dancer, Tamara Seely, was assigned chores at second base.

  To the team’s chagrin, this week’s opposing squad was composed of officers from one of the city’s large commercial banks. They were supercilious assholes who had voiced pointed disdain at Scores’ well-known on-field antics, which they viewed as “unbecoming” to a serious softball league. This would surely prove fun.

  The lone umpire called the team’s representatives to the mound for the usual boring recitation of rules. Three players answered the call from the bank, each decked out in professional uniforms with numbers and names sewn along the back of their jerseys. Our squad made quite the dashing comparison. At 5’8”, 190 pounds (with about ninety of those pounds located in my breadbasket), and wearing a pair of old jeans, yellow sweatshirt, and sneakers, I looked more like a lost spectator in search of a pretzel than a player. Flanking my right was a recent Playboy centerfold model wearing a cutoff yellow halter top, draping her arm around an obviously contented Yackow, and to my left were two dancer-cheerleaders sporting skimpy T-shirts.

  Our opponents went on immediate attack. “Listen, ump. We’re not gonna put up with this team’s legendary crap. If they can’t be serious, let them forfeit. No bullshit, we’re playing for a playoff berth. Oh yeah, and you all know what I mean, absolutely no tits!”

  The umpire looked at me. “What’s he talking about?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re playing with our tits no matter what he says.”

  “Listen, I’m serious.” The opposing captain seethed.

  “I’m sure you are.” I smiled back.

  As we all departed the mound, I motioned to one of the opposing captains. “Hey listen, we know this is important to you guys, but we’re just looking for some fun. I’m sure you’ve read the papers and know we’ve had a hellish time lately. So look, we forfeit. We wanna play for ourselves and the fans, but you win no matter what. Deal?”

  The banker agreed.

  On the very first pitch, the opposing batter hit a rocket over the right fielder’s head.

  In New York City softball, when a lone umpire officiates from behind the pitcher, the catcher calls balls fair or foul. As was his established custom, Pearlstein immediately rose and judiciously yelled, “Foul ball, strike one.”

  The bank team erupted and gathered on the mound en masse. “I warned you, ump. They cheat!”

  The umpire stared at an obviously unconcerned Pearlstein. “I must tell you, sir, it’s hard to believe you honestly thought that ball was foul.”

  As the Scores team waited around in suppressed laughter, Pearlstein looked up. “Well, I’m not positive. I usually just call every ball foul.”

  The umpire overruled the call and declared a home run. Score: 1–0.

  The subdued crowd finally erupted in joyous bedlam in the third inning. The reason for the unusually large crowd was that each time Scores pushes runs across the plate, three or four cheerleaders prance around the bases flashing unobstructed views of their abundant upper region treasures. Harvey hit a massive inside-the-park homer and, as the cheerleaders fulfilled their duties, the spectators frenzied. Cameras clicked, beer was tossed in the air, and hundreds of transfixed eyes closely monitored every bob and weave of the exposed victory rewards. Indeed, only the presence of the NYPD preserved any semblance of restraint—and even some guardians of the peace appeared to be on the verge of breaking.

  The game that afternoon held something for every attendee. The Scores team scored four times and that meant four trips around the bases for the enthusiastic and deeply appreciated cheerleaders. The fans were hoarse from expressing their adulation, the vendors sold out their wares, and all available marijuana was smoked.

  At the end of the game, the cheerleaders mingled with their fans and, as part of a never-tiresome ritual, passed out complimentary passes to the club for that night only—a savings of the twenty-dollar door fee. Many of the recipients would, in fact, happily h
ead to Scores that night to continue the “connection” they believed they’d forged with one of the cheerleaders. How many times has the world heard the same tired refrain, “No really, she liked me! Really, really liked me! Nothing to do with money. It was something special between just us.”

  Even the miserable bank team seemed happy as they triumphed by a margin of 9–4. In fact, there were those in attendance who later speculated that Scores’ last two runs were the product of intentional errors by opposing players who just wanted the cheerleaders to keep on cheering.

  How unusual to voluntarily receive high rates of interest from bankers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hints of Future Problems Erupt

  JULY 29, 1996—THREE PARK AVENUE, MANHATTAN

  An unremarkable midtown commercial skyscraper, Three Park Avenue sits at the prestigious southeast corner of Park Avenue and East Thirty-Fourth Street. At the epicenter of Manhattan’s business district, the building’s upper floors feature impressive views of the city skyline. At night, office windows are filled with uncountable numbers of electric and neon lights burning and stretching as far as the eye can gaze in every direction, and first time viewers stand mesmerized in the wake of panoramic sensory overload. The thirty-eighth floor was home to my law firm, and the connected offices of Scores Entertainment.

  At 10 AM, on Monday July 29th, I arrived to begin another workweek. I stepped out of the elevator onto the carpeted common area, taking a moment to decide which way to turn. To my left were the Scores offices and, to my right, my law practice. Since the maze of interior hallways in both entities led eventually to my private office, I could choose either entrance to reach my inner sanctum.