Scores

  “What’s in those boxes?”

  Pearlstein laughed. “American Express charge receipts for the past four years. They can have them all, all hundred boxes. These people have no fucking idea what they’re doing.”

  “What’s all this shit about cash, and loans, and gambling?” I mused.

  “Beats the hell out of me, but we need the lawyers and I’ve already alerted them.”

  “And Andrew, no more arguments over who’s been spying on us.”

  We both laughed nervously.

  The search of New York City’s most famous strip club was the lead story on local television and radio news, playing all day and night. The story also appeared on the front pages of the city’s newspapers. Endless streams of calls from every form of media were referred to counsel, and counsel uniformly offered “no comment.”

  Watching television reports that night, I found myself helplessly entertained. The club’s food supervisor, an older gentleman, had been virtually molested by the press as he arrived for work. With dozens of questions being shouted at him and microphones pushed into his contorted face, he stopped in the middle of the street and yelled at the cameras: “Leave me alone! I just work here. Three Jews own the club, ask them!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Government Extends an Invitation

  DECEMBER 1996—NEW YORK CITY

  The following week was quiet, eerily so. There were calls between the United States Attorney’s Office and our attorneys, but no substantive information had been exchanged, beyond the warrants, as both sides began the inevitable game of jockeying for position. Although all of our defense lawyers had earlier in their careers served as assistant federal prosecutors in the district, none of their contacts would admit to knowing anything about the investigation. Either it was “small potatoes” or the biggest secret in the world.

  Even more inexplicable was the fact that, despite Scores’ notoriety and its location in Manhattan, as well as its key players both living and working in the city, the case was being handled out of a small satellite office in Westchester County. None of this was adding up.

  Toward the end of the week, the first breach in the dam appeared and information trickled through. I was paged to Andrew’s office and found him alone. He stood up and walked around the desk. “I just spoke to my lawyer. He was contacted by a prosecutor named Carol Sipperly, who is in charge of our case. She requested a confidential meeting.”

  “About what?”

  “She wouldn’t say anything except we would be discussing the mafia at Scores and an offer for us to cooperate.”

  I entered an immediate panic state. “Cooperate against the mafia? Are you crazy? We’ll get ourselves killed.”

  “I think that could happen, or cooperation could save us. I’ve had a number of discussions with our Florida lawyers. We’ve talked about cooperating against the mob if we really start having a hard time in Florida over the insurance mess, and they believe cooperation could work wonders for us in both districts.”

  “What does ‘work wonders’ mean?” I coughed out. “We get prime plots in the cemetery? Don’t you know what mobsters do to people who testify against them?”

  “I do know, Michael, but I still want to hear what’s on the table. Maybe we can’t make a deal, but just maybe we can. They want to set it up for next Wednesday afternoon at their offices in White Plains. And the meeting must be kept secret. We’ll both be dead before we get there if you blab.”

  I just sat back, lost in contemplation of these totally unforeseen bends in the road. Andrew interrupted my reverie. “Did you hear me? Tell nobody about the meeting!”

  On Wednesday, December 4, Andrew and I, with our lawyers, Peter Ginsberg and Larry Noyer, trekked to the prosecutor’s office in the White Plains Federal Courthouse. After identifying ourselves at reception, our somber group was quickly ushered through a security door and seated in a small anteroom. As we waited, I noticed two men staring at us sternly from a small office. They both appeared to be in their early thirties: one was tall, trim, and muscular, wearing thick black sunglasses; the other was shorter and stocky.

  I nudged Andrew. “Geez, take a look at those happy campers. If looks could kill . . .”

  “One was the agent at Scores during the search. I don’t recall his name,” Andrew remarked, “but I never saw the other one before.”

  “Me neither. But doesn’t he look exactly like Clark Kent?”

  The meeting began in a small conference room. Our group sat on one side of a wood-veneered table. Facing us were two women: Carol Sipperly, the prosecutor in charge, and her first chair, Marjorie Miller. Three FBI agents were also present, including the two we’d observed staring at us earlier.

  The women were short, attractive, in their middle to late thirties, and dressed in conservative suits. They adopted very businesslike and direct demeanors and, after Sipperly made introductions, Andrew looked at Miller. “Are you the Marjorie Miller I think you are?”

  “How’ve you been, Andrew?”

  We were all confused. “Andrew and I went to grade school together,” Miller explained.

  I instantly turned to Noyer and whispered, “Oh shit. If they actually know Andrew, we’re really up shit creek.”

  Sipperly opened by confirming it had been the FBI that installed the bugging devices in the offices. “We also have hundreds of hours of wiretaps of members of the Gambino crime family, and those tapes have convinced us that you both are actively participating in money laundering and loan-sharking with them. All the Gambinos regularly claim that they—and not you two—are the real owners of Scores.”

  Andrew and I laughed simultaneously. Our reaction seemed to anger Sipperly, who blurted back, “You think all this is funny?”

  “It is funny,” I said. “For you to accuse us of money laundering for the mob means you don’t understand our business. Over ninety percent of our income reaches us through credit cards. If anything, Scores is a cash-deprived business. It would be absolutely impossible for us to money launder anything, even for ourselves. Just look at the boxes of credit card receipts you seized. And as for anyone owning Scores but us . . .”

  “Hold on,” Ginsberg loudly interrupted. “Carol, you know I can’t let this discussion go on, not without protections for my clients. Let me just say both gentlemen deny any criminal activity with organized crime. And without admitting anything, if they have any involvement with the Gambinos, it’s only as extortion victims.”

  Sipperly’s ire seemed to drastically ebb at Ginsberg’s retort. Apparently his emotional protestation contained information she was fishing for, and she paused to gather her thoughts. “Let’s say for the purposes of this meeting, I’m prepared to accept your statement, although I’ll need much more convincing. But let’s leave it there for a moment. I want you to meet alone with the FBI for a few minutes. Marjorie and I will rejoin you when you’re done.”

  Now comes the stick, to be followed by the carrot, I silently counseled myself.

  The older FBI agent, who never actually identified himself, took a moment to introduce the two other agents. “Superman” was Jack Karst; his partner was Bill Ready. Both men continued to act as unfriendly as was possible given the circumstances.

  The senior agent continued. “I’m not familiar with the investigation being conducted into your activities. I was asked to come here today because telephone wiretaps of organized crime members have convinced us Mr. Pearlstein’s life may be in grave danger. We’re under an ethical obligation to advise him of that fact.”

  The room drew a collective breath as Andrew turned very pale.

  I broke the uncomfortable silence. “Oh, come on. Those guys have been talking about ripping Andrew’s guts out for years. It’s all talk.”

  “No. It’s more than that,” the senior agent answered. “We’ve been monitoring conversations for quite some time about how the mafia wants a bigger percentage of Scores’ profits. Let me play one recent recording.”

  The
agent grabbed the tape recorder sitting on a small table behind him and placed it on the conference table. He pressed the “Play” button.

  First Voice: Did you do what youse was told to do on Pearlstein?

  Second Voice: Yeah. We done it, we followed the prick to his garage. His apartment has one of dem parking places underneath the building. It has two different entrances from two different streets.

  First Voice: How would you take him out?

  Second Voice: We’d follow him and drive down into the garage behind him. Here’s the thing, he has to turn left to get out of his car. So we don’t turn, see what I mean? When he gets out of his car, we get out and blow him away. Then we jump back in our car and drive straight out the other entrance. We’re outta the place in five seconds.

  First Voice: And you’re positive that does the trick with the other one?

  Second Voice: Trust me. With Pearlstein dead, our boys say Blutrich will be scared shitless and he’ll come to us for protection. Funny, right? We can buy Pearlstein’s piece for a song.

  The agent turned off the tape and looked at Andrew. “I don’t know what we can do for you if you’re not cooperating, but we could probably offer some advice.”

  “Could you let us have a few moments alone?” Ginsberg asked.

  “Surely,” the agent grunted, and the three men left the room, closing the door behind them.

  “We’re cooperating,” were the first words out of Pearlstein’s mouth.

  “Andrew, not so fast,” Ginsberg countered. “Are you aware just how dangerous it can be to testify against the mob? They have a long history of killing cooperators and you’d probably have to spend the rest of your life in witness protection.”

  “I don’t know,” I chimed in. “Maybe it’s easy for me to say because they’re talking about Andrew, but I think we’re being played. If the government believed this was a real death threat, wouldn’t they arrest the guys on the tape for murder conspiracy? They know it’s all talk and they’re trying to scare us.”

  “I hear you and I agree,” Andrew raised his voice, “but if they’re trying to scare me, they did. I can’t believe they followed me home. And they described my garage perfectly.”

  “Did you recognize the voices?” Noyer asked Andrew.

  “Nope, neither one. They weren’t our guys.”

  “Me neither,” I concurred. “But consider this, if we cooperate just because we’re scared, there’s nothing in it for us. We haven’t committed any crimes with the mafia. I don’t want to go into witness protection and still have to worry about some unrelated problem in Florida.”

  The group waited uneasily until Sipperly and Miller returned. Sipperly looked at Pearlstein and said, “You heard what your friends have planned for you?”

  Before Andrew could answer, Ginsberg spoke up. “Carol, if we continue to operate under the premise that our clients are merely victims of the mafia . . .”

  “Wait a second, Peter,” Sipperly interrupted, “don’t go there. It’s a federal crime to pay extortion money to the mob. I can give you the statute . . .”

  “Carol, I was a prosecutor too, and no jury is going to convict anyone for being victims of extortion. We both know that, as of now, you have no case and want our clients to cooperate because you suspect they’re being extorted. We also both know you want the mafia guys, not our clients. We’re willing to listen, but so far, you haven’t talked about what we get from any deal.”

  “We can protect your clients,” Sipperly began, but then she stopped and smiled. “I knew we would get to this point, but I didn’t think we’d be here so fast. Speaking of what we all know, there’s a serious insurance fraud investigation underway involving your clients in Florida. If they demonstrate their willingness to fully cooperate with this office, we can work out a deal—and this is not a promise yet—to move any Florida case here.”

  “You mean they plead guilty in Orlando and are sentenced in White Plains?” Ginsberg said.

  “Exactly. But we’re a long way from there.”

  “Carol. We need some time to think about all of this and review the risks and rewards with our clients,” Noyer interjected.

  “That’s reasonable,” Sipperly replied. “You have one week. After that, we’re coming after your clients and their nightclub. Peter and Larry, why don’t we end this meeting, but stay a minute with me.”

  As I walked out of the meeting room, I tried to digest the enormity of all that had just transpired. Andrew and I were suddenly being officially recruited as cooperators in a Scores mafia investigation by New York federal prosecutors. We’d been previously aware that the Delaware Insurance Department had initiated a civil lawsuit against us in New York in an attempt to recover money they had asserted had been drained from a Delaware incorporated and licensed insurance company based in Orlando. But the New York prosecutors had just revealed, for the first time, that Florida had formally opened a criminal investigation against us as well. It seemed walls were suddenly closing in on us in a frightening way from all angles.

  Andrew and I paced outside the courthouse, lost in our individual thoughts. I had no intention of cooperating against the mafia, but Sipperly certainly drew my attention with talk of a criminal case in Orlando. It seemed we might be able to kill two problem birds with one stone by cooperating, but what a threatening choice it was.

  “New York is bluffing, Andrew. They can’t come after us.”

  “I don’t agree. They can bring the IRS into Scores and find some way to close us. And you’re just delusional about Florida. There’s no way out of that mess except by cooperating.”

  “You’re not worried about getting killed? Concerned about being hunted for the rest of your life?”

  As he started to reply, Ginsberg and Noyer walked out of the courthouse. They paused next to a parking meter and Ginsberg shook his head. “They really, really want you two to cooperate and they feel they can handle your Florida mess for you. But they don’t want you guys to just debrief and testify.”

  “What else is there?” I asked in confusion.

  “They want to put the cameras back in the offices. They also want you to go undercover and wear body wires.”

  My mind froze. “Are they mistaking me for someone with balls? Mobsters kill people caught with wires on the spot. We’re not trained, not capable of pulling this off. I’m not doing that—no way, no how.”

  Over the next week, there were myriad meetings on the subject. Andrew was absolutely committed to cooperating. I continued to resist.

  Andrew’s arguments were simple: The New York offer was the only way to be fully protected from the mob and the only way out of the Florida debacle. The government could close Scores if they put their minds to it, and the mafia deserved no loyalty from us at all.

  I remained desperately torn. I wanted a way out of Orlando, but the prosecutor’s allusions on that subject had been too iffy and conditional to placate me. I also had serious doubts as to whether two untrained and inexperienced businessmen could successfully wear hidden microphones and avoid getting killed. These mafia guys weren’t book smart, but they had amazing street radar. I was also worried about possible danger to my family and friends. Did I have the right to put others at risk to save myself?

  As the one-week deadline approached, I felt myself being worn down, my resistance eroding. Andrew and the lawyers unanimously agreed it was best to “tentatively” proceed with initial cooperation rather than fight the government on two fronts. My lawyers explained that tentative cooperation would mean giving proffers—debriefing sessions where you tell all you know, but the information can’t later be used against you if you cooperate. It’s called “queen for a day” in legalese, named so after a 1950s television quiz show.

  On December 11, the lawyers called the prosecutors and agreed we’d begin the process toward “possible” cooperation, and proffers were scheduled. It was also confirmed that, after a couple of debriefings, the government would decide if they still wanted us to
cooperate, and we would decide if the benefits offered were “sweet” enough to induce life-threatening risks.

  Weinberg called me from Tampa. “We’re set up for next Wednesday. For your protection, they’re going to hold the interview in a hotel in upstate New York. From now on, you’re never to go anywhere near their office in White Plains. And by the way, at the first session, they want to know everything there is to know about Scores.”

  A single thought floated into my mind. If that’s what they want, it’ll take all day. It’s a long, long story.

  PART TWO

  Scores: Where Sports and Pleasure Come Together

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Birth of Scores

  LATE 1980S AND EARLY 1990S—NEW YORK CITY

  To fully understand the creation of Scores, it’s necessary to allow several diverse and seemingly unconnected story lines to converge. Each disparate element immeasurably impacted the shaping of Scores and, absent the remarkable convergence, the club that has become a household name (or a dirty little secret) would probably have died on the delivery room table of ideas. So, to understand the truth about Scores—its history, its life, and its players—travel with me back to its accidental birth.

  Mike Sergio from Yonkers was the first true mafioso to be my close friend. Sixtyish, medium height and weight, black hair, with a demeanor meandering between worried and forlorn, Sergio was streetwise, engaging, articulate, and knowledgeable.

  Although I’ve long pondered, I cannot recall my first encounter with Mike. Many have claimed credit for the introduction, but the definitive truth has somehow been forever obscured. All I am sure of is we first met in his Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village, Grampa’s, named for veteran actor Al Lewis, best known for his role as Grampa (Lewis’s spelling) on The Munsters.