Scores

Sergio somehow knew all about me at that first meeting. He knew about my Cuomo connections, my law firm, my comedy clubs, my discos, and my sporting goods stores. He fashioned himself an entrepreneur and viewed me as a fertile potential source of investment and advice for his inexhaustible inventory of get-rich-quick ideas.

  Sergio was gregarious to a fault. He enjoyed telling me about his family, business, life experiences, and mafia affiliations. I became a regular customer at Grampa’s, even though the food was less than gourmet, because I liked Sergio and my friends got a kick out of Grampa—who was a fixture at the place. Sergio was complex, enigmatic, and contradictory. He portrayed himself as very tough and demanding, but he constantly showed a soft and understanding side; he was quick to anger, but even quicker to make amends; he touted his mafia connections, but expressed resigned regret at having them; he spoke about “making his bones” (a mafia phrase meaning formal initiation into La Cosa Nostra), but always claimed to never have killed another soul (a prerequisite to such initiation). The character of Lefty in the film Donnie Brasco could have been tailored from the real-life Mike Sergio.

  I learned from others that Sergio was not a family “soldier” (also called a “made man”). Rather, he was a respected “senior associate” of the largest of the five crime families. According to rumor, he’d achieved his place at the table by taking the rap on some money-laundering charges in Vegas to protect a soldier with a long criminal record from a lifelong prison sentence.

  Sergio was certainly not a wannabe; he was definitely “connected,” and not a man to be disrespected. In that arena of his life, he was known by another name: Mikey Hop, owing to a pronounced limp. He never acknowledged that name to me personally, but out of his presence, it was the moniker universally utilized by his cohorts. To me, Sergio was simply a mixed-up jumble of friend, partner, and father figure.

  The first business project put on the table by Sergio was “Grampa Pasta,” to feature Lewis’s Munster character in a cartoon logo, selling various pastas by mail order through television advertising. Both Sergio and Lewis were unbridled in their enthusiasm for the endeavor and invited my participation to raise start-up cash.

  I knew nothing about mail-order businesses, and I knew even less about pasta, but I wanted to somehow be involved with Sergio and Grampa so, as a first step, I sought out the advice of a friend who specialized in such matters. After undertaking some investigation, my friend called back and could scarcely contain his amused disdain for the undertaking.

  “This is how I see it,” the expert began, “you have a pound of pasta which, if it’s premium, sells in the grocery store for about a buck. The shipping and handling to deliver that pasta would run about four bucks. Michael, would you buy a buck’s worth of pasta for five bucks because Grampa Munster’s picture is on the bag?”

  I agreed I wouldn’t bite on that deal. When I delivered these sad facts to Sergio, he agreed: mail-order pasta was a surefire loser.

  Then I hit upon an idea with my friend Ron Bard, which we presented for Sergio’s consideration. Both Ron and his mom, Yolana, were practicing psychics. At that time, Yolana had distinguished herself in New York and Japanese ESP circles with a long and impressive list of celebrity clients, television appearances, and by assisting with assorted high-profile criminal cases.

  Our idea was a simple one: use 800-number lines to offer psychic readings by phone, charged to a credit card. Ron could recruit psychics to work on commission and calls could be filtered from a main switchboard to each psychic at home. Other than the cost of the phone lines, there was no overhead to the venture. While it was well-known that the mafia was entrenched in the 800-number market selling phone sex, no one had yet utilized those same phone lines to offer psychic readings.

  Since the mob controlled all the 800-number factories, it seemed natural to bring the idea to our only mob connection. Sergio had an aversion to all things psychic, but after talking to someone up the chain in the family, a meeting was scheduled for us with the main Gambino operative in the phone-sex aspect of the underworld.

  Ron and I were scared silly at the prospect of having a sit-down with an actual mafia capo. Sergio laughingly insisted we were being “babies,” and brought us to an Italian restaurant in Westchester for the meeting. We all sat down at a table with a young man, wearing a suit out of Saturday Night Fever, who looked and acted like a classic “thug.” At Sergio’s prompting, I described our idea for a “psychic hotline,” mentioning the rising popularity of psychics across the nation and our belief that the availability of psychic readings by phone, in the privacy of one’s own home, was a financial winner with unlimited potential.

  The mafia “expert” disagreed. He stared straight at me and pointedly said, “I heard you was smart, but youse a moron. Anyone in the 800-phone game knows only sex sells. Only sex, you hear me? Anything else is small potatoes.” He then turned to Sergio and dismissed us. “Sorry, Mike. It’s a stupid idea, pitiful.”

  We walked out of the restaurant feeling as low as could be; our dreams of “wheelbarrows of cash” destroyed in one fell swoop. Sergio put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t feel bad. I liked the idea too, but believe me, this guy knows. He runs all our 800 numbers.”

  A few years later, Dionne Warwick introduced the first psychic hotline on 800-phone lines. The business grossed more than a billion in its first year. Those should have been our wheelbarrows.

  The next episode in what would become the Scores drama began when a club I owned in Los Angeles was in the process of reconfiguring itself into Alzado’s, in association with NFL superstar Lyle Alzado from the Oakland Raiders. I was searching for new investors and additional capital to finance the transformation when a friend suggested a meeting with a private banker, Jay Bildstein. With nothing to lose, I agreed to meet Bildstein for dinner at Grampa’s.

  When he arrived, I looked around for a back-door exit. He was tall, thick, muscular, and mean-looking. He was dressed like a pig, sporting jeans, rumpled sweatshirt, and baseball cap. He seemed completely unhappy and disinterested to be meeting me.

  But, never one to judge a book by its cover, I launched into my pitch for Alzado’s. I told Bildstein about the in-progress makeover of my original LA restaurant failure, and about my concept of a celebrity-named bar where the celebrity is always present to meet and greet patron fans. It was for this very reason I’d chosen Grampa’s for dinner; it was a prime example of a restaurant that succeeded on the pure power of the presence of celebrity. I ended my remarks and asked him if he would consider raising capital in exchange for a piece of the Alzado’s venture.

  Bildstein, who’d been silent during my entire spiel, looked back at me and asked sarcastically, “And what did I do to deserve this generous offer?”

  I looked back at him and quipped, “It sure isn’t your personality and fashion sense.”

  He thought about it for a moment and then burst out laughing. That seemed to break the ice between us and he went on to tell me of his passionate dream to open an upscale topless bar in Manhattan.

  You must understand: Bildstein’s concept was truly radical. Until then, Manhattan’s topless joints were blacked-out holes catering to the lowest form of nightlife—over-the-hill hookers dancing on poles for drug addicts in dangerous neighborhoods. It was simply bad form in the Big Apple to patronize strip clubs; they were viewed as dangerous haunts to be avoided.

  When I shared my reaction to his dream, Bildstein launched into a lecture on how New York was behind the times; how upscale gentlemen’s clubs featuring topless lap dancing were the wave of the future, flourishing everywhere. I was embarrassed to tell Bildstein I didn’t know for sure what a lap dance was.

  What I really wanted to say to him was, Look, I’m a closeted gay man in financial trouble with a California restaurant, a defrauded insurance company in Florida, a failed pasta concept, a law firm devoid of Cuomos, and a “missed boat” on psychic hotlines. The last thing I want in my life is to own a club filled with nak
ed women, catering to a homophobic straight crowd. All my friends would be eyeing the girls, begging to bed them, and I’d be sneaking peeks at the rear ends of the bar backs. But I bit back my frustration.

  After some more small talk, we mutually agreed that our interests were on divergent paths. I would continue on the “celebrity sports bar” road, and he would continue seeking out investors for an upscale Manhattan strip bar. Good luck to us both!

  I ran into Bildstein again months later, after the birth of Alzado’s in Los Angeles to overwhelming success. As Bildstein had found no investors for his strip-bar concept, he was now more amenable to working with me in raising capital to expand a celebrity sports-bar chain. He visited the LA club, became fast friends with Alzado, and worked closely with me on a private placement presentation for initial funding of our new joint venture.

  We also embarked upon a meaningful friendship. The only negative was his inability to stop talking about his “pet project.” On and on, day after day: tits and ass, ass and tits. The man was relentless, but I still just couldn’t see it; it would be like opening a tanning salon in a black neighborhood. Rich, professional New Yorkers would not patronize a strip club!

  To shut Bildstein up, I told him I’d think about it.

  David Davies, born and raised in Great Britain, and now the chief financial officer of National Heritage Life Insurance Company, the Florida enterprise that would one day be at the heart of my problematic fraud investigation, had been “missing-in-action” since lunch. Heritage was one of my law clients and I needed Davies’s approval on a real estate matter. It was now four in the afternoon, and according to his secretary, “He’ll come back eventually, he went to Rachel’s,” as if that was supposed to mean something to me. I figured he had a new girlfriend.

  Davies never made it back to his office that day. It wasn’t until the following morning that he returned my urgent messages. After quickly clearing up the matter on my menu, Davies’s tone became conspiratorial.

  “Michael, we need to seriously talk about something.”

  I stood up in my office, fearing new negative developments in Florida.

  “Problems?”

  Davies laughed roundly. “Not at all, chum,” he began in his very British accent. “We have a club here in Orlando called Rachel’s. It’s a very high-end titty bar with magnificent women who perform lap dances for a fee. I was talking to the girls yesterday and they tell me there is no comparable establishment in New York City. I am of the considered opinion New York needs a classy lap dance club and we should be the ones to open it.”

  I was stunned. Was there a conspiracy to lock me into a room with naked women? Did Davies know Bildstein? Was this to be my karmic punishment for sins of another life?

  “Michael, are you there?”

  “I’m here. I just can’t believe what you said.”

  I explained that one of my business associates had been pushing that very concept endlessly and I’d rejected it because strip bars in New York City are disdained, scum-like businesses.

  Davies, however, would hear none of my negativity. “I am telling you, Michael, if we are the first in New York to parade magnificent naked women in a luxury-club environment, it will be very, very big.”

  Talking to Davies was like talking to Bildstein. As a compromise, we agreed I would fly to Orlando with Jay to talk the matter through. Everyone in the world goes to Orlando for Mickey Mouse. I was on my way for bare breasts.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell Bildstein I might be able to make his dream come true. After all, I’d been the naysayer since his first attempt to sell me on the idea.

  When our working day ended and after sharing dinner, I drove him home. When we pulled up in front of his apartment building, I stopped him from exiting the car and casually said, “I almost forgot, I think I may have a way to open your strip club.”

  Bildstein’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He looked at me as if he was mentally confirming it wasn’t April Fools’ Day. For the first and only time during our friendship, he had nothing to say.

  When the silence became embarrassing, I just laughed. “Get out of my car, and pack a bag on Sunday night. We’re flying to Orlando on Monday to see if we can make a deal.”

  When I got home, my phone was ringing off the hook. Unfortunately, Bildstein had regained his ability to speak. He wanted to know everything about the possible deal.

  I sadly explained I had very few details; I could only tell him that a wealthy client in Orlando, who was addicted to breasts for profit as badly as he was, thought the club was a fantastic idea. I told him about Davies, about our conversation, and about the invitation for exploratory talks.

  “I won’t be able to sleep till Monday. I’ve got some phone calls to make and some notes to dig up. Good night, Michael.”

  I retired to bed still believing the whole matter to be an unachievable lark. But I’d made up my mind to stop being the “deal-killing” lawyer, and to open myself to the possibility that I was wrong. After all, I didn’t want to be remembered as the strip-club equivalent of the guy who said psychic readings would never sell by phone.

  When Jay and I landed in the Orlando airport, Davies met us at the gate. Like two greedy comic-book collectors, the two breast addicts were all over each other extolling the virtues and profitability of lap dance enterprises. I felt like a dress salesman at a nudist colony.

  We went straight to Rachel’s for lunch and, I must admit, I was unexpectedly impressed as we passed through the portal of my first upscale gentlemen’s club. It had the ambiance of a fine restaurant and the energy of a Vegas casino. The crowd consisted of suited businessmen who busied themselves with eating, drinking, eyeing topless dancers on stages, and enjoying lap dances at their tables. It was an atmosphere charged with sex and money—and totally alien to any of my prior club experiences.

  After walking us around, David led the way to a private section upstairs. He was clearly a “regular,” receiving handshakes from fellow customers and staff, as well as kisses and smiles from entertainers. The private area was quieter and more dignified. Davies secured a table for us and motioned one of the girls over to me. As she made her way, I noticed a further distinction in the upstairs—the dancers were totally nude.

  It was a setup. Davies and Bildstein were giggling together like two little girls as my hand-chosen entertainer began her dance. As my face was being covered by long, silky hair, Davies sidled to me and whispered, “No touching, chum. House rules.”

  As this was my first experience of this nature, I found myself feeling somewhat “off.” Uncomfortable. This beautiful and athletic stranger was finding ways to expose every inch of her body to me. Not even her gynecologist had more intimate views. It was undeniably titillating and yet, the luxury of the physical surroundings and the maturity of my fellow patrons precluded any sense of juvenile naughtiness or embarrassment. For the first time, I truly grasped that this form of intimate entertainment could work successfully in New York—if properly introduced.

  Davies and Bildstein were watching my lap dance as if it were a pornographic movie. They were whispering to each other and seemed to enjoy my mixture of discomfort, exhilaration, and realization. When the dance ended, Davies slipped a bill to my entertainer. She kissed me on the cheek and went her own way. Davies looked at me, with Bildstein over his shoulder. “Tell the truth, wasn’t it exotic, mesmerizing, exciting? Tell me exactly what you’re thinking.”

  For the sake of our future, I refused to share what I was really thinking.

  Back at Davies’s office, we started to explore in earnest the realities confronting us in re-creating a “Rachel’s-type” club in New York. Despite my more positive reactions at lunch, I remained deeply dubious that we could overcome ingrained Big Apple resistance to strip bars.

  Bildstein broke in. “You know, David, Michael is right. I always discounted his arguments, but I’ve been trying without success to open a table dance club in New York for years. Every
investor I approached had the same anti-strip-bar mentality.”

  “So what do we do?” Davies asked.

  “Here’s my idea,” Bildstein continued. “We avoid the issue. We don’t open a strip club, we open a sports bar featuring topless shows and lap dances. We won’t sell it as sexual pleasuring; we’ll put television screens everywhere and show every sports contest in the country, as well as pay-per-view boxing. We’ll decorate with sports memorabilia, invite sports celebrities, and put in basketball courts and golf machines. Customers will first visit the club for the sports; they’ll come back for the lap dances. What are the two things men like most? Sports and sex. We’re gonna offer both.”

  Davies heartily and immediately agreed. I think he would have agreed to eat vomit if it meant he could own New York’s first luxury titty bar.

  This was the moment I accepted my fate. Bildstein’s vision was brilliant and I was certain it could work. He combined the best elements of our celebrity sports-bar concept with his own lap dance mania, and envisioned a formula to overcome New York’s strip-bar aversion. Certainly we could attract New York’s elite to an upscale sports bar; and the fact touchdowns came along with hard-ons could be an amazing plus. I can’t say I was happy, as my interests in life flowed in other directions, but I could envision this concept as potentially the hottest ticket in town.

  We adjourned with plans: Bildstein to come up with a location and a budget; Davies to arrange finances; and me to investigate what legal obstacles, if any, we might encounter.

  We also needed a name.

  CHAPTER TEN

  An Unexpectedly Difficult Creation

  1991—NEW YORK CITY

  As multiple dramas were playing out in early 1991 on different screens of my life’s multiplex existence, my attention now turned to researching potential legal pitfalls lurking around our lap dance parlor. For advice, I went straight to Charlie Carreras, an attorney specializing in New York liquor law. It was always a pleasure to meet with Carreras, who was in his mid to late sixties, white-haired, plump, and jovial. He possessed extraordinary knowledge in the practical workings of the State Liquor Authority and, after listening to the plan, he threw up a brick wall.