Scores

  According to Charlie, there were two major legal obstacles to our envisioned venture. First, in any premises serving alcohol in New York, female dancers were required to have their nipples covered by an “opaque” substance. This was most often accomplished through fabric pasties. Even worse, topless dancers wearing pasties were required to perform on platforms at least eighteen inches high and six feet away from the nearest patron. After an extensive discussion, it seemed New York’s laws had been specifically enacted to preclude just the sort of entertainment we were contemplating. In short, we could only offer lap dances if we didn’t sell alcohol, and that wasn’t an option.

  Feeling defeated, I returned to my office and met with Bildstein. I recounted Carreras’s gloomy assessment, holding back my amazement that Bildstein hadn’t previously discovered all of this information himself. In tackling the question of “opaque” nipple covers, his immediate reaction was that we could overcome the statutory prohibition by requiring the dancers to paint their nipples with theatrical latex paint. According to Bildstein, when properly tinted to match a dancer’s actual skin tone, latex paint becomes virtually undetectable, giving the illusion of uncovered nipples. He went on to say strip clubs in many other states had reverted to this solution when faced with similar legal restrictions.

  I honestly thought we might be on to something. It was the word “opaque” that kept grabbing my attention. I pulled out the dictionary to look it up, finding the definition as, “impervious to rays of visible light.” After mulling over this information, I turned to Bildstein. “Do you think theatrical latex is impervious to light?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” was his honest response.

  He agreed to obtain a sample bottle of the paint from a cosmetology store in New Jersey that worked closely with Broadway producers on nudity issues. I phoned one of my expert textile witnesses at the University of North Carolina and found him most encouraging, advising that “opaque” had a definite scientific definition, replete with published standards and testing procedures. He saw no impediment to testing our paint to determine whether it met accepted tests to be labeled opaque.

  A sample of the latex was immediately shipped off to North Carolina for testing and, in a few days, the expert called with his initial results. According to tests conducted on a spectrograph, the theatrical latex paint was more opaque than a Brooks Brothers cotton dress shirt. Since there could be no possible legal objection to a dancer performing in a dress shirt, there was no reason why that same entertainer couldn’t satisfactorily cover her nipples with opaque latex. I was convinced we’d found ourselves a loophole to defeat governmental prohibitions—basing our defense on the same scientific standards invoked in the government’s own law.

  The second legal requirement was more formidable. If an entertainer was required to dance at least eighteen inches in the air and more than six feet away from a patron, lap dancing was a physical impossibility. The issue was: Would the club still work with stage dancing, but no lap dancing?

  “Absolutely not!” was Davies’s immediate unconditional response. “It is the lap dancing which is key, the ingredient which simulates intimacy.”

  Bildstein was in total agreement; we needed to offer lap dancing to succeed.

  What followed were a series of rapid-fire questions aimed at me, New York’s newest expert in the growing field of “tit law.” Could the government sanction us for offering lap dances? Would the latex satisfy the law? Could we be closed immediately? Was the law enforceable, or even constitutional?

  I refused to supply impromptu, knee-jerk responses. I needed time for research and told them so. We agreed to reconvene in one week’s time to continue the debate.

  During that week, I met again with Carreras, as well as with Warren Pesetsky, another celebrated liquor attorney. Of course, there turned out to be no clear-cut, easy answers to our concerns, but I reached my conclusions based on the best available advice and addressed the crew as promised on a conference call.

  “This is what I believe,” I began. “The State Liquor Authority will be immediately coming after us for no pasties and for lap dancing. Count on it, and count on the fact my political connections will provide no zone of comfort. The commissioners are extremely sensitive to charges of favoritism and, think about it, they have no choice. If they allow us to have lap dancing, it will become a citywide epidemic of flouting the statute.

  “With that said, I’m just as sure we couldn’t be immediately closed. There’s a long-standing policy that once violations are served, closure procedures are stayed until completion of both administrative hearings and court challenges. That means it would take more than a year, perhaps two or three, to close our doors for latex-covered nipples or lap dancing.

  “I also believe we’ll win on the latex issue in court so long as the experts continue to confirm that latex is ‘opaque’ based on accepted scientific standards. As far as I’m concerned, our nipples will be legal. But, we’ll certainly lose on the ‘six foot’ rule, nothing we can do about it. You can’t sit on a lap if you’re six feet away. But you know what, I believe there are ‘freedom of speech’ problems with that law and I’d actually enjoy giving it a good run. And again, we’re looking at three years or so before we could be closed.

  “So you wanted to know what I think,” I concluded rhetorically, “I say we go for it. If we find a location we love, we open, we expect a fight with the liquor folks, and we prepare to battle them all the way. If our invested money isn’t back in our pockets in three years, we’ll already have closed and been long forgotten.”

  Davies led the enthusiastic responses. He was completely in favor of going forward with the club, latex, and lap dancing at full speed. With a sly laugh, he added, “Mark my words, we won’t even be served with a violation. The liquor people are not going to want to fuck with you. You underestimate yourself, Michael.”

  Bildstein, who’d been a nervous wreck all week, was now excited in the extreme, his dream still amazingly on track. After hearing we were a “go,” he chirped in, “Guys, I think I’ve found the perfect spot for our club.”

  Bildstein had gotten wind of the rumored availability of space at 333 East Sixtieth Street, between First and Second Avenues. This was, in fact, quite an impressive address in the heart of the stylish and snobbish Upper East Side. According to Bildstein, the place had been rented, but the tenant ran out of construction funds and was about to default on his lease. The place would soon be back on the market.

  When Bildstein went on to say the space had once been home to Club A, I realized I was quite familiar with the location. Indeed, Club A had been a long-term success as a watering hole for the wealthy, the elite, and the mafia. I’d been to Club A numerous times and, if we could actually secure that lease, we would’ve truly struck gold.

  We jumped into a taxi to reconnoiter the location and its surrounding neighborhood. It was exactly as I recalled: the club was in the direct center of the block, in the shadow of the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge; Rodney Dangerfield’s comedy club, Dangerfield’s, and the world-famous male strip club, Chippendales, were around the corner on First Avenue; and both surrounding avenues were filled with exclusive and famous restaurant haunts.

  The only disturbing aspect of the existing landscape was Sixtieth Street itself. Unlike the days when Club A catered to a tuxedoed and bejeweled clientele, it’d fallen into frightening disrepair. The city had apparently taken to using the sparsely traveled block as a dumping ground for bridge repair equipment; garbage was strewn everywhere; homeless coteries had constructed a small village out of paper cartons; and rats the size of dogs roamed brazenly. It was as if a ghetto block had been miraculously transported into the middle of one of the nation’s richest neighborhoods and, here we were, hoping to convert that ghetto into a dazzling new home.

  Several days later, Bildstein appeared at my desk looking sullen, reporting he’d reached out to the landlord’s lawyer and confirmed the space might be available soon. Unfortun
ately, the landlord’s representative hadn’t been enthusiastic about considering our application. “In fact,” Bildstein tersely muttered with a strained face, “he said a friend of the landlord will probably be getting the lease. Just my damn luck.”

  I let the mood of disappointment deepen until I could stand the gloom no longer. I walked over to him, put my hand on his shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m that landlord’s friend.”

  Abraham Hirschfeld, an Eastern European immigrant, was one of Manhattan’s true real estate moguls. With a halting foreign accent and the aura of a jovial grandfather, he owned some of the city’s most spectacular parcels of commercial property. His fame and recognizability had grown exponentially as he began to dabble in politics, becoming a perennial candidate in Senate campaigns featuring bizarre and unconventional advertisements. Everyone in New York knew “Abe,” although few ever voted for him.

  I’d come to know Abe well through politics. He’d discovered the best way to secure Andrew Cuomo’s attention, and thereby the governor’s attention, was through me. I happily ran messages between them for years and had grown very fond of the man with his unique style and personality. When a little research revealed to me that the leasehold we so coveted was in one of Abe’s properties, I knew what I had to do.

  The space at 333 East Sixtieth Street is really the basement of a premises with a main entrance on Sixty-First Street. The main tenant of the building was the Vertical Club, one of the city’s premier gyms and spas. The Sixtieth Street side, with separate entrance, was treated by the main tenant as a sublet. Although any lease for the premises was technically a relationship between the Vertical Club and the subtenant, the landlord had veto power over any subtenancy.

  I quietly reached out to Abe and begged my first and only favor from him. I wanted to be the new subtenant in the former Club A space. I told him honestly of my plans and he immediately agreed to grant me the tenancy. I was put in touch with Tex Seeger, Abe’s lawyer for the property, and he drew up a lease. The only glitch was a lease provision that prohibited any “nude” or “seminude” entertainment. I objected to the clause and, after consulting with Abe, it was agreed “seminude” would be deleted. This left us wide open for topless, lap dance entertainment.

  Before any lease signing could proceed, I insisted Davies fly to New York to personally inspect the club. While he remained gushingly enthusiastic about the venture, he’d yet to fund our first penny and there was no way I was going to allow a lease to be executed until I was satisfied with the arrangements for finances.

  My first visit to the basement that would eventually be leased to us was in the company of Davies and Bildstein. The place was in shambles, having been partially demolished by the defaulting prior tenant. Nothing except an extensive kitchen was salvageable and we would need to undertake a complete interior reconstruction.

  From inception of our tour, we were in unanimous agreement; the place was simply fantastic, a slam dunk. It was enormous and sprawling, and could be molded into anything we desired. Acting very much the conquering hero, Davies rapidly barked out orders: sign the lease, hire an architect, and commence construction. He was also unsettlingly insistent on learning when auditions for dancers could be scheduled.

  As we were exiting the club, Bildstein held us back, ushering us to a dust covered beat-up wooden table. “I have come up with a name and a slogan for our club.”

  “No flag and fight song?” I remarked.

  Ignoring my meager attempt at dry wit, Bildstein leaned back and said one word: “Scores.”

  There was a short silence and Davies cried out, “I love it!”

  “I knew you would,” Bildstein returned. “It’s so perfect; get the score of the game, try to score with a dancer.”

  “And the slogan?”

  “Where Sports and Pleasure Come Together.”

  “Another double meaning.” Davies smiled. “Perfect.”

  Truth be known, it was the perfect name and the perfect slogan. In all the years ahead, I’d never hear ones I liked as much or better. So now we had a place and we had a name. I went back to the firm and ordered the incorporation of “Scores Entertainment, Inc.” and “333 Entertainment, Inc.”

  Note that 333, the address of our new club, is half the devil’s number. In the years that followed, many would claim the name and slogan were products of their uncredited creativity. But no matter who was responsible, I owned the trademark; whether it would prove valuable was yet to be seen.

  Once the promised funds arrived from Florida, I finalized the terms of the lease. Extremely helpful and honest, Seeger shared with me his concern that the local community leaders would oppose our club with all their collective might. “The last thing in the world these rich old biddies want,” he warned, “is a titty bar in their hotsy-totsy neighborhood. Once they discover your plans, they’ll be on a mission to prevent you from opening.”

  Taking the warning to heart, I reached out to my expert in such matters, Warren Pesetsky. From Warren, and his partner Bob Bookman, I learned to my horror that local community boards can veto the issuance of new liquor licenses for any one of a host of reasons. But community boards are only empowered to block “new” licenses and have no power over renewals. Once you’re in, you’re in.

  Realizing the potential for brewing trouble, I quietly obtained a list of the community board members in our district, pieced together who knew who and how, figured out who were our potential friends and allies on the board, and went politically fishing. As a result of this investigation and a slew of meetings, I came to understand the internal procedures of our board in reviewing and passing upon new license applications.

  When I’d uncovered all there was to know, I settled back with an irrepressibly devious smile. I actually knew how to pull off getting our liquor license in spite of a hostile board. It was a masterful plan, requiring the same kind of intricate and precise planning I’d utilized at PS 209 to topple Nick Spano. And just like Spano, the board members would never know what hit them.

  And then the mafia arrived.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mafia for Dummies

  EARLY 1991

  Mike Sergio invited me to dinner at his restaurant. I was tickled when I arrived because “Grampa” Al Lewis was dining with us that night, and he’d invited Fred Gwynne, the famous Herman Munster himself, for the meal. Just pleased to be a fly on the wall, I listened with interest to these veteran actors discussing their memories from and their roles in the 50s television hit Car 54 Where Are You?—along with Lewis’s plans for a Munster-esque Halloween reunion bash that would include Butch Patrick (Eddie Munster), but not Yvonne De Carlo (Lily Munster) because her ballooning weight was causing her to avoid public appearances.

  For my benefit, Sergio goaded Gwynne into voicing his disdain and regret over his Munster role. I was unaware that “pre-Munster,” Fred had also been considered a serious dramatic actor with an impressive resume in Shakespeare. For Gwynne, Herman had forever typecast him, limited his future opportunities to obtain parts his talents merited, and reduced his professional legacy to that of a “green-skinned joke.” Who would have thought? And he sure as shit wasn’t going to attend any Halloween reunion party dressed as Herman.

  Gwynne, who lived nearby in Greenwich Village, quickly departed after the meal. As Grampa returned to patron-shmoozing, Sergio guided me over to a table in a quiet elevated section to the right of the pizza ovens where, I’d learned, private business was regularly conducted. Unusually, Sergio postured himself with a serious air.

  “Tell me about the new club you’re planning uptown,” Sergio said.

  “Nothing much to tell,” I answered, hiding my shock. “I put some people together and we’re working on a club venture up in the East Sixties.”

  “I hear it’s in the old Club A space. Right?”

  I nodded my head.

  Sergio pulled his face very close to mine and whispered, “Michael, do you know who owned Club A? Do you know wh
o controls that space?”

  I drew back from him in confusion. “I haven’t the slightest idea who owned Club A, but I know the building is owned by my friend.”

  “I’m not talking about the fucking landlord,” he barked. “I’m talking about who owns the neighborhood; who controls the street, the garbage collection, the linen supply, and the liquor wholesalers!”

  I just stared back. This was a very different Mike Sergio from the friend and partner I’d come to know so well. He was normally even-tempered and approachable, but tonight he was confronting me with a veritable stew of anger, disdain, and menace.

  He shook his head. “You telling me you really don’t know?”

  “I really don’t know,” I meekly admitted in halting monotone.

  “Well, time to learn. The space you’ve somehow involved yourself in has always been and will always be personally controlled by John Gotti, Sr. and his crew. A capo from another family owns the pizza place around the corner, and if you and your pals think you’re gonna open a place in that spot without making proper accommodations, you’re asking for trouble, potentially permanent trouble. You just don’t go and disrespect the head of the Gambinos.”

  My head was swimming and my heart started racing. None of my prior commercial ventures had been in Manhattan, and they had never seriously captured the attention of organized crime. Although the mafia was well-known for “shaking down” clubs and restaurants in “protection” rackets, I’d failed to consider we would draw their interest. Did they know something I didn’t know? I bit back a remark about having seen nothing in the lease about paying tribute to the mob, sensing this was a time to suppress my instinct to use humor as a defense mechanism in stressful situations.