Scores

  The administrative hearing was assigned to a large, dingy courtroom in the bowels of the New York State Liquor Authority’s downtown Manhattan offices. After waiting for more than an hour in the main lobby, we were ushered into the courtroom where an elderly, grumpy, and obviously unhappy administrative law judge sat erect on the bench. In short order, the judge made it abundantly clear he was offended by the subject matter of the case and anxious to bring matters to an expeditious close.

  The government’s case-in-chief was presented in less than five minutes. The investigator who served the opening night summons was called to the stand. He detailed his long experience as a field agent and his recollection that, on the night in question, multiple dancers were observed performing in the premises bare-breasted.

  With the court’s unhappy permission, I deferred cross-examination of the government’s only witness as part of our defense. It was now our turn and, as I rose to begin, I remember thinking to myself I still couldn’t believe what I was about to do.

  I first called one of our managers, who submitted copies of our official policy requiring every dancer to have her nipples painted with latex prior to entering public areas of the club. The government made no objections and asked no questions.

  Next, our expert from the University of North Carolina took the stand and described the scientific definitions and industry-approved tests for ascertaining whether a particular substance was “opaque” as required by the law for nipple coverings. He testified that each and every test confirmed our latex surpassed standards to be deemed “opaque,” and concluded that nipples painted with the tested substance would satisfy statutory dictates.

  In a final flourish, the expert produced a pane of glass painted with latex and, holding up fingers behind the pane, obtained the government’s stipulation that it was impossible to see through the glass to the fingers. “Just as one cannot see my fingers behind the latex-painted glass,” the expert expounded, “no patron is able to view any portion of a dancer’s actual nipple. The latex is the equivalent of a rubber pasty.”

  We next called both the club’s cosmetician and house mom. Their cumulative testimony confirmed the cosmetician painted every dancer’s breasts with latex every night, and the house mom monitored the dressing room exit to ensure only dancers with latex-covered nipples entered the club. Both witnesses told the court that on opening night—the night in question—security was especially heightened.

  When these witnesses were excused, our sole remaining goal was to dispute, or at least create doubt, as to the investigator’s alleged visual findings. To accomplish this, I re-called the investigator, and my first questions established that he didn’t know, and hadn’t bothered to identify, the names of the dancers who’d allegedly violated the law. I approached the bench and advised the court of my intention to re-create the club’s lighting ambiance in the courtroom utilizing portable lamps, and to place five bare-breasted women at the proper distance from the witness to determine whether he was capable of determining which women had painted their nipples and which had not.

  The judge rose to his feet in response. “Are you out of your mind? This is a court, not a peep show. I absolutely won’t allow my courtroom to be turned into a carnival. Have you no respect?”

  Straining with all my might to keep from smiling, I jumped into the fray. “Your Honor, no disrespect is intended. This isn’t some frivolous or immaterial exhibition. The club’s defense is straightforward: when areolas are painted with latex, which has been colorized and toned to match an individual’s skin type, it is virtually impossible to visually detect the opaque covering in colored light. If we can prove the investigator is incapable of detecting the presence of a latex paint shield on a nipple, his testimony becomes worthless.

  “And two more things, Judge. First, if Your Honor objects to performing this demonstration in the courtroom, I move we adjourn to the club where I can exactly duplicate conditions on the night in question. Second, we’re being forced to proceed in this manner because the investigator failed to name the purported offending dancers. I have to challenge his observational skills because I can’t call any particular witness to rebut specifics. I respectfully submit the court cannot deny us this very relevant simulation.”

  I thought the judge might be having a heart attack; his face reddened and his hands began shaking. After a few moments of reflection, he rose and quietly ruled, “I will allow your so-called simulation. But I want the courtroom cleared of spectators and I want things to move along very quickly. Set up your lights and we’ll continue when you’re ready.”

  As the judge’s form disappeared through a door behind the bench, I sprinted into the hall, barking orders to our crew to set up the portable lights in the courtroom. I next headed over to a small conference room reserved for witnesses. Seated there were five Scores dancers and our drowsy-looking cosmetician. The girls had been selected for specific physical attributes: small breasts, small dark nipples, and olive skin. Our tests in preparation for trial concluded latex shields were most difficult to observe on women with these characteristics.

  After confirming the latex had been applied, I inspected each dancer carefully. Lord, the things we’re forced to do as a sacrifice to our profession! I was quite impressed with the results; it was hard to detect the latex paint. I also reviewed what was expected of the women: remove tops, stand erect, no smiling, no dancing, no nothing. They donned white robes and followed me into the courtroom. We emptied the gallery of guests, turned off the overhead lights, pulled the shades, turned on the portable color lamps, and called for the judge.

  When the investigator was again seated in the witness chair, I asked the entertainers to stand in a row before him and remove their robes. As the women exposed themselves, I stole a glance at the judge, who was cradling his head in his hands.

  I approached the witness and advised him that some of the women had covered their nipples with latex and some hadn’t. Before he could answer, a shrill voice pierced the courtroom’s quiet. “Young lady, do not move that thing again!” As I fiercely looked around for the source of the interruption, I realized it was the judge. He was standing and pointing to the right breast of a blonde dancer on the end of the lineup.

  “Is there a problem, Your Honor?”

  “Yes, there’s a problem,” the frothing-at-the-mouth jurist snapped. “I want that woman to stand perfectly still, no movement. Every time she shifts her weight, her privates are bouncing all around.”

  “I can’t help it, Judge,” the annoyed blonde blurted out, “they jump around on their own.”

  I was close to losing it, but I knew if I started laughing, the whole case would be sacrificed. I motioned to the judge and walked over to confer with the dancer. “Listen,” I whispered, “the man can’t handle all this. Just try to keep still.”

  “Piss on that little old nerd. Who does he think he’s looking down on? I’ll tell him I earn more in a few months than he earns all year with his big, important job.”

  Helpful idea, I mused to myself as I returned my attention to the judge. “In all fairness, Your Honor, the investigator observed the breasts in motion and keeping them still weighs the test heavily in the state’s favor. But in deference to your wishes, the women will try to keep motion to a minimum.”

  When I repeated my question, the investigator remarked he believed he could pick out the painted nipples from the unpainted ones. We held our collective breaths as he proceeded to choose two dancers whom he claimed weren’t painted.

  Bingo! Yes! Cha-ching! The witness was wrong on both choices and, to prove it, I instructed the selected women to peel the latex shields from their nipples. I placed the rubber pasties in a plastic bag and offered them into evidence. Although refusing to look at the evidence or to even touch the bag, the judge reluctantly accepted the latex as an exhibit, acting as if I’d offered him dried shit from a cruise line case or New Kid on the Block vomit or fingernail clippings.

  The judge then retired, a
sking us to wait in the courtroom for his decision. As we paced in anticipation, one of our managers approached me and asked what I thought our realistic chances of prevailing might be. “To be honest, slim to none. This is a kangaroo court; we were doomed before things started. These judges only have stamps that read ‘Guilty.’ The battle will be in civil court in a couple of years.”

  As scripted, the judge returned shortly and announced his finding: guilty as charged. As the gallery groaned in response, he went on to “unofficially” explain that the witness’s inability to identify the unpainted nipples was immaterial. “I find that the use of latex is not a substitute for cloth covers. You may be complying with the letter of the law, but not with its spirit. Scores Entertainment is guilty and, in due course, will receive written findings.”

  Curiously, neither a decision nor penalty was ever issued. I called the Liquor Authority several times, fearful of missing the time limit for challenging administrative findings in court, only to be told to “stand by.” Something was up.

  Then came the day it was announced by the highest court in New York that it had unanimously voided the statute containing the “cover those nipples” and “dance six feet away and eighteen inches in the air” rules. As a result, I soon received notice that the case against us was dismissed and, even better, the City Council had no intention of reenacting the prohibitions. It was over. No more latex, no more opaque tests, no more SLA summonses. Our gambit had paid off, and our nipples were free.

  Bare breasts, lap dancing, and Scores were here to stay. Manhattan had been yanked out of the Puritan Age and joyously joined the ranks of such liberal states as Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Trying to Tame the Mafia Beast

  1994

  Throughout my tenure as the principal owner of Scores, I viewed our involvement with the mafia as a necessary evil, an unavoidable cost of doing business in New York. Despite all that’s happened since, I still believe that view to be an accurate depiction of then-existing facts of life. The New York club scene was a jungle, and while the mafia adds nothing to business promotion itself, it offered a buffer that the sickest and most violent street animals feared to breach.

  In looking back over the experience, I am wholly unable to discern whether the relationship between Scores and the mob was pathetic or comical or both. And recognizing that a complete history would surely make an entertaining memoir unto itself, here are some of the highlights of life at the club with the Gambino crime family along for the ride.

  As discussed, the original negotiation for mob protection included a one thousand dollar weekly payment and, like clockwork, every Thursday night, Steve Sergio would amble over to the cashier and sign out the cash—no permission requested or granted. We were first told the funds went directly to the home of John Gotti, Sr. in Queens, and later to his son, Junior.

  Over the years, our computers tracked our income from each source, and a reliable pattern developed based on daily, monthly, and yearly comparisons. With this pattern as our guide, I became quite concerned when, for no apparent reason, the Thursday night door income began to markedly decline. It made no sense because our tracking of bar, food, and funny money sales revealed those categories to be rising in the same period. Unless our door people were admitting more than half the customers for free, there was only one plausible explanation—someone was stealing.

  At first, we simply admonished our cashiers and door managers, voicing our suspicions. But as time marched forward, the Thursday night “door dip” became larger and larger, eventually reaching almost twenty thousand dollars. We clearly needed to do something.

  Our solution was to place a ceiling camera in the vestibule above the cashier. From that vantage point, we could tape and review entering patrons and incoming cash. We were already monitoring our bartenders successfully by the same method and hoped the camera would intimidate potential thieves. But, on the next Thursday night, the camera failed to record, and the door dip continued undeterred. Our technician, after examining the camera, concluded it had been intentionally sabotaged. This meant our thief was brazen, confident, and not working alone. All clues were now pointing to the mafia.

  To ensure our surveillance success on the following Thursday, a second camera was temporarily affixed to a stanchion on East Sixtieth Street with a view to monitor the vestibule and keep an eye on the cashier camera. This time, both cameras were discovered wrecked the next morning. All our questioned employees professed complete ignorance, and that absolutely meant it was the work of the mob. A war was now officially “on.”

  Calling for covert assistance, we contacted a “spy store” on Lexington Avenue and arranged for a camera to be installed on the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, just above the club and directly aimed at the street camera. No one but Andrew, myself, and the spy store knew about the third camera. We now had a camera watching the camera watching the camera!

  On Friday morning, our technician advised that both the cashier camera and the street camera had again been pummeled beyond repair, but the bridge camera had performed perfectly and captured one of our mafia bouncers smashing the street camera with a baseball bat. The same bouncer was later filmed departing shortly after the destruction, carrying an unidentified paper bag. After reviewing the tape, I called Mike Sergio and requested an immediate meeting with him, his son, and the bouncer in question. When he asked what it was all about, I tersely told him his bouncer was a part of a “ring of thieves.”

  At the meeting, it was calmly explained we had reliable information that the bouncer was responsible for destroying our surveillance cameras to cover up thefts of door cash. In response, the bouncer swore to Sergio with fervent emotion—on his life, on his mother’s soul, and on his future children’s eyes (my personal favorite)—that he had nothing to do with destroying any cameras or stealing any cash.

  At that point, we went to the videotape and silently watched as the bouncer’s exploits were revealed in living color.

  Sergio rose and, darting toward the bouncer, struck him in the face, toppled him off his seat, and loosed a long series of expletives. He told us we’d never see the bouncer again and ordered him to wait in the car downstairs. Sergio apologized profusely and beat a quick retreat. Interestingly, there wasn’t a single word mentioned about repayment.

  We came to learn through the grapevine that the bouncer had been simply reassigned by the family to work in another club as a bouncer. And now we knew the theft was emanating on orders from the top of the crew. If a simple bouncer, acting alone, had stolen more than a hundred thousand dollars from a protected club, his punishment would have been far more severe than a slap and a transfer.

  From inception, we’d happily ceded the valet parking business to the mob capo at the corner pizzeria. The valet deal was simple: arrangements were made to park patrons’ cars at a nearby lot for four dollars per car, and the mafia got to keep the difference between that cost and the ten-dollar fee charged to customers.

  We started receiving a small stream of letters from patrons complaining that the city was enforcing collection of past-due parking tickets for cars entrusted to Scores valets. With penalties, each thirty-five-dollar ticket had grown to more than one hundred dollars.

  We soon discovered many of our valets were illegally parking cars around the corner on East Sixty-First Street and not in the arranged lot. When the customer retrieved his car, the valet would rip up any ticket issued to the vehicle, return the car to the unsuspecting patron, and pocket the four dollars. Now each four-dollar scam was turning into a one-hundred-dollar-plus loss for the club.

  The small trickle of complaints turned into a tsunami, and swarms of outraged customers demanded compensation. Who could blame them? I turned out to be one of them! We accepted collection notices from all complaining customers and paid the tickets with penalties at a cost of more than fifteen thousand dollars. At an angry meeting with the mob, the pizzeria captain’s representatives apologized an
d gave assurances the practice had ended.

  Once again though, there was no talk of repayment.

  All revenues from the coatroom were pocketed by Steve Sergio. While one would think a coatroom business would be a worry-free operation, and immensely profitable at a cost-free five dollars per checked item, it was a source of unending woes.

  Sergio’s position was that, although he was earning every coatroom dollar, it was somehow the club’s responsibility to keep the equipment in good repair. Our position was the exact opposite: you’re making all the money, you fix broken equipment. This brought us to a standstill and, after a while, the electric rotating racks were permanently broken, the carpeting was ripped and filthy, and constant complaints were being lodged about items being stolen from pockets of checked coats. On some occasions, customers became irate over fur and leather coats disappearing after being checked.

  We explained to customers that the coatroom was independently owned and operated. We passed all complaints to Steve Sergio, who promptly ignored them. Throughout our ownership of the club, coatroom problems went unresolved. While we were forced to settle many claims behind Steve’s back—as we would never give him the satisfaction of admitting our actions in the name of customer accommodation—the issue led to a bitter hatred between Steve and Andrew. It took every ounce of Mike Sergio’s imposed restraint to keep his son from ripping out Andrew’s throat.

  Perhaps the most significant damage caused to the club at the hands of the mafia came from the array of bouncers foisted upon us. Early on, as with virtually every club in the city, the mob insinuated its own corps of nightly bouncers, usually overgrown bodybuilders with steroid-retarded brains (and private parts). Imagine Scores on a Thursday night: customers in suits, dancers in evening gowns (when dressed), managers in tuxedos, bartenders and bar backs in uniforms, and bouncers in jeans or sweatpants, leather jackets, and black muscle T-shirts with cutoff sleeves. Our bouncers were a source of constant embarrassment—seemingly unneccesary embarrassment, as there were very few altercations except those the bouncers got into themselves.