Scores

  When the subject next arose, Karst reported the Atlanta prosecutors were enthralled with our results on the undercover tape and desperately wanted us in Atlanta to work covertly at the invited weekend. “They’ve had their eyes on Kaplan for quite some time, believing him to be a man with strong mafia ties. Until now, they could never get close enough to build a solid case.”

  Eyeing the trip to Atlanta, the FBI formulated a plan whereby three FBI agents would accompany Andrew and me into the “belly of the beast.” As usual, I would wear the F-Bird and Pearlstein would run interference, presumably by getting drunk. Only one small, bureaucratic problem needed to be resolved. The bail conditions set in Orlando contained travel restrictions limiting us to New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Florida. In order to proceed to Atlanta, we would technically need permission from the Florida judge.

  “Is it a problem?” I asked Karst.

  “You’re going to Atlanta with the FBI. It’s a technicality.”

  With all plans set, a few days before our departure for Atlanta, Karst called. “The Atlanta trip is cancelled, Michael. The Florida judge, Conway, refused our request to take you there.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “But, Jack, doesn’t the judge realize she’s killing an undercover operation by the bureau with far-reaching potential benefits? What possible problem could she have with our travel in the company of federal agents?”

  “She didn’t say, Michael, she just denied the request. It has to be the first time in history that a federal judge has refused to allow defendants on bail, cooperating in an undercover mafia investigation, to travel under FBI supervision. It’s just inexplicable to everyone here because the judge is violating settled public policy.

  “We’re sending a letter requesting reconsideration,” he continued, “but as of this moment the Kaplan trip is a dead issue. You can’t believe how disappointed and unhappy the Atlanta prosecutors are feeling.”

  I hung up the phone with a mixture of conflicting emotions. On one hand, I was relieved at the cancellation because I’d been quite frightened at the prospect of the trip with its inherent unknowns and dangers. On the other hand, the judge was acting outside reasonable judicial roles. Her ruling was frightening in that it was actually protecting the mob from a federal probe.

  Judge Anne Conway issued no ruling on the government’s request for reconsideration of her decision. Waiting in vain until the very last possible minute, we finally called Kaplan to express regrets at our inability to attend.

  To the frustration of all, the Kaplan initiative was abandoned in New York and shipped off to Atlanta for further evaluation and investigation. Instead of obtaining recorded confessions and firsthand testimony documenting the illegalities being perpetrated nightly at the Gold Club, the ruling set the government on a course that would eventually require the expenditure of millions of tax dollars, over a number of years, to reach a result that could have been attained in a single night of covert recording at virtually no expense.

  After the window of opportunity had forever closed, Judge Conway issued a surprise order on the following Monday reversing field. She’d now decided to allow the Atlanta trip to proceed, even though the meeting to be taped had already taken place. The prosecutors and agents, finding themselves more confused and frustrated than before, could offer no plausible explanation for the judge’s prior or new decision. Needless to say, there were a substantial number of disbelieving heads shaking furiously in the halls of the Department of Justice that day.

  At the close of this most unhappy episode, I could not divest myself of a disconcerting feeling that, notwithstanding Sandy Weinberg’s reassurances to the contrary, Judge Conway was not going to prove to be the ideal choice for two cooperating witnesses from New York City. In my heart, I worried a judge who would actually subvert an FBI undercover sting operation might not be prepared to reward its participants generously, or even reasonably. With perfect clarity I understood, between an openly hostile prosecutor, and a seemingly indifferent judge, I was up to my neck in a deep pile of shit.

  With a heavy heart and waning enthusiasm, my attention was turned without warning to an unexpected meeting with the acting head of the Colombo crime family, Alphonse “Allie Boy” Persico, a man with a well-earned reputation for violence and mayhem.

  Relying upon intercepted wiretap information, the FBI learned Persico was scheduled to attend a birthday fête being thrown at Scores. I learned of the party from the agents, and was directed to reach out through my own contacts to request a meeting with Persico at the event. I was also told I would be strapping on my F-Bird for the encounter.

  The plan went off without a hitch and, under the guise of seeking permission to open a new Scores in the heart of Persico’s turf in Brooklyn, the requested private meeting during the birthday party was confirmed. With the F-Bird planted in the “Karst pouch,” I headed out to Scores on party night. Upon arrival, I unhappily discovered an entire group of some of my closest friends dining in the restaurant. I made the instant decision to keep far away from them, even if it meant raising some eyebrows. I feared an inadvertent remark about some casual illegality might get recorded and wind up opening an unwanted can of worms for one of the folks I cared most about in the world.

  The Persico party was assigned to the President’s Club, which we’d closed to the public for the evening. I busied myself with preparations for the bash, constantly checking my watch in anticipation of our target’s arrival. As the hours passed, all of the invitees made appearances, with the exception of the Allie Boy crew.

  At ten o’clock, with still no Persico in sight, one of the managers approached me and whispered, “Boss, Leonardo DiCaprio just arrived with a small party. He’s asking for you, and I seated them in the Champagne Lounge.”

  “Perfect, just let him know I’ll get over there as soon as I can. Meantime, everything he wants is on the house.”

  Leonardo DiCaprio was my absolute favorite celebrity guest at Scores. He’d been a regular for years, and I’d come to enjoy the actor’s sense of humor and sharp intellect. DiCaprio was never permitted to spend his own cash at the club, and all of his guests were accorded celebrity status.

  Again concerned some undesired remark might find its way on to the recording F-Bird, I slowly approached the lounge area with a sense of trepidation. “Hey, kid,” I opened, hugging Leonardo, who’d stood in reaction to my presence.

  Pointing to the young men to his right, he said, “Say hello to Tobey Maguire, he’s one of my best friends and an actor, and to David Blaine, the world’s best magician.” As these were the days before they achieved fame and celebrity in their own right, I honestly paid scant attention to the introductions in the midst of the crowded craziness and obscene noise level of the club.

  Virtually shouting to a man standing six inches away, I asked Leonardo whether he wanted to remain in the lounge or preferred a private party in the Crow’s Nest. With a broad smile, probably remembering prior escapades in the club’s most sequestered area, he opted for the private facilities, whereupon I motioned for the trio to follow me.

  With drinks and dancers quickly arriving in the Nest, I excused myself for a moment to learn whether Persico had yet made an appearance. Told he was still missing-in-action, I made an immediate decision. I wasn’t going to risk recording an innocent friend for a meeting with Persico that probably wasn’t going to happen. In quick succession, I climbed the spiral staircase, told Leonardo I’d be back to set up dinner, and dashed down again and out the front door to find the FBI van that I knew to be parked around the corner on a deserted stretch of quiet street.

  When I tapped on the van’s passenger’s side window, both Karst and Ready jumped in surprise. I met their concerned stares by motioning to the rear of the van: “Let’s talk in the back.” In the quiet of the vehicle’s rear chamber, which was stacked with shotguns and recording equipment, I explained Persico was now more than three hours late
, and the party was itself winding down. “Nobody still expects him; I think we’re wasting our time.”

  Admitting to their own fatigue, the agents agreed it would be prudent to abort the evening’s operation. Given the go-ahead, I handed over the beeper-transmitter, and stripped off my suit pants as the F-Bird and mini microphones were removed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ready remarked of our first investigative disappointment, “every night can’t be a home run. We’ll get Persico some other time.”

  As the van began pulling away from the curb, it suddenly stopped and Karst rolled down the window. “I meant to ask you, how’s your postsurgical ass feeling? All healed?”

  I heard loud laughter escaping the cabin as the van quickly pulled away. I shouted after them at the top of my lungs, “You know, the two of you can just go screw yourselves!”

  With the official portion of the night now ended, I retraced my steps to the club. No longer concerned about inadvertently capturing private conversations, I stopped at my friends’ table to smooth over my initial poor manners. Satisfied all was well, I headed back to the Nest for a bit of much-needed decompressing. Leonardo and I quickly conferred over the menu and ordered a combination of finger foods. As we were waiting for the order, he turned to me. “I think your club is boffo.”

  “Well, I appreciate that and you know you and your friends are always welcome as my guests.”

  Smiling wryly, Leonardo asked, “By the way, do you know what ‘boffo’ means?”

  “Hey, kid, listen, I knew what it meant before you were born, although I’ve never heard anyone not collecting social security actually use the word.”

  He laughed, but before he could shoot his next barb, a club manager appeared at the top of the spiral staircase with a large, muscular, swarthy stranger. The two made their way directly to me.

  “Say hello to Dom,” the manager began. “He’s here with our friend.”

  As I stretched out my hand, “shit” was the single word that pierced my pained mind. Persico had finally arrived.

  “Nice to meet you, you got a great place. He’s in your office waiting.”

  Nodding, I mumbled excuses to Leonardo and headed off, without benefit of F-Bird or beeper-transmitter, to a now useless meeting with the head of the Colombo crime clan.

  The route from the Crow’s Nest required following a path through the restaurant to the club’s office, passing a side door leading to the employees’ bathroom and a private exit to the street. As I passed the side door, Dom grabbed my left shoulder and pushed me aggressively though the portal. Startled and disoriented by the surprise maneuver, I stumbled into the usually deserted hallway only to find two more brutes awaiting me. Fearing the jig was up, my cooperation somehow uncovered, the blood drained from my head as I stared in silence at this welcoming committee. When I noticed one of the men was brandishing a revolver, I felt myself passing out of consciousness.

  One of them grabbed me and held me up against the nearest wall, another proceeding to open my shirt and rip my slacks and underwear to the floor. An immediate search of my entire body indelicately began.

  The gun-toting leader closed the distance separating him from me and whispered, “Nobody sees our friend without being fully searched.”

  Initially failing to remember the F-Bird had been removed, I shut my eyes and waited to be carted out to a car on the street for final disposition with Jimmy Hoffa. I could think of nothing to say or do to save myself, and was proud of the self-control I was demonstrating in the face of my end of days.

  Despite this steely resolve, I began uncontrollably shaking until I was mercifully flooded with the realization there was nothing to hide and I would actually pass this inspection with flying colors. I cursed at my own stupidity, when new stabs of fear raced through me. What if Karst didn’t get all the tape off my abdomen? He always leaves some. What if this idiot below sees the scars from the F-Birds on my thigh? Will he know what he’s looking at?

  After what seemed an eternity, bile building up in my throat, the searching mechanics finally ended and a surprisingly high-pitched voice came bellowing from the direction of my crotch. “He’s clean.”

  As they all waited for the leader to give the next order, I felt myself growing uncontrollably elated. Looking down at the stranger still positioned in front of my privates, I needed all my self-control to suppress what would have been a most untimely episode of laughter. Stretching my neck, I silently mused, Here I am again, with another mob guy introducing himself to my dick and ass. I’m beginning to suspect this whole mafia thing is a closet gay organization.

  Holding on to control for dear life, I snapped back into reality when the armed fellow returned his gun to its shoulder holster and smirked. “Sorry about all this, you can go on in now.”

  What to do, what to do? I decided I needed to react in the way any innocent club owner would respond. I also wanted to find a respectful excuse to avoid the scheduled face-to-face with the head of one of the five international families as I was bare of F-Bird.

  Pulling my pants back into place and rebuttoning my shirt, I turned to the trio. “Please tell your boss I’m going to get my message to him through intermediaries. With all due respect, and I understand a need to protect and insulate him from rats, I can’t allow myself to be treated like this in my own place. A simple request and I would have willingly submitted to a search, but I never expected a surprise attack. Please let him know I’m not insulted, just not up for any business tonight.”

  Without allowing time for retort, I straightened myself up, exited the hallway into the restaurant, and made my way directly back to the Nest, legs wobbling and equilibrium in total disarray.

  Reaching the top of the Nest’s circular staircase, I laughed out loud at the sight unfolding before me. The only patron there was Leonardo, who was sprawled out in a lounge chair, three topless dancers attending to him. “Last time I saw anyone getting this much attention, it was from a mafioso and a proctologist,” I joked out loud for my exclusive benefit as I took a seat on a couch and helplessly fell asleep.

  I’d no concept of how much time passed when Leonardo shook me back to life. Standing before me, now sporting a sweatshirt and knitted cap pulled below his ears, I would never have recognized him but for his uniquely piercing eyes.

  Extending his hand, the film star said, “Michael, we’re all taking off, we promised to stop at a party and we’re already late. Thanks for everything.”

  I stared back at my guest and newly crowned personal savior, overwhelmed by feelings of gratitude. Had Leonardo not come to Scores for dinner, sought my attention, and provided me with a personal motive to abort the covert recording of a high-profile target, I might not have decided to ditch the body wire. And, had I still been wearing it when the Persico crew searched me, there’s little doubt as to what would have ensued.

  Without knowing it, intending it, or even now realizing it, DiCaprio had, by a chance decision to drop in at his favorite Manhattan strip bar, and by simply being himself, single-handedly saved my life.

  When I reported the night’s disturbing turn of late-breaking events to Karst in the morning, my words were greeted with unusual total silence. “We were very, very lucky,” he slowly intoned.

  “Jack, make me feel better, tell me if I had been wearing the transmitter when all this went down, there would have been ample time for you and Bill to bust in and save me.”

  Karst didn’t answer.

  “Jack?”

  “To tell you the God’s honest truth, probably not, Michael. One of the reasons we agreed to abort was we weren’t getting a peep of reception out of the beeper and it was worrying us.”

  “So I would have been completely on my own and in trouble?”

  “More trouble than you probably realize. Part of Allie Boy’s street reputation is he takes killing responsibilities personally.”

  “And you decide to tell me this now?”

  I hung up the phone, my hands shaking.
<
br />   CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Rule of Threes

  Ancient superstition warns that evil always rears its head in episodes of three. Wary of this teaching, soldiers in foxholes under enemy fire refuse to light cigarettes with “three on a match” to ward off this time-proven curse. After the disappointment in Atlanta, and the escape from Persico’s surprise shakedown for body wires, it took scant time for my third bout of ill fortune to arrive. It all began about a week after the Persico party, on a relatively unremarkable day.

  Harvey Osher, my friend and Scores “right-hand man,” decided to conduct an impromptu meeting with Andrew. Osher had invested some of his family’s money in a boxing event that ended up being cancelled back in November 1996. The investment had been guaranteed by Scores and, after waiting for Pearlstein to voluntarily honor the guarantee, Harvey became increasingly disgruntled. He decided to confront Andrew on the issue.

  When Osher voiced his demand and need for immediate payment of the long-overdue obligation, Pearlstein’s blithe response went something like: “Listen Harvey, you made an investment, it didn’t pan out, that’s what’s called doing business in the real world. Scores isn’t covering your losses.”

  Now, it’s never been clear whether Pearlstein just didn’t remember, or chose at the moment not to remember, that Osher held a written guarantee for the debt from the club. But hearing Andrew’s answer, Harvey’s usually mild-mannered temperament snapped like a dry twig. Losing control, he banged his closed fists on the keyboard of Andrew’s laptop computer and, raising the unit above his head, smashed it to smithereens on the closest available wall.

  Exiting through the shared bathroom, and now in my office, he screamed something indecipherable in my direction about “killing” my “asshole partner,” and departed before I could wring any sense out of him.