Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  Sipperly and Miller let it be known that if we deviated, even slightly, from the outlined schedule, all deals in Florida would be “off the table.” We would find ourselves prosecuted as defendants there, and we would never have another opportunity to earn short stints in country-club jails. In other words, New York would become impotent to help us and our undercover achievements would go totally unrewarded.

  “What you’re demanding is crazy and probably impossible,” Sandy Weinberg screamed into the phone at Sipperly during a conference call. “Could you sort out your entire lives, and find new places to live anonymously, on seventy-two hours’ notice? Think for a second about what you’re doing to these men!”

  “What we’re trying to do is keep your clients from going to jail for the next twenty-five years.” She further explained that, at the behest of her office, the powers in Washington had performed serious arm-twisting in Florida and obtained agreement for us, subject to acceptable proffer interviews, to become cooperators in the Heritage trial and earn the rewards offered at the World Trade Center meeting.

  “But what guarantee do we have Hunt won’t just set us up to fail?” Andrew interrupted. “That’s exactly what she’s been doing since the beginning.”

  “Because Hunt won’t be the final word. Her boss, the district’s first assistant, will be running the show. Hunt will be there, but we’ve been assured it will be her boss’s decision as to whether you’re being honest and forthcoming. The only part of all this we can’t change is the timing that must be underway before Thanksgiving.”

  During the course of protracted exchanges with the agents in the following days, reasons for the recent events emerged. Apparently, the New York prosecutors finally convinced the attorney general in Washington that Florida’s refusal to accept us as cooperators, and their threat to prosecute us as defendants instead, would destroy our credibility as witnesses in the mafia case in New York. After all, why would a jury in New York believe anything we said after mafia defense attorneys argued we’d been rejected as witnesses in Florida because local prosecutors branded us as liars?

  Washington suddenly came to the realization that Hunt’s decisions held potentially far-reaching ramifications beyond her local fraud case. If the situation wasn’t satisfactorily resolved, the probable result would be disaster for the most important mafia prosecution of the decade, and embarrassment of the Department of Justice on center stage before a worldwide media audience.

  The next day, my last in New York, I ordered a taxi to the airport. A sense of numbness overtook me as I locked my door, stepped into the elevator, and passed through the always glorious lobby. My mood turned mournful as I drank in the sights of the city, trying to memorize details of the Empire State Building, the United Nations, and all the landmarks that had become my backyard. I even sneaked one last look at the Scores exterior.

  As depression was enveloping every part of my psyche, I suddenly willed all thought processes to a screeching halt and began lecturing myself. Yes, I was losing much to the moment, but who knew what lay ahead? I decided I could only survive by anticipating the future as an unmitigated adventure. After all, how many people get a new life, a new name, and endless opportunities? So long as I was able to sell Scores to a friendly buyer, so long as I was protected, so long as the minimal jail term in a “hotel” jail was not one more broken promise by New York, I could definitely make things work.

  I was now determined to make it a beginning. No more self-pity, no more loathing, no more complaints. I decided not to measure my life by what I was leaving behind but, rather, by the possibilities ahead.

  As I boarded the plane, it was not with the sadness and hopelessness that overwhelmed my last hours in New York; those emotions were replaced with a genuine sense of wonder at the life stretching before me. I would be renewed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A New Life Begins, Maybe

  NOVEMBER 1997—A DISNEY THEME PARK HOTEL,

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  I was so out of place, a lone shadowy figure walking amid vacationing families radiating sheer joy. As far as I could tell, I was the only person in a business suit; all around me were mothers and fathers in T-shirts and shorts, and kids with Mickey Mouse ears and stuffed Disney character dolls in their clutched arms. I wished I could change places with any of them for just a little while.

  Sitting in the hotel’s lobby restaurant at eight the next morning, wearing the same blue pinstripe suit and red tie I’d worn the previous day, and picking unenthusiastically at a plate of bacon and runny eggs, I was already feeling telltale signs of nervous exhaustion. Glancing at my watch for the tenth time in five minutes, I sighed in relief upon catching sight of my new lawyer retained for today’s proffer, Norman Moscowitz out of Miami. I rose to greet him, and together we headed out for the short trip into Orlando proper.

  In response to security concerns voiced by the FBI, it was agreed the interview would not take place at the prosecutor’s offices in the Orlando federal courthouse. Instead, the government’s plan was to secretly gather at a downtown hotel called the Harley. Andrew’s proffer was scheduled for a week later, and probably in a different place.

  Norman and I encountered light morning traffic and quickly reached the hotel. Ascending an inclined walkway at the entrance, passing through a pair of glass doors, and climbing a set of interior stairs, we were greeted by a medium-sized man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and glasses, sporting an impressive suit and a firm, confident handshake. This was Mike Siegel, Hunt’s superior, and the man designated to run the day’s show.

  Siegel was the only glimmer of hope I held for potential fair treatment in Florida. He was a transplanted urbanite, having arrived in Florida after completing a prosecutorial stint in New York’s Organized Crime Task Force. We would finally be subject to review by a Florida prosecutor who understood the dangers we’d endured, one sympathetic to the rewards for leniency that traditionally flow from extraordinary life-threatening cooperation.

  With a sweeping arm motion, Siegel led us back down the same stairs we’d climbed, through a glass-paneled corridor looking out on the hotel’s pool, and into a medium-sized conference room dominated by a large glass-topped rectangular table.

  And so my Heritage proffer began. Each member of the task force had been seemingly assigned a chronological area within the complexity of frauds perpetuated on Heritage and its policyholders, and I was going to be questioned by each member within the particular assigned zone of responsibility. The pressure on me eased as I honestly did my best to fill in the factual gaps that had eluded the team in the course of its work. Questioning went on for many hours. The excitement coursing through my body kept me mentally acute, and I started to actually enjoy the process of unburdening myself. By the end of the session, every participant was spent, but it was clear I’d won over the opposition—with the exception of one obviously displeased Judy Hunt.

  Siegel walked my attorney and me out of the conference room and into the hotel’s vestibule. Shaking hands with Norman, he said, “I don’t see a problem here. It turned out to be a good day, far better frankly than I anticipated. Pending completion of Andrew’s proffer, I can say they’re on board as cooperators and they will have the leniency deal from us as offered.”

  He looked up at me and winked. “Feel better?”

  There was an amiable silence as Norman and I walked to his car. This natural quiet continued as we drove away from the shadow of downtown Orlando. I was completely focused on my inner thoughts. I didn’t even ask where we were heading.

  It’s actually done, my mind screamed. I have my deal in Florida.

  After a time, while I was falling in and out of sleep, Norman turned the car sharply right into the awkward driveway of the Marriott Harbor Beach Hotel in Fort Lauderdale, identified only by a thoroughly unimpressive flower covered wooden sign. Passing his car keys and my luggage to an attentive team of valets in uniform, Norman marched through the hotel’s revolving front door and t
urned to the check-in on our right. Trailing behind, I followed him to a station on a long reception counter and watched as he pulled out his American Express card and handed it over to one of the clerks.

  “Reservation for a single room, pool view, in the name of Norman Moscowitz. Departure open.”

  The paperwork for the transaction successfully completed, Norman handed me the room key. “Michael, you’re never to use any of your credit cards or your health insurance again. By the way, I’m going to need funds to cover your expenses on my card.”

  The magnitude of having my name and credit erased in a single swipe felt like a cold slap across the face. Stunned, I obediently opened my briefcase and removed $5,000. With a quick nod, Moscowitz accepted the currency and was gone.

  By 11 PM I was antsy. I haplessly channel-surfed, and wound up on the phone with Mark Pastore, my friend, nightlife partner, and radio show producer. As the FBI instructed, I placed my calls through a calling card purchased at the airport, precluding any trace back to me. Before ending the conversation, Mark gave me a list of local gay bars, which I jotted down on a small hotel pad.

  I decided it would be good to go out; after all, it was Thanksgiving weekend in a party town. Walking through the lobby to the front door and taxi line, I pulled out the list and selected the top name—“Johnnies”—the bar Pastore accorded his highest “libido” rating.

  A few minutes later, after a short ride, I frowned at the small, rundown establishment facing me. Shrugging my shoulders and muttering something about not judging a book by its cover, I approached the entrance.

  Unlike familiar trendy clubs elsewhere, this place was dark and dank—seedy, even. I could’ve furnished the whole establishment for the cost of a few lounge chairs at Scores. The men were old, poorly dressed, deathly quiet, and in need of a squadron of emergency dental surgeons. Taking in the twangy country music groaning out of a filthy jukebox, I made the instant decision to leave, and to recommend Pastore have his libido examined professionally.

  As I turned to exit, the bartender looked up and his gaze turned to obvious amusement.

  “Hey, Sunbird,” he said, motioning me over.

  “Sunbird?” I asked, obscurely insulted.

  “No offense, Sunbird,” he countered evenly, “it’s just that you’re about the whitest white guy I ever did see. Didn’t you fly in for sun?”

  After a pause, I nodded, deciding the truth—that I was here hiding from the mafia—was perhaps a bit much.

  Satisfied, the bartender pointed to a door on the other side of the room: “I would say you’re looking for the other half of the bar, right through there.” Ignoring the cackles from the toothless studs at the bar, I headed through the newly revealed escape route.

  The owners of “Johnnies” seemingly retained the same team of interior decorators for both halves of their club. A tiny, cheesy stage occupied the far end of the room, and generic stripper music blared. But the crowd was pronouncedly younger, better dressed, and plainly well-heeled. Mingling with the clientele was a bevy of “entertainers,” all bare-chested and in shorts or jeans. I kept to myself, taking stock of the circulating flesh: 19-25 years old, all very attractive and very tan. “Maybe Pastore’s libido is fine,” I revised.

  I ordered a mix of cranberry and orange juices from the bartender, and found a seat on a stool against the wall. I was curious, but I’d yet to figure out how this operation worked financially.

  The first entertainer to dance himself over to my chair was comically uncoordinated, but had other attributes: platinum hair, blue eyes, and beautiful skin.

  “Hi. You know, today is my anniversary. I started working here seven days ago.”

  “How nice,” I answered, settling in for some pleasant small talk.

  As the young man leaned in between my legs, I noticed with a start that his penis was nestled on my pant leg.

  “We usually get a dollar for each encounter,” he whispered.

  A dollar? I reeled to myself. What is this all about? But, never one to turn down a bargain, I pulled out a dollar and handed it over.

  And then he vanished; replaced by an effeminate Latino lad who repeated the “encounter” and was away in about 10 seconds with his dollar.

  “This is crazy,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’m not gonna sit here all night passing out singles just to give my jeans a cheap thrill.”

  My next dollar seeker was an absolute knockout: a blond, blue-eyed, pointy-nosed dancer who introduced himself as Ryan. This time, once the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, I spoke up—this had to be the most ridiculous business model I’d ever run across, and as an industry expert, I felt I couldn’t keep silent in good conscience.

  “Look,” I said, as Ryan waited for his dollar, “wouldn’t you rather spend 20 minutes with me for a hundred bucks than run to the next hundred customers trying to get a dollar out of each of them?”

  Ryan thought for a moment and then broke out in a broad and engaging smile; the lightbulb had powered on. “Yes, I would prefer to do this.”

  “Your accent sounds French Canadian.”

  “Oui. I’m from Quebec.”

  As I spent the next twenty minutes talking to Ryan, enjoying a dance and a pleasant massage, he plainly began to relax. When I handed him the agreed payment, he planted a soft kiss on my lips and turned to go. And then he turned back. “Michael, would you like to spend twenty minutes with my roommate, Troy?”

  I watched Ryan run over to an exquisite dark-haired dancer wearing a patterned red bandanna. He whispered in his ear, showed him the hundred, and pointed me out. Troy instantly headed across the room with a growing smile.

  After paying Troy his due, I decided to call it a night. I had done my good deed for the day by sharing my business acumen—and in fact, I’d later discover, the standard operating procedure at Johnnies would never be the same.

  As I stood to leave, my first platinum blond entertainer danced awkwardly over to me once more.

  “Hi! You know, this is my anniversary. I started working here thirty days ago. One month today and I love it.”

  As he started to make his move, I skirted away. “You know what’s even more amazing? I was here on the night of your one-week anniversary. And it seems like it was only an hour ago.”

  The next day, I made an appointment at the hotel’s massage center, and arrived at a cabana-like structure filled with small rooms and the unmistakable aroma of massage oils. The receptionist had to call my name three times, but eventually I remembered that I was Mr. Moscowitz, and was escorted into Room 4. After a few minutes, a white-clad gentleman entered the cubicle. He was no more than 5’4”, white haired, and somewhere in his late sixties. He looked at me. “Mr. M., please get undressed and lie face down on my table.”

  He left while I took my assigned position and returned a few moments later. Unfortunately, as one who prefers to avoid “massage small talk,” this fellow was quite gregarious. In minutes, I knew his name was Joe Cappalini, he was from Manhattan, worked thirty years as a stenographic court reporter in federal court in Manhattan, and had retired to Florida with his wife last year.

  I was only half-listening until about halfway through the massage, when Joe leaned over and whispered with a giggle, “I know you’re not Moscowitz. I know you’re Michael Blutrich from the Cuomo law firm.”

  I sat bolt upright, not believing my ears. When did I become a celebrity? I silently moaned.

  “Lie back down, Mr. B,” Joe said. “If Mr. Moscowitz wants to let you get a massage on his nickel, why do I care? I get paid just the same.”

  “Sorry, I was just surprised to hear my name. How is it you remember me?”

  “I remember all the attorneys in my cases, especially the good ones like you. I remember one case you handled in particular....”

  I tuned out again, thoughts pouring into my consciousness: This guy is an old school Italian from New York. Does he have ties to the mafia? Will he make a phone call home? Have I blown my cove
r? Should I check out? This was turning into a full-blown anxiety attack, but I did all I could to keep my rapidly fraying nerves from showing.

  When the massage was over, I thanked Joe, and tipped him handsomely. As he turned to leave, I stopped him. “I’m staying in Orlando and came down just for the day to visit a friend. If I decide to head south again, what days do you work?”

  “Sorry, Mr. B., this is my last day. The wife and I head to Europe tomorrow for three months. Been saving twenty years for this trip.”

  I departed the massage center and literally ran to my room. Sitting in a corner, I tried to decide if Joe was really going abroad, or if he was suspicious and wanted to provide me with a false sense of safety. Pacing the room, I pulled out my cell, dialed into the calling card, and called the hotel. When the receptionist answered, I asked for the massage center. “Good afternoon, I’ll be arriving on Saturday. I’d like to book a massage with Joe Cappalini.”

  “I’m sorry,” came the response. “Joe is on extended leave. Can I suggest Mario?”

  I hung up the phone and slumped against the wall in relief. This disappearing business is going to be a lot harder than I realized.

  A few days later, I was sitting in the hotel lobby when a massive creature jumped up and began licking me. I tried to push the heavy animal flesh away, but to no avail. When I heard a woman scream, “Princess, get off him,” I realized I was receiving a royal greeting from my favorite dog—Princess Lynch-Pearlstein. The monstrous Doberman took my hand in her mouth and pulled me to her owners.

  I was pleased to see Andrew and Keri, now newly married. They appeared exhausted, and in no mood for dalliance. After exchanging pleasantries, Andrew indicated they would be house-hunting for a place for the three of us to reside while in Florida, and would stay in touch. As the Pearlsteins headed to the door, Keri handed me a paper bag. “A little gift,” she announced with a sly grin, and they were on their way.