Another old friend appeared to me over the weekend and it’s worth taking
a breath and remembering Denis. Back in the early days, my roommate,
Tom worked at Time Magazine as a researcher. Tom’s co-worker in
research, Alex, was, like most of the people in my tale, another one
whose life flew off the tracks in the early 70s. He was gay when
gayness began to demand recognition. There was a huge undercurrent of
gender-related activity in the air. Greenwich Village was a hub. The
West side cowboy/biker scene was exploding. Discos and other all-night
clubs were happening in Chelsea and throughout the city. As for me, I
was still accumulating outlets and sources for my newly discovered
career. This connection with Alex uncovered a whole new subcultural
market that seemed absolutely perfect. My connections into the scene
were all honest gentlemen who, by nature, were used to doing things in
the shadows.
Sadly, as the 70s drew into the 80s, the scourge of
AIDS and HIV ran rampant in the gay community. It was a horror show.
Lots of people were just wasting away and incredibly, the politicians
refused to help, blaming the sickness on a ‘lifestyle’ rather than an
illness to be cured. It was a sad time and if you’ve never seen the
movie Philadelphia or Dallas Buyers Club or any of the dozens of
depictions of that time, you should take an hour or a day and try to
understand what it’s like to be castigated and cast out for being
terminally sick. Bottom line, it wasn’t all fun and games in the New
York City underworld in the 70s. People were scared out of their wits.
Nobody was sure of anything except people were dying and it was
obviously an infectious disease. Once people realized it was possibly
blood-borne, things got out of hand quickly. Everybody felt vulnerable,
whether they were gay or not. Needles were known to carry a risk. A
guy I knew who had a place in the meat-packing district around 14th
Street and 8th Avenue was afraid to open his windows. He believed that a
mosquito bite could carry the HIV disease if the mosquito had bitten a
person who was positive for the virus. And who was going to tell him to
open his windows? Me? No way! The music/art/theatre scene was, as it
always had been, a hub of homosexuality and people were dropping like
flies. Meantime, it was hard to ignore the thought that this disease
was linked to our drug-fueled, acid-laced, Be Here Now, wave of baby
boomer culture.
There was no cure except complete abstinence and for many people, that was not an easy option.
Anyway,
via my relationship with Tom and then Alex... and several others, I
found myself interacting with a very smooth honest guy who owned a loft
on 23rd Street down the block from the Chelsea Hotel. This was Denis,
who was a unique cog in the invisible machine. He was always around,
seemed to be connected to everyone I knew or wanted to know, and who
was, in his own right, a very smart dude. He came from a card-carrying
Mayflower-descendant family and was apparently the black sheep of the
family due to his sexual proclivities and perhaps some other
frowned-upon behaviors. I mean, here was a guy whose grandfather held
the patent on the modern fire hydrant, whose uncles, John &
Washington Roebling, designed the Brooklyn fucking Bridge. Denis was a
story unto himself, both smart, well-read, and enterprising.
One
day, in the late winter of 1969, Denis is sitting around with his friend
Stan, and they pick up the Times and read an article about how the
United Nations was holding some kind of conference to promote coffee in
the United States. Denis was a Princeton guy and his complete package
included a very smooth delivery. So he spends a day, puts together a
presentation and heads up to the United Nations to propose a Manhattan
club that will only serve coffee products. Six weeks later, Denis gets a
grant of $250,000 to build the club and, from what I heard, that’s how
the Electric Circus nightclub was born. They opened the doors and the
first weekend took in $100,000 and the rest is history. Eventually the
venture went public and imploded after a few disastrous openings, most
notably in Toronto, but the seed of creation was sown right there in
Denis’s loft on 23rd Street.
https://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1356&dat=19690430&id=f4ZPAAAAIBAJ&sjid=cAUEAAAAIBAJ&pg=7364,9564346&hl=en
https://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1499&dat=19690415&id=zE0aAAAAIBAJ&sjid=MygEAAAAIBAJ&pg=2691,4694883&hl=en
http://www.boweryboyshistory.com/2013/04/recollections-of-electric-circus-if-you.html
The
Electric Circus was only one of dozens of ventures that came out of
that loft. Denis was a principle in a Redwood Furniture deal, partner
in numerous SRO hotel deals, had fantastic pot connections on both
coasts, and never, for one New York second, did anything unethical or
did not stand up to any promise he ever made. Eventually that became
funny after I got popped owing him dough and he actually had the balls
to take a tax deduction on it. (But, yes, that’s another entire story).
Incidentally,
Denis bought that three story loft building for about $30,000 in the
late 60s and the last I heard he had turned down an offer for about
$3,000,000. Unfortunately, after he bought the loft, he bought the farm
when he developed some terminal form of abdominal malignancy (may or
may not have been HIV-related) and passed away around Y2K. Denis was
one beautiful guy. I still miss him.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Monday, October 12, 2015
Vehicles Anonymous Meets Every Monday at 8PM...
Once we bought the house, lots of things changed radically. First off, we couldn’t use our place as a stash anymore... After all, we lived there. Second, regardless of being secluded (which it really was), or driveway that went out of sight (which it did), or drive-through garage (which it had), or anything else, we had to maintain an image with the realization that we weren’t just moving on in a few months. It wasn’t ‘What the hell, who cares, they’ll never know what happened here until it’s too late anyway.’ We were on the hook, so to speak, for the foreseeable future. And this ushered in the era of house-sitting employees, additional rentals, new equipment sets for each place, etc.
On one level, nothing changed much. We still were renting secluded homes in very nice neighborhoods. We were still taking in loads whenever the opportunity arose. The network continued to grow, now expanding well beyond the New York area. We were shipping to Idaho, Washington and the entire northwest, Kentucky, Ohio and the midwest, Buffalo continued to soak up whatever we sent, and we didn’t even have to touch the stuff that went north to Canada. Just a phone call would get it to where it had to be and all we had to do was count. What could be better, huh?
Well, on another level, more people in the fold meant we needed additional insulation wherever possible. After all, we had a house to protect and, as time went on, a ‘normal’ taxpayer reputation to live up to. And this brings the tale back to PJ. He had the accountant that fixed us up to buy the house but he had lots and lots more than an accountant. One thing that was always troublesome, were the cars and trucks. No matter how we sliced it, if a load got busted, the car was going to be traced back to someone somewhere. NadaMucho used his parents to drive a humongous Buick. We were always looking for the 'average' looking guy or, better yet, family that would take a leisurely drive up the coast for a grand. We had bought Caddies and Chryslers and Dusters and other cars but in the end, we had to title them and insure them and it was a very weak link in the situation. Any half-assed investigator could run a registration and find our vitals in about five minutes (this was pre-digital). To this point, our luck had held but it was definitely time to stop depending on luck.
Unless, of course, your last name was Pfeiffer, and in which case, you simply didn't give a shit... You had cash in your pocket? You went out and bought a top of the line Caddy, totally pimped out, in your own name... and screw anyone who cares about it.
So one day, PJ shows up on my driveway in a shiny brand new Chevy Caprice Classic... This car was absolute perfection from my perspective. It was a common family sedan, low key, unassuming all-American car with a very very large trunk.
So I ask PJ what’s the scoop and he just smiles and says he paid all cash and tosses the registration on my kitchen table. I look and see that this car is registered to nobody I know. I ask PJ who is he paying to own the car and he just smiles and beckons me to go outside with him. Even in those days, we were hesitant to talk about serious things indoors. The saying went, ‘If you want to read it in the newspaper, say it over your home phone or talk about it in your house.’ So I walk outside with him and learn that he’s ‘got a guy’ who can deliver brand new anonymous cars, any make or model, any set of options... literally anything you wanted... fully insured, registered, plated, ready to go... for a reasonable add-on price tag. You want a Chevy? a Jaguar? Plymouth Duster? Caddy? Benz? No problem at all. Just bring the dough when you want a car and the car shows up within a week or so. My world is changing once again-and while it felt a little out of control, how do you stop something like this once it gets going? My scene had taken on a life of its own.
Before too long, we were buying Chevys like candy. I met the guy, developed a nice rapport and eventually turned him on to Marvin who started buying a car a week for about 6 months. Eventually, by chance, we noticed that he was re-using phony IDs but it wasn’t all that important. Once these cars were in use, it was nothing to fill one up, leave it somewhere, and just turn over the keys to the other guy. He'd take the car, empty it, bring it back, and everyone was smooth. Nobody knew where the stuff went and everybody had a car to use. I'd drop off a carful to Marvin... He'd give me the keys to an empty... I'd go fill it up... etc etc... until I happened to look in the glovebox one day and realized that the car guy had been reusing his IDs. We had bought more cars than he had IDs for. And he had a connection at the DMV so this obviously went higher and deeper than I wanted to know.
In any event, the key was to be able to walk away from a car without having it lead to you. Like everyone else, in those days, this guy was a totally legitimate luxury car guy. If you wanted to lease a Bentley, he could arrange it. Porsche? No problemo. He didn't hide or work out of a back room. His showroom was one of the biggest wide open glass fronted luxury car places in Great Neck. Everybody knew this guy but they didn't have a clue what went on behind the scenes.
Oh... speaking of not talking about serious things indoors, we had taken to talking in ridiculous codes, even on the phone. Pounds were ‘little baskets’ (aka LBs), other items and amounts were called paintings, 2x4s, tiles, chairs, tables, you name it. The one thing you could always be sure of was that nobody ever meant what they said... until that one time...
I get a page from Big Al from Red Hook, go to the local payphone, and call his local payphone... He tells me to meet him at his warehouse to check out some ‘radios’. My eyes roll because I know that Big Al (previously described here), wants in on the bigger end of pot distribution and has been trying for a while to make it happen. Of course I agree to go see him since his ‘friends’ are doing lots of stuff in Miami and elsewhere. John the Beak and John the Dope are in town and seem to have lots of product so this might actually be something. I pick up a buddy, show up at his warehouse and he walks us to a big Ryder truck that’s parked off in a dark corner. ‘Wait till youse see dis stuff!’ he says, all excited. And when we’re behind the truck, he calls over one of his guys, and up goes the rear sliding door... opening on a truck filled, top to bottom, side to side, end to end with.... RADIOS!!! The guy knew a guy who knew a guy who ‘might have’ hijacked a truck filled with radios. It took a few minutes but I spent every second of those minutes explaining to Big Al that were weren’t really criminals, just pot dealers... which was, of course, unimaginable to him. ‘Youse is either in the biz or not!’ was his angry attitude. Until I told him I’d front him 10 pounds off the top of the next primo batch I saw.
And nobody got hurt....
On one level, nothing changed much. We still were renting secluded homes in very nice neighborhoods. We were still taking in loads whenever the opportunity arose. The network continued to grow, now expanding well beyond the New York area. We were shipping to Idaho, Washington and the entire northwest, Kentucky, Ohio and the midwest, Buffalo continued to soak up whatever we sent, and we didn’t even have to touch the stuff that went north to Canada. Just a phone call would get it to where it had to be and all we had to do was count. What could be better, huh?
Well, on another level, more people in the fold meant we needed additional insulation wherever possible. After all, we had a house to protect and, as time went on, a ‘normal’ taxpayer reputation to live up to. And this brings the tale back to PJ. He had the accountant that fixed us up to buy the house but he had lots and lots more than an accountant. One thing that was always troublesome, were the cars and trucks. No matter how we sliced it, if a load got busted, the car was going to be traced back to someone somewhere. NadaMucho used his parents to drive a humongous Buick. We were always looking for the 'average' looking guy or, better yet, family that would take a leisurely drive up the coast for a grand. We had bought Caddies and Chryslers and Dusters and other cars but in the end, we had to title them and insure them and it was a very weak link in the situation. Any half-assed investigator could run a registration and find our vitals in about five minutes (this was pre-digital). To this point, our luck had held but it was definitely time to stop depending on luck.
Unless, of course, your last name was Pfeiffer, and in which case, you simply didn't give a shit... You had cash in your pocket? You went out and bought a top of the line Caddy, totally pimped out, in your own name... and screw anyone who cares about it.
So I ask PJ what’s the scoop and he just smiles and says he paid all cash and tosses the registration on my kitchen table. I look and see that this car is registered to nobody I know. I ask PJ who is he paying to own the car and he just smiles and beckons me to go outside with him. Even in those days, we were hesitant to talk about serious things indoors. The saying went, ‘If you want to read it in the newspaper, say it over your home phone or talk about it in your house.’ So I walk outside with him and learn that he’s ‘got a guy’ who can deliver brand new anonymous cars, any make or model, any set of options... literally anything you wanted... fully insured, registered, plated, ready to go... for a reasonable add-on price tag. You want a Chevy? a Jaguar? Plymouth Duster? Caddy? Benz? No problem at all. Just bring the dough when you want a car and the car shows up within a week or so. My world is changing once again-and while it felt a little out of control, how do you stop something like this once it gets going? My scene had taken on a life of its own.
Before too long, we were buying Chevys like candy. I met the guy, developed a nice rapport and eventually turned him on to Marvin who started buying a car a week for about 6 months. Eventually, by chance, we noticed that he was re-using phony IDs but it wasn’t all that important. Once these cars were in use, it was nothing to fill one up, leave it somewhere, and just turn over the keys to the other guy. He'd take the car, empty it, bring it back, and everyone was smooth. Nobody knew where the stuff went and everybody had a car to use. I'd drop off a carful to Marvin... He'd give me the keys to an empty... I'd go fill it up... etc etc... until I happened to look in the glovebox one day and realized that the car guy had been reusing his IDs. We had bought more cars than he had IDs for. And he had a connection at the DMV so this obviously went higher and deeper than I wanted to know.
In any event, the key was to be able to walk away from a car without having it lead to you. Like everyone else, in those days, this guy was a totally legitimate luxury car guy. If you wanted to lease a Bentley, he could arrange it. Porsche? No problemo. He didn't hide or work out of a back room. His showroom was one of the biggest wide open glass fronted luxury car places in Great Neck. Everybody knew this guy but they didn't have a clue what went on behind the scenes.
Oh... speaking of not talking about serious things indoors, we had taken to talking in ridiculous codes, even on the phone. Pounds were ‘little baskets’ (aka LBs), other items and amounts were called paintings, 2x4s, tiles, chairs, tables, you name it. The one thing you could always be sure of was that nobody ever meant what they said... until that one time...
I get a page from Big Al from Red Hook, go to the local payphone, and call his local payphone... He tells me to meet him at his warehouse to check out some ‘radios’. My eyes roll because I know that Big Al (previously described here), wants in on the bigger end of pot distribution and has been trying for a while to make it happen. Of course I agree to go see him since his ‘friends’ are doing lots of stuff in Miami and elsewhere. John the Beak and John the Dope are in town and seem to have lots of product so this might actually be something. I pick up a buddy, show up at his warehouse and he walks us to a big Ryder truck that’s parked off in a dark corner. ‘Wait till youse see dis stuff!’ he says, all excited. And when we’re behind the truck, he calls over one of his guys, and up goes the rear sliding door... opening on a truck filled, top to bottom, side to side, end to end with.... RADIOS!!! The guy knew a guy who knew a guy who ‘might have’ hijacked a truck filled with radios. It took a few minutes but I spent every second of those minutes explaining to Big Al that were weren’t really criminals, just pot dealers... which was, of course, unimaginable to him. ‘Youse is either in the biz or not!’ was his angry attitude. Until I told him I’d front him 10 pounds off the top of the next primo batch I saw.
And nobody got hurt....
Thursday, October 1, 2015
One Small Step Becomes a Giant Leap...
In the legal working world, success is a combination of who you are,
where you are, what you know and who you know. All factor into career
progress in varying degrees depending on your career. In the
underworld, who you know vastly overshadows the others. Idiots often
become big shots because they know someone. You could be a really smart
guy but have no connections and fail terribly. There is a wall that
you can't get past without the right contacts. And it was no different
in our circles. Sometimes a simple introduction changed everything.
And that’s what happened when I met PJ. The circle that opened up to me
after I met Nada Mucho (PJ among them) made a huge difference in what was possible.
Suddenly, I was in touch with an entirely fresh group of high-level
distributors, wholesalers and, at the top, smugglers. I hadn’t changed a
bit and I was still connected to all the same people... but adding the
new circle magnified the possibilities exponentially.
First of all, PJ lived just minutes away and we knew a lot of the same people from different directions. This added complexity to the sales matrix but also became an invaluable information source. We both benefited no matter who was running the particular deal. Up till then, I was more or less of a successful wholesaler/retailer. I still saw friends and acquaintances I’d met in the beginning when I was trying to make sense of what I’d gotten myself into. I was able to sell to them at way less cost than they’d pay elsewhere and was also able to pick out the primo quality for them. It was a great connection in many ways since I was not only keeping up old relationships but I was also now paying less and selling for more.
But that isn’t what this chapter is about... This is about who you know... And the connection to PJ also opened a door to possibilities that went far beyond anything I’d imagined to that point. He wasn’t just a hippie. He was doing things in a far more traditional way than I knew existed. He had an accountant, a lawyer, and some other very interesting resources... The key to these connections was that they all knew, to some degree, what was going on and they were all in for the ride and the dough.
By 1980, we had been through a dozen places in Manhattan, several in Queens, and were well into the first dozen on Long Island. The rules in the burbs were simple... Seclusion was essential... and we were mostly steered towards houses that were upper echelon places... Up a hill, behind tall hedges... down a long driveway... anything isolated... And it was funny... our criteria and resources justified almost any rent. Couple of grand a month? Sure thing... We’ll pay in advance if you’d like... Cash even... They were mostly on the Gold Coast/North Shore... Sea Cliff, Brookville, Lloyd Point, West Hills, Huntington Bay, Halesite... All upscale and all taken with one thing in mind... a secluded, controllable environment. After a while, you could get used to that type of place...
So one day, when we were facing the end of a particular lease... and the housing scout was out scouting houses, we came across an interesting opportunity. Interest rates, under the Carter administration, had reached epic levels approaching 18%, and had made real estate virtually unsellable. These geniuses from Georgia peanut country decided they could control inflation by raising interest rates... which they did... except the plan failed miserably. So once he was out of office, rates began to fall and had hit 12% when we ran across a house on 2.5 acres that the owner was desperate to sell. Vincent Poma was a banker for UBS and he’d raised his family in the house... was looking to downsize... but was stuck there in a non-existent real estate market. The scout comes back and tells me this is a very unusual situation... the house is up a 150 foot hilly driveway that ends at a drive-through garage. I mean there was a garage that you could pull into and out of without backing up. The house itself was interesting too... It's got a pool, a cabana with a bathroom, a back yard that would accommodate a tennis court. Built in the 1950s, it was supposedly a guest house for a very wealthy guy... Guido Eckstein was the name I recall but a little research shows he was the son of highly respected restaurateur, Vincent of the same last name.
http://www.nytimes.com/1964/06/03/victor-eckstein-owned-luchows.html?_r=0
More about the amazing house later... but bottom line... for $170,000 we could own it. And although it would practically tap our cash, we could scrape together the $70,000 and hope to get a mortgage for the rest. Unfortunately, there was just one problem. I had no income... errr... no visible income that is.... no tax returns... nothing that would justify a mortgage... and frankly, I had no idea about such things. And this is where the open door comes in. In a conversation with PJ, who was also renting in the area, I managed an introduction to an accountant who, basically, for a fee (of course)... could take care of the entire mortgage application issue for us. The guy was connected to the ‘real’ world of finance in ways and with knowledge that I had absolutely no clue about. Within a week or two, I had employment records, pay stubs, tax returns, and anything else that was needed to get the mortgage. In fact, I didn’t realize it at the time but I was signing on to a whole new way of life. Buying the house was just a first step. Maintaining something in my name also meant having an ongoing income, filing taxes, and so on and so forth. The next thing I knew, I was taking an insurance exam, getting a brokers license, and cashing checks (for a fee, of course). Today, it’s what they call money laundering. In 1980, I called it a major sign of success.
First of all, PJ lived just minutes away and we knew a lot of the same people from different directions. This added complexity to the sales matrix but also became an invaluable information source. We both benefited no matter who was running the particular deal. Up till then, I was more or less of a successful wholesaler/retailer. I still saw friends and acquaintances I’d met in the beginning when I was trying to make sense of what I’d gotten myself into. I was able to sell to them at way less cost than they’d pay elsewhere and was also able to pick out the primo quality for them. It was a great connection in many ways since I was not only keeping up old relationships but I was also now paying less and selling for more.
But that isn’t what this chapter is about... This is about who you know... And the connection to PJ also opened a door to possibilities that went far beyond anything I’d imagined to that point. He wasn’t just a hippie. He was doing things in a far more traditional way than I knew existed. He had an accountant, a lawyer, and some other very interesting resources... The key to these connections was that they all knew, to some degree, what was going on and they were all in for the ride and the dough.
By 1980, we had been through a dozen places in Manhattan, several in Queens, and were well into the first dozen on Long Island. The rules in the burbs were simple... Seclusion was essential... and we were mostly steered towards houses that were upper echelon places... Up a hill, behind tall hedges... down a long driveway... anything isolated... And it was funny... our criteria and resources justified almost any rent. Couple of grand a month? Sure thing... We’ll pay in advance if you’d like... Cash even... They were mostly on the Gold Coast/North Shore... Sea Cliff, Brookville, Lloyd Point, West Hills, Huntington Bay, Halesite... All upscale and all taken with one thing in mind... a secluded, controllable environment. After a while, you could get used to that type of place...
So one day, when we were facing the end of a particular lease... and the housing scout was out scouting houses, we came across an interesting opportunity. Interest rates, under the Carter administration, had reached epic levels approaching 18%, and had made real estate virtually unsellable. These geniuses from Georgia peanut country decided they could control inflation by raising interest rates... which they did... except the plan failed miserably. So once he was out of office, rates began to fall and had hit 12% when we ran across a house on 2.5 acres that the owner was desperate to sell. Vincent Poma was a banker for UBS and he’d raised his family in the house... was looking to downsize... but was stuck there in a non-existent real estate market. The scout comes back and tells me this is a very unusual situation... the house is up a 150 foot hilly driveway that ends at a drive-through garage. I mean there was a garage that you could pull into and out of without backing up. The house itself was interesting too... It's got a pool, a cabana with a bathroom, a back yard that would accommodate a tennis court. Built in the 1950s, it was supposedly a guest house for a very wealthy guy... Guido Eckstein was the name I recall but a little research shows he was the son of highly respected restaurateur, Vincent of the same last name.
http://www.nytimes.com/1964/06/03/victor-eckstein-owned-luchows.html?_r=0
More about the amazing house later... but bottom line... for $170,000 we could own it. And although it would practically tap our cash, we could scrape together the $70,000 and hope to get a mortgage for the rest. Unfortunately, there was just one problem. I had no income... errr... no visible income that is.... no tax returns... nothing that would justify a mortgage... and frankly, I had no idea about such things. And this is where the open door comes in. In a conversation with PJ, who was also renting in the area, I managed an introduction to an accountant who, basically, for a fee (of course)... could take care of the entire mortgage application issue for us. The guy was connected to the ‘real’ world of finance in ways and with knowledge that I had absolutely no clue about. Within a week or two, I had employment records, pay stubs, tax returns, and anything else that was needed to get the mortgage. In fact, I didn’t realize it at the time but I was signing on to a whole new way of life. Buying the house was just a first step. Maintaining something in my name also meant having an ongoing income, filing taxes, and so on and so forth. The next thing I knew, I was taking an insurance exam, getting a brokers license, and cashing checks (for a fee, of course). Today, it’s what they call money laundering. In 1980, I called it a major sign of success.
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