Problems with licenses, permits, and variances were already difficult challenges. There were already so many other entrepreneurs who also sought licenses and permits for clubs throughout the Bronx. And furthermore, it seemed like every city service or department required some payoff or promise, whether over or under the counter. There wasn’t one inspector who walked into the Boston Road property who didn’t see a $100 bill folded in front of them. And Gil was warned ahead of time.
“After you put the money on the counter, the inspector will ask, ‘Is that yours?’ And your answer should be, “Is what mine?’ And then, turn your back. When you turn around, the money should be gone.” This was the process, time after time, inspector after inspector, until it got to a point when Gil was never quite sure who would stop by next with a tie and a clipboard to inevitably ask “Is that yours?” Not to mention how much harder it was to brush off these inspectors, some of whom found reason to show up a second time. Who knew that opening a nightclub in the city would entail facing a loaded revolver of underpaid city-slick civil service workers. And yet, the real struggles were still ahead. Obtaining a certificate of occupancy from the Bronx Building Department, and coping with these old ways and means were nothing compared to the challenges ahead.
During a cold and snowy weekend in New York City, a two-story social club by the name of Happy Land was the place to be for many Latino partygoers. The establishment, one of hundreds that operated illegally throughout the city, was bustling when a man spotted his girlfriend in the club and turned into an instant pyromaniac. All he could envision was his woman in the arms of his friend as he charged mindlessly through the street to the nearest gas station. The attendant sold him a couple gallons of gasoline which he toted back to Happy Land’s entrance. Inside the doorway, the angry man poured gas about the stairway and entrance. Spitting all kinds of profanities in Spanish, he shouted one last, boisterous farewell:
“Adios. Hasta la vista. Y Valle con Dios!”
After the farewell, the guy lit a match and tossed it inside the doorway. A bonfire raced up the stairway until the crowd was overcome by smoke and flames. Finally, because there was only one way in and one way out of the hot spot, the fire took the lives of everyone inside of Happy Land.
The Happy Land tragedy rocked the city of New York. The consciousness of everyone was driven, pulled and jerked by various forms of media for the next month, which was a lot of press for NY, where generally, a murder was here and gone by the next day—pushed aside by the next wave of current events. Increasingly, the public demanded action. David Dinkins, struggling to maintain his polls and acceptance as New York’s first black mayor, was pressured to step to the plate in avenging those circumstances of the tragedy. In fact, the instigator of the disaster was not enough of a scapegoat for the public outcry. People wanted to see heads roll. So Dinkins organized a “Social Club Task Force.” This was but a makeshift posse that did little more than raid legal and illegal social clubs alike. Making their presence known, the gang of auxiliary police padlocked many of the unlicensed establishments around the city. If that wasn’t done, then the task force merely trounced through clubs checking that there were appropriate exits and clearances.
Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise, the new establishment that was in development on Boston Post Road, was not forecasted as a social club. Instead, this enterprise was reaching to qualify for all of the requirements that any other legitimate nightclub or restaurant would need to adhere to. To operate legally, Fool’s Paradise would need a Cabaret License as well as a Certificate of Occupancy. But, regardless of Gilmore’s objectives, the Happy Land incident had an effect on most of New York City’s nightlife, as well as the city departments that governed these operations by day. Bottom line: Happy Land’s heat made obtaining a C.O. nearly impossible.
The last thing that the Gilmores were familiar with was the world according to New York City policies and politics. But fortunately, his son had a friend that was not only familiar with the drama, but he was indeed in-the-know.
“Steve, I have a problem with the city. We’ve already sold the old club and moved out. I’ve been bustin’ my ass down here at the new spot with the construction, the layout, and now this Happy Land stuff is killin’ us. They’re makin’ it difficult for us to get opened.”
Steve and his family owned, or had interest in, 6 or 7 of the city’s top nightclubs. The Copa was considered the top night spot—with pink palm trees and 4 million dollar interior. Another club Steve had a hand in creating was Bentley’s, with an attraction of heavyweight sports and entertainment celebrities who came out to mingle and dance with the tri-state area’s “grown and sexy” crowd. So, needless to say, if there was anyone that the younger Gilmore could turn to for advice, it was Steve.
Douglass was 19 years of age when he met Steve. It was an indirect introduction—how the club owner was informed about this certain young man’s entrepreneurial energy by a mutual friend. Steve relayed a message that he was interested in meeting Douglass. When the two finally met, the chemistry was classic: Steve was a little older, he was Italian, with experience and plenty of money. Douglass was a younger, black and hungry entrepreneur. For whatever reason, the two hit it off well. That meant getting into certain clubs for free. That meant being in Steve’s presence weekend after weekend as he handled or delegated issues like a master at work. Once in a while, Steve would raise his voice, shouting at an employee with his favorite line: “YOU IDIOT!” And, inevitably, Steve and Douglass partnered on various concert promotions and other business ventures.
“Whatever you wanna do,” Steve said when the two first met, “you bring it to me and I’ll back it.”
Of course, being a struggling businessman in his 20’s, Douglass couldn’t have lucked up any more if he had stumbled into an orchard of money trees. Not only was Steve a consistent investor in Douglass’s business ventures, like the one with the chocolate roses, or the concerts and club promotions, but he was also philanthropic, often handing his young protegee a couple hundred dollars here and there.
“Yeah. I’ve been under the gun too . . .” Steve responded, during one of many phone calls about the new club and the Happy Land incident. “It doesn’t make sense. This shit is supposed to be for social clubs. Not legitimate establishments. The mayor is going around like a puppet on a string, with his goon squad task force. It’s the public pressure.” Steve was passionate about the business and he knew about all elements that might threaten his environment. “Here. Take down this number for a lawyer I know. Our family deals with him. He’s good and aggressive, and if there’s anyone who can help you through this mess, he can.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Don’t thank me. Just get that club opened.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bronx, New York
The $100,000 investment for the new club turned into a negative $40,000 within weeks. When it came down to the meat and potatoes of opening a nightclub, the Gilmores were just not built for it. There was no blueprint, no written plan and no accountant to watch the money. But, even in their ignorance, the effort was simple: “We got this here hundred grand in our pockets and we’re gonna turn these two garages into one big nightclub.” But, as they say, things aren’t always as simple as they seem; and the effort to open Fool’s Paradise was nothing but stress and frustration. It was like one desperate race for survival where the end always looked grim. Contractors for plumbing, electrical, masonry and general construction were on the job day and night. They all played it by ear, doing their best to convert the property into a fully operational topless bar. Most contractors extended credit and anticipated the huge outcome of wads of cash and plenty of dancers to spend it on. Meanwhile, the two-week downtime turned into a month-long attempt to salvage a businessman’s dream. There was no cash flow. Some contractors grew frustrated and walked off the job. One plumber was so full of rage that he took his heaviest wrench and began destroying work that he’d done, including bathroom sinks, in-ground p
ipes and valves. There were plenty of other bills that also had to be negotiated. But creditors had no other choice but to wait. Meanwhile, Gil’s lease payments at home were already 3 months in arrears and the fridge was bare. Gil’s life savings were tied up in this new venture, causing life-threatening heart pressure that ultimately sent him to the hospital. But, as soon as he could, Gil was back on his feet, determined to make money by any means necessary. Even without all of the permits in place, on a shoestring of a liquor selection, the club was opened.
“The liquor license is approved, so why wait?” Gil argued to his son. But it was this by-any-means-necessary attitude that forged the doors of Gilmore’s to open for good. Sure, it began as a weak effort to drum up some much-needed cash. However, even with a project that was nowhere close to finished, girls hurried to answer Gilmore’s calling. Sure, the grand opening was imagined to be a show-stopping event, and wasn’t even worthy of a street-corner announcement. But, even with its unfinished, cinderblock walls, a small bathroom and sparse lighting, contractors made the club slowly but surely come to life. They put up two-by-fours and insulated the walls of sheetrock. The walls were already 30 feet high, reaching to a heavy, stucco ceiling. And when the club wasn’t open for business, Douglass did most of the painting. He went with his vision of red and black colors. He painted the walls crimson red and used an air pressured paint gun to cover the ceiling in black. Ten foot mirrors were tacked to various walls in the establishment, creating an illusion of infinite space. The floors were almost completed with a checkerboard design, more black and red. Still, the unfinished part of the floor was still bare cement. Also, there was a division between the pair of garages that was a solid cinderblock wall and a doorway. Once the contractors got to work on the wall, the doorway was widened to a giant underpass. There was a solid beam which was left alone as a building support, and closer to the front of the club, a huge portion of the same dividing wall was broken out into the shape of a 20-foot high oval arch. Directly under the arch, stretching from one side of the club to the other, was a big stage. An oval bar enclosed the stage on both sides of the club. Just like that, raw and without the trimmings, Fool’s Paradise went into business. Instead of special effect lighting, a light bulb dangled in a corner of the club that was designated as the “stage area.” The stages that would inevitably be used by the dancers were still undergoing construction. So, with a blanket thrown over the cold, cement floor, dancers wiggled and twisted to the hollow tunes played over an oversized boom box.
Yes! This was cheeeeeeeeeeeeeees-y! And still dancers tolerated the rugged atmosphere, while construction continued with those heavy plastic sheets hanging from high above, shielding customers and entertainment from sawdust and the loud, searing saws spinning throughout the day. Although the club opened at 4PM, construction was still progressing on the serving bars, bathrooms, dressing rooms and offices. Men would mule into the club, grieving as if they were in withdrawal of some kind. But the entertainment was here, leaving them no other choice. For some the re-opening was long awaited. And for those die-hard regulars, the closing of the old spot was like suffering through a deadly storm.
This all convinced Gilmore that he had a “special” brand of entertainment that was unobtainable anywhere else. And it wasn’t just the customers and the ownership that were going through withdrawal during the closure. For instance, there was Disco Dave, the guy who generally cleaned the club once the night was over. “Disco Dave” was a nickname that Douglass gave to Dave because of his irritable, nervous bouncing in place. It seemed that Dave was always fidgeting and looking for some activity—dancing. The one good thing that he could do was clean the mirrors and take out the garbage at the end of the night. Because he sure couldn’t dance a lick. Douglass also had his personal label for Bob, the club’s manager. “Drunk-ass Bob” is what Douglass always whispered to himself. Now, Bob was handy as ever with fixing things and following directions. But leave that man alone with some liquor??? That would be a big mistake.
Now, there were two attractive bartenders. There was Katey who was working her way into Gil’s pants, and there was Veronica, a woman who Douglass bumped into outside of Bentley’s one night. She’d been turned away. There was already a “SOLD OUT” sign on the door. Douglass saw this, he waved his magic wand, and he grabbed her hand, muscling his way through the thick crowd of disappointment. Perhaps it was her southern drawl and good looks which attracted him, but he insisted that she join him, and the two slithered into the club. One thing led to another, and Veronica was working at Fool’s Paradise. Finally, the Fool’s Paradise staff was completed with Dan the cashier. Dan was no more than a damned loyal customer who gained Gil’s trust and happened to be in the right place at the right time. A team of weightlifters doubled as club security, completing the Fool’s Paradise family.
It was as diverse and colorful as the staff that, at least, projected their dedication, but most importantly, this was easy money to operate a club full of half-naked women. It was a service that paid salaries, and people needed the salaries to survive.
So, the organization behind Gilmore’s: Fool’s Paradise had now come back to life. It was a place where music bounced off of the walls, where black, Latino and white women took off their clothes on stage, and where men came to watch it all in living color.
A Visitor
It was afternoon, just before the 4 o’clock opening of the club. Electric saws still buzzed along with the banging of hammers, even as calypso music was blaring from the club’s sole source of music, a box radio. A short, stocky Italian in his mid-40’s walked up through the entrance, into the club full of activity, most of it illuminated by a single halogen lamp. The visitor had black hair, protruding cheeks and eyes, and a know-it-all expression. The knot in his tie was pulled halfway down and his dress shirt was opened so that anyone could see his few gold chains and the t-shirt. And since his oversized blazer matched his navy knit pants, the big picture here was that this guy meant business. He could’ve been a salesperson of some kind, since salesmen were approaching the club with increased regularity—sometimes 4 or 5 per day—peddling bathroom accessories, bar stools, chairs, liquor, soda, beer, chips and most every other imaginable need that a human could think up. Then finally the guy spoke.
“Hey . . . anybody know where the boss is?” The question was more or less shouted into the busy room, but with little more effect than a careless whisper. It was a busy day, with more than 20 workers huddled over their individual tasks. The guy raised his voice; more affirmative this time. More of his native accent.
“Yo! Anybody seen Gil around?”
With sawdust covering most of his body, a Jamaican carpenter stopped his circular saw and pulled back his protective goggles. The saw lost power, sounding like a falling, dying missile until it came to a halt.
“Whey yuh waaant!” The worker looked frustrated and ready to curse the stranger for interrupting. In response, the visitor widened his eyes, slightly traumatized, and cautiously chose his response.
“Is Gil in?” he answered after adjusting.
“Him de ya maan . . . ” The worker kissed his teeth and replaced his goggles.
“Mind if I wait around?”
Again the worker kissed his teeth, gave a casual wave as though he could care less and mumbled.
“Man, just watch where ya goin’.” Without another second of interest, the worker returned to his saw. His mind was obviously on his money and getting that stage finished as soon as possible. Besides, the girls were fed up with dancing on blankets on the hard floor.
The visitor’s name was Tony. He knew how to humble himself. Although, by far, he had been to more construction sites than he could count. Twenty years in and around his business brought him to many clubs, restaurants and numbers joints. Many, many construction sites. Fish markets. Gambling casinos. But today his mission was to speak to Gil, the owner of Fool’s Paradise.
While Tony swaggered about the sawdust, pipes and tools on the fl
oor, he took in an eyeful of the surroundings. Two of three bars were almost complete. One was a circular bar positioned almost immediately to the right of the entrance. The stage inside of the bar could use some carpeting, Tony thought. And he wondered if that was it; the giant roll of carpet to the rear of the club and bagged in plastic.
To the left of the entrance was a service bar which reached about twenty-five feet into the club. Behind the bar was a weak display of liquors. Maybe 5 or 6 brands. The bottles were set on a miniature staircase of stained wood alongside various makes of soda. On the wall behind the bar and the liquor were mirrors which reflected the setting far across to the other side of the club. It created a fascinating illusion of endlessness.
Wandering, Tony walked through an underpass towards the opposite side of the club. This area was darker; illuminated only by a halogen lamp angled towards the floor. There was a giant, 15-foot movie screen affixed high on a rear wall onto which sports scores and replay highlights were projected.
“Can I help you?” Gil emerged from a rear office. He was clothed in his usual navy khakis, with a white button-down shirt, tucked in with sleeves curled back.
“Hey there . . . Gil?” Tony wasn’t so sure, but he had a clue.
“Who wants to know?” Gil was slightly evasive, sizing up the stranger. Salesman or creditor?
“Well, I came to offer you a nice deal for your club.”
“Like what?” Gil wasn’t a novice when it came to these sales tactics. He’d heard thousands of ’em through all of his years in the store and the club. However, he was still willing to hear the pitch. Tony readily opened a leather folder and presented Gil with a professional brochure. It was a colorful presentation of a coin operated basketball shoot.
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