My friend Senator Mike Gravel from Alaska brought Senator Bennett Johnston from Louisiana, and a number of other high-profile friends joined us as our guests for that year’s Carnival. Everyone, including the staff, was dressed in white with green ribbons and powdered with green glitter to match Grace’s green satin outfit. Whether we were on the truck, or in the street dancing around it, we snorted uncut coke (except for the Senators) and drank 151-proof rum straight from the bottle, while tall, sinewy Grace Jones gyrated as our “star” on top of the cab. It was almost one hundred degrees that day, but nobody complained. As we slowly made our way down the crowded main street, people were singing and chanting, “Grace…Grace…” dancing alongside and looking up to catch a glimpse of Grace Jones.
Carnival ’79—a very adult parade indeed. A gyrating Grace Jones was the star of our float and everyone around us was snorting cocaine and drinking 151-proof rum.
Each float took one lap around the field and then one pass in front of the judges’ stand. By the time our float got to the judges, Grace Jones had gone completely crazy. She tore apart the entire wooden structure of our float with her bare hands, one plank at a time. Then she started hurling the pieces of wood like javelins in the direction of the judges. Thankfully, none of the judges were hit. Before long, our float was in total shambles, but clearly we made an impression on the judges: we won one of the top prizes.
Jimmy Cliff was a huge star in the islands. His music was played constantly on the radio and his film The Harder They Come had developed a cult following all over the world. I became friendly with Michael Butler, the producer of Hair, who was friends with Jimmy and suggested coproducing a show with Jimmy in the islands, which we did the following summer. We booked the amphitheaters on St. Thomas and St. Croix and did some publicity and staged concerts on consecutive nights. It was a great idea, except we made the mistake of charging more than we should have. As a result, we had too many empty seats at both concerts and, not surprisingly, lost money.
But a funny thing happened at the stadium in St. Thomas. A huge crowd of locals stood outside the fence listening to Jimmy. They couldn’t see him, but at least they could hear him. After the concert, I drove Jimmy and his entourage back to the hotel—I was the only white guy with Jimmy riding shotgun, while his retinue of five Jamaicans were hanging off the side of my Jeep, all smoking spliffs (cigar-sized joints). Jimmy’s fans were lined up along the streets. As we were driving through town, people would yell out, “Hey, Jimmy! Hey, Jimmy! Why you charge so much, mon? Why not make it so all of us can see you?”
Back at the hotel, I talked it over with Jimmy, who was a really nice guy, and he said he’d perform gratis if we paid for the sound and staging. And so, while getting high on his ganga, we decided to put on a free concert in St. Thomas.
People came from all over the island. We set up the stage and sound in the town square and it was packed. They sat on every available tree limb and covered the rooftops. It was a wild scene. Jimmy played his entire repertoire of songs and took several encores. The audience loved every minute of it.
Another event that we brought to the island was Miss World America, a British beauty pageant. The first pageant was held in Huntsville, Alabama, in 1978, but in 1979 Griff O’Neil, president of Miss World America at the time, was looking for a more exotic location. St. Thomas was an obvious solution. We got together and made a deal to host and televise the second pageant at the Virgin Isle Hotel on September 15, 1979.
September 1979 proved to be the summer of Hurricane David, a Category 5 hurricane that was among the deadliest ever to hit the area. Most of the people involved with the pageant flew to St. Thomas on the same plane, experiencing severe pre-storm turbulence, and I could see how shaken they were upon arrival at the hotel. Large commercial jets were not permitted to land in St. Thomas, as the airport’s runways had not yet been extended. Passengers were forced to land in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and make their way in a puddle jumper to St. Thomas. Making matters worse, much of the luggage, including clothing and makeup, didn’t arrive at the hotel for three days.
Though I had been told it was against the rules to fool around with the girls, that didn’t stop me from getting acquainted with them. Naturally, I tried to be very discreet, but it was difficult to play it cool around so many gorgeous women. So I smiled and flirted with them, walking that fine line between playing cute and being inappropriate, knowing that their island chaperones were watching me the whole time and doing their best to make sure that I didn’t defile any of their precious flowers. When one of the contestants kept returning my smiles and flirtation, I knew it was only a matter of time.
The girls were on a strict schedule, with every minute of their day planned for them with things like show prep rehearsals, meal times, and an early curfew to ensure they got their beauty sleep. Even so, this contestant and I made plans to meet up that night. When I heard her knock and opened the door, neither of us hesitated—I pulled her into the room and we grabbed each other and kissed. She matched me in heat and passion, undoing my pants, tearing at my shirt, and before I knew it we were rolling around on my king-sized bed like a couple of horny teenagers trying to get it on before Mom and Dad got home.
Knowing that our time was limited at best, we got down to business quickly, and that’s when it started: frantic, hysterical knocking at the door. I froze, deliciously trapped inside her, wanting desperately to fuck her senseless but sensing the jig was up.
“Mr. Fleischman,” came the panicked but angry voice of one of her chaperones, calling out from the other side of the door. “Mr. Fleischman, we know she’s in there! Stop what you’re doing, right now!” The lovely little contestant was moaning as I called out, “She’s not here!”
They wouldn’t let up. BANG! BANG! BANG! “We know she’s in there! We know you’ve got her!”
With great reluctance, the two of us got dressed. I unlocked the door to face two local, upstanding, heavyset, black Christian women who took their chaperoning job very seriously. With a sheepish look on her face, the contestant allowed one of the women to lead her out of the room, while the other one fixed me with a stern gaze, daring me to say something. There was really nothing to say. Next thing I knew, I received a phone call from Griff O’Neil threatening to cancel the pageant unless I agreed to stay away from the girls. Griff was stern, impossibly uptight, and very protective of the contestants; it didn’t take long for me to realize he was serious. I agreed to back off.
Miss Virginia, Carter Wilson, was crowned the winner. Several fashion industry celebrities stayed at the hotel while serving as judges, including designer Scott Barrie and makeup artist Way Bandy, helping us garner even more press. Ultimately, the show was so successful that it was syndicated on TV throughout the United States, publicizing the hotel and the island of St. Thomas. I invited then Governor Juan Luis of the Virgin Islands, along with his Lieutenant Governor, the Head of Tourism, and other local VIPs to the hotel for a private screening of the edited TV show. It was a glorious night as they enjoyed watching the pageant on a gigantic video screen set up poolside while feasting on an island buffet.
These and other well-publicized events—like the Charlie’s Angels shoot with Cheryl Ladd, Jaclyn Smith, and Shelley Hack who were all knockouts and fun to spend time with—helped rebuild tourism on the island.
Back in New York one weekday morning, I got a phone call from Alan in St. Thomas: “Mark, something horrible has happened. La Grillade has been burned down and the security guard’s head was cut off with a machete. Everyone is terrified. The two Dobermans are dead—they’ve been poisoned.” We believed that the attack was perpetrated by the Rastafarians who wanted to get even with us for moving them off the land where we built our beach club two years earlier.
Everyone was scared out of their wits, including me. I even took the precaution of purchasing a gun, which I luckily never had the occasion to use. The chef of La Grillade flew off the i
sland the following day, never to return.
Alan and I were in a state of shock and too scared to rebuild the beach club restaurant. In the meantime, I was concerned that the tabloids would have a field day if word of the tragedy were to get out. I instructed our staff not to discuss the beach club incident with anyone in New York. After several weeks, I thought the entire gruesome matter was behind us until I took what started as a pleasant phone call from Cyndi Stivers, who was writing for the gossip column Page Six at the New York Post. Cindy calmly asked me how everything was going with Studio 54 at the hotel in St. Thomas. I warily said, “Fine.”
Then she said, “I heard there was a problem at the beach club…” and at that moment, I knew it was over. The next day there was a major piece on Page Six describing my dispute with Howard Stein and the island murder. The article almost suggested, in Page Six’s circuitous manner of presenting gossip, that Howard was responsible, citing his filing of the lawsuit regarding Studio 54 replacing Xenon in St. Thomas and my negotiations to buy Studio 54 in New York. I heard he was furious. That was just one more nail in the coffin in the rivalry of the two most important clubs in New York.
Chapter Nine:
Battle for the Liquor License
In spite of the raid on Studio 54 in December 1978, the club remained open and hotter than ever for more than a year. Time passed, and for twelve months, Steve and Ian continued to plea-bargain with the Feds, and then finally in January of 1980, they reached an agreement and reported to prison on February 4. The night before his incarceration, Steve sang “My Way” at their going-away party, which was attended by Diana Ross, David Geffen, and many of the Studio regulars. Studio 54 remained open, with Steve and Ian issuing directives to General Manager Michael Overington from the prison public phone until February 29, when the liquor license expired. On the following night, L. J. Kirby, Sal DeFalco, and the other bartenders offered platters of fruit to guests—the theory being, soft drinks and fruit, plus whatever drugs one might personally bring to Studio 54 to enhance the experience, could work for a few months—until another solution could be found. But without alcohol, the numbers dwindled, and after five or so days the club closed. I was already deep in negotiations with Steve and Ian to buy Studio 54 and had already filed the paperwork for a new liquor license with the New York City Alcoholic Beverage Control (ABC). This was the first step in a process that under normal circumstances would take about three months.
Once I filed, Steve wanted me to meet with Carmen D’Alessio, the Peruvian bombshell, who had booked many of Studio 54’s major social events. Carmen had done some parties for Steve and Ian at Enchanted Gardens, their nightclub out in Queens, and then found them the space that would become Studio 54. She provided the list for Studio’s opening night party in April 1977, bringing the fashion and glitterati crowd with her to launch Steve and Ian’s first business in Manhattan. Carmen continued organizing events for them over the next few years and was promised a percentage of ownership, but the boys never delivered. In hindsight, this was probably fortunate for Carmen, because if they had given her a piece of the action, she might have been included in their trouble with the authorities.
I met with Carmen for the first time on a prison visiting day in Steve and Ian’s Manhattan jail cell to discuss her working for me in the same capacity as she had worked for them. Fast-talking and flamboyant, with her distinctive Latin accent, Carmen and I became instant friends. She and I had a lot in common, including a love of parties as well as our mutual connection to Peru: my father’s younger brothers and sisters had emigrated from Romania to Peru shortly after President Warren Harding significantly reduced immigration to the US in the 1920s, making it impossible for my dad to bring his siblings there. I visited with my aunts and uncles in Peru a few times as a child, and years later chose to go to school in Spain to learn Spanish, partly as a nod to my Peruvian relatives.
Carmen, Steve, Ian, and I began plans for a lavish Studio 54 reopening, thinking that it would take place within a few months. That was well before we realized that my application for the liquor license would be stonewalled for over a year by both the State Liquor Authority and the New York Alcoholic Beverage Control. There were still some issues to be ironed out with the sale, but Steve and Ian had been transferred to the federal prison at Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama.
So in spring 1980, I flew to Montgomery, Alabama, to make sure the deal was on track. The Federal Bureau of Prisons permitted visitors to see only one prisoner per visit so I brought Steve and Ian’s longtime secretary Honey Aldrich with me, thereby avoiding having to make two separate visits. It was a minimum-security prison with small buildings surrounded by well-manicured lawns and trees, and didn’t seem all that unpleasant. But Steve and Ian hated it, particularly the food. I brought them corned beef sandwiches from the Carnegie Deli in Manhattan, which they gobbled up, but I doubted that was the only reason they seemed happy to see me. I had begun to think of them as close friends.
During that visit, Steve seemed anxious and talked about prison life, “It was very uncomfortable in the beginning, but I’m getting used to it now.” He also bragged, “I talk to Calvin, Halston, and Claudia all the time.” As editor of the New York Post’s Page Six, Claudia Cohen helped to put Studio 54 on the map. I guess this was Steve’s way of assuring me that everyone was still his friend, and I could count on them all returning to Studio when I got my liquor license. Ian was also encouraging and more upbeat than he had been in the Manhattan prison. From what I remember, many of the other prisoners were nothing more than crooked Southern politicians who got caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Steve and Ian had each other for moral support and they managed to get decent work detail, mostly gardening jobs. I recall Ian saying that Steve was like the mayor of the prison—everyone loved him and they received great treatment because of him.
Originally, the purpose of my trip was not intended to be about fun, but I made the most of it with some extracurricular activities. After sending Honey back to New York, I decided to spend a few days in New Orleans, which was and is one of the most charming and happening cities in the world with food and music to delight the soul. On my first night, I began the evening in the Garden District at the award-winning Commander’s Palace, a New Orleans landmark dating back to the 1880s, and then later that evening I crossed the river and headed over to Aaron Neville’s hot club where I was introduced as the new owner of Studio 54. The brothers rolled out the red carpet for me and the party lasted into the wee hours of the morning.
The weekend’s major highlight turned out to be Camille, a young lady who wanted to meet the new owner of the world-famous Studio 54. She had heard about me from a friend of hers, a Louisiana girl I was having sex with in New York. Camille was most definitely my type. Although she wore outdated, matronly glasses, she was attractive, voluptuous, and incredibly sexy. And she was not alone; she brought a friend with her, Tara, who was slender and much more reserved. I sensed that Tara had come along for the ride—wherever that ride took us.
Speaking of hot rides, my driver for that trip was a very foxy lady with a white classic Cadillac limo for hire. So, there I was in sensuous New Orleans with two hot dates and a hot driver for the night—which sounds like a lead-in to a porn flick. It was a harbinger of things to come as the owner of Studio 54.
I met up with Camille and Tara that evening which was to be my last night in New Orleans. I chose Antoine’s for dinner, as it was the oldest and most elegant and prestigious restaurant in New Orleans dating back to 1840. It has entertained several US Presidents and Pope John Paul II. I was determined to impress these new friends with my choice in fine dining, but from the moment the three of us sat down, Camille’s hands were all over me, teasing me under the table. By that time, I was ready to forego dinner and head back to the hotel.
We returned to my room and I ordered two bottles of French champagne. We shared a few lines of coke, and as I was passing around a joint,
Camille undressed and then talked Tara out of her clothes and before long it was a happy threesome.
That was day one.
The next morning, I rolled over in bed—Camille on one side of me, Tara on the other—and then I looked at the clock. No way in hell was I leaving the scene that was happening in my bed. I made a game-day decision. I called the airline and switched my flight to the following day.
Camille was teasing Tara, telling her, “You know we’ve never made it together.” And before Tara could say anything, Camille slid over and kissed her. As the girls caressed and touched each other passionately, I was mesmerized. Almost immediately they were panting and moaning, embracing each other as if I wasn’t even there, but I was there so I joined in. It was a long time ago but I vividly remember, two girls crying out: “I’m coming, I’m coming” and so did I. It was so erotic. What a way to begin the day.
We decided that our last day together should be a true New Orleans experience and so the three of us set out—assisted by my foxy female chauffeur—to check out the town. We hit all the tourist spots, ate oysters and gumbo on Bourbon Street, walked the charming French Quarter, then hopped from bar to bar, drinking Hurricanes. Camille spotted a sex shop, so we went in. She insisted that I buy a few toys for us to play with back at the hotel that night.
The next morning, I was exhausted but happy, and my sexy driver took me for one last ride and dropped me off at the airport, where I caught my plane and returned home to take up where I had left off in my battle for the Studio 54 liquor license.
Inside Studio 54 Page 8
