At 4:00 p.m., I slid into the back seat of my limousine and headed to Studio. Perfect timing. I had time to do a few hits of coke to wake up and listen to the first twenty minutes of Frankie Crocker’s radio show. I was in such a good mood when my limo pulled up to the Studio 54 stage door entrance on Fifty-Third Street. I didn’t get out right away; I wanted to hear the end of “I Want Your Love” by Chic. I figured that Frankie must be wooing some chick because the song came out five years ago and he opened his show with it, so he was sending some “honey” a message. I jumped out of the car and bounded up the flight of stairs to my office, but when I walked in I was not prepared for what I saw.
The ladies from the Children’s Home Aid Society looked exactly like Dana Carvey’s 1980s character Church Lady on Saturday Night Live. They were wearing little hats with veils, funny shoes and stockings, their white gloved hands were holding purses, they were sitting up very straight and proper, and they were wearing the most unattractive glasses I had ever seen. I knew if I stopped moving and looked at them for just one more minute I would laugh right in their faces so I excused myself and opened what looked like a door to a closet but was really a door to my very small bathroom, toilet only—no sink—no mirrors—two feet away from where they were sitting, and I disappeared inside. I flushed the toilet so they couldn’t hear me snorting the coke. Maybe I should offer them some, I thought they looked like they could use a lift. How am I going to get through this without laughing? I thought. Just looking at Denise and Shelley was making me laugh. They’re both so serious, but I opened the door, stepped out, and said, “Good afternoon, ladies, it is my pleasure to meet with you today.” One lady looked up at me, puckering her lips like Lily Tomlin, and shook her head—and the other one looked like she was about to cry. They were really starting to piss me off. “Ladies, I’m here to help you produce an event for your very worthy cause.” Shelley was making faces and pointing to her nose. Is she crazy? I can’t give her a hit now. What the fuck? I duck back into my bathroom. This is bullshit. Why am I even here—I should be home sleeping. I’m here because I am the best at this—I’m the closer. I better make this next hit a really big one. WOW! OK, I’m ready! Let’s do it. A rush to my head and then to my heart and WHOOSH I’m back in a good mood. YES! When I opened the door both ladies looked at me, gasped, and grabbed their purses. One lady looked at me with wide-eyed terror—shaking her head as if I was crazed and going to attack her or something. And then I saw my reflection in the mirror behind the desk where Shelley was sitting. Oh shit! I did look crazy. I looked fucking ridiculous. White stuff on my nose and all over my black cashmere sweater. I looked like I’d been playing in a box of powdered donuts face-first.
I snapped into “protect my ass mode” and very calmly excused myself. I raced down the stairs and across the dance floor and up the stairs to the second-floor men’s room, cleaned my face and sweater, ran back down the stairs across the dance floor and up the back stairs, and returned to the meeting that no one will ever forget. I booked the event and it was a huge success.
By 1984 I was more and more out of touch with my surroundings but very much in touch with my pleasure zone. Believing I was invincible, I somehow deduced that as the owner of Studio 54, I could do whatever I wanted to and get away with it. Gwynne Rivers, my former assistant, recently told me about a dinner that I had with her parents back then. Her father and mother had invited me out to dinner to get better acquainted and assure themselves that they weren’t remiss as parents in permitting Gwynne to come to Studio 54 after school and work on the parties she was so good at putting together. I arrived at the restaurant so high on Angel Dust that I nodded out in the middle of our conversation, my face just missing a plate of fettuccine Alfredo. They were flabbergasted. Gwynne, clever as she was, told them I was coming down with a bad cold and taking all sorts of cold medicine. She was able to work it out, continued to do her parties at Studio 54, and saved my reputation with her parents.
Gwynne’s parents weren’t the only ones concerned about the drug culture at Studio 54. The Ecumenical Coalition to Stamp Out Drugs sponsored an event at the nearby Sacred Heart Church on West Fifty-First Street to bring pressure on the authorities to “Shut down Studio 54.” Their flyer went on to say, “Studio 54 is a moral obscenity to every decent resident of New York. More than just a protected haven for drug use by the ‘beautiful people,’ Studio 54 glamorizes marijuana—and cocaine-use to our youth. There must be no ‘double standard’—we need a drug-free America. Shutting down Studio 54 will begin the reversal of the spiritual and moral decay of our city. We call on all religious, civic, and other organizations and every moral individual to join our prayer vigil and peaceful demonstration against Studio 54.”
I ignored them and their stupid message of “no more drugs.” My body was screaming, “MORE DRUGS NOW MOTHERFUCKER OR I’M SHUTTING THIS PARTY DOWN!” My body turned against me. I had developed a tolerance to it all and what once got me so very high no longer worked. My body was screaming at me, demanding I give it stronger and greater quantities to achieve the same level of happiness. I began experimenting with an even wilder combination of drugs in an effort to reach a new high. And then it happened—the drugs stopped working. I was getting these angry IMMUNE …IMMUNE messages. My body was DEMANDING more. The coke no longer made me feel good—it burned my nose, sometimes causing it to bleed. I had done so much damage to my nasal membranes from years of snorting night and day. I felt trapped in my body, which didn’t feel like my body anymore. And the worst part of all? My dick turned against me. I was having trouble getting it up. And still I refused to stop. I was determined to find something that would work. I went on a mission to find a new protocol. Two shots of 151-proof alcohol, two Quaaludes, and a big snort of coke felt good. So what if it burned my nose and made it bleed. The goal was to get fucked up, stay there, and never come down.
I had become a lowlife. Bereft of any feeling of humanity. One early morning Rick James dropped by the penthouse with his model friend Tina and said, “I’ve got a great idea for you, Mark. I’d like Tina to come live with you.” I said yes—even though saying yes meant moving Bobbie out. Rick said that Bobbie had been badmouthing me behind my back. True or false, my behavior was inexcusable. It was 5:00 a.m. and I was really stoned—I’d reached a point where I just didn’t care anymore, so I agreed to switch Bobbie for Tina in my apartment. Bobbie didn’t take it very well—she cried and demanded of Rick, “Why did you say those things about me? They weren’t true!” I calmed Bobbie down and assured her she would keep her lucrative VIP-area bartending job at Studio 54. This was out of character for me. Never before had I treated a friend or an employee in this way—but I did.
Tina was tall—maybe six foot one—and gorgeous. Rick wanted to make her a star. He figured that having Tina close to me would pay off for her, plus he wanted me to hook her up with Billy “Tootsie” Tuetsos who could send her out on some go-sees. Billy was a total character—so over the top, you’d think he’d leapt right off the pages of a screenplay. He was short, solid, tough-talking, streetwise, and handsome in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. He was gay and he knew a lot of people. Billy provided services to famous models—he escorted them places, introduced them to people, and protected them from bad elements. He was a good guy and everybody liked him. One of his biggest clients was Janice Dickinson. He also worked for me, coordinating events in the modeling industry, as he was friends with bookers at all the major agencies, like Monique Pilar at Elite and Joey Hunter at Ford as well as Interview magazine editor Daniela Morera.
What I did to Bobbie, moving her out of my apartment to accommodate Rick’s protégé, Tina, was so wrong. I would sometimes see Bobbie crying at the club. I was sad about it, but not enough to turn my back on Tina and Sara when they approached me one afternoon asking me if they could take a bath together in my Jacuzzi. I said, “Sure, as long as you invite me.”
Into the tub we went, lathering each other u
p and playing around, getting each other hot and bothered for the action that was set to take place once we’d all toweled off and retired to my bed. I’d like to be able to share with you what it was like to be with curvy Sara and lithe Tina, but the truth is that I can’t. It wasn’t about the girls anymore, or about giving them pleasure. It was all about me. My wanting and not getting. Why doesn’t this feel good? Why is my dick not cooperating? Why am I here—in bed—with these two? Everything that had once been so joyful, playful, and alive for me had now taken on a depressive pallor—and it was about to get worse.
The negative effects of cocaine and Angel Dust were slowly becoming more and more apparent. I was unstable, paranoid, and my judgment had become so impaired that I agreed to host parties that were wrong for the club and, in one case, dangerous. Case in point, the premiere party of the film Hells Angels Forever. Chuck Zito was a prominent figure in the Hells Angels motorcycle club and a regular at Studio 54. He attended many of our biggest and most private events, sometimes acting as a bodyguard, providing security to stars like Liza Minnelli. Nikki Haskell, who was paid to book celebrity parties in addition to hosting her cable TV talk show, suggested an after-party for the premiere of the Hells Angels’ movie.
I was wary at first, because I remembered the free festival at Altamont Speedway in December 1969. The Hells Angels had agreed to provide security for the Rolling Stones in return for $500 worth of beer. The Angels positioned themselves directly in front of the stage, drinking beer and controlling the crowd with chains and throwing loaded cans of beer at them. When eighteen-year-old Meredith Hunter, Jr., a black American art student from Berkeley, California, approached the stage, he was violently pushed back by the bikers. When he returned to the stage area and took out a gun, he was stabbed to death by Hells Angel Alan Passaro. Everything was caught on camera, becoming a central scene in the documentary film Gimme Shelter. Passaro was charged with murder and acquitted on grounds of self-defense. But after Chuck assured me that nothing like that would happen at Studio 54, I was crazy enough to go along with the idea, despite the fact that my King Charles Spaniel, Oliver, given to me by Roy Cohn, seemingly disapproved. While I was meeting with Chuck in the penthouse, Oliver barked at him, then lifted his leg and peed on Chuck’s boot. Oliver was a smart dog—I should’ve listened to him.
Hells Angels Forever premiered at a theater on Fourty-Fourth Street and Broadway. Hundreds of Harley-Davidson motorcycles were impressively parked on Broadway, making quite a statement, blocking traffic and causing great concern. Even though the NYPD were notified in advance of the event, the police appeared totally unprepared. When the movie broke, instead of driving east on Forty-Fourth Street and heading north on Eighth Avenue (a one-way avenue that runs uptown) the motorcycle motorcade drove north on Broadway (a one-way avenue that runs downtown) driving against traffic. They forced cars, buses, and even police cars to side streets. Then the Angels parked their bikes all along Fifty-Fourth Street, completely blocking the street and the front entrance to all traffic, and no one had the nerve to challenge them.
I knew the party was a mistake within minutes of their arrival. It was different from our “usual” atmosphere that night. But what did I expect? I was crazy to book it. Instead of the jovial feeling we were known for creating, my entire staff was intimidated—as they should have been. The Angels and their women drank, danced, and had a good time, but they also muscled anyone who got in their way, including throwing a bartender off the balcony. After that, manager Skip Odeck asked busboy, Oscar Lopez, if he could fill in as bartender for the night. Oscar remembers the evening: “I jumped at the opportunity to tend bar but it was bad… I kept my mouth shut. Bartender George Alvarez and I gave them whatever they wanted once we saw that kid go over the balcony.”
They stuffed several patrons headfirst into big trash cans that we had strategically placed around the dance floor, part of the décor, to create a feeling of the street for the party. Finally, Chuck Zito, who appeared in the 2012 season of Sons of Anarchy, was able to calm everyone down. I was on edge the entire night until everyone finally left. Miraculously, the bartender wasn’t hurt that badly, and the patrons were only bruised. The event was widely covered by the press, and I swore I would never do anything so risky again. The next day when busboy Oscar Lopez showed up for work he was promoted to bartender.
In 1984 I booked another evening that didn’t work out the way I anticipated. This time I was on the receiving end of having to deal with someone else’s drug and alcohol abuse. It was a one-night performance by the legendary Jerry Lee Lewis. He always drew a big crowd wherever he played and I couldn’t wait to hear him rock the house with “Great Balls Of Fire.” He stood me up. After a series of calls from “The Killer” saying he was going to be late, but would definitely be there, he never showed. My partner Stanley was ready to kill me. We had to refund our patrons’ money and we filed a lawsuit, but it never went anywhere. I learned later that Jerry Lee was far down the path of his own drug and alcohol addiction during that period. He almost died in 1981 as a result of ulcers caused by alcohol, amphetamines, and barbiturates, and in 1986 he checked into the Betty Ford Clinic for an addiction to painkillers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Angel Dust Meets
the Whippets
Then I did something that I couldn’t talk my way out of. My judgment was so clouded and my take on reality so distorted that I entered into a business deal that cost me my home. I convinced my partners (including my father and brother) to sell the Executive Hotel to Steve and Ian, and their investor, for cash and forgiveness of my debt from the Studio 54 purchase. While in jail, Steve and Ian had been dreaming about making their next move into the hotel industry. So, in early 1982 they scoured New York looking at various hotel properties but couldn’t figure out how to finance a real estate purchase with the stigma of being convicted felons. Then one night, stoned out of my mind at 4:00 a.m., I suggested to Steve, after hearing him vent his frustration, “Maybe you should take a look at my hotel.” Steve told Ian and within a few days, Ian brought an architect to look at the building. Together they envisioned the possibilities for converting the Executive Hotel into an elegant boutique hotel. Suddenly Steve and Ian were all over me, like wolves circling their prey, to make the deal. They wanted me to trade my interest in the Executive Hotel for the noncompete debt on Studio 54 that we still owed them.
At that moment in time, I badly wanted to relieve the financial pressure on the operation, which I was feeling personally. Once various entrepreneurs in New York saw how successful Studio 54 was in its first year since reopening, Area, Limelight, Visage, Surf Club, and The Red Parrot were now on the scene, forcing me into the “dancing as fast as I can” syndrome to stay ahead of the competition. I was focused on competing for the best promoters and staging the best events, but because of the money we were paying to Steve and Ian (and for their taxes), we didn’t have the cash flow they had back in ’77 to stage the numerous extravaganzas they did. Staying one step ahead was kind of like skiing downhill in front of an avalanche. Any second I could be overtaken; I was always looking over my shoulder. I was definitely running for my life and it wasn’t just the financial pressure I needed relief from—I needed a rest from the person I’d become.
The Executive Hotel was just breaking even, so I threw out a price of $5 million, although my partners later bumped it to $6 million—25 percent or so of the equity would be my percentage in the trade. Studio 54’s debt to Steve and Ian was substantial because we bought the club for no money down to them other than the payment to the state and the IRS over a number of years. Naïvely, I assumed that I would continue to live in the penthouse apartment that I had spent two years building, and knowing Steve and Ian’s creative sensibilities, my apartment would wind up on top of a very cool and happening hotel.
However, as we entered into the negotiations, it was quickly apparent that they would insist that my penthouse apartment become part
of their new hotel. Although I didn’t want to give it up, I wanted relief from the substantial monthly payments, which would stop the moment we signed a preliminary agreement. I naively told myself that the boys weren’t going to be able to raise the money, and therefore I had nothing to worry about. My life and happiness were so entwined with being the owner of the most famous club in the world that I would have done almost anything to get relief from the debt, thus enabling me to continue being the owner of Studio 54 forever.
In order to close the deal on the Executive Hotel, which Steve and Ian so desperately needed as part of the plan to restart their careers, they increased the pressure on me for back payments. Had I been on my game, I might have handled the situation differently, including possibly filing a Chapter XI with Studio 54 to stall or compromise their debt rather than trade my interest in the hotel. But I didn’t. Unbeknownst to me, they had been in the planning stages of opening Palladium, an enormous nightclub downtown on Fourteenth Street, as consultants to two wealthy investors while still collecting the noncompete payments from me. I thought we were friends. I really didn’t think they would scheme against me, but in actuality, they were two tough former nightclub owners, hardened by a prison term and understandably looking out for their own futures. My lapse in judgment and my clouded, delusional mind were a direct result of all the shit I was putting in my body on a daily basis.
Inside Studio 54 Page 26
