Caveat Emptor (15 page)

A week later, I helped them move into a new apartment just around the corner on East Sixty-Seventh Street. They were still traumatized by the eviction, and we sat around eating hamburgers, discussing how miserable our lives were, and thinking up novel ways to commit suicide. The upshot was that not only did I now have Alexandra as a friend, but she brought her model friends over to my place to hang out as well.

One evening, Roy asked me if there was any way I could obtain information on the clinic's funding—in particular, their private sources. I told him I'd see what I could do. The following Saturday night, I returned to the house at around 3:00 a.m. after a night out with Tony. The clinic's offices were on my floor, to the rear. Armed with a flashlight and a pair of gloves, I crept through the dark lobby all the way back to their offices and pulled out my set of master keys.

I opened the door and went straight for the file cabinets. They weren't even locked, and, sure enough, there was a file titled “Donors.” It was at least an inch thick. I took the whole thing and replaced the missing documents with papers I pulled from other files. Next, I found some files relating to the clinic's sources of funding. I left with a three-inch stack of papers.

The package was passed on to Roy. This was the sort of thing that excited him, and I got a message back that he was “very pleased,” but I never mentioned the subject again, and neither did Roy.

Shortly after that, I asked Roy to autograph a book I'd bought about the Army-McCarthy hearings. This famous case centered around Senator Joe McCarthy and his aide Roy Cohn in the 1950s. They were investigating the infiltration of Communist spies into the army after World War II. Their efforts revealed that a Communist, an army dentist by the name of Irving Peress, kept getting rapid and unjustified promotions until he was positioned in an area where he was able to gather valuable intelligence. Despite their efforts, they never found out who had promoted Peress. It remained the unsolved mystery of the book. Roy inscribed it “To Ken, who I'm sure would have found out who promoted Peress. Best wishes always, Roy.”

One night, Gino called me from the restaurant on Fifty-First Street where he “worked,” a restaurant that now had a twenty-year supply of olive oil. “Hey, Kenny, c'mon down here. I gotta deal for you.” Over drinks, at a corner table in the back, Gino explained that he and his uncle who owned the restaurant had met a businessman who wanted to start an auction house.

“Yeah, we already rented him a building my brother owns across the street,” Gino explained, “and this guy is looking for somebody who knows antiques and can help him get the thing off the ground. So I told him I got a cousin who's just the right guy and knows all about antiques. So whaddaya think?”

“Well, yeah, Gino, but do you really think it's gonna work?” I asked.

“Absolutely not. The guy's an idiot. He don't know what the fuck he's doin', but he's got a lotta money and we're helping him out, ya understand?”

“Oh, yeah, well, okay, who is this guy?” I asked.

“His name is Rodger. He'll be here tonight,” Gino said. “I'll tell him you're his man.” Later that evening, Gino introduced me to Rodger, who arrived in a three-piece suit, spoke with a phony British accent, and had pretensions of coming from an “old” family.

Rodger was under the delusion that he was going to start an auction house that would rival Parke-Bernet, with a warehouse full of antiques consigned from dealers. Ninety percent of it was stuff they couldn't sell. Rodger explained, with his aristocratic airs, that he needed someone to “oversee and direct” the workmen decorating the building, but help organize and catalog antiques as well. Not only did he offer me the position, which paid two hundred bucks a week in cash, but he asked me if I could find an assistant who would be on the payroll too.

Maurice, another regular who hung out at my place, was a handsome Latino in his twenties. He wore his hair in a ponytail, dressed in black, and loved Elsa Peretti jewelry. He worked part-time for Sabu, an exclusive hairdresser on Sixty-Eighth Street next to Halston. The small salon attracted such VIPs as Jackie Onassis and Liza Minnelli. Maurice knew everyone who worked in the local boutiques and had a clandestine trade in hot pieces of Gucci, Saint Laurent, and Chanel. He lived out of a Louis Vuitton duffel bag wherever he could crash, and was eyeing my place for some temporary shelter.

Even though I was aware that Maurice was a compulsive thief, drug addict, sexual degenerate, and pathological liar, I had to come up with someone fast for Rodger. Despite his shortcomings, Maurice had a few redeeming qualities. He cultivated a chic, sophisticated appearance, spoke with a European accent, and often showed up with Dominique, a beautiful and deceptively innocent-looking Puerto Rican girl of nineteen. She worked in a local boutique, did some modeling, was completely uninhibited, and had eyes that could have been painted by Goya.

“Yes, I have someone who can be my assistant,” I informed Rodger the following day. “He's very good and works with me on artistic projects. I know a young lady as well, if you need a receptionist.” Delighted, Rodger shook my hand and told me to come by the gallery with my colleagues on Monday.

Meanwhile, over the weekend, Maurice arrived with his Louis Vuitton bag and Dominique in tow. We passed the time and had a few bottles of wine, staging fashion shows with all the latest merchandise Maurice was fencing for his friends.

Monday morning, Maurice and I presented ourselves, appropriately dressed, at the raw space that was to become a premier auction house. It was agreed that Maurice and I would begin at once and that Dominique would start at the opening.

For the next three weeks, we worked ourselves ragged hauling antiques around, organizing a catalog, and helping the workmen get the place in shape. After I became acquainted with the inventory and saw the impossibly high reserves that Rodger allowed dealers to place on the items, it became obvious to me that he didn't know what he was doing and that this whole thing was doomed to failure.

As we approached the opening, work became frantic. Rodger promised us a bonus if we got everything ready on time. By opening night, not only had we not seen our bonuses, but we were still owed pay from the previous week. Nevertheless, Maurice, Dominique, and I were heartened to see the place fill up to overflowing. Unfortunately, Rodger decided that he
himself
was going to be the auctioneer.

The sale began, but lot after lot had to be passed. An hour had gone by, and not more than half a dozen pieces had met their reserves. The crowd was getting restless. Finally, a feisty little woman grabbed a Chinese lamp she'd been waiting for and approached the podium.

“Hey, mista, I can't wait any more. Could you put this up next?” Rodger's downfall came when he accommodated the woman. Soon another person followed her example and tried to have a piece of sculpture sold next. With that, a virtual stampede of people lunged for whatever they wanted. Fights broke out, people were yelling at each other, and soon we had a riot on our hands. Rodger, on the verge of a heart attack, was running around hysterically, grabbing items out of people's hands and yelling his head off. A mob of people, many of them consignors, had seized their goods and were trying to get out the door for fear that things would get stolen.

“Holy shit!” I said to Dominique and Maurice. “Let's get outta here before we get killed.” The last thing we saw as we ran out the door was Rodger being shoved back and forth by a bunch of Armenian dealers fighting over a pile of rugs.

Back at my apartment, we opened a bottle of wine, and I got an idea. “Why don't we go out to a bar, and we can pass the gallery and see if Rodger is still alive.”

It was ten o'clock, and we decided to march down Third Avenue to Fifty-First Street. The gallery was dark and locked up. We peered through the window. It looked like a bomb had hit the place. As we pondered the mess, an idea came to us all simultaneously.

“Did you bring the keys?” Maurice asked.

“No, I left them at home.” In a minute, we were in a cab racing back to Sixty-Eighth Street. Flinging open the closet, the three of us were dumping out clothes from every bag I had. A minute later, we—and the empty bags—were in the cab, heading back to Fifty-First Street.

“Oh, this is beautiful!” Maurice said.

“Yeah, Rodger is history. We're never gonna see a bonus,” I said. Dominique just sat there with a Madonna-like smile. Within five minutes, we were in the gallery grabbing every valuable item we could stuff in our bags. An hour later, we were back in my room dividing everything up on my Chinese carpet. We had a small fortune in bronzes, silver, Tiffany glass, Battersea boxes, ivory carvings, and much more. It was perfect. Nobody had a clue how much stuff had gone out the door that night.

Two days later, after I had the loot stashed at Alexandra's apartment, I was ordered to the local precinct for questioning by detectives. Tens of thousands of dollars in antiques were missing and Rodger was officially “out of business.” Following Tony's example, I assured the cops that I had no idea what had happened to the missing antiques, and the case was closed.

I can only speculate whether that file of private donors was of any use to Roy. However, some time after he received it, he asked me if I'd noticed any change in the running of the clinic. I told Roy that there had been a marked curtailment of their activities and several counselors had been let go. Roy nodded in satisfaction. “They're dying a slow death,” he said.

Levi was cracking up from all the pressure. He hated my guts and they tried for a second time to evict me. I heard a rumor that this time, Levi had hired a specialist in evictions to handle the case. Furthermore, Levi himself was going to show up in court as a witness against me, and Rubel was going to be there too.

When I told Roy what was up, he said, “Don't sweat it. Bring me the papers, and I'll handle it myself.” I was a little skeptical. Lawyers like Roy wouldn't be caught dead in Landlord and Tenant Court. Nonetheless, on the appointed day we jumped into his limo and headed down the FDR.

When we arrived at the courthouse, we were met by Mike Rosen and Roy's law clerk. They were scheduled for a conference in a judge's chambers, and there was no telling how long it would go on. “Okay,” Roy said, “go and wait in the courtroom. If you get called up, tell the judge that your attorney is presently in room 205 on another case and will be in directly.” And off they went.

When I entered the courtroom, a hearing was in progress. I took a seat and looked around. Suddenly, my gaze was met by the cold stares of Levi, Rubel, and a nasty-looking lawyer who, I could tell, meant business. They were sitting together on a bench against a wall not more than twenty feet from me. They whispered something among themselves and then looked at me with smiles.

I was certain that they thought I had come by myself, as I had the first time they'd tried to evict me. I deliberately swallowed hard and looked worried. Levi seemed to be savoring every moment. This went on for nearly an hour, and they were convinced I was alone. As our docket number approached, I began to get nervous, and Levi was beside himself with glee. Then I spotted Mike Rosen looking through the small window in the courtroom door. A few seconds later, it opened, and Roy marched in with his million-dollar suntan and Dunhill suit. Right behind him followed Mike and the law clerk, carrying briefcases. As if that weren't enough, Ann, Raun, and Gino all showed up too.

A buzz went through the courtroom as people whispered, “That's Roy Cohn.” The judge called for order but was clearly thrilled that such a celebrity was present in her courtroom. I looked over at my adversaries, this time with a big smile, as Roy sat down on one side of me and Mike on the other. Levi looked as though he was about to throw up, Rubel resembled a corpse, and the eviction specialist looked like he was thinking about packing up and leaving.

Roy got right down to business. The clerk opened a briefcase and took out a stack of papers. I was very impressed. But after Roy made a big show of handing some of the papers around to me and Mike and I looked at them, I realized they had absolutely nothing to do with my case. It was all a bluff.

Then Roy whispered in my ear: “What should I tell the judge if they bring up the fact that you haven't paid rent in over a year?” I had to think for a moment on that one. Then it hit me.

“Tell her about that phony bond I signed!” This time I cracked Roy up.

Our case was called, and the judge was gushing as Roy approached the bench. Levi's Big Gun swaggered up next to Roy, but he never had a chance. Roy just took over the proceedings. He asked the judge for a five-minute delay to talk to the plaintiff's attorney. It was granted, and Roy led the lawyer and Levi out into the hall. A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and Roy led the lawyer, meek as a lamb, back in before the judge. Levi remained out in the hall, and Rubel fled.