Archive for April 2011

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Eye-Candy for Breakfast, April 26, 2011

Victor and I meet an acquaintance for breakfast at the Marriott on the corner of Atlantic and A1A in Delray Beach. The guy's an investor, and it's strictly a business meeting--everything on the up and up. We're sitting with our fruit and coffee and talking high finance when the dining room begins to fill with dozens of beautiful young women. They're blond and brunette and some are black, and they are all so damned lovely our meeting grinds to a halt. They enter in groups of two and fours, and join their friends at long tables, and suddenly the Marriott's looking like a sorority club.

One perky young thing next to us is even entertaining her grandmother, the two of them exchanging Easter baskets. The room fills with chatter and high-pitched laughter, and I'm reminded of the parties Stella used to have when she was in high-school. These girls are older, but not by much--early to mid-twenties, and they are all fit and toned and wearing tiny shorts and bikini tops and gauzy little outfits. There's a lot of fake tits and bleached teeth and bright smiles, and Victor, who hasn't missed a meal since he did his two year stint in Angola twenty-two years ago, shoves aside his banana pancakes. "Jesus," he says, "what is this, some kind of modeling thing?"

My guest says, "It's quite a show, isn't it?"

Two beauties plop down on Victor's side of the table, and he gets the story. They're New England Patriot cheerleaders, and they're in Delray Beach to do their annual calendar shoot. Soon we've got five gorgeous young girls sipping orange juice at our table, and Victor's telling stories. He casually mentions that we're planning to take the Stella di Mare down to Lauderdale this afternoon, and the young ladies get all excited. They'd love to go on a boat ride. So guess where I'll be later?

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Millionaire Mobster Blog: My son hired a hooker, May 17, 2012

A few years back when my oldest son, Tony, got married, he proudly announced that he was going to remain faithful to his wife. Yeah okay, I said. Tony was always his mother's favorite, and she might have influenced him, but after seven years, two kids, and a wife who can barely zip up her blue jeans, he's suddenly a player.

Before we go any further with this, let me just say that Tony is a great son. A man couldn't ask for better, but sometimes I wonder how I raised such a dork. The guy's got it all--looks, money, personality. He could get any girl he wants. But what does he do? He gets involved with one of those Craigslist escorts--paying for it when he could get better for free. When I asked him to explain his reasonings, he said he didn't want a "personal involvement". Well, he got one alright. A couple weeks after playing hanky panky with the hooker, he gets a FedEx at the office. You guessed it: A dozen compromising photos along with a request for ten thousand dollars.

Too embarrassed to come to me, Tony goes to Victor. He says, "You know I have to go to your old man with this."

Tony does know, and he's not happy about it. But I'm the one who has to hire someone to track down this broad and her loser boyfriend, and then, after determining that it is a low-level operation, I send Victor and one of my old NOPD contacts, a guy named Gaspar, to pay a little house call. They put an end to the blackmailing business, but their services cost more than ten grand. A sheepish Tony offers to pay, and I give him a hug and say, "Forget about it. What are fathers for?"

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Don Knobel on the Radio, April 16, 2011

I'm in Louisville with my cousin, Anthony Morelli. If you're new to this blog, you may not know that Anthony runs what is left to run in the city of New Orleans. Anyway, Anthony likes his thoroughbreds, and we're in Kentucky because he's buying a horse. It's a Saturday morning, and we're driving on a country road en-route to a big name farm, and Don Knobel comes on the radio. He's got a show called Down the Stretch on WKRD. It's a weekly show, and Mr. Knobel knows his business. He's talking horses, and then we find out he's calling in from New Orleans because he's down there reporting on the Louisiana Derby, which they run at the Fairgrounds.

Since I'm formerly of the city, and Anthony lives on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, we're getting a kick out of  hearing him describe the wild things he's been seeing on Bourbon Street. And then Mr. Knobel starts talking about the bad food he was served at one of Emiril Lagasse's restaurants, and I've just got to laugh. Those big name restaurants in New Orleans are such God-awful tourists traps. They're overpriced and overstaffed with snobby, white-gloved waiters  who are trained to serve cold, uncooked steaks with an attitude. You can't blame the waiters for the food, but I can't tell you how many times Victor has had to set them straight. Not too long ago we were dining at one of those fancy uptown joints, and Victor got so fed up with the attitude and poor quality food that he went into the kitchen and started slapping the chef.

I bet you're thinking they called the cops. No way. They actually decided to cook our food. But if you don't have the luxury of smacking around the help, you're going to get a raw strip and cold soup and pay a buck-fifty for it. And the big names--the restaurants that get all the publicity--are the worst offenders. So I sympathize with Mr. Knobel. I truly do.

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The New Mob, April 15, 2011

A few months back my buddy, Leo, is getting out of bed on a Monday morning, and the cops break down his door. They came in like storm troopers, a whole friggin swat team with drug sniffing dogs and automatic rifles. Supposedly, they're looking for drugs--they got a tip from some loser snitch trying to get brownie points. But my buddy is a sixty-six year old book with a wife and two daughters, both of whom they hold at gunpoint while they haul him off to jail.[/dcs_p]

The cops are from a neighboring city, but they're a special task force empowered by the Feds, and they can go anywhere in the state of Michigan. It sounds to me like the FBI is outsourcing their dirty work, and dirty work it is. The team spends twelve hours in Leo's house. They order a series of pizzas and carry-outs, drink a case of Budweiser, and destroy his house. It's unlivable when they're done, and Leo has to bring in a contractor to repair the holes in the walls and ceilings. And what do the cops get for this? Two unregistered firearms and three joints.

They'll get him on the firearms, and he knows it. They busted him on a Monday during Football season--payday, if you're in this business, and Leo had ninety-eight grand in the house. When his lawyer gets the roster on items seized during the raid, they're showing ten thousand dollars in cash. How's that for good police work? Sounds to me like there is a new mob in town.

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Buddy Shuler's Chick, April 12, 2011

I met Buddy Shuler when he was  a  young sportscaster in New Orleans. I use to see him at the Saint's games, and on occasion I'd invite him into my skybox at the Dome.  A lot has changed since then, and Buddy and I are both living in south Florida. He's broadcasting his conservative talk-radio show from a station in Lauderdale and every now and then we'll play a game of golf or get together for lunch. The last few times I've run into him, Buddy's been bragging about this hot, new chick he's got. He's telling me he's in love and that, despite the fact that he's worth ten-million, his girl loves him for who he is.

[dcs_]I let him talk. What do I care if a guy makes a fool of himself? But Victor calls him on it. "Come on, Buddy," he says, "you're telling me this gorgeous broad would still be climbing into bed with you if you were poor?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," he says. "Rachel's a sweet girl, a real angel."

Yeah, right. A couple weeks later I invite Buddy for an outing on the Stella, and he shows up with his chick. She's gorgeous all right, but she's no angel. I know this girl. She's a raven-haired looker who happens to be good friends with my girl, Kylie. Every now and then Kylie kinks it up by inviting Rachel over. So Buddy asks me what I think of his lady. "Isn't she great?"

Victor's busting his seams, trying not to laugh. I tell Buddy she's beautiful. What am I supposed to do, tell him Rachel gives the best you know what in Palm Beach County? No way, not me. Let Buddy figure it out on his own.