by Patricia Bellomo | May 4, 2011 | Mob Blog
The Russian Revolution, May 3, 2011
A Russian oligarch showed up at my Miami Beach nightclub last night. I wasn’t there, mind you–I’m the silent partner, but the guy who runs the place for me, Franco, tells me the Russian had an entourage of at least fifty people. The Russian booked Franco’s upstairs lounge and VIP room, and proceeded to throw a party that lasted until five the next morning. The guy ordered four bottles of Dom Perignon White Gold Jerobaum, the forty thousand dollar stuff, but the best Franco could do was the Dom’s 2002 champagne at the bargain price of 189.99 a bottle. The Russian wasn’t too happy, but Franco’s is a South Beach hotspot, not a Monte Carlo casino.
The Russians went through eighteen bottles. Franco only had ten in the cellar, and he called me when they uncorked the eighth, and I placed a call to a wine distributor I know in Fort Lauderdale, and he hustled over another ten bottles. It was two in the morning, mind you, but the distributor owes me. He calls me the next day and says, “Lou, I’ve never seen anything like it. There were about a dozen women working the party, all blond and Eastern European, and by the time I arrived, most were naked.”
Hmm. It’s probably just as well that I missed it. I asked Franco what the take was, and he said the Russians are welcome anytime.
The Russian Revolution was written from the point of view of Patricia Bellomo’s main character, mobster Louie Morelli. Bellomo’s mafia thrillers are available on Amazon.com, BArnes and NOble, and on all e-readers.
The Russian Revolution – Bellomo
by Patricia Bellomo | Apr 16, 2011 | Mob Blog
Don Knobel on the Radio, April 16, 2011
[dcs_p]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.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]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.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]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.
by Patricia Bellomo | Apr 12, 2011 | Mob Blog
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]
[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.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]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.[/dcs_p]
by Patricia Bellomo | Apr 12, 2011 | Mob Blog
Buddy Shuler’s Chick, April 12, 2011
[dcs_p]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_p]
[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?”[dcs_p]
[dcs_p]”That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he says. “Rachel’s a sweet girl, a real angel.”[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]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?”[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]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.[/dcs_p]
by Patricia Bellomo | Apr 3, 2011 | Mob Blog
Golfcart Gestapo, April 3, 2011
[dcs_p]Angie had a run-in with the Golfcart Gestapo yesterday. Delray Beach has a peculiar volunteer “civilian” police force relegated to the enforcement of parking violations. Basically, they’re meter-maids on steroids. Not a very nice bunch to represent the town, particularly since they have a reputation of being overzealous and over silly. These guys are all white and all old, a gray-haired gestapo patrolling parking lots and side streets. Ask yourself what kind of jackass volunteers to ride around in a golfcart and ticket old ladies whose handicapped stickers have fallen off their dashboards, and you’ve got an idea of the mentality we’re dealing with here.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]Yesterday, Angie took her mother and eighty-four year old aunt to meet a bunch of ladies for breakfast at Poppies on Linton Boulevard. One of the crusty old gents was on patrol, idling his golfcart as he watched the trio alight from her SUV. Mind you, Angie parked in a handicapped spot with her Aunt Tia’s permit placed on her dashboard. The old lady shuffled to the door of the restaurant on her walker–a ten minute task.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]When Angie came out an hour later, there was a $200.00 ticket tucked beneath her wiper-blades. The citation was issued because one digit in the permit’s expiration date was not visible. This, after watching the old lady hobble in. Because Aunt Tia was all worn out from her outing, Angie took her home and then drove to the station on Atlantic Avenue and showed them the ticket and valid permit.[/dcs_p]
[dcs_p]Not good enough for the Gestapo. The permit holder has to appear in person. Angie called me in frustration and I sent our son, Tony, to take Aunt Tia to the police station. He said they examined Tia’s ID and permit like an evidence team from Quantico while she was hanging on her walker and wheezing. Tony was good-natured about it, but Angie was still fuming at dinner.[/dcs_p]
