In 1995 my good friend Scottie Taylor opened the Milk Bar in Beverly Hills. He asked me to be the doorman with our tall Haitian friend Bernard as the bouncer. No one messed with Bernard. He was 6-8 with connections to the voodoo priestesses of LA. We had a good time until the Beverly Hills Fire Department decided our nightly occupancy exceeded their safety measures.
‘How many people you think you have inside?” The fire marshal asked standing in front of his cherry red patrol car.
“Within a hundred.” The capacity was 210. “I’d say 700.”
“I thank you for being honest.” He spoke into his radio and called off the fire trucks. “You have ten minutes to get everyone out of there. And tomorrow night I want you to run it straight. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.” The last night of Chasen’s restaurant, the BHFD closed the fabled steakery for over-crowding. We remained open for several months more and attracted the usual smattering TV stars, movie madmen, and passing dignitaries.
One evening two dark-windowed SUVs pulled up to the curb. They were government-issue. Bernard spoke to the passenger and returned to the door.
“They have the husband of the Pakistani president inside.”
“Ali.” His name had graced the NY Times for corruption.
“We wants to come inside.” Bernard smiled and gave me a c-note. “This was his calling card.”
“Tell him welcome.”
The small man was escorted inside by Bernard. His Secret Service bodyguards surveyed the rooftops for assassins. I got them a table by the dance floor. Scottie asked who our guest was.
“A future dictator.” women didn’t rule in the Orient for long.
Ali ordered several bottles of champagne and then sent a buzz-cut agent over to me.
“This is funny question.”
“I always like a good joke.” I hadn’t heard a single joke the entire time I had been in LA. It was like everyone was saving them for an audition on THE TONIGHT SHOW.
“Our guest would like those two blondes to join him at his table.”
The girls were starlets a little past their budding season.
“I can ask, but i can’t say they’ll say ‘yes’.”
“Thanks, he’ll be grateful if you succeed.”
I knew what success meant to my bank account and motioned for the two blondes to come over. I told them the story and the taller one with the mammoth breasts shook her head.
“We don’t do Pakis.” Girls in LA have a high opinion of themselves.
“That’s too bad, because he’ll give you $2000 each.”
$2000 each?” The blonde shuck here prejudice faster than a snake on a frying pan shred its skin.
“That’s the number I heard. ” I was making it up, but thought 2-Gs was a fair price for a short foreigner with a duffer’s moustache. The girls sat at Ali’s table. 30 minutes later his entourage left the Milk Bar. The g-man gave me $200. I split the gratuity with Bernard. The next day the girls came to the club and complained that Ali had only paid them $1000. They were wearing new dresses. Armani. Ali had bought them in the hotel.
“Sorry, I’m not a pimp.”
And now Asif Ali Zardari will be president of Pakistan, which will be getting $15 billion dollars from the US to protect our interests in that country.
Nice.
We are all Georgians except when we’re Pakis.