Once the Milk Bar opened in the late winter of 1995, the ultra-modern nightclub on Canon Drive was a cash cow. The limited occupancy created a chokepoint at the door. People wanted in. They duked me $20-100 depending on their urgency. Their drug dealers were waiting inside. Supply meeting demand. The nightlife writer for the LA Times loved the ‘milky-white’ decor, sleek furniture, primal lighting, and soulful music. She was less than impressed with the clientele but Beverly Hills was not Hollywood and Hollywood was not New York.

Not even close.

Scottie the owner never complained about the crowd. They paid cash. No plastic.

I wore the same jean jacket every night. It had a lot of pockets. Drugs and money. My back up was Big Bernard. The tall Haitian and I had run the door of Scottie’s Milk Bar on 7th Avenue. We watched the Empire State Building at midnight. The tower lights went dark at 12:13. Our split was 60/40. I had senority. 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. A ladder truck was double-parked on Canon. The red lights swirled a hurricane of attention. His daughter was working the bar.

“Within a hundred.” The capacity was 210. No more. No less. “I’d say 700.”

“I thank you for being honest.” He spoke into his radio and the fire truck returned to the station. “You have ten minutes to clear everyone out of there. And tomorrow night I want you to run it straight. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no argument with his judgment

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. The nightlife writer of the LA Times failed to re-review the Milk Bar. Beverly Hills was a world apart from Hollywood. No one was going to get famous here or in trouble.

Unless that’s what they wanted.

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.” The Paki taxi drivers in New York spoke his name with disdain. He was a thief. Some even said murderer. His wife was president. “He’s shit.”

“We wants to come inside.” Bernard smiled and gave me a c-note. “This was his calling card.”

“Tell him welcome.” He had never done me wrong. People like him got one chance to fuck up. Most of them used it within an hour.

The small man was escorted inside by Bernard. His suit was shiny Italian silk. 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.” The G-man sounded like he had been raised on a farm. I figured him for Kansas. A Baptist. He deserved a chance to take a bullet for the president.

“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 in this city of suburbs was saving them for an audition on THE TONIGHT SHOW.

“Our guest would like those two blondes to join him at his table.” He pointed at two starlets. They were nearing 30 in a town where 22 is old. Tits jobs were only an advantage to meet men like Ali.

“I can ask, but I can’t say they’ll say ‘yes’.” I knew their names. They came in a couple of times a week. I’d never see them do anything bad.

“Thanks, he’ll be grateful if you succeed.” Pimping was not his forte, but I knew what success meant to my pocket 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 taller blonde shucked her 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. 50/50. 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.” I had majored in economics at BC.

I graduated sin laude.

Without praise.

Ali’s wife was assassinated in 2007. Rumors blamed the Pakistani internal security organization. The taxi drivers of New York speak his name with a viper’s venom. The Pentagon backed his election to presidency. Ali claimed to have graduated from the London School of Economics and Business. There are no records since this school never existed on this planet.

His country received $1 billion for the Pentagon last year.

The same is slated for this year.

Ali is a man who knows how to butter his toast.

Thick and often.

His jacket must have big pockets.

Mine certainly did at the Milk Bar.

Bring the troops home.