CHAPTER FOUR
An Entrepreneur Is Born
The Gilmore empire was not realized without great struggle. In the early days, Douglass Gilmore was a local entrepreneur who built a string of small grocery stores that operated in the remote urban areas of Mount Vernon, New York. At the time, such an enterprise was known as a convenience store. And as the decade and his business affairs progressed, Gilmore added on a laundromat and then a liquor store to his achievements. By now, as the owner of more profit-producing undertakings than any other attempt in the community, Mr. Gilmore (most affectionately referred to as “Gil”) was one of the area’s most aggressive businessmen. As the business expanded further, Gil introduced his 8-year-old son Douglass Jr. to the tasks of stocking and pricing groceries, counting inventory and eventually, operating the cash register. The young boy was a fast learner. He was reliable and skilled at giving change precisely and quickly. He enjoyed challenging himself to complete sales faster and more efficiently than all of his dad’s employees. More than just making a sport out of it, Jr. also wanted to gain his father’s approval. He saw his father as a role model and an image towards which he could reach. Yet, the youngster never quite felt complete. There was never a time that his father stopped everything to say, “Son, I want you to know that I’m really proud of you.” And thus, the father-son relationship was never a rich one.
Years took their toll on the Gilmore enterprise. The city of Mt. Vernon was also a victim of that change, as opposed to growing with or preparing for the ever changing times. Crime and poverty, weakened property values and joblessness imposed a sense of helplessness upon the working class. As property values dropped, low income housing attracted hundreds and hundreds of families that were forced out of neighboring middle-class communities. The only choice for many of these families was the projects and housing developments; and the 70’s still showed signs of segregation—as youngsters swallowed realities such as bussing and lingering racism.
Naturally, barber shops, laundromats, grocery and liquor stores would continue to prosper due to the growing need. But a few robberies by gunpoint and a burdensome work schedule pressured Gil into downsizing. He eventually consolidated all of his resources into a single property on the south side of Mt. Vernon. This was a corner property, and quite a property it was too. There was the convenience store, a liquor store, a bar and 5 apartments overhead. In addition to simplifying his business interests, Gil was also very innovative. To combat the crime that threatened his business, he had a permanent partition built in the liquor store. It was made with 1½-inch thick bullet-proof glass. The idea was such a success that Gil had a partition built for the convenience store to accommodate the after-hours crowd. It could be pushed up to the front entrance of the store and secured as a makeshift walk-up window. Clearly, Mr. Gilmore was adjusting with the ever changing times, preparing for the weathers of the world in order to protect his business and sole source of income. By the early 80’s the grocery and liquor stores were rented to an Arab family. The new occupants converted both stores into one large supermarket. But Gil remained a staple in the neighborhood, eventually concentrating all of his attentions on the bar and lounge which anchored one end of his now subleased property.
The Evolution
The bar and lounge, formerly known as Denny’s Irish House, was renamed as Gil’s Irish House. The façade of the establishment was red brick with a section of thick block glass. Two windows, with exterior grills to prevent break-ins, were draped with dark red curtains hung on the inside of the bar. When the bar was open for business, orange neon signs for Ballantine Ale and Miller beer would shine brightly in both windows. The green canopy above the outside entrance was altered with a neat patch affixed over the old name.
Now that Gil had solely concentrated on the lounge business, new activities began to evolve. Previously a watering hole for local blue collar workers, the business now began to expand its attractions. First, porno videos were introduced on Wednesday nights. When that feature became boring and predictable, Gil brought in a topless dancer that performed at the same time the movie played. Soon enough the word spread, drawing new customers. Wednesday night attendance began to surpass all other days of the week combined. Popular demand cried out for more, until dancers were eventually showcased every night. The entertainment filled the club beyond its legal capacity of 150 persons. Now, instead of a local tavern, Gilmore’s was the spot where pretty, young black women stripped down to their panties.
Things had taken a major shift. Englebert Humperdink’s “After the Lovin’” was replaced by Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” The clientele that had consisted of white, Latino and black factory workers was now made up of white-collar workers, sports celebrities and all-night partygoers. The hours of Gil’s Irish House were once 11am to 8pm. Now, the club opened at 12 noon and closed at 4 AM. Naturally, prostitution worked its way into the fold as Gil made a musty-smelling back room available to close friends and customers. To no one’s surprise that was a big hit. Gil began to rent the room for $20 per half hour so that anyone (including police officers, firemen and sports stars) could take their pick of private dancers to the back room. The individual dancer charged a separate amount for her services. Depending upon the girl, and if she was good at what she did, a romp in the back room could cost $50 to $200. Gil also got a percentage of that from the dancers.
Essentially, Gilmore’s had become the area’s ultimate innercity brothel—a money machine that featured live dancers, porn videos on the big screen and a back room for sex. Worth its weight in gold, the club attracted Army personnel who traveled from North Carolina; it attracted players of various New York sports teams after their various games; and, of course, the local patrons simply ate it up. It was an excitement that was ever-peaking and never ending.
As fate would have it, too much of a good thing became a problem. There were very few parking spaces available by the roadside, and cars were often parked recklessly along the sidewalks and in the driveways and on the lawns of nearby residents. After a long night men would also leave the club intoxicated and flagrant, loudly reviewing the evening’s highlights at 2 and 3 am. Many customers made it a routine to urinate against trees, fences, hedges and other people’s vehicles. Apparently, stepping out into the night air to relieve their bladders was sort of a signature to suit the animal in them. And the restroom inside the club was too good for that.
As a small bar, the Gilmore enterprise never really raised eyebrows. People grew up in the neighborhood to accept it as a landmark of sorts. If anything, locals were accepting of the operation just as they were the trees and street signs. But never did the neighborhood expect such a dramatic change in clientele, in traffic and the overall growth; how the business grew so fast. Nobody was prepared for this big fish in their small pond. The spill-over from Gilmore’s affected homes for blocks, whether it was noise, urine odor, or empty beer cans tossed in the front yard. Things seemed to get that much worse on weekends and holidays.
All told, Gil could not keep those homeowners at bay. Customers who happened to live in the neighborhood accepted the excitement. But others merely dialed 911 when their tempers hit high. In response, police attacked wrongly parked cars with parking tickets. And because Mt. Vernon didn’t have a towing or impounding routine like the big city did, the city’s only alternative was high penalties. At the time, $30 and $40 tickets were considered high, and that was for double and triple parked cars.
However, customers continued to do as they pleased, parking however they wanted. The tickets were not a deterrent. No match for the pleasure customers experienced. So the police were forced to step it up. They raided the club. They did shakedowns and even arrested dancers once or twice for “inappropriate attire.” But in Gilmore’s to show as much skin as possible was the “attire.” And yet, business was as strong as usual the next day. Customers weren’t the least bit intimidated by the attempts. And since the club had local policemen who worked on staff, these scare tactics were all but disregarded. Besides, Mt. Vernon was only 4 square miles, and everybody knew everybody who was anybody. Truth be told, since half of the police force were backroom clients themselves, the city couldn’t withstand the scandal that could surface. At the least, wives would find out where their husbands had been for all those long nights that were said to be spent doing overtime.
And yet, the club continued to bump and grind. A typical night inside of Gilmore’s promoted the aura of sex. Dimmed lighting. Gyrating music. Musty air. Nicotine was built up on the wood paneling and ceilings as if it was intended varnish. But it added a particular element of authenticity. The chairs and stools that were either broken or breaking—more authenticity. The plywood stage with the cheesy linoleum surface was rickety and squeaky. Mirrors throughout the club (and especially behind the dancers on stage) were cracked and exposed enough for 2nd and 3rd degree cuts. Still, more authenticity. But this was all of what made Gilmore’s the real thing. That raw, undeniable climate of smut and lust, with the young, shapely, sexy women at the center of it all. The whole picture was just one big adventure.
Since the local law enforcement was partly under the club’s influence, and no significant penalty was in place, further action was pursued. The State Liquor Authority (S.L.A.) began to make visits. This was a subtle, quiet approach in addressing the lawlessness of Gilmore’s; but effective and mighty for sure. It was the word on the streets that Gilmore’s provided a nightly ritual of illicit activities. The hype that came with it all made for a great diversion for S.L.A. agents to go and visit the club to observe the outrageous claims of neighbors. Since S.L.A. was the authority which granted permission to sell alcoholic beverages, the investigators were essentially the rightful individuals to police such matters. And it just so happened that S.L.A. investigators were present on one of the many evenings when things at Gilmore’s got a little out of hand; although it was perfectly normal for patrons in the busy venue to touch and fondle the dancers. Everything in this environment was okay, so long as it felt good. Yet while the risqué activities proceeded, they were also serving to build new standards for amendments to antique liquor laws. It was an untold history in the world of adult entertainment, but in those circles of thrill-seeking men, the art and the term of lap-dancing began right there in Mt. Vernon. This rough, full clothed version of simulated sex, (where dancers sat on the patron’s lap gyrating until friction became fantasy; where a drought turned into a drip) was actually what S.L.A. reps came to witness. But to their surprise, there were events that were even more awakening.
A bachelor party of 12 was celebrating late into the night. Party animals all of them. The group and the groom occupied the whole front row of chairs. Loud. Frolic. Intense. The club was so busy that the stage seemed to extend into the immediate audience. Everyone, including the bachelor’s friends and the club’s regulars, were immersed in the anticipation of just how far all of the excitement would go. The group continuously tossed singles, fives and tens at the feet of different dancers who came to the stage for their 20-minute sets. The more lewd the dancers became, the more expressive her actions, the more provocative she was, the more money she got. The scene was a seduction for dancers to do whatever, however. Sometime around 1am, after Juicy was introduced to the stage to join 4 other dancers, the group hollered in excitement. The bachelor’s entourage enticed Juicy to “put it on” the groom with a wave of their 20-dollar bills. Already sliding her bare feet through a modest pile of singles, Juicy agreed. She approached the blushing husband-to-be in a seductive wiggle, eventually swinging her body around until her back was facing him. With his chair and knees flush against the foot-high stage, the bachelor found his face in a unique position. Juicy backed up until her perfectly round, brown cheeks and the split of her ass hugged his face. A tremendous ROAR! followed as the club’s standing-room-only crowd howled in appreciation. The thundering oneness of voices could be heard for blocks as the groom’s nose and tongue disappeared between Juicy’s cheeks for close to two minutes.
But that evening, and on through the ensuing months, that ROAR! proved to be the sound that rocked Gilmore’s. Juicy and Gil were arrested that night. They spent the night in jail until the judge permitted them free on bail the next morning. Furthermore, the club’s license was revoked. But Gilmore was relentless. He reopened the club the very next day and it was business as usual. Instead of liquor, he sold soda, water and “no-beer,” a beer-flavored beverage that had less than 10% alcohol content. For the same $4-per-drink price, customers would unconsciously gulp down the alternative to booze and act just as intoxicated as if it were 80-proof vodka. After all, it was the main attraction that was intoxicating. Dancers now had liberty to perform all-nude, drawing even bigger crowds, despite the loss of liquor privileges. It was during the subsequent months that Gil realized that his club, his concept would survive virtually anywhere.
Expansion
The time had come for a location change. The pressure from the city of Mt. Vernon was mounting. The local paper maintained headlines that seemed to focus on the descent of the area’s most successful black businessman. Gil was steadfast, however, keeping his long hours and routine unchanged. The face-between-the-cheeks incident resulted in a small fine and a suspended jail sentence for Gil and Juicy. But now, without the S.L.A. jurisdiction, without liquor sales, and with the rights and freedoms of speech to protect nude dancing, Gilmore’s was now back to square one—under the laws and jurisdiction of the locals. The state had exhausted its every procedure in attempts to close the club, but Gilmore’s was no longer an SLA problem.
“Redneck town—redneck laws.” Gil would often complain while in the company of his close comrades. And the ill feelings were definitely reflected in the deficiency in the club’s income. The difference in revenue was close to three or four thousand dollars a week. But again, this didn’t stop the cash flow altogether. What was a problem most overlooked was the future of Gilmore’s.
Mt. Vernon’s officials were faced with a big question: what was legal and what was not legal about the local tavern turned strip club? There was no law that could prevent an all-nude, liquorless business. Not yet. But for Gil, there was an undercurrent of concern. What would the city come up with next? How much longer would this type of entertainment prevail in the small residential town? While Gilmore’s went on to test the city and their continued police raids with his First Amendment right, he was nonetheless thinking of staying one step ahead of his adversities.
“Dad, we need to get out of this bullshit town,” argued young Douglass, who was now 27, full of rebellion and energy. “The mayor is a hypocrite. Sneaking in here with sunglasses. Thinking we don’t notice. He’s probably Juicy’s best customer! The neighbors smile in our face by day and press the panic button by night. And Dad, we need more room. There’s always a line outside.” On Friday and Saturday evenings especially, anyone on line would usually have to wait for a person to exit for there to be enough room for a new customer. It wasn’t so much a legal capacity issue (because that number was always exceeded). There was simply nowhere to stand.
“Besides, Dad, this place is falling apart.”
Douglass Jr. had been to many nightclubs by his mid 20’s. Many more, in fact, than his father would ever care to visit. The elder Gilmore was focused on one thing; opening and closing his doors and making sure there were enough dancers and drinks. To him, nothing else mattered. But in the meantime, his son’s vision was an expanded one. He was introduced to the club scene by his neighbor Steven Juliano, a veteran of the nightclub business. By watching Steve’s hard-nosed business savvy, Douglass learned and experienced a lifetime of seasoning within a very short time. He’d witnessed first-hand what a successful clubowner did as a routine. He was behind the scenes to record the unmentionable, as well as on the outside looking in as a clubgoer. There were business decisions that made sense and there were losses that made sense too. As Steven’s apprentice, Douglass Jr. absorbed it all. And it was that invaluable experience that led Douglass to make those suggestions to his dad. He was so persuasive about it that Gil agreed to consider moving the club. Both father and son knew that the business had grown into a monster. A big whale of an idea confined to a fish tank. To survive and grow, the club had to be relocated away from the suburbs and into the New York City jurisdiction where healthy competition was welcome. Most importantly, in New York City, with its red-light districts, accepted prostitution and infamous sex clubs, such a business was nothing but common.
With his dad’s firm “go,” Douglass hunted block by block, district by district, until he discovered a hot property just a mile away. It didn’t matter that the location had 2 auto body shops, side-by-side, and that it was fully operational. Douglass Jr. saw past that. He had a vision and a dream to be fulfilled.
Conveniently, the proposed property was on the same truck route as the old location. Furthermore, since the new location was positioned just over the county line in the Bronx, the property was geographically a part of the New York City jurisdiction. So with all things considered, and armed with his father’s blessing, Douglass Jr. approached the proprietors of 1440 Boston Road.
“Hi, I’m . . . I’m interested to know if you’d be selling this property anytime soon.” Part inquiry, part suggestive, Douglass Jr. was focused and convinced as he addressed the body shop owners.
“Huh?” The twenty-something Italian man returned a twisted expression.
“Your garage. I’d like to know if you want to sell.” Douglass’s vision was straightforward as a matter of fact. Meanwhile, the shop owner was sarcastic. Reviewing the request as if it came from a panhandler. But young Gilmore overlooked the cold reception and because he was direct and intentional, the proprietor invited Douglass to return with an offer. Within two days Douglass typed up an offer to lease-option the property for $2,000 per month. The length of the lease was 2 years, time enough to re-invent the wheel. Renovations. Marketing and reestablishing market position. Time enough to get back a cash flow and to raise $800,000 for the full purchase price of the property. The price could’ve been one million dollars, or even a million five. Either extreme would have been kosher with the Gilmores. They knew what the potential of their idea was. They knew that the new location was equal to the largest pot of gold they’d ever know. And of course the sellers imagined that the offer was just as crazy as the people making it. But they didn’t hesitate to go along with the deal.
Boston Post Road was a local truck route that ran parallel to Interstate 95, the multi-billion dollar throughway which stretched from New England to Florida. At any moment, day or night, cars and trucks would take an off ramp exit to fill up on gas, food or rest. The exit closest to the new club site was named Conner Street. Major franchises were already profiting from the traffic. Others were beginning to expand. McDonald’s was the largest attraction along the throughway, with a 24-hour drive-thru and a newly added indoor playground. Directly across the street from the golden arches was a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise. Naturally, where there are donuts, there are also police. So the area consequently projected some sense of security (even if only due to the high traffic) during the evening and early morning hours.
On another corner was an immense transmission franchise. And across the street, next door to the projected club, there was a 16-pump, 24-hour gas station. Altogether these elements meant one thing for certain and two things for sure: traffic and cash.
The Rocco family owned the property where the auto body work was done. They discussed the particulars and quickly agreed to Gilmore’s terms. And as quickly as the key to the property changed hands, enterprising young Gilmore was an explosion of newfound energy, removing piles of debris left in the shop. Trunk covers, axles, grease. You name it. Douglass was gung-ho and highly motivated for the new challenge, building a nightclub. Meanwhile, Gil began to spread the word amongst his regulars. The Mt. Vernon location was still thriving. Even more so because of its forthcoming and encouraging move. The convenience store which Gil once operated was doing well for the family that took over. They upgraded and improved the business often. The business flourished enough for them to see promise in owning the entire Mt. Vernon property. Since there was already speculation of an interest in purchasing the lot, Gil didn’t have to go looking for a buyer when it came time to relocate. So just like that, Gil sold the stores and the apartments above it, as well as the bar that started it all, for a lump sum of $100,000. It was enough money for the move and for the renovations of the new establishment: Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise. This is what Gil labored years for. His equity. His enterprise. His future.
The transaction was expected to go smoothly. At most, once the property changed hands, the Gilmores anticipated that the business would digest a 2 to 3 week loss in revenue. But this was accepted as a rest period. A little time to breathe. A well-deserved but short vacation. However, as time would tell, nothing worth attaining . . . nothing so huge and powerful can be achieved without struggle or challenges. And those struggles and challenges were awaiting the Gilmores from the day they took over the Boston Road property.
Problems with licenses, permits, and variances were already difficult challenges. There were already so many other entrepreneurs who also sought licenses and permits for clubs throughout the Bronx. And furthermore, it seemed like every city service or department required some payoff or promise, whether over or under the counter. There wasn’t one inspector who walked into the Boston Road property who didn’t see a $100 bill folded in front of them. And Gil was warned ahead of time.
“After you put the money on the counter, the inspector will ask, ‘Is that yours?’ And your answer should be, “Is what mine?’ And then, turn your back. When you turn around, the money should be gone.” This was the process, time after time, inspector after inspector, until it got to a point when Gil was never quite sure who would stop by next with a tie and a clipboard to inevitably ask “Is that yours?” Not to mention how much harder it was to brush off these inspectors, some of whom found reason to show up a second time. Who knew that opening a nightclub in the city would entail facing a loaded revolver of underpaid city-slick civil service workers. And yet, the real struggles were still ahead. Obtaining a certificate of occupancy from the Bronx Building Department, and coping with these old ways and means were nothing compared to the challenges ahead.
During a cold and snowy weekend in New York City, a two-story social club by the name of Happy Land was the place to be for many Latino partygoers. The establishment, one of hundreds that operated illegally throughout the city, was bustling when a man spotted his girlfriend in the club and turned into an instant pyromaniac. All he could envision was his woman in the arms of his friend as he charged mindlessly through the street to the nearest gas station. The attendant sold him a couple gallons of gasoline which he toted back to Happy Land’s entrance. Inside the doorway, the angry man poured gas about the stairway and entrance. Spitting all kinds of profanities in Spanish, he shouted one last, boisterous farewell:
“Adios. Hasta la vista. Y Valle con Dios!”
After the farewell, the guy lit a match and tossed it inside the doorway. A bonfire raced up the stairway until the crowd was overcome by smoke and flames. Finally, because there was only one way in and one way out of the hot spot, the fire took the lives of everyone inside of Happy Land.
The Happy Land tragedy rocked the city of New York. The consciousness of everyone was driven, pulled and jerked by various forms of media for the next month, which was a lot of press for NY, where generally, a murder was here and gone by the next day—pushed aside by the next wave of current events. Increasingly, the public demanded action. David Dinkins, struggling to maintain his polls and acceptance as New York’s first black mayor, was pressured to step to the plate in avenging those circumstances of the tragedy. In fact, the instigator of the disaster was not enough of a scapegoat for the public outcry. People wanted to see heads roll. So Dinkins organized a “Social Club Task Force.” This was but a makeshift posse that did little more than raid legal and illegal social clubs alike. Making their presence known, the gang of auxiliary police padlocked many of the unlicensed establishments around the city. If that wasn’t done, then the task force merely trounced through clubs checking that there were appropriate exits and clearances.
Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise, the new establishment that was in development on Boston Post Road, was not forecasted as a social club. Instead, this enterprise was reaching to qualify for all of the requirements that any other legitimate nightclub or restaurant would need to adhere to. To operate legally, Fool’s Paradise would need a Cabaret License as well as a Certificate of Occupancy. But, regardless of Gilmore’s objectives, the Happy Land incident had an effect on most of New York City’s nightlife, as well as the city departments that governed these operations by day. Bottom line: Happy Land’s heat made obtaining a C.O. nearly impossible.
The last thing that the Gilmores were familiar with was the world according to New York City policies and politics. But fortunately, his son had a friend that was not only familiar with the drama, but he was indeed in-the-know.
“Steve, I have a problem with the city. We’ve already sold the old club and moved out. I’ve been bustin’ my ass down here at the new spot with the construction, the layout, and now this Happy Land stuff is killin’ us. They’re makin’ it difficult for us to get opened.”
Steve and his family owned, or had interest in, 6 or 7 of the city’s top nightclubs. The Copa was considered the top night spot—with pink palm trees and 4 million dollar interior. Another club Steve had a hand in creating was Bentley’s, with an attraction of heavyweight sports and entertainment celebrities who came out to mingle and dance with the tri-state area’s “grown and sexy” crowd. So, needless to say, if there was anyone that the younger Gilmore could turn to for advice, it was Steve.
Douglass was 19 years of age when he met Steve. It was an indirect introduction—how the club owner was informed about this certain young man’s entrepreneurial energy by a mutual friend. Steve relayed a message that he was interested in meeting Douglass. When the two finally met, the chemistry was classic: Steve was a little older, he was Italian, with experience and plenty of money. Douglass was a younger, black and hungry entrepreneur. For whatever reason, the two hit it off well. That meant getting into certain clubs for free. That meant being in Steve’s presence weekend after weekend as he handled or delegated issues like a master at work. Once in a while, Steve would raise his voice, shouting at an employee with his favorite line: “YOU IDIOT!” And, inevitably, Steve and Douglass partnered on various concert promotions and other business ventures.
“Whatever you wanna do,” Steve said when the two first met, “you bring it to me and I’ll back it.”
Of course, being a struggling businessman in his 20’s, Douglass couldn’t have lucked up any more if he had stumbled into an orchard of money trees. Not only was Steve a consistent investor in Douglass’s business ventures, like the one with the chocolate roses, or the concerts and club promotions, but he was also philanthropic, often handing his young protegee a couple hundred dollars here and there.
“Yeah. I’ve been under the gun too . . .” Steve responded, during one of many phone calls about the new club and the Happy Land incident. “It doesn’t make sense. This shit is supposed to be for social clubs. Not legitimate establishments. The mayor is going around like a puppet on a string, with his goon squad task force. It’s the public pressure.” Steve was passionate about the business and he knew about all elements that might threaten his environment. “Here. Take down this number for a lawyer I know. Our family deals with him. He’s good and aggressive, and if there’s anyone who can help you through this mess, he can.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Don’t thank me. Just get that club opened.”