Back in the Golden Age of the 1960s,
You Could Find All the Great Folk Singers
 of the Era and Eat Well at Legendary Restaurants.
You Still Can.

                                                        Peter, Paul & Mary at The Bitter End

 

       As one of New York’s oldest neighborhoods, dating back to the end of the 17^th century, Greenwich Village had, since the 19^th century, become an enclave for the avant garde and what was called bohemianism––it was at one time or another home to Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Henry James, Walt Whitman, Hart Crane, Eugene O’Neill, Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol. And for more than a century its layout of winding and crisscrossing  cobblestone streets has changed not at all, and height restrictions have kept its hamlet charm intact.

       Back in the Sixties the Village was at its height as a crucible for folk music and jazz talents who played in a slew of clubs––none of them swanky­–– that included The Village Gate, The Village Vanguard, The Bitter End, Café Au Go Go, Café Wha? and The Bottom Line, where I, as college student would go to see emerging acts like Joan Baez, Peter, Paul & Mary, Dave van Ronk, Nina Simone and Bob Dylan. Many of those clubs had no liquor license so your options were soft drinks spiked with rum-flavored syrup or coffee brewed sometime earlier in the day.

       Having little money to blow, I still was able to have a good meal in a myriad of places, most of them Italian given the Village’s adjacency to Little Italy. Few were distinguished but they were all extremely cordial, the décor dated but cozy and a carafe of wine cost just a few bucks.

       The fare at the oldest bar in New York, The White Horse Tavern (567 Hudson Street) wasn’t the draw for beat poets like Jack Kerouac and Irish scribes like Brendan Behan, but the food today is typical pub fare––burgers, sandwiches, chicken wings. There are 18 beers and commemorative cocktails like the Dylan Thomas made with “Jack Daniels Double Neat Water Shot Back.”

       Minetta Tavern (113 MacDougal Street), opened in 1937,  counted Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound among its guests, and, under the ownership of restaurateur Keith McNally, is considered one of the city’s best steakhouses and a place not easy to get into. Wait until 9:00 and you'll have a better chance.

       Since 1918 Monte’s Tavern (97 MacDougal Street) has been an example of how Italian immigrants, in this case Louis and Sylvia Medica, thrived in the burgeoning food business, and today Chef Pietro preserves that legacy with lusty dishes of sausage and peppers, lasagna, chicken Marsala and scampi marinara in an Old World atmosphere that never dates.

       When lists of the best pizzerias in New York are compiled, John’s of Bleecker Street (278 Bleecker Street), opened in 1929,  never fails to come in at or near the top. There are dozens of varieties from the classics like the Margarita to  the  signature “Boom Pie” with mozzarella, tomato sauce, roasted tomatoes, ricotta, garlic and Fresh Basil. The scuffed-up décor has never changed and the wooden booths are engraved with decades of fans’ names.

       Caffe Reggio (119 MacDougal Street) claims to be the first restaurant in  New York to serve cappuccino from a magnificently noisy espresso machine but its pastas like penne Genovese and penne campagnola are very good and its panino sandwiches the best in the neighborhood.

    

  The Waverly Inn (16 Bank Street) in the leafy west village dates to the mid-1800s when it had a reputation for ghostly visitations. Since 2006 it’s been owned by former Vanity Fair editor-in-chief Graydon Carter and it has long drawn a celebrity crowd, including Taylor Swift and Bette Midler, less crowded now than before, who come for the signature chicken pot pie, Jonah crab cakes and truffle mac & cheese.  The front room (below) is preferred but it's ultra-noisy while the rear room is a bit more civilized and has better lighting.

David’s reluctance to call FBI agent Frank English dated to an incident when he’d withheld important information from David about an earlier investigation with Katie. David realized English, with whom he’d previously had a good professional relationship, was in no way required to help an ex-NYPD cop with any information, whether or not it was of a secretive nature. Nevertheless, English had given David some leads or names in his subsequent investigations. David just didn’t want to go to the trough if he didn’t need to. In the case of Jeffrey Epstein, he did. He took a deep breath and dialed English’s number.
         “Frank English, FBI, how can I help you?”
         “Frank, it’s David Greco.”
           There was a pause—the agent obviously hit a record button—then, “Whaddaya want, David?”
        “I’m calling only because Terry Rush said you might help with something I’m looking into in Palm Beach. The Jeffrey Epstein investigation.”
        Another pause. “Yeah, Terry said you might call.”
        “Terry said the FBI has been keeping an eye on Epstein for a while and you might fill me in.”
        David heard English sigh.
        “This another one of your jaunts with your girlfriend, David?”   
        “Her name’s Katie Cavuto, Frank, as you well know, and she’s won a lot of prizes for articles that contained info federal investigators subsequently used in their own less-than-productive research.” David realized he shouldn’t antagonize the agent.
        “Then  have her call me. I don’t owe you anything, David, unless you’ve put a badge back on your shirt and work for a legitimate police organization.”
        “Okay, consider me a citizen calling the FBI under the Freedom of Information Act to ask for some info.”
        “You’re not going to get anything out of an on-going investigation, David. You know that.”
        “Frank, if you can’t help, that’s fine; if you don’t want to help, I get it. How about just telling me two things?”       
        “Go ahead.”
        “First, is it true you’ve got a file open on Epstein, and second, does it have to do with the sexual exploitation case the Palm Beach police are looking at.”
        “Yes and yes. How’s that?”
    “So, I’m going to assume you’re looking at Epstein as a possible kidnapper of young girls as well as at his financial dealings.”
        “Assume away. I’m just not going to talk about it, David. But I’ll throw you a line: You might get more out of the DOJ or the IRS. I can tell you they are definitely looking at Epstein and a lot of his associates. Call these two guys: Al Barber at DOJ and Anthony Cherico at the IRS.”
        “You have their direct lines?”
        English said, “Do a little legwork on your own, David,” and hung up.
        David smiled, thinking he’d actually gotten more out of English than he’d anticipated.

 

 Katie could never get herself to go to an airport in winter wearing clothes for the kind of warm weather she expected in Palm Beach, so she wore jeans, t-shirt, a cardigan sweater and loafers on the plane, with enough summer clothes for three days. As soon as she got to Palm Beach airport she stuffed the cardigan in her carry-on. David had already made a reservation for her at his hotel, and, after driving back from Miami, he was waiting for her after getting through baggage claim.
         “You don’t look ready for the beach,” he said. “How about lunch?”
         “I’m starving. What’s that Cuban place you mentioned?”
         David hailed a cab and they drove to Havana Restaurant. He ordered arroz con pollo, she ordered a Cubano sandwich with ham, pork, cheese and pickles.
         “How about a caipirinha?” asked David.
         “You’re drinking caipiriñhas  now in the middle of the day?”
         “I may start. Ramona Sanchez dutifully drinks one every afternoon.”
         “So how was Madam Sanchez?”
         “I guess the word is ‘colorful.’ Very smart, business savvy, at least the business of running a call girl operation. And she knows just about everyone in Miami, at least the men.”
          The caipirhiñas arrived. David filled Katie in on all she’d told him and also the little that Frank English allowed.
         “So, I’m glad you’re here, Katie. I can only get so far with an ongoing investigation down here. As a reporter you can get to more people.”
         “Well, remember, David, I’m not on a real assignment, though I guess I can say I’m working on a story, which is true, even if it’s my idea. So, who you got?”
         David gave her the names and numbers of Al Barber and Anthony Cherico.
         “I already put in a call to their offices, said you were coming down. My cop friend Terry Rush knows them and said he could probably arrange it so I can tag along with you.”
         While waiting for their food, Katie called the numbers on her cell phone and left messages. By the time they’d finished their meal Barber at DOJ called and asked if she could come over that afternoon because he was leaving for a long weekend. Minutes later Cherico called and said he could meet her at four-thirty.
         “We’d better get a move on,” said Katie, asking for the check.
         “So,” said David, “another caipiriñha?”
         “I think I need a couple of café Cubanos instead. Maybe before dinner.”
         Which was  more than okay with David.

    Federal Attorney Al Barber’s office on West Flagler Drive in West Palm Beach was an angular glass and steel building set on a dismal-looking part of the lagoon.  Katie and David identified themselves and were brought to a nondescript office with a dark brown desk,  three chairs, an American flag and a photo of President George W. Bush.
        “Heard a lot about you two,” said Barber, who was rotund and bald, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. He wore slacks, a white button down shirt and foulard silk tie. “Especially you, Ms. Cavuto. You’ve had some tales to tell. And did so well. And you’re David, who has been along on Ms. Cavuto’s adventures?”   
         Both Katie and David thought the comments were flippant, but Barber seemed affable enough, offered them chairs and said, “So how can I help you? You’re looking into Jeremy Epstein? What exactly interests you in him?”
          Katie took the lead. “I interviewed Epstein in New York when he was in the auction for New York Magazine, but I was not able to speak to him about the charges the Palm Beach Police seem close to filing.”
          “Not just them. Epstein’s got us, the FBI and the IRS after him.”
          “And what aspect are you looking into, Mr. Barber?”
          “Off the record I can say we’re interested in his financial dealings, his off-shore accounts, his bank transfers. Not as sexy as snooping on his well-known orgies, but maybe more serious for him in the end. What I can tell you, because it’s been in the news, is that Epstein has an uncanny ability to pry money out of a lot of powerful people, and many of those people attend his parties.
        How he obtained his money to buy his place here, his New York mansion, his Caribbean island and his ranch—he’s also got a yacht, registered in the Cayman Islands—is a mystery to everyone, but they don’t want to talk about it. We do, and if it’s tied up with the sexual shenanigans, we’ll want to know that, too.  The FBI’s looking into trafficking, the IRS is doing what they do with tax fraud. The guy’s getting it from all sides.” 
         “But so far he hasn’t spent a day in prison,” said David.
         “Not yet.”
         “We were also told that the local police chief Michael Reiter has been complaining that the state prosecutor, Barry Krischer has been dragging his feet, even putting up roadblocks to the investigation.”
         “That’s what brought the FBI in, and the word is Epstein made both some promises of paying off people and even threatened one or two through some dirty cops.  Epstein has always paid some of them off.  Krischer is a good prosecutor when he wants to be and when it’s politically expedient to advance his career. He wants to be Florida’s Rudy Giuliani (below) and  start off by getting to be mayor of Palm Beach.”
         David winced.
         “What,” said Barber, “you’re not a fan of Rudy? I worked with him on some mutual cases.”
         “So did I, and as a prosecutor he was tough on the mob, but he became like this guy Krischer so he could run for mayor as a crusader against crime.”
         “That sounds like the Giuliani I know. Krischer’s a bird of the same feather, and I don’t think he wants to ruffle Epstein’s because the creep is too well connected. Christ, he pals around with everyone from Bill Gates to George Stephanopoulos.”
         “How about with the mobs?” asked Katie.
         “Maybe just to keep things quiet, but he likes to think of himself as this high-class party giver and everyone owes him a favor.”
         “Do you know if Krischer ever attended an Epstein party?”
         Barber shook his head. “I doubt Barry’d be that dumb, but then again, if he had, maybe that’s why he’s dragging his feet on the case, as you say.”
         “We’re going to see an agent named Cherico at the IRS after we leave here,” said Katie.
         Barber shook his head again, got up from his desk and picked his jacket from a hanger on a coat rack. “Don’t’ waste your time. You won’t get piss out of Cherico. He’s very much Mr. Clean and very much tight-lipped about cases under investigation.”
         “The why do you think he agreed so readily to see Katie?”
         “I don’t know, maybe as a favor to Terry Rush or Reiter to see if he’ll loosen up. If something gets into the news, Krischer may think he has to do more than he’s doing. But, listen, hope I’ve helped. I gotta go, got a date to go fishing this weekend. I kind of wish it were on Epstein’s yacht, but I haven’t gotten an invitation. Hey, say hello to Tony for me, will you?”
         Barber walked the couple out, spoke to the receptionist and left by a side door.
         “So you think we should bother with Cherico?” asked Katie.
         “I would never break a date with an IRS agent,” said David. “They don’t like that.”
         “Hm, well, I’m sure we can pry something out of him. Maybe give us more of a connection with the FBI investigation. After all, J. Edgar Hoover sent the IRS after Al Capone on tax evasion after all else failed. And Frank English did give us his name specifically.”
         “I think we should go, see what he’s got to say, but I kind of think he would not want me in on the discussion. Might spook him.”
         Katie agreed. They got a taxi and Katie got out at the IRS offices on North Flagler Boulevard while David went back to the hotel.   

 

 

 © John Mariani, 2024