Author Topic: Miami Beach, Murder, Mayhem, the Mafia,MIGHTY MIKE QUINN ,Madonna Connection  (Read 14772 times)

michael arvilla

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Miami Beach, Murder, Mayhem, the Mafia, Models, and the Madonna Connection
The violent rise of the New York THUG who became a high-fashion pretty boy.
by Frank Owen
January 12 - 18, 2000

Beautiful People: Ingrid Casares, Madonna, and Paciello

 
 
Miami Beach—Like the South of France, the American Riviera has long been a sunny place where shady characters go to reinvent themselves. But talk to the beautiful people along palm-tree-lined Ocean Drive about transplanted Staten Island tough guy Chris Paciello, and you'll think they're describing Cary Grant with a bit of a bad temper. 'He has the purest heart of anybody I've ever met,' gushes a local gossip columnist; 'He has a noble disposition,' proffers a former employee. And here's a prominent insider in Miami's nightclub scene: 'He's one of the few guys his age who always stands up when a lady enters the room.'
Paciello, along with his partner, Madonna pal Ingrid Casares, owns three of the town's most successful nightspots—the fashionable Italian restaurant Joia, the world-famous dance club Liquid, and the deluxe lounge Bar Room (he and Casares also recently opened Liquid Room in nearby Palm Beach)—which attract droves of celebrities, who in turn attract even bigger droves of tourists, who shop at local stores, eat at restaurants, and fill up hotel rooms. All of which fuel the seasonal economic ecosystem of this offshore pastel pleasure zone. Paciello also hosts fundraisers, and hosted Mayor Neisen Kasdin's reelection ball; he donates considerable sums to charities like the Health Crisis Network, the Make-a-Wish Foundation, and the Muscular Dystrophy Association. No wonder Miami Beach residents persist in calling the 28-year-old businessman a "community leader."

So imagine the shock last month when the FBI pounced on one of South Beach's favorite adopted sons, charging him with racketeering, robbery, and murder. Could the celebrated man-about-town—who has bedded a string of beautiful and famous women, and whom Ocean Drive magazine dubbed "the It Boy of South Beach"—really be a mobster, a thief, and a killer?

"If Chris Paciello did everything the government says he did, then he deserves an Oscar," says South Beach publicist Louis Canales, who used to work for Paciello. "Because he certainly fooled everybody down here. The Chris Paciello we're reading about in the newspapers is not the person we've come to know and love."

Among the government's claims:


On February 18, 1993, as a low-level associate of the Bonanno crime family, Paciello took part in a bungled Staten Island home-invasion robbery that ended with the death—by a bullet to the head—of innocent 46-year-old housewife Judith Shemtov. Paciello didn't pull the trigger, says the government, but he did plan the operation and drive the getaway car.

The previous December, Paciello participated in the armed heist of $300,000 from a Staten Island Chemical Bank. Around the same time, Paciello supposedly robbed over a million dollars worth of marijuana from a local dealer. He allegedly sold a portion of pot to one buyer, then later stole it back from him in an armed robbery.

In mid 1995, Paciello harbored fugitive Vincent Rizzuto Jr., a Gambino associate. Rizzuto was on the run from a murder indictment after blowing away a Colombo family drug dealer in Brooklyn. Paciello is supposed to have housed the fleeing gangster in the Miami apartment belonging to his then business partner Lord Michael Caruso, who ran the Ecstasy ring at the Limelight, and who is currently a full-time government informer. Caruso told the feds that before he left, Rizzuto stole his wallet, identification, and other belongings. Rizzuto was spotted soon after in Chicago and Minneapolis trying to pass himself off as Michael Caruso.

Recently, the feds observed Paciello meeting with Alphonse Persico, the acting head of the Colombo family. The government suspects Paciello and Persico were involved in a money-laundering scheme together, using Paciello's celebrity hangout Liquid as a front to hide the proceeds from illegal mob activities. Federal prosecutors assert that the nightclub is more profitable than it should be. Persico pleaded guilty to federal gun charges last October, and is currently behind bars in Miami.

In addition, the government claims Paciello is a dangerous thug who has been involved in a dozen beatings in clubs and bars in New York and Miami—involving a variety of weapons, including a bottle, a knife, a baseball bat, a plank of wood, a gun, and an ax handle. Paciello is also under investigation for making a death threat against a cooperating witness.
The government also released selected transcripts of secret wiretap recordings. On one tape, from late 1997, Paciello is caught conspiring with Colombo family associate Dominick Dionisio to beat up Downtown New York nightlife veteran Steven Lewis, currently the director of the West Village nightclub Life. After Paciello and Casares were rebuffed by community groups in their attempt to open a New York version of Liquid in the Flatiron District, Lewis approached Casares about doing a club together in Manhattan, minus Paciello. When Paciello, who is notoriously possessive of the women in his life, found that Lewis had gone behind his back, he was furious and contacted Dionisio, an old friend from Bensonhurst who was arrested last year on stock fraud and money-laundering charges.

Paciello feared that Casares might accept Lewis's offer: "I gotta start taking care of her, or else she's fuckin' gonna leave me. . . . [Lewis] is a great manipulator, he'll talk her ear off, she'll start believing him, she's fuckin' stupid. . . . "

In a later conversation, six-foot-six bruiser Dionisio told Paciello that Lewis refused to meet with him in New York. Lewis knew of Dionisio's strong-arm reputation: "The guy's deathly scared of me," Paciello replied. "So that #### won't come out, huh? I'll take care of it down here." To which Dionisio remarked, "Even after you grab him . . . I'm gonna terrorize him a little, too."

In another tape, this one from September 29, 1999, two months before he was arrested, Paciello is also captured talking about assassinating South Beach club owner Gerry Kelly, who co-owns the rival venue Level. Previously, Kelly had worked as marketing director and manager at both Bar Room and Liquid. Kelly abruptly resigned last year and moved over to Level, but not before stealing mailing lists and other confidential information, according to Paciello's lawyers. On the wiretap, Paciello talks to an undercover police officer posing as a crooked cop about having Kelly arrested on fraudulent drug charges. Paciello then says: "I'm telling you the owner of the club, we got to get his head fuckin' broken in. We got to get him beat up. I got to get him whacked."

Chris Paciello rose from humble beginnings to become the most celebrated club owner in Miami Beach since Al Capone. His flagship venue, Liquid, was compared to Studio 54 by no less than Liza Minnelli. Before he was arrested, Paciello told Ocean Drive magazine: "Everybody can talk about my past, and I'm not ashamed of it at all. As a matter of fact, I'm proud of it. To come where I came from and to do what I'm doing now, I can actually pat myself on the back."

Paciello was born Christian Ludwigsen in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, and raised on Staten Island—the land of cops and wiseguys. Within a few years of graduating from Franklin Delano Roosevelt High School, prosecutors say, he was an apprentice mobster.

Paciello's name first became known on the Manhattan club scene in the mid '90s, when he provided muscle for Lord Michael Caruso's Ecstasy operation at the Limelight. His nickname, "the Binger," came from his penchant for bingeing on violent crime. Initially, the rave scene was largely run by young Italian American promoters and DJs from Brooklyn and Staten Island. Paciello exemplified the new breed of outer-borough hooligans, who—attracted by easy money—spoiled the scene's initial innocence with their bully-boy tactics.

Caruso, on the other hand, had started out as a legitimate techno promoter. In the early '90s, he staged groundbreaking concerts by such British electronic music acts as the Orb, Orbital, and the Prodigy. But by the time Paciello met Caruso at the Limelight in 1994, the techno promoter was deeply entwined in a web of corruption that involved armed robberies of rival dealers, as well as extortion and kidnapping.

According to testimony at Limelight owner Peter Gatien's drug conspiracy trial, around this time a Bensonhurst hoodlum named Anthony Faraci tried to muscle in on the drug trade at the Limelight. Paciello contacted Dominick Dionisio and Enrico Locasio—a/k/a the Stone Posse, two up-and-coming associates of the Colombo family—and Dionisio assured the Limelight drug dealers: "Don't worry about this half a moron—When we see him, we'll squash him and make it go away." The burly duo also started to fund drug dealing at the Limelight.

The bond between Paciello and Caruso became symbiotic. Caruso was a successful drug dealer and promoter, but no tough guy: Testifying at the Gatien trial, he frequently burst into tears. Paciello, on the other hand, had the balls of a brass bull.

In the summer of 1994, after being kicked out of Club USA for fighting, Paciello and Caruso approached the velvet rope at the underground dance hall Sound Factory. Bouncers refused to let them in.

An all-out brawl ensued. The bouncers sprayed the two men with Mace and fire extinguishers. The menacing head of security, Alex Cofield—a reputed member of the Latin Kings, whom the Drug Enforcement Agency later caught on tape admitting to "roid rage"—came running out of the lobby of the club brandishing an ax handle. Paciello grabbed the handle from Cofield's hands and proceeded to brain the bouncer with his own weapon. Wounded and humiliated, Cofield vowed revenge.

Last year, Paciello tried to downplay the incident, telling the Voice: "I did get into a scuffle with a bouncer at Sound Factory. It was a case of an overcrowded club and a bouncer with an attitude. It ended up getting physical, but nothing out-of-hand or dangerous to anyone else."

Afterward, Paciello and Caruso fled to Florida, where Paciello was planning to open a club. But the fallout from the incident continued to reverberate. In 1995, on a trip back to New York, Caruso was warned by bouncers at the Tunnel that Cofield was looking "to take you out." In an attempt to smooth things over, Caruso set up a meeting at a Union Square coffee shop. Cofield demanded that Caruso pay his medical bills, which he did.

During a second meeting with Cofield, Caruso supplied information about Paciello's day-to-day routine: his home address, the name of the gym he frequented. Unbeknownst to Caruso, Cofield secretly recorded the meeting, and a copy ended up in Paciello's hands. Furious that his business partner had betrayed him, Paciello hopped on a plane to New York and made his way to the Tunnel, where he confronted Caruso, beat him to a pulp, then stuck a gun in his face. Only the intervention of Paciello's friend kept him from pulling the trigger.

In November 1994, Chris Paciello opened his first nightclub, Risk, allegedly with profits from illegal activities. After scouring South Beach, Paciello and Caruso came across Mickey's, a failing bar and restaurant owned by actor Mickey Rourke, featuring pictures of Rourke's friend John Gotti on the walls. For no down payment, Paciello took both ownership of the club and its $400,000 debt. The feds believe the real owner of the space was Carlo Vaccarezza, Gotti's former limo driver.

Paciello and Caruso transformed the place into a New York-style dance club. In the beginning, Paciello stayed behind the scenes. Caruso quoted Paciello's reason for this arrangement: "I'm a goon; I'm not a high-fashion pretty boy." Soon after the club opened, Caruso claims, Paciello had a closed-door meeting with a powerful captain and his soldier in the Gambino family: John "Jackie Nose" D'Amico and Johnny Rizzo.

Hardly the Miami smart set, Risk's core audience was what locals call "the bridge and causeway crowd." "I was a big guido from New York opening up a club," Paciello told Ocean Drive magazine. "Everybody thought I'd be out of business in a week." Risk might have failed miserably if not for Monday night's "Fat Black Pussycat," a '70s soul and funk party that brought in South Beach's A-list trendies, among them party girl Ingrid Casares, the scion of a wealthy Cuban family.

After Risk burned down in 1995, Paciello dumped Caruso, and persuaded the more fashionable Casares to go into business with him. Together, they opened Liquid, whose Thanksgiving debut party attracted a slew of Casares's friends—including Madonna, Calvin Klein, David Geffen, Kate Moss, and Naomi Campbell. "The Madonna connection certainly put Liquid on the map," says publicist Louis Canales. (Through her spokesperson, Madonna declined to comment about her relationship with Paciello.)

Paciello and Casares became "like brother and sister," according to nightlife writer Jacquelynn D. Powers: "They were inseparable." Their bond went beyond mere business. Since her adolescence, Casares had been a serious cocaine addict; Madonna even staged an intervention and sent her friend to rehab, but to no avail. Only when Paciello turned up did Casares finally kick the habit. During a bail hearing last month in Miami, Ingrid's father, multimillionaire Raul Casares, tearfully told the court: "Ingrid did a lot of drugs as a child. . . . Then she met Chris. Chris is the one responsible for stopping her taking drugs."

As Liquid began to thrive, Paciello transformed himself into a chic figure on the scene. Gossip columnists started linking him romantically with movie stars and models. But the old Chris Paciello was lurking just beneath the surface.

On June 25, 1996, bodybuilder Michael Quinn was sitting in Liquid's V.I.P. room when he called a fellow patron "a ####." On hearing this, Paciello sideswiped the former Mr. Universe with a bottle to the head. After suffering a broken nose and facial fractures, Quinn threatened to sue. Paciello sent a message back via an intermediary that the victim would "never live to spend the money" if he pressed the lawsuit.

"The only way this could have happened, where somebody of Paciello's size could have taken somebody of Mike Quinn's size with one shot, would be if it were a sucker punch, which is what it was, and with the use of a weapon, which is the use of a bottle," says Quinn's lawyer, Peter Mineo.

The next month, Paciello was involved in another altercation. On Christmas Eve, Paciello accompanied popular local television host Sofia Vergara to Bar None in Miami Beach. There, Matt Martinez, ex-husband of supermodel Niki Taylor approached Paciello, incensed that the club owner had dated Taylor. Paciello reportedly decked the former football player with one blow. Vergara told the Voice that Martinez instigated the fight.

Then in 1997, on a visit back home, Paciello was arrested and charged with attempted murder. Paciello and his cronies turned up at the Bleecker Street club Life, in the company of former Miss U.S.S.R. Julia Sukhanova. A pesky Russian shutterbug wouldn't leave Sukhanova alone. A brawl erupted in which the photographer was stabbed with a knife three times. The charges against Paciello were dropped after the club's surveillance video revealed that one of Paciello's friends committed the stabbing. But the tape did show Paciello hitting the photographer with his fists.

Last Friday in Brooklyn Federal Court, the government agreed with Paciello's lawyers to a $15 million bail deal that will allow Paciello to move from jail to his mother's home on Staten Island, where he will be under strict house arrest. Among those present and posting bail were the striking Casares and drop-dead gorgeous Sofia Vergara, both of whom Paciello—who has lost weight in prison—blew a kiss to upon entering the courtroom.

"Chris is extremely important in my life," Casares told the Voice after the hearing. "Before I met him, I had little direction and few goals. He is a highly focused and extremely hardworking individual, and had a vision of what could be done in South Beach. We clicked immediately and have been partners ever since. I have complete confidence in his innocence."

It seems lovely ladies of all stripes still flock to the charismatic goombah. "Chris Paciello is a movie-star gangster come to life," one well-placed New York clubland insider explains. "Women think he's goddamn Ray Liotta in GoodFellas. That's part of his sexiness."


 

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that's OLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL D news
Get Big, or Die Trying

michael arvilla

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We rented the movie about all this: "KINGS OF SOUTH BEACH"
Def worth watching...............



The minute he walked into the place, the cops knew they had their man. He looked exactly as he’d been described: 6'1", 210 pounds, built like a boxer and swathed in Armani. He was the biggest name in the hottest club scene in America, Miami’s South Beach, with slicked-back hair, a big generous smile—and something cold behind his eyes. It was December 1, 1999, just days before he was to open his hottest club ever. This guy was big; he was about to fall hard.

The 28-year-old mogul swaggered through the West Palm Beach club. As he glanced from side to side, something about the cops’ appearance tipped him off. They watched as he strolled through the club, and then lost sight of him as he silently slipped out the back. The next sound they heard was the squeal of tires as his Range Rover tore from the scene. “We’ve been made,” one agent yelled into his radio. “The suspect is in the wind. Repeat. The suspect is in the wind.”

The suspect was wanted for armed robbery, for racketeering, for assault, for murder. But the suspect was too famous to hide, too well connected to disappear. He’d practically built Miami, brought it the kind of glamour it hadn’t seen since the 1930s, and along the way, had counted women like Madonna, Jennifer Lopez, and Niki Taylor as friends or lovers. No, he wasn’t going anywhere. The agent calmly dialed the suspect’s cell phone number.

“I’m driving to my lawyer’s office,” Chris Paciello answered. “I’ll talk to you from there.”

The events that unfolded over the next couple of days shocked the swanky resort community of South Beach. Paciello was revered there as the man who had breathed new life into the once run-down city. He ran two of its hottest clubs, Liquid and Bar Room, and its hottest restaurant, Joia. He was a self-made millionaire, so widely respected the mayor of Miami Beach asked him to host his re-election party. Was it possible that Paciello was also what federal prosecutors were claiming he was—a two-bit street thug who got his start knocking off video stores, and whose career in crime had climaxed with the murder of a Staten Island housewife?

The story starts on the streets of the Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, and Dyker Heights sections of Brooklyn, where neighbors idolize the Sicilian mob the way English grandmothers cherish the royal Windsors. Like a lot of his friends, Christian Ludwigsen, a scrappy, sharp-witted kid who grew up with his two younger brothers in one of Dyker Heights’ railroad apartments in the ’70s and ’80s, aspired to be a made man. But that was impossible. Christian was Italian only on his mother’s side—he’d be dubbed il maladrine, a wannabe.

Ludwigsen and his boyhood friend Thomas Reynolds instead found their “family” in the Bath Avenue Crew, a group of small-time racketeers who hung out along the Bensonhurst thoroughfare—a shoal of hoodlums working in the archipelago of the Bonanno crime family.

“Members of the Bath Avenue Crew were very popular with our detectives, and not in a good way,” says a high-ranking police source who arrested members during the Crew’s heyday, in the late ’80s. “They were stealing cars, shaking down their friends, shooting people…anything to make a buck. When they traveled in packs, they were a fearsome gang.” Things picked up when Ludwigsen and some of the other Crew members moved to Staten Island in the late ’80s. There, police say, they pulled off their biggest heist: a December 1992 armed robbery of the Chemical Bank at the Staten Island Mall. It netted more than $300,000.

The bank job was a substantial score. Ludwigsen may have been a wannabe, but the bosses couldn’t ignore his talent. Ludwigsen’s life was about to change—dramatically.

February 18, 1993. Four men in a car squint to read the house numbers on a wealthy Staten Island cul-de-sac called Meade Loop. There. Number 95. The driver stops. The three others disembark. At least one of them, police say, carries a .45-caliber handgun tucked under his ski jacket—Tommy Reynolds, now 30, who by this time has made his name in the Bonanno organization. He’s got a tattoo on his ankle, a “3.” Police believe it marks him as a hit man for the mob.

Inside 95 Meade Loop, Arlyn Kidan, 20, watches TV in her bedroom, waiting for her boyfriend to arrive. Downstairs her mother, Judy Shemtov, brews a cup of tea for her husband, Sami, the owner of a lucrative Cleveland-based electrical-supply company. The Israeli-born Sami keeps much of his money in a safe in the basement of their home. That’s why he’s installed a high-tech security system with an intercom—that and to protect his wife and their children. But in Staten Island, everybody knows everybody else’s business. Rumors get around. Sometimes they reach the wrong ears.

At 9:45 P.M. the intercom rings. It’s bitterly cold out, and Judy, a 46-year-old mother of three, doesn’t want to leave Arlyn’s boyfriend standing outside. She skips the intercom. She opens the door.

Three men push her backward, past the family’s mezuzah, a brass scroll hung in some Jewish homes to ward off evil, and into the Shemtovs’ Italian-marbled atrium. They are waving guns. “Where’s the safe?” one screams. “Where’s the safe?”

She doesn’t understand.

Or she panics.

Or she lies.

Or she doesn’t even know.

Blam!

In the police account, Reynolds’ gun goes off. The bullet hits Judy Shemtov in the left cheek, and as the gold-draped bottle blonde falls to the floor of the atrium, the three men turn and run. The driver floors the gas pedal. Prosecutors say the man behind the wheel, the man who masterminded the raid, was Christian Ludwigsen. By that time, though, Ludwigsen had adopted another name, his mother’s maiden name. An Italian name.

Paciello.

Maybe it was the heat from the Shemtov murder that led Chris Paciello to seek out the warmer climes of South Beach. Whatever his motivation, when Paciello arrived in 1993, the town was still emerging from a long epoch of impoverished decay. Its whimsical art-deco oceanfront was in decline, and biker gangs, drug addicts, and derelicts had taken over.

It was as though Paciello and South Beach were meant for each other. Both had ugly backgrounds; both needed a new start. And both began to change when Paciello took over a failing club called Mickey’s. Paciello renamed it Risk and instituted a Monday night event, Fat Black Pussycat, a theme party that featured funk and soul music. And people noticed.

“We heard all these rumors that Chris was connected to the mob back in New York and that the mob was taking over Miami, but we didn’t care,” says Kirby Jean-Joseph, a rare South Beach native and former club kid. “He was throwing the best parties in town. If you couldn’t get into Fat Black Pussycat, you were no one in South Beach.”

One of the someones who got in was Ingrid Casares. The daughter of wealthy Cuban exiles, she was best known as Madonna’s ex-girlfriend, the button-cute lesbian model featured tongue-kissing the naked pop star in her lascivious book Sex. Casares immediately fell under Paciello’s spell. “He was a really nice guy,” she told Maxim in an interview in February. “He was handsome.” And Paciello knew what he had in Casares: She could bring in the stars, she could get press coverage—she’d make the perfect business partner. But Risk wouldn’t stay hot forever, and to go into business with Ingrid, Paciello needed cash.

The fire started in the early hours of April 21, 1995, after the bar backs had closed up for the night. By the time Paul Nagel, a Miami Beach cop, noticed the smoke billowing out of Risk’s back door, the blaze had been raging for hours. As firefighters arrived, it was already a “flashover” fire, a full-blown inferno so intense, everything in the club had become combustible: furniture, booze bottles, curtains.

“The place was gutted,” says Miami Beach Fire Department investigator A. J. Anderson. Investigators concluded that sometime after the club emptied, someone shoved a lit cigarette into the cushion of a couch in the back VIP area. “In our minds it was a suspicious fire,” says Anderson, “but it was ruled accidental after we couldn’t prove it was set.” Paciello’s insurance company forked over $250,000 just as his plans for a new venture with Casares were getting under way. It would be called Liquid; and with Paciello’s know-how and Casares’ connections, it was only a few weeks before her friends k.d. lang and Madonna were clamoring for space in the club’s VIP room, and lines of hopefuls were snaking past its velvet ropes. Ingrid’s friends became Paciello’s friends, and they were charmed by his macho swagger and—truth be told—the romantically scandalous rumors that Chris was linked to the mob. Soon gossip columnists were spotting Paciello all over. They saw him spend all of 1996 dating supermodel Niki Taylor. They saw him canoodling with Jennifer Lopez at the Pelican Hotel on New Year’s Eve, 1998, and the couple were known to be regulars at Manhattan’s Smith and Wollensky’s Steak House. Meanwhile Paciello and Casares were building an empire: They opened two more South Beach hot spots, Bar Room and a Tuscan restaurant, Joia, where Paciello ate dinner with a variety of stars at an open-air table six nights a week. Other clubs and restaurants soon opened, and the South Beach renaissance was in full swing. Celebrities bought homes in the area just to be near the nightlife. For the first time in decades, people were talking about South Beach. And people were talking about Chris Paciello, the mysterious impresario who helped start it all.

In New York, people were also talking. The wrong people.

It started in October 1996, when the Bonanno Family Joint Task Force—a collection of federal and drug-enforcement agents and NYPD organized crime cops—arrested 39 Bonanno associates in a sweep. Eventually, inexorably, somebody “flipped”—started pointing fingers and naming names. And one name stood out: Chris Paciello.

“Six months before, I had never heard of this guy,” says one investigator. “All of a sudden, his name was everywhere.”

Paciello’s success was stunning, but with success came imitators. As more and more of the world’s hottest celebrities started calling South Beach home, other clubs and restaurants started pushing their way into the limelight. Paciello, a man who knew all about territory, didn’t take it too well. Four months after Risk burned down, Paciello was arrested for threatening a manager who ran Grand Slam, the defunct nightclub owned by Prince. “Greediness is going to get you killed,” Paciello allegedly told the manager after he refused to rent the club to him. In at least five other brawls, Paciello stands accused of using an ax handle, a fork, and his fists to inflict pain on his adversaries. He allegedly smashed a beer bottle into the face of former Mr. Universe Mike Quinn, injuring him so severely that, according to the bodybuilder, “when I blow my nose, air comes out of my eyes.”

While Paciello provided plenty of muscle, he needed help to keep his empire going—and keep the police off his back. He thought he found it in Andrew Dohler. Dohler was a Miami Beach cop, but to Paciello he stank to high heaven, as crooked as they came. He was perfect. The Miami Beach police had started raiding Liquid and other clubs, targeting underage drinkers and drug dealers. With Dohler on his payroll, Paciello knew when the heat was coming, and his doormen knew exactly who to keep out of the club that night.

Impressed with Dohler’s information, Paciello drew him closer into his circle, even asking him to help put Gerry Kelly, a former employee of Liquid who’d left to start the club Level, out of business. “We got to get his head fucking broken in. We got to get him beat up. I got to get him whacked.” With that, Dohler went to work. Right to the very top. Right to the people he’d secretly been working for all that time. The U.S. government. On November 23, 1999, a federal grand jury in the Eastern District of New York returned a sealed indictment against Paciello and eight other defendants, charging them with racketeering. The indictment singled Paciello out in two acts of violence: the 1992 bank robbery and the murder of Judy Shemtov. The indictment remained sealed until December 1, 1999. And on that day the King of South Beach woke up from his Miami dream.

As of this writing, Chris Paciello, a.k.a. Christian Ludwigsen, is awaiting release on $15 million bail after spending three months in the “mafia wing” at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn. His trial is set for September. And the people who reveled in Paciello’s limelight still can’t believe it.

Gerry Kelly remains shocked by what his former boss stands accused of and what Paciello threatened on police tapes. “We all make idle threats, but when I saw the transcripts, I saw that he was deadly. The man talking in those transcripts is not the Chris I know,” says Kelly, who’s had 24-hour police protection since Paciello’s arrest. “I saw nothing, I repeat nothing, that would suggest he was a dangerous guy. It’s like he’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Bar Room is up for sale; the furniture from Liquid is being sold at auction. Casares, Paciello’s loyal friend and business partner, has distanced herself from him. And Paciello, after posting bond, will remain under house arrest, back where he came from: in his mother’s Staten Island townhouse, overlooking the nation’s largest dump, the Fresh Kills landfill.

michael arvilla

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 :o

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It was a pretty good movie.  They made him out to be a loose cannon due to his steriod use. 
:D Weee

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Might be old news (but the movie is just out now in Blockbusters)

worth renting

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Might be old news (but the movie is just out now in Blockbusters)

worth renting

They made Quinn or Paciello look like a loose cannon?

It is a compelling story, but I figured they (movie producers) would ruin it to make a movie.

I was down in Abacoa a couple of weeks ago visiting my family.

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They made Quinn or Paciello look like a loose cannon?

It is a compelling story, but I figured they (movie producers) would ruin it to make a movie.

I was down in Abacoa a couple of weeks ago visiting my family.
Chris Paciello.



Abacoa is in our back-yard.
:D Weee

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Chris Paciello.



Abacoa is in our back-yard.

Yeah, I thought I remembered Mike saying that before.  My grandmother died, she lived in Stuart, my borther lives in West Palm, and my cousins live in Wellington.  We were driving to Flannaghan's (sp) to watch the Sox game, and we drove thru Abacoa.

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Yeah, I thought I remembered Mike saying that before.  My grandmother died, she lived in Stuart, my borther lives in West Palm, and my cousins live in Wellington.  We were driving to Flannaghan's (sp) to watch the Sox game, and we drove thru Abacoa.
All that is local to us.  ;D
:D Weee

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Yeah, I thought I remembered Mike saying that before.  My grandmother died, she lived in Stuart, my borther lives in West Palm, and my cousins live in Wellington.  We were driving to Flannaghan's (sp) to watch the Sox game, and we drove thru Abacoa.

Tell us next time you come down here

 We can all go out and grab a bite to eat

BigSexy50

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All that is local to us.  ;D

Do you know where that Flannaghan's place is?  We went to some other place, but I don't remember the name.

Laura Lee

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Do you know where that Flannaghan's place is?  We went to some other place, but I don't remember the name.
In Stuart? No, we have never gone there.
:D Weee

BigSexy50

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In Stuart? No, we have never gone there.

Wasn't in Stuart, pretty sure it was in Wellington, right near that huge mall in Wellington.  It was in front where some other small businesses were located.

michael arvilla

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Wasn't in Stuart, pretty sure it was in Wellington, right near that huge mall in Wellington.  It was in front where some other small businesses were located.

yup..................... .it's pretty good from what i hear


 

BigSexy50

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yup......................it's pretty good from what i hear


 

Yeah it was, good menu, and alot of seafood.  Was pretty jammed all night.  We watched the Sox and got hammered.

michael arvilla

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Yeah it was, good menu, and alot of seafood.  Was pretty jammed all night.  We watched the Sox and got hammered.

hahahh!!!............good deal!

i was actually there before

like i said let us know if you come down this way again

delta9mda

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haha in the early 90's i worked at paradise gym, ingrid used to frequent there and she brought in sandra bernhart to train with her. small world.