Richard Basciano
The ill-fated day began with a call from my friend, the former proprietor of the Funny Store, a naughty Times Square novelty shop. He furtively informed me of the situation deemed dire; Richard Basciano, the reclusive owner of Show World, was hospitalized, and not doing very well. Later I learned that his condition was far worse; critical in fact.
To ascertain the enormous degree of awe for this formidable man is virtually impossible; but those like myself who knew him well respectfully referred to him as ‘Richie’. Richie was not only the indisputable boss of Show World, but also maintained dozens of properties; many of which were all-nite theaters, adult-related establishments, and peep shows, that aroused much more than just mere suspicion. An aggressive businessman, he built companies that merchandised the sex industry, with hard-core pornography displayed just like a supermarket. Savy in real estate and an expert negotiator, he regularly fought numerous adversaries in his Times Square tenure. An enigmatic figure, he shunned the limelight, as well as the vernacular that described his business as ‘smut’. He ingeniously modernized the ‘nicolodeon’ into private booths for viewing X-rated films, which were activated by the insertion of a customized 25-cent token. However, his infamous peep palaces, of which Show World with 4 floors was the world’s largest, were indicative of Richie’s unprecedented panache; scantily-laced showmanship, sexual attractions, and the bawdiness of burlesk, and not unlike a 3-ring circus. Beacons of glamor and sophisticated sleaze, with classic pronouncements like ‘XXX MOVIES IN COLOR’ and ‘LIVE NUDE REVIEW’ blazing across his classic marquee’s.
Richie was my dear friend and a godfather-like-figure. But he was also my boss; and as his emissary to other Times Square theater owners, I’ve had the distinction of intimate knowledge of his operations from the ground up. Dare I say it, it has been my profound privilege.
Often the press, in their endless pursuit of recycling trash, described Richie as ‘The King of Porn’ or ‘The Sultan of Smut’, etc.; monikers coined by the tabloids on a bad news day. Richie himself despised such labels and vehemently maintained throughout several decades of disparagement, that he ran his operations ‘cookie-cutter clean’. And in truth, Richie’s sex emporiums were sleek; immaculately designed and rife with disinfectant. Whereas other peepshows in comparison bordered on closure by the NY health department for filth and contamination, Richie’s state-of-the-art live peep show set a standard of ambience unlike any other adult establishment in the history of Times Square. Peddling porn in the periphery of the mainstream, Show World itself stood as a fetish-fueled bastion to perversion; a masturbatory mecca for tourists, executives, misfits, and the curious, and quintessentially all that is New York.
As I arrived at the hospice, my nervous system was undergoing spasms like a rickety roller coaster. I realized that soon Richie, once a jungle cat on the prowl with a physique like Tarzan, would soon be no more. And thus I kept receiving intermittent flashbacks in regards to an imposing man, tough as fucking nails. Richie, it could be said, had a powerful presence; downright frightening, if you will. Upon entrance to the room I was greeted by Lois, Richie’s wife, and his youngest daughter Leslie, all surrounding a hospital bed with an eerie glow. And there, sleeping soundly but breathing through his mouth, was Richie. And I knew then this was it; he’ll soon advance to an even deeper sleep, in a far better place perhaps.
Although a life-long boxer and once in perfect physical condition, Richie was now reduced to skin and bones; a shadow boxer of his former self. Lois instructed me to whisper in his ear, and miraculously he opened his eyes, and looked right at me. He smiled and I knew then that he recognized me, which flabbergasted both Lois and Leslie. ‘Because he doesn’t know anyone anymore, due to severe dementia,’ Lois said. Then my eyes welled up with tears, with the realization that there were few options left with Richie about to expire, and suppressing my emotions wasn’t one of them. So for the next few hours, Richie faded in and out of perpetual oblivion again and again, and I began to review the impact he unmistakably had on my life.
We started sharing memories; so many poignant reminders of the kind of man he was. And there were hardly enough adjectives to properly decipher the endless contradictions that were Richie; some of which were not the typical traits of a Roman Catholic alter-boy. But despite the fact that he was shrewd, calculating, intimidating, demanding, and unpredictable as all hell, he could be quite generous at times. And for some bizarre reason, Chely Wilson’s name popped up frequently; a Greek battle axe who owned a string of triple-X adult theaters adjacent to Richie’s. I proudly revealed that Richie had designated me his personal emissary, as I became the liaison between two Time Square titans, Chely and Richie. But suddenly Leslie posed a question which affirmed my stature as one of those closest to Richie. ‘John, did you happen to know of Richie’s business partner, who was murdered back in…’ her voice trailed off. For a moment, I was taken aback, like it happened yesterday. ‘Yes, why of course, ’ I answered tersely. Robert DiBernardo, known as ‘DiBi’, was partner’s with Richie, but was also a made member of the Gambino mob. It is believed on the orders of John Gotti, that DiBi was executed; although a body was never found. For a moment, I had some relevant reflections about DiBi, but then Leslie posed the inevitable question, albeit naïve, much to my chagrin. ‘Did you ever kill anyone, John,’ she asked innocently. Before I could disavow complicitness in any nefarious underworld activities and guilt by association, Lois shot back with an off-the cuff remark. ‘Well if he did, he wouldn’t tell you about it now, would he?’
That simple statement struck such a chord, as I wondered to myself what would have happened if Richie had asked me to ‘whack’ someone. But that stray thought was abolished immediately, as I concluded Richie would NEVER have asked that of me, or anyone for that matter. Aside from a multitude of business interests, and a passion for the sport of boxing; that was never one of his inclinations. Unlike the irascible Chely Wilson (The Iron Maiden) who once approached me as an assassin-for- hire; she actually asked me point-blank to kill someone. But once again my express train of thought became derailed and back on the local track; as suddenly a familiar voice seared through my consciousness. ‘John…John, I’ve always thought of you as son…’ For a moment I gasped; it was Richie! I mean, it sounded just like him. But the voice didn’t come from his mouth; I heard it from inside my head, right outta the Twilight Zone. Did I imagine it? But it must have been him; who else could it have been. Maybe Richie was speaking to me somehow, even though he can’t speak, which makes no sense, unless he spoke to me through my mind.
‘Thanks, Richie,’ I said with solace in my heart. ‘Soon you’ll be in a better place.’
Like a seasoned prize fighter, Richie never ‘threw’ a fight or went down for the fucking count. He navigated worse case scenarios; but unspeakable lawsuits eventually had taken their toll on his soul. Apparently his last confrontation would be with the ultimate adversary, known as Death; a grave situation known to come out on top. After a lifetime of battles, knock-down-drag-outs, and T.K.O.’s, Richie’s fate was sealed in old age. And though I thought of him as a father, he was much more than that, which leaves an untold story from deep inside Show World, to be revealed someday. And with that said; LONG LIVE THE KING!