instructions of Allan’s
invitation/summons, which directed them to cruise up North Avenue 19 and past the prison’s stern, multilevel edifice, its meager front lawn strewn with weeds and litter. There, guests were greeted by police officers, who motioned with their flashlights to drive up the ramp to the parking lot. Two more cops then approached the car, and were just as quickly replaced with two other guys in striped prison uniforms. “That looks like a good one. Take that car. It’s our getaway car,” said one of the inmates.
“Yes, we’ll go to Mexico,” said the second convict, who, along with his partner in crime, repeated this exchange a couple hundred times in the next two hours.
More actor-cops appeared with a list of names that read PRISONERS at the top of the page. “Move them on to booking,” an officer ordered as he motioned to the elevator that took all guests to the jail’s second floor. There, they were fingerprinted, frisked, and had their mug shots taken.
Once they were checked through the security gates, guests could then wander about the cells, which had been deodorized and gussied up for the night. Instead of the expected sweat and urine, the aroma that hit them was of high-end fish food that Allan had flown in from the Gulf Coast and northern California. Lobster, salmon, and Chilean sea bass overflowed from several New Orleans carts parked among dozens of small cocktail tables, each of which had been appointed with votive candles, crystal and silver, and brown linen tablecloths.
At the last minute, amidst the early arrival of a few unfashionable guests, Allan took a final survey of the place, and freaked. “There are no ashtrays!” he screeched. “They’ll mutiny!” Allan followed his initial mortification with four-letter tirades that sent several gofers scurrying to rectify the egregious omission. Allan’s verbal abuse sometimes shocked his childhood friend Joanne Cimbalo. “If he talked to me the way he talked to his assistants, I would have collapsed on the spot,” she says. Whenever Cimbalo repeated her criticism to Allan, he invariably shot back, “I’m the only one who should be collapsing!”
On the occasion of his jailhouse party, Allan turned his impromptu tantrum on all the cops, inmates, and lady wardens who milled about, courtesy of a costume-catering company called the Doo Dah Gang. “Do something!” he yelled.
Nothing about this event had been easy. Allan continued to bask in the accolades for his Tommy subway party, but for that event, he relied heavily on the resources of Columbia Pictures. Now he was party giving on his own largesse and muscle.
“I have a headache from all the red tape,” Allan cried, referring to what the city’s Economic Development Office put him through to rent the jail for the
night. “Actually, the week,” he added. “It took a few days to turn this place into something other than a pig sty, which it was.”
Dominick Dunne praised the clean-up crew. “The bathrooms were fit,” he recalled. “That’s where everyone was piling in for the coke.”
When they weren’t imbibing, Allan’s guests made more practical use of the toilets. Since many of the prison johns were in the open, Allan splurged on some strategically hung burlap curtains, and it tickled him when he found Charles Bronson standing guard for Jill Ireland. “He didn’t want anyone peeking at his wife!” Allan said with a giggle.
Marvin Hamlisch knew and appreciated Allan’s split personality. “If you needed a deal, bring in Allan No. 1. If you wanted a wild party with lots of cocaine, bring in Allan No. 2.” Tonight belonged to Allan No. 2, but Allan No. 1 never disappeared completely since he knew when it was important to introduce his clients to someone more important, especially if that VIP had snorted too much coke.
The jailhouse theme came courtesy of the evening’s guest of honor and his most famous book, In Cold Blood . Truman Capote had recently
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