Jesse Weber (12:12)

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Jake Brennan (12:43)

Let's be honest. You've been portrayed as a monster. Yes. Evil. Maniacal.

Jesse Weber (12:50)

What's it like to interview a killer? 48 Hours is taking you inside one what we've learned about the criminal mind. This is Killer Conversation. You can follow and listen to Killer Conversation on Tuesdays in the 48 Hours podcast feed on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. Buying a car in Carvana was so easy. I was able to finance it through them. I just. Whoa, wait. You mean finance? Yeah, finance. Got pre qualified for a Carvana auto loan, entered my terms and shot from thousands of of great car options, all within my budget. That's cool. But financing through Carvana was so easy. Financed, done. And I get to pick up my car from their Carvana vending machine tomorrow. Financed, Right? That's what I said. You can spend time trying to pronounce financing or you can actually finance and buy your car today on Carvana financing, subject to credit approval. Additional terms and conditions may apply.

Jake Brennan (13:43)

There was simply too much money. Too much cash. Too much to count, too much to account for. Too much. At the end of another successful night at his new club, Studio 54, co owner and master of Ceremony's extraordinaire, Steve Rubell used to collect all the cash in a big plastic trash bag. He'd stash it in his safe, hide it in the ceiling, squirrel hundreds of thousands of dollars of it away in his Upper east side apartment. He'd flaunt it. He'd stuff it into the insides of his puffy winter jacket and roam the bowels of the studio, handing it out to unsuspecting clubgoers. He'd set an extra trash bag full of cash aside in his office and let his new friend Andy Warhol come over and just play with it. And he loved cash. But most of all, Steve Rubell and his business partner, Ian Schrager would skim it off the top of the nightly take. Illegally skimming cash was always part of the plan, going all the way back to opening night. April 26, 1977. 254 W. 54th St. The first guests to show up at the opening of Studio 54 were ushered in with little fanfare. Near empty, the new club and old converted CBS television studio seemed cavernous, cold. The guests, one of whom was an ambitious up and coming real estate tycoon from Queens, Donald Trump and his new wife Ivana, fresh from dinner at Elaine's to see what all the hype was about, were not impressed. But that would soon change. Shortly the club started to fill up around them and it filled up fast. They came pouring in through the front door, the side door. The back exits had to be opened to accommodate the surging crowd inside. Months of smart publicity, well placed notices in local paper, rappers, perfectly timed tip offs to celebrity handlers, an organic word of mouth throughout the disco scene had created a swell of anticipation for the new club. And an hour or so after its official opening, that swell had crashed down upon Studio 54. Cher made the scene. People freaked out. She and actress Margot Hemingway hit the empty dance floor before anyone else and just went for it. Strategically placed photographers from local rags started snapping pics of basically the only thing that was happening at the club up to that point. Two celebrities dancing Norm soon joined them. And it was cool, this mixing of class status, it was compelling. More people joined on the dance floor. Brooke Shields, not yet a teenager, brought there by British journalist Robin Leach, was one of them. Michael Jackson showed up, accompanied by by Diana Ross, both of whom were in town filming the Wiz. Photog is photographed. The music pulsed deep, deep bass from the state of the art sound system. Gotta Give it up by Marvin Gaye. I Feel Love by Donna Summer, Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder Chic's Everybody Dance. The music was contagious and thus so was the dancing. The vibe was real, right? The dance floor was hot, sticky. Euphoric. Self consciousness wasn't an option. Abandoned, visceral and fun filled the room. Liberation. Men dancing with men, women dancing with whoever they wanted. Unencumbered bartenders, young, cut, 20 something, shirtless, clad in nothing but tight gym shorts and tennis sneakers, hustled the crowd for tips. Celebrities mingled with New Yorkers in off the street. No one busted the vibe or the groove. It was almost innocent for a New York minute. Anyway, inside, all of a sudden, there were a thousand people and there were another thousand people trying to get in. Outside on 54th street, the crowd ballooned. Steve Rubell stood on a fire hydrant next to his head of club security and cherry picked wannabe discoers from the sidewalk for entry into his own private theatrical production. Choosing lucky entrance into his suddenly exclusive club was like, he would say, casting a play like Groucho Marx's famous line that he wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have him as a member. Steve Rubell knew what kind of people should get in. And ironically, he joked that Studio 54 club goers shouldn't look anything like himself. Schlubby, short, unimpressive, outer burrow, bridge and tunnel. A phrase he invented. Despite his self perceived shortcomings, Steve Rubell had a keen eye for glamour. Not celebrity necessarily, but physical beauty, vitality, charisma, individualism. The scrawny boy from Brooklyn with the pockmarked face had found a loophole in Groucho's joke. He wasn't just a member of the club, he owned the club and so he ruled like a little disco Napoleon, that he was casting his embittered glamorous spell with a new kind of magic wand of his own invention, the original velvet rope. The velvet rope, connected on stanchions, was first deployed outside Studio 54's entrance to keep the prostitutes working Times Square out from under the marquee and away from the customers. But with the swelling crowds looking to gain entrance into the club, it quickly became a tool to keep the crowd at bay, clearly dividing those who had it from those who didn't. The velvet rope empowered Steve to keep anyone who looked like him out. Steve had started from the bottom. Now he'd made it. He was special, and his club was only for the special people. And he was going to make damn sure he be the only person like himself inside. Outside the studio on opening night, while Steve cast club goers, the crowd spilled into the street and completely blocked traffic. Sirens wailed, beat cops shook their heads and destroyed disgust. Prostitutes wondered what in the hell was happening to their neighborhood. What an ass pain. Warren Beatty tried unsuccessfully to get in. So did Henry Winkler, and the Fonz was shit out of luck. Word spread around the excited crowd that Frank Sinatra was circling in a limo, his people trying to devise a quick entrance. And there was a doctor in the crowd who, like most of the people around him, had been trying, without any luck, to get in. Soon he figured that if no party was to be be had inside and there was a party to be had out on the sidewalk, about 30 or so waves of people back from the studio's entrance, he pulled the mayonnaise jar sized container of Quaaludes from his coat pocket and began passing them out to everyone around him. About 20 minutes later the pills kicked in and so too did the pent up sexual tension in the good doctor's immediate vicinity. A street side orgy kicked up amongst the the fully looted crowd surrounding the doctor. Sex in the street on opening night because why? Not because it was something to do. Because it was Studio 54 the next day. Steve Rubell was ecstatic. The opening was a smash. It all but said so right there on the COVID of the goddamn New York Post with its front page coverage of the club's first night, complete with a photo of Cher. At the studio, Rubell worked the phones, called everyone he knew to let them know what a success the opening was. His business partner, Ian Schrager worked the books. Ian, an attorney with a sharp mind for business, calculated the skim, the cut for him. Steve and his other partner, Jack, touchet off the gross from the door, the bars, the coat checks, cigarette concessions. It was not an insignificant number. Business was about to go boom. Steve took a recall. It was international fashion designer Halston. He'd read about the studio in the morning paper and wanted to know if he could throw a birthday party for the soon to be ex Mrs. Mick Jagger, Bianca Jagger, at Steve's new club. Of course. Steve exclaimed. He quickly made arrangements with Halston, hung up and deadpanned to his business partner, ian, Bianca Jagger is throwing her birthday party here. We need a horse. We'll be right back after this.

Jesse Weber (21:36)

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Jake Brennan (23:18)

Mark Banneke, Studio 54's doorman and head of security, couldn't believe what he was seeing there. Cutting through the nightly mass of wannabe Studio 54 entrance. Lined up and assembled on the other side of the Velvet rope on 54th street were two women. Naked women on horses, riding the horses through the crowd up to the velvet rope in hopes of getting by Steve Rubell and gaining entry into the studio. The women, like everyone else in the world, had read about Bianca Jagger's party at the studio and the papers. Bianca was photographed riding into the club, into her party on the back of a beautiful white horse that Steve had arranged. So these two women figured they could one up Bianca and not only mount horses, but mount them naked and be so over the top they would be guaranteed entrance. Steve Rebel took one look at them. They were bridging tunnel all the way. Steve told them their horses could come in, but they couldn't, and to take their naked asses back home to Bay Ridge or wherever the fuck. And that's exactly what happened. Steve Rubell could be vicious at the door, demeaning wannabe customers right to their faces, insulting their appearance, their fashion choices, their clout. It made for a cult of exclusivity. Steve made sure the qualifications for getting inside remained hard to pin down. It wasn't just novelty or camp or glamour. It was originality and authenticity. Disco Sally, a widowed septuagenarian born in 1900 who still had the craziest moves on the dance floor. Rollerina, a staple of Greenwich Village and the club scene, who was never spotted without her trademark skates on inside the club, stockbrokers blowing off steam by coming out to party in drag and mingling with drag queen royalty divine, who could be seen yucking it up with Elton John. For all the excess inside the club, Steve had an eye for balance, keeping the blend of crazy characters, celebrities and regular clubgoers just right, like a secret recipe. Studio 54's eccentric regulars and velvet robe policy became legend. Doorman Mark Benecke regularly exchanged entrants for sex. The shot of superego adrenaline Steve got from ruling over the crowd was better than sex. Steve may have been callous and mean to his customers outside, but inside he took care of his guests, especially his celebrity guests, showering them with drugs, alcohol, gifts and elaborate parties. Whether it was New Year's Eve or Halloween, Bianca Jagger's birthday or Andy Warhol's, the parties at the studio were not to be topped. Magic rained from the ceiling, whether it took the form of a literal ton of glitter or wrapped gift boxes full of designer fashion. Dolly Parton held an after party at the club with live farm animals. One Halloween party featured peep show booths where inside little people performed everyday scenes. Another birthday was circus themed with costumes provided by legendary Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini. Celebrities flocked the Studio 54. Liza Minnelli, Andy Warhol and Truman Capote. New Yorkers all adopted the club as their regular. And there were more celebrities, of course. Robert De Niro co mingled with his native New Yorkers and hid out from paparazzi. Bruce Springsteen traded in his blue collar credentials for the high life. Andre the Giant hung out with the little people, literally. Mick Jagger got bored with Bianca and found a new love, Texas model Jerry Hall. Keith Richards found his future wife as well, another model, Patty Hansen. Steven Tyler got to know Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson got to know Brooke Shields. John Travolta got sweaty with Sylvester Stallone. Grace Jones got naked a lot. Despite the velvet rope politics, Studio 54 on the inside, like disco culture, was about inclusivity. Celebrities working stiff, stockbrokers, firemen, whoever. It didn't matter as long as you were interesting and had something to offer. Young, old, gay, straight, drag, trans, you were welcome. Provided you could get inside where you were granted access to a never ending Shangri La for freaks, weirdos and outcasts, where even the most stigmatized members of society could rub shoulders, among other body parts with high society shining stars. New York's underground queer community was at home at Studio 54 in a way that no suburban commuters could ever be because the square's imaginations just weren't big enough. But in this Nighttime Xanadu on 54th, the shadowy corners of the outside world, like bus station glory holes became the main attraction in the club balcony, which was rubber lined for convenience to make for easy cleanup after heat of the moment sex acts. And that was upstairs. Upstairs, the balcony at Studio 54 was for sure for blowjobs. But if you were Looking for something more. There were mattresses in the basement. Grimy, filthy mattresses strewn upon the dingy basement floor of Studio 54. For those who just needed to fucking, the basement was sort of the unofficial backstage, where pretty much anything was allowed. As if the open sex and blatant drug use going on upstairs wasn't hedonistic enough. Downstairs was where the truly debauched got down. To gain access to the basement, you needed to be somebody. And Steve needed to believe you were somebody and worthy of his attention. And his drugs. Cocaine and Quaaludes. Lots and lots of cocaine and Quaaludes. A trusted bartender or security member would lead you behind one of the main room's bars. There was a secret door. It would open and you'd be guided down a dark, dingy stairway into a darker expanse. Instantly, you transcended from glitz to grime. A concrete floor, low ceiling, sticky stained furniture randomly placed amongst old set props from the venue's past days as a television studio. And there was little light. The throb from the massive subs upstairs propelling those on the dance floor into primal motion, bled through. You'd hear murmurs, random fits of funhouse mirror laughter amidst bottles being popped and blow being hoovered. Debbie Harry grabbing the ear of Andy Warhol. Truman Capote sprawled out on a sofa in his bathrobe, champagne bottle dangling from his hand. Margaret Trudeau and Linda Ronstadt hanging off of a gin soaked, Ryan o' Neal sweating subterranean sex appeal, and Steve Rubell hanging off of his every word. And the mattresses, they were set off to the side in makeshift cubicles for privacy if the drugs allowed, and if the blow didn't blow your top, and if the Quaaludes didn't cut you down to size, you could steal away for a quick romp. During the daytime, the basement was largely avoided by Studio 54 staff. But one morning, avoiding the effects of last night's party was no longer an option. The smell was too much, too strong. The doormen and money counters could barely go about their business. They swore a stray animal had climbed in and gotten trapped. The scent of rot was seeping in through the air vents. Reluctantly, Steve had the air vents inspected. What they found was rattling inside the basement ceiling air vent. A dead man shunned from the velvet rope. Too many times to count. He donned his tux and decided to sneak in Studio 54 through the air vent. Something jammed him up. Who knew how long he'd been trapped in there, screaming in horror, competing with the blasting music. The funhouse laughter and the constant ecstatic din and hum of hedonism. He was dressed to the nines, dressed for the party, a party he'd never attend. Dead in the air vent. Steve breathed a sigh of relief. The air vent, not the drywall. No need for the sledgehammers, no need for poking around and potentially exposing what was hidden mere feet from the dead man in the ceiling. Rows and rows of cash, the skim. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden away from the irs right there in the rafters and crawl spaces of Studio 154 off it was new Year's Eve and disco hitmaker Nile Rogers and his chic bandmate Bernard Edwards were at Nile's apartment a couple blocks away from Studio 54, fucking around on their guitars, totally dejected, angry, pissed at doorman Mark Benneke for not letting them buy the velvet rope and into the studio's much hyped, highly exclusive New Year's Eve party. To make matters worse, Niall and Bernard weren't just going to the club to party, they were going on business to meet with Grace Jones to discuss producing her next album. So in effect, they were standing her up and fucking up their business in the process. They banged on their guitars in between chugs of warm champagne straight from the bottle. Fuck off. They were messing around, channeling their anger at Bennicke, at Steve uball, at Studio 54, the house that disco built while disco music was being built in part by Niall and Bernard Off. The more they played, the more it became clear that the sound of what they were messing around with was actually sounding pretty good as they dug in. Fuck off soon organically morphed into Freak off and then Freak Out. And just like that, chic created a dis disco anthem born out of Studio 54's ridiculous exclusivity. Chic's Le Freak would go on to sell 7 million copies and hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100, becoming the first song to hit number one three different times over its lifespan of 25 total weeks on the chart. Nile Rogers and Mark Benneke are now friends, no doubt because Mark's actions led to the creation of Sheik's massive hit. In part, the success of Le Freak led to Nile Rogers becoming an in demand producer and working with Madonna and David Bowie, not to mention the untold millions of dollars the track generated for its songwriters, and the millions were stacking up elsewhere as well. In an interview in New York magazine in 1977 on the success of Studio 54, Steve Rubell told the magazine only The Mafia does better. That set off alarms at IRS headquarters. Clearly, Rubell was joking about the amount of money the club was making. But the joke must have been rooted in some sort of truth. Everyone knew, especially IRS agents, how notorious the nightclub business was for skimming. It was a cash business, so it was easy to skim money off the top of the nightly take and not report it to the federal government and thus not pay taxes. And business taxes in 1977 were a robust 48%. The IRS suspected Rubell was screwing uncle out of serious coin. So they got to work. Rumor was the IRS had a plan. A snitch, a disgruntled employee, a regular. Someone disrespected, angered by Steve Rubell, Someone Steve treated like shit. Either dressed down in front of others, kicked out of the club, or more than likely refused to let pass the velvet rope. It didn't matter either way. The snitch was pissed, angered at being treated like shit. And so he told the IRS everything he knew. The drugs, mountains of cocaine, an endless supply of Quaaludes. Steve kept it in his office, kept it hidden away in various spots around the club. Kept drugs on him, especially when he had his big, frumpy winter coat on. Then he was definitely holding. And more than drugs, the coat was big enough to stash stacks of cash as well. Cash Steve would hand out to friends, Warhol especially, but would also use it to bring back to his east side apartment, where he had close to 900 grand in small bills ensconced in his safe. Ian Schrager, Steve's business partner, was rumored to be driving around the city with 400 grand in cash in his trunk. Ian managed the nightly take. And most everyone who worked at Studio 54 knew every night at midnight, the receipts in the cash registers would be switched. The cash register receipts from the earlier part of the evening would account for one set of financial books, and the cash register receipts from the second part of the evening would account for a second set of financial books. Two sets of books that Ian Schrager kept meticulous records of. When 30 federal IRS agents raided Studio 54 on the morning of December 14, 1978, the books they unearthed and the raid made clear to them that, on average, Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager were skimming about $70,000 a night over the course of a year and a half, all in, they'd taken $2.5 million off the top into their pockets, tax free. In addition to seizing records, agents also seized trash bags filled with cash from the basement and five ounces of cocaine. Steve Rubell was arrested that day. He and Ian hired high profile attorney Roy Cohn, a bull of a lawyer, former attack dog for the red baiting disgraced Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy and future mentor to the aforementioned Queens real estate developer and future president Donald J. Trump. Roy Cohn did not fuck around. He dug in and began to fight for Ian and Steve. And Steve Rubell, perhaps inspired by Roy Cohen's notoriously aggressive tactics with the press in his most egregious act of hubris, decided it was a good public relations strategy to accuse White House chief of staff Hamilton Jordan of using cocaine in the basement of the studio earlier that year. And that about sealed Steve and Ian's fate. The hubris, the elitism, the success. Steve, Ian. Studio 54, the high profile crime and court case were in the papers almost every day by the time the sun came up on the party of the 1970s. New Yorkers, Americans, frankly, they were pissed off and tired of the elitist bullshit. Celebrities, embezzlement, designer drugs, these were high society east coast elite problems for a culture that was bending toward Ronald Reagan, conservatism and an idealized regressive notion of what America should be. It was schadenfreude when the judge gave Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager three and a half years in federal prison for corporate and personal tax evasion. A sentence that was ultimately reduced due to the duo's participation in helping the government convict four other New York City club owners, competitors of Studio 54. What a swell couple of guys. The studio remained open under new management and eventually new ownership when Steve and Ian went to jail in 1980. But effectively with their departure and the turn of the decade, the party was over. Disco began with the spirit of inclusiveness, a music and a culture that encouraged and celebrated individuality. A culture that was welcoming no matter where you came from or what your identity was. Male, female, gay, straight, trans, drag, rich, poor, young, old, it didn't matter. You were welcome so long as you were welcoming yourself. Studio 54 embodied the spirit of disco in a lot of ways, but not for everyone. And that was the irony. Steve Rubell's exclusive velvet rope policy smacked of elitism and led to not only the demise of Studio 54, but of disco as a dominant cultural force as well. 1989, a loft in downtown Manhattan. The remnants of a dinner party turned cocaine. Pre game turned night out at the club with more coke turned afterparty. Back at the loft, where it all started with more lines and some grass to take the edge off early morning hanging out, semi famous DJs, stockbrokers, a street artist and Grace Jones still naked a decade plus since her days at Studio 54, smoking a joint in the corner. It's a relatively chill scene despite the better part of the evening being in the rear view, too high to go home, too tired to do much of anything but wait on the sun. Steve Rubell is sitting alone on the sofa. He's frail, 10 years removed from his heyday at Studio 54, his life since a prison term, a quick career resurgence upon his and Ian Schrager's release, new clubs and hotel ventures, and then the gut punch reality of aids. Steve was positive hiv, and on that night, the night he effectively escaped Beth Israel Medical center to party, he looked like death, knowing that the writing was on the wall, that he only had a few days left to live. Steve had been drinking heavily and taking whatever drugs were putting in front of him, and now the coughing wouldn't stop, much to the annoyance of the other guests in the loft. Steve knew it, and Steve knew he had to get back to the hospital, and through the fits of coughing, he tried to make the dial on the rotary phone work. But no luck. Whenever he'd get his bony little finger into the hole to spin the dial, he'd start coughing again, violently, and he'd have to start all over. The coughs were thunderous, despite coming from such a frail man and seemingly endless, and driving the others in the loft to distraction, to annoyance, Steve tried to dial again. More coughing. No dice. Again more coughs. Steve's hacking was now drowning out not only the conversation, but the music coming from the stereo. Soon he was likely to start waking the neighbors. Something had to be done. The owner of the loft took it upon himself to let Steve Rubell know he wasn't welcome. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram TikTok, Twitter and Facebook disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com disgracelandpod Rocka Rola.

Jesse Weber (42:48)

He's a bad, bad man.