At $20 to $50 a gram, coke offers the cheapest bang for the buck. Alcohol is more expensive.’I’VE got the best stuff,” said a fast-talking man who invited two young women to sit with him at a banquette on the balcony of Chaos, the East Houston Street hot spot.
He said an eight-ball – slang for 3.5 grams of cocaine – would cost $120.
“I treat my customers well,” he said, taking out a tightly rolled foil package and offering two small clumps of white powder to taste in plain view of two bouncers.
When the women rose to leave, refusing to go through with the sale, the dealer grabbed one by the arm and pulled her back onto the couch, entreating, “Why don’t you want to buy from me?”
When she got up again – without buying – he followed her to the door and pulled her back toward the banquette.
“I could be your man,” he said. “I could get you the best coke you ever had.”
*
WELCOME to the underworld of the upper crust – the inner sanctum of New York City’s most exclusive clubs, where anyone with the means can score coke without really trying.
During a month of visits to the city’s hottest hot spots, a Post reporter found a cocaine culture thriving behind the velvet ropes – as owners, bouncers and promoters turned a blind eye.
In the most exclusive sections of Chaos, Lotus and Float – roped-off areas that only a select few can enter – cocaine use is out in the open and drug dealers who are club fixtures are happy to provide party favors all night long.
Despite crackdowns on some of the city’s biggest clubs – like Tunnel and Limelight – experts believe there is more coke in the city’s high-end boites than ever before.
And it’s no wonder. Coke is 50 percent cheaper on average and more available than it was in its 1980s heyday.
Statistics show that young people – too young to remember the coke-fueled frenzy of New York’s disco days – are most susceptible to the powdered temptation.
The number of people aged 19 to 28 who say they’ve tried powdered cocaine jumped by one-third between 1994 and 1999, the University of Michigan Institute for Social Research found in a nationwide study.
In September, the U.S. Coast Guard seized 125,904 pounds of cocaine, an all-time record.
Even though some insist coke never really went away, its open use in some club settings surprises even the most seasoned club veterans.
“I have friends who three years ago wouldn’t touch the stuff,” said one 29-year-old Manhattan news producer who has been connected with the club scene for years.
“Now every party they have is fueled by coke.”
*
IT’S a Wednesday night at Chaos, and coke dealers are cruising the dance floor.
They weave through the crowd as young women in gold lame gyrate from perches on plush couches, and men in black sink back and watch the show.
Swathed in red velvet from floor to ceiling, the club – once a bank – throbs like a heart.
The dealers home in on young women – paying them compliments or asking them to dance.
At $20 to $50 a gram, coke offers the cheapest bang for the buck. The alcohol is more expensive. There’s a $200 minimum for table service.
“Everyone is trying to live up to an ideal of what they thought the ’80s were,” says Peter, a fashion designer, as he surveys the retro outfits that dominate the scene. “Cocaine is just part of that image. Everybody wants to be a rock star.”
Sweaty bankers jump and wiggle in an Ecstasy-infused romp, stopping only to refuel from their $300 bottles of vodka.
A nervous 29-year-old man sits down next to an undercover Post reporter and tries to make conversation.
He’s gregarious and affectionate and admits he’s on the party drug Ecstasy. But he also knows where an eager club-goer can score some cocaine.
“You want coke?” he asks. “I can get you coke in two minutes. I know everyone here. Come up to the balcony – you can get whatever you want up there.”
Upstairs on the VIP balcony, a small crowd is crushed into a corner – animated by bongo drums and tambourines that keep time with the house music.
Leaning back into plush velvet cushions, a large, middle-aged man with long hair snorts lines of coke off a promotional balloon.
“It’s pretty good stuff,” says the man, who describes himself as a club regular. “I don’t know how pure it is, but it does the job.”
When he’s finished, he knows where to get more.
He summons a dealer to squeeze in next to him on the couch. They discuss price, and a small bag and cash are openly swapped as a security guard towers over them.
Barrel-chested bouncers are everywhere – leaning over the balcony, scoping out women, vigilantly checking to see if club-goers’ hands are stamped to permit admission to the VIP section.
They even check for ID at the bar, whipping out mini-flashlights to look at drivers licenses.
But when it comes to coke, these strapping men do nothing.
Buxom women in metallic pants and tops squeeze into the corner, standing on seat cushions and swaying to the rhythm of the conga drums.
A slender Asian woman gently inhales a spot of coke from her knuckle, demurely patting her nose while she continues dancing.
It’s a mixed crowd of Europeans and out-of-towners, models and business folk. They all seem to have unlimited cash and no one seems to mind the prevalence of coke.
“If you can dump all your money on a stock one day, that’s a big risk,” says a hunky 23-year-old Chaos regular who works days for an Internet startup. “When you’re taking chances like that on a daily basis, why not try a little blow?”
In recent months, the young man said, it’s become easier and easier to score and do coke out in the open in his favorite haunts.
“When I’m out, people just come up to me and ask me two, three times a night if I have any blow,” he said. “Everyone talks about it. It’s as easy as pie.”
The appeal, he said, is to keep the party going all night.
“You can only drink so much beer before you fall down drunk,” he said. “Eventually, you’ve got to try something else. Coke is the new thing. People feel like they should be able to do it wherever and whenever they want to.”
Cocaine came out in the open more and more as the night pounded on until it was everywhere – like roaches in a dark, dirty kitchen.
If you’re out late enough, and you’re a young woman, you can get high for free.
At 3:30 a.m., a man who said he was a club promoter provided the undercover Post reporter with an unsolicited dab of coke, tapping it from a vial into the space between her index finger and her thumb.
“Enjoy,” he said, and walked away.
*
ON a Thursday night at Lotus, another crowd assembles for a coke-infused romp.
Three top-heavy 20-something women lounge on a couch with a prominent New York lawyer who boasts a popular nightclub owner among his famous clients.
The young women sway in a sensual, Ecstasy-induced trance.
One of them, dressed in a skimpy, butter-colored, suede top and a matching micro-mini, stands on the seat cushions, swiveling her hips to techno music as one of her female friends caresses her stomach.
“Can you believe she’s a banker?” says another of the women, a dental hygienist by day who is enjoying having her feet massaged by a man she just met.
The lawyer, their communal date, says he knows everybody and can provide them with any drug they want.
Over at the door, two men in their late 20s spring from the edge of the club’s placid indoor lily-pond.
“I’m in finance,” says one. “My friend here is a poet.”
The poet – apparently in a coke-induced frenzy – pounces on every woman who walks his way and tries to bury his face in one stranger’s bosom.
“You want some coke?” the financier asks. “Come to the bathroom with me, and you can have as much as you want.”
But there’s no need to duck into the toilet for a fix at Lotus.
Early in the night, a dealer we’ll call Marco slips into a corner on the mezzanine cordoned off by velvet ropes for a private party.
Few seem to know the guest of honor. But no matter – everyone seems to be having a good time.
Pot smoke fills the air as the European-accented crowd dances to the ’80s Grandmaster Flash anti-cocaine anthem “White Lines (Don’t Do It).”
Marco provides some coke for a couple languishing over the balcony. A moment later, a bag with residue litters the floor.
*
WE follow Marco from Lotus to Float – a high-end Midtown hot spot – where he sweeps through the wall of big, black-suited doormen with a woman on each arm.
While regular Joes dole out $20 for admittance, the bouncers just wave Marco in.
At Float, the higher club-goers rise through the multiple floors of VIP sections, the better their chances of scoring and snorting coke in the open.
Crowds clamber to enter the ultra-exclusive, third-floor VIP lair, some slipping the bouncer $50.
“I’m gonna spend megabucks up there,” one woman says. “I swear.”
While the wannabes are denied entrance to the third floor, Marco glides past security, a metal grate closing over the door behind him.
Once upstairs, Marco holds court in a corner, drawing a lush line of powder into a $1 bill for a young, blond, Bijou Phillips look-alike in blue-tinted sunglasses.
She puts the bill up to her nose and inhales deeply, carefully folding up the rest for later.
All the while, Marco’s left leg bounces in a spastic dance. He’s got reason to be nervous, his friend Lisa says.
“He won’t sell to just anyone,” explains the tall, slender woman. “He has to be very, very cautious. You could be a cop.”
Despite this, Marco siphons three lines onto the windowsill – in a packed room – and his model-skinny friends lean over to inhale the powder through straws fashioned out of crisp bills.
At 4 a.m. two blond women and a dreadlocked man snort lines from a banquette in plain view of a bouncer.
Through the maze of hardbodies near the bathroom, a beefy man named Mike stops the undercover Post reporter in her tracks.
“Make a fist,” he says, tapping a small mound of coke onto her index finger.
When the reporter and a friend warn Mike that the bouncer is watching from his post at a door just two feet away, he says, “Don’t worry, he knows me,” quickly providing another mound of powder.
The bouncer watches with a smirk as the reporter pretends to sniff one bump of coke, and then runs off to slip the other into a plastic bag.
As Float’s crowd begins to thin out, a high-profile promoter invites the Post reporter to continue the party in SoHo.
When she says she’s tired, he reassures her, “Don’t worry, I’ve got something that will take care of that.”
But when we emerge into the Midtown street, he’s already gone.