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CHUCK ZITO The first time I met CHUCK ZITO, the president of the New York Charter of Hell's Angels, I was at the bar in Studio 54 with my girlfriend Patti. The year was 1979. The bar was crowded, the music hot. I noticed an argument off to my right, looked and saw this one guy, Chuck, arguing with three guys. As fast as the blink of an eye, a fight between Chuck and the three men broke out, and within fifteen seconds, Chuck knocked all three guys out cold and went back to talking with two blonde women. I was born and raised in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn and I've seen a lot of street fights in my day, but I never saw anyone with the controlled, precise aggression possessed by Chuck. Watching him fight was like watching some kind of natural disaster—a hurricane or a cyclone—in action. Soon after the three came to, the police were called. I knew Studio 54 well and its serpentine basement leading to its back doors. When I saw the cops coming towards Chuck, I hurried over to him and told him to follow me—that I'd lead him out a back door. Without asking me a question, he followed me to the basement, then across to the other side of the club. As we made our way there, we passed a small group of people standing in a loose circle passing around thumb-sized vials of Cocaine, talking animatedly. Truman Capote, Andy Warhol and Halston were part of the group. Truman was wearing a baggy white caftan and a big straw hat. Chuck apparently knew Andy, for Warhol greeted him like a friend. Chuck said he had to go and we made our way to the rear entrance of the club and I opened the 53rd Street exit for him. He said "Thanks" and took off into the New York night. I made my way back to the bar and Patti and watched two of three guys—with obviously broken jaws—taken away by paramedics... The next time I saw Chuck, two weeks later, was at Café Central on West 74th and Amsterdam Avenue. Café Central was truly an in-spot then. Bruce Willis, still a struggling actor, was the bartender. Some of the Café's regulars were Danny Aiello, Bobby DeNiro, Joe Pesci, Peter Weller, Peter Riegart, Tony Danza, Paul Herman and on and on. Chuck saw me, came over and again said thanks. We sat and had a drink—he a Coke, me a beer; he told me he didn't drink alcohol at all. I asked him what happened at Studio 54. He said those three guys said something rude to the women he'd been talking to. "They were," he told me, "just friends of mine, but those jerks didn't know if one of them was my girl or wife or whatever. You've got to draw the line somewhere." I told him how two of three "jerks" had to taken away by paramedics. "Good," he said. "Maybe next time they'll have some respect." "No doubt they will," I told him. And that's how I became friends with Chuck Zito. Over the years our friendship grew and I now consider him one of my closet, dearest buddies. If I ever had to be in a foxhole with anyone, I'd want it to be him. He is, without a doubt, the most stand-up guy I've ever met, the best person in the world to watch your back. He is a loyal, sincere man automatically willing to make your battles his, your enemies his enemies. Though I hasten to say, if you've ever done anything to make Chuck mad at you, leave town right away and don't come back...
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