Page 13 of The Picasso Heist
“DON’T DROP ME off in front,” I tell the driver. “Go past the house about a hundred yards.”
Make that two hundred yards. That’s how big Enzio Bergamo’s East Hampton estate is.
It’s like that joke: By the time you’re finally done mowing the lawn, it’s time to mow the lawn again.
The mansion, the oceanfront property it sits on—everything about this place is over the top. Just like the man himself.
Enzio Bergamo is known for two things. The first, in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, is his fashion empire, Bergamo Fashion and Design, BFD for short.
It became a household name around the world on the heels of its Bergy bag, a square-shaped purse that is now a must-have for the insecure wealthy who feel the need to announce publicly that they have fifty thousand dollars to spend on some sewn-together pieces of leather with a shoulder strap.
After the Bergy bag came other BFD designs, including shoes, clothing, and accessories.
It’s been an amazing American success story for the first-generation Italian, and Enzio Bergamo has embraced every penny of it. Or, rather, spent every penny of it.
Which brings us to the second thing Bergamo is known for: his lavish and outlandish parties.
They’re epic, and they attract every boldface name from actors to athletes, rock stars to rocket scientists, a true cross section of the entire fame spectrum.
Bergamo welcomes them all and basks in their limelight, ever the charming and charismatic host, with his wife, Deborah (pronounced “De-bore-ah”), alongside him.
Is there an actual guest list for this party?
Maybe, although it’s not as if anyone’s walking around with a clipboard.
But supposedly, someone is walking around.
If you believe the tabloids, Enzio Bergamo employs a spotter, a man whose sole job is to roam the party and make sure every woman is wearing at least one thing with a BFD label.
If she’s not, she’s asked to leave or, worse, brought before Bergamo for a public shaming.
Odds are I could crash this party by simply walking through the front door, but since I’m not wearing a stitch of BFD clothing, I need to make sure I’m not intercepted by the spotter—if there truly is such a thing—before I get close to Bergamo.
Better safe than sorry, according to Anton Nikolov.
I believe his exact words were “Don’t get your ass kicked out before you even get in. ”
So, wearing my new black Bottega Veneta dress, courtesy of a Bulgarian mob boss, I walk around some tall hedges to the backyard, which faces the beach, and wait for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and blend in as if I’ve been at the party for hours.
Once I’ve done that, I wait for the next perfect moment—when the ever-schmoozing Bergamo is between conversations and finally alone for a split second.
“So, is it true?” I step up behind him and ask.
He turns around. “Excuse me?”
“That you actually pay someone here at the party to make sure all the women are wearing at least one of your designs?”
Enzio Bergamo smiles. “Now, where would you ever get a silly idea like that?”
“I read it somewhere.”
“And do you believe everything you read?” he asks.
“Only the gossip pages,” I say.
“That’s funny,” he says. “You’re funny.” He looks me up and down. “You’re also quite beautiful.”
Actually, there’s a third thing Enzio Bergamo is known for: philandering.
“That’s a nice compliment,” I say. “Thank you.”
“No, I really mean it. You’re beautiful.
” Bergamo sounds as if he’s had a little too much to drink.
It’s to be expected. It’s baked into the plan.
Men are capable of making plenty of bad decisions while they’re sober, but nothing greases the wheels of indiscretion quite like alcohol. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Halston,” I say.
“She’s beautiful and named after one of my favorite designers.”
“What are the odds, right?”
“Which makes this even harder for me,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “I’m afraid you need to leave.”
“Wait—what?”
“You heard me.”
“But why?” I ask.
“You know exactly why.”
“You’re serious? Just because I’m not wearing one of your designs?”
“How did you get by my spotter? He’s definitely fired,” he says.
Bergamo holds my stare. Then he starts laughing. We both do.
“You big jerk,” I say.
“I totally had you.”
“You totally did.”
He gives me another head-to-toe. “Bottega Veneta, right?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s very nice. Still, I can’t help thinking you’d look even better in something of mine,” he says.
“Is that a sales pitch? If it is, you can forget it. I couldn’t even afford this dress; it was a gift. Which means I definitely couldn’t afford a BFD.”
“Well, I happen to know the head of the company quite well. He and I are very close. Extremely so, in fact.”
“So you have an in, huh?”
“You could say that. Would you like to try one on?”
“Where?” I ask.
Bergamo nods over his shoulder at his quaint twenty-thousand-square-foot home. “Inside, of course. Rumor has it the handsome devil keeps an entire showroom here.”
“Is that like the rumor about his having a spotter?”
“No, this rumor’s actually true,” he says. “Come, I’ll show you.”