At about 3:30 p.m. on the Saturday before Labor Day, I receive a call from Lenny. Speaking in a voice even more slurred than usual, he says: “Hey, bro, a guy from this jet company is going to call you in a few minutes and ask for your credit card.”
“What the hell for, Lenny?”
“He’s not going to charge your card, bro. It’s just an authorization on it so I can reserve a private jet to get me to Atlanta, where I’m going to pick up half a million dollars in cash.”
This is pretty much the precise moment when things begin to go wrong—when I should’ve realized that no matter how enthralled I was with the idea of working for Nails and his high-rolling magazine, I should’ve simply said no. I ask why a supposed multimillionaire needs an employee’s credit card for his flights. He mumbles something about having “high-limit cards off the charts” that, for reasons unknown, do not allow him to make telephone authorizations....
None of it ends well, and the folks who wrote unquestioning, fawning profiles of Dykstra should be embarrassed that they failed to see through the charade. [Also, he's a racist.]