How nightclub legend Peter Stringfellow survived the New York City mafia — but Eddie Murphy nearly finished him

WHEN London was no longer enough, Peter Stringfellow set his sights on New York. The results were sometimes terrifying, sometimes hilarious.

Here, in our final extract from his memoir King Of Clubs, Peter recalls Mob threats, A-list encounters and being mistaken by a drug dealer for rock royalty.

To me, New York was a ­happening place where comic book heroes were born. To everyone else, it was a drug-infested city run by the Mafia.

When I opened Stringfellows in the Big Apple, fact and fiction clashed. In England, journalists would ask me about girls and drinking. In New York, they asked: “How do you deal with the Mafia?”

I hadn’t borrowed any money in America, so there was no “funny” money in my club. Naively, I thought I was safe. But the Mafia don’t need to invest in your ­nightclub to have a hold over you.

I was happy for them to dine in my restaurant but not so happy when they machine-gunned down the front doors. These guys didn’t mess around.

Still, no one could top my own comic book hero, Superman — aka actor Christopher Reeve — turning up on opening night, plus future James Bond star Pierce Brosnan and a host of other celebrities.

Rolling Stone magazine asked me if Stringfellows was a “yuppie” club.

I’d never heard the word but I liked the sound of it, so I said yeah.

After that, the Wall Street crowd loved it. It was different from ­anywhere else in New York.

But I was sick of being mistaken for singer Peter Frampton, who had a hit with Show Me The Way.

Once, in the club Studio 54, a cocaine dealer asked me for the $4,000 I owed him. I told this guy I’d never seen him before in my life and never touched drugs. He looked at me as if I was insane.

He kept on and on until I finally convinced him I wasn’t Peter Frampton but Peter Stringfellow, from London.

To avoid confusion, I decided to go blond and, back in the UK, I walked into Billy Shears’ hair salon.

There I saw the most peculiar-looking girl. She had pink hair, green make-up and was wearing what I can only describe as a nappy, with her bum hanging out.

Her name was Frizzby Fox. My first thought was: “Weirdo head, great bum.”

Billy seriously screwed up. My hair was left fluorescent orange. I didn’t make a scene and convinced myself it was wild and wonderful.

My wife Coral freaked out, saying I looked like a dandelion.

Five days later, Frizzby came into Stringfellows and told me I couldn’t walk around London with my hair that colour. By the time she had finished with me, I fancied her and my blond hair looked brilliant.

She agreed to have dinner with me the next evening. I had to take her to the outskirts of London because she was so noticeable.

Then I took her to my mate Roger’s house and we made love in his bed. It was fantastic but Roger was furious because the sheets were covered in make-up, hair dye, false tan and God knows what else it took to make Frizzby the spectacle she was.

Later, Frizzby moved in with me at a flat I had in a converted church in Highgate, North London.

A pink tutu was one of my sexual fantasies. I made my waitresses wear them when I opened Stringfellows and Frizzby would occasionally put on the tutu for me.

Living with her meant at the age of 50 I had to go back to playing in cars. I had a driver called Tony Curtis who drove an old stretch Ford. Things happened in his car that made the Kama Sutra look like a cartoon.

Before opening Stringfellows in New York, I’d been to the Area nightclub and seen ­unisex toilets for the first time.

I thought it was wild. I was probably the only man in New York who took a girl in there for sex. Everyone else went in to snort cocaine.

If I’d allowed drugs in my club, I would have been the king of the New York scene.

I had a problem later when I opened a club in Miami, where John Travolta was a regular.

One night I was asleep at my flat in Highgate when my manager in Miami called in a panic. Six FBI agents had run up the stairs into the disco, walked up to two guys, sat with four gorgeous girls, and put guns to their heads.

The pair were Colombian drug dealers who drank my ­champagne by the bucketload. They turned over the table and started fighting the FBI. A shot was fired in the ceiling before the Colombians were handcuffed and dragged downstairs.

I thought: “That’s it, I’m ruined.” But everyone just started dancing again. If anything, the drama added to the club’s reputation.

I had everything a man could want. I flew on Concorde between London and the US. I was ­surrounded by champagne and beautiful girls. It was better than being a rock star. But I wanted more. Miami had been open a year and I was ready to move on.

Americans have a saying. You go to New York to work and LA to dream. I thought LA was where the stars went to party.

If I’d known they partied on lettuce leaves and water, I could have saved myself £3million and a lot of misery. Opening the club in the first place was my biggest mistake.

The next was banning Eddie Murphy. I’d always considered Eddie a friend. He’d been to the Hippodrome and Stringfellows in London many times.

He arrived at my LA club with seven guys in dark glasses who demanded to sit in the champagne area. But it was already full.

Eddie said: “Yeah, but you let this white disco trash sit here.”

I was shocked. He had swallowed his own publicity.

As Eddie and his entourage marched out, one of my managers said: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I replied: “Shouldn’t I? Well, you can tell Eddie he’s banned.”

Nobody was impressed. A friend said: “Are you crazy? That guy’s got so much status, he could empty your club.”

Six months later, I was bankrupt.

• Adapted by Mike Ridley. ©Peter Stringfellow and Fiona Lafferty. King of Clubs first published by Little Brown in 1996.