Atta didn’t care. Atta was flush. Atta flashed a Big Roll. Ask the girls who dance at the Cheetah club in Sarasota. Cash was no problemo.
A young man with money to burn, Mohammed Atta enjoyed very Un-Islamic lap dances in the Pink Pony Strip Club in Florida, and stuffing $20 bills into the panties of topless dancers at the Olympic Garden, a dreary nightclub at the seedier end of Las Vegas’ Strip.
When not ogling infidel flesh, he had a taste for the finer things as well, like hanging out at Harry’s Bar in New York, for example, where he preferred a table near the piano.
Life in Venice must have been hell for someone with those tastes. The median age is 69. Dinnertime begins at 4 PM. Almost everyone gets in on the early bird specials.
Atta must have chafed. No wonder everyone ragged on his bad attitude. Six months in Venice must have been an eternity. But was Venice his choice? Or someone else’s? Why did Mohamed Atta come here?
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