OAKLAND PARK, Fla. — The directions to Roger Stone’s worldwide headquarters of conspiracy theories, self-promotion and Nixonian arcana are — like much about Roger Stone — confusing and mysterious.
The first version, received from Stone via text message, leads to a blanched, deserted parking lot next to a vacant building behind a chain-link fence in Oakland Park, north of Fort Lauderdale. A place called Scandals Saloon sits across the street, but it turns out Stone has sent the wrong address.
“Well, you will have to kill that lede,” says the man who knows enough about this dance with the journalistic profession to recognize what might have been a resonant detail in a first paragraph. Stone, after all, has seldom met a scandal he couldn’t curl up with and adore.
The next part of the directions to his personal office and broadcast studio calls for locating a “door discreetly marked ‘A,’ ” which might be helpful, except for the crucial fact that there is no door discreetly marked “A” at the new address next to a bathroom supplies depot. There is, however, a blacked-out door with no markings, and the man who emerges from behind it, wearing shorts, loafers with no socks, a rakishly loosened tie and an untucked white dress shirt, is unmistakably Stone.
“What happened to our ‘A’?” he calls out to his two young assistants.
Inside, Stone keeps a bong in the shape of Richard Nixon’s head and a framed drawing of a roll of toilet paper with Nixon’s face on each sheet. In the early 1970s, Stone became a master of the darker political arts,…
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