Sugar Ray

Why council members love Mr. Hunt so much

The noose tightens. Keep an eye on the tax incentives the city gives developers and the bickering about it at City Hall. They've been giving away the store for years, and now all of a sudden they feel the pinch.

I realize the stories about this stuff in The Dallas Morning News are inscrutable and read like a badly translated Japanese tractor repair manual. And short of somebody on the council snatching off somebody else's toupee, you're never going to see it on TV.

But just keep your horse sense tuned up: 1) City needs money. 2) City gets money by collecting taxes. 3) City lets big boyfriends skate on taxes. 4) Trouble.

Councilman Mitchell Rasansky says developers will carry out major redevelopment near NorthPark whether the city gives them $37 million in tax dollars or not. So he says the city shouldn't give it. That's horse sense.
Councilman Mitchell Rasansky says developers will carry out major redevelopment near NorthPark whether the city gives them $37 million in tax dollars or not. So he says the city shouldn't give it. That's horse sense.

The trouble with the Dallas City Council? Half of them are running for mayor. And they assume the only way they can raise campaign money in this town is by making bedroom eyes at a sugar daddy.

Trouble with Dallas sugar daddies? They don't care about the bedroom; only place they want to go is the vault. "Button up your negligee, sweetheart, and show me where they keep the cash."

North Dallas council member Mitchell Rasansky told me an amazing story recently:

"There is a wonderful real estate developer in Dallas named David Gleeson," he said, "a marvelous person, started with Henry S. Miller, then went in for himself. I've known him for 25 years. He came to me and said, 'I want to show you what we're doing.'"

Gleeson shows Rasansky a plan to redevelop an area on the east side of Central Expressway, about seven-tenths of a mile northeast of NorthPark Center. "He said, 'We're going to build $250 million, $350 million. We're buying all these apartments. We're going to close on them.'"

Then Gleeson sets the hook. He tells Rasansky that he and his partners need a tax abatement from the city--money they can take off their taxes and use instead to build the project or put in their pockets. "I said, 'David, I don't know.' I talked to our assistant city manager, Ryan Evans. He said, 'Well, I don't know where we're going to get it from.'"

Gleeson is no longer involved in the project, and he told me a confidentiality agreement prevents him from discussing most details. But he did acknowledge meeting with Rasansky and getting shot down on the tax abatement. "I had a meeting with Mitchell, saying that we would like to entertain the possibility of a tax increment financing district or TIF," Gleeson said. "Frankly, the feedback that we got, from him and from talking to others who are familiar with what's going on at City Hall, was that it probably wasn't real likely.

"We could always pursue one, but it wasn't so sure that there was money available or the enthusiasm for another TIF, since there had just previously been granted a TIF for the Park Place project."

Yeah. I wrote about that heist a while back ("Drunk Tellers," December 15). You'd think after that one, in which the council gave some guys $20 million in tax money to build a Whole Foods on prime ground across from NorthPark Center, there might have been a bit of morning-after shame.

But no.

Instead, Gleeson sells the project to an outfit called Valencia Capital Management, which is basically, as far as I can tell, four guys in an office on Turtle Creek. And now Valencia Capital Management comes back to Rasansky with the same deal again but with one important change:

"These other people approach me," Rasansky said, "and they want $37 million."

You heard right. He said the new guys want a $37 million "incentive" in city tax money.

Bold, what?

Rasansky got curious. He wanted to know some things, such as who their money was.

You know: It's four people in an office. Somebody has to be behind them with a bankroll. So Rasansky asked where their financing was coming from. They told him. And everything became clear.

Ray Hunt.

Originally it was a project that deserved, according to its promoters, a $4 million to $6 million tax cut. Now it's a project that deserves a $37 million tax cut. And what has changed?

Ray Hunt.

This is Ray Hunt of Hunt Oil and Hunt Realty who was recently gifted with a $6.3 million tax cut on a corporate headquarters building that was already in pre-construction on prime downtown real estate when Hunt's people thought to ask the council for some free dough. Mayorally hopeful council members Bill Blaydes and Ed Oakley couldn't wait to give him a big wet wad of city moolah, and they excoriated Mayor Laura Miller for daring to raise questions.

This is Ray Hunt, who wants the city to spend $15 million extending the proposed Woodall Rodgers deck park a full city block to bring it to his new corporate doorstep; Ray Hunt, who wants to swap the city a parking lot for Reunion Arena, on which the city still owes $19 million, so he can tear it down; Ray Hunt, who talked the city into building Reunion in the first place in a one-sided back-room deal a quarter-century ago.

In a gushy-mushy story about the Valencia deal ("Big Plans in Northeast Dallas," The Dallas Morning News, February 3, 2006), the News quoted Blaydes as already cheerleading for Valencia: "'Valencia is going into areas where there has been very poor management for years and trying to get started with their program,' Mr. Blaydes said."

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