Trump Tower (33 page)

Silverberg grinned. “Remember how Ronnie used to say, nothing is better for the inside of man than the outside of a horse?” He was referring to Ronald Reagan's love of riding. “Well, every time I come out here I think, nothing is better for the outside of Lenny Silverberg than the inside of Abrille Hidalgo.”

Then Bing O'Leary walked in with his father-in-law, Harry Kahn. O'Leary was Zeke's age and Kahn was probably somewhere around eighty. Zeke didn't know for sure and Kahn never mentioned it.

What Zeke did know about Kahn was that he'd sunk money into just about every hit movie over the past thirty years.

He also knew that O'Leary had been first in his class at Notre Dame Law, and was clever enough to overcome every hurdle Kahn and his wife Ilsa threw at him when he wanted to marry their only daughter, Ilene. O'Leary even converted. For that, he was named head of Kahn's private investment vehicle, Goose Chase, which Zeke guessed was probably worth a couple of billion.

While Olinda served drinks on the deck and the men talked, the delivery from Nobu arrived. Because Zeke didn't want the delivery guys to see who was at his house, he and Bobby and Olinda intercepted the order at the front door.

No sooner had the Nobu van driven off, when Carl Kravitz walked in with Ken Warring.

“Look who I bumped into?” Kravitz said with his arm around Warring. “We landed last night at the same time.”

“But I got a better parking space,” Warring said.

“That's ‘cause you've got a better plane,” Kravitz suggested.

And Warring agreed. “Yes, I do.”

Kravitz was sixty, a Hollywood lawyer who'd also turned to investing in film and television, but had been particularly smart in understanding that the future of the media was the Internet. At a time when the studios were fighting to keep films off the Net, Kravitz was developing libraries of films and television
programs that could be downloaded onto computers around the world. A year ago he sold out for $3.6 billion.

The last to arrive was James Malcolm Isbister.

A man in his late forties with iron-straight posture, close-cropped dark hair, a drawn face and a slightly pasty complexion—he was the only one wearing a suit, a white shirt and a tie.

“I appreciate your letting me join you,” Isbister shook Zeke's hand firmly. “It's very nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

“You're very welcome,” Zeke said, bringing him into the house through the living room and onto the deck, where he introduced Isbister to the others. “Would you like a drink? G and T? V and T? Bloody Mary? Beer?”

“I don't drink,” Isbister said. “Pomegranate juice, if you have some. Otherwise water will be fine.”

“Pomegranate juice?” Zeke gave Isbister a slightly embarrassed look. “I'm afraid that narrows down the choice to bubbles or no bubbles.”

“No bubbles,” he said. “Thank you.”

Zeke poured him a glass of Vittel, while Kravitz, Kahn and Warring asked Isbister all sorts of questions.

“Do you come out to the coast often? . . . Have you people invested in films before? . . . Where in New York are you from? . . . Why don't you take your jacket and tie off, you'll be more comfortable because it can get hot out here.”

Isbister sipped his water and, polite to a fault, never answered a single question with anything more than a vague response.

He kept his tie and jacket on.

When Olinda nodded that everything was ready, Zeke announced, “Lunch is served.”

They sat down at the table and began the ritual of passing around dozens of plates.

There was akadashi, miso and spicy seafood soups; shiitake and kelp salads; chicken, seafood and tempura udon; beef, chicken and salmon with teriyaki sauce; a selection of sashimi, tempura and sushi that included bigeye tuna, bluefin toro, yellowtail, Japanese red snapper, Japanese eel, octopus, live scallops and sea urchin.

Then there was lobster salad with spicy lemon dressing, bigeye and bluefin toro tartar, moroheiya pasta salad with fresh lobster, king crab tempura with amazu ponzu, Chilean sea bass with black bean sauce and, finally, for dessert, mojito ice cream, fresh mango and green tea mousse.

“I hate to be Cinderella,” Ken Warring said when he finally put his spoon down and pushed what little remained of the mojito ice cream out of the way, “but I'm due in Dallas tonight for dinner.”

“For Chrissake, Kenny,” Silverberg raised his hands in surrender, “how the hell can you think about dinner after a lunch like that?”

“I'm not thinking about dinner . . .”

“Ever again,” Kahn said.

“I'm thinking about being in Dallas.” He turned to Zeke. “So tell us, where are we?”

Zeke moved his chair slightly away from the table, crossed his legs and began. “We looked at Pinewood, Thames and Astor in London, and we're ready to move on Astor. Great facilities that need refurbishment and a huge back lot.”

“How much?” Kravitz wanted to know.

“In the neighborhood of eighty-five. That's sterling. In dollars, call it one thirty-five and change. One forty. But that includes the back lot, and if this thing goes south, it's prime land for development. Our downside there is covered.”

O'Leary asked, “Last time you were talking about Canada.”

“Montreal,” Zeke said. “Vancouver won't work and Toronto is way over-priced. But around the corner from the port of Montreal, there's a place called Nuns Island. It's mixed-use residential and commercial. We want to pick up the old Cine Quebec lot. Three big sound stages, small back lot, loads of space for production facilities.”

“How much is that?” Kravitz asked.

“If we can keep this thing quiet, we're probably only looking at forty-five or fifty. If word leaks, put twenty-five percent on top of it.”

“Downside?” Silverberg asked.

“Right now the area is zoned industrial. But we've got someone up there looking into what it will take to change it to residential. It's an island, people want to live there and no one's making any more land.”

“Get it changed to residential,” Warring proposed, “and let's not waste time making movies.”

The others laughed.

“New York,” O'Leary asked. “Silvercup? That's not going to be easy.”

“That may not be necessary,” Zeke said. “We could probably buy it if we really wanted. But then what? We'd wind up with facilities in Queens and have the same problem selling them that they have now. We want the West Side. We're looking at two piers. One or both would be great. We can connect to a lot in Jersey, across the river and a little south. That's what Dick Wolf did with his
Law and Order
franchise. Offices and studios in Manhattan. At Chelsea Piers. A whole city to shoot on the street. Then a sound stage in Jersey with permanent sets. We've found a disused oil terminal port in Jersey. We build a lot there and run our own ferry service back and forth.”

“I hope that means you've given up on your dreams of the Bronx.” Kahn shook his head. “I was born there and couldn't get out fast enough. You were born someplace else and wanted to go there willingly.”

“It's six acres, Harry,” Zeke said. “Big industrial zone. I thought if we created jobs, Albany would send us money.”

“Albany's broke,” Kahn pointed out.

“The city isn't. Bloomberg says it is, but we can deal with him. Except for Chelsea Piers, the others are falling into the Hudson. We take the one that's ripest for picking and redevelop and he'll make sure that things happen. Long lease. Tax breaks. Jersey is slightly different, but they're as broke as New York and the land is sitting there doing nothing. Call it twenty to buy and another forty to develop.”

“Whatever happened to Brooklyn?” Kahn wanted to know.

Zeke told him, “Coney Island. Gone largely residential. Anyway, even if we could have gotten in there, it would have been another Silvercup. Except further away. Same reason we turned down Staten Island. Would have worked, except you can't get there from anywhere. The piers are our best bet.”

“So far, so good.” Warring tried to add up the totals. “Six hundred?”

“About that,” Zeke agreed.

Now Kravitz said, “Last piece of the puzzle is LA.”

Silverberg pointed out, “That means taking over one of the big guys. But do we really want to get in a fight with Sony?”

“No need,” Zeke said, “I want to buy Polyscope.”

“Polyscope?” Silverberg looked at him like he was crazy. “They haven't made a movie since Tom Mix.”

“That's what you think,” Zeke responded. “They're half-owned by Astor in the UK. They've done a bunch of indies in the past few years. Not a very good business. But then, they're not very good businessmen. What Polyscope offers us is something that none of the big kids on the block can. Our own airport.”

“Airport?” O'Leary asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ever hear of Eddie Butch Bauer?” When no one had, Zeke continued, “Navy pilot. One of the original aces during World War Two. Killed in a dogfight over Wake Island after sinking a Japanese submarine. Flew a couple of hundred missions. Big deal hero.”

“This a movie project?” Kravitz asked.

“No,” Zeke smiled. “It's an abandoned Navy air training facility. Bauer Field. In Chino Hills. About an hour away. Bobby found the land on a government list. They own it. And guess who lives right next door? Polyscope.”

Kahn asked, “What's there now?”

“Besides a handful of buildings owned by Polyscope? How about nine acres of concrete overrun with crabgrass.”

“How much?” Silverberg said, “Because this sounds like one of those too-good-to-be-true deals.”

Lerner explained, “Polyscope bought an option on the land from the government thirty years ago. I looked into it and, believe it or not, it's still good. Someone in the government screwed up, the option never timed out and Polyscope never had the money to exercise it. For all I know, they don't even remember that there is an option. We take Astor, that brings us into Polyscope, and Polyscope's long-forgotten option gives us the biggest and best lot in the business.”

The men sitting around Zeke's table looked at each other and, one by one, started nodding.

Everybody . . . except James Malcolm Isbister. “What makes you think if you develop this property, anyone will use it?”

“You see my list of clients?” Zeke said, “We don't merely represent them, we package deals. Our writers, our directors, our stars . . . now, our studios.”

“Antitrust,” Isbister said right away.

“No way,” Bobby shook his head.

Kravitz agreed. “Take over a studio and the government might look into it. Build your own . . . no problem.”

“We're not talking forced labor,” Bobby continued. “There are plenty of studios still standing that real competition is simply not an issue.”

Isbister thought about that. “This is, obviously, not a business we know. The real estate side interests us, but I don't think we want to gamble on the motion picture side of this.”

“We can structure a deal,” Bobby offered, “so that you're only a real estate partner.”

“That would be more to our liking,” Isbister said. “How much are you looking for?”

Zeke added it up. “We're at six now. Polyscope, the option and redevelopment costs add, say, another six. Then we factor in an additional third for running costs. Total is in the ballpark of one point six billion.”

“First year's return?” Isbister asked.

Zeke admitted, “Zero.”

“Second year?”

“Zero.”

Isbister didn't understand. “How long do you expect to be running a charity?”

“Five years out,” Zeke said, “we're either bust or we own the world.”

“Gentlemen . . .” Ken Warring stood up. “Off to Dallas. I'm in.”

Harry Kahn and Bing O'Leary soon followed. “We're in.”

Isbister announced that it was time he left, too. “I will study the numbers.
As I said, it's not a business we know, but if you . . .” He looked at Bobby Lerner . . . “if you will send me a real estate–only plan . . . the kind of money you're talking about is not beyond our means. Not at all.”

“I will e-mail it to you tonight,” Bobby promised.

“Thank you.” Isbister handed him a card that had nothing but his name and e-mail address. He shook everyone's hands—“I will be in touch shortly”—and left.

Now Lenny Silverberg headed for the door. “I have something waiting for me at the Bel Air. Gentlemen, I'm sure you understand. Count me in.”

Zeke looked at all the food left on the table. “Olinda . . . you take this home. Everything.”

“Everything?” Olinda asked. “There is a lot . . .”