Trump Tower (60 page)

The bedroom featured a double king–sized bed with an enormous en suite dark, marble bathroom, a large whirlpool bath and a gorgeous view of the city while you were soaking in it.

There was a big living room and very handsome dining room—both with spectacular views—plus an outdoor balcony, an office, a tea ceremony area, a minigym, and a fully equipped kitchen and pantry. And in every room throughout the suite there were forty-two-inch plasma television screens.

As soon as he'd unpacked, he'd gotten onto the
NBC Nightly News
site and watched Alicia's interview with Clinton. Then he'd phoned her.

“It was terrific. I loved it.”

“Apparently everybody else did, too. Even Bill. His office called and left a message. After I edited it, Brian said he liked it, and as I was leaving the newsroom he said to me, ‘welcome aboard.'”

“I'm really proud of you.” Then he'd broached the subject of her book. “What's happening with your friend Mr. Farmer?”

All she'd say was, “It's under control.”

At 7:30, the
feng shui
expert—a very small, very round man who reminded
Carson of Buddha—had arrived at his door and, without a word, had gone about rearranging the dining room.

He'd removed the table and all the chairs from the room, as well as the decorative pottery and vases on the shelves.

He'd then placed two chairs in very specific spots—the slightly larger one facing the window, the smaller with its back to the window—and had moved a low coffee table between the two.

Carson had shown him where he wanted to put his laptop, open to him so that Mr. Shigetada could not see it from the smaller chair, and after that was done, the little man had placed two glasses and one bottle of still water on the table. Next, he'd turned on the overhead light and all the room lamps, then he'd shut them off one by one, until there was only one lamp left on. It was in the far corner and slightly behind where Carson would sit.

Stepping back, the little man had surveyed the room, bowed and left the suite.

Carson sat in both chairs, slowly understanding what he'd accomplished. The bigger chair, his chair, was more comfortable. He'd be more likely to want to stay longer. It also had a view out the window. The smaller chair, Shigetada's, was less comfortable and with nothing else to focus on but Carson. He'd be more likely to want to leave sooner.

Did that mean Shigetada would be more likely to settle this in Warring's favor? Carson didn't know. But he could see that from the way the lamp would cast shadows, Shigetada was supposed to feel that he was no longer in charge.

O
N
F
RIDAY
, he'd had a pleasant lunch with the Japanese lawyers at a private dining club in the Ginza. After that, he'd climbed into bed and slept through dinner.

An hour before Mr. Shigetada arrived, he'd showered and shaved, dressed in a suit, then Skyped Kenneth Warring in Omaha to rehearse their banter.

Now, at three in the morning Tokyo time—Saturday morning in Japan but still Friday afternoon in the United States—Carson Haynes stared at the short, flat-faced man with a large, bald head and bulging eyes, sitting opposite him in the suite's near-empty dining room.

“Our answer to that,” Carson said yet again, “is no.”

Mr. Shigetada stared back at Carson, not giving anything away.

“This is bullshit,” Warring growled from the screen on Carson's laptop. “We're getting nowhere.”

Mr. Shigetada showed no emotion.

For three hours, he had not budged from his original position. “I will not sell. There is no reason for me to buy. And I will not permit you to walk away.
I am insisting that you honor your commitment.”

Finally, Warring announced he'd had enough. “I'm going home.”

Carson looked at the screen—which Mr. Shigetada could not see—and watched Warring cleaning his nails with a letter opener.

“On Monday morning,” Warring went on, “short and simple, we're going to liquidate the company.”

Slowly at first, then with ever-increasing anger, Mr. Shigetada began shaking his head.

“You cannot. You cannot. I built this business . . .” For the first time all night, he came dangerously close to losing his temper. “My father and I built this together. I will not permit you to dishonor his memory . . .”

Warring snapped, “I turned your father's business into something neither you nor he ever dreamed of. You brought us in because you needed us and we came in because we saw potential. I found your father to be an honorable man. But you, pal, are not your father.”

Mr. Shigetada's eyes narrowed as he stared at Carson. “I will not permit you . . .”

“Sell your shares to me,” Warring demanded, “or buy ours. But you'd better let me know right now. I'm standing up and walking out of my office, and as soon as I shut off my lights, I turn off your lights.”

Carson saw Warring put the letter opener down, lean back in his chair and toss his legs on top of his desk.

“This is not the way I do business,” Mr. Shigetada insisted. “It is not the way we do business in Japan.”

“Forty-two or forty-six,” Warring said. “Or
sayonara
.”

Mr. Shigetada blurted out, “I give you forty, the same price you offer me.”

“No, you give me forty-six.”

Mr. Shigetada repeated, “Forty. And if you don't accept my offer right now, it will come down to thirty-eight.”

“I love it when people think they can threaten me.” Warring reached forward, grabbed an open bottle of beer that was sitting on his desk and took a swig. “Carson . . . tell him that I'm standing at the door and that I'm two seconds away from turning off the lights. This is the moment of truth. Deal or no deal?”

Carson looked at Mr. Shigetada and gestured. “What do you want to do?”

Mr. Shigetada simply stared back at Carson.

Carson waited a long time before he said to Warring, “Mr. Shigetada's answer is no answer.”

“Okay,” Warring said. “No answer, no deal. Carson, shut down your computer, I'm going home. Have a good weekend.”

“Forty-two,” Mr. Shigetada announced. “Final offer.”

Warring said, “Too late. Monday morning, it's over. Fire-sale prices. We don't care.”

“Then I buy back at fire-sale prices.”

“Not quite, because we're not going to sell to you. It will be a private sale. There are several interested parties, including Kami whatever they're called.”

That was Mr. Shigetada's biggest rival.

He suddenly stood up and yelled a word in Japanese.

Carson didn't know what the word meant or what Mr. Shigetada was going to do.

“Forty-four,” he shouted angrily at Carson's computer, “Forty-four. Not one penny more. Take it or leave it.”

Warring said calmly, “All cash.”

Mr. Shigetada nodded at Carson.

“That's a yes,” Carson told Warring. “Forty-four . . . all cash.”

“Done,” Warring said.

Carson looked at Mr. Shigetada. “Done?”

Mr. Shigetada pointed at Carson, then at Carson's computer, yelled that same word in Japanese, and stormed out of the suite.

“He's gone,” Carson told Warring.

“Do you know what he said before he left?”

“It sounded like it might be the Japanese equivalent of ‘fuck you.'”

“It wasn't that polite.” Warring raised the beer bottle in a toast. “Mission accomplished. Good job, my friend. Have a great weekend. Get home safely. We'll talk Monday.”

Carson said goodbye, e-mailed the lawyers to draw up the contract, shut off his laptop, and stared at the nighttime shadows as they moved across the Tokyo skyline.

“Mission accomplished,” he said to himself, then checked his watch, which was still on New York time.

Alicia wasn't on the air yet, but he knew at this hour she wouldn't have a lot of time to talk. Still, he dialed her cell.

She saw his caller ID and answered right away. “How did it go?”

“Not good,” he said.

“Why? What happened?”

He said, “Shigetada is impossible. He's dug in his heels and won't budge. I've been up all night, and we don't have a deal. Warring is furious. We're meeting again tonight and will probably be locked into this all day Sunday.”

“You'll be in Tokyo all weekend?”

“Blame it on Mr. Shigetada. I'm sorry. But he won't sell and he won't buy and . . . it ain't good. I'll talk to you over the weekend.”

“Oh well, if you're stuck in Tokyo, maybe I'll fly down to my mother's.” She said, “I miss you,” and he said, “I miss you too,” and they both hung up.

Carson calculated that if he left a wake-up call for seven, that would give him time for a short nap now, then a light workout, a fast whirlpool and some breakfast. But he'd also need some time to pack.

He dialed the front desk. “I'd like to leave a wake-up call for six thirty.”

The woman there promised to wake him on time.

Then he asked for the night concierge. “Is that ticket confirmed?”

“Yes, sir,” the concierge said. “We'll have a car ready for you at . . . how's eight thirty? Flight leaves at eleven fifty. You arrive tonight at ten to six, Paris time.”

T
he newsroom was going into countdown mode with less than an hour to air.

Alicia was finishing her copy for the lead story when Greg Mandel shouted from across the room, “We can't go live from the park.”

“That's idiotic,” she called back. “It's a public park.”

“We're not fighting City Hall. It's the Feds.”

“What have the Feds got to do with this?”

“Park rangers had to call in the Fish and Wildlife guys. And they're the ones who said no to us.”

“Why is Fish and Wildlife involved?”

“Because turning one of these things loose in the park may be a federal crime. Something about importing dangerous animals. Trust me, we tried.”

“So where's Peter going to be?”

“Walk and talk from Belvedere Castle to the Turtle Pond. That's where we think the action is.”

“How late can we hold the live feed?”

“For the lead?” He shrugged, “If Peter's not in place by quarter to, we'll have to can it.”

She stopped working on her copy, brought Google Maps up on her screen, and typed “Central Park” in the search box.

The area north of the Turtle Pond was heavily wooded. There would be no way to see it from outside the park on Fifth Avenue. But then, she noticed, several tourist attractions were listed on the bottom right-hand corner of the map, including St. Patrick's Cathedral, the Radio City Music Hall . . . and Trump Tower.

“Screw ‘em,” she shouted back to Greg. “I have a better idea. Let me make one call.”

She dialed Pierre Belasco. “I need a really big favor.”

“Of course,” he said, “for you, anything.”

“Can I send my camera crew and a reporter to the gym? We're doing a story about the park and they won't let us shoot live there.”

“Is Trump Tower or the Trump Organization involved in the story in any way? Will either be mentioned at any time?”

“No.”

“Because if Trump Tower or the Trump Organization is mentioned, you will need permission, which means bringing in our media people.”

“Honestly Pierre, all we want is the view of the park.”

“If that's all, then it will be my pleasure. When can I expect them?”

“Right away.” She hung up and called to Greg, “Trump Tower . . . residents' entrance on Fifty-Sixth Street. Ask for Mr. Belasco. The Trump name cannot be used. The vantage point cannot be identified.”

“Done,” Greg shouted back, and reached for his phone to redirect the reporter and the crew.

Alicia went back to writing her copy, changing the lead-in to, “Live from a vantage point overlooking Central Park . . .”

That's when Carson phoned from Japan to say he was stuck there.

No sooner had she hung up with him, when Greg shouted to her, “Peter's on the line.”

She grabbed the phone. “Peter . . . you mention Trump Tower and I will personally feed you to the monster.”

“I promise, I won't.”

“This is a big favor they're doing for me and I am warning you . . .”

“Okay, okay. Tell me what to say and I will say it.”

“My intro says, live from a vantage point overlooking Central Park.”

“Then I will throw it back to you by saying the same thing.”