Trump Tower (61 page)

“Peter, screw me on this and I guarantee one of us won't be working here on Monday.”

“Alicia . . . I promise.”

She hung up with him, then dialed Cyndi.

“You feeling better?”

“I'm okay.”

“Sure?”

“Just about.”

“Listen, Carson called to say he's stuck in Tokyo. Pack a bag. I'll phone Maria and have her pack a bag for me. Pick it up from her, get a car and meet
me at the Rainbow Room entrance at six thirty-five. You and I . . . how about a dirty weekend?”

“I don't have anything to wear.”

“You probably won't need much,” Alicia said. “I'll buy us some airplane tickets right now.”

S
HE READ HER INTRO
to the piece, then said, “We go live to Peter Bennett at a vantage point high above Central Park. Peter?”

On the monitor, a tight shot came up of a young man in a blue blazer with a blue shirt and dark blue tie standing close to a window with the park in the background.

“Alicia, city officials are concerned this evening that a wild animal is on the loose in Central Park. It is believed to be an ocelot . . . which belongs to the leopard family. They are native to South and Central America and sometimes roam as far north as Texas. But, as you said in your introduction, we don't find them in New York. While the animal has not yet been spotted, there are reports of birds, rabbits and even a raccoon being killed. We learned a few minutes ago that the carcass of a small red fox has been found. And we can also report tonight that the Central Park Zoo is in lockdown. Animals that normally live outside have been brought into shelters to protect them. Alicia?”

The screen split in two, with Alicia on the left and Peter on the right.

“Peter, is there any danger to the public?”

“Alicia, this is a wild animal. Although it is nocturnal, which means it hunts for food at night . . .”

A slide of an ocelot came up on the screen.

“. . . and the park is closed at night . . . the public is being advised that anyone who sees the animal should not approach it. They should notify the police or the park rangers immediately. This is not a friendly little pussycat.”

The screen went back to the two shot.

He continued, “This animal is a long way from home and . . . presumably . . . very frightened. There is no way to predict how it will react to humans. Alicia?”

“Peter, we've learned this evening that the federal government is now involved in this. Why?”

“Normally, the park rangers handle stray animals. Snakes, for example, are a common problem, and not long ago someone set a pet python free in Central Park. But an ocelot is another thing, altogether. There are concerns that it may have been imported into the country illegally . . . and that raises questions that the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, part of the Department of
Interior, must deal with. So they have become the lead agency in the hunt for the animal.”

“Finally, Peter, does anyone know yet how it got in the park?”

“Authorities are telling us there are only two reasonable explanations. Either it was a pet that escaped from an apartment. Or, someone brought it to the park and turned it loose. They want to find out because . . . if someone did turn it loose in the park . . . that could constitute a crime. Alicia?”

“Peter Bennett,” she said, “reporting tonight from high above Central Park. Thank you Peter.”

The shot went full screen to her.

“The MTA is back in the news . . .”

B
Y THE TIME
Alicia signed off the air, Cyndi was waiting with a car and driver at the Rainbow Room entrance.

The driver said, “Kennedy Airport?”

Cyndi said, “This is exciting but . . . where are we going?”

Alicia asked, “How's Paris?”

M
ost of Birgitta's clothes were already gone by the time Zeke got home from New York, although a lot of her other things—furniture she put in the room she called her office, several laptops, some art, a closet filled with hats and shoes, family photo albums, books, a huge collection of CDs and DVDs, her tennis gear, her golf clubs, six sets of fine china, silver tableware, and one of her two cars—were still at the house.

A note from her read, “I'll get the rest when I send movers to collect everything.”

He didn't know if something had been lost in translation from the original Swedish, or if she was making some sort of veiled threat. In any case, he saved the note to give to Bobby Lerner.

At the office, he faxed copies of the proposal he'd been handed from James Malcolm Isbister to Carl Kravitz, Lenny Silverberg, Harry Kahn, Bing O'Leary, Ken Warring and Bobby. He then spent the morning locked in a meeting with Perry Griswald and Monica Rosenblatt, going over their plans for the new business. When he came out of that meeting, there was a message from O'Leary saying, “Harry and I look forward to seeing you tonight.” There was also a message from Silverberg saying the same thing.

Not having heard from Kravitz or Warring, he phoned Warring first.

“With a few minor changes,” Warring said, “the guy's proposal is worth pursuing. After all, if he's willing to throw that much money into the pot, we should be willing to talk to him.”

He then related Warring's advice to Kravitz who offered to call Isbister to set up a meeting with Zeke. “How's Tuesday in New York?”

Zeke had an early lunch at Nate and Al's deli on Beverly Drive with Larry King—now that King was semiretired, Zeke made a point of having lunch with him a couple of times a month, and they always talked baseball—and after that, he drove home. He went for a quick swim, sat by the pool with a beer and made his usual round of calls—to Zoey and Max, to Hattie and to Miriam—then talked for the third time that day to Bobby.

That's when Kravitz called to say, “He can't do Tuesday morning but could do Wednesday afternoon at four. He said he can come to you.”

“Trump Tower . . . Wednesday at four.”

Thinking he'd fly east on Tuesday, he found a number for Roberto Santos and, when a woman answered in Spanish, Zeke announced in English who he was. She said, “Not home.” He left his name and number.

Five minutes later, Santos was on the line. “My mother tells everyone I'm not home, even when I am.”

“I was afraid you'd be on your way to the ballpark.”

“I'm already here in the clubhouse.”

“The reason I'm calling . . . I'm in LA . . . and I wanted you to know that we've taken over Sovereign Shields. You're now my client, which means you're a tax deduction. I can afford to take you out for a meal. As long as you don't eat too much. I'm back in New York next week. Where are you Wednesday or Thursday? I'd love it if we could get together. You guys home or on the road?”

“We're at home Tuesday night, play Wednesday afternoon, then go out for the next ten days.”

“If I come in Monday night, how's Tuesday lunch?”

“I don't do lunch when there's a game at night . . . but why don't you come to the game Tuesday night? I'll arrange tickets.”

“I'd love to.”

“No problem,” Roberto said, then added, “The other night I met Carson and Alicia and their friend Cyndi . . . I invited them to come to a game. So maybe . . . maybe you could bring them along?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Do you mind? I mean, maybe you could call them?”

“You want me to arrange it? Sure. I'll do it now.” Zeke phoned Carson in the office, but was told he was out of the country. So he phoned Alicia at home, and the maid suggested he try NBC. But then someone at NBC said she'd just left for the night, so he found her cell phone and dialed that.

She was in the car on the way to Kennedy.

He told her about the invitation for Tuesday night and she said, “Hold on, I'll check with Cyndi.”

Cyndi nodded, “Sure. Grown men in pajamas.”

“You're on,” Alicia said, but wanted to know, “How come Roberto didn't call himself?”

“Maybe he was afraid you'd say no.”

“Ah, I get it. Not me . . . Cyndi. He's so shy.” Then she added, “By the way, I have to pay for my own ticket. NBC rules.”

“Okay. But I got the impression that Roberto is comping us.”

“That's up to you guys. No problem for Carson and Cyndi, but make sure he knows I'm paying for my ticket.”

After speaking with her, Zeke took a short nap, then showered and dressed—white suit, white shoes, white shirt—for the Kahns' wear-only-white party.

He remembered to take the gift—a 24 x 16–inch antique English silver picture frame, hallmarked London 1877, into which he had fitted a rare photo he'd managed to dig up of Harry and Ilsa first arriving in Los Angeles—got into his 1957 Inca-silver Corvette convertible and drove to Marina del Rey, where
Goose Chase IV
was waiting.

The Kahns' 157-foot yacht had originally been called the
Nickelodeon
when Carl Laemmle, legendary founder of Hollywood's Universal Studios, commissioned it in Great Britain in 1937. Unfortunately, Laemmle never saw her because he died in 1939.

When World War II broke out, she was requisitioned by the Royal Navy and converted into a submarine chaser. After the war she sat in dry dock until she was bought, in the early 1950s, by the Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. He owned her for less than a year, trading up instead to the 325-foot
Christina
.

Onassis sold the decommissioned subchaser to Gaylord Dunwoody Bulloch, at the time the largest cotton merchant in Georgia, who dubbed her
Cotton Picker II
. On his passing, she changed hands several times, eventually falling into disrepair and winding up in a ship chandler's yard in Punta del Este, Uruguay.

The Kahns had owned three boats since the mid-1980s, each one bigger, faster and more modern than the previous one. In 2005, Harry had decided to build a new boat, which he'd planned to be the biggest, fastest and most modern seagoing yacht on the West Coast. That is, until a broker mentioned this one. He and Ilsa flew to Uruguay to see her, fell in love with her immediately and freightered her back to the United States where he spent $3.6 million refitting her.

She slept ten, carried a crew of eight and featured a fifty-foot main dining room and salon. Normally they moored her at Santa Barbara, where the Kahns had a home. But this was Ilsa's seventy-fifth birthday, and
Goose Chase IV
was sailing tonight promptly at seven around Catalina while seventy-five guests had dinner and danced.

As Zeke pulled up to the gangplank, a young guy valet parking attendant opened his door and said, “Cool car. I just parked a red one exactly like it.”

Zeke rolled his eyes because he'd owned his longer than Jay Leno had owned the red one.

A receptionist in a white tuxedo greeted him at the bottom of the gangplank, checked his name off the guest list and wished him a pleasant evening. Waiters and waitresses—all in white tuxedos—were lined up at the top of the gangplank to welcome him aboard with mimosa cocktails.

A jazz band was playing on the aft deck, where Harry and Ilsa were greeting their guests.

Zeke kissed Ilsa and hugged Harry and handed her the gift.

“Thank you, so much, darling,” Ilsa said, wearing a flowing white Ralph Lauren taffeta gown. “I take it that Birgitta isn't with you this evening. Harry told me. I'm so sorry.”

“It happens in the best of families,” he said.

She handed the gift to a young man who was standing at her side for just that purpose. “You know, of course, you could have brought a date. Miriam, perhaps?”

Thanking her and wishing her happy birthday again, he stepped aside so that Tom Hanks and his wife could wish Ilsa a happy birthday, too.

Zeke went to remind Leno and his wife, Mavis, that he'd bought his Corvette first.

The major studio execs were there—he chatted briefly with Hertz Monroe and Frank Lacosta and Ti Wrigley—then greeted Ron Howard and his wife who was talking to Steven Spielberg and his wife.

Next to them, the legendary comedy writer Chris Bearde and his wife, Caroline, were talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Bearde reminded Zeke, “Arnie's unemployed and could use a job.”

Arnie nodded. “I'm very good around the house . . . plumbing . . . painting . . . gardening?”

Waiters moved through the crowd carrying trays with drinks, followed by waitresses moving through the crowd carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres.

Nearby, Demi Moore was talking to Forest Whitaker and his wife, Keisha.

Then Zeke spotted two great old pals. He went across to the other side of the aft deck where Carl Reiner . . . wearing a flat sailor's cap . . . was standing
with Mel Brooks, director and screenwriter Phil Alden Robinson and Phil's wife, Paulette Bartlett.