Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  He hugged them all, then said to Reiner, “I didn’t know you were a sailor.”

  “Harry has made so many C-pictures,” Reiner smiled, punning the rating “C” for the word “sea,” “that I enlisted.”

  All of a sudden, the ship’s bells sounded and the captain’s voice came over a loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentleman, all ashore who’s going ashore. Gangplank away.”

  The ship’s horn blasted twice and as music blared over the speakers—a recording of the US Navy Band playing “Anchors Aweigh”—Goose Chase IV slipped its moorings and headed into the harbor.

  Over dinner, Zeke sat at the table with Lenny Silverberg, who’d flown to the coast especially for the event, this time bringing his wife, Sylvia, with him.

  They couldn’t really chat during the meal—which was cooked by Rene Theriault, whose tiny restaurant in Santa Barbara, appropriately named Douze because there were only twelve tables, had won its third Michelin star—but Sylvia changed places with Zeke during dessert.

  Of course, they talked about the meal.

  Theriault had designed it entirely around oranges. Beginning with a tossed salad of prawns, mandarins, and walnuts, there was a choice of three main courses—an orange spring salad for the vegetarians, grilled deep-sea perch in an orange vinaigrette sauce for anyone who wanted fish, or duck in orange sauce for anyone who wanted meat. Dessert was a triple-orange Grand Marnier soufflé, made with California mandarins, Florida bloods, and Spanish Murcias.

  “I could probably cook like this,” Silverberg bragged to Zeke, “except Sylvia would have to show me first where the kitchen is.”

  “I don’t cook at all,” Zeke admitted. “Do you?”

  “Does toasting a bagel count?”

  Now Zeke asked, “You see the proposition from that guy, Isbister?”

  “I say, go for it. What the hell. Although Bobby should back him away from his insistence that we use his auditors. If he wants to audit the books, that’s his business. But our auditors need to be our guys.”

  “You’re right,” Zeke said, and was about to ask Silverberg whether or not they should reconsider including the Bronx property in the deal, when the lights in the room dimmed and the waiters appeared carrying an enormous dark chocolate and orange birthday cake, alit with candles.

  Everyone sang happy birthday, then Harry got up and made a little speech—telling Ilsa that she would always be the love of his life—and as champagne was poured into every glass in the room, everyone on board toasted Ilsa.

  The six jazz musicians now moved into place on the bandstand, presumably so that the evening of dancing could begin while the cake was being served, but then Bing O’Leary and his wife, Ilene, got up to speak.

  “Ilsa,” Bing said, “when I stole your only daughter, you welcomed me with open arms and an open heart into your family.”

  Everyone in the room knew that wasn’t quite true, but no one was going to say as much.

  “And as you are the love of Harry’s life,” he went on, “Ilene is the love of my life. And she has now revealed the family secret.”

  Ilene took the microphone. “Yes, there is a family secret. Mom, you and I both know that. Now Bing knows it too. Remember that night, I was about sixteen, and I said that I had a crush on Danny Rabinowitz . . .”

  “Wait,” Bing cut in. “I never heard this part before.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said to her husband, obviously having rehearsed this bit, “nothing ever happened. But . . . don’t get too comfortable because Danny is a very successful orthodontist and I know how to find him.”

  He mugged a face and everyone laughed.

  “That night at the dinner table,” Ilene continued, “I said if Danny wanted to go steady, I would never leave him . . . except if Paul Bloomberg asked me first because he was the guy I really liked. So Dad asked Mom, would you ever leave me? And she said, no, never . . . except for one person.”

  “Harry . . . hold on to Ilsa . . .” Bing announced, “that one person is here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome . . . mister . . . Tony Bennett.”

  The band struck up the music, and Tony Bennett sang for an hour.

  Champagne was still being poured as Goose Chase IV slipped back into the marina at one in the morning.

  Zeke was standing near the rails, watching the mooring with Matt Damon and his wife, Luciana, when someone came up behind him, put his arms around him, and kissed the back of his neck.

  He turned around to find Mikey Glass.

  “That was pretty friendly of you,” he said.

  “Why not?” Mikey announced. “You’re my favorite person in the whole wide world of Learjet Sixties.” He smiled at the Damons, “I guess you can tell it’s not our first date.”

  Luciana kissed Mikey hello and Matt hugged him.

  “Quite a party,” Mikey said.

  “It certainly is,” Zeke agreed.

  He looked at Zeke, “Going back to New York any time soon?”

  Zeke knew enough to be vague. “Hard to say. Not tonight, in any case.”

  “Too bad,” Mikey said. “I’m going tomorrow. Otherwise I would love to have invited myself for another ride.” He said to the Damons, “No in-flight movies, but the taps in the bathroom run hot and cold Perrier.”

  Zeke told him, “You’re a brave man going back to the lion’s den.”

  Mikey shrugged it off. “Trying to apologize to the wife.”

  “That’s good. I’m proud of you.”

  “Has nothing to do with me,” he confessed. “My accountants came up with a number, you know, what it would cost if I didn’t. Apologies are part of my five-year economic plan.”

  Zeke looked at Matt and Luciana, “If he’s nothing else, Mikey is utilitarian.”

  “Is that like being a Unitarian?” He looked around. “I’m not, but if I were, I’d be outnumbered two hundred to one. Aren’t there any Protestants left in Hollywood?”

  Zeke decided to change the subject. “I didn’t realize you were close to the Kahns.”

  “Harry and Ilsa?” Mikey bragged, “They’ve been like second parents to me.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Zeke said.

  And later, when Zeke mentioned it to Harry, he said the same thing. “I didn’t know that, either.”

  SATURDAY

  63

  In the taxi from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the Ritz Hotel, Cyndi got on her cell phone and made a call. She spoke softly in her fluent French with a slight American accent, always keeping her hand over her mouth so the driver couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  All the time she was on the phone, happy and laughing like an excited schoolgirl, Alicia noticed that the driver kept looking at Cyndi in his rearview mirror, as if he knew her but couldn’t figure out who she was.

  Par for the course, Alicia thought. After all, it hadn’t been all that long ago when Cyndi was one of the most famous faces in Europe.

  Just as they were coming into Paris, Cyndi pointed to a huge billboard showing the face of an extremely handsome, slightly weathered man with dark green eyes and pursed lips. In bold letters across the bottom was the word Convoitise.

  “What? That?” Alicia looked at the huge sign as they passed it.

  “Him.”

  “Him?”

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh.” Alicia turned to take a closer look.

  Cyndi nodded. “Picking me up at the hotel this evening for dinner. Hope you don’t mind. Means you’ve got the room all to yourself . . . or something like that.”

  “Or something like that,” she grinned. “What does that word on the billboard mean?”

  “Convoitise? It’s his new film. It means . . .” She opened her eyes wide, “Lust. Appropriate, no?”

  The taxi pulled into the Place Vendôme and up to the front of the hotel. The smartly uniformed doorman came up, opened the door and tipped his hat. “Bonjour mesdames et bienvenu.”—Good morning ladies and welcome.

  Then he recognized
Cyndi and screamed, “Mademoiselle Benson, c’est vous? C’est pas vrai.” Is that you? It’s not true.

  She hugged him and said in French, “Gaston, you are the love of my life.”

  “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in such a long time.” He nodded to Alicia, “Bonjour madame,” then went back to gushing over Cyndi. “Seeing you is like a vision . . .” He signaled for a groom—a young boy in a blue jacket and dark blue kepi—who couldn’t take his eyes off Cyndi.

  Gaston had to remind the boy to fetch the luggage in the trunk.

  Escorting them inside the hotel, Gaston called to the head concierge who looked up from what he was doing and saw Cyndi. “C’est pas vrai.” He raced around his desk and into the lobby to hug her. “Mademoiselle . . . c’est pas vrai. C’est pas vrai.”

  “Jean-Pierre . . .” she said in French, “you are more handsome than ever.”

  While they were hugging, Gaston called to the reception desk clerk, “Tell Monsieur Fournier to come quickly. Right away. Immediately.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded to Alicia, “Bonjour madame, bienvenu”—welcome—then turned back to Cyndi. “Why have you been such a stranger? When was the last time you were here? Paris is not Paris without Cyndi Benson.”

  “That’s true,” Gaston agreed, “very true. Paris needs you.”

  “And I need Paris.” Cyndi started telling both of them in French why she hadn’t been back in nearly four years, when a booming voice came from down the hallway, “C’est pas vrai.”

  A large man with a trimmed goatee in a perfectly cut charcoal-gray suit came galloping up and hugged her. He kissed Cyndi on both cheeks, hugged her again and kissed the side of her face again.

  Cyndi introduced Alicia. “Monsieur Fournier is the directeur général of the Ritz. He is the man who makes everything happen . . . not just here but in all of Paris.”

  He took Alicia’s hand, bowed, and almost kissed it. “Bonjour madame, welcome to the Ritz Hotel.” Then he turned back to Cyndi and started asking all the same questions that Gaston and Jean-Pierre had. “Where have you been . . . why haven’t we seen you in such a long time . . .”

  The reunion in the lobby attracted quite a bit of attention from other guests and soon included the maître d’ from the restaurant, the chef, the bartender from the Hemingway Bar and the head housekeeper.

  When they saw her, each of them exclaimed, loudly, “C’est pas vrai,” and although they were polite and welcoming to Alicia, after they said, “bonjour madame,” to her, they immediately turned back to Cyndi to ask where she had been for so long.

  An older American woman, obviously a tourist, leaned over to Alicia. “Who is she? A French movie star?”

  Alicia whispered, “She owns the joint.”

  The woman nodded, “Looks like it,” and walked away.

  Eventually Monsieur Fournier excused himself, went to the desk, spoke quietly with the receptionist, and came back with two key cards. He said to Cyndi in French, “Unfortunately, the suite of Madame Chanel is occupied. Had we known in advance that you were arriving . . . I hope you won’t mind the alternative.”

  He escorted them into the elevator, up one flight and into a private entrance.

  Stepping through the door, they walked into an absolutely gorgeous living room that ran along the front of the hotel, with huge French windows draped in silk facing the Place Vendôme.

  It was filled with Louis XIV furniture and fine antiques.

  Fournier then brought them into the master bedroom with its wonderful four-poster canopy bed and said to Alicia in English, “Madame, this is an exact replica of Marie Antoinette’s chambre.”

  Cyndi assured Alicia, “Not to worry, they didn’t chop her head off in this bedroom. An exact replica of the guillotine is in the next room.”

  “There is, of course, a second bedroom,” Monsieur Fournier nodded to Alicia, as if to say, Cyndi gets the great one, you get the merely very good one. He even showed it to them. It was beautiful, Alicia thought, but not as imposing as the main bedroom.

  He also showed them the main bathroom with the largest marble bathtub Alicia had ever seen.

  “This is called the Imperial Suite,” Cyndi said to Alicia, “because the Czar used to stay here. The tub is that big so that when the Czar was out for an evening of clubbing, raping and pillaging, the Czarina could take baths with the Cossacks.”

  “Speaking of Cossacks . . .” Monsieur Fournier raised his finger to make a point, then motioned for them to follow him. He led them to a secret passageway near the front door with a tiny balcony inside the suite that overlooked the entrance. “This is actually where the Cossacks stood guard to protect the Czar when he was here.”

  The luggage quickly arrived, and with it a huge basket of fruit, two bottles of champagne, several vases of fresh-cut flowers and an enormous box of chocolates.

  Monsieur Fournier assured Alicia if she needed anything at all, it would be his honor to serve her. He then bent down and almost kissed Alicia’s hand, but took Cyndi in his arms and kissed both sides of her face. “You are a breath of fresh air. May you never ever change.”

  When he was gone, Alicia extended her arms to Cyndi, inviting her to dance, and began singing softly, “Never never change, keep that breathless charm . . .”

  Cyndi sang with her, “. . . won’t you please arrange it ‘cause I love you . . .”

  The two of them nearly fell over with laughter.

  “Chocolates!” Alicia ripped open the box. “Not bad digs for two girls from the sticks.”

  “Champagne?” Cyndi took two glasses while Alicia opened the bottle and poured.

  “The suite where Coco lived,” Cyndi explained, “is much smaller. And anyway, it’s not the same one she had at the end of her life. It’s nice, but I have always preferred this one.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “Always?” Alicia poured them both a second glass. “How many alwayses have you spent in this museum to French . . . convoitise?”

  A grin came across Cyndi’s face. “More than a few.”

  “With who?”

  “More than a few.”

  “At the same time?”

  “More than a few,” she giggled. “Let’s take a bath.”

  “Where are the Cossacks when you need them?”

  “Bring the champagne.”

  “And the chocolates.”

  Cyndi ran the water in the huge tub—it took some time to fill because it was so big—while Alicia found bottles of bubble bath and emptied four of them in the tub. Then she filled their glasses, popped a chocolate into Cyndi’s mouth, took one for herself, and the two of them raced out of their clothes.

  Alicia lay back at one end, and Cyndi lay back at the other, facing her, champagne glass in hand. But even as big as the tub was, the spout was in the way and Cyndi couldn’t get comfortable. So she sat up and, careful not to spill any champagne, crawled next to Alicia.

  “Better,” she said, taking Alicia’s left arm and wrapping it around herself.

  Alicia filled up their glasses again, then sang in a whisper, “Yes you’re lovely, with your smile so warm . . .”

  Cyndi looked up at Alicia and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You are the sister I never had . . . and the mother I never had . . . and the best friend in the entire universe I always dreamed of having. I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Cuddled up close like that in the hot bubbly water, the two of them drank more champagne, sang slowly and softly, and within a few minutes, both of them were asleep.

  “FIRST THINGS FIRST,” Cyndi announced once they woke up, soaped off, dried off, and got dressed, “Les Deux Magots.”

  Alicia wore her Missoni jeans, one of Carson’s button-down Oxford white shirts, tied at the waist and a New York Yankees baseball jacket.

  Cyndi wore white Chanel jockey pants tucked into white Chanel knee-length boots, a white sweatshirt that read “Bon Marche” in big blac
k letters—it means “bargain”—a little white jockey’s cap, and big dark sunglasses.

  Downstairs they hired a car for the afternoon.

  It was a little after two when their driver, Roland, delivered them in his brand-new Mercedes to the entrance of the famous Left Bank Café on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Some of the Saturday lunch crowd had already left. But for Alicia, arriving there with Cyndi was like arriving at the Ritz all over again.

  “C’est pas vrai.” A tall older gentleman in a suit and tie with a bushy gray mustache came running up to her. “Mon amour . . . mon amour . . .”—my love—“Mon amour . . .” He hugged her and kissed her and brought her to his table at the back, along the far wall.

  Cyndi introduced Monsieur Pelletier. Alicia had no idea who this man was, except that everybody seemed to show him great deference. He ordered champagne and French onion soup and snails for them. The waiters fawned over Cyndi and obeyed every one of Monsieur Pelletier’s commands.

  Before long, they were joined by two other men in their seventies and two women around the same age. Cyndi whispered to Alicia that one of the women was a famous old actress and the man with her had been Minister of the Interior. She said that the other man was France’s greatest opera star. But everyone was speaking French so fast and there were so many people hovering around the table that all Alicia could do was eat her soup, drink her champagne and feel really happy that Cyndi was having so much fun.

  Then another man arrived, and he was carrying a huge photo album. He kissed Cyndi hello, slid onto the banquette next to her, thumbed through the album and started showing everyone at the table photos.

  Cyndi pointed to Alicia and he showed the photos to her, too.

  There was Cyndi in the Deux Magots laughing with Charles Aznavour, Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jane Birkin, pretending to pose with the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, clowning with Catherine Deneuve and Gérard Depardieu, making faces with an absolutely stunning Princess Caroline of Monaco, singing with Vanessa Paradis and Johnny Depp, and on point with the famous ballerina Rosella Hightower. There was Cyndi in the Deux Magots in the arms of the fashion legend Pierre Cardin, and with Jean-Paul Gaultier and Inès de la Fressange, in the arms of the director Roger Vadim, arm in arm with President Mitterand, leaning on the shoulder of the French soccer star Zinedine Zidane, sharing a secret with Carla Bruni, and lip to lip with the dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov.