by Adam Gittlin
All eight.
Half a billion dollars.
The Gulfstream seats sixteen. Today it is just Cobus, Arnon Driessen, and myself. Arnon is in-house counsel. He’s a tiny little, bald, sixty-something-year-old man who can’t weigh more than he did in sixth grade. But whatever he weighs, I’d swear half that poundage is his brain. Arnon is one of the brightest commercial real estate law minds I have ever been around—New York, Amsterdam, anywhere I’ve ever been. And he eats, breathes, and sleeps de Bont Beleggings. Arnon, the first and only in-house counsel Cobus ever brought in, has been with him for years. He’s seated toward the front of the cabin entranced by one of the documents he’s reviewing related to the deal in Manhattan. Cobus and I are in the back of the cabin discussing the deal.
“Did you ever find out what the rift is between GlassWell and the minority partner?” asks Cobus.
GlassWell Holdings Inc. is the seller. They are a private commercial real estate firm that owns thirty-two office buildings, half of the portfolio in Manhattan and the rest in Boston. The target, our desired property within their portfolio, is one of only two New York City buildings they own with a partner.
“Just the basics. Apparently, the partnership is a long-standing one. GlassWell is of the mind-set of spending on their buildings—capital improvements, system upgrades, whatever enhances both value and the tenants’ experience. They like to spend on their buildings and they have the cash on hand to do so, both very much like us. For the minority partner, a small-time family player, this is one of their biggest holdings, and they are finding things like three-million-dollar roof replacements too big a burden. Simply two different philosophies, and the minority is starting to threaten legal action—claiming GlassWell is spending unwisely and trying to drive them out of the building. Classic example of a partnership gone sour, and GlassWell simply finds it all to be occupying too much of their time. So they want out. This is one of the main reasons I find the target so attractive. The building is in phenomenal shape and in the hands of a very motivated seller.”
“It will be interesting to meet Ryan. He seems to be a quality individual, a very smart fella,” Cobus says, referring to Ryan Brand, Director of Acquisitions for GlassWell who’s been at the helm of this deal for them.
“Seems to be,” I respond with a slight shoulder shrug.
Ryan Brand is smart as they come—Cobus is right about that. But he’s also a real estate animal. He must be around fifty now, and will creep into your bedroom in the middle of the night and snuff you out with a pillow if it means getting his deal done—a buy, a sale, a refinance, whatever. He has the rare combination of self-control and aggressiveness they probably find in serial killers, masked with an unbelievable poker face. Ryan is good looking, confident, well dressed, Yale educated, ice in his veins, and out for blood. Before this deal I had never known him, and in putting this deal together we’d only dealt with him over the phone. But back in my days at PCBL my team had placed a number of tenants in GlassWell-owned buildings. And at the height of my career in Manhattan, I knew as many people in the real estate community as anyone. I had heard the stories about Ryan Brand.
“You love that Annex,” Cobus says. “You just love that aspect of the target.”
Cobus was now talking about the actual building itself.
“I do. I can’t help thinking it is about as unique a property as I have seen. And in one of the best submarkets—from what I understand—in all of New York City.”
The situation is surreal. We’re discussing a property I’ve made deals in and know like the back of my hand. As if it’s a new building sitting in a new market in a new city—all of which I’ll be experiencing for the first time.
The target property is 120 East 52nd Street, a building known as the Freedom Bank Building because of the retail component of the property—a huge, wide-open, three-story high-ceilinged bank from the 1920s that today is one of the preeminent catering halls in all of New York City. The bulk of the property is an eighteen-story, two-hundred-and-thirty-thousand-square-foot Class A commercial office building above the retail space. The Freedom Bank Building is a special property for a host of reasons. It is a perfectly located, high-rent office property that is never less than 95 percent leased. The pristinely maintained, ornate, predominantly gold-appointed original lobby with arched, vaulted ceilings painted to resemble an afternoon sky takes you back to one of the great ages of prosperity in our country’s history. The retail component—today called “Alessi NYC”—is run by the world famous Alessi restaurateur family and is one of the most desired event spaces in The City.
But the property is also special because of The Annex.
A thirty-thousand-square-foot, double-edged, real estate sword.
The office tower is on the north side of 52nd Street. Directly east, attached to the property, is another smaller property called The Annex. At the time the Alessi catering hall was Freedom Bank, almost a century ago, The Annex was where the corporate employees of the bank were housed. It is comprised of five stories, each six thousand square feet and change. There is a spiral staircase in the center of the building spanning all five floors, as well as a single elevator bank at the back of the property that goes from the basement to the top.
These are tough floors to lease if a landlord has to do so individually. They don’t have great amenities for single floor users, as two of the five floors are underserved in terms of restrooms, there is only one elevator, the central staircase would need to be slabbed over, among other issues. On the other hand, there are hundreds—maybe thousands—of firms that need in the ballpark of thirty thousand square feet. How many of them get to have what is essentially their own Midtown building?
“Let me ask you this, Ivan,” Cobus continues, “would we be flying to New York right now if Enzo Alessi hadn’t made the Annex deal?”
“Irrelevant question.” I respond.
The question is far from irrelevant—more like moot for the time being. And the answer is most likely no. Something I would never tell him.
“He made the deal,” I continue. “The entire Annex, fifteen-year lease, rent starting at sixty U.S. dollars per square foot and escalating to seventy-two dollars per square foot by year fifteen. The perfect headquarters for the Alessi Family to run their American operation. And at—again, from what I understand—above market rents.”
Aimee, our cute blond flight attendant appears. She places a bowl of fresh fruit, a plate of assorted cheeses and sliced Italian meats, and a pitcher of ice water and two tall glasses in front of us.
“Perhaps a cocktail or a glass of wine, gentlemen?”
We decline. She pours each of us a glass of water.
“Haven’t we already been through this, Cobus?” I say, taking a long drink of the cool water, parting my lips just enough for a bit of crushed ice as well. “I believe my initial comprehensive analysis of the property covered all potential scenarios in substantial depth. As my analyses always do. No?”
“Yes, we’ve been through this. And, yes, your analysis was thorough, one of the reasons we are purchasing the target. I just like hearing you flex that intellectual real estate muscle. You’ve become quite convincing over the years, Ivan. Sometimes I like to hear things a second time to make sure I didn’t rely too heavily on your instincts the first time around. Makes me feel like I’m still important around here.”
You want to be humored? Then humor you I will.
“Yes—the Annex accounts for thirteen percent of the overall space. And yes, having to market the floors individually would certainly be a challenge. But what’s to say it would ever come to having to market them individually? I said it before, I’ll say it again. How many users of this size space get their own address in New York City? If it weren’t Alessi, it would have been someone else. A boutique marketing firm, a tech firm, a small, local law firm—this is sexy, flexible space that can work for many potential users.”
Though the words sound convincing as hell as they ro
ll from my tongue, I’m far from convinced myself. The reality is this Annex—though appealing for all the reasons mentioned—has a number of drawbacks. I’ve mentioned a few but add to that the natural lighting sucks. The back wall of the Annex essentially faces another building so there is only one wall—the front wall—allowing sunlight in. There’s no dedicated service elevator. The list goes on and on. If I was the broker for a tenant shopping for thirty thousand square feet—back in my days at PCBL—and the Annex had been available, I would have most likely steered my client away.
“The Annex is prime for a user like the Alessi Family. Not only is their headquarters literally attached to one of their most important entities, their U.S. operation is growing exponentially. They have a new event space opening in Miami in three months, as well as a new restaurant in Chicago in just a couple weeks.”
“In Manhattan they have five venues,” Cobus says looking to confirm his knowledge of the tenant. “Two event spaces, two restaurants—one Midtown, the other Downtown. Plus a new cutting-edge restaurant-slash-art gallery concept spot opening in Midtown.”
I nod my head as I answer, “Correct.”
Cobus touches a button on the wall next to him. The shades throughout the cabin slowly descend. He hits another couple buttons, and with each one touched another block of the cabin lighting goes dark. Without even looking up, Arnon enacts his personal lighting toward the front of the cabin, lighting that only touches his immediate space. He knows the drill all too well.
“Okay, enough about the Alessi family for now,” Cobus continues. “Let’s discuss some of the other tenants.”
I pick up my iPad, and with a couple taps of the screen, a small projector in the wall of the cabin is enabled. In front of us, floating in the air, a 3-D hologram of the target appears—the Freedom Bank Building. From the tablet in my hands I can manipulate the image as desired—I can rotate it, separate it into pieces, flip it—whatever we need. Each tenant is identified by a different color, which allows us to see the exact make up of the property in terms of who has what space.
“Let’s touch on the specifics of Lazaar & Dutchess first,” Cobus says.
Lazaar & Dutchess, a law firm, and one of the two largest tenants in the building.
“They have just under eight years left on their lease if I remember correctly,” he goes on. “They’re paying pretty solid overall numbers. The majority of the space was taken at then-market rents, maybe a bit higher. They added to their space a couple years later at numbers that were a bit soft as they saw good timing in terms of both their needs as well as deteriorating market conditions.”
“That’s right.”
I tap the iPad. The canary yellow portion of the hologram identifying the Lazaar & Dutchess space—the top two and a third floors—separates from the rest of the property, doubles in size, and moves in front of the rest of the floating building so it can be examined more closely.
“Up here,” I go on as I stand and point, “is where they tend to place the associates. Apparently Jessie Jordan, the principal partner who runs the show, likes them as far away from his office as possible.”
As we continue to discuss each tenant in painstaking detail for the duration of the flight, all I can really think about is one thing: I’m really on my fucking way back to New York City.
CHAPTER 5
NICE, FRANCE
2004
The moment I realized I had no choice but to flee the United States, I knew where I’d be going.
The South of France.
Throughout my life I have been fortunate to have traveled frequently. For business, for pleasure—I have been on five continents, having done everything from eating fugu in Tokyo to sailing in Auckland to attending the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. The traveling began when I was young. My father—a prominent New York City office-building owner—was also a huge believer in diversification. A savvy international investor, he put money in all sorts of business and financial instruments with roots all around the world. Though I can’t even remember all of the places I’ve visited once, there is one place I’ve gone a couple weeks every August since I was a boy. The Côte d’Azur or French Riviera.
I left the U.S.—with Neo as my travel companion—under the alias Roy Gordon. Courtesy of my best friend since childhood, L, real name Tanqueray Luckman, I had both an authentic Alaskan driver’s license as well as a valid American passport that spoke to this as my true identity. My temporary destination was St. Maxime, France, via a direct flight to Nice.
I wasn’t the only one with false documents back then. I had secured them also for my three business partners: Tommy, Perry, and Jake. The three were definitely going to take major heat—NYPD, FBI, the works—because of my actions. I wanted each of them to have an out—as well as the sizeable chunk of change left in Swiss bank accounts under each respective alias courtesy of my father’s ridiculous life-insurance policy payout—should they want it. They probably wouldn’t, as I made clear, need it, as the fact was none of them had any idea what I was up to, or what kind of hell I had been dragged into. I just wanted them to be covered should others prejudge them as they had me. And because I felt so guilty about fucking with the lives they had all worked so hard to carve out.
Before leaving, I told one person where I’d be temporarily. Perry York. Even though we worked together and had never even kissed, she was the true love I had always sought. When I told her I was leaving, she asked if I could live knowing even the dream of us being together was dead. I said I couldn’t. Right there, on the spot, she told me she’d run with me. Not just to protect her young son, Max, from her crooked, vindictive husband, but because, deep down, she was in love with me too.
I told her I’d be in St. Maxime, France, and that leaving together would be simply too dangerous. If she followed, once she arrived, she should call every hotel and ask to be connected to Roy Gordon’s room. I told her I wouldn’t be there long, three days tops.
Once the plane was in the air, and Neo and I were officially on the run, I passed out. I hadn’t even realized how exhausted I was. The previous three weeks had felt like years. At wheels up it was sunny out. When I awoke hours later it was pitch black. I remember looking in Neo’s carrier, which was strapped into the window seat. He was sound asleep on his side, all four legs extended straight out. His little belly expanded then retracted with each breath. At that moment, my new reality stole my own breath. I was, justifiably or not, a fugitive.
I was terrified. I had no choice but to embark on a completely new life. None of the same people or places ever again. How was I going to make this work?
Could I make this work?
Do I spend time worrying about what I left behind? Or do I strictly focus on moving forward? I had always felt like the roughest guy in the room, the man with no fear. Nothing in my life had ever felt potentially insurmountable.
Until now.
After seven and a half hours in the air, we started to descend. More mixed emotions. I was excited by the prospect of getting off the plane, ridding myself of this confinement. But I was petrified by the possibility that I hadn’t been as smart as I thought. And that I was about to be greeted by cops waiting with stun guns and handcuffs.
As soon as I saw the glimmer of lights along the coastline in the distance, like scattered diamonds on black glass, I squeezed my eyes shut. I forced myself to say good-bye to everything I had ever known. I did everything I could to fight back tears. Through the vent on top of his carrier, I saw Neo stretching. The house lights coming on and passengers preparing for arrival had awoken him.
I knew the terminal well. Once inside, I stopped in the duty-free store. Like all duty-free stores, the joint was a hoarder’s wet dream—everything from alcohol to chocolates to fragrances to apparel to toys and everything in between. I hit the electronics area for hair clippers and batteries and a prepaid, disposable cell phone, then grabbed a pair of jeans and a couple of dark, solid t-shirts. The next stop was only a few meters past
the store, a counter where I was able to convert a bunch of cash to euros. From there I hit the men’s room, discarded the hair clippers’ packaging in the garbage, and locked myself in a stall.
Another fucking bathroom stall, I thought to myself. Just a couple of weeks earlier, in a stall just like this one in my office building in Midtown Manhattan, I first discovered one of the rarest treasures known to man—Danish Jubilee Egg, one of the eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs—had been planted in my briefcase. A replay of the chaos that ensued tried forcing itself into my brain. I shook my head hard to shake such thoughts away. I needed to keep moving. I was literally at the starting line of a race with an undetermined finish line.
Without a thought I sheared off my hair, watching it hit the water only to settle on the surface for a few seconds before sinking. I did it quickly, methodically. Once the first pass was done I did a second. This time there were sprinkles instead of the clumps. The third pass produced nothing. With toilet paper I scrubbed the clippers clean of my fingerprints. Then I ditched them underneath the rear of the toilet bowl, almost perfectly out of sight, and flushed the hair and paper away.
Wearing the Yankee cap I bought at Liberty International earlier in the day—to help hide my eyes as TVs throughout the airport flashed my picture—I exited L’Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur and headed for the Hertz car rental lot across the way. The air was crisp. A hint of Mediterranean breeze welcomed me back. Behind me, and beyond the structure now at my back, I heard another plane take off. My right hand held Neo’s carrier, my left hand had my briefcase. Slung over my shoulder was a small gym bag stuffed with a few crumpled suits, ties, underwear, and socks, all I had time to grab before escaping my own apartment.
I let Neo out of his case for the longest pee of his life, which he did on the tire of a black Mercedes, and a quick poop. Then within minutes Roy Gordon was traveling south on the Bord de Mer, the famous road hugging the southeastern coastline of France from Monaco to St. Tropez. I was in an Opel Astra. The compact, four-door sedan was perfect for the region’s tight, windy roads. Having driven one all my life, whether in the United States or Europe, the manual transmission’s stick shift was like second nature. I rolled the windows down and headed south.