Trump Tower (48 page)

The woman spoke with her hand hiding her mouth to whomever it was on the other end.

The auctioneer repeated, “I have twenty-eight . . . selling at twenty-eight thousand dollars in the room.”

The woman nodded at the auctioneer.

“Thirty thousand dollars on the phone.” He looked at the man in the second row who thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Thirty thousand dollars on the phone . . . any advance on thirty thousand dollars? No more?” He banged down his gavel.

Not bad, Zeke thought.

The auctioneer announced, “Lot number forty-six . . . Keith Haring.”

An ink-on-paper series of black-and-white squiggles, circles and lines that combined to look something like a maze, Zeke's reserve price was $30,000. It was sold for $55,000.

Next was a Milton Avery nude, a very pink woman lying on her side on a divan, that Zeke offered with a $50,000 reserve. It went for $85,000.

Zeke now had $170,000 in his pocket, but to justify in his own head what he would have to spend for the lot he wanted, he really needed this last lot to go through the roof.

“Tom Wesselmann,” the auctioneer announced. “From the series ‘Great American Nude,' this is oil, printed fabric, foil and printed-paper collage on panel.”

His reserve was $125,000.

The auctioneer started the bidding at $110,000 and with paddles going up and down all over the room, the price rapidly climbed to $250,000. Bidding stalled there for a moment, then picked up again.

“Two hundred fifty-five thousand dollars on the phone . . . thank you. Two sixty? Two sixty-five . . .”

Old bidders dropped out and new bidders came in and the auctioneer got the price up to $320,000.

“Any advance on three hundred twenty thousand dollars? Fair warning, selling now to the gentleman in the very rear of the room for three hundred twenty thousand . . .” He waited for something to happen and when nothing did, he banged down his gavel. “To you sir, for three hundred twenty thousand dollars.”

Zeke's total came to $490,000. But the estimate on the item he wanted to buy, lot eighty-six, was $500,000 to $700,000.

And just as that was about to come up, James Malcolm Isbister walked into the room.

He found Zeke, shook his hand and asked, “Shall we step into the hallway to talk?”

“I'm going to bid on something,” Zeke explained.

Dressed as he had been two days before in LA—in a somber suit, with a white shirt and dark tie—Isbister told him, “Unfortunately, I need to be elsewhere in less than quarter of an hour and was hoping to get this matter settled.”

The auctioneer called out, “Lot eighty-six . . . showing on the screens . . .”

“This is mine.”

Isbister didn't seem to care. “We continue to have antitrust concerns with your proposal.”

“Robert Motherwell,” the auctioneer announced, “polymer on canvas with charcoal . . .”

An almost solid square of crimson with a faint charcoal line in it came up on the screen.

“Signed with the artist's initials . . . I have several commissioned bids, so we will begin at six hundred and twenty thousand dollars. In the room, I have six twenty . . . now six fifty, thank you, now six seventy. . . .”

Zeke could see this was going to cost him more than he wanted to pay.

“The document that Bobby Lerner sent you,” he whispered to Isbister, “sets up a real estate–only proposal.”

“But it stipulates you won't be cross-collateralizing any assets.”

The auctioneer continued at a brisk pace. “. . . I will accept six ninety, thank you . . . now seven hundred . . . on the phones at seven ten . . . seven twenty . . . seven thirty . . . seven forty at the side . . .”

Outwardly annoyed that there was too much interest in the Motherwell, he said to Isbister, “Of course not.”

But Isbister must have thought Zeke's annoyance was with him. “Then that's that. It's a nonstarter for us.”

The way Zeke and Bobby were designing the deal, each asset was being added into the mix as a separate company. This way, if something went wrong in one place—say, the New York production facilities didn't work—they were limiting the assets that creditors could claim. Any monies owed by the facilities in New York could only be collected by creditors against the New York assets. But it was standard practice to secure each loan with a specific asset, and Zeke couldn't understand why Isbister apparently didn't understand.

“What do you mean, that's that?”

The auctioneer went on. “. . . seven fifty . . . now seven seventy . . . thank you, seven eighty . . . and seven ninety . . . eight hundred thousand . . . yes sir, the bid is with you at eight hundred thousand dollars . . . in the room at eight hundred thousand dollars . . . now eight ten on the phones . . .”

Isbister said, “You are exposing us to a limitless downside.”

“If you come in as a lender, that's one thing.” Zeke checked the room to see where the competition was. “But our plan was to bring you in as a partner, so it suits you, as well.” He started to move down the aisle, “Excuse me for a second.”

Isbister followed him. “We understand partnerships very well as our main businesses are built on them.”

The auctioneer pointed to the phones, “Eight hundred ten thousand dollars on the telephone . . . any more at eight hundred ten thousand dollars . . .” He paused, then raised his left hand with the wooden gavel head. “Selling now at eight hundred ten thousand dollars.”

Zeke raised his paddle.

“Eight twenty.” The auctioneer spotted him. “New bidder in the room, thank you sir, at eight hundred twenty thousand dollars.”

“Additionally,” Isbister said, “there might also be some moral dilemmas we would not wish to confront.”

One of the people on the phones called out, “Eight thirty.”

“Moral dilemmas?”

“Eight thirty on the phones.” The auctioneer looked at Zeke, “Eight forty to you.”

Zeke nodded.

“Eight forty in the room.” He turned to the phones. “Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars to you.”

“You're in the motion picture and television business,” Isbister went on. “If you set up this studio, you will be making motion pictures and television shows that cater to the public taste.”

The auctioneer said, “Thank you,” and turned to Zeke. “Eight sixty?”

“Yes,” Zeke nodded to the auctioneer, then agreed with Isbister. “Yes.”

“Eight seventy?” The auctioneer pointed to the phone table.

“But the public taste is not necessarily our taste,” Isbister claimed.

“Eight eighty to you,” the auctioneer said to Zeke.

He nodded.

“Eight ninety?” The auctioneer looked toward the phones. “Eight hundred ninety thousand dollars.”

Zeke said to Isbister, “Moral dilemmas? I don't get you.”

“Eight hundred ninety thousand dollars,” the auctioneer repeated to the person on the phone.

“The public taste and our taste do not necessarily go hand in glove,” Isbister said. “In fact, in today's climate, it often doesn't.”

“Yes? No?” The auctioneer asked again to the person on the phone, “Eight hundred ninety thousand dollars?”

There was a long pause.

Quit
! Zeke stared at the person taking the phone bid.

The auctioneer said, “Yes or no, please.”

Staring directly at the person on the phone, Zeke said to Isbister, “You make Mr. Farmer's business sound like a religion.”

Isbister paused for a moment before saying, “Those of us involved with the day-to-day running of this business are religious men.”

“Selling, then, in the room,” the auctioneer said, “at eight hundred eighty thousand dollars . . .”

“I don't see religion and show business as mutually exclusive entities.”

“Selling now, ladies and gentlemen . . .”

Come on
. Zeke couldn't wait to hear the auctioneer's gavel bang.

Isbister shook his head, “I'm sure you don't.”

“Selling now . . .”

“Eight ninety,” someone shouted at the rear of the room.

“Oh fuck,” Zeke said a little too loud.

“New bidder at the rear of the room.” The auctioneer looked at Zeke. “Nine hundred thousand now to you, sir.”

Isbister said, “I rest my case.”

Zeke didn't know the man bidding against him but made eye contact and glared while he raised his paddle for the auctioneer to see.

“Thank you, sir.” The auctioneer took his bid. “Nine ten to you sir in the rear of the room . . . yes sir, to you.”

Still staring at the other bidder, Zeke said to Isbister, “If the idea is to wash your hands . . .” He stopped and immediately corrected himself, “to divest yourself of any moral conflicts . . .”

The auctioneer accepted the man's bid. “I have nine ten in the rear of the room, nine twenty to you sir?”

Zeke raised his paddle again.

“Thank you,” the auctioneer said. “Nine thirty to you sir?”

“Yes,” Isbister agreed, “divest is a better word.”

“Frankly, I don't see a problem with the real estate, only the partnership proposal that Bobby sent you.”

“Nine thirty? Thank you,” the auctioneer said. “Nine forty?”

Zeke raised his paddle again.

“Except,” Isbister said, “that it gives us the status of a bank or mortgage lender, without any of the real benefits of partnership.”

“With risk comes reward,” Zeke reminded him. “It's difficult to have it both ways.”

“Nine fifty to you sir?” The auctioneer pointed to the rear of the room.

“Mr. Gimbel,” Isbister said, “I don't need a lecture on risk and rewards.”

Zeke's eyes narrowed angrily as he looked at the man in the rear of the room and decided not to answer Isbister.

The auctioneer tried again, “Nine hundred fifty thousand dollars?”

“Thank you for your time this morning,” Isbister said.

“Thank you,” the auctioneer took the bid. “Nine sixty to you, sir?”

Zeke raised his paddle way over his head and decided to keep it raised.

“I have nine hundred sixty thousand dollars at the side of the room,” he pointed to the man in the rear of the room. “Nine seventy to you, sir.”

There was a long pause.

The auctioneer repeated, “Nine hundred seventy thousand . . . any advance on nine hundred sixty thousand dollars?” The auctioneer glanced quickly around the room, and then at the phones, and then around the room again. “Selling now . . . at nine hundred sixty thousand dollars . . .”

“We will be in touch with you forthwith,” Isbister said.

The gavel came down.

Isbister left.

“Sold at nine hundred sixty thousand dollars . . .” The auctioneer pointed to Zeke.

Zeke brought his paddle down and turned to Isbister.

But he was gone.

And with him, Zeke realized, a possible $1.6 billion in funding. He'd also spent nearly half a million dollars more than he'd hoped to.

“Lot sixty-nine,” the auctioneer announced. “Showing on the screens . . .”

Now Zeke asked himself,
what the hell just happened?

S
hannon greeted Pierre Belasco as he walked into the residents' lobby, “Good morning,” then handed him Madame Odette's handwritten message.

“What's this?”

“Our favorite resident.”

He read it standing right there in the lobby. “How does she always find out about this sort of thing?”

Once Carson left for the airport, Alicia got on her computer and went back to the files she was compiling on L. Arthur Farmer. But no matter where she looked, she couldn't come up with any connection that he might have had to Trump Tower.

Pouring herself a second cup of coffee, she sorted through the photocopies she'd made yesterday. Flexural components? Shear-wall core? Concrete hat-truss? There were far too many technical terms that she didn't understand. But then she spotted something she did understand. On one of the forms, and on only one—it was some sort of construction permit—there was a reference not to Trump Tower but to Tiffany Tower.

And when she fed “Tiffany Tower” and “L. Arthur Farmer” into the NBC database, a dozen links appeared.

A
PHONE NUMBER
popped up in one of the 35Tango search links. Antonia stared at it and wondered what would happen if she dialed it.

It's too early and Antonia will wake him
.