Trump Tower (62 page)

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

I
n 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.”