PROFILE, Page 48COVER STORY: FLASHY SYMBOL OF AN ACQUISITIVE AGEYoung, handsome and ridiculously rich, DONALD TRUMP loves makingdeals and money, loathes losing and has an ego as big as the Ritz-- er, PlazaBy Otto Friedrich/Reported By Jeanne McDowell
"Who has done as much as I have? No one has done more in New
York than me."
-- Donald Trump
"I love to have enemies. I fight my enemies. I like beating my
enemies to the ground."
-- Donald Trump
"My style of dealmaking is quite simple and straightforward.
I just keep pushing and pushing and pushing to get what I'm after."
-- Donald Trump
"Those who dislike me don't know me, and have never met me. My
guess is that they dislike me out of jealousy."
-- Donald Trump
"I like thinking big. If you're going to be thinking anyway,
you might as well think big."
-- Donald Trump
"Nobody pushes me around, you understand? I don't want to do
it (litigation), but nobody is going to push me around."
-- Donald Trump
"A little more moderation would be good. Of course, my life
hasn't exactly been one of moderation."
-- Donald Trump
Zvoo-o-o-o-o-o-o-OOOOP!!! Donald Trump's helicopter has just
taken a sickening dip to one side several hundred feet over the
outflowing sludge of New York harbor. When the wind is 30 m.p.h.,
death suddenly seems like something on which one of Trump's
Atlantic City casinos might offer unpleasant odds.
"Is this thing safe?" asks a reporter who has been assigned to
find out what makes the billionaire wheeler-dealer the way he is.
"When the Queen of England is over in this country," says
Trump, illustrating once again the way he is, "they call my office
to find out if they can use the helicopter because it's the safest
helicopter."
It is, in fact, a ten-seat French Puma, which Trump bought for
$2 million and which he claims is worth $10 million. ("I love the
bargain," he says. "I love quality, but I don't believe in paying
top price for quality.") It has TRUMP painted in large white
letters on its black fuselage, and the entrepreneur uses it to
commute at least once a week between New York and Atlantic City.
"But don't you ever get scared?"
"No, I'm a fatalist. I don't think anything scares me. There's
no great way to die. My general attitude is to attack life, and you
can't attack if you're frightened. Besides, my pilots are the best,
and I pay whatever it takes. When it comes to pilots, doctors,
accountants, I don't chisel."
"Have you ever thought about psychotherapy?"
"No," says Trump, a little surprised. "I've never felt even
close to needing it. I haven't ever felt that I was out of control.
I keep busy. I don't have time to think about my problems."
And of course the helicopter duly rights itself and whirs on.
It takes only about 40 minutes to reach Atlantic City and land atop
Trump's Castle. Trump strides across red carpeting, shaking hands,
smiling, very much at home in his castle, one of his many castles.
At 6 ft. 2 in., real estate tycoon Donald J. (for John) Trump
does not really loom colossus-high above the horizon of New York
and New Jersey. He has created no great work of art or ideas, and
even as a maker or possessor of money he does not rank among the
top ten, or even 50. Yet at 42 he has seized a large fistful of
that contemporary coin known as celebrity. There has been artfully
hyped talk about his having political ambitions, worrying about
nuclear proliferation, even someday running for President. No
matter how farfetched that may be, something about his combination
of blue-eyed swagger and success has caught the public fancy and
made him in many ways a symbol of an acquisitive a"nd mercenary
age.
Gossip columnist Liz Smith summed it up when she wrote, "Even
if Trump is the truest, most flamboyant child of Mammon yet
produced at this waning moment of the 20th century, I like his
style." New York Times architecture critic Paul Goldberger took a
graver view: "He has yet to commission a really serious work of
architecture. If he has a style, it is flashiness. It's a malady
of the age. Trump just represents it the most." Characteristically,
Trump responded by sneering that Goldberger was unqualified to
judge his buildings because he wore cheap suits.
Now that a new year has dawned, observers of the Trump empire
can rather easily imagine some of the emperor's resolutions for
1989: to make more money than ever, to buy more expensive gewgaws
than ever, to get more publicity than ever -- and if Mikhail
Gorbachev passed up a chance to visit Trump Tower during his visit
to New York last month, well, there's always next time. Failure
plays no large part in Trump's resolutions. On the contrary, he
can tot up enough acquisitions for several lifetimes. Among them:
All those Manhattan skyscrapers, notably Trump Tower, "the
ultimate piece of property," a Fifth Avenue glitzshop-and-condo
palace, with an 80-ft. waterfall splashing down the pink marble
walls of the atrium, that cost $200 million to build in 1982; Trump
Plaza, a 37-story East 61 Street castle that has housed, among
others, Dick Clark and Martina Navratilova; and Trump Parc, a
37I-story caravansary that was once the Barbizon-Plaza Hotel,
overlooking Central Park.
All those Atlantic City gambling casinos, notably Trump Plaza
and Trump's Castle. It is not true that Trump owns India's Taj
Mahal, but he does own Atlantic Cit}y's version, which will be
three times the size of the puny original. Trump acquired this toy
after much bargaining with TV entertainer Merv Griffin over the
purchase of troubled Resorts International, which ended with
Trump's getting the unfinished Taj Mahal and Griffin's getting
everything else. This will make Trump the biggest dealer in Las
Vegas East. (Estimated operating profits this year: $100 million.)
The newly acquired Eastern Air Shuttle ($365 million), "the
single greatest franchise in the world," soon to be renamed the
Trump Shuttle, and probably expanded to carry gamblers from New
York to Atlantic City so they can get their money to Trump's
casinos all the faster.
The world's spiffiest private yacht, the 282-ft. Trump
Princess, "the finest piece of art on water," which once belonged
to fallen fellow dealmaker Adnan Khashoggi. Cost: $29 million. The
yacht contains gold-plated bathroom fixtures, a rotating sun bed
and the one thing every hot yachtsman needs: a waterfall.
Khashoggi, who had named the ship after his daughter Nabila, shaved
$1 million off the asking price to guarantee that Trump would
rename it something else; Trump, who has his own ideas about names,
probably would have obliged him for nothing.
His ghostwritten book, Trump: The Art of the Deal, which has
been on the best-seller lists for almost a year (partly because of
Trump's own purchases). Trump says he will donate his estimated
$1.5 million in royalties to United Cerebral Palsy, the American
Cancer Society and AIDS research (his overall donations to charity
run about $4 million a year). The success of the book has inspired
Random House to offer a reported $3 million for a sequel.
And a miscellany of bits and pieces like Manhattan's Plaza
Hotel ($400 million), "one of the great diamonds of the world." And
the 76-acre plot along the Hudson that may or may not become Trump
City. And Mar-a-Lago, the $7 million, 118-room Palm Beach, Fla.,
hideaway originally built by Marjorie Merriweather Post, with its
elaborate Moorish arches, its private golf course and its 400 ft.
of beach. (Mrs. Post originally bequeathed the place to the U.S.
Government for visiting chiefs of state, but it was rejected as too
expensive.) And the 47-room weekend cottage in Greenwich, Conn.,
that Trump bought for $2 million. And the Boeing 727 jetliner and
six helicopters. And much, much more. And whenever Trump wants to
see his name in print, there is always some new prizefight to
sponsor, or next spring's bicycle race that will roam from Trump
Tower in Manhattan to Trump Plaza in Atlantic City and will be
called -- what else? -- the Tour de Trump.
And what does all that add up to, in coin of the realm?
Published estimates range from less than $1 billion to more than
$3 billion. When the question is asked directly of Trump, there is
a long pause. Then he grins and says, "Who the f knows? I mean,
really, who knows how much the Japs will pay for Manhattan property
these days?"
But what is mere money when one has become a figure of legend,
a figure immortalized, if that is the word, in Judith Krantz's I'll
Take Manhattan? "Donald Trump, the brilliant, ambitious young real
estate man whom even his enemies had to admit was disarmingly
unaffected," Krantz wrote with her endearing uncertainty about
personal pronouns, "rose to meet Maxi."
"`Hey you, pretty girl,'" he said with his disarming
unaffectedness, "`what's the problem?'"
Trump played a cameo appearance as himself in the TV version
of Krantz's epic in 1987, and now he is heading for greater things,
playing a tycoon named "Mr. Spectacular" in a film by John and Bo
Derek, Ghosts Can't Do It. Partly filmed in the Trump Tower, of
course, it is due out in October. And Ted Turner is producing a $3
million Donald Trump Story, to be broadcast later this year. "It's
part of the game I have to play," Trump likes to say. "It's all a
game, really."
The rules of the game were learned long ago in Queens, N.Y.,
where Trump's grandfather, a hard-drinking Swedish immigrant, left
his son Fred an orphan at eleven. Fred soon began building
middle-class houses, and eventually he put up some 24,000
apartments in Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island, including a
23-room spread where he and Mary Trump raised their five children.
Young Donald was no more than five when Fred began taking him to
inspect building sites, and at 13 he was driving a bulldozer. "I
learned a lot from him," says Trump. "I learned about toughness in
a very tough business." He also learned, as an adolescent rent
collector, that he didn't much like that kind of work. "It's much
easier," he says now, "to sell an apartment to Johnny Carson or
Steven Spielberg for $4 million than it is to collect a couple of
dollars of rent in Brooklyn."
His older brother, Fred Trump Jr., rebelled against carrying
on the family business. He became an airline pilot, took to drink
and died of alcoholism in 1981 at the age of 43. "He was a really
wonderful guy who didn't particularly like this business," says
Trump. "It was a sad thing. It is something I have never been able
to figure out. It was one of the most difficult things I've had to
deal with."
Young Donald was, in his own words, so "rambunctious" and
"aggressive" that his father sent him to the New York Military
Academy, where he became captain of cadets in his senior year.
After two years at Fordham, he got his degree from the Wharton
School, then returned to the New York real estate wars.
His first major coup came in 1976, when he persuaded the
bankrupt Penn Central Railroad to sell him for $10 million the
dilapidated Commodore Hotel adjoining Grand Central Station. It was
typical of the kind of deal that Trump now calls "my favorite art
form." An unknown and unwealthy hustler of 30, he had to persuade
some bankers to lend him $80 million (he did) and some politicians
to give him a $120 million tax abatement (he did). It did not hurt
that Fred Trump was a regular contributor to the Brooklyn
Democratic machine, or that Governor Hugh Carey and Mayor Abe Beame
both happened to be Brooklyn Democrats, or that Trump put Carey's
chief fund raiser on his payroll. Young Trump also had to find an
architect to build a reflecting glass sheath over the decaying
hotel (and he did: Der Scutt of Gruzen & Partners) and to find
somebody who knew how to run a hotel (and he did: Hyatt).
It all took four years, but the glittering Grand Hyatt Hotel
that opened in 1980 established Trump as a man who could get things
done. It also brings in, he says happily, an annual profit of $30
million. Most of Trump's other projects are essentially more of the
same -- more bargaining, more building, more bucks.
Sometimes Trump shows an absolute genius for combining profits
with publicity and doing good deeds in the process. Consider the
Wollman ice-skating rink in Central Park, which city authorities
had closed down in 1980 for a $9 million refurbishing. Somehow they
managed to spend $12 million on preliminary maneuvering without
anything whatever to show for it. Looking down at the mess from his
skyscraper windows, Trump was displeased. Offering to do the job
himself on the original budget within three months, he completed
it for $750,000 less -- and now operates the rink at an annual
profit of $500,000 (for charity). When authorities tried to honor
him by planting a delicate Japanese pine in his name, though, Trump
balked. "He went wild because he felt the tree was wrong, a
hunchback," recalls Parks Commissioner Henry Stern. "He wanted it
pulled out. He wanted something like a sequoia."
Though Trump likes to talk of his triumphs, there have
inevitably been controversies and defeats. One of the most striking
was the five-year battle over 100 Central Park South, a dignified
prewar apartment building that Trump decided in 1981 to demolish
and replace. To do that, he had to get rid of tenants who clung to
50 rent-controlled apartments that cost them as little as $300 a
month. Trump brought in a new management company renowned for its
ferocity. Out went the lobby furniture, unrepaired went the broken
elevator, unpainted and uncleaned the halls and stairways. Eviction
notices proliferated. The tenants hired legal help, charging
harassment. Trump retaliated by offering to house some of the
city's homeless in a few of the luxury building's vacant
apartments.
When it was all over, Trump had to give in, leave the tenants
in peace and even pay some of their legal costs, but he
characteristically describes this as "one of the greatest blessings
in disguise." His reasoning: had he been able to expel the tenants,
he would have sold their apartments for a fraction of what soaring
prices make them worth now.
Similar conflicts have plagued the many middle-income
apartments the Trump family operates with minimum publicity in
Brooklyn and Queens. In 1973, when the Federal Government charged
racial discrimination, Trump hired the notorious Roy Cohn to defend
him, then eventually signed a consent decree. No less vexing was
the 1983 controversy at the 1,400-apartment Shore Haven Apartments
in- Brooklyn, where the Trump organization started charging new
tenants $40 to $60 a month for garage fees regardless of whether
they had cars. One tenant, Viola Salomone, actually acquired a car
and parked it in the unlocked and unattended garage, then found it
vandalized. She refused to pay any more. The Trumps cracked down.
Said Salomone: "I'll die first before I give you another penny for
garage space." Said a civil court judge of the Trumps' operation:
"Unconscionable."
Out in the happier world of glitz and gossip columns, Trump
attracted a lot of attention when he bought the New Jersey Generals
football team in 1983 for a reported $8 million (Trump says he paid
only $4 million) and tried to spur the fledgling U.S. Football
League into full competition with the powerful National Football
League. Trump not only invested heavily in college stars like
Herschel Walker and Doug Flutie (who cost him $5 million or more)
but also persuaded the league to sue the N.F.L. for antitrust
violations. One league member recalls Trump saying that "everything
he had been involved with had been successful, and he would be
damned if the U.S.F.L. was going to be his first failure." Trump's
league sued the N.F.L. for $1.7 billion, won the verdict but
received only a symbolic $3 in damages. Trump called that a moral
victory even as the "victorious" league disintegrated.
Litigation is an important part of the Trump style. He has ten
different legal firms tending his affairs. His attorneys include
his brother-in-law, John Barry, whose wife, Trump's elder sister
Maryanne, is a federal judge in Newark. (Trump's only surviving
brother, Robert, works for him as an executive vice president. His
other sister, Elizabeth, is an administrative assistant for Chase
Manhattan Bank.)
Trump filed a libel suit in 1985 against the Chicago Tribune's
architecture critic, Paul Gapp, for having written that his plan
to build the world's highest building portended "an atrocious, ugly
monstrosity, one of the silliest things anyone could inflict on New
York or any other city." The judge ruled for the critic. Trump even
sued Eddie and Julius Trump, two South Africans unrelated to him,
who had run a small conglomerate for 20 years before expanding into
the U.S. in the 1970s. "They're trying to use my name," said
Donald, who lost a preliminary suit. Another is pending.
Architect Richard Hayden of Swanke Hayden Connell, one of the
designers of Trump Tower, calls Trump "a wonderful guy to work
for," but he found himself sued for various Trump dissatisfactions
and spent more than two years trying to collect his fees. "That's
the way he finishes his jobs," says Hayden. Trump has even less
decorous ways of being difficult. Architect Scutt recalls that when
Trump Tower once fell 15 days behind schedule, Trump kicked a chair
all the way across a conference room. "He ruined a new pair of
Gucci loafers," says Scutt. "He always has to have his way."
Trump's latest and biggest and most complicated controversy
centers on Manhattan's largest remaining piece of undeveloped land,
the 76-acre principality bordering the Hudson River from 59 Street
to 72 Street. Once a Penn Central railroad yard, it is now mostly
weeds and debris. Trump, who bought it for $90 million in 1984,
touts it as a $5 billion Trump City, "a concept that is going to
be spectacular." It would feature a 150-story building, the world's
tallest ("The city of New York should have the world's tallest
building"), plus 7,600 luxury apartments in a dozen skyscrapers,
a huge shopping mall, a 9,000-car underground-parking garage, a
nine-acre riverfront park and various odds and ends.
Troubles have been unending. After much maneuvering to get NBC
to move its headquarters into what Trump originally called
Television City, the network decided to stay in Rockefeller Center.
Mayor Ed Koch rejected Trump's demands for a 20-year tax abatement,
mocking the builder as "piggy, piggy, piggy." Trump in turn called
Koch "incompetent" and "a moron," and threatens to help anyone who
can unseat him in next fall's election. Citizens' groups on the
West Side mounted major opposition, charging that the project would
cast a deep shadow over a large area.
A celebrated urban-affairs expert who requests anonymity says
of the whole idea, "This will be one of the great disasters in New
York history. It will be a disaster of historic proportion because
it will shape the look of New York for generations. It's not just
that it will blot out sunlight, it will blot out values." And,
argues Marshal Berman, a political-science professor at the City
University of New York, it will substitute the values of "Dallas
and Dynasty, people wearing diamonds and furs and being driven
around in limos. The vision is of New York as an international
center for wealth, where anyone with capital feels at home, and
anyone without capital has no place." So after years of wrangling,
the $5 billion project is still no more than the proverbial gleam
in Trump's eye.
It has often been observed that men who make a great deal of
money generally have very limited ideas about what to do with it.
Trump's biggest personal expenditures have been on extravagantly
luxurious residences. The builder of Trump Tower, whose first
Manhattan apartment was a dingy single room overlooking a water
tower, originally reserved for himself a $10 million triplex
penthouse, but when he first saw yachtsman Khashoggi's pad in the
nearby Olympic Tower, which was approximately the size of a Persian
Gulf sheikdom, he naturally wanted one just as big or bigger. So
he went back to Trump Tower and awarded himself an adjoining
triplex, and then started tearing out walls.
The resulting 50-room, $10 million confection takes up all of
the 68th and most of the 66th and 67th floors of the tower. The
building actually has only 58 floors, but Trump felt that wasn't
sufficiently impressive, so he skipped some floor numbers to give
his tenants a psychic boost. "He would have loved to build another
ten floors," says architect Scutt, "but he couldn't because of
zoning rules, so he changed the numbers."
"If it turns out the way I think it will, there will be nothing
like it," Trump said as he took a reporter on a tour of the
possibilities about a year ago. The sun streamed in on a scene of
chaos. The walls were bare plasterboard. Plaster dust powdered the
new bronze window frames. Wires dangling from the ceiling barely
hinted at the chandeliers that Trump envisioned. But Trump sounded
rapturous about the workmanship on a newly installed door. He
gently shut it and opened it again. "Look how it fits," he said.
Trump was captivated by onyx and used it liberally. He had onyx
baseboards installed along the walls. His own bathtub was of lilac
onyx (with gold-plated faucets, of course). "Onyx is like a
precious jewel," he said, "many grades above marble."
But much remained unfinished. Trump described the library as
"very rich and traditional," but the shelves were still empty. "We
have to buy a lot of books," he said. "I really respect books." And
of the bare walls: "We have great art too."
Now, with the apartment only weeks away from completion -- the
main thing still missing is the park to be built on the roof --
Trump is pleased with his creation. "You will not believe this,"
he says as he leads the same reporter through the door. And it is
true: even Judith Krantz would find it a little hard to believe.
Even Liberace. If anyone would like a living room 80 ft. long,
Trump now has one. With bronze-edged floor-to-ceiling windows
overlooking Central Park. And a 12-ft. waterfall set against a
backdrop of translucent onyx.
"There has never been anything like this built in 400 years,"
says Trump (he is thinking of the Vatican, ignoring, say, the
Palace of Versailles) as he points to the hand-carved marble
columns and the walls lined in Italian gold onyx and the ceiling
moldings of 23-karat gold. When his eyes rise to that ceiling,
where various mythological heroes have been painted "in the
Michelangelo style," Trump feels himself a Medici. "If this were
on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel," he says, "it would be very
much in place in terms of quality. This is really what you call
talent, more talent than the schmucks who go around throwing paint
on the canvas."
Sharing in all this domestic magnificence is Trump's wife
Ivana, 38, a svelte and highly polished blond who runs the Plaza
Hotel for what Trump has described as "a salary of $1 a year and
all the dresses she wants." Ivana was raised in Czechoslovakia, the
child of an electrical engineer, and she liked to engage in ski
races. "Sports gave me the competitiveness and discipline that have
been important for my success," she says. After graduating from
Charles University in Prague, she moved to Canada and became a
model.
"We met at the Montreal Summer Olympic Games in 1976," Trump
recalls. "I'd dated a lot of different women by then, but I'd never
gotten seriously involved with any of them. Ivana wasn't someone
you dated casually. Ten months later, in April 1977, we were
married." They were married, incidentally, by Norman Vincent Peale,
the prophet of Positive Thinking, and then Trump put his bride
right to work supervising the interior decor for all his projects.
(There are also three children, Donald Jr., 11, Ivanka, 7, and
Eric, 5.)
Some of Ivana's ideas of decoration were a little odd, like
sending to London for fur hats to bring a touch of Buckingham
Palace to the doormen at Trump Tower. But she worked hard, and the
Donald, as she sometimes calls him, kept giving her new
responsibilities. When she ran his Atlantic City casinos, she was
the boss of 4,000 people. "I run my operations like a family
business," she says. "I sign every check, every receipt. I'm not
tough, but I'm strong. You can't be a pussycat." This was, in a
way, a necessity. "If Donald was married to a lady who didn't work
and make certain contributions," Ivana says, "he would be gone."
And as an afterthought: "Show me success without ego."
For all the wealth, their life is an austere one in some ways.
Ivana goes on skiing vacations once or twice a year, but although
Trump joined her at Aspen over the Christmas holidays, he generally
doesn't like vacations. "I like to do business," he says. "Work is
the pleasure of my life."
He goes out to dinners and parties four or five nights a week,
sometimes with Ivana and sometimes without, but these are mostly
official or charity affairs. "Donald is au courant about
everything," says real estate dealer Alice Mason, who often
encounters him on such occasions. Others can be warm in their
praises. "As a friend, he's a real softy and very sweet," says
opera star Beverly Sills. But Trump admits that he doesn't much
enjoy the party life. "I hate going out on Sundays," he says. "I
don't like going out on Monday nights either. I'm not sure I like
going out any night." When Tony Schwartz, the ghostwriter of
Trump's memoirs, quoted him as saying "I hate small talk," Trump
changed it to read, "I absolutely hate small talk."
Asked what he would prefer as an evening's entertainment, Trump
bluntly says, "Staying home." To curl up with a good book? Well,
he did read Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities, which deals with
a lot of rich New Yorkers who pursue such vanities as charity
dinners at Trumpian apartments. Trump reports that he also recently
read Gorbachev's Perestroika. "It was not the most exciting book
I ever read, and I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I felt I had
an obligation to read it," he recalls. He does not believe, though,
that he needs many such exercises to get on in the world. "I can
sit down with the most sophisticated people in the arts in New York
and get along fabulously with them," he says. "If I want to, I can
convince them that I know as much about something as they do, and
I don't." How does he do that? "It's a feeling, an aura that you
create."
If this seems a little strange, it is all part of the Trump
grand strategy, which he does not want examined too closely by
himself or anyone else. "I have an absolute strategy, but it's an
innate strategy and not definable," he says. "When you start
studying yourself too deeply, you start seeing things that maybe
you don't want to see. And if there's a rhyme and reason, people
can figure you out, and once they can figure you out, you're in big
trouble."
One man who knows Trump well does see a rhyme and reason. Trump
is a brilliant dealmaker with almost no sense of his own emotions
or his own identity, this man says. He is a kind of black hole in
space, which cannot be filled no matter what Trump does. Looking
toward the future, this associate foresees Trump building bigger
and bigger projects in his attempts to fill the hole but finally
ending, like Howard Hughes, a multibillionaire living all alone in
one room.
"Hey, life is life," says Donald Trump, whose coiffed blond
hair is just beginning to gray at the temples. "We're here for a
short time. When we're gone, most people don't care, and in some
cases they're quite happy about it."
And now there is another meeting to go to in Atlantic City, and
a limousine is waiting at the door to race to the gleaming black
helicopter waiting at the pier, and another reporter wants a ride
to take a look at the Trump empire, and that will create more
publicity about the emperor's grand plans and grander dreams, and
so once again it's up, up and away, out over the choppy waves of
the vast harbor, and up into the windy sky that seems to promise
