Subject: Politico: Trump and the Artifice of the Deal
From: "Sarge, Matthew" <[email-masked]>
To: Comm_D <[email-masked]>
Date: Thu, 12 May 2016 17:25:25 -0700

Grand
Trump and the Artifice of the Deal<http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2016/05/donald-trump-2016-father-artifice-of-the-deal-213888#ixzz48UStiI37>

How an old hotel covered with glass, underwritten by his father, became the Donald’s first big success as a “self-made” man.

By Simon van Zuylen-Wood

May 12, 2016

On the evening of April 14, Donald Trump put on a tuxedo and delivered an unusually restrained speech at the annual fundraising gala of the New York state Republican Party. Though the crucial New York primary was a week away, Trump decided he wouldn’t bother using his allotted 30 minutes to pump his conservative credentials. “Politics gets a little boring,” he told the crowd of 300 political dignitaries. What he wanted to talk about was a building.

Significantly for him, the party had booked its event at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, which happens to be the very first building Trump developed, about 40 years ago. So Trump told the story of the hotel they sat in, of the deal that would form the foundation of his real estate empire. “It turned out,” he told the audience, more than once, “to be a great, great, success as a hotel.”

The point of Trump’s speech at the Republican gala was not to tout the present state of the Grand Hyatt, which he no longer owns, but to buff the legend he peddles of himself as an underdog success story—as a self-made tycoon who disproved the haters and remade the Manhattan skyline in his image. “When I did the building, everybody said, ‘Don’t do it, it can’t be done, never gonna happen,'” Trump said. “My father, who was in Brooklyn and Queens … was so against me coming into Manhattan. And then this became so successful, and he said, ‘Wow.’”Of course, in New York, real estate is politics. And few real estate deals in New York history were as laden with back-room negotiations as the one that permitted the renovation of a hulking commuter hotel into a luxe four-star affair. Wedged between the Beaux Arts Grand Central Terminal and the art deco Chrysler Building, the Grand Hyatt stands as a curious and very Trumpian amalgam: a turn-of-the-century brick building blanketed by sheets of mirrored, ‘80s-era glass. It could have been airlifted from Dallas. “When he wanted to glaze the building, I put up a big battle—I was more interested in preserving the building,” the project’s architect, Ralph Steinglass, told me recently. “Trump sold [Hyatt] on the fact that he would be able to refashion the building, really recreate it into a bright, shiny object.”

In truth, Fred C. Trump wasn’t an obstacle to the deal. He was the main reason the deal got done at all.

Fred Trump has surfaced periodically as a point of political contention. Donald’s erstwhile Republican opponents accused him of inheriting upward of $200 million. This overinflated figure is about as misleading as Trump’s claim that all he ever received from dad was a “small” million-dollar loan. In determining Fred Trump’s influence on his son’s success, though, the exact numerical figure is at best a distraction. The Grand Hyatt represented Donald’s entry into Manhattan, and to pull it off, Donald relied not only on his father’s cash, but his connections—and this is not a Trumpian exaggeration—to some of the most powerful politicians, lawyers and bankers in New York. A decade later, when Donald’s boardwalk empire in Atlantic City was underwater and the Grand Hyatt was looking un-Grand, Donald again needed Fred’s resources to bail him out.

The inside story of the Grand Hyatt doesn’t showcase the vaunted business sense Trump credits with leading him to the threshold of the GOP presidential nomination. Rather, it reveals the crucial role Fred Trump played in getting his son’s career off the ground, and keeping it airborne. Without Fred’s help, there would be no Hyatt. And without the Hyatt, there would be no Trump Tower, no casinos, no golf courses, no career.

Still, there was something mischievously artful about Donald’s Grand Hyatt coup, in which a 30-year-old aspiring playboy kick-started his entire career without a credit line or building to his name. When I asked Victor Palmieri, the financier who sold to Trump the old commuter hotel that would become the Grand Hyatt, which of the two men deserved the glory for the project, he laughed. “Him or his dad?” he asked. It doesn’t matter. That’s the point. “That’s the art of the deal.”

***

In 1971, 25-year-old Donald had moved out of Queens to a studio on 75th and 3rd Avenue and was growing restless in his role as a glorified rent-collector for his dad. “I had to prove—to the real estate community, to the press, to my father—that I could deliver the goods,” he wrote of his early ambitions, in The Art of the Deal.

That meant one thing. Doing a deal in Manhattan, the only borough high-profile enough to enable Trump to emerge from his father’s shadow and ditch dad’s longtime Coney Island offices. And yet, to pull off a large-scale big city deal and leave the provinces behind, he’d need to rely upon the decades of carefully nurtured political influence that Fred Trump had acquired in Brooklyn.

Fred Trump was a builder of middle-class, outer-borough homes, and nearly every major project he developed—from single-family houses in East Flatbush to Trump Village in Coney Island—was subsidized by tax dollars. Without the Federal Housing Authority, Trump family biographer Gwenda Blair wrote, “Fred Trump would have been running a supermarket.”

Fred Trump’s biggest contracts came from the federal government, but his political clout was more pronounced at home. He lunched with a downtown Brooklyn power-crowd known as the “Knights of the Round Table” and was a VIP at the Madison Democratic Club, the nerve-center of Brooklyn politics. Early on, he became close with legendary real estate lawyer and political fixer Bunny Lindenbaum, along with Lindenbaum’s best friend, a machine pol named Abe Beame, who in 1974 would become mayor of New York. Both would prove instrumental in his son’s early career.

Meanwhile, Fred Trump built goodwill outside of Brooklyn’s Borough Hall by strategically spreading his cash and influence. He was a regular on the philanthropic circuit and held board seats at civic powerhouses like the Jamaica Hospital in Queens and the Brooklyn Borough Gas Company. By the time Donald had graduated from Wharton and entered the family business, Fred was also boosting the political fortunes of Brooklyn congressman and gubernatorial candidate Hugh Carey. In 1974, the year of the election, Fred Trump, his business, and his family gave a combined $35,000 to Carey; more than anyone except Carey’s brother, a wealthy oil magnate.<http://www.villagevoice.com/news/behind-the-seventies-era-deals-that-made-donald-trump-7380534>

[New York Governor Hugh Carey points to an artists’ conception of the new New York Hyatt Hotel/Convention facility that will be build on the site of the former Commordore Hotel, June 28, 1978. From left–right: Donald Trump, New York City Mayor Ed Koch, Gov. Carey, and Robert T. Dormer, executive vice president of the Urban Development Corp.]Fred Trump’s timing was good. That same year, Donald set his sights on a shoddy, 2,000-room commuter hotel on 42nd street called the Commodore. His plan was to buy the dated 1919 brick colossus and refurbish it into a shiny Hyatt Hotel.

Young Donald was not an obvious business partner for the old money Pritzkers, who ran the Hyatt chain from their home base in Chicago. But Hyatt was one of the last major national chain without a New York City footprint. And the company’s aesthetic—in 1967 Atlanta’s Hyatt Regency debuted the concept of the vertical atrium lobby—jibed with Trump’s.

There were just a few problems to resolve before groundbreaking. The neighborhood was in awful shape. The iconic Chrysler was in foreclosure, Grand Central needed major refurbishments and the Commodore’s entire stretch of street played seedy rival to the porn playground several blocks west in Times Square. The building itself was about as unattractive a business proposition as one could imagine. Occupancy hovered around 50 percent. A wink-wink “massage parlor” called Relaxation Plus occupied prime retail space on the second floor. If it weren’t for an expensive union contract that mandated the employees be paid, the hotel almost certainly would have closed. The lobby was “so dingy,” Trump later wrote, it looked like “a welfare hotel.”

Which helps explain, ironically, why Trump became interested in the first place. The place had become such a roach motel, its owners were desperate for someone to take it off their hands. “We were trying to find a way to deal with the Commodore, which was becoming derelict and was involved in a big labor dispute with hotel employees,” says Palmieri, the financier in charge of the assets of the Penn Central Railroad, which owned the hotel, and which itself was in bankruptcy. “It was a dire situation.” Palmieri says Trump “was not the most agreeable personality I had every met.” But he fit Palmieri’s job description: “someone who was young, who was very knowledgeable about New York politics—and particularly the politics governing zoning and tax abatements.”

This last piece was crucial. Banks, in the “Ford to City: Drop Dead” era, were not forthcoming with loans. Especially not to developers with zero completed projects, and no serious cash to their names. In order to get any kind of financing, Trump would need major help from the government. Lucky for him, Abe Beame’s machine, newly installed in City Hall, seemed all too happy to comply.

In late 1973, needing the city’s assistance with another property, Trump scheduled a meeting at City Hall that included his father and Beame. A few minutes into the meeting, according to Blair’s biography, Beame put his arms around the Trumps and said, “Whatever my friends Fred and Donald want in this town, they get.” A similar dynamic was at work several months later, when Donald began agitating for the Commodore property.

Inspired in part by Donald’s ambitions, Beame and Assembly Speaker Stanley Steingut—another old friend of Fred Trump’s—pushed a bill in Albany that, conveniently, would have created 20-year tax abatements for commercial properties like the one Trump was trying to develop. When that bill stalled and ultimately died upstate, Donald Trump worked with a well-connected City Hall bureaucrat named Mike Bailkin to create an even more favorable deal for himself. Bailkin’s ingenious idea was for the state-run Urban Development Corporation (UDC)—created in the 1960s by Governor Nelson Rockefeller to develop racially integrated housing by fiat—to buy the place from Trump for a nominal fee of a dollar, then lease it back to him tax-free for 40 years, saving him hundreds of millions of dollars.

In a city where nobody was building much of anything, granting an unprecedented tax abatement to a private developer—no commercial property in New York had ever received one—might have seemed like smart public policy. But the serious consideration New York’s political firmament gave the deal suggests that Fred Trump’s behind-the-scenes influence was at least as important a factor as any good governance. The Beame administration doubled as a “palace circle of real estate people,” says former Manhattan City Councilman Henry Stern, one of the few who criticized the deal at the time. “It was clear that [the Trumps] had enormous clout.” When I asked him why so few opposed the tax break, he replied that most of his City Council colleagues were “part of the Democratic machine” and that the rest “just didn’t care.”

Trump, by inheriting several of his father’s best people—longtime New York publicist Howard Rubenstein; Brooklyn lawyer Lindenbaum and his son Sandy, Lindenbaum’s equal as a real estate savant—inherited his father’s credibility. And Donald certainly cultivated a handful of key contacts himself—most notably Roy Cohn, the political fixer and notorious legal hit man for red-baiting Senator Joe McCarthy. Cohn represented the Trump Organization in a massive federal housing discrimination case, before helping broker the Hyatt deal with Beame, with whom he was also friendly.

But nothing could match the persuasive power of Fred in the flesh. In 1975, after talks about the tax deal started to get serious, another meeting was called at which both Mayor Beame and Fred Trump would personally appear. According to Wayne Barrett’s exhaustive book Trump: The Deals and the Downfall, Fred promised the group he would keep watch over the construction. More significantly, he pledged to “provide financial credibility.”

All Trump needed now was for the state—through the UDC—to greenlight the deal. Once again, he leaned on his father’s connections. Donald Trump had recently hired as his political point person a woman the Trumps would have been familiar with—Governor Carey’s chief fundraiser, Louise Sunshine. In the mid-1970s, the UDC was helmed by Richard Ravitch, the New York City real estate stalwart whose family company helped build Trump Village. In theory, Ravitch should have been well-disposed to The Donald. In practice, he wasn’t. Ravitch told me that one morning he received a phone call from Sunshine, whose child attended the same preschool as his. She wanted to know if she could bring in Trump for a meeting. He agreed, and Trump pitched his plan. It went badly.

Ravitch was already irked that Sunshine, a Democratic fundraiser and state party official, was lobbying on behalf of a private client. He didn’t take kindly to Trump’s bluster. “He wanted to buy the Commodore and wanted a tax exemption, and couldn’t get the tax exemption,” Ravitch recalls. “I finally said, ‘Look, it would be great to have a Hyatt Hotel. I would be willing to subordinate the taxes to the mortgage. And he said, ‘No, I want an exemption. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll have you fired.” Ravitch booted them both from his office.

Ravitch did not, in fact, get fired. Even with his father’s pull, Trump didn’t have that much juice. But Ravitch was getting heavy pressure from Beame and his team to OK the deal. “‘Look, here was the city on the balls of its ass in the fall of 1975,” he remembers telling economic development czar John Zuccotti in a tense argument. “And here was this brash kid who wanted to take the Commodore hotel and turn it into a Hyatt.” According to Barrett’s biography, Ravitch eventually caved and voted in favor of the deal. (Ravitch claims he doesn’t remember this.) When a reporter asked Trump why the city handed him a 40-year abatement, he replied, “Because I didn’t ask for 50.”

By 1976, the $4-million-a-year abatement (it would grow progressively more valuable) was his. But even once he got the tax break, Trump still needed actual money to buy and renovate the thing. His financial broker went hunting for lenders on Wall Street and had come up empty. Fred Trump, once again, wound up doing the heavy lifting. There was of course the famous million-dollar loan. But there was also Fred’s decades-old contact at Equitable Life Insurance, whose support Barrett reports<https://www.amazon.com/Trump-Greatest-Earth-Downfall-Reinvention-ebook/dp/B01ECUXPIM> was key to the firm’s decision to help finance the project. And it was Fred Trump and Hyatt chief Jay Pritzker, not Donald, who guaranteed the project’s $70 million construction loan. (Donald and the Pritzkers would co-own the hotel.)

When the project ran over budget in the run-up to its 1980 opening, according to Gwenda Blair’s biography, it was Fred who persuaded his pals at Chase Bank to give Donald a $35 million line of credit and a second mortgage worth $30 million. “When it counted, which was when they went for the financing,” says Palmieri, “his father turned up to be on the loans, which was really the vital part of the whole deal.” Donald may have conceived of the deal, but when it came to closing it, Ralph Steinglass told me, Donald “had very little to do with pulling it off.”

Once ground was broken on the Hyatt, though, it was quite clearly Donald’s baby. Fred Trump is still a household name in Coney Island thanks to his drab, sturdy, middle-class high-rises. Donald, with an arriviste’s taste for silk suits and patent leather shoes, brought his mania for appearance to bear on the project. He had married the former Ivana Zelnickova Winklmayr in 1977, a year before construction began, and promptly installed her as a sort of foreman/interior designer hybrid. “Her taste was similar to Donald’s (“brassy, flashy”) but she was actually more aggressive than he was,” Steinglass, then with Gruzen & Partners, recalls. “She inserted herself into the weekly owner’s meeting and would be pushing back against the contractor. It wasn’t fun.” At the time, New York magazine’s Marie Brenner observed Ivana in heels, a dress and a hard-hat, sidestepping puddles of water and roaring at construction workers.

The structure that the Trumps produced was both ingenious and bizarre. The Hyatt was coated with a silvery, reflective glass that set it apart from the classic structures surrounding it, while simultaneously reflecting them back toward the street. Its most unique feature, for better or for worse, was the cantilevered bar/restaurant that bulged over 42nd Street. For all its innovations, though, the Hyatt is not a modern building but an old brick structure that Trump simply plastered with large glass panels. To make it seem taller, Trump redid the elevator buttons so guests' rooms begin on floor “14” rather than on floor 6, where they are actually situated. Trump even finagled a more chic Park Avenue address for the hotel, though, as he admitted during the speech in April, “it really fronted on 42nd street.”

The Grand Hyatt, named for the train station next door, opened on a September night in 1980. At the ceremony, which heralded Trump’s arrival as much as it did New York’s 1980s comeback, leggy blonds bore trays of champagne and escargots en brioche. Bronze-hued marble competed with bronze-mirrored columns.Veau aux trois champignons was served, incongruously, on gold Mylar tablecloth. Ivana, according to Brenner’s memorable account, sat by herself in a rhinestone-encrusted dress while Donald zipped around antically, unable to sit still. Roy Cohn was there, of course, as was Governor Carey, who had benefited from Fred Trump’s campaign generosity and whose state agency had provided the key approval for the deal.

The Trumps’ expensive taste— gold lion’s head medallions hung above the ballroom entrance, not far from the obligatory waterfall, babbling in the atrium—helped mask the lurking infrastructure problems that would come to plague the hotel. “It was never a great building,” Paul Goldberger, the former New York Timesarchitecture critic, says about the old Commodore shell. And Trump seemed unwilling to make it so. “The emphasis was on keeping the cost down, to the detriment of the quality of the project,” says Steinglass, who told me the guest rooms generally paled in comparison with the glitz of the atrium. (Fred Trump, for what it’s worth, could be seen during construction patrolling the work site, pouring water into paint buckets to save money<https://books.google.com/books?id=PmrwtRTQ3fMC&pg=PA259&lpg=PA259&dq=whatever+my+friends+fred+and+donald+want+in+this+town+they+get&source=bl&ots=RLhfu28jbz&sig=KPWW2CT9NGxfOq268qgN0qtOko8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiBwoOisMTMAhWMCMAKHQuGCC0Q6AEIHDAA#v=onepage&q=bucket&f=false>.)

By the early 1990s, the hotel was betraying its cruddy Commodore roots. According to a 1991 inspection report that later surfaced in litigation between Trump and the Pritzkers, the hotel needed at least $24 million worth of repairs and renovations. A few typical excerpts from the report:

“On floors 14 through 30 there is a tan carpet with a runner type pattern in brown and tan. There are many wrinkles, stains and open seams.”

“A great deal of the bedding was sagging and in need of replacement”

“[sidewalk tiles] are dirty and worn in appearance…there were also 22 squares that were mismatched.”

In 1990, AAA downgraded the hotel in its industry rankings. Meanwhile, the Pritzker family alleged, Trump was refusing to pay for any of the upkeep. “Trump was cutting corners left and right,” says Goldberger. “And the Pritzkers”—who had endowed a prestigious architecture prize in 1979—“were increasingly becoming a well-known and prominent family with a great deal more money than Donald Trump, but with a desire to be taken seriously in other kinds of circles. They were less and less interested in being in partnership with Donald, who was both glitzy and down-market.”

At the heart of the problem was Trump’s cratering casino empire. After a series of financial missteps connected to the bloated $1 billion, junk-bond-funded construction of the Trump Taj Mahal, Trump’s third and largest Atlantic City property, Trump declared bankruptcy in 1991 on several casinos and the Plaza Hotel in New York, which he also then owned. His net worth plunged into the red.

In 1993, in the midst of their ongoing dispute over Trump’s unpaid share of the growing maintenance bill for the Grand Hyatt, Donald sued the Pritzkers, alleging financial mismanagement. A year later, the Pritzkers sued back for $100 million. In their complaint, they alleged that Trump agreed in the late 1980s that repairs were necessary, before deciding they weren’t because he was “not in a financial position” to afford them. They were suing him for being broke, and, what’s more, for purposely refusing to spiff up the hotel in order to extract financial concessions from them. Trump, for his part, found the whole ordeal unjust. “When I was in my deepest problems,” he said<http://articles.latimes.com/1994-03-29/business/fi-39687_1_grand-hyatt> at the time, “they came to me and said, ‘We want to renovate the hotel,’ instead of holding off a little.’”

In an ironic bookend to the saga, Trump managed to avert total financial collapse thanks, once again to Fred, who bought $3.5 million in chips from one of his son’s casinos to help him make a bond payment, an illegal loan for which he had to pay a $30,000 fine. Eventually, Trump recovered, settled with the Pritzkers, and by 1995, had been bought out of the Grand Hyatt altogether. (The Pritzkers still own the hotel.)

On the night of Trump’s speech in April, about 1,000 protesters lined sidewalks outside the hotel. But inside, Trump, who was appearing for the last time in the presence of his then-rivals Senator Ted Cruz and Governor John Kasich, drew a chummy reception from an audience that seven days later would help give him an overwhelming victory at the polls. Trump extolled his fellow New Yorkers for their “straight talk” and their “values” as he sauntered through a series of anecdotes about his subsequent triumphs as a developer.

“I built, you know, many other buildings across the city. I’m just listing some of them,” Trump said. “This was my first. This was my first: the Grand Hyatt Hotel.”

Left out of the history lesson was the part about the tax break and the credit line and the loan guarantee—about how Fred Trump sealed the deal for his son. Straight talk, New York values or not, doesn’t always make for a good story.