David Ritz I first met him at his apartment in Trump Tower when Trump Tower was just another glitzy apartment building on Fifth Avenue.“Look at the view of the park,” he said. “Ever seen anything so beautiful?
Doesn’t it make you feel like you’re on top of the world?”Before I could answer, he was rushing me out the door and downstairs where his chauffeur-driven Rolls was waiting at the curb.“Where are we going?” I asked.“A meeting?”“Who are we meeting?”He wouldn’t say.
I was hoping it was someone whose superstardom he had boosted — Michael Jackson, Billy Joel or Bruce Springsteen. A half-hour later, we got out of the car in front of a dilapidated church on the Bowery.
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