“Donny Deutsch. Who’s’ this?”
         “Katie Cavuto, I’m a writer for  McClure’s, doing a story on the bidding for New York magazine. We’ve met a couple of times.”
         “Tell me where?”
         “The Pulitzer Prize awards last year.”
         There was a brief pause—Katie thought she heard him flipping through a Rolodex.
         “Right. Katie Cavuto, Not just a writer but the investigative reporter for McClure’s, right? You were a nominee for a story, right?”
         “Yeah, glad you remembered.”
         “You know David Greco, right?”
         Katie was surprised to hear that Deutsch knew of her friend and associate but again assumed it was on an index card he was reading from.
         “Right. David has been a big help on some of my stories.”
         “Hey, I remember. Both of you almost got dunked in the China Sea. Good to hear your voice. So, how can I help you?”
         Deutsch, being a key New York media ad mover, would, as Katie assumed, be more than willing to talk about his participation in the sale of New York.
         “You have time for an interview, in person?”
         “Absolutely. How about lunch. . . Hey. I can cancel something. Lunch today? Michael’s?”
         He did not need to give her the address, for Michael’s was a famous restaurant on West 55^th Street that was a daily meeting place for media and entertainment honchos. In fact, it was one of Dobell’s frequent lunch spots.
         “One o’clock?”
         “One o’clock it is,” said Katie then she hung up and said to herself, “Well, that was easy.”
         The next day Katie got to the restaurant early and was graciously greeted by the ever ebullient owner Michael McCarty, whose first restaurant by the same name he’d opened years before in Santa Monica as one of the principal places for the current Hollywood elite who wouldn’t be caught dead at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. In New York many of those coming to the city also dined at Michael’s there, and no one had a better grasp of the power rankings on both coasts. Or where to seat them.
        McCarty (left) maintained some of his youthful flamboyance, though he was now 56, heavier, but still wore faux-leopard skin pointed shoes and blue blazers, doling out his “How you doin’, man?” greeting to those whom he’d being serving since the 1980s in California. In New York he was only slightly more reserved.
         He certainly knew about Katie Cavuto, or at least had done his homework after Donny Deutsch’s people called in the reservation.
         “So, you’re dining with Donny, eh?” McCarty asked. “The ultimate man about town, at least among the media crowd.”
         McCarty showed her to a table in the rear dining room, which was already full up front. On the way through the front dining room Katie recognized at least fifty percent of the day’s guests, from the newly crowned Mayor Michael Bloomberg sitting with Rev. Al Sharpton to the CEO of Paramount, Sherry Lansing with long-time Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter (right).  The faces of some Wall Street types eluded Katie but as soon as Donny Deutsch descended the three steps into the dining area he went to nearly every table to say hello or to schmooze, a ritual that went on for about five minutes. Finally he headed towards Katie.
         “Sorry for the wait,” he said, “Everybody who is anybody is here today. Of course, that’s true of this place every day. By the way, the reason we’re not sitting in the front room was my choice. I want to be as undisturbed as we can be so we can talk,” adding, “I manage by walking around. When I’m at my desk, I’m usually in a meeting, not sitting writing memos.” Katie had read that his office was actually  a long conference desk set with a phone, a baseball glove and ball.
         Deutsch was a nice-looking, stocky guy originally from a Jewish family in Queens.  He had graying hair, polished nails, well-whitened teeth and was dressed in one of those pale pink shirts with contrasting white collar. No tie today.
        He had inherited his father’s advertising firm, which he’d sold two years before for $265 million. Word was he was itching to get into television as a commentator, maybe a news anchor. With so much money in the bank, he could bide his time. Katie had read that his mantra was “Often wrong, never in doubt.”
         Katie admitted that Deutsch had charm but it was very slick, not appealing. She was prepared to have him assert that he was more like her—a media colleague—than he was like those guys in the front room.
         Deutsch ordered a chopped salad and a pizza for the both of them, and Katie ordered the roast chicken with French fries Michael’s was known for.
         “You up for wine?” asked Deutsch.
         “Maybe a glass of white.”
         Deutsch waved over the waiter and said, “Bring a bottle of the Chardonnay I like.”
Like Weinstein, Deutsch tried to interview Katie in order to better position himself for her questions. This was nothing new to her, so she just went through a one-minute bio of her life, starting in the Bronx.
         “So,  you’re a Bronx girl. I’m from Queens, though the family got out of there early. I don’t think I’ve been back three times since.”
         “You know the Bronx?”    
       “Better. Me and a few friends go up to Arthur Avenue sometimes for Italian-American food. You know Dominick’s?”
         Katie just nodded—Dominick’s was far from her favorite restaurant in the Bronx’s Little Italy, which was just minutes from her apartment—and didn’t want to go further, instead opening her notebook and asking if she could record the interview. Deutsch just shrugged his assent.
         The wine came and Deutsch tasted it, nodded and the waiter  poured it into Katie’s glass. “I love red wines, big Cabernets and Super Tuscans, but at lunch this is a much better choice. Goes with everything. I do remember those Three Martini Lunches. You’d get back to your office hammered. These days most of these people are drinking Perrier and lime.
         “So, why would you want to buy New York magazine?” she asked. “It’s losing money.”
         “Many more are, with a lot more to come. I’m telling you,  people will be watching HBO and Netflix for entertainment and CNN for news, along with the older networks, of course.”
         “So, what’s the allure of New York?”
         “Long history. Part of the city’s fabric, like the Village Voice. People get it even if they don’t read the feature articles. Covers sell magazines, not stories. Helen Gurley Brown knew that when she re-conceived Cosmo.”
         Katie wanted to differ, given that her own crime stories did not have sensational or lurid covers but were among the best-selling issues of McClure’s two years running. Still, she was well aware that Cosmo sold more copies each month than McClure’s would all year.
         “Listen,” said Deutsch. “Americans don’t read much of anything. People who buy the 800-page fall fashion issue of Vogue have no interest in some ‘serious’ article on a  congresswoman. They may just glance at the loony fashion designer clothes Vogue needs to promote for advertising, but of those 800 pages probably ninety-percent of them are ads for Ralph Lauren or Coach, while the front-of-the-book columns are all pushing the latest bullshit face cream or the new lipstick color of the month.
         “And notice there’s a lot more coverage, especially on the covers, of Hollywood actresses where there used to be the same super models month after month. The modeling agencies never make money from getting Naomi  Campbell on the cover of Vogue. They make it from getting their lesser-known models jobs for Almay and Estée Lauder’s line as well as Sunday supplement brochures. All those girls modeling house coats and sweaters? They make money.”
          “So, how does New York figure into this brave new world,” asked Katie, who knew Deutsch would ramble on as the wine took hold. He was already on his second glass. She’d barely touched hers.
         “New York’s either a dinosaur or a sleeping tiger, and if I get to buy it, I’m going to wake the tiger up and make him roar.” He clawed the air. “Right now New York is still aimed at the upper east and west sides. It’s got to expand and it’s got to make its own stars.”
         “Even expand to Queens?”
         “Wouldn’t that be sweet? Two million people live in Queens, many of them aspiring to live in Manhattan and be like the people on the upper east and west side. Oh, and by the way, hip hop is not going away. Some of those rappers are buying more Cristal Champagne than all of France. New York would bristleat being called racist, but unless you’re Cecily Tyson  on Broadway or Halle Berry in an Oscar-winning film, they don’t give a rat’s ass about Black people.”
         “Okay,” said Katie, “and is this all a dream for you or part of a plan to become a Master of the Media world?
         “Both. It would be very, very nice to own New York, and, if I turn it around, I gain a lot of cred in all the media.”
         Some of what Deutsch said started to sound familiar after he interviews with Epstein and Weinstein,  but she wasn’t yet sure if a greed for power or money was behind their plans.
         The salad, pizza and chicken came.
         “Mind if I have one of your fries?” asked Deutsch. “I can’t resist them but I don’t want to go through a whole batch of them,” patting his stomach.
         “I feel your pain,” said Katie. “You want to just eat a while, then talk?”
         “No, no, no, it’s fine with me to talk.”
         From behind a voice boomed.
         “Deutsch, you being interviewed by Katie Couric or dating her?”
         The man stuck out his hand and Katie said, “Cavuto, it’s Cavuto.”
         The man apologized. “Just a dumb slip of the tongue. I know very well who you are. Miss Cavuto. The death-defying writer for McClure’s.”
         “Katie, meet James Murdoch,” said Deutsch. “His father used to own New York.”
         James (right) was Rupert Murdoch’s younger son, whom many considered would be the heir apparent to the Murdoch News Corp empire. At the moment, as chairman and CEO its ailing Asian satellite service, Star Television, which had hemorrhaged $100 million when he took over, he was in New York making the media rounds.
         “Donny, I’m in town for three days,” he said, with only the barest of Australian accents. “You have time for lunch or a meeting? Things I’d like to talk about with you.”
         “Not interested in buying back New York magazine, are you?”
         “Maybe not this year, but I hope you get it. It was a lot of fun for my father to run while he had it. And it made money.”
         “I’m full up this week with lunches but come by the office or my apartment any time you’re free. And say hello to your father, brother and sister.”
         Murdoch shook Katie’s hand and apologized again for the name mix-up. Katie just waved her hand and said, “Not a problem.” She then wondered if perhaps she should try to interview his father, even if he’d sold New York a decade before.
         They were close to finishing their lunch, and the bottle of Chardonnay was empty. Deutsch stuck its neck down in the ice  bucket.
         “Mind if I ask you about the other bidders?” Katie asked.
         “I don’t know all of them. The investment bankers guys are not my crowd. Morty Zuckerman I know well. His home in Southampton is fairly close to mine in East Hampton. We socialize. Never did any business with him. He’s loaded. Real estate money. If you can get into those high stakes, you fart through satin Jockeys the rest of your life. He could buy New York outright if he wanted to, especially if he unloaded the Daily News, which has got to be a write-off. What he really wants is to get into office in DC. Senator, maybe President. I don’t see that happening in the near future. Even if he’s a Canadian, he’s got a pronounced New York Jewish streak that wouldn’t fly well outside of the northeast. Plus, since he is Canadian, he’s prohibited from running for President.”
         “How about Epstein and Weinstein?”
         “Two more neglected Jewish kids with a passion to be loved, preferably by young WASP girls.  In Jeffrey’s case, very young. Not by accident is his benefactor Leslie Wexner, who owns Victoria’s Secret.”
         “I keep hearing this,” said Katie, “and you know it to be true?”
         “Ha, he’d be the last to deny it, except now he’s got the Palm Beach police swooping down on him. You met Ghislaine?”
         “Yeah, I met her before I met Epstein.”
         “She’s the keyholder, and because she’s Robert Maxwell’s daughter she carries that air of British respectability. But neither she nor Jeffrey ever put out a dime of their own money for anything they live in, drive in or fly in.”
         “I promised Epstein I wouldn’t get into any of that in order just to focus on the New York sale.”
         Deutsch wiped his mouth and paid the bill quickly. “Well, then, Katie, I gotta be honest, you’re following a much smaller story. Once this bidding war is over,  no one’s going to give a shit about the bidders who lost.”
         Katie had been turning that prospect over in her minds since hearing about Epstein and Weinstein’s off-the-record activities. Her colleague had delved into some of Epstein’s excesses in her Vanity Fair article, but the stakes seem to be getting higher. It was, in one sense, a very old story: very powerful men manipulate lesser men and dominate women through sexual compromise and depravity.
         “Listen, Katie, you need to talk more, call me. Here’s my private line. And say hello to Katie Couric if you see her.”
         Katie made no answer and Deutsch made no notice, striding back into the front dining to schmooze with the remaining potentates of New York’s media behemoth. He gave a man hug to McCarty, left a five dollar bill for his coat and hailed a cab on 55^th Street.

 © John Mariani, 2024