The president should try being as kind to America’s friend as he is to Putin


||| FROM MICHAEL RIORDAN |||


I WILL NEVER FORGET my first and only encounter with Trump. It occurred in May 1987 at a publication party for him and his book The Art of the Deal at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. I had traveled there for the annual American Booksellers Association Convention, to try to help Simon & Schuster promote my own forthcoming book, The Hunting of the Quark, due out that fall. But since my publisher had no interest in throwing such a party for us, I managed to wangle an invitation to the sumptuous Trumpfest being sponsored by Random House.

We never once spoke, but I could observe Trump up close at a long table laden with hors d’ouevres, other tasty foods, and lavish wines. Bloviating away nearby, the Manhattan real-estate mogul was holding court with a clutch of attractive, admiring female editors and publicists — the likes of which I wished I could have been courting myself. But I had to be content talking with the aging British publisher who had gotten me in the door as her escort.

Finally I decided I’d had enough wine and chat, and headed for the exit, walking out past the crowded rows of roulette wheels and craps tables aswarm with eager bettors. Suddenly, Trump somehow appeared right before me, headed in the same direction, probably with the same intent to leave. And on his right and left were two burly, broad-shouldered toughs in well-tailored Italian suits, looking like they’d been spending hours every day in the gym.

One telling word immediately flashed through my mind: Mafia.

Of course, anyone who wanted to succeed in the rough and tumble of Manhattan real estate had to deal with the Mafia at some level if they wanted to obtain concrete and have their dumpsters full of refuse hauled away. But Trump seems to have done so with abandon in New York City and at his Atlantic City casinos. Why else did he hire notorious mob lawyer and political fixer Roy Cohn as his personal attorney?

It all made sense. And this Las Vegas apparition put an indelible exclamation point on my perception of Trump. But I never then imagined this closet mafioso would one day become a White House occupant. That was completely beyond my comprehension in 1987.

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