Every year another whodunit best seller by NYC’s former sex crimes chief Linda Fairstein. “Terminal City” is set in Grand Central.
Eight months, five hours a day, writing “until my eyes glazed over,” she’d spent 2012/2013 researching. Escorting me, I learned: Not the City, tenant Metro-North or a corporation, Grand Central’s “owner” is Andrew Penson, one 50ish investor whose company bought the property plus 75 miles of track up to Poughkeepsie for, give or take a fin, 80 mil.
It closes daily, 1 to 5:30 a.m., for cleaning . . . To accommodate latecomers, trains depart one minute late — like the 3:59 leaves 3:60 . . . 750,000 use it daily; heavy choreography is 7 to 10 a.m. . . . There’s 4,000 light bulbs, each lit . . . WWII, Hitler sent spies to break in and shut off converters. They were stopped. The transportation hub is monitored by Transit Police, National Guard, NYPD, Metro-North Police, terrorist patrols.
As thousands rushed past the bookstore, food shops, Starbucks, grocery, pharmacy, dress shops, jewelry kiosks, racing through the cavernous space for the Harlem Line and Hudson Line, swarming past with bicycles, carts, wagons, deliveries, rolling suitcases, perambulators, wheelchairs, sauntering slowly through the masses — one tiny bird. Everyone moved to give it room.
Near Track 30, navigating underground to “The Northwest Village,” the northernmost property, is the Waldorf. It’s where Linda sets her mystery novel’s first murder. And solves it 379 pages later.
Not a bad read.
Marriage in Morocco
Mohammed VI is king of Morocco. His niece, Princess Lalla Soukaïna. Her mom’s the kid of His Maj’s sister, Princess Lalla Meryem (I knew you’d thirst for these exact details). Pay attention now, I’m reaching the point. She married Mehdi Regragui — whom we all know, right? — in Rabat’s Royal Palace.
The King showed. Also his missus, HRH Lalla Salma. Also their kids, nieces, nephews, uncles and jewellers. The bride’s necklace was diamonds, rubies, sapphires. Also, so she wouldn’t see herself coming and going, an emerald and diamond tiara.
After this heavy event, the king hit his summer palace in Tétouan, North Morocco.
I mean, what else? Quogue?
Photo opportunists
The hills are alive with the sound of narcissism. East End partygivers/goers/poopers/crashers slaver over their own posed photos in giveaways, throwaways or one or two buy-aways. There’s: Avenue on the Beach, Daily Summer, Dan’s Papers, Social Life, Hampton Sheet, Hamptons whatever. Never before have more trees died for less reason.
Saturday, one couple split a sick Manhattanite promptly at 1 p.m. so their driver could haul Michael Douglas and Catherine to the Hamptons . . . Streisand, no mingler or smiler, smiled and mingled Out There. So smiley, mingly, you’d think she’s readying another farewell tour.
SO we’re making marijuana available for medical reasons, social reasons, drug stupor reasons? Nice. So this person owned a sweet parakeet. Also a weed shipment. In his West Side flat, happy Harry was flying higher than a kite. Or a feathered friend. His spare room filled with smoke. The parakeet fell right off its perch. Beak down. Straight to the bottom of its cage. The guy’s friends got him together and everyone ran to the vet.
The doc did whatever you do to a stoned parakeet. Too late. It was beat. Gone. Happy Harry: “The bird cost me $15. The vet charged me 500.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.