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Roy Cohn once said Trump is ‘going to own New York one day’

 		Roy Cohn once said Trump is ‘going to own New York one day’

Tony Kushner’s “Angels in America” resurfaces Sunday. Nathan Lane plays rough tough lawyer Roy Cohn. I knew Roy well. Some stories Nathan and I discussed:

Roy was not fast paying bills. Forget a checkbook. Invoices? Carry cash? Please. If you were a trusted insider and he worked for you, then you handle what he needs.

When he wanted art from my dealer friend he took three costly Asian antiques. After six months, the dealer called to say, “Mr. Cohn has paid for nothing.”

I went to his East 65th townhouse. Housekeeper Elvira knew me and let me in. Although nobody was home, I collected each piece and returned them to the dealer.

That night I had dinner with Roy at Grenouille. I actually heard him tell the maitre d’ those words I’d never ever heard anyone say: “The check is in the mail.”

We had a lovely dinner, and never did he mention my rifling his home and repossessing three expensive antiques.

Roy’s drink was Champagne, always drenched in the pink Sweet’N Low fake sugar. Roy’s car, driven by others, always a gray, old-fashioned oversized original-style Rolls. Vases on each passenger’s window had buds in them.

His second-floor law library — always a shambles. Respected volumes, open, atop one another on the floor. Roy: “Forget the problem. Just give me the judge.”

Fresh after plastic surgery, stitches still raw, he was having it with a lover. He never admitted his AIDS diagnoses, although we all knew it.

Roy gave my husband’s birthday party every year. Joey emceed Roy’s events. When we were in Hong Kong, Roy flew over for one night’s dinner with Joey, his friend from the Stone Age. I inherited Roy Cohn.

One small supper a lifetime ago. Maybe 20 people at round tables. A tall good-looking blond guy, not long out of Wharton, next to me. I said, “Who are you?” He said, “I’m Donald Trump.” I said, “What’s a Donald Trump?” And Roy said: “This kid is going to own New York one day.”

A load of years, experiences, friendship and favors later came those 2016 presidential election returns. I’m standing there with Donald. 10 p.m. Trump Tower. Side by side we’re staring at huge wall TVs. Donald’s quiet sentence to me? “Remember what Roy said?”

These are samples of what Nathan and I shared. Sunday I will share him and Andrew Garfield with a packed audience at the opening of “Angels in America.”

If you need something naughty

Soon lucky us will get what’s called “adult entertainment” from what’s called “The Queen of the Night” in what’s called the McKittrick Hotel in what’s called their speak-easy Manderley Bar.

Midnight on Fridays, Susanne Bartsch soon presents “Bartschland Follies” starring highlights like Dirty Martini and Amanda Lepore.

Helluva town

Some rube boob asked why I live in New York.

Please. Siberia, the Outback, Galápagos Islands, Congo — in comparison, every other place is Bridgeport, Conn.

It’s expensive, crowded, dirty, noisy, tough, English is the second language, traffic so bad you can’t get crosstown unless you’re born there — but everyone wants to come here. The problem is there’s just no room.

We got Lincoln Center, Diamond Center, Rock Center, Bronx Zoo, Central Park, Times Square, Yankee Stadium, Fifth Avenue, Broadway, NY Post, Statue of Liberty, whatever the UN is, Natural History Museum, the Met, MoMA, street hot dogs, best cheesecake, best bagel — anyplace else a bagel tastes like linen. It’s got technology, theater, tourism, come-as-you-are sex — nobody cares what you are as long as you pay your taxes.

So where should I live? Iowa?

Yeah, things are gone — Schrafft’s, Klein’s, 5-cent subway, but leave NYC?

Live someplace farther than 10 blocks from a Chinese restaurant?

Assuming you can still drive over Chris Christie’s GW Bridge — where else?

New York, NY — capital of the world.

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.

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