There, you are met by the first in a series of dazzling young female assistants. Many of his close aides are women in their twenties not very long removed from college.
The three boys spent summers pulling weeds and pouring cement, learning the building trade from the subfloor up, while the two girls toiled in his real estate office in the bowels of Coney Island.
Fred Trump, the second in a line of self-made magnates (his father, Friedrich, had earned his fortune in the Klondike gold rush, selling lodging, food, booze and possibly women to hordes of miners), was possessed of the singular family gift: He could see the future and beat everyone else to it."When the car was just coming out, houses had no garages," says Trump.
"Dad went all over Queens, building garages in the Thirties, and he could throw 'em up like nothing.
Polished and restrained where their father is flamboyant, they've nonetheless paid him the highest praise by enlisting in the family trade.
No less telling, none of them are train wrecks like so many children of billionaires.