Trump Tower

  But whenever Forbes showed up, things got done.

  “Thank you for this,” Belasco said.

  “All in a day’s work.” He motioned to the car, “Your boy’s in bad shape,” and opened the back door.

  A heavy-set, puffy-faced, dark-haired Mikey Glass, wearing a loose-fitting jogging suit and a Buster Keaton porkpie hat, was lying across the rear seat asleep.

  “We’ll take him upstairs,” Timmins said.

  Belasco nodded okay, and watched while Forbes woke Mikey.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?” Mikey growled. “Who the fuck are you? Where are the midgets in the clown costumes? Where am I?”

  They helped the groggy television star out of the car.

  Mikey looked around, yanked his arms away from Forbes, and fell back against the car. “Whoa . . . this ship is moving.” He started singing, “Anchors aweigh my boy . . .” then spotted Belasco. “You on this cruise, too? How’s it hanging, admiral? Be on the lookout for submarines. U-boats are everywhere.” He took one step forward and nearly fell again. “Christ . . . we’ve been torpedoed.”

  “Mr. Glass,” Belasco said. “Apparently you’ve had quite a night. But you’re home now.”

  “Home?”

  “This is home.”

  “I live in a garage?”

  “Not yet,” Belasco said. “These gentlemen will help you upstairs to your apartment.”

  “My apartment?” His eyes opened wide. “Oh my God . . . my apartment . . . that’s where my wife lives. She lives in my apartment. Or is it her apartment? She’ll kill me. You’ve got to hide me somewhere. If she finds me, she’ll murder me.”

  “Yes sir,” Belasco agreed. “I expect she will. I’m afraid though, as you can see, there is no place to hide.”

  “I need to hide somewhere.” He looked around. “You’ve got to have a hiding place. How about . . .” He pointed to the cars parked in the corner . . . “there. Those Trump’s? Good. I’ll hide under one of Trump’s cars.”

  Belasco assured him, “It’s the first place Mr. Trump always looks.”

  “As I suspected.” He nodded several times. “Trump’s in cahoots with my wife. Is he planning to kill me before she does or after she does?”

  “I suspect he will leave that privilege to your wife.”

  “What a gentleman,” Mikey proclaimed. “How about Los Angeles?”

  “What about Los Angeles?”

  “I live there too. Can I hide there? Trump will never think of looking for me there. He’ll be too busy checking under all of his cars.” He turned to get back into the Cadillac. “I’m going to hide in Los Angeles. Who’s driving? Let’s go. We have to leave fast.”

  “Have a good night, sir.” Belasco motioned for Timmins and Forbes to take Mikey upstairs. “I’m certain if you ask your wife nicely, she will let you sleep for a few hours before she murders you.”

  “You don’t know my wife,” Mikey said. “But thank you, Belasco, you always have good ideas. I will ask. And I will ask nicely. I promise. I will say, please don’t murder me until I’ve had some sleep . . . please.” He saluted Belasco, . . . “Count on me . . .” then looked at Timmins and Forbes and held out his arms. “Gentlemen . . . shall we dance?”

  They helped him upstairs.

  BELASCO TOSSED his suit jacket back onto his office couch, asked Carlo for a fresh cup of coffee and sat down to go through a pile of reports that, otherwise, could have waited until Monday.

  Then Timmins phoned. “He may not be out of the woods. A cop pal of mine at Midtown North called to say the circus performers may want to press charges. Apparently something about a trained seal and a mermaid and our Mr. Glass insisted she play the mermaid topless . . .”

  “Has his wife killed him yet?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “The would-be mermaid’s vengeance may yet be the softer option.”

  “If she presses charges it will be for sexual harassment and they’ll have to arrest him,” Timmins said.

  Belasco knew how that would play out in the papers. Mikey Glass frog-marched out the front door of the residents’ entrance with handcuffs on. Dozens of photographers shooting thousands of pictures with lenses purposely wide enough to get Mikey, the cops and the Trump Tower name into the same shot. Headlines would read, “Tower of Power Walk of Shame.”

  “Not what we need,” Belasco said.

  “If you want the cavalry, shout.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  AT SIX, Carlo, Jorge and Paolo went off duty. They all stopped by to say goodnight. Felicity and Pierro took over the front desk, Roberto took over the front door and three operators now manned the elevators.

  Belasco chatted with the morning crew briefly until an Indian woman of a certain age, wearing a multicolored sari arrived, struggling with several packages.

  Roberto and Pierro rushed to help her.

  Belasco smiled, “Good morning, Kajjili.”

  “Mr. Belasco,” she said, “I would say you are here very early this morning.” She was head housekeeper for the Advanis.

  “I know they’re due in this morning.”

  “Yes,” she said, “they are coming home today. I am planning that they will be here sometime after two and before three.”

  “Two to three?” He forced a smile, not wanting to show her that he didn’t want to be stuck in the office all day. “I will be here to welcome them back.”

  The staff put her packages into the elevator.

  “How is Miss Amvi? I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

  “As fresh and as sweet as ever,” Kajjili said. “She will be very pleased to have her parents home.”

  “I am sure she will,” Belasco said.

  Pierro escorted Kajjili up to the fortieth floor. The Advanis owned that entire floor and half of the forty-first as well.

  “Belasco?” Someone said behind him, “What brings you to Disneyland at this hour?”

  He turned. “I should ask you . . . it’s just gone six . . . I never suppose anyone in Hollywood functions before lunch.”

  “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Hollywood anymore,” Zeke Gimbel said.

  Belasco and Gimbel both said at the same time, “Thank God.”

  Gimbel was wearing jeans, a pair of beat-up Nikes, a sweatshirt with the agency’s logo—a Zorro-like Z—and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. But on his shoulder was a gorgeous custom-made, dark red leather Tumi laptop and carry-on bag.

  Belasco couldn’t help but stare.

  He knew it was custom-made because he’d bought the exact same bag in the Tumi store on Madison Avenue, where the manager had assured him several times that the bag came in a choice of black or black.

  “I didn’t realize you were in,” Belasco said.

  “Came in for a party last night. Got to be back on the coast this afternoon. We’re trying to put Cameron and Ang into a picture with Sean and Johnny, but scheduling is a nightmare . . .”

  Belasco had no idea who he was talking about.

  “Speaking of which,” Gimbel continued, “you know I can always find a part for you if you ever want to become a movie star.”

  “I’m afraid . . . Mr. Gable has already played all the worthwhile parts.”

  “Offer is open,” Gimbel extended his hand to shake Belasco’s. “See you in a few days,” he said and headed for the door.

  A limo was waiting at the curb.

  Roberto moved into place. “Is that your car, sir?” The glass doors opened.

  “Yes,” Gimbel said, on his way out.

  Suddenly Belasco blurted out, “Mr. Gimbel? Please forgive me for being presumptuous . . .”

  Gimbel turned around to look at Belasco.

  “. . . but I don’t suppose you’re flying commercial.”

  He made a face. “Heaven forbid.”

  “So . . . again, please forgive me for being presumptuous . . . but . . . might you have room . . .”

  “On the plane? For you?
Sure. Come on. Don’t bother packing a bag, you can get everything you need in LA.”

  “No. Not for me. There’s someone who . . .” He hesitated, “Mikey Glass got into some trouble last night and it might be best for him if he was not in New York later this morning.”

  “Mikey? Got into trouble? So what else is new?”

  “If you have room on the plane . . .”

  “Mikey is wonderful company,” Gimbel said, “but only when he’s unconscious.”

  “There’s a possibility that, if he’s still in New York in a few hours, he might be arrested.”

  Gimbel stared at Belasco. “I’m a lawyer by training and trade. And I’m still a member of several bar associations. I am therefore an officer of several courts, including those in the state of New York. Are you really asking me to aid and abet the criminal flight of a fugitive from justice?”

  Belasco nodded, “As long as you put it that way . . . actually . . . I am.”

  He said right away, “Sure. But only as a favor to you.”

  “I do appreciate it.”

  Then Gimbel warned, “Mikey can’t get drunk on the plane. And he can’t try to slip his hand under the stewardess’ dress. And he can’t touch the pilots or try to play with their steering wheel . . .”

  “What time are you due to take off?”

  “It’s an on-time airline because I make up the time.”

  “Give me five minutes,” Belasco said.

  Gimbel agreed. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Belasco escorted him outside and found Dani still there. “Do you know Dani? She’s the nicest of the pack.”

  Gimbel extended his hand to say hello.

  “Last time I photographed you,” she said, “was at Fashion Week when you and Mrs. Gimbel . . .”

  He grimaced. “The black dress?”

  “The black dress,” she nodded.

  “Do you know how much a yard and a half of black silk mousseline tied into a bow costs?”

  “Sorry,” she shook her head, “they don’t sell that at Urban Outfitters.”

  Gimbel handed his shoulder bag to the chauffeur, then asked Dani, “That’s the new Canon, right?”

  “Just bought it.” She handed it to him.

  “I love this.”

  Belasco left them cooing about her camera, went back inside and rushed upstairs to the Glass apartment on thirty-one. He rang the bell twice, then knocked on the door several times, trying not to knock too loud.

  Mikey’s wife Karen eventually opened it, looking pretty rough, as though they’d been fighting nonstop. “If you’ve come to help me throw him out . . .”

  “Actually, I have.”

  When Mikey finally emerged, still dressed in his sweatpants, sweatshirt, and porkpie hat, he clung to Belasco’s arm and they came downstairs.

  “You are a prince among men,” Mikey assured him. “You are saving my life, and all I can give you in return is . . . Belasco . . . name your reward. Anything. Anything at all. If you want to marry Karen and adopt my children as your own, please be my guest. You can adopt me too.”

  Belasco brought Mikey outside.

  Dani took the camera back from Gimbel and moved into position.

  “Wait a second,” Belasco said to her, not wanting to appear in the photo.

  Now Mikey spotted Gimbel. “As I live and breathe.”

  “If you call that living,” Gimbel said. “You coming with me?”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m going to Los Angeles.”

  “I’ve already been there. Many times. Do I have to go to Los Angeles?” He looked at Gimbel, then at Dani, then at Belasco. “I understand that Bora Bora is wonderful this time of year.”

  “You can drop me in LA . . . it’s on the way.” Gimbel motioned to him, “Get in the car.”

  The chauffeur stepped up to help Mikey. Belasco quickly moved out of the shot and whispered to Dani, “Be my guest.”

  “No bags, sir?” The chauffeur asked Mikey as Dani shot pictures.

  “I travel light,” Mikey answered, then turned to Dani. “Want to come with us? We’re going to Bora Bora.”

  “Thank you, but I have to work,” she said, running off picture after picture.

  “No, you don’t. Marry me. I’m very rich.” He thought about that, then pointed to Gimbel. “Not as rich as him. No one is. But I’m rich enough that we’ll live happily ever after. You’re beautiful. We can go native. I’ll climb trees and bring you coconuts.”

  “I think I’ll stick with Josh,” she said.

  “Who’s Josh?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Does he like coconuts? What the hell, bring him along. I’ve got a whole plane . . .”

  “Actually,” Gimbel cut in, “I’m the one who’s got a whole plane and, Mikey, if you don’t get into the car right now . . .”

  Mikey pointed to Gimbel and told Dani, “He acts like I was married to him,” then got into the car.

  Dani kept taking pictures.

  Gimbel jumped in, the chauffeur shut the door and then climbed behind the wheel. As they pulled away, Mikey yelled at Dani through the window, “To Bora Bora and beyond!”

  Now she turned to Belasco, “Wow. Paper will love this. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he smiled. “Good night.”

  She corrected him, “Good morning.”

  “Technically,” he said, “somewhere it is always night.”

  12

  Before she’d agreed to the book project with Mel Berger, Alicia had decided that she needed to get NBC’s official blessing.

  Even if her boss’ permission wasn’t contractually required, politically, she and Carson had agreed that it was a good idea. So she’d written to her immediate bosses at WNBC, and had also written to Steve Capus, who was president of NBC News and, within two days, word came back from all of them that she was more than welcome to write the book.

  Next, she’d wondered, what about Donald Trump?

  Berger had assured her that Trump had already approved the project but agreed that, here, too, it might be politically correct if she dropped Trump a note to say she was doing it.

  Clearly, Trump thought Alicia was a great choice because he’d phoned her in the newsroom to say, “I’m thrilled that you’re doing it.”

  That night Carson said, “Looks like you’re good to go.”

  But she still wasn’t sure. “I think I need to send a note to everyone in the building and ask if anyone objects to being named.”

  So Alicia wrote to the Residents’ Board, which had circulated her letter to all 209 of the stakeholders.

  Lucy Greenwich had written back that before she and Edmond decided whether or not they’d cooperate, they wanted to know what Andrew Lloyd Webber was going to do.

  Zeke Gimbel had mentioned that he would personally arrange for Lucca Ortelli—the fashion photographer whose signed, unique, 1975 photo of Queen Elizabeth in deep conversation with Keith Richards had been sold at Sotheby’s for a record $235,000—to photograph him with his art collection for the book.

  There were a few people who’d asked whether or not their privacy would be protected if they allowed their apartment to be photographed without their names appearing.

  The only out-and-out no was from the chairman of the Trade and Industry Banking Corporation of China, the government’s official commercial investment bank.

  The letter, written and signed by his legal adviser, was terse. “Thank you for your invitation to participate in your forthcoming project. But the chairman has asked me to advise you that, under no circumstances whatsoever, does he wish to be, or would he tolerate being, included.”

  It was noted at the bottom that a copy of this had been sent to both Mr. P. Belasco and to Mr. D. J. Trump.

  Belasco had then written to Alicia, “I will gladly discuss this on your behalf with the chairman.”

  Trump’s answer had been slightly less diplomatic. “Screw him!”

  And then there’d been the
response from Katarina Essenbach.

  She’d written that, as hers was the best apartment in the building and would soon include Trump Tower’s only indoor tropical rain forest, she could understand why Alicia was insisting that photographs of it be included. However, Essenbach warned, she would not cooperate unless the book contained a recipe—“No one else in the entire tower has a chef who can compete with mine”—and had suggested that the featured dish be venison en croute.

  Now, on Saturday morning, barefoot and wearing a bright yellow tracksuit, Alicia installed herself at her dining room table, setting up her laptop and spreading out everything she already had about the book project.

  “No rest for the weary,” Carson said, dropping his overnight bag and six tennis rackets at the front door, then coming back into the dining room.

  “You think Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Shakespeare and Martí took the weekend off?” She got up to kiss him goodbye. “Have a good weekend.”

  “Who’s Marty?”

  “Not Marty . . . Martí.”

  “He must have taken weekends off because I never heard of Marty or Marti.”

  “He’s Cuba’s most famous writer. José Julián Martí Pérez.”

  “We know for sure that no one in Cuba works on weekends. Anyway, I never heard of Pérez either.” He kissed her and walked back to the door. “I’ll call you when we land. Be a good girl.”

  “And you be a good boy,” she said, following him.

  He was meeting up with Tommy Arcarro and the two of them were off to the Greenbriar, in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, for one of their money-tennis weekends.

  This time they’d hooked Lee-Jay Wesley Elkins III, possibly the richest twenty-five-year-old in the state. He was heir to his grandfather’s mining fortune and couldn’t care less about dropping fifty grand over a weekend of tennis because he loved playing with pros and former pros more than he cared about money.

  Carson grabbed his rackets and bag. “I love you.”

  “As much as venison en croute? It’s the recipe that the Dragon Lady wants to put in the book.”

  “Yes, I love you more than I love venison en croute,” he assured her. “Are you really going to include a recipe?”