Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  Ten minutes later, Huan returned to take them to the sauna. She helped them out of their robes and, now naked, Alicia and Tina stepped into the first of their four saunas.

  “Wow,” Alicia said. “I forgot how hot this is.”

  A typical rock sauna, it smelled of chamomile.

  “Is it me,” Tina asked, sitting down on the lower of the two benches, “or do you think they put something in that tea?”

  They stayed there for nearly fifteen minutes before Huan invited them to come out, handed them each another cup of that herbal tea, then took them into another sauna, this one more like a steam bath.

  “Where’s David?” Alicia asked.

  “Where else?” Tina answered. “He loves to tell me that golf is like sex. He says, ‘When it’s good, it’s great, when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.’”

  “Only a man would say that.”

  “Trust me,” Tina confided, “there are times when even I’d rather be playing golf.”

  “I didn’t know you played golf.”

  “I don’t.”

  Before they knew it, Huan was back to give them more tea and take them into the third sauna, which was very dry and felt much hotter than the previous two.

  It smelled of eucalyptus.

  “Where’s Carson?” Tina asked.

  “One of his tennis weekends. He’s got a list of people who are willing to pay a lot of money to play with an ex-tour pro. A lot of the guys do it when they quit the tour.”

  “And it gives you the weekend off.”

  “Except I like having him around. He keeps my feet warm.”

  “Always a good idea to start at the feet,” Tina smiled.

  “Anyway, now with the book . . . I’m starting it . . . so having the weekend alone to think . . .”

  “Or to spend with anyone else you want to.”

  Alicia smiled, “I’ve been trying to spend the weekend with L. Arthur Farmer, but I can’t find him.”

  “Farmer? The rice guy? He’s got to be two hundred years old. Or dead. Or both. Why him?”

  “For the book,” Alicia said. “I found a reference in one of the archives that he might have once lived in Trump Tower.”

  “I thought he lived in Las Vegas.”

  “Apparently he’s lived in lot of places. There are references to him in the islands, and in Florida and in California. And there’s a reference I found, but only one, that he lived at Trump Tower.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “It was back in 1979.”

  “I thought the Tower was built in 1983.”

  “That’s when it opened. But this reference . . . it was in the NBC database . . . this reference said that he was the first to buy into Trump Tower.”

  Tina shook her head, “In 1979? I don’t think it was called Trump Tower back then.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “I heard that somewhere from someone.”

  Huan returned with more tea and then delivered them into a very small room with wood walls like a sauna. But it wasn’t hot. And there was no bench to sit on. Instead, there were two very large wooden stools, side by side.

  Neither Tina nor Alicia had ever been in this room before.

  “Very new,” Huan motioned to the stools. “Keep your robes on if you wish . . . but sit there, please . . .”

  Tina pointed to the stools, which were open at the bottom.

  “What’s this?” Alicia asked, bending down to study the small copper pot under each stool.

  Steam was rising out of the pot and going up through the hole in the stool.

  Huan answered, “We put you together. You are friends, yes? You don’t mind?”

  “Mind what?” Tina wanted to know.

  “Please . . . sit.”

  Alicia and Tina looked at each other and then back at the stools.

  “But what is that?” Tina wanted to know.

  “Very new. Your first time? It is mugwort and wormwood. For there.” Huan pointed to Tina’s crotch.

  Tina looked at Alicia, “What the fuck is a mugwort?”

  Staring at the hole in the stool, Alicia decided, “I don’t think I want any wood worms up there.”

  “Not wood worms,” Tina started giggling. “Wormwood. Still . . .” Tina pointed to the stool and asked Huan, “We’re supposed to sit on that?”

  “Reduce stress,” Huan said. “More energy. Relax blood vessels. Make you very fertile.”

  Alicia put her hand over the hole in the stool to feel the heat.

  Tina did the same.

  Alicia asked, “Why does this feel like we’re doing something naughty?”

  Tina kept giggling. “Like being eight years old and playing doctor.” She made a face and offered, “I will if you will.”

  “Like being sixteen years old and playing doctor,” Alicia agreed.

  Pulling their robes aside, the two women sat down—cautiously—positioning themselves on the stool so that the steam came up between their open legs.

  “Whoa,” Alicia’s eyes opened wide. “That will wake you up.”

  “Kind of hot but . . . hello . . .” Tina squirmed a bit.

  Huan bowed and said she would return shortly.

  “Something tells me,” Tina grinned, “a guy invented this.”

  “Absolutely not,” Alicia laughed, “because if a guy had invented this, there would be moving parts.”

  Tina’s giggle turned into a laugh.

  And the more she laughed, the more Alicia laughed too.

  “What do you think this really does?” Tina asked.

  “Makes you squirm good,” Alicia made a face, and the two of them kept laughing.

  “I love a good squirm,” Tina said.

  Alicia laughed, “Mugwort and squirm-good.”

  Tina managed to say, “How do we explain this if anyone asks?”

  Alicia only just managed to answer, “Asks what? Did you sit on a bowl of steaming mugwort?”

  That sent them into gales of laughter.

  Tina said, “This is really very . . .”

  Alicia asked, “Warm and wet?”

  “I love warm and wet.”

  “Maybe a guy did invent this after all.”

  They kept laughing.

  Alicia suggested, “It’s kind of like a facial.”

  Tina couldn’t control her laughter. “Hey, that ain’t my face down there.”

  Alicia said, “I was thinking of Carson and David.”

  And the two of them didn’t stop laughing until Huan came back and escorted them out of there.

  “Here’s to mugwort,” Tina said, sipping some tea.

  “And to wormwood squirm-good,” Alicia toasted.

  That set them off again, laughing.

  Huan now led them into a shower area, where two young women doused them with a fairly strong spray, soaped them with huge sponges—Alicia and Tina were quickly covered in a thick foam that smelled of rose—then used that strong spray again to wash off all the foam.

  Two other young women dried them off before Huan brought Tina and Alicia into a room for a pedicure.

  After that they went to a second room for a facial.

  Then they went to a third room for Brazil wax.

  After that, Huan escorted the two women to the fourth floor for their massage.

  She brought Alicia into a small room where the massage table was covered in a white cotton sheet and introduced her to Meili, a very tiny woman who bowed and smiled and invited Alicia to take off her robe and lie down on the table.

  Stepping back into the hall, Huan motioned to Tina to follow her.

  But Tina stopped to ask, in Mandarin, “Mrs. Guillermo . . . she comes here often . . .”

  Huan smiled politely but didn’t say anything.

  “. . . because she is my good friend.” Tina went on, “I would like the same masseur that she has.”

  Nodding several times, Huan showed Tina into her massage room and said something quietly to the masseuse. Those tw
o both smiled demurely, bowed, and left. Tina took off her robe and lay down on her stomach.

  A few minutes later, a tall, well-built young Chinese man in white slacks and an open white shirt, with dark shoulder-length hair and a big smile, walked into the room.

  He shut the door, then stood there for a moment running his eyes over her nude body.

  Tina watched him as he inspected her.

  He bowed.

  She nodded, “Yes.”

  Four hours after the driver had left them at T’ien, he was double-parked on Ninety-Second Street, in front of the five-story townhouse waiting for them.

  Alicia took her credit card back, glanced at the charge—$2,000—smiled at Huan and said thank you.

  Tina took her card, also said thank you, but put the card and receipt away quickly, before Alicia could see that hers read, “$2,500.”

  19

  David Cove’s pilots, Barry and Gavin, had to fight strong crosswinds landing at Curaçao International, which is on the beach along the northern side of the island. It was very bumpy coming down, and the lawyer, Vasyl Zhadanov, was visibly upset.

  “I don’t like small planes,” he kept saying. “I really don’t. Why can’t the pilots do a better job? How well trained are they? This is terrible. I will probably not come back to New York with you.”

  By this point, David could not have cared less.

  Zhadanov was late getting to Teterboro, which meant, for David, the trip started on a sour note. He wanted to leave when he wanted to leave, and standing around waiting for someone else always annoyed him.

  As soon as they took off, Zhadanov began drinking heavily. He complained that the vodka was Grey Goose and not Stolichnaya—“How can you drink French vodka? Vodka is Russian. I only ever drink Stolichnaya. I only ever drink Russian vodka.”—though that didn’t stop him from going through half the bottle.

  Two hours into the flight, the man asked Wendy, the stewardess, “How much would you want to be topless right now?” which upset her so much that David had to tell Zhadanov, “Don’t talk to her again. If you want anything from the galley, y’all have to fetch it yourself.”

  Now the man was moaning about the landing. “I have never flown with pilots as bad as this. Seriously, this is like we’re going to crash. I will not come back to New York with you.”

  David didn’t hide his displeasure. “Y’all got that right, pal.”

  While they were still taxiing, Zhadanov dialed a number on his BlackBerry. David checked his e-mails on his iPhone and wondered, what the hell am I doing here.

  “Did you remember to make reservations for us?” David asked as he scrolled through his in-box. “You said there’s a Hyatt and a Hilton . . .”

  Zhadanov held up his hand, to remind David that he was on the phone.

  “I gotta make arrangements for the crew,” David said.

  But Zhadanov was too busy, speaking very quietly to the person on the other end—David thought, it’s almost as if he doesn’t want me to hear—then hung up and turned to David. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”

  CARSON AND TONY cracked a bottle of Champagne as soon as they took off for New York, congratulating themselves on a successful West Virginia weekend.

  They’d separated Lee-Jay Wesley Elkins and his friends from nearly $38,000 in cash.

  It was 4:25 when they landed back at Teterboro. Tony had his car and offered to drop Carson in the City, but Carson said that was crazy because Tony lived in Connecticut, and anyway, Carson had a limo waiting.

  As soon as the driver left the airport, he took his phone, found the number for Maryse, and when she answered, he told her, “I’m on my way.”

  “If the door is locked when you get here,” she said, “call me and I’ll come down to open it.”

  “You are magic,” he said.

  “Oh,” Maryse sighed, “what might have been.”

  Hanging up, Carson sat back and said to the driver, “If we don’t hit traffic, we’ll be okay.”

  The driver assured him, “I’ll get you there.”

  But they did hit Sunday evening traffic going into the tunnel, then hit traffic again on the West Side Highway. It was 5:45 when the limo finally pulled up to the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street.

  Carson jumped out, thanked the driver, grabbed his overnight bag and rackets from the trunk, slammed the trunk shut, and rushed up to Tiffany’s door.

  It was locked.

  A guard inside waved his finger to show him they were closed.

  Carson took his cell and dialed Maryse. “I’m here.”

  He waited on the street until a large, black woman in her sixties, with white hair and half glasses perched on her nose, arrived at the door and nodded to the guard to open it.

  He stepped inside.

  “Where have you been?” She took his hand and led him to the elevators and up to the second floor.

  “I was in West Virginia.”

  “I don’t mean now. I mean since you last came to see this old lady. You only live next door. It’s not as if you have to even cross the street.”

  “I’m seeing you before I even see my wife. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Nope.” Still holding his hand, she led him into a private room with a small table, two chairs and a large metal cabinet. “Got it right here,” she said, taking some keys out of her pocket and unlocking the cabinet. “How did Alicia like the earrings?”

  “Loved them. And she wears the bracelet all the time.”

  Maryse brought out a Tiffany blue box with a tag attached to it where she’d written, “Mr. C. Haynes.”

  Inside was a gold and deep pink sapphire necklace—the pink was almost red enough to be a ruby—and a large ring with an equally beautiful stone.

  “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll do the necklace now and the ring next time.”

  “Shall I wrap it?”

  “You think I’m going to wear it out?”

  “Be right back,” she said, and left the room.

  He sat there looking at the ring.

  When Maryse returned, she was carrying a Tiffany box tied with a bow, and the necessary paperwork.

  He looked at the bill, reached into his pocket, took out a large wad of cash, and handed her $16,460.

  She said, “I’ll bring you your change,” left the room again and when she returned, she handed him $1.48.

  He stared at it. “Can’t even buy myself a subway ticket with this.”

  She had to know, “When was the last time your poor butt sat on a subway train?” She put the box with the ring in it back in the cabinet and locked it. “For next time.” Then she looked at him and shook her head. “Oh what could have been . . . if only I was forty years younger or you were ten years younger.”

  He laughed, “Thanks for keeping the place open. You make me feel like the Queen of England at Harrods,” and started to leave.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home.”

  “This place is locked-down shut. There’s no way you, or the Queen of England, could get out of here alive without me.”

  Downstairs, she hugged him, said “Love to Alicia,” and the guard let him out. He strolled the few dozen yards along Fifth Avenue to Fifty-Sixth Street, turned left, went into the residents’ lobby and then upstairs.

  “How did you do?” Alicia kissed him hello.

  “Funny you should ask,” he said. “How did you do?”

  “I did good . . . I’m doing good . . . working on the book. Why’s it funny I should ask?”

  “‘Cause I did so good . . .” He handed her the Tiffany box.

  She broke out into a huge smile, opened the box, and right away said, “Oh my God . . . Carson . . . I love it.” She kissed him. “I love this and I love you.” She quickly put it on and went to check it in the hallway mirror. “Carson . . . oh I love you.” She kissed him again. “And . . . come to think of it, I have a present for you.”

  “Really?�
��

  “Yes, wait here.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here. Don’t move.” She raced into her bedroom, threw off all her clothes, and stepped into the tiny thong she’d bought at Firenzi. “You ready?” she called to him.

  “I am.”

  She headed out the bedroom door wearing nothing but the necklace and the thong. “Care for a piece of candy before dinner?”

  “WHAT THE HELL do you mean?” David barked at Zhadanov. “What kind of change of plans?”

  “My contacts, the men we were supposed to meet tomorrow . . . they insist that we meet tonight.”

  He checked his watch. “Nine thirty on a Sunday night?”

  “They have given me an address . . .”

  “Y’all said they’re businessmen. I thought we were going to someone’s office tomorrow morning.”

  “They have changed the plans. I told them it’s all right. We will need a car to take us. I don’t know if you want to spend the night here or go back to New York later.”

  David stared at him. “Y’all got us rooms at which hotel?”

  Zhadanov hesitated. “Sometimes they do this . . . change plans at the last minute . . .”

  “You mean there are no reservations? What kind of shit is this? I come all the way down here, and now you tell me . . .”

  Barry cut off the engines and Gavin shouted back to Wendy, “Good to go.”

  She got out of her jump seat and opened the front door. No sooner did she have the steps down when a customs officer and an immigration officer came into the plane, saluted, and the immigration officer said, “Welcome to the Netherland Antilles. Passports please.”

  They went through the usual formalities—David couldn’t tell from the fleeting glance he had of Zhadanov’s passport which country it was from, except it clearly wasn’t a US passport—and while Zhadanov went to find a car, David asked Barry, “What’s the deal with turn-around and crew rest and all that stuff? Can we go back tonight? This asshole is screwing with my head.”

  Barry checked his watch and did a fast calculation. “We can hold here . . . maybe four more hours, then we’re probably illegal. But what the hell, boss, if you want . . .”