Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  “A deal.”

  “No, David. Not with Colombians.”

  “Don’t worry about them . . . honestly, they’re not what y’all think.”

  “Not what I think? I think they’re Colombians. David . . . does the word cocaine ring any bells?”

  “They’re not that. They’re strange but they’re not.”

  “Strange,” she repeated what he’d said to her on the phone. “Seriously very real strange. Well, how strange is ‘seriously very real strange’?”

  “Strange because . . . they had guns.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  He insisted. “It’s not what y’all think.”

  “You just said they had guns. It’s not what I think? David, they’re Colombians with guns.”

  “It’s all about tax evasion.”

  “I don’t care. We’re not touching that money.”

  “We don’t have to. That’s the beauty of this. We never see their money.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “We get to use it. It gets put in that lawyer’s client account. He takes that to our bank . . . where we have a line of credit . . . and we get a big expansion on that line because our credit is now secured by the Colombians’ money.”

  “David . . . it’s fucking cocaine!”

  “No, Tina, it’s fucking tax evasion. We never touch their money. We never even see their money.”

  “But we use their money.”

  “We use the bank’s money.”

  “The answer is no, David. We are not going there.”

  “Listen to me . . .” He needed to make her understand. “With the kind of money they’re talking, there isn’t a deal we can’t do. Airplane parts. Oil. All the really big stuff.”

  “There isn’t a deal I’m going to do, not with their money.”

  “It’s not their money, it’s the bank’s money.”

  “Count me out.”

  “How can I count you out?”

  “You want to get involved with these sleazebags, then you open a separate trading account. My money stays out of it. Our joint money stays out of it. My name stays out of it.”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” he said, “fine.”

  “If you’re fucking stupid enough to get involved with these guys . . .”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said, and went back to the office.

  He went upstairs to sleep.

  Before the banks closed, he set up a separate trading account for himself, with a $30 million line of credit. That done, he texted Zhadanov, “You back in NYC yet? I’m ready to go.”

  “Me too.” Zhadanov texted back, then asked for David’s banking information.

  David sent him what he needed.

  Zhadanov assured him, “Money is there. Go for it.”

  Now for the first time since he’d gotten up from his sleep, David turned to Tina and said, “I’m on my way. Everything’s good. I’m in and . . . y’all are completely locked out.”

  “Fine,” she said, getting up from her desk and leaving the room.

  “Fine,” he said, and began looking everywhere for a really big cargo.

  23

  Pierre Belasco got out of his taxi at the Fifth Avenue entrance to Trump Tower, walked through the atrium—it was starting to get busy—stepped into the elevator, and hit the button for twenty-four.

  He needed to speak to Bill Riordan.

  But before the doors closed, he decided on a slight detour and hit the button for nineteen.

  Getting out there, he walked down the hallway to the Scarpe Pietrasanta office.

  The door was locked, and when he knocked on it, no one answered.

  He took the next elevator up to twenty-four.

  The security office had a windowless room with several banks of large monitors for the cameras positioned throughout Trump Tower and another windowless room with a bank of mainframe computers programmed to monitor everything that needed to be monitored.

  Sitting directly in front of the doors to those rooms was a desk for the office secretary, and off that was a room with a view onto Fifty-Sixth Street, where Riordan worked.

  “You got a minute?” Belasco asked.

  Riordan looked up, “Sure,” and motioned to Belasco to come in. “Usually I’m here by seven. But I met a couple of my buddies for breakfast, guys who are still on the job. You know, to keep my hand in.”

  Belasco smiled politely, sat in the chair facing Riordan’s cluttered, folder-covered desk. “I’m still bothered about Carlos Vela.”

  “Moot,” Riordan said. “You see the e-mail?”

  “I haven’t been downstairs yet.”

  “From the boss himself.” He typed a few things on his computer keyboard, clicked his mouse, and turned the screen to face Belasco. “There.”

  Leaning forward, Belasco looked at the e-mail signed DJT, which was in response to an e-mail from Anthony Gallicano earlier this morning. It was cc’d Belasco and Riordan, and said simply, “Fire him.”

  Riordan announced, almost triumphantly, “Case closed.”

  Belasco took a deep breath and stood up. “Not the first time an innocent man gets hung.”

  “If he was innocent, okay. But he’s not.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Does it matter?” Riordan asked, pointing to the e-mail on the computer screen. “He is.”

  DOWNSTAIRS, Belasco found a copy of that e-mail waiting in his in-box. He didn’t read it again—he didn’t have to—because the boss’ instructions were crystal clear.

  With no choice, he rang Big Sam, the building engineer, and told him, “Decision’s been made that Vela is gone. But I want to be the one who tells him. Can you have him, his union rep, and if he wants, his lawyer, in my office this morning at eleven? You can come along too.”

  Big Sam answered, “I’ll get on it right now.”

  No sooner had he hung up when a young man he knew only as Gino knocked on his door and asked, “Can I see you for a moment?”

  “Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s her again.” Gino worked in the food court, downstairs, at the coffee and pastry counter. “You wanted us to tell you if it ever happened again. And it has.”

  “Her?”

  “The old lady. This time, it’s four donuts.”

  “Oh . . . yes . . . okay.” He pulled himself up from behind his desk and walked out with Gino, going through the fire safety office into the atrium.

  “She’s there,” Gino pointed.

  “Thank you,” Belasco said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Gino headed for the escalators to go downstairs.

  Belasco strolled to where Odette was leaning against a wall eating a donut, all the time careful not to let any crumbs fall on the polished marble floor.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said. “Bon appétit.”

  She answered in French, “Oh, Monsieur Belasco, will you join me for breakfast?”

  “Thank you,” he continued in French, “I’ve already eaten. But, you know, you should never eat standing up.”

  “Quite right,” Odette said, still chewing. “Are you sure?” She extended a napkin with three other donuts wrapped inside. “Please, help yourself. And perhaps someday you will install tables and chairs here so I don’t have to eat breakfast standing up.”

  “Perhaps . . . shall I hold those for you?”

  “No,” she answered sharply.

  “You are up early, Madame. I don’t usually see you until . . .”

  “Monday is a busy day for me here,” she said, “so many tourists on Monday morning . . .” Then she asked, “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That Mr. Lips . . . you know who he is, that English musician?”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Lips. But what about him?”

  “Well . . . I heard . . .” She leaned forward to wh
isper, “that he fired his housekeeper all because she was allergic to cats.”

  “Really?”

  She continued whispering. “Apparently, he and Mrs. Cove, you know the Chinese woman on forty-five? Well, she was seen leaving Mr. Lips’s apartment on thirty-two.”

  Belasco smiled. “Perhaps she was visiting.”

  “She was,” Odette assured him, “visiting. I should say so. All night. Quite a visit, no?”

  “And you know this, Madame . . . how?”

  Odette closed her eyes and shook her head as if to say, I won’t talk.

  “Of course.” He nodded that he understood. “You seem to know quite a bit about Mr. Lips.”

  “Let’s say,” she wiped her hands with one napkin while still holding onto the donuts with another, “that I am very observant.” Then she handed the napkin with the donuts to him. “Imagine . . . firing a housekeeper because she’s allergic to cats in a building where cats are not permitted.”

  “Imagine that,” he said looking at the donuts, then at her.

  “It’s always lovely speaking with you, monsieur, but the tourists are here. I must go. Au revoir.”

  He watched her approach a small group of Japanese tourists and start talking to them.

  Allergic to cats. Mr. Lips and Mrs. Cove.

  He shook his head.

  Cats weren’t permitted in the Tower. Nor were any other animals. But of course, Belasco knew, there were plenty of cats and dogs, and there were certainly birds and fish. He’d even been led to believe that at least one resident had a pet boa constrictor. He’d never seen it, and when he mentioned it to the resident, the resident denied it. Yet one of the maintenance men swore he’d seen it.

  As for Mr. Lips and Mrs. Cove, that didn’t concern him any more than the dogs, fish, birds and cats did.

  He carried the three donuts downstairs to the counter, where he tried to hand them back to Gino. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  Gino held up his hands to show Belasco that he didn’t want them. “I can’t take them back. Health regulations. They’re no good to me once she’s touched them.”

  “Of course.” Belasco put them on the counter, then reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill. “Here . . . will this do?”

  The man took the money. “That’s fine. They’re only . . .”

  “Never mind,” Pierre said, taking the three wrapped donuts off the counter. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  He walked away, went back to the residents’ reception and put the donuts on the concierge’s desk.

  “Compliments of Madame Odette,” he said to Felicity, who was sorting mail, and to Pierro, who was going through undelivered newspapers.

  “Thanks,” Felicity said. “And this is for you.”

  She handed him a small box.

  He saw the return address, “Ah . . . thank you . . .” brought it into his office, opened it, took what he wanted out of it, rewrapped the contents in a manila envelope, and added the note “Christmas is early this year.” Sealing the envelope, he addressed it and walked it back to Felicity. “Run it upstairs, please.”

  She looked at it and nodded.

  “Pierre?” Bill Riordan hurried out of the door at the end of the hallway, where the service elevator was. “Pierre, you need to see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “You won’t believe it.” Motioning that they needed to speak privately, the two men went into Belasco’s office and Riordan shut the door. “Have you got a DVD player?”

  He pointed to the flat-screen television in the bookcase. “Under that.”

  Riordan put a DVD into the machine, took the remote from Belasco’s desk and pushed play. The screen flickered, and the camera shot remained static on a large table for a long time.

  “The boardroom,” Riordan said. “The one the boss uses in the television show.”

  “The Celebrity Apprentice boardroom?”

  “Yeah . . . watch.”

  Fast-forwarding the DVD, the time clock raced to 03:27. That’s when Riordan slowed it down.

  “Now, watch.”

  Two shadows stepped in front of the camera, then moved away and came into focus.

  It was hard to see because the boardroom set was unlit. But Belasco watched as the two people went to the big table.

  It was a man and a woman.

  “Here you go,” Riordan said.

  The two looked around, then the man moved in on the woman, and they embraced. Then the man pulled down his pants, and pulled down the woman’s pants, and within a minute she was lying on the table and he was lying on top of her.

  “Can you believe that?” Riordan stopped the DVD.

  “This was last night?”

  “This morning . . . what did it say, three something in the morning.”

  “How did they get in there? I thought the set was locked when they aren’t filming.”

  “Whole floor should be locked.”

  “Then how . . .”

  “You mean, you didn’t recognize our little Romeo?”

  “No.”

  “Your boy Tomas.”

  “Tomas Tejeda?” Belasco was shocked. “My elevator operator?”

  “We’ve got him on camera sneaking up the back stairs and onto the floor with some woman. What time does he come on?”

  “He’s on now.”

  “If you need any more proof than that . . .”

  “The boss know?”

  “You get a call from him yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer. Because you can bet your ass as soon as he . . .”

  “Wait here,” Belasco said, stepped outside, and saw that Jaquim’s was the only elevator on the ground floor. “Which elevator is Tomas on?”

  Jaquim answered, “Three.”

  Belasco stood there waiting.

  When the third elevator door opened, Robert Gildenstein, an orthopedic surgeon, got out.

  “Good morning, Pierre,” he stopped to say hello. “I forget, do you go to the residents’ board meetings?”

  “Not usually.”

  “It’s at our place, tonight. Should be interesting. You might want to pop up.”

  “Mrs. Essenbach’s Brazilian jungle?”

  Gildenstein whispered to Belasco, “Prakash . . . you know, Advani . . . he’s been lobbying everybody. She doesn’t stand a chance.” He slapped Belasco on the back, “Eight thirty if you can make it.”

  “For all sorts of reasons, doctor, I think this time I’ll keep my distance.”

  “Then come for drinks afterward.”

  “That might be a better idea.”

  “Around nine thirty? Have a good day.”

  “You too,” Belasco said as he left, then turned to Tomas, who was standing outside his elevator. “In my office, please.”

  Tomas looked at Belasco, then at Jaquim, then walked into Belasco’s office.

  Immediately, Riordan barked, “How fucking stupid are you, pal?”

  Belasco shut the door. “I would listen to an explanation if you had one.”

  Tomas shook his head, “No.”

  “I’m afraid that your dismissal is effective immediately,” Belasco said. “Mr. Riordan will accompany you to the locker room where you will be permitted to take any personal belongings. But your ID card and everything that is property of Trump Tower will stay here.”

  “Who’s the woman,” Riordan demanded. “I want to know right now . . .”

  “No,” Belasco stopped him.

  Riordan didn’t like that. “It’s important to find out who she is . . . if she works here . . .”

  Belasco asked Tomas, “Does the woman work here?”

  “No, Señor,” he said quietly.

  “Then you will go with Mr. Riordan now.”

  Riordan glared at Belasco. “You’re going to take his word for it?” He turned to Tomas. “I want her name.”

  “No,” Belasco said again.

  “If she works here . . .”

/>   Belasco ignored him and looked at Tomas. “Your union representative will explain that you are entitled to a lawyer, and I’m advising you now not to say anything to anyone about this without first consulting an attorney. I will make arrangements with accounting to send you whatever money is due, including vacation time. But you will not be permitted back in Trump Tower under any circumstances. And if asked by a future employer for a character reference, we will note that you were fired for conduct unbecoming an employee. Do you understand?”

  Tomas nodded and said quietly, “Yes.”

  “Wait outside,” Riordan ordered, watched as Tomas left, then berated Belasco, “How the hell can you let him walk without telling us who the woman was?”

  “If she doesn’t work here, it’s none of our business.”

  “And if she does work here?”

  “He said she didn’t.”

  Riordan shook his head several times and started out of the office. “What a piece of cake you are, my friend.”

  “Don’t ask him again who the woman was,” Belasco warned. “It doesn’t matter. And as for this . . .” He went to his DVD player, pulled out the disk, and snapped it in half. “One copy gets sent to the lawyers. All the others get shredded. This isn’t for distribution.”

  “This clown and the other one, Vela . . . two sleazebags give you a song and dance . . . and you buy their stories, lock, stock and barrel. Just like that, you believe them both. These guys need to be nailed.”

  Belasco motioned to Riordan that the discussion was over. “I don’t do crucifixions.”

  24

  Ricky Lips was half-asleep, laying on his back, naked except for his ankle bracelet, with the bed covers spilling onto the floor, when he felt her move close to him.

  Instinctively, he reached for her.

  With his eyes shut, he felt her slide up his chest, and then she was on his face, so he opened his mouth and then . . . “Ahhhhhhh.”

  He screamed and sat up.

  “Ahhhhhhh.”

  The woman next to him screamed.

  “Ahhhhhhh.”

  The ocelot growled and hissed, clawed the woman, then jumped off Ricky’s face to the floor and raced away from the bed.

  “What the fuck . . .” He yelled, spitting the ocelot’s taste off his tongue.

  “Damn cat scratched me,” she shouted.

  “Pthew.” He spit. “I licked it. Pthew.”