“We’re on the nine o’clock to Paris,” Gennaro said.
“And I’m on the eight fifteen to Phoenix,” Horace said.
“Nothing’s changed,” Cyndi said, as they made their way back to the limo. “I get naked, everyone has food and then you all leave the country.”
They dropped her off first.
She kissed them goodbye, hugged them, then kissed them again. Everyone promised to stay in touch.
Horace even said to her, “Don’t wait another three years.”
Smiling, she got out of the car and stood on the curb while they drove away.
Then the tears started again, and she rushed upstairs to her apartment.
It took a little longer this time to pull herself together. When she did, she phoned her agent. “Arthur, it was great.”
“If you want to keep working . . .”
“Not a lot,” she confessed. “But this time . . . thanks.”
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s a pretty sizeable paycheck for a Monday morning.”
She thought about that. “Horace threw the agency people out.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Arthur said. “They weren’t supposed to be there to begin with.”
“And, hey, it wasn’t only the morning, we were there until two.”
He laughed, “For four hundred grand, some people would have stayed until six.”
She thought about the money again. “Arthur . . . I need to call Sydney Feinberg. I love you.”
He said, “I love you too. Good work today,” and hung up.
Now she dialed her lawyer and his secretary put her straight through. “To what do I owe a phone call from my most gorgeous client?”
“Hi, Sydney, I need some advice.”
“Of course.”
“A very old friend of mine . . . his lover is dying. They live in Arizona. He doesn’t know that I know and he must never find out. I don’t know what their money situation is and I don’t know what sort of treatment he can get . . . maybe none. But he must have whatever he can get. I’ll e-mail you his name and address and phone number. I made some money today. Minus Arthur’s commission . . . I’ll wire you three hundred and forty thousand dollars tomorrow to pay for whatever they need. Buy them anything and everything they need or want. Whatever it takes. I don’t care what it is or what it costs. If we run out, I’ll send more. Tell them they won the lotto. Tell them it comes from a fund for experimental medicine. Tell them it’s the Tooth Fairy. Tell them anything they’ll believe. But they must never know that the money is from me.”
“Wow, that old friend must mean a lot to you.”
“He does.”
She hung up, lay down on her bed, wrapped her arms around a pillow as if she was cuddling someone, and cried herself to sleep.
27
There was a lot of paperwork necessary to set in motion Tomas’ permanent dismissal.
Belasco spent the rest of the morning dealing with that upstairs on the twenty-fourth floor, e-mailing several key people, sending a brief personal message to the entire Tower staff of 265, then sending a long, personal memo to both Donald Trump and Anthony Gallicano to explain what had taken place and how he’d handled it.
“When does Shannon come back?” He asked Brenda, the woman who dealt with the residence side of the towers.
“Next Monday,” she said.
“Her temp replacement . . .”
“Gilbert,” she nodded. “I’ve taken care of the goodbye gift . . .”
“Tell him that there’s an opening on the elevators. I think we’ve promised to move Ricardo off weekends and nights, so we’ll let Ricardo take over from Tomas and Gilbert can fill Ricardo’s place while he’s waiting for something to open up at the concierge desk. How’s that?”
“He’ll jump at it,” Brenda said. “I know he will.”
“Good.” Belasco headed for the door. “Oh . . . and tell him I said he can keep the going-away presents.”
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK, Bill Riordan walked into Belasco’s office with Carlos Vela. It was just the two of them. No one was there from the union. There was no lawyer.
Short and in his midtwenties, Vela stood with his head down, staring at the carpet.
“This is not a pleasant task,” Belasco said, standing in front of his desk.
“Mr. Riordan already informed me,” Vela said in a soft voice.
Belasco glared at Riordan, then told Vela, “I want you to know that the decision was made above my head. I also want you to know that I believe you . . . that you did not steal the coat.”
Vela looked up at Belasco, “I did not steal anything . . .”
“For Chrissake, Pierre,” Riordan bellowed. “He’s guilty. He’s fired.” He turned to Vela, “You’re outta here.”
Belasco gave Riordan one of his looks of disdain, then turned to Vela, “There’s paperwork you’ll need to fill out. Mr. Riordan will walk you through the procedure upstairs.” He extended his hand, “I’m very sorry about this, and I wish you good luck.”
Vela was now in tears. “I didn’t steal that coat.”
“I know you didn’t,” Belasco said.
“The hell he didn’t,” Riordan said loudly. “The hell he didn’t,” and escorted Vela out of the office.
Throwing himself in his chair, he shook his head, “Riordan, you’re an idiot.”
That’s when an e-mail came in from Antonia. “Pierre, I’m following up on a couple of queries from Anthony. Can you confirm, please, that Carlos Vela has been dismissed? And about the overdue rent at Scarpe Pietrasanta. Can you confirm, please, that it’s been dealt with?”
He started to reply with one word, “Yes,” but didn’t push send. Instead, he picked up his phone and dialed Anthony Gallicano.
“You were asking about Carlos Vela and the overdue rent for Scarpe Pietrasanta . . .”
“I was?” Gallicano said. “Who’s Scarpe . . .”
“Scarpe Pietrasanta.”
“Never heard of him.”
“And Carlos Vela?”
“Yeah, I saw Trump’s e-mail. He had to go.”
“I thought you knew that Scarpe Pietrasanta . . . it’s a shoe company on the nineteenth floor . . . it’s in the report.”
“If it is, I didn’t pay attention. Sorry.”
“The owner died and his widow . . .”
“Nope. It’s not really my neighborhood. This is what the boss gives you the big bucks for.”
Belasco hung up and looked again at Antonia’s e-mail.
Following up on a couple of queries from Anthony.
He wasn’t exactly sure why, but instead of erasing it, he saved it in his hold file.
“Mr. Belasco? A moment of your time, please?”
Mr. Advani was at his door.
“Sir,” Belasco stood up and walked from behind his desk to greet the man. “Please . . .” He extended his hand to shake and then brought him into the office.
Dressed in a dark suit, Advani sat on the couch while Belasco pulled up a chair.
“It was most kind of you to be there when we arrived home on Saturday.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Belasco noticed that two of Advani’s assistants and several bodyguards were waiting just outside the door.
“It was my pleasure, sir. I trust that you and Mrs. Advani are settling in all right.”
“Yes, we are doing very well, considering the amount of flying time we have done in the past few months.”
“It doesn’t get any easier,” Belasco said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Advani forced a polite smile, then got down to business. “This evening’s residents’ board meeting.”
“Yes sir.”
“Will you attend?”
“I don’t normally, sir. This is the residents’ condo committee and unless there is a matter . . .”
“There is,” he said. “It concerns this fool-hearty proposal by Mrs. Essenbach to install a rain forest. Have you ever heard of anything this outlandish?”
Advani was very bitter about losing it, as he himself had tried to top her offer.
“I am aware that this will be discussed,” Belasco said.
“And vetoed,” Advani insisted. “There is no way that this woman should be allowed to disrupt our lives with major construction . . . or should I say, reconstruction . . . in the building. As you are well aware, her plans affect me directly, as her rain forest will be immediately next door to my second floor. Can you imagine the humidity and moisture problems? And the animals? I know she’s not permitted to bring animals into the building, but Brazilian jungle animals? Mark my words, she fully intends to sneak them in. Along with insects? This is lunacy.”
Belasco confided in Advani, “I have serious doubts, sir, that this will ever happen.”
“She simply must not be permitted to do this,” Advani said. “A jungle immediately next door to me? I will not permit it. I am prepared to do whatever I must to see that she is stopped.” He stood up, shook Belasco’s hand. “I hope I can count on you . . .”
Pierre answered him diplomatically, “I’m here to do whatever I can for the residents.”
“Thank you,” he said, and left.
Returning to his desk, Belasco typed an e-mail to the boss, reminding him of the background in the matter. He ended the memo with, “Mr. Advani assures me he is prepared to do, whatever he must to see that she is stopped. This might present you with the chance to back away and let him play the bad guy.”
An e-mail came back saying, “When it comes to Mrs. Essenbach, I don’t need, nor do I want, anyone else to play the bad guy. It is my pleasure.”
Belasco liked that.
Advani and the boss were both taking aim at Mrs. Essenbach. But then, if Dr. Gildenstein was right—and Belasco had every reason to think he was—everyone else on the board was taking aim at her, too.
That provided cover for him.
I get to play the good guy.
Taking his calendar, he jotted down, “Drinks after Board meeting. 9:30. Gildenstein.”
Above that, he’d noted his three o’clock appointment with Rebecca Battelli and someone from his accountant’s office.
He picked up his phone and dialed Scarpe Pietrasanta to remind her.
The number went straight to voice mail.
He hesitated, was about to hang up, but at the last minute left a message. “It’s Pierre Belasco. Checking up on you. Bye bye,” and he hung up.
Bye bye? He winced. I never say bye bye.
AT TEN to three, Ronnie Rose showed up.
“Accountant here. Delivery.”
“You told me you were going to send one of the juniors.”
“No, you told me to send someone junior. My wife says this company makes sensational shoes and gave me her size, just in case. I’m here at her orders.”
Belasco took Rose outside, turned left on Fifty-Sixth Street, and then into the atrium entrance. On the way to the nineteenth floor, he briefed Rose on Rebecca.
But the door at Scarpe Pietrasanta was still locked.
No one answered when he knocked.
Again, voice mail picked up his call.
“It’s Pierre Belasco. I’d promised to drop by at three with my accountant. If you get this message, would you phone me please?”
This time when he hung up he didn’t say “bye bye.”
And after waiting in Belasco’s office for twenty minutes, Rose left.
28
Arriving home after dinner on Saturday night, Zeke had asked Birgitta what she wanted to do.
She’d answered, “I’m staying here for the time being. Until you and I settle terms and I can get myself someplace to live.”
Still in shock that his marriage had evaporated so abruptly, he’d told Zoey and Max, “Not to worry,” and had driven that night to Malibu.
His place was toward the end of Malibu Colony Road. But even as secluded as it was, with Mikey Glass just up the street—he warned himself, no sense announcing I’m home ‘cause he’ll show up—Zeke made sure to park in his garage.
Like all the houses along that stretch, Zeke’s was perpendicular to the beach. The entrance from the street led into a big living room that ran the length of the house to a glass-enclosed patio where all three sides opened completely onto a mahogany deck. Outside, there were chaise lounges and chairs for a dozen people to sit in the sun or have a meal at the big, pink marble table next to the huge outdoor grill.
The beach was down a few steps.
On one side of the living room there was a large, open kitchen with a dining room next to it. On the garage side, stairs led up to four bedrooms.
The master bedroom overlooked the beach from a patio. There were bedrooms for Zoey and Max and one for a guest. Above the garage he’d built himself an office with a patio facing the beach.
He’d bought the house while he was still married to Miriam and she’d hired Caesar Dahl to decorate it. Everyone in Malibu was vying for him, but Zeke knew Dylan Tyke, the set designer who was Caesar’s lover. After Zeke got Dylan a job working on two pictures with Sean Penn’s company, Dylan returned the favor by putting the Gimbels on the top of Caesar’s “to do” list.
Unfortunately for Caesar, though, right after he finished the Gimbel beach house—in seashell whites, sandy off-whites, and Malibu pale blue—he and Dylan had a fight while at their home in Rio. And Dylan shot him.
Dylan wound up with fifteen years for manslaughter and Zeke’s house became famous for being, as the New York Times Magazine cover story put it, “The Ultimate Dahl House.”
Savannah had hinted about making some changes, which Zeke refused to let her do. And when Birgitta insisted on decorating the bedrooms and turning his office into a gym for her, Zeke also said no. His excuse was, this is how Caesar Dahl wanted it. But deep down what he really meant was, this is how Miriam and I liked it.
MOST OF SUNDAY morning was spent on his office patio, talking on the phone to Bobby Lerner about Birgitta’s divorce demands and going over the details of the Sovereign Shields deal.
“You have a chance to look through their client list?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah, I did. And I know a lot of these guys. Some pretty good athletes, very marketable. But the funny thing is, when I went back to see, you know, historically, who Shields had and who the Trumans had, I found one of my neighbors in New York.”
“Who’s that?”
“Tennis player named Carson Haynes. He signed with them in 2001 but got out of the game a few years later. I’ll have to ask him if they ever found him any work.”
“Nope,” Bobby said. “Don’t remember him.”
“He’s married to a gorgeous Cuban girl who does the news in New York.”
“Maybe you should try to sign her.”
“Not a bad idea,” Zeke said. “I see them every now and then at parties. Maybe next time I’ll ask.”
When Max and Zoey showed up—“Why should we have to stay in LA alone with her?”—the three of them drove halfway back to Santa Monica along the Pacific Coast Highway for a late brunch at Duke’s.
Zoey and Max then went home to Miriam’s.
On Sunday night, Zeke called Birgitta, but there was no answer at the house and, by then, he was too tired to call her cell.
OLINDA CAME to work early Monday morning and was surprised to find Zeke already there.
“Is Madame with you?”
“No,” he said, and changed the subject. “What time is Nobu delivering?”
“At eleven.”
“We’ll be eight and we’ll eat outside.”
Olinda began preparing the table while Zeke phoned the Colony’s gatehouse off the Malibu Road and gave the guards there the names of his guests.
Bobby Lerner was first to arrive. “I stopped by the office to check your
pre-nup. Essentially, she gets nothing. A little bit of cash to tide her over, but not much else. Basically, nada.”
“What does ‘not much else’ mean?”
“Her two cars. Any jewelry you bought her. Possibly the two Julian Schnabel paintings. But I’m not sure about them. Of course, she will ask for the Warhols, but they’re safe.”
“There are three Schnabels.”
“Okay, three Schnabels. Her lawyers will make up a list. If she doesn’t remember the third one, we won’t remind her.”
“What will be on their list?”
“Everything they can think of. Same shit we went through with Savannah, but worse because Birgitta is smarter.”
“And nastier.”
Bobby assured him, “No matter what they put on their list, the pre-nup is what it is. Everything in New York is safe because it’s an office. Out here, trust me, we’re watertight.”
“How much is a little bit of cash?”
“A lot to her but not a lot to you. What are you worried about?”
“How much?” Zeke demanded.
“No more than two and a half.”
“Fuck me.” Zeke shook his head. “My father earned twenty-eight grand a year. With that he sent me to law school, sent my brother to med school and sent my sister someplace where she could find a doctor husband. How much did your old man earn?”
“Not as much as yours,” he confessed. “But I never had a sister who wouldn’t settle for anything less than a doctor.”
Zeke kept shaking his head. “Two and a half? Doesn’t that strike you as being obscene?”
“In Chicago, yes. In LA? Imagine life without the pre-nup.”
Lenny Silverberg was the next to arrive.
Now seventy, tall with white hair and a permanent tan, he’d hung up his Wall Street boots more than twenty years ago to become a full-time “dabbler.” He dabbled in film and he dabbled in television, but what he really liked most was to dabble in music. Instead of stocks and shares, he bought songs.
“All I have to do is ask my grandchildren what they’re listening to.” His music catalog, supposedly holding nearly seventy-eight thousand songs, was estimated to be the third most valuable in the world, right behind the old Michael Jackson catalog and Paul McCartney’s. “Except for some Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen hits, and maybe a little Cole Porter, I don’t have to listen to anything I own.”
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