Trump Tower

  “She was ranting and raving and making vague threats. She did it in front of my staff.”

  “Keep your powder dry, Pierre. I’ll pull a copy of the lobby CCTV and send one to you.”

  “And one to the lawyers.”

  “Obviously, there’s no sound . . . write it up the way it happened . . . you know . . . what she said and what you said . . . and add who was there to witness it. Then, maybe, you should meet with the lawyers to go over this. She’s got enough money to make trouble for everyone if she wants to.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and rang Carole Ann Mendelsohn, the woman who ran the in-house legal team.

  “It’s Mrs. Essenbach,” he told her.

  “I’ve seen the DVD,” Mendelsohn said. “Did you know she had a husband? I was surprised. I thought black widow spiders ate them.”

  He smiled. “We should talk about her. She’s been ranting and raving in the lobby. Bill Riordan will send you a copy of the CCTV footage.”

  “How’s two this afternoon?”

  “Two thirty would be better.”

  “Done. See you then.”

  They hung up.

  That’s when Belasco’s phone rang.

  It was Rebecca Battelli and she was hysterical. “I’ve been robbed.”

  33

  An e-mail was waiting in the office for Carson, with a large attachment from the lawyers in Tokyo. “As per your request. There was nothing in English, but we’ve done a fast translation of the summary. Let us know if you need more.”

  He e-mailed back, “Thank you. I’m in Tokyo this week. Can we meet Friday morning?”

  Opening the attachment, he started to read it, then quickly got Ken Warring on the phone.

  “If you’re still in LA, then I’m waking you again.”

  “No,” Warring said. “I’m in Dallas. And, yes, you’re still waking me.”

  “Shigetada. Remember that we said there was nine percent missing? Yesterday we found six of the nine at a small, family-owned investment bank called Chiba. The managing partners are Shigetada’s cousins.”

  “And?”

  “And this morning I learned that they hate him.”

  “We love hate,” Warring said. “You should meet with them.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why wait?”

  Carson explained, “We need to hold this card close. If the shit hits the fan, they’ll be the first to bail out.”

  “Then we need to be there selling parachutes.”

  “What I don’t understood,” Carson confessed, “is why, if they hate him, are they still holding his shares?”

  “Ask yourself the same question. Why would you?”

  He pondered that. “The obvious thing is that I’d be looking to get more than they’re worth now.”

  “Or?”

  “Or . . . I could care less and put them away forever because it’s a family thing.”

  “Unlikely. Emotion shouldn’t enter into the equation.”

  “It often does.”

  “And when it does,” Warring reminded him, “that’s when you lose money.”

  “So . . . what else?”

  “You’re asking me to second-guess some Japanese guys I’ve never met before the day’s first cup of coffee . . . but how about this? If you really hated some guy, wouldn’t you want to hold onto his shares until you could use them to hurt him?”

  Carson smiled. “Kind of like what we’re thinking of doing to Shigetada.”

  “Kinda . . . exactly.”

  “Speaking of which,” Carson said, “I never heard back on those three hundred thousand shares in the dark pool in Hong Kong, which means no movement there. And we put twenty-five thousand out at forty and haven’t heard back about that, either. Have to presume no one is interested.”

  “Keep me informed,” Warring said.

  “How was LA?”

  “Might be interesting. I’ll let you know. Might be something you want to put some of your own money into.”

  “And how’s Dallas?”

  “I’m meeting with RD Cove this morning for breakfast.”

  “I think I’ve mentioned that his nephew David lives in Trump Tower.”

  Warring wasn’t impressed. “I’ll let you know if anything works out here.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “You keep waking me and then saying that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “FYI,” Warring said, “I’m home tonight. Which means you can find me there tomorrow morning. In case you want to wake me three days in a row.”

  WHEN ALICIA got her first job in television, as a young woman fresh out of school in Miami, there was an old news editor named Cornelius O’Casey who, every time he sent her out on an assignment, never failed to remind her, “Start at the beginning.”

  She never forgot that, and this time, like every time, she started at the beginning.

  Instead of going to the gym, she put together her clothes for that night—it was much too early to call Cyndi, so she made the decision herself, settling on a Dolce & Gabbana black strapless dress with satin ankle-strap heels—put everything in a garment bag, left it in the living room, then called for a car to take her downtown.

  She was the first person to walk into the New York City Municipal Archives—across the street from city hall—when they opened their doors at exactly nine o’clock.

  Some of the clerks working there recognized her, and one of them offered to help her. She said she wanted to find everything they might have on Trump Tower. He showed where she could locate a few documents, but there wasn’t much.

  Next door, at the New York City Hall library, she found a few additional records, but she didn’t learn more than she already knew.

  Across the park, at the Department of Buildings, a clerk walked her through the process of finding building plans. He even photocopied a few things for her.

  She thumbed through the photocopies in the car back to Trump Tower, dumped them in the apartment, grabbed her garment bag and had the driver take her to 30 Rockefeller Center.

  Leaving her dress hanging in the makeup room, which was a few doors down from the newsroom on the seventh floor, she went into the morning meeting. Greg, her editor, threw a bunch of story ideas around. A homeless man in Brooklyn who won $110,000 in the lottery. A three-alarm fire on Staten Island that the NYPD were calling arson. A Board of Education meeting planned for Wednesday where, according to leaked documents, school closures were going to be announced.

  Then the party came up.

  Alicia reminded him, “I’m a guest . . . a paid guest . . . not a working girl.”

  Greg looked at Alicia. “Just the president.”

  She shook her head. “Not fair.”

  “But then it’s not fair that you get to go and I don’t. So, as long as you’re there . . .”

  “We’ve been through this.” She pointed to Meagan O’Donnell, who’d been hired one week ago as a local street reporter. “I’m conflicted. Anyway, you already told Meagan she could do a live feed.”

  “Yeah,” Meagan said. “You promised me.”

  Greg shook his head. “Meagan gets everybody coming in. I’m talking about Clinton upstairs on the roof.”

  “I’ll go to the roof,” Meagan offered, anxiously. “I can do that. No big deal.”

  “Except it is a big deal. Except you don’t have a roof pass. Except Alicia’s already up there.”

  “Except,” Alicia cut in, “I’m paying for my ticket and that makes it look like I’m paying for access. It’s a conflict of interest. And, it’s not fair to Meagan.”

  “If life were fair,” he pointed out, “I’d be batting cleanup for the Yankees.” He turned to one of his staff who was sorting out the rundown. “Meagan does a live feed from the museum steps at the opening . . . then we go back to her at the end, and at that point we’ll run tape with whoever she’s got.”

  “Thanks,” Meagan nodded to Greg, then smiled at Alicia. “Thank you.”

&nbs
p; “If you can get Bill,” Greg said to Meagan, then looked at Sammy Stevens, who was going to produce Meagan’s feeds from the street, “If you get Bill, we’ll run a short piece at six, then a longer piece at eleven. Maybe we can get him on the way out, too.”

  “Is he coming in the front door?” Stevens asked.

  “Find out,” Greg said.

  “We’ll cover all the bases,” Stevens promised and nodded at Meagan.

  Greg looked again at Alicia.

  “Stop,” she said.

  When the meeting ended, Alicia sat down to start writing her intros to the stories that were, at least preliminarily, in the running order.

  Then an e-mail arrived from Greg. “Dear Little Goody Two-Shoes, where’s the killer instinct? Obviously you were never a Marine.” He signed it, “Semper Fi.”

  She looked across the newsroom at him. He was staring at her, grinning, as if he was imploring her one more time to do the gig.

  Smiling, she wrote back, “Obviously you never won a prize in the seventh grade for selling the most boxes of mint chocolate cookies.” She signed it “Respect myself and others, respect authority, use resources wisely, make the world a better place, and be a sister to every Girl Scout. XXX”

  CARSON HAD HOPED to spend the rest of the day preparing for Japan, but Tony Arcarro had other ideas. “I need you to help with the BNP Paribas deal.”

  That took several hours.

  Then Mesumi came in gushing, “Thank you. Wow. You are the best. My doorman called to tell me about the delivery. I had him read me the note. Carson . . . thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Drink it in good health.”

  “The wine looks fabulous. But . . . three cases of Cel-Ray Tonic? I mean, I love it but . . . seriously, what am I supposed to do with so much?”

  Carson suggested, “Hope Ethan Pearlman gets a divorce?”

  Around lunchtime, he thought about going to the gym, but before he could get away, Milt McKeever called. “We hooked a fish with the twenty-five. Done at forty.”

  “Really? There’s someone out there who wants Shigetada shares?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know who yet. I’ll call you as soon as I find out.”

  Carson informed Arcarro, “One of the haystacks turned up.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Not yet. McKeever put twenty-five in a dark pool and it got took.”

  “Twenty-five.” Arcarro thought out loud. “Small potatoes. That’s a bottom feeder who’s looking to acquire a stake. You find out who and you’ll find more shares.”

  Carson asked his partner, “Be honest . . . isn’t this more fun than working for a living?”

  “Working for a living, yes. But we had better groupies in tennis.”

  34

  “I’m gonna murder you . . .” he screamed over the music blaring on the fifteen speakers spread out all over the apartment.

  The ocelot tore out of Ricky’s bedroom.

  “. . . bloody fucking cat . . .” He chased after it, racing into the living room, wearing nothing but his underpants and his ankle bracelet.

  “Put that down,” screamed a young woman he’d been sleeping with.

  “Come here you fucking miserable cat . . .” He was carrying a meat cleaver.

  “Can you turn down that fucking music?” Shouted some guy standing in the hallway, in front of the third bedroom, wearing nothing but an undershirt.

  “That fucking music,” Ricky yelled back at him, “pays the fucking bills. And who the fuck are you, anyway?”

  “Gimme that.” The young woman, who was wearing nothing but a pair of Ricky’s underpants, tried to grab the meat cleaver.

  “I’m Hughie . . . Nessie’s bloke.”

  He demanded, “Who’s Nessie? And where are your strides?”

  Suddenly the ocelot darted out from behind one of the couches, jumped over a chair, and ran into the kitchen.

  “. . . fucking gonna kill you,” Ricky screamed at the animal.

  “I said I’m Nessie’s bloke.”

  “I heard you the first time.” Ricky stopped in the middle of the living room where couch cushions were on the floor, ripped to shreds by the ocelot’s claws. “So who the fuck is Nessie?”

  “The Loch Ness fucking monster,” he answered, went back into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

  “Give me that cleaver.” The young woman grabbed at it again.

  Ricky went into the kitchen.

  Garbage was spilled all over the floor where the animal had been looking for food.

  “Come here you miserable fucking . . .”

  The animal jumped onto the sink, pushing dishes from the counter and sending them crashing to the floor.

  Ricky screamed, “You’re gonna be stuffed and turned into a couch pillow . . .”

  The woman screamed, “Ricky, give me that cleaver.”

  Now the ocelot hissed at Ricky and bared its teeth, and when he stepped back, the animal darted off the counter, ran right through Ricky’s legs and back into the living room.

  “What’s all the bloody noise?” Someone shouted. “Fuck me, it’s a lion.”

  Ricky came out of the kitchen to find a young guy standing there, looking very much like the first guy, and also wearing nothing but an undershirt.

  He demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Jules.”

  “Yeah, well,” Ricky pointed, “your jewels are hanging kinda low.”

  The woman in the underpants stared.

  Jules wasn’t at all fazed. “Is that a baby tiger?”

  “Where did it go?” Ricky wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. It ran past me . . .”

  That’s when there was a horrific scream from Joey’s bedroom. A woman yelled, “Help . . . help . . . help . . .”

  “Must have gone that way,” Jules pointed toward the bedroom.

  Ricky ran down the hall to Joey’s bedroom, with the woman and Jules following, where they found a very chubby redhead standing nude on the bed, trembling with fright and screaming, “Help . . . help . . .”

  “Oy,” Ricky demanded, “who the fuck are you?”

  Now someone was ringing the doorbell.

  The chubby woman kept on screaming, “Help . . . help . . . help . . .”

  “And who the fuck is that?” Ricky asked the woman he’d been sleeping with.

  “How should I know?” she protested.

  The bell rang again.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, staring at the chubby redhead.

  “Ain’t you gonna answer it?” Jules asked.

  Ricky went to the door. “What?”

  A very young woman was standing there.

  Ricky had no idea who she was. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The young woman stared at Ricky in his underpants, hoisting a meat cleaver, and seemed too shocked to say anything.

  “Hullo?” He said to her, “Anyone home?”

  Looking past him, she saw the woman wearing Ricky’s underpants and nothing else, and Jules wearing an undershirt and nothing else.

  Somehow she managed to say, “Joey . . . is Joey here?”

  “Joey? Ah . . .” Ricky turned to ask the other two, “Anyone seen Joey?”

  They said no, just as Hughie came into the living room, still wearing nothing but an undershirt. “If you can’t turn the fucking music down, mate . . .”

  Ricky stared at Hughie, then at Jules, then decided, “You’re fucking twins.”

  Hughie answered, “And you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

  Turning back to the young woman in the doorway, Ricky said, “No, luv, sorry. Joey’s not here.” Then he wondered, “Can I tell him who’s been looking for him?”

  Suddenly, the ocelot shot out the door and into the hallway.

  The young woman screamed in fright.

  “Bugger me,” Ricky yelled, then asked, “So who are you?”

  She only just managed to say, “My name is Amvi.”

  35

&nb
sp; “Wait till you see this,” Tony Gallicano said.

  “Oh . . . hi . . . good morning.” Antonia was surprised to find her boss in this early and, instead of going into her own office, she walked straight into his. “See what?”

  He was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, reading a report in a thick-bound notebook. He pointed to the wide-screen television hanging on the wall of his office, then pushed the clicker. “Watch the right side of the screen . . . there in the corner.”

  It was the CCTV footage of Katarina Essenbach throwing her husband out of the Tower in his underwear.

  “Who is that?” Antonia stood there—her shoes in a plastic shopping bag in one hand, her coffee in the other—staring at the screen as the cameras followed the man in his underwear down the elevator, outside, and into a taxi.

  “Apparently he’s married to Mrs. Essenbach . . . you know . . . the woman in the Tower.”

  “Sheena of the jungle?”

  “The wannabe jungle lady. Not going to happen.”

  Antonia remembered. “The meeting was last night.”

  “Residents voted no, as we always knew they would.” He clicked off the television. “Unanimous. She never stood a chance. Pierre Belasco went to tell her that she’d been turned down, and she gave him hell. Then she gave her husband hell.”

  “Why?”

  “Considering the number of husbands she’s had, I suspect that’s what she does?”

  “No, I meant why Pierre? What’s it got to do with him?”

  “She claims he promised to get the residents to agree.”

  “He made her a promise?”

  “Of course not. She’s lying. But that doesn’t change the fact that she could cause trouble. That’s what liars usually do.”

  “That’s terrible.” She made a point of telling Gallicano, “I adore Pierre, and I’m on his side one hundred percent.”

  He pointed to some papers on his desk. “He was pretty upset and e-mailed his version of events late last night, right after she confronted him. The lawyers are handling it. You can read it if you want.”

  “The lawyers . . .” She put her coffee on his desk and reached for the papers. “Could I read this in my office? I’ll get it back to you. I’d like to change out of my running shoes . . .”