Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  He roared with laughter.

  Turning to David and Tina, Bill told her, “You’re much too beautiful and much too smart for a fellow like David.”

  “There’s truth in humor,” she said flatly, then forced a smile so that everyone would think she was joking.

  “And from what I hear,” Clinton said to David, “you’re still not telling the truth about your handicap.”

  “What . . . y’all do?” David asked.

  He smiled broadly. “Knowing what we know about each other’s game, let’s play sometime soon.”

  “I can’t afford you,” David protested. “A couple of strokes, maybe. But last time, you claimed to be a twenty-two, except y’all play to thirteen.”

  “I had to say that,” Bill insisted, “‘cause you claimed to be a nine when I know you-all play scratch.”

  “Trump plays to two, but he gives me four.”

  “Yeah, well,” Bill took Cyndi’s arm and wrapped it in his, “if The Donald ever becomes president, he’ll claim to play to fifteen. It’s what we do.”

  Now, with Cyndi on his arm, the former president headed for Robert De Niro and Julia Roberts, who were talking to Zeke Gimbel.

  “Tell me something,” Cyndi said before they joined that group. “Do you ever sign text messages George?”

  He gave her an odd look. “No. Why?”

  She shrugged, “I live in hope.”

  All over the roof garden, women in Gucci, Chanel, Dior and Valentino were drinking mango champagne cocktails.

  And men in Armani, Zegna, Paul Smith and Prada—and several in designer jeans, a T-shirt, blue blazers, and sockless in Ferragamo loafers—were asking waiters in evening clothes, “What’s that?” and when they were told, “pikliz griot” and “tasot cabrit” and “poul fri” and “banan peze,” they took a chance, lifted whatever it was off the silver platter, and popped it into their mouths.

  Steven Spielberg and his wife were talking to Stevie Wonder and Kathleen Turner, while Nicole Kidman and Cameron Diaz were listening to Antoine de Maisonneuve tell them about the museum’s dress collection. “They have a 1935 Chanel evening ensemble that is to die for, and if you don’t see anything else, there’s a bright red Halston gown from the late 1970s . . . darlings, even I would wear that.”

  Matt Damon was trying to taste whatever it was that Halle Berry was eating, while Jennifer Hudson was describing her favorite restaurant in Miami to Mary J. Blige.

  Jennifer Lopez was talking to Juliana Margulies, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg was laughing with Yoko Ono, while Bono was pointing across the park to some towers on the top of an apartment building along Central Park West, telling Kelly Ripa and Coldplay’s Chris Martin, “I’m right there.”

  The evening was still young when people started clinking their glasses for quiet and cleared a space in the middle of the roof for Bill Clinton, microphone in hand, to make a little speech.

  Working in the round like the seasoned performer that he is, Clinton told his guests that he was very grateful for everything they were doing for Haiti, but reminded them that people were still dying there.

  “It doesn’t end when you write a big check and drink some champagne,” he said. “It won’t end till the dying stops and the schools are open and the hospitals are open and the water is clean and the tent cities are turned into homes and hundreds of thousands of lives are rebuilt. It won’t end if you leave here tonight and think, now I’ve done my part.”

  He spoke for nearly ten minutes, off the cuff and with great passion, and when he was finished, everyone on the roof applauded him for nearly as long as he’d spoken.

  That’s when Alicia’s segment producer found her to say it was time.

  Together, they stole the former president away from the crowd and went to the corner of the roof where NBC had set up two cameras, lit two stools, and angled them with the lights of midtown Manhattan glistening behind them.

  Alicia and Bill sat down. A makeup woman briefly stood in front of them and offered a light dusting of powder. The segment producer briefed Alicia one final time, and the cameras started rolling.

  She said to Bill, “Start with the misery that you still see in Haiti after all this time.”

  And Bill was off and running.

  Some people stood around and watched. Others went back to air-kissing hello, the finger food and the drinks. And all over the roof you could hear guests asking waiters, “What is it?” And after they were told and still didn’t know, they tasted it. And all over the roof you could hear guests saying, “Wow, this is great . . . but what is it?”

  Tom Hanks was talking to Derek Jeter when Michael J. Fox and his wife, Tracy Pollan, walked by. Jeter reached out for him and hugged him, and when Alex Rodriguez saw that, he came over to hug Fox, too.

  Yankee center-fielder Roberto “El Espíritu” Santos—the ball player they called the Holy Ghost—was standing nearby, alone, taking it all in.

  Zeke now wandered over to where Carson was standing, watching Alicia, and asked him, “How did things work out when you were signed with Sovereign Shields?”

  Carson was surprised. “How did you know about that?”

  “We’re buying the agency and I saw your name on the client list from . . . ten years ago?”

  “They sent me out one time for a shaving commercial. But I never even got to the soapy-face test. Sponsor took one look at me and decided I was wrong.”

  “Who represents Alicia?”

  “William Morris Endeavor.”

  “Any chance we can steal her away?”

  “How well do you know Ari Emmanuel?” Carson asked, referring to the man running the agency.

  “Very well.”

  “Then you know there’s not a prayer in the world.”

  Zeke smiled. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” patted Carson’s arm, and walked away to speak to Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin, who were describing an outtake from 30 Rock to Anderson Cooper.

  Carson drifted off to the side of the roof and looked around at the city. He did a three-sixty, then looked at Trump Tower and tried to count the floors to find their apartment. He thought he could see the gym—because from the gym he could certainly see the museum—then turned to find himself standing next to a tall, slim, young woman with deep green eyes and long, dark hair.

  He smiled.

  “Bonsoir,” she said.

  “Oh . . . okay . . . bonsoir.”

  She introduced herself in English, with a heavy French accent, “I am Amelie Laure Moreau. And who are you?”

  He said, “I’m Carson Haynes. Nice to meet you.”

  She nodded, “Likewise,” then asked, “And who are you here with?”

  He pointed to where Alicia was sitting with President Clinton.

  “Oh. I am impressed,” she said. “Did you work with him when he was president?”

  “No,” Carson grinned, “not him . . . her.”

  “Ah . . .” She tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips, “Why am I not surprised? She is very beautiful. You brought her . . .”

  “I did.”

  “But tell me . . .” She gave him a very intense stare . . . “do you have to go home with her?”

  “Actually . . . I do. She pays my rent.” He grinned. “I’m her toy boy.”

  “Alas . . .” She gave him a very knowing smile.

  “And you? Who did you come here with?”

  Looking around, she tried to find her escort, but couldn’t. “Someone who is obviously too busy for me.”

  “He’s a fool.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Your English is very good.”

  “I learned in England.”

  “At school?”

  “I danced there for five years.”

  “Danced?”

  She got up on her toes for a couple of seconds. “Not easy with heels. But then, at the Royal Ballet I did not wear heels.”

  “Oh,” he said. “The Royal Ballet? That’s Covent Garden, right? Ar
e you still . . .”

  “Yes it is, and no, I’m not. Now I am with the Opéra de Paris. Do you like the ballet?”

  He nodded, “I do.”

  “And do you like ballet dancers?”

  He grinned, “I’m sure that I do.”

  “And do you ever come to Paris?”

  “I know Paris. I mean, I’ve been there a lot . . .”

  “Do you want to come with me tomorrow?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tomorrow. Air France to Paris. The flight leaves at around seven. Buy a ticket. Come with me.”

  He chuckled. “That, ah . . . that happens to be the best offer I’ve ever had on a roof. Ever. But . . . alas, as you say . . . I can’t. And even if I could, I’m going to Japan tomorrow.”

  “And . . . next time?”

  “Next time on a roof?”

  “No, next time you are in Paris. You can remember my name? Amelie Laure Moreau? Next time you are in Paris . . . find me. Call the Opéra, ask for the stage door, and leave a message. Say it’s the man from the roof. Find me. I will remember, I promise. And then I will show you les toits de Paris.”

  He smiled. “The roofs of Paris?”

  “Yes . . . we will start with the roofs of Paris. À bientôt, j’espère”—soon, I hope—she lightly touched his arm and walked away.

  “Tell me, Mr. Haynes,” Cyndi whispered in Carson’s ear, “how old were you when you took up ballet?”

  He spun around. “I think I just got hit on.”

  “I guarantee you did. Mademoiselle Moreau is quite the babe.”

  He started to laugh. “Babe?”

  “In French the word is nana. And she is a very well-known nana.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. Nana.”

  “I’m sure that Alicia will be impressed with your French.”

  He put on his best stern face. “You wouldn’t dare mention this to her.”

  “She’s my best friend and my sister and my earth mother all rolled into one. Of course, I will.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “But you’re a guy . . . and you would have.”

  A waiter came by with a platter of small leaves wrapped around something. Carson took one. So did Cyndi.

  “This is great, whatever it is,” Carson said, and turned toward the waiter for another one, but as he did, a tall man with short hair, light tan skin, and a very pleasant round face stepped in front of him. “Oh . . . excuse me.”

  “Sorry,” the man said.

  Carson looked at him. “I think we’re neighbors in Trump Tower.” He extended his hand. “I’m Carson Haynes . . . this is our friend Cyndi Benson.”

  The man smiled shyly and shook both their hands. “I’m Roberto Santos.”

  “I’ve seen you play,” Carson said.

  He smiled, almost as if he was embarrassed. “I know who you are . . . although, I’m sorry, I never saw you play. And I know who Miss Benson is. Everybody does. But . . . aren’t you married to the lady on television?”

  “Alicia Melendez.” He pointed to where she was interviewing Bill Clinton.

  Roberto nodded. “My mother watches her every evening.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes,” he said, then added almost apologetically, “I’m not usually home at that hour.”

  “You could always TiVo Alicia,” Cyndi suggested, “and watch her on your iPhone in the bullpen.”

  Roberto didn’t realize she was joking. “I’m afraid I don’t get to spend a lot of time in the bullpen. I take it you’re not a baseball fan.”

  She teased him. “Grown men running around in their pajamas?”

  “Don’t take that personally, Roberto,” Carson cut in. “I assure you, Cyndi has no problem with grown men in pajamas.”

  Roberto smiled politely.

  Cyndi touched Roberto’s arm. “Never mind him. I have it on good authority that he doesn’t wear pajamas. But, then, neither do I. Do you?”

  He smiled again, obviously trying to hide the fact that he had no idea how to respond to her.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Carson noticed that Alicia and Clinton were now standing up. The interview had ended.

  “Gotta rescue my bride,” he said. “It was nice to finally meet you. Come by one night, we’ll do dinner.”

  He nodded, “Thank you.”

  Carson shook Roberto’s hand—“If Cyndi asks about the infield fly rule, don’t bother”—winked at Cyndi and walked away.

  “At Trump Tower,” Cyndi said to Roberto, “we never have flies infield.”

  Again, Roberto just smiled.

  Alicia thanked Clinton, who hugged her and left to continue working the room.

  “How did that go?” Carson asked, taking her hand.

  “Bill’s Bill,” she said. “If he hadn’t gone into politics, he could have hosted the Tonight Show.”

  He kissed the side of her face, she thanked the crew, and the two of them moved away from the little set.

  Now she asked Carson, “Becoming a patron of the ballet, are we?”

  He started chuckling, “You never miss a thing.”

  “You do know who she is,” Alicia said, certain that he did.

  “Yeah. Used to dance with the Royal Ballet in London.”

  “No.” Alicia shook her head. “She was prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet and is now prima ballerina with the Paris Opéra. She is a very big deal.”

  He shrugged, “Shows you what I know.”

  She glared at him, “I know what you know.”

  Carson realized Alicia wasn’t finding this funny. “Frankly, I’m more impressed with Cyndi’s new best friend.” He pointed to where she was talking with Roberto Santos.

  “Cyndi and the Holy Ghost?”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a fable worthy of Corinthians.”

  “Or perhaps . . .” she suggested, “a choreographed ballet?”

  He looked at her. “Come on.”

  “Come on, what?”

  “I’m your number-one groupie. What are you worried about?”

  “I know a predator when I spot one flirting with my husband.” She took his arm. “Let’s say hello to Brian.”

  The NBC Nightly News anchor was deep in conversation with the noted philanthropists and collectors Jay and Jean Kislak.

  The subject of ballet was not mentioned again for the rest of the night.

  THE PARTY broke up just before nine.

  Alicia, Cyndi and Carson had a car and offered Roberto a ride back to Trump Tower.

  He accepted.

  But the night was mild, and Cyndi suggested they walk.

  So the four of them started down Fifth Avenue but only got as far as Seventy-Sixth Street when Cyndi announced, “How about the Carlyle? I don’t know what time the show starts, but I’m sure they’ll let us in.”

  Alicia pointed to Cyndi’s black suede shorts. “Us, maybe, but . . . you?”

  “Trust me,” she nodded confidently.

  Alicia looked at Carson, who looked at Roberto, and the three of them shrugged, “Sure,” at the same time. So they turned into Seventy-Sixth, went one block to Madison and walked into the Carlyle.

  The show had already started, and they could hear the voice of the jazz legend Marva Josie.

  “She’s wonderful,” Carson said. “Do you know that she used to be Earl Fatha Hines’ band singer? We’re talking real pedigree.”

  “You’re older than you look,” Cyndi said.

  “I like this place,” Roberto told them. “I have Marion McPartland’s album Live at the Carlyle on my iPod.”

  “Who?” Cyndi asked.

  Carson said, “And you’re younger than you look.”

  Alicia pointed to the large, framed portrait in the lobby of the entertainer Bobby Short who, single-handedly, made the Café Carlyle famous.

  “I interviewed him once in Miami,” she said. “He did a concert there with the symphony. Bobby invented charm.”

  “May I help you?” A
man in a tuxedo greeted them.

  “Are we too late for the show?” Carson asked.

  He looked at Cyndi’s shorts.

  She curtsied and smiled.

  He hesitated, then nodded, “The four of you are always welcome,” he said, and brought them inside. The place was crowded, but he found them a table.

  They weren’t hungry enough for a meal, but they ordered dessert and a bottle of champagne—although Roberto stayed with water—and after Marva’s set ended, she came to the table to say hello.

  She told Roberto that she recognized him from his rookie year with the Pittsburgh Pirates.

  He told Marva that her version of “Something” was the best rendition of the song since the Beatles.

  When the check finally came, Carson reached for it, but Roberto beat him to it.

  “Come on,” Carson insisted, “let me have that . . . please.”

  “No,” Roberto said. “This is the nicest evening I’ve had in a long time.”

  Cyndi looked at him. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Then he shrugged, “Except a few nights ago in Chicago when I went four for four, which included a walk-off home run.”

  Alicia, Cyndi, and Carson laughed.

  Then Carson announced, “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m off to Japan tomorrow.”

  “And we get to play the Blue Jays. Would you like to come to the game?”

  Alicia and Cyndi looked at each other, then at Carson.

  “Can we take a rain check?” Cyndi said. “I can’t tomorrow or Thursday . . . another time?”

  Roberto smiled. “Sure. Another time.”

  “Really . . . we’d love to come to a game,” Alicia said, still looking at Cyndi. “Maybe next week?”

  “Sure,” Roberto nodded, “maybe next week.”

  They left the Carlyle and walked down Madison Avenue all the way to Fifty-Sixth Street, talking about nothing in particular, most of the time with Alicia arm in arm with Cyndi, and Carson walking with Roberto.

  “Why don’t you want to go to a game with him?” Alicia whispered.

  Cyndi reminded her, in a whisper, “I don’t do first dates.”

  They turned onto Fifty-Sixth Street.

  Now Cyndi stepped back and took Roberto’s arm. “This has been really nice. Thank you.”

  He said, quietly, “You’re welcome.”

  They walked into the lobby together and headed for the elevators.