Trump Tower

  And with him, Zeke realized, a possible $1.6 billion in funding. He’d also spent nearly half a million dollars more than he’d hoped to.

  “Lot sixty-nine,” the auctioneer announced. “Showing on the screens . . .”

  Now Zeke asked himself, what the hell just happened?

  45

  Shannon greeted Pierre Belasco as he walked into the residents’ lobby, “Good morning,” then handed him Madame Odette’s handwritten message.

  “What’s this?”

  “Our favorite resident.”

  He read it standing right there in the lobby. “How does she always find out about this sort of thing?”

  Once Carson left for the airport, Alicia got on her computer and went back to the files she was compiling on L. Arthur Farmer. But no matter where she looked, she couldn’t come up with any connection that he might have had to Trump Tower.

  Pouring herself a second cup of coffee, she sorted through the photocopies she’d made yesterday. Flexural components? Shear-wall core? Concrete hat-truss? There were far too many technical terms that she didn’t understand. But then she spotted something she did understand. On one of the forms, and on only one—it was some sort of construction permit—there was a reference not to Trump Tower but to Tiffany Tower.

  And when she fed “Tiffany Tower” and “L. Arthur Farmer” into the NBC database, a dozen links appeared.

  A PHONE NUMBER popped up in one of the 35Tango search links. Antonia stared at it and wondered what would happen if she dialed it.

  It’s too early and Antonia will wake him.

  But she really wanted to call.

  Antonia knows it’s foolish to call him like this.

  Unable to control herself, she dialed the number.

  It rang several times before Tommy Seasons answered it. “What?”

  She tried to say something but couldn’t.

  “Who’s there?”

  She couldn’t.

  “Come on,” he said, “who the fuck is calling at this hour?”

  She took a deep breath, “It’s . . . my name is Antonia Lawrence . . . from Trump Tower.”

  He demanded, “Who?”

  In the background she heard a woman’s voice asking, “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he told the woman, then said to Antonia, “Who are you? And what do you want?”

  “I’m from Trump Tower. My name is Antonia. I want to speak to you about . . . a man named Pierre Belasco.”

  “The fucker threw Tommy out,” he said. “The fucker banned Tommy.”

  “I know, I know . . . and maybe I can help you get unbanned.”

  “How are you going to do that?” He asked her, then said to the woman he was with, “Hey darling, take care of this, will you?”

  Antonia didn’t understand. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “So how are you going to get Tommy unbanned?”

  “I need to talk to you . . . about Pierre Belasco . . . then I’ll know how I can help.”

  “Yeah, okay. What do you look like?”

  “What?”

  “What do you look like? How old are you? Married? Single? Fat? Gorgeous?”

  “Why?”

  He said to the woman he was with, “Harder baby, harder,” and she whimpered, “No, you do me,” and he answered her, “Keep doing that while I’m on the phone,” then asked Antonia again, “Tell me what you look like?”

  “I . . . ah . . .” She was beginning to understand what was happening on the other end of the line. “I look . . . fine. I mean, I’m twenty-nine and single. People tell me I look like Minnie . . .”

  “Big tits or small tits?”

  “What?”

  “Write this down.” He gave her a phone number. “That’s my dressing room. Call me tomorrow night after the show.”

  “Come on,” the woman with him said. “Tommy . . . do me . . .”

  She imagined what the woman was doing.

  “Call me tomorrow night . . . Thursday night. Okay?”

  She wrote down the number. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he said and put the phone down, but he didn’t hang up.

  “Me, Tommy,” the woman said, “yeah . . . do me . . .”

  Antonia couldn’t move.

  “That’s good, Tommy,” the woman started moaning. “Tommy . . . there . . . good . . .”

  For Antonia, it was as if the phone was glued to her ear.

  “Tommy . . .” the woman moaned.

  Tommy grunted, “Good . . . now . . . more . . . come on . . .”

  It was nearly half an hour before Tommy hung up.

  ALICIA CALLED Carson on her way to the office.

  “He was the first buyer here. Tina mentioned last week that she didn’t think the original name was Trump Tower, and I didn’t pick up on that, but when I found Tiffany Tower . . .”

  “Good on you,” he said. “That’s great. But . . .” he asked, “what does this have to do with the book?”

  “It has to do with L. Arthur Farmer.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Are you starting to confuse the two?”

  “Farmer is my big story.”

  “But Farmer isn’t your book on Trump Tower.”

  “I thought you’d be as excited as I am.”

  “I am. I think it’s great. But that was, what, nineteen seventy-eight? Seventy-nine? Where is he now? And what about the Finfuckers, or whatever they’re called. So he might have been the Tower’s first resident. Or the first one to buy in. But . . . then what?”

  “Why would you suddenly rain on my parade like this?”

  “I’m not, Alicia, honestly. I’m trying to tell you, keep your eyes on the prize.”

  “And I’m trying to tell you that I’m starting at the beginning.”

  “I love you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Your flight on time?”

  “No, delayed.”

  “I’ve got to go. Have a good flight.”

  “I still love you.”

  “Me too,” she said and hung up.

  She walked into the newsroom just as Greg Mandel was calling people in for the morning meeting.

  After a fast e-mail check—there was a note from the segment producer at Nightly who’d been with her for the Clinton interview to say, “Come on down whenever you’re ready”—she headed for the conference room.

  Greg smiled and stared at her as she walked in.

  She smiled back. “What?”

  “Just . . . good morning,” he said.

  She said, “Okay, just good morning to you, too.”

  Then she saw it.

  Right there in the middle of the table was a large platter of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies.

  CYNDI STAYED asleep until the phone rang again, and Shannon downstairs announced, “There’s a delivery for you.”

  “Huh? Okay. Please send it up.”

  Pulling herself out of bed, feeling better now than the first time she got up, she went to the kitchen to make an espresso. But before she even poured the water into the machine, Miguel, the elevator operator, was at the door with a smallish bag.

  He handed it to her, saluted, and started to walk away.

  “Oh . . . one second.” She gave him the envelope for Roberto. “Would you please shove this under his door?”

  “I will deliver this now,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” She shut the door, looked inside the bag, and found a box. And inside the box was a Patek Philippe “Twenty-4” diamond watch.

  “Oh my God . . .”

  The watch was made up almost entirely of diamonds.

  “Oh my God . . .”

  She sat down right there on the floor.

  A little booklet explained that this was an eighteen-jewel, manual-winding movement. The case was 18-karat rose gold and set with 192 diamonds. The bracelet was set with 1,128 round diamonds and the pavé diamant dial was set with 147 diamonds.

  Her h
ands were shaking so much that she had trouble putting the watch on.

  “Oh my God . . .”

  The note that came with it read, “Two down, two little blue pills, and one night to go. You are truly a wonderful friend.”

  It was unsigned, but it didn’t have to be signed.

  And all she could say was, “Oh my God . . .”

  AFTER THE MORNING meeting, Alicia thought of phoning Carson again to see if he was still delayed but decided not to. Instead, she made a few rough notes on the story rundown they’d decided in the meeting, then yanked herself away from her newsroom to go downstairs to Nightly.

  Sandy gave her a desk so she could watch the raw footage of her interview with Clinton. After that, he introduced her to one of the editors, and two hours later the piece was a four-minute-forty-second segment.

  She showed it to Sandy and Brian, and both of them said they loved it.

  Sandy announced, “We’ll ‘and finally’ it.”

  “Really?” She smiled proudly. It was going to be the piece . . . “And finally . . .” that closed the broadcast.

  “Really,” he said.

  On her way out, Brian said to her, “Welcome aboard.”

  Back in her own newsroom, she was feeling pretty good about herself.

  Welcome aboard.

  Her cell phone rang.

  Seeing who it was, she picked it up and said, “Welcome aboard.”

  And Cyndi screamed, “Oh my God. . . .”

  CARSON HAD ARRIVED at Kennedy Airport by ten, had checked in his one bag, and had gotten through security in no time.

  Upstairs, the woman who ran the airline’s third-floor First Class lounge told him, “Flight’s running a little late. Probably about an hour. So you’ve got plenty of time. You know where everything is . . .”

  He said thank you and carried his shoulder bag to one of the large, upholstered chairs next to the windows.

  Dropping it there, he went to get a cup of coffee and took a muffin, as well. There was also fruit, so he helped himself to some sliced peaches and a piece of melon and returned to his seat.

  That’s when he’d spoken to Alicia.

  “Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  “I’m starting at the beginning.”

  “I love you.”

  “Your flight on time?”

  He told himself, when she gets in that mood . . .

  Now he rang Tony Arcarro. They talked for quite a while because Arcarro was having trouble with HSBC in London on a deal he was trying to finance in Italy.

  Next, he called Ken Warring but got voice mail and left a message that he’d try again before takeoff, otherwise he’d speak to him from Tokyo.

  Sitting back, he stared out the window, quickly got bored with the view of a taxiway, and went to get some newspapers. On the way back to his chair, he decided to have a little more fruit and helped himself to some sliced guava. When he finished that, he started thinking about Mr. Shigetada and how hard he might have to press the man.

  He took his phone and called Milt McKeever at EXIT. “What’s going on with Shigetada?”

  McKeever answered, “Nothing since you came in. There was that one bite, and that was all.”

  “Please let me know if and when.”

  “I will,” McKeever promised.

  Carson hung up, stood up, walked over to the magazine rack against the far wall, and flicked through a couple of magazines. Nothing interested him, so he went to the buffet bar to think about a second muffin. He decided, no.

  The lounge was filling up.

  Some of these people will be on my flight, he told himself, and the rest will be going to . . .

  He sat down and tried to guess where everyone else was going.

  There was a young couple with a three- or four-year-old kid. Miami. There were two men in suits, much older than him, sitting nearby. They’re on my flight. There was a young guy with a young blonde woman.

  He looked at her for a long time.

  She caught him staring.

  He smiled, looked away, then peeked back at her.

  Blonde hair.

  Now he took his laptop out of his bag, and when it was ready, he went to Google.

  In the search box he typed, “Amelie Laure Moreau.”

  46

  Unlike LA and Malibu, Zeke didn’t have live-in help in New York. He used a bonded valet service that furnished a housekeeper named Christina to come in when he was in town. She would clean, shop, make the bed, and, if need be, serve a meal. Otherwise, she’d come by once a week to make certain the apartment was always ready for him whenever he showed up.

  Christina was there straightening up when he walked in. “Hello sir, welcome back.”

  “Nice to see you,” he said. “Family good?”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone is fine. I am changing the sheets and towels, sir, do you want me to go shopping?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m leaving this afternoon . . .”

  “And how is your wife?” she asked.

  “Everyone is fine,” he said, not wanting to discuss Birgitta.

  He kicked off his shoes, threw himself onto a couch and rang Bobby Lerner. “I might have blown the deal with that Isbister guy. The one representing L. Arthur Farmer.”

  “What happened?”

  Zeke told him.

  “How weird,” Bobby said. “Who the hell does a one-point-six-billion-dollar deal in thirty-six hours? Nah, you didn’t blow it, he was looking for an excuse to stay out.”

  “You think so?”

  “Come on, cross-collateralization? He knows better.”

  Zeke thought about that. “I guess you’re right. What else is happening?”

  “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “You mean better news and worser news? Start with worser.”

  “We got the list of demands from Birgitta’s lawyers.”

  “Already? Talk about doing deals in thirty-six hours.”

  “My bet is that she had them drawn up a long time ago. She’s hired Spel-man Meyers Fisher.”

  “That good or bad?”

  “Expensive. There’s no way a firm with their reputation ever does anything without first billing hundreds of hours.”

  “Am I paying for it?”

  “You could be.”

  “What’s her list look like?”

  “Like everything you own.”

  “What’s she going to settle for?”

  “A whole lot less. The pre-nup is solid.”

  “Bobby . . .” He took a deep breath. “I can’t deal with this now. Tell me what else.”

  “The better news? The Truman brothers are signing this morning. You now own a sports agency.”

  “Ah shit,” Zeke said.

  “You sound thrilled.”

  “No . . . last night . . . how dumb. At the party. Roberto Santos was there. He’s a Sovereign Shields client. I had it in my head to tell him . . . and I completely forgot.”

  “Doesn’t he live in Trump Tower?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call him. Or tell him next time. Let me phone Perry and Monica. We’ll deal with Birgitta tomorrow.”

  Now he dialed his office in LA and spent the next hour and a half on the phone with the two young lawyers who would be running the sports side of the agency.

  “Take nice premises,” he said, “but don’t go wild. I want to see a request for anything and everything that costs more than a hundred bucks. Furniture. Stationery. Scotch tape. Paper clips. Water bill. Trips. Lunches. I don’t care what it is. If it’s more than a hundred bucks, you need my approval. Take your secretaries with you, and each of you chooses an assistant. How many agents from Sovereign do you intend to keep?”

  “We’re making up a short list now of about a dozen,” Perry Griswald said.

  Monica Rosenblatt warned, “Obviously the ones we let go will set up on their own.”

  “Obviously. So what you do is offer them first rights on the deadwood. We’ll keep a core base of their
clients, then see what we can get for the ones we don’t want. Sell whoever you don’t want or can’t use. But don’t bilk the old staff. Give them a chance to survive.”

  Monica wanted to know, “What happens when they wind up killing us because we didn’t kill them first?”

  “You get fired for not doing your job well enough.”

  Perry suggested, “A little harsh, no?”

  “What’s the line from Jerry McGuire? This isn’t show friends, this is show business.” He paused for effect. “I want to set up an advisory board. Make up a short list of old clients, men and women . . . retired . . . and put them on a sensible retainer. Some of them may still be viable clients, some of them may bring in new clients. But if we get the right people on the advisory board, it gives us the cred that the former management lost.”

  “Sounds good,” Perry said and Monica agreed.

  “First name on that list,” Zeke added, “is Carson Haynes.”

  “Who’s he?” Monica asked.

  “Find out for yourself. If you’re going to survive in this business, you need to know the players.”

  “I never heard of him, either,” Perry said. “And I know all the players.”

  “He’s a player because I made him a player. Also, set up a pitch to sign Romain Neal. I had dinner with him last night.”

  “The guy’s married to Audra Kaleigh Harris?” Monica said. “See, I know the players when they’re players.”

  “I’m back tomorrow. By then I’ll try to come up with more players you never heard of.”

  While he was on the phone with LA, half a dozen calls came in, mostly to his cell, and at least twenty e-mails did as well. The only call that seemed important was from his New York office, so hanging up with Perry and Monica, he called over there and spent another hour on the line taking care of his New York business.

  There were contracts they wanted him to see and a financial statement to go over. He asked them to send it over to Trump Tower right away and promised he’d read everything on the plane home.

  He was still on the line with the New York office when Christina said she was leaving. He waved to her, “See you next time, and thank you.”

  More calls came in, and more e-mails came in, too, and after he hung up with New York, he checked his voice mail and skimmed through his e-mail and finally decided, the hell with it.