Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  Assuring himself, everything can wait until tomorrow, he phoned his pilot. “Let’s go home.” The pilot said he’d arrange to have a car pick him up at Trump Tower right away.

  Then he phoned his mother. She was complaining about something, and he heard himself repeating over and over again, “Everything will be all right.”

  After that, he phoned his kids.

  He got Zoey’s voice mail and left a message.

  But he managed to find Max. “How you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “Dunno.”

  He almost phoned Miriam but decided he’d had enough for one day.

  Walking into his bedroom, he thought about taking clothes back to LA, decided no, then checked the kitchen. He was running low on mineral water and beer and made a note to have some delivered.

  While he was putting his shoes back on, a fax came in from the auction house summing up his four sales and one purchase, and invoicing him for the difference. He didn’t even look at it. He simply folded it and put it into his attaché case.

  Then Felicity rang from downstairs to say there was a large envelope waiting for him at the front desk. “Shall I send it up?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll pick it up on my way out.”

  He checked the apartment one last time to make sure the lights were off and that he could leave.

  That’s when someone knocked on the door.

  I told her I’d pick it up, he grumbled, and opened the door to find a young man in a drab suit, with a white shirt and dark tie.

  He’d never seen this man before. “Can I help you?”

  “Excuse me for disturbing you like this. My name is Eric Arnold Ronaldsay. Mr. Isbister asked me to stop by and give this to you.”

  It was a manila envelope. Zeke took it. “Thank you very much.”

  The man turned and walked away.

  Closing the door, Zeke opened the envelope and found several dozen pages inside. On the first page, the typed title read, “Our counter-proposal for the full financing of your project.” The first line of the second page read, “Why we have decided to forgo our preference for cross-collateralization.”

  He said out loud, “These guys are too fucking strange for me,” and put the envelope in his attaché case.

  Downstairs, Felicity handed him a large envelope from his office. He thanked her and said, “See you next time through.”

  David, the doorman, saluted, “Your car is there, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Zeke said and left Trump Tower.

  It was only when he got to Teterboro Airport and climbed into his plane that he wondered, how come the fellow that Isbister sent didn’t get announced by the front desk?

  47

  Rebecca Battelli called to tell Pierre Belasco, “I’m going to shut down the business. I didn’t sleep last night. I’m looking at this mess again today. I can’t cope.”

  “Don’t make that decision yet,” he urged her. “I know this is very difficult for you, but we’re trying to help.”

  “My husband’s cousin Johnny called me from Florida late last night. He said he’d heard about the break-in and was glad that I wasn’t hurt.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Yes.”

  To Belasco, that sounded like a veiled threat. “Have you heard anything from the police yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  His second line rang.

  “Rebecca . . . Mrs. Battelli . . .”

  The caller ID read, “Private Number.”

  “Rebecca,” she corrected him.

  “You’re upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  The phone rang again.

  “Private Number” could be any of a hundred people he knew, including Donald Trump. But not everybody who hid their number from caller ID knew the number of his second line. “I’ve got to take this call. I’ll be right up.”

  “It’s such a mess.”

  “I’m on my way,” he promised, hung up with her, and picked up the incoming call.

  It was Forbes.

  Belasco told him, “I was waiting for Timmins to wake up so that he could phone you and we could have a chat.”

  “Normally that’s best,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what . . . write down this number . . .” Forbes gave him one with an area code he didn’t recognize—855—which turned out to be a toll-free number. “No one will answer and you won’t hear a message. All you get is a beep. Leave a voice mail and I’ll phone you back, usually within two hours. Any longer than that, someone else will be in touch with you.”

  “Yes, okay, thank you. I’ve got it.”

  “The reason I phoned . . . I was down at One Hogan . . . you know, police headquarters . . . and they’ve decided there’s nothing they can do about the Battelli matter.”

  Belasco was astonished. “How about, they can investigate a crime.”

  “You know the word, triage? It’s French. They look at everything that comes in and decide where to allocate resources. They see this one . . . no violence, no obvious motives, the suspects are not known and probably never will be, no clues, no one even knows if anything’s been stolen . . . and how much time do you think they can spend on it? They put resources into crimes where there’s been violence, where someone has been hurt, where there is a real possibility of a result. Sorry to say it, but like everything else in this world, it boils down to return on investment. They spend their time working crimes they think they can solve.”

  “Unbelievable. Just gets tossed into the wastepaper basket.”

  “Nope. Footnoted as a statistic.”

  “That’s pathetic.”

  “That’s reality.”

  He wanted Forbes to know, “The husband’s cousin, Johnny, threatened her last night. He phoned her, said he’d heard about the break in, and said he was glad that she didn’t get hurt.”

  Forbes paused. “Then what?”

  “Then . . . nothing.”

  “Sounds to me like condolences.”

  “Sounds to me exactly like a threat.”

  “A threat is, give me your wallet or I’ll kill you.”

  “A threat is having hoodlums tear your place to bits, then telling you, I’m glad you weren’t hurt. That’s saying, next time it will be you.”

  Forbes wasn’t having it. “That call doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “You need to talk to her.”

  “I have talked to her. Trust me on this, unless she’s involved, there’s nothing she can say that can move this forward.”

  “That’s it? That’s the end? One day later and everyone has already washed their hands of it?”

  “The cops have. But whoever is behind this hasn’t. For that person, or those persons, it’s not over.”

  “You think they’re coming back?”

  “We need to find out what they took. Then we can figure out what they’re going to do next.”

  WHEN BELASCO walked into Scarpe Pietrasanta, he was surprised to see that nothing had been done. The place was still a mess.

  Rebecca was sitting in a nearly broken chair, her head in her hands. Carlos Vela was standing in the corner.

  Bill Riordan was also there.

  “This man,” he pointed to Vela, “what’s he doing in the building? He says she hired him. She says you recommended him.”

  “That’s right,” Belasco went to Rebecca. “You okay?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “You’re out of here,” Riordan ordered Vela. “Right now. Or I call the cops and have you arrested.”

  “No,” Belasco said. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. Mr. Vela works for Mrs. Battelli.”

  “He’s on the Chapman list?”

  “No he’s not.”

  “Then I’ll put him on the Chapman list.”

  “No, you won’t. I run Trump Tower. I decide who goes on the list.”

 
Riordan glared at Belasco. “You’re not the only one with the boss’ ear.” He pointed to Vela, “Get out of Trump Tower now, or I will have you arrested.” With that, Riordan turned on his heels and left.

  Rebecca looked up at Belasco. “It’s all gotten out of hand.” She turned to Vela. “You’re a very nice young man, and I’m truly sorry that you’ve found yourself in the middle . . .”

  “I’ll worry about Mr. Riordan,” Belasco said. “But first things first. We need to find out who’s trying to hurt you and to stop them. If you walk away now, they win.”

  “I don’t think I care anymore.”

  He dared, “I heard your daughter say that she does.”

  Rebecca stood up. “My daughter has her own life. This is mine. I’m sorry.” She looked at Vela, “I will see that you get paid for this week . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  And then she walked out.

  “Señor?” Vela shrugged. “I must leave, too.”

  He looked around at the mess.

  All sorts of questions ran through his mind.

  If Rebecca wants out, why shouldn’t she walk away? If the police aren’t going to bother, why should I? If Vela is afraid to stay in the building because Riordan is threatening to have him arrested, why shouldn’t he leave? If Riordan is looking for a fight, why should I accommodate him?

  “Señor?”

  He turned to Vela. “Have you got a cell phone? Let me have the number.”

  Vela gave it to him, and Belasco typed it into his BlackBerry.

  “Stay here and start cleaning up. You will not be arrested. I give you my word. But lock the door. If Mrs. Battelli needs to come back, she has a key. If I need you, I’ll call your cell. Take my number.” Belasco gave it to him. “If someone tries to get in, phone me immediately. If Mr. Riordan shows up, or if he contacts you, phone me.”

  “Señor,” Vela was obviously afraid. “I have a wife and a baby. I need to find a job.”

  “For the time being, you have one. Start putting this mess into order. When you get hungry, you know, lunchtime, call me, and I’ll see that you get food. I’ll check in on you later. But stay here and do what you can. I promise, you will be all right.”

  Vela still wasn’t sure. “If Mr. Riordan calls the police . . .”

  “I will take care of the police, and I will take care of Mr. Riordan.”

  Vela stared at Belasco. “I didn’t steal that coat from that woman.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “And this woman . . . Mrs. Battelli . . . she is a very nice woman.”

  “I know she is,” Belasco nodded. “Go on, get to work. Lock the door behind me and don’t worry.”

  BELASCO GOT A NUMBER for the main switchboard at Sarah Lawrence in Bronxville, New York, rang it, and asked how he could get in touch with a student named Gabriella Battelli.

  The call was passed to a secretary in some office.

  “My name is Pierre Belasco,” he said, “and I am the general manager of Trump Tower in New York. Miss Battelli’s parents have a business in the building, and I need to speak to her, please, about a business matter, rather urgently.”

  “I’m sure that you understand we don’t give out any personal information about students or staff,” the woman said, “But if you leave me your number, I will pass along the message.”

  He left the necessary information and hoped she’d phone back soon.

  That’s when Carlos Vela phoned. “The police are here.”

  Racing back upstairs, he found two uniformed officers standing in the showroom with Bill Riordan. “What’s going on?”

  “This man will be escorted from the building,” Riordan said, pointing to Vela. “And if you get in the way . . .” he motioned toward the officers . . . “I will ask them to arrest you for obstruction.”

  Belasco demanded to know, “What authority do you think you have?” He reached into his pocket and handed one of the officers his business card. “I am the general manager here, and Mr. Riordan reports to me. He has no authority whatsoever to overrule any decision I make. Mr. Vela is an employee of this company. He has his employer’s permission to be here, and he has my permission to be here. If you like, I will have our company lawyer come here and spell it out for you.”

  The two officers looked at each other, and one of them shrugged, “Sounds like a domestic dispute, gentlemen. You probably should work this out between yourselves.” He said to Riordan, “If you need us, call us. But . . . right now . . . this isn’t any of our business.”

  “Thank you,” Belasco said, and watched them leave. Then he warned Riordan, “Don’t you ever try anything like that again.”

  “It’s not over Pierre.”

  “Yes it is.”

  And Riordan assured him, “No it is not.”

  48

  David had phoned the Rojas brothers in Mexico, just the way Uncle RD had asked him to, and had done the deal with Gonzolo. He was the youngest of the three.

  But in David’s mind, Gonzolo was also the least trustworthy.

  Hector, the middle brother, had phoned back to say they’d been in touch with RD and everything was great.

  RD had also phoned to confirm the deal, adding that the Rojas brothers had agreed to a one percent facilitator’s fee for David.

  Late in the day, the third Rojas brother, Liberio, had phoned to ask for wiring instructions to David’s account and, a few minutes later, Liberio had announced, $47,500 was on its way.

  David said, “Thanks,” and Liberio promised, “If something else comes up, amigo, we will be in touch.”

  Now, first thing in the morning, Liberio was back on the phone. “This is between my brothers and you. No Uncle RD this time.”

  “What y’all got?”

  “Heavy crude. Whole tanker full.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “Wherever.”

  David knew that meant Iran. “What’s the manifest say?”

  “Manifest says Mina Al Bakr, Iraq.”

  “How much?”

  “Four hundred sixty thousand barrels.”

  “Where’s it going?”

  “Trinidad.”

  “How much you need?”

  “The hombres we’re talking to are looking for twenty. We’re looking at spot minus fifteen percent. Call it, thirty plus. That’s ten for us . . . we’ll take two . . . you walk away with eight.”

  David thought about it. “Send me what you’ve got, and I’ll call y’all back.”

  Almost immediately, an e-mail arrived from Liberio with the shipping and cargo information. Based on that, he started shopping it around. He hoped he could get it for less than $20 million, sell it on somewhere right away, and make a few extra points.

  But everybody he spoke with was onto the manifest switch, and David knew better than to push his luck when it came to embargoed oil.

  He looked at the paperwork again.

  This wasn’t the megadeal he was hoping to do, like a supertanker with two million barrels. It wasn’t even, technically, a distressed cargo. It was a bunch of cowboys trying to offload contraband. He didn’t even know who the sellers were.

  What’s more, paying $20 million for $30 million worth of contraband was looking too steep. He reckoned if he could get it for pennies on the dollar, then that would make it really interesting. Otherwise . . .

  He thought about the Colombians.

  If he took it on as a straight oil deal and put it through the “Curaçao Trading One” account, then, at least in his mind, this wasn’t actually costing him anything. Even at $20 million, taking the Colombians’ profit out of this, David reassured himself, this could be my first $10 million day.

  He phoned Liberio. “For twenty mil they can keep it. Too risky. Tell them I’m in for five.”

  “No way.”

  “It’s contraband.”

  “It’s heavy crude.”

  “It was born in the wrong place.”

  “They’re going to say no.”


  “Then that’s what they say. Let me know.” He hung up, sat back in his chair, and stared at his phone.

  It wasn’t long before Liberio came back to him. “They may go for eighteen.”

  “Five,” David insisted.

  Liberio hung up, and a few minutes later called back. “Seventeen, last offer.”

  David said no, “But maybe seven.”

  Liberio said no but added that his amigos might be willing to do sixteen.

  David went to nine. Liberio’s friends came down to fourteen. David went up to eleven. They settled at thirteen.

  Putting the trade through a shell company he’d incorporated years ago in Antigua, Sivle-Sevil Trading Partners—backward it spells Elvis Lives—David did the deal.

  He e-mailed Wayne Grannum at the New York office of Caymans Comtrad, a private offshore bank, and asked him to wire $13 million out of his newly opened Curaçao Trading One account.

  That was the overdraft account backed by the Colombians.

  “What’s going on?” Tina came into the office and sat down at her trading desk.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “How would you like to have a yacht?”

  She gave him a strange look. “Yesterday it was coffee, a croissant and sex. Today it’s a yacht?”

  “There may be some crude looking for a home. I’m thinking, if I can get in low enough and move it fast enough . . . and you once said you wanted a boat . . .”

  “I also once said I wanted to screw Robert De Niro, but I don’t see you offering him up on a platter.”

  “Why do you have to . . .” He shrugged her off, “Fuck it, Tina, I was looking at this cargo and saw that there was a lot of room and thought I’d buy you something nice.”

  She logged on to her computer. “No problem. How about if I get on it?”

  “It’s only another crude cargo . . . y’all find something really good for you to work and I’ll shop this around myself.”

  “No, put it up on the screen. I want to see it.”

  He showed her.

  “So fucking suspicious of everything. Okay, it’s there. Now, like I said, I’ll take care of this one, and you find something else.”

  She backed off and started checking the markets.

  And he began putting out feelers to dump the cargo.