Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  “How do they know each other?”

  “They don’t.”

  “Then why are you telling me about both of them?”

  “I’m telling you because . . . listen, the first thing that happened is the lawyer disappeared with the Colombians’ money. Then the Rojas brothers . . .”

  “And y’all owe that money to the Colombians?”

  “Not me. The lawyer.”

  “Better hope they see it that way, too, son. Now what was the deal with the Rojas brothers?”

  “It was some heavy crude coming out of Iran, remanifested as Iraqi . . .”

  “The one that was due to land in Trinidad and got arrested?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “You are one fucking idiot, boy. Those three sleazebag brothers have been shopping that cargo around for two days.”

  “So where do I find Liberio?”

  “Why? Y’all think you’re gonna get your money back?”

  “I’m sure gonna try.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You know, y’all could help me, a bit.”

  “I warned you the first time.”

  He hung up.

  “Fuck you, too,” David slammed down the phone. “Goddamned miserable old prick.” He turned to Tina . . .

  She wasn’t there.

  “Tina?”

  There was no answer.

  He walked into their bedroom. “Where are you?” Then he went downstairs, “Tina?”

  She was gone.

  WHEN DAVID finally got Liberio on the phone, he didn’t hold back. “Listen to me, shithead, that cargo you stuck me with . . .”

  “My brother told me you were calling . . .”

  “And did your brother say I’ve been trying to find you all day?”

  “No, he said you would call me back.”

  “He’s a fucking liar, and so are you. That Iranian crude bound for Trinidad . . .”

  “I heard about that this afternoon,” Liberio said, “I was shocked.”

  “Y’all sure will be shocked if I don’t get my money back.”

  “I don’t have your money.”

  “I don’t care who has it. I sent it to you. You send it back to me. The account is with you, pal. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  There was a long pause. “Or what?”

  “Or . . .” David hesitated, and as soon as he said it he knew he’d made a mistake . . . “or I’m putting a down payment on your ass.”

  51

  Alicia watched the piece running on her monitor as Phyllis the makeup lady lightly powdered her forehead.

  “Coming to you in ten,” she heard the director, Paul, say in her earpiece.

  She nodded to the camera so that he could see on his monitor in the control room that she’d heard him, then sat up straight and licked her lips.

  That was a little trick she’d learned from listening to a Bette Davis interview a long time ago—“Lick your lips before the camera rolls”—and Alicia always did.

  “In three . . . to camera one . . .” Paul said, “In two . . . in one . . . Alicia.”

  She looked up from her monitor and smiled. “That’s it from us. Thank you for watching. From all of us here at News Four New York, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow night at six. Brian Williams and NBC Nightly News . . . starts now.”

  Smiling to camera, she paused, then looked down at her script and waited like that until she heard the intro to NBC Nightly.

  “We’re clear,” Paul said.

  Alicia looked up at the big monitor in the studio and saw Brian start the program, “On our broadcast tonight . . .”

  Tracy the floor manager called out, “Night, Alicia.”

  “Good night,” she said, “thanks.”

  A few other people said good night, and within twenty seconds the studio was empty.

  Then the lights went off.

  Alicia stayed where she was, behind the news desk, in the dark, alone in the studio.

  “And later,” Brian said, “our exclusive one-to-one with former president Bill Clinton. You won’t want to miss this. But first . . .”

  She clenched her fist and grinned. “Yes.”

  Behind her, she knew, the newsroom was now probably already empty. No one ever lingered.

  That’s when she heard Greg’s voice. “You’re allowed to go home.”

  She pointed to the monitor where she was watching the program. “My debut.”

  He walked into the studio. “Want company?”

  “Sure.”

  He fell into the chair next to the news desk where the sports guy usually sat, kicked his feet up onto the desk, and leaned back.

  Neither of them spoke while they watched the program.

  And then there were only six and a half minutes left.

  “When we come back,” Brian said going to a commercial, “our exclusive sit-down with former president Bill Clinton.”

  The monitor went to black. It was a studio monitor, not an air monitor, so it didn’t show any commercials.

  Alicia took a deep breath.

  Greg looked at her and grinned, reassuringly.

  And neither of them spoke.

  Then Brian was back.

  “Last night, Bill Clinton hosted a party on the roof garden of the Metropolitan Museum here in New York City. It was a charity event . . . the kind of big, glamorous, star-studded evening you might expect . . . which the Clinton Initiative called “New York Loves Haiti.” In the middle of last night’s shindig . . . which raised more than seventeen million dollars to help our Caribbean neighbor so devastated by an earthquake in twenty ten . . . the former president took time away from his guests to sit down and speak with our own Alicia Melendez.”

  The shot cut to Alicia and Clinton sitting with Manhattan at dusk behind them.

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

  For the next four minutes and forty seconds, the two of them talked about Haiti, and about what Clinton was trying to do there, about where he was succeeding, about where he was failing, and about what the future held.

  It ended with Alicia asking, “One wish . . . what would it be?”

  “Only one?” He laughed and tilted his head, the way he does when he’s amused. “Make it right for ten million people down there whose own wishes have not yet come true.”

  The shot cut to Brian Williams who looked up from his monitor and smiled warmly. “That’s our broadcast for this Wednesday evening . . .”

  Alicia turned to Greg and he looked at her and, at the very same moment, alone in the dark studio, the two of them started applauding.

  52

  Tina banged on the door, and kept banging on the door until somebody finally opened it.

  There was loud music playing, and she could see a lot of people in the living room getting stoned and playing music.

  “What?” said the guy who’d opened the door. “What?”

  “Where’s Ricky?”

  “And to whom does he owe the honor?”

  “Fuck you,” she said, shoved him out of the way and stormed into the apartment.

  “Close the door shithead,” someone shouted, “before the cat gets out.”

  He closed it.

  She looked around. “Where’s Ricky?”

  A guy pointed to his bedroom. “Ricky?”

  He came out carrying a bass guitar, wearing Bermudas that were too big for him and a Brentwood FC soccer shirt. “What?” Then he saw Tina and smiled. “If it isn’t me visiting nurse service.”

  She walked up to him and grabbed his arm. “Come do me.”

  “What a good idea,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  One of the women in the living room asked, “Can we watch?”

  The guy next to her suggested, “Maybe we should film it.”

  “Fuck you,” Tina said to them and dragged Ricky back into his bedroom.

  “Nice to see you,” Ricky said to her, �
�to see you, nice.”

  “Shut up, Ricky. Put the guitar down and lock the door.”

  He did.

  By that time, she was naked and on his bed.

  “Little randy this evening, are we?”

  “A lot pissed off. Come here.”

  “Always glad to oblige the inflicted,” he said. “No prescription necessary.”

  SHE SPENT the night with Ricky and in the morning didn’t seem in her usual hurry to leave.

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Breakfast, luv? I don’t really know. I’m hardly ever up for breakfast.”

  She got out of bed and started for the door. “Have you got coffee?”

  “Don’t know luv . . . but . . .” He warned, “I wouldn’t do that. Not with all them people out there.”

  She started looking for a robe. “Who are they?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why do you let them stay?”

  “Don’t know, do I?” He shrugged, “I reckon if they had someplace else to be, they wouldn’t be here. So, I suppose, that means they have no place else to be.”

  She found an old silk robe in one of his closets, put it on and opened the door.

  The ocelot raced in.

  “What’s that?” she screamed.

  Ricky threw a pillow at it.

  She turned around and tried to find it.

  The ocelot dove under the bed.

  “Fucking cat . . .” Ricky grabbed another pillow. “I’m going to drown it as soon as I can catch it.”

  Tina bent down and looked under the bed. “It’s not a cat . . . and it’s trembling with fear.” She made some soft kissing sounds. “Come here . . . come on . . .”

  “His name is Billy.”

  “Come on . . . come on . . . it’s okay . . .”

  And very slowly, the ocelot came into her arms.

  “It’s okay . . . it’s all right . . .” Tina lifted it up gently. “She’s scared and much too thin . . . don’t you ever feed her?”

  “Billy’s a bloke.”

  “Okay,” she kept rubbing its neck, “don’t you ever feed him?”

  “Nah . . . I hate him. I’m going to drown him. Or cut him up and have him stuffed and made into a cushion.”

  “Stop it.” She looked closely at Billy. “What is he?”

  “Someone said he’s an ocelot. I think of him as a cat.”

  “You can’t keep him in an apartment,” she said. “You’ve got to call a zoo or something. Ricky, this animal is going to die here.”

  “I didn’t want him, someone brought him, and now I’m stuck with him.”

  “Have you got any milk?”

  “He eats barbecued chicken. Or at least that’s what he found in the fridge. And I think he found some pizza the other night.”

  “This is awful,” she said. “I’ll go out now and buy him some milk and . . . I don’t know, maybe some cat food. Then when those assholes in your living room wake up, they have to take him to a zoo or an animal rescue shelter.”

  “There’s a zoo in Central Park.”

  “Ricky, I’m serious.” She stroked the animal again. “If you don’t do it today, I’m going to turn you in to the animal welfare people.”

  “No reason to do that, luv.”

  “I’ll get the food. You take him to the zoo. And you better do it.”

  “All right, luv . . . I promise.”

  She carefully put the ocelot down on the bed and, immediately, he raced under it to hide.

  THURSDAY

  53

  Gabriella Battelli phoned Pierre Belasco, and when he said to her, “I need you to convince your mother to keep the business open,” she agreed. “My father would be heartbroken if she closed it.”

  “Tell me about your father’s cousin.”

  “There’s not much to tell. My grandfather didn’t want him in the business and paid him to stay away. Every now and then Johnny would get in touch with my father and demand money. My father would remind him that he’d signed an agreement to stay away from the business, but Johnny would say it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on, and they’d fight until my father would send him more money.”

  “How did Johnny get along with your mother?”

  She hesitated, then said quietly, “He was the one who told her . . . when my father died . . . he called her and told her . . .” She stopped.

  “Told her what?”

  “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about this . . . if my mother ever found out . . .”

  “Gabriella . . . you’re right that we shouldn’t be talking. But I have to go behind her back because she doesn’t want to deal with this. She wants to run away from it.”

  She blurted out, “That my father had a girlfriend.”

  Belasco waited a few seconds before he asked, “Why would he do that? Why would he deliberately want to hurt your mother? Especially right after your dad passed away.”

  “My dad wrote a letter,” she went on, “to my mother and me. He said if anything ever happened to him, we were to make sure that Johnny was kept away from the business.”

  “Please don’t mention this call to your mother. She’s not in the mood to understand just yet. The time will come when we can tell her. And we should tell her. But not yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “Convince her to keep the business.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, then added, “She’s not acting like herself.”

  “Don’t give up on her.”

  “I won’t . . . if you won’t,” Gabriella said, “but honestly, I don’t hold out much hope.”

  NOW HE DIALED the 855 number Forbes had given him and left a message. “It’s Pierre Belasco. If you would be kind enough to call me, please, I’m in the office. Thank you.”

  When Forbes didn’t return the call within half an hour, he went upstairs to Scarpe Pietrasanta.

  The door was locked.

  He knocked on it but nothing happened.

  Then he took his phone and rang Carlos Vela’s number.

  “Hola,” the man answered in Spanish.

  “Carlos, it’s Pierre Belasco. Where are you?”

  “I am home, Señor.”

  That surprised him. “I need you to come into Trump Tower.”

  “I was there this morning, Señor, but the security man downstairs at the elevators confiscated my pass. He wouldn’t let me upstairs.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “I called Mrs. Battelli. She said not to worry, that I did not any longer have to come in. She said the office was closed.”

  “Can you come to my office this morning?”

  “Señor . . . if I come in . . . you know how Mr. Riordan said . . .”

  “Please come in,” he said. “I will take care of Mr. Riordan.”

  An hour later when Vela showed up, Belasco said, “Give me your key, please.”

  Vela confessed, “I don’t have a key. The security man downstairs took it with my pass.”

  “All right,” Belasco shook his head in frustration. “Come with me.”

  The two of them went to the twenty-fourth floor and walked straight into Bill Riordan’s office.

  “His pass and the key to the door at Scarpe Pietrasanta,” Belasco demanded.

  Riordan answered, “Mr. Vela’s pass has been destroyed. Normally, Mrs. Battelli would have to request another one. But that won’t happen now, either. As for the key, that is no longer operative.”

  Belasco managed to keep his anger in tow. “Get me a pass for him and a door key.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I spoke with Mrs. Battelli early this morning, and she informed me that the business is closed. Anyway, she is delinquent with the rent and charges. So, acting entirely within my job description, all of the passes that had been issued to her have been rendered void, and the locks on her front door have been changed. If you want to go i
n there, seeing as how the business is defunct and in default, you will have to speak with Mrs. Mendelsohn. It’s out of my hands.”

  Belasco turned to Vela, said, “Come with me,” and went to Carole Ann Mendelsohn’s office.

  “I need access to the Scarpe Pietrasanta premises,” he said. “And I need a pass authorized for Mr. Vela here. According to Bill Riordan, neither is possible without you signing off on it.”

  She gave him an odd look. “You’re in charge of Trump Tower, you run the place, you can authorize anyone you want to have a pass. As for access to the premises, ditto.”

  “Apparently the company is in default.”

  “That has nothing to do with me. Go see accounting.”

  “But Bill Riordan said . . .”

  “But Bill Riordan doesn’t seem to know what he’s talking about.”

  “Thank you.”

  Belasco took Vela back to the staff offices, this time to Harriet’s desk, where he told her, “I need a building pass for Mr. Vela.”

  She made a face. “I have been ordered, expressly, not to do that.”

  “By?”

  She pointed to Riordan’s office.

  “He doesn’t get to decide. I do. So please cut a pass for him. Also, do you have keys for the Scarpe Pietrasanta office?”

  She pointed again to Riordan’s office.

  “No problem,” he said. “Send Mr. Vela’s pass down to my office. And if he interferes, tell him I said . . .” He stopped, then decided, “Never mind. I’ll tell him myself.”

  Leaving Vela at Harriet’s desk, Belasco went into Riordan’s office. “If you interfere, ever again, with something I am trying to do, or something I want, or something I have asked someone else to do, I will personally take it up with the boss and recommend that you be summarily fired.”

  Riordan didn’t seem in the least bothered by that. “Take your best shot, pal.”

  “I will,” Belasco said, “and it will be good enough.”

  Walking away, he motioned to Vela to follow him. Once they were outside the office, Belasco phoned Big Sam, the building engineer in charge of all maintenance, and said he was on his way down to his office.

  When he stepped into the long, windowless room, deep in the bowels of Trump Tower, not far from the boiler plant—it was filled with tools and generator parts and the walls were covered with blueprints and engineering designs—Big Sam was shocked to see Carlos Vela.