Trump Tower (19 page)

No sooner were they in place when Amvi arrived—tall and thin with her long, black hair demurely tied into a ponytail—wearing a gorgeous blue and green silk sari, surrounded by three very bulky bodyguards, all armed, and with wires in their ears. She was also accompanied by her governess, the inimitable Mrs. Churchward, a robust, rigidly stern woman in her early fifties.

Gossip around the Tower had it that she'd been governess to all of Mick Jagger's children, both of Prince Andrew's daughters, all of the various Red-grave grandchildren, the offspring of the most popular British socialites in the Caribbean, Lord and Lady Montagu-Wind—even though they were, famously, childless—and had even been the first governess of HRH Prince Charles, despite the fact that the prince was at least a dozen years older than Mrs. Churchward.

That was typical, Belasco understood, of the nonstop gossip that circulates wildly about everything and everyone at Trump Tower. “Don't believe half of what you hear,” he would say to the staff, trying to encourage them not to feed the fires, “and doubt one hundred percent of the rest. It is a historical fact that gossip was invented in Trump Tower.”

Belasco also seriously doubted the “Mrs.” part of Churchward's name. She was not, in his mind, anyone who anyone else would ever want to marry.

Donald Trump didn't think so, either. “Can you imagine the old battle-ax on her honeymoon?” He'd once confided in Belasco, “She shows up naked except for a pair of white gloves. The eager Mr. Churchward is waiting for her in bed and says, ‘My darling, why the white gloves?' And the blushing bride responds, ‘In case I have to touch the nasty thing.'”

“Good evening,” he greeted Mrs. Churchward and Amvi as they moved through the lobby with the bodyguards.

The woman turned and nodded. “Mr. Belasco.”

The bodyguards made only enough room for him to shake her hand, then extend his hand to Amvi.

“And how are you, Miss Amvi?”

The girl lowered her head slightly and looked at him through the top of her big, dark eyes. “
Bon jour, monsieur
,” she said shaking his hand. She continued in French, “I'm very pleased that my parents are returning today. You know, they've been away for so long and . . .” She glanced and smiled at Mrs. Churchward, who clearly did not understand French, “I am sick and tired of this miserable old cow.”

“I understand fully,” he answered in French, trying not to smile. Then he turned to Mrs. Churchward and said in English, “Miss Amvi's French is absolutely perfect.”

“Brearley has a very strong program,” she noted, referring to the private school where Amvi was a junior. “Of course, she is an A student. One would expect nothing less.”

“Only one year left after this one,” Belasco said to Amvi, in English. “Have you given any thought to what you want to do next?”

Mrs. Churchward answered for her. “We're considering both Harvard and Yale, of course, although given the state of New Haven, Connecticut, we feel that Harvard would be more suitable.”

“So Harvard it shall be,” Amvi said in English, then reverted to French. “Unless I run away and join the Navy first.”

“I'm sure,” he said in English, smiling at her to show he appreciated her sense of humor, “that you will find . . . a sea of opportunities.”

She grinned at him, then looked at Mrs. Churchward to reassure herself that the woman didn't understand a word of what they were saying.

One of the bodyguards put his hand up to his earpiece, then announced, “The eagle is landing.”

“Places,” Mrs. Churchward said.

Belasco nodded toward Jaime, the afternoon doorman, who held the double doors open as the group hurried out to the curb. Then Belasco motioned to Gilbert, the temporary concierge, to come and hold the other doors open when the Advanis arrived.

Now, three black four-door Mercedes E-Class sedans pulled up quickly, followed by a black Mercedes SUV.

Immediately, two bodyguards jumped out of the first sedan. The chauffeur of the second jumped out equally as fast and went to open the rear door.

Mr. Advani's personal assistant, a sickly young man named Chakor, rushed out of the third car, followed immediately by Mrs. Advani's secretary, a plump, young woman named Miss Rangarajan.

Then Mrs. Advani—a beautiful woman in her early forties with long, shiny black hair—got out wearing a dark charcoal Armani pantsuit with Gucci boots, small heeled so that she wouldn't look too much taller than her husband.

Amvi ran up to her mother and kissed her and held her and started crying.

From the other side, one of the bodyguards helped Prakash Advani get out.

He was in his midsixties, heavy set and nearly bald, with dark-dyed hair on the sides, and wearing a perfectly fitted navy blue suit with a white shirt and paisley blue tie.

Kajjili started throwing rose petals where the Advanis were about to walk.

Mr. Advani came around to greet his daughter—she let go of her mother long enough to hug and kiss him—then held onto her mother again.

Belasco could see that Mrs. Advani was crying too.

Mr. Advani stepped forward and shook Belasco's hand. “How nice to see you again.”

“Welcome home, sir. I trust you've had a good trip.”

“Good, yes, but I might add, very long.” With that he moved away to greet Kajjili and Mrs. Churchward. He also greeted the three maids, each of whom presented him with flowers.

He showed them to his wife, then handed them off to Miss Rangarajan, who took them and nodded to the maids to follow her quickly upstairs.

Mr. Advani went back to whisper something to his daughter, who looked at him and smiled. Then he put his arm around Amvi and his wife and said, “Let's go home.”

Behind them, the chauffeurs were unloading luggage.

Seeing how many pieces they had, Belasco whispered to Jaime, “Close down one of the elevators and please help deal with the luggage.”

“I will,” Jaime said, motioning to Gilbert to take the door.

Belasco nodded to Jaime and watched as Gilbert moved into place.

Then, suddenly, Joey Lips and his girlfriend stepped out of an elevator and, with his arm around her, started toward the lobby.

Amvi was still clinging to her mother.

Mrs. Churchward was hovering close behind.

Mr. Advani was trying to herd his wife and daughter inside.

Belasco had no idea what might happen if Amvi and Joey saw each other—maybe nothing at all—but after Joey's comment early this morning, he decided to err on the side of caution. He whispered in Gilbert's ear, “Quick, get Mr. Lips and his lady friend into my office. And close the door.”

Gilbert nodded and went to do that.

Now Belasco manned the door but did not open it all the way.

Mr. Advani had to stop right there.

“The luggage will be up shortly,” Belasco said, watching Gilbert out of the corner of his eye, speaking with Joey.

That's when Amvi and her mother turned toward the door.

Joey was still in the lobby.

“Please,” Belasco said, stepping in the way of Mr. Advani, “Oh, excuse me, sir,” to open the door for Amvi and her mother.

Mr. Advani moved aside to let his wife and daughter go through the doors first.

Mrs. Advani smiled.

Now Joey seemed to be arguing with Gilbert.

Belasco quickly reached for Mrs. Advani's hand, bowed, and almost kissed it. “Madame, welcome home.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, and was about to go inside when Belasco reached for Amvi's hand.

Mrs. Advani stopped.

“Mademoiselle,” Belasco said, almost kissing her hand, “I bid you pleasant evening.”

Amvi curtsied politely.

“You know, Madame,” he said to Mrs. Advani, “her French is excellent. You should be very proud.”

Mrs. Advani said, “Thank you Mr. Belasco, I assure you that my husband and I are extremely proud of Amvi.”

He smiled at her, then at Amvi, then said to Mr. Advani, “Very proud.”

“Yes,” he responded, “we are indeed.”

Mrs. Advani took her daughter's hand, and there was nothing else Belasco could do but allow Amvi and her mother to walk through the double doors.

But now, Joey and his girlfriend were nowhere to be seen.

Belasco stepped aside for Mr. Advani. “Sir . . . welcome home again, and good evening.”

Kajjili followed him, with Mrs. Churchward close behind.

Mr. and Mrs. Advani stopped briefly at the concierge desk where Schaune was waiting—actually standing in front of the desk—to bow and shake their hands and say, “Welcome home.”

While Schaune was greeting the Advanis, the three bodyguards hurried inside, leaving the two outside at the curb to protect the luggage.

The Advanis, with their bodyguards next to them, walked straight into the waiting elevator.

The chauffeurs began unloading what turned out to be sixteen pieces of luggage.

Taking a deep breath, Belasco went to his office where Jaime was explaining to a rather annoyed Joey, “He wants a word . . . oh, here he is . . . Mr. Belasco?”

“What's going on?” Joey wanted to know.

Belasco bowed slightly toward the skinny young woman, still wearing the open white dress, and to Joey, who was dressed in ripped jeans and a T-shirt but still wearing the black fedora. “I wanted to apologize for any inconvenience.”

Joey gave him an odd look. “What inconvenience?”

He nodded to Joey, “Yes, sir, exactly. In any case, I wish you and Mademoiselle a pleasant evening.”

Joey stared at him, “Whatever,” and motioned to his girlfriend, “Let's go.”

As soon as they were gone, Belasco announced to his staff in the lobby, “I think my work here is done. Have a good evening.” And he too turned to leave.

“Sir?” Jaime followed him.

Belasco stopped at the double doors to let a chauffeur in with luggage.

The rose petals on the sidewalk were now well trampled.

“Sir?” Jaime asked again, “Inconvenience?”

Belasco headed home. “What inconvenience?”

Z
eke's flight home with Mikey Glass was, for the most part, uneventful. Mikey quickly fell asleep and stayed that way until they were somewhere over Nevada. When he finally stirred and the stewardess brought him some coffee, he asked Zeke, “You going home?”

“LA,” Zeke answered, knowing that Mikey was looking for a lift to Malibu, where his house was only six doors down from Zeke's beach place.

“Yeah, okay,” Mikey responded. “Actually . . . I think I left my car at the airport.”

“You don't know?”

“Who can remember? It was three days ago. Well, maybe four. How time flies when you're having fun.”

Zeke stared at him. “You really don't know if you left your car at the airport?”

“No problem. I'll call the limo service and when I get home if the car isn't there, then I'll know it's at the airport. Or . . . somewhere else. Good thing I have a lot of cars.” He started listing them. “Let's see, I have a Porsche and a Mercedes and another Mercedes and a Porsche . . . I said that already . . . maybe I have two Porsches. I wonder where the second one is?”

When they landed, Zeke put Mikey in a limo, then drove himself home to Tower Road, off Benedict Canyon Drive in Beverly Hills, the house where Spencer Tracy had once lived.

Built in 1942 on a little over two acres, it was a two-story, twenty-two-room house hidden from the road by huge trees and shrubs, and protected by a large, electronic gate. The driveway wound up a slight incline to the right, leading to a large parking area and a four-car garage.

A set of heavy wooden double doors opens into a marble vestibule, with living rooms off to each side and a formal dining room straight ahead at the back, looking out onto a manicured garden and a blue, heart-shaped swimming pool.

Zeke dropped his keys on the table in the vestibule and found a note there from Birgitta, saying that she was playing tennis. He called out for their maid, Maria, but she didn't answer. He found his sixteen-year-old son, Max, upstairs in his room. However, Max was much too engrossed in some NBA video game, and the music blaring from his headset was so loud that Zeke could hear it at the door.

He went back downstairs.

Knowing that Max would surface when he wanted food, and figuring that Birgitta would come home when she was ready, Zeke went out through the kitchen door to the pool house he used as an office.

He picked up his iPad and a phone and reached into the fridge for a copper-bottled Samuel Adams Utopia.

Now on the deck, facing the pool, he pulled one of the six large, yellow-and-blue cushioned chairs over to a glass table, sat down and, surrounded by trees and shrubs, cracked open the beer and started making calls.