Trump Tower (36 page)

“She said you're getting into bed with some Colombians.”

“That's what I mean . . . she doesn't understand.”

“Son, why don't y'all help me understand.”

David took a deep breath and told RD the whole story, ending with, “We never touch their money. They said it's tax evasion . . .”

“You're not really that naïve, are you?”

“I believe them. But even if it is . . .”

“Drug money? Of course it's drug money.”

“Even if it is, we never touch it. It's in a lawyer's client account, and he deals with the bank.”

“Tina's worried.”

“I know. But y'all gotta trust me when I say, she's protected. Everybody is.”

“You?”

“Me too.”

Uncle RD paused. “Y'all get your ass whipped on this, boy, and we're gonna leave you swinging in the wind.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Sounds to me like you're betting the ranch on that and, frankly, I wouldn't bet the ranch that tomorrow is Wednesday.”

Sometimes his uncle really pissed him off, but he didn't dare remind him of that. “Let me know when you want me to call the Rojas brothers.”

“Y'all keep your ass protected, and don't you dare tell Tina I called.”

He promised, “I won't,” hung up, mumbled to himself, “They don't understand that it's foolproof,” and went right back to looking for that really big trade.

But the market was flat.

There were a bunch of small- to medium-sized deals floating around—porcelain, silk, cement, there was even another cargo of Cuban mahogany—but he didn't go near any of them, especially the Cuban mahogany, because he reckoned the time had come to prove Tina and Uncle RD wrong by putting all his eggs into one huge killer-deal basket.

T
he block was at a standstill, with cars stuck in the mess—mostly Yellow Cabs—and drivers showing their displeasure by honking their horns and shouting obscenities out their windows, as traffic also backed up along Fifth Avenue because no one could turn into Fifty-Sixth Street.

“It's us,” David the relief doorman said as Pierre Belasco walked up to him.

“What's the problem?”

David pointed to a huge moving van that was half turned into the Tower's garage but unable to get inside because the door was still shut. “Same thing like six months ago.”

Belasco walked over to the entrance and found Big Sam, the building engineer, yelling above the street noise into a walkie-talkie to someone who was obviously on the other side of the garage door. “Then go manual,” he shouted. “Get the fucker open.”

“Thought you said it was fixed,” Belasco reminded Big Sam.

“It is,” he said, as a static-filled answer came back over the walkie-talkie. “It's the lower lever that's jammed . . . we're trying to . . .”

Big Sam looked at Pierre. “Nothing like a little excitement to start the day.”

The van driver was out of his cab, telling the small crowd that had gathered along the sidewalk, “I can't even back out . . .”

“Move your fucking truck,” someone shouted from a stuck car, “you stupid prick of an idiot . . .”

The van driver turned to the man yelling at him. “The keys are in the van, asshole, you move it.”

The man in the car opened his door and started to get out. “Fuck you . . .”

The van driver pulled himself up to his full height—he was tall and heavy-set—and shouted to the driver, “You got a problem asshole?”

“Yeah, I do,” the driver said.

Belasco told the van driver, “Please get back into your truck, we'll take care of it,” and then walked over to the man shouting from his car. “Sir, we're doing the best we can.”

“Fuck you too,” he shouted at Belasco and tried to open his door.

Belasco looked around, saw a cop hurrying down the block, and put his hand on the car door to stop the man from getting out.

“Take your fucking hands off my car,” he shouted.

“Certainly, sir.” But Belasco left them right where they were. “Officer,” he called to the cop, “this gentleman is causing a scene.”

The cop demanded to know, “What's going on here? You got the whole friggin' city tied up in gridlock.” He looked at the man in the car. “And you, you stay right where you are. Get out of that car, and you're going to jail.”

Belasco smiled at the man, took his hands off the car door, and walked away.

“Fuck you,” the man shouted at Belasco.

But the cop thought he was shouting at him. “Say what? One more word out of you . . .”

The man in the car rolled up his window and sat there, cursing under his breath.

“Thank you, officer,” Belasco said as horns kept honking. “We're trying to get this solved.”

The cop turned to the drivers honking their horns and gestured for them to stop.

They didn't.

“Stop,” he pointed to several cars.

A cabbie called to the cop, “Officer, don't just stand there, do something, get them to move the truck out of the way,” and leaned on his horn for at least fifteen seconds.

“You'd better get that door open before World War Three breaks out,” the cop warned Belasco, then walked over to the cabbie. “Sit there, shut up, and if you honk that horn again, you're going to jail.”

“Got it,” Big Sam shouted into the walkie-talkie, then turned to Belasco, “Got it.”

The garage door opened.

The van driver started his engine, and within a minute he was inside the garage.

Fifty-Sixth Street was moving again.

“Fuck you,” the driver who'd been cautioned by the cop shouted at Belasco as he drove down the block.

The cabbie who'd been warned about honking his horn leaned on his horn again as he drove away.

Belasco patted Big Sam on the back and smiled. “Please don't hesitate to ask if I can solve any other problems for you.”

Inside, he found Shannon, the concierge who'd just had a baby, back on duty.

“I want to see the pictures.” Belasco motioned to her to come into his office. “Bring them in.”

She followed him in, pulled out her phone and showed him the photos of her baby.

“Looks like you,” Belasco said, as she brought one photo after another up on the tiny screen. “He's beautiful.”

She pointed, “That's the New York Yankee pajama set that Mr. and Mrs. Trump sent us. And here . . .” she changed the photo . . . “that's the crib from you. It's beautiful. Thank you, so much, again.”

Now Timmins appeared at his door. “Got a minute?”

Motioning for him to come in, Belasco smiled at Shannon, “He really is a beautiful baby.”

She said, “Thank you,” nodded at Timmins and walked out of the office.

Belasco asked Timmins, “Aren't you off duty?”

“This is so good I couldn't go home without showing it to you.” He waved a DVD, put it in the machine, and turned on the big screen.

The view was from a camera on the forty-second floor and showed the main hallway in front of the three elevators.

Belasco watched as nothing happened.

Then suddenly, he saw movement on the right side of the screen. It looked to him as if someone had come out of a door . . . Mrs. Essenbach's door . . . stumbled and fell. By the way that person was hurrying back to his feet, Belasco realized he'd been shoved.

“Here it comes,” Timmins pointed to the screen.

A short, bald-headed man, probably in his late sixties, moved into view, and all he was wearing was a pair of briefs and a sleeveless undershirt.

“Who's that?”

Timmins replied, “Current husband.”

“Until last week I didn't know that she had a current husband.”

“She does . . . or did. She tossed him out in his underwear.”

Belasco saw the time code and realized that this had only taken place seven or eight minutes after he'd stormed out of her apartment. “What happens to him?”

“Watch.” Timmins fast-forwarded the DVD.

The view changed from the hallway on the forty-second floor to the residents' lobby.

Belasco saw the man in his underwear step out of an elevator, hurry through the lobby, and go out onto the street.

Timmins fast-forwarded yet again.

Now the shot was from the camera facing the curb.

The man in his underwear hailed a taxi. A cab pulled up, Jorge the doorman helped him in, and the cab pulled away.

Turning off the DVD, Timmins announced, “Elvis has left the building.”

Belasco grinned, finally understanding Riordan's message—Us 1, Man in Underwear 0—and warned Timmins, “We have to be careful with that. The lawyers will need a copy.”

“The boss saw it last night. I had to show it to him. He said he's having copies made to send out with his Christmas cards.”

Belasco smiled. “I can see why. But before we start selling copies on eBay, I'll speak to him about it.”

Pierro, the concierge on duty with Shannon, appeared at the door. “Sir . . . Mrs. Gooding for you.”

Belasco said, “Thank you,” to Timmins and followed him out.

A beautifully dressed elderly woman was standing in the lobby with her son and daughter-in-law.

“Mrs. Gooding,” he extended his hand to her. “We're going to miss you.”

She took his hand. “I always knew this day would come.”

Belasco shook hands with her son and daughter-in-law, then smiled warmly at Mrs. Gooding, “Please . . . don't be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” Her eyes got red. “Thank you for everything . . . for so many wonderful memories.”

He went to her, put his arms around her, and she started crying.

Belasco held her as he said to her son, “Your father was a great man. And your mother is one of the truly great ladies.”

Shannon motioned to Belasco and caught his eye. Belasco understood and nodded to her. She and Pierro came from behind the concierge desk carrying a dozen long-stemmed roses and handed them to Mrs. Gooding.

Now the woman was weeping. She took the flowers, hugged Shannon, hugged Pierro, and hugged Belasco again.

“Thank you,” the son said, then reached for his mother. “Come on, mom, we have to go.”

She looked up at Belasco and he kissed her on both cheeks. “Trump Tower won't be the same without you.”

Stepping back, she let her son take her arm, waved at Shannon and Pierro, and walked out onto the street.

Belasco quickly turned back to his office.

He didn't want Shannon or Pierro to see that his eyes were red, too.

“Am I interrupting?” Rebecca Battelli was standing right there. “Do you have a moment?”

“No,” he smiled at her. “You're not . . . I mean, yes . . . please. I'm happy to see you.” He showed her into his office.

For an instant he thought about shutting his door so they wouldn't be disturbed, but he didn't.

“Please . . .” He motioned to the couch.

She sat there and he pulled up a chair for himself.

“Do you always get misty-eyed when someone leaves Trump Tower?”

He gave a little shrug. “The Goodings were here twenty-two years. He made his money in rubber. And when he passed away five months ago, his obituary in the
New York Times
noted that, over his lifetime, he and his wife had given away more than five hundred million dollars to various charities.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“You can live on that,” he joked.

She smiled politely.

“They were always very nice people, especially to the staff.” He said, “You know, we have people coming and going here every month. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes it's not always easy to say goodbye.”

“It's even harder when you don't have the opportunity to say goodbye.” He knew she was referring to her husband's death.

“You know those notices that other people put into the paper?” He said, “The ones that say the management and staff of some company regrets the loss of . . . whoever? When Mr. Gooding passed away, there were several hundred of them in the
Times
. They ran for more than a week.”

She looked at Belasco sadly. “There were only two for my husband. And I paid for both of them.”

He didn't know what to say—the little voice in the back of his head warned him,
just shut up
—so he said nothing.

She looked away, turning her eyes down to the floor. “I'm sorry about yesterday. I couldn't bring myself . . .”