Trump Tower (72 page)

“Just the Yankees' way of making sure no one tries to cop a feel of Cyndi,” Zeke said. “It's called personal attention.”

Carson smiled. “Can you imagine what would happen if the airlines paid this much personal attention to their passengers who aren't Cyndi?”

“Yeah,” Zeke assured him, “they'd be broke before the plane even took off.”

At quarter to seven they decided to go to their seats.

“Powder room first,” Cyndi stood up and looked around.

A female staff member rushed up to ask, “May I help you?”

“Ladies'?”

“This way please . . .” and the staff member led the way.

A few minutes later, Cyndi rushed back to the table to assure Carson and Zeke, “You will not believe what they have in there.”

Carson tried, “Guys?”

“Better. High-def television screens set into the back of every sink so you can watch the game while you wash your hands.”

Before they left the Legends' Suite, Alicia rang from the car to say, “I'm on my way.” Carson told her where to pick up her ticket and how to find them.

An usher accompanied them out of the Legends' Suite, down past one level of box seats and to the very first row, immediately behind home plate.

“Waiting for my wife,” Carson said, tipping him twenty dollars.

“I'll see that she finds you when she gets here.”

The three of them sat down. The seats were like recliners.

As the Yankees warmed up, Derek Jeter walked by to say hello, and so did A-Rod.

Then a waiter appeared to ask if there was anything they wanted. Zeke and Carson ordered a beer. Cyndi said that mineral water would be fine. That's when Roberto stopped by. “I'm really glad you guys could come to a game,” he said, looking at Cyndi. “I don't think they sell that uniform in our souvenir shop.”

She turned around to show him that the shirt had his number on the back.

He nearly blushed. “The guys will never let me live this down.”

The waiter returned with the drinks and at exactly seven o'clock, five minutes before the game was scheduled to begin, the Yankee announcer came over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . and Yankee fans of all ages . . . may we direct your attention please to the jumbo-vision screen in the outfield . . . and all the other screens around Yankee Stadium.”

Suddenly, there on the big screen was Roberto Santos standing next to a dozen kids in wheelchairs. “Hi, I'm Roberto Santos.”

Subtitles rolled across the bottom of the screen in Spanish.

“As many of you know . . . when I first came here to the Yankees, I founded a charity called Gloves for Kids. I started it to help provide gloves, bats and balls for special-needs children all over the greater New York area.”

A young boy in a wheelchair waved his glove at the camera. “I play first base.” Another young boy raised a bat. “I'm like Roberto, I bat cleanup.” A young girl threw a ball toward the cameras. “I'm a starting pitcher.”

“Today,” Roberto said, “we help bring baseball to more than twenty thousand special-needs kids all over the country, so they can play baseball too. Tonight, when you see one of our volunteers with the Gloves for Kids badge and the special collection cup, please . . . please give generously. Thank you.”

All the kids around him waved their gloves and bats, threw balls at the camera and laughed, “Thank you.”

Some people applauded.

The announcer then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the New York Yankees are proud to participate in Roberto's Gloves for Kids drive. So on behalf of the Yankees, for every strike pitched by a New York Yankee, the club will donate fifty dollars to Gloves for Kids. And every time a Cleveland Indians pitcher throws a ball, the New York Yankees will donate another fifty dollars to Gloves for Kids. Please give generously. And now, will everyone please stand for the singing of the National Anthem.”

More people applauded, the National Anthem was sung, and the announcer came back to say, “Please welcome, our New York Yankees as they take the field.”

And the game began.

Alicia arrived at the top of the second inning, was brought to the front row by an usher, and slipped into the seat next to Cyndi. “I used to think that watching baseball was better at home, in bed, with a good book. I take it back.”

“I don't know,” Cyndi said, “watching baseball in bed with a shortstop probably isn't so bad . . .”

Carson reminded her, “The Holy Ghost plays center field.”

“So,” Cyndi shrugged, “a shortstop and a center fielder.”

Zeke whispered to Carson, “She's joking, right?”

“Yeah,” Carson said. “What she really means is a third baseman and a center fielder.”

The Indians went ahead 2–0 in the third, and the Yankees caught up to make it 2–2 in the fifth.

Sitting right behind home plate like that, they could see where every pitch crossed the plate. In the bottom of the sixth, with Roberto at bat, when the umpire called a very high pitch a strike, Cyndi shouted out, “Come on ump, we can get fifty bucks for his balls.”

The umpire actually turned around to look at her.

Roberto stepped off the plate, turned away, and Alicia thought she saw him blush.

“I was with your guy Warring recently,” Zeke said to Carson. “He mentioned briefly that you were doing a big deal in Japan together.”

“Which may or may not work. Ken's worse than these guys,” he nodded toward the Yankees. “They hate losing. He really hates losing.”

Cleveland came to bat in the top of the seventh and the lead-off guy got a single to right field.

“I don't blame him,” Zeke said. “We brought him in on this studio project we're trying to put together. It's a great project if we can pull it off. And I think we can. I found one guy who might even be willing to foot the whole bill for us. Ever hear of L. Arthur Farmer?”

“Whoa,” Carson said. “You've been dealing with Farmer?”

“Not with him directly. His people.”

“Hold on.” He reached across behind Zeke and tapped Alicia on the shoulder. “Ask Zeke about his new best friend.”

The guy on first stole second and then Cleveland got another single to shallow center. The guy on second headed for third as Roberto raced in to take the ball on one hop. The base runner rounded third and headed for home. Roberto wound up and threw to the plate.

The crowd stood up.

The ball came right into the catcher's glove, and the base runner hurried back to third.

Standing and applauding Roberto's perfect throw, Alicia looked at Carson and then at Zeke. “New best friend?”

Zeke didn't understand what her interest was. “Ever hear of L. Arthur Farmer?”

Her eyes opened wide. “You know him?”

“Not him, his people.”

They all sat down.

“I think he was the first buyer into Trump Tower.” She said, “I'm writing a book for the thirtieth anniversary.”

“I know. Remember? You wrote to ask if you could photograph my apartment . . .”

“Right. So I started looking at other people who have lived in the Tower, and his name came up. But I can't find anything about him. No one even knows if he's alive or dead.”

The next batter knocked the ball out of Yankee Stadium and the Indians went ahead 5–2.

“I'm dealing with a strange guy named Isbister. I don't have his number but I'll try to get it for you. You can phone him and ask.”

“Thank you,” she said. “By strange . . . do you know if he's particularly religious?”

“In fact, he told me he is.”

She smiled and nodded. “He's a Finfolkmen. Farmer is surrounded by them . . .”

“A what?”

“Finfolkmen. It's a small religion. Farmer is surrounded by these guys, like Howard Hughes was surrounded by Mormons.”

“Finfolkmen? Never heard of them.”

“I know a lot about them. Someday when you've got a week, I'll fill you in. But I'd really love to talk to this guy . . .”

“James Malcolm Isbister.”

“I'm trying to figure out if Farmer was the first person to buy into Trump Tower and if he, or his people, maybe still live there. Nobody knows anything . . .”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Zeke said. “Isbister had something delivered to my apartment. The guy who delivered it wasn't announced from the desk downstairs. No one called up. He just knocked on the door.”

“Which . . .” she concluded, “he could only do if he was already in the building.”

Three more batters came up, and the Yankees put them down, then did nothing in the bottom of the seventh. They did nothing in the eighth and now, in the bottom of the ninth, Roberto came to bat with no one on. He knocked the ball into the second tier in left field.

The stadium went wild, hoping for a late rally, and when Roberto stepped on home plate, he fist-pumped toward Cyndi.

But it wasn't enough and the Yankees lost 5–3.

On the way out, Zeke handed $500 to one of the Gloves for Kids donation volunteers. Carson gave them $500 as well. Alicia only had a few hundred on her and handed it all over. But Cyndi didn't put anything in the donation cup.

“That's for both of us,” Alicia said, trying to cover up for Cyndi.

“It's okay,” Cyndi said, “I have another idea,” and left it like that.

B
ACK AT
the concierge desk at Trump Tower, Cyndi, Zeke and Carson each wrote notes for Roberto to say thank you for a great night out. Then Cyndi, Zeke and Carson headed for the elevators, while Alicia stayed where she was. “I'll be right up.”

When they were gone, Alicia asked Carlo, the night concierge, “Is Mr. Timmins on security tonight?”

“He is,” Carlo answered.

“Would you give him a call please. I'd like to have a word with him.”

Carlo dialed his extension and a few minutes later Timmins came downstairs to find Alicia.

“I never got a chance to thank you in person for what you did for Suzy,” he said.

She took his elbow and led him outside to Fifty-Sixth Street, where they started walking toward Madison Avenue. “She's a great girl. She'll do fine at NBC. And you did thank me because she brought those chocolates.”

“She thinks you're the best,” Timmins said. “She's a terrific girl . . . and you gave her a chance . . . my wife and I are really very grateful.”

Now Alicia changed the subject. “Tell me something . . . strictly off the record . . . between us . . . never to go any further . . .” She asked, “Does L. Arthur Farmer live in the building?”

“Who?”

“L. Arthur Farmer. He's a zillionaire recluse who owns or controls like a lot of the world's rice.”

“Never heard of him,” Timmins said.

“Honestly? Off the record . . .”

“Honestly, never heard of him.”

“How about a man named Isbister?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not that I know.”

She thought for a moment, “When someone delivers something, they have to stop at the concierge and the concierge calls up to say there's a delivery.”

“Right.”

“So how could someone deliver something without calling up from downstairs?”

“They can't.”

“Unless they're already in the building.”

“Ah . . . yeah, sure, if someone was already in the building . . . but even then, if the elevator guy didn't know that person, he's supposed to ask, who the hell are you? Well, maybe not in those exact words . . .”

She smiled. “If I knew the time and date that someone delivered a package, what are the chances of having a quick look at the CCTV footage?”

“None,” he said right away. “Please don't even ask. I mean, Miss Melendez, I'd do anything in the world for you . . . anything . . . except that. It's my ass if anybody ever found out.”

“That's all right,” she said. “Forget that I even thought of it.”

“No problem.” He turned around and headed for the entrance to Trump Tower. “I've got to get back to work.”

She patted his arm. “Suzy is a great girl. You can be proud.”

He said goodnight to her in the lobby.

Upstairs, Carson asked, “What was that all about?”

Alicia told him, “If L. Arthur Farmer ever lived here, no one is going to help me find out.”

“How about,” he asked, “if L. Arthur Farmer never lived here? Or doesn't live here? How about if you're barking up the wrong tree altogether?”

She reminded him, “When Zeke gets that Finfolkmen guy's phone number, I'll ask him.”