Trump Tower (14 page)

When the car was gone, Belasco suggested, “I still think your best bet is the hospital.”

Dani stared at Belasco.

“Maybe he's right,” the first photographer said. “After all, it's only around the corner. If he was coming here, he'd be here by now.”

The two men put their cameras back in their bags and left.

Belasco looked at Dani. “Not going to the hospital?”

She smiled, “He was right,” referring to the second photographer, “everybody lies.”

“Bends the truth, sometimes, perhaps.” He motioned to Jorge who hurried out. “Whatever the lady needs. Coffee. Bathroom. Caffeine-free beverages?”

Jorge said, “Yes, of course, sir.”

Dani said, “Thank you, anyway,” and leaned back on the car again.

“You can sit in the lobby if you'd prefer.”

“This feels more like a stakeout.”

Belasco smiled, “You've seen too many episodes of
The Wire
,” and went inside.

Walking past his office and the elevators, he went through the small door on the left and along the dark hallway to the service elevator. He rode it down to the sub-basement.

The Cadillac Esplanade was already there.

During the design phase of the Tower, Donald Trump himself personally decided there might be times when certain people—those kinds of people who needed to avoid the gazing eyes of other people—would welcome an ultradiscreet way into the building. So he built a secret tunnel entrance that connects underground with the sub-basement garage of the IBM building, halfway down the block toward Madison Avenue. It wasn't used often, but Belasco made a mental note to tell the boss that it had come in handy tonight.

There's a loading dock in the sub-basement where vans can deliver and pick up furniture and belongings for tenants moving in and out. Back in the corner is where Trump's private fleet of nine cars is always parked.

Belasco went up to the stocky, balding Jimmy Timmins, who was standing next to the Escalade, and shook his hand.

As he did, a tall, thin man with a mustache, wearing a dark-green bomber jacket and a University of West Virginia baseball cap stepped out of the Cadillac. He looked at Timmins, “Hey Timmy,” then looked at Belasco. “How you doing, pal?”

He knew the man simply as Forbes—always assumed that was his last name—but didn't know anything more about him. He didn't know his first name or where he was from or even how to get in touch with him directly. He always had to go through Timmins.

But whenever Forbes showed up, things got done.

“Thank you for this,” Belasco said.

“All in a day's work.” He motioned to the car, “Your boy's in bad shape,” and opened the back door.

A heavy-set, puffy-faced, dark-haired Mikey Glass, wearing a loose-fitting jogging suit and a Buster Keaton porkpie hat, was lying across the rear seat asleep.

“We'll take him upstairs,” Timmins said.

Belasco nodded okay, and watched while Forbes woke Mikey.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Mikey growled. “Who the fuck are you? Where are the midgets in the clown costumes? Where am I?”

They helped the groggy television star out of the car.

Mikey looked around, yanked his arms away from Forbes, and fell back against the car. “Whoa . . . this ship is moving.” He started singing, “Anchors aweigh my boy . . .” then spotted Belasco. “You on this cruise, too? How's it hanging, admiral? Be on the lookout for submarines. U-boats are everywhere.” He took one step forward and nearly fell again. “Christ . . . we've been torpedoed.”

“Mr. Glass,” Belasco said. “Apparently you've had quite a night. But you're home now.”

“Home?”

“This is home.”

“I live in a garage?”

“Not yet,” Belasco said. “These gentlemen will help you upstairs to your apartment.”

“My apartment?” His eyes opened wide. “Oh my God . . . my apartment . . . that's where my wife lives. She lives in my apartment. Or is it her apartment? She'll kill me. You've got to hide me somewhere. If she finds me, she'll murder me.”

“Yes sir,” Belasco agreed. “I expect she will. I'm afraid though, as you can see, there is no place to hide.”

“I need to hide somewhere.” He looked around. “You've got to have a hiding place. How about . . .” He pointed to the cars parked in the corner . . . “there. Those Trump's? Good. I'll hide under one of Trump's cars.”

Belasco assured him, “It's the first place Mr. Trump always looks.”

“As I suspected.” He nodded several times. “Trump's in cahoots with my wife. Is he planning to kill me before she does or after she does?”

“I suspect he will leave that privilege to your wife.”

“What a gentleman,” Mikey proclaimed. “How about Los Angeles?”

“What about Los Angeles?”

“I live there too. Can I hide there? Trump will never think of looking for me there. He'll be too busy checking under all of his cars.” He turned to get back into the Cadillac. “I'm going to hide in Los Angeles. Who's driving? Let's go. We have to leave fast.”

“Have a good night, sir.” Belasco motioned for Timmins and Forbes to take Mikey upstairs. “I'm certain if you ask your wife nicely, she will let you sleep for a few hours before she murders you.”

“You don't know my wife,” Mikey said. “But thank you, Belasco, you always have good ideas. I will ask. And I will ask nicely. I promise. I will say, please don't murder me until I've had some sleep . . . please.” He saluted Belasco, . . . “Count on me . . .” then looked at Timmins and Forbes and held out his arms. “Gentlemen . . . shall we dance?”

They helped him upstairs.

B
ELASCO TOSSED
his suit jacket back onto his office couch, asked Carlo for a fresh cup of coffee and sat down to go through a pile of reports that, otherwise, could have waited until Monday.

Then Timmins phoned. “He may not be out of the woods. A cop pal of mine at Midtown North called to say the circus performers may want to press charges. Apparently something about a trained seal and a mermaid and our Mr. Glass insisted she play the mermaid topless . . .”

“Has his wife killed him yet?”

“It's only a matter of time.”

“The would-be mermaid's vengeance may yet be the softer option.”

“If she presses charges it will be for sexual harassment and they'll have to arrest him,” Timmins said.

Belasco knew how that would play out in the papers. Mikey Glass frog-marched out the front door of the residents' entrance with handcuffs on. Dozens of photographers shooting thousands of pictures with lenses purposely wide enough to get Mikey, the cops and the Trump Tower name into the same shot. Headlines would read, “Tower of Power Walk of Shame.”

“Not what we need,” Belasco said.

“If you want the cavalry, shout.”

“Let me think about it.”

A
T SIX
, Carlo, Jorge and Paolo went off duty. They all stopped by to say goodnight. Felicity and Pierro took over the front desk, Roberto took over the front door and three operators now manned the elevators.

Belasco chatted with the morning crew briefly until an Indian woman of a certain age, wearing a multicolored sari arrived, struggling with several packages.

Roberto and Pierro rushed to help her.

Belasco smiled, “Good morning, Kajjili.”

“Mr. Belasco,” she said, “I would say you are here very early this morning.” She was head housekeeper for the Advanis.

“I know they're due in this morning.”

“Yes,” she said, “they are coming home today. I am planning that they will be here sometime after two and before three.”

“Two to three?” He forced a smile, not wanting to show her that he didn't want to be stuck in the office all day. “I will be here to welcome them back.”

The staff put her packages into the elevator.

“How is Miss Amvi? I haven't seen her in a few days.”

“As fresh and as sweet as ever,” Kajjili said. “She will be very pleased to have her parents home.”

“I am sure she will,” Belasco said.

Pierro escorted Kajjili up to the fortieth floor. The Advanis owned that entire floor and half of the forty-first as well.

“Belasco?” Someone said behind him, “What brings you to Disneyland at this hour?”

He turned. “I should ask you . . . it's just gone six . . . I never suppose anyone in Hollywood functions before lunch.”

“Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Hollywood anymore,” Zeke Gimbel said.

Belasco and Gimbel both said at the same time, “Thank God.”

Gimbel was wearing jeans, a pair of beat-up Nikes, a sweatshirt with the agency's logo—a Zorro-like Z—and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. But on his shoulder was a gorgeous custom-made, dark red leather Tumi laptop and carry-on bag.

Belasco couldn't help but stare.

He knew it was custom-made because he'd bought the exact same bag in the Tumi store on Madison Avenue, where the manager had assured him several times that the bag came in a choice of black or black.

“I didn't realize you were in,” Belasco said.

“Came in for a party last night. Got to be back on the coast this afternoon. We're trying to put Cameron and Ang into a picture with Sean and Johnny, but scheduling is a nightmare . . .”

Belasco had no idea who he was talking about.

“Speaking of which,” Gimbel continued, “you know I can always find a part for you if you ever want to become a movie star.”

“I'm afraid . . . Mr. Gable has already played all the worthwhile parts.”

“Offer is open,” Gimbel extended his hand to shake Belasco's. “See you in a few days,” he said and headed for the door.

A limo was waiting at the curb.

Roberto moved into place. “Is that your car, sir?” The glass doors opened.

“Yes,” Gimbel said, on his way out.

Suddenly Belasco blurted out, “Mr. Gimbel? Please forgive me for being presumptuous . . .”

Gimbel turned around to look at Belasco.

“. . . but I don't suppose you're flying commercial.”

He made a face. “Heaven forbid.”

“So . . . again, please forgive me for being presumptuous . . . but . . . might you have room . . .”

“On the plane? For you? Sure. Come on. Don't bother packing a bag, you can get everything you need in LA.”

“No. Not for me. There's someone who . . .” He hesitated, “Mikey Glass got into some trouble last night and it might be best for him if he was not in New York later this morning.”

“Mikey? Got into trouble? So what else is new?”

“If you have room on the plane . . .”

“Mikey is wonderful company,” Gimbel said, “but only when he's unconscious.”

“There's a possibility that, if he's still in New York in a few hours, he might be arrested.”

Gimbel stared at Belasco. “I'm a lawyer by training and trade. And I'm still a member of several bar associations. I am therefore an officer of several courts, including those in the state of New York. Are you really asking me to aid and abet the criminal flight of a fugitive from justice?”

Belasco nodded, “As long as you put it that way . . . actually . . . I am.”

He said right away, “Sure. But only as a favor to you.”

“I do appreciate it.”

Then Gimbel warned, “Mikey can't get drunk on the plane. And he can't try to slip his hand under the stewardess' dress. And he can't touch the pilots or try to play with their steering wheel . . .”

“What time are you due to take off?”

“It's an on-time airline because I make up the time.”

“Give me five minutes,” Belasco said.

Gimbel agreed. “I'll be in the car.”

Belasco escorted him outside and found Dani still there. “Do you know Dani? She's the nicest of the pack.”

Gimbel extended his hand to say hello.

“Last time I photographed you,” she said, “was at Fashion Week when you and Mrs. Gimbel . . .”

He grimaced. “The black dress?”

“The black dress,” she nodded.

“Do you know how much a yard and a half of black silk mousseline tied into a bow costs?”

“Sorry,” she shook her head, “they don't sell that at Urban Outfitters.”

Gimbel handed his shoulder bag to the chauffeur, then asked Dani, “That's the new Canon, right?”

“Just bought it.” She handed it to him.

“I love this.”