Trump Tower (27 page)

A few seconds later her phone rang.

“E,” he said. “Got drunk, ate too much, did a deal with some strange guys . . . I'm talking real strange guys . . . and I'm getting on the plane now.”

“But not D.”

“And also D.”

“How real strange?”

“That I can't get home fast enough? That's not strange . . .”

“No, idiot, how strange is real strange? These people you got drunk with and did a deal with?”

“Real strange,” he said, “as in . . . seriously very real strange. I'll tell you all about them when I get home.”

“You'd better,” she warned.

When they hung up she looked at the screens and spotted $347,000 worth of Ralph Lauren men's bathing suits stuck in the port at Trujillo, Peru. She shrugged, “Why not,” found the sellers in Singapore, bought the bathing suits for $207,000 and easily moved them to somebody in Dubai for $223,000.

Sixteen grand to the good, Tina picked up her mug and her coffee was still hot.

A
T ONE POINT
that night, Zhadanov changed his mind, saying that he would come back to New York with David. But because David didn't like that, he lied to Zhadanov that the pilots were expecting a lot of turbulence. Zhadanov decided to stay in Curaçao until he could get a commercial flight home.

Pepe Forero then asked David, would he mind if one of his guys hitched a ride with him to New York.

David didn't like that either, so he lied again, this time saying that he was planning on stopping first in Houston.

Forero decided that it would be better if his guy flew up to New York directly.

Zhadanov said, “He can come with me.”

So that settled that.

Except it didn't.

As the sun was coming up, the bunch of them moved from the living room onto the deck to watch the sea change from dark blue to turquoise, at which time a very drunk David magnanimously invited all of the others to come back to New York with him.

Zhadanov said, okay, fine, and Forero's guy said okay, fine, and so did Juan Felipe the travel agent and Javier the jeweler.

David regretted the invitation immediately.

Juan Felipe started singing, “New York. New York,” off-key, and the others joined in, and a few more bottles were opened, until David noticed that Javier wasn't singing, that he was snoring.

So David made his move. He got up and left. He climbed the steps from the house up to the street where the taxi was still waiting. The others didn't realize he was leaving or, if they did, they were too drunk to follow him. Either way, David told himself on the ride to the airport,
I've escaped
.

He slept for the entire flight home and showed up, looking worse for the wear, just after one o'clock.

“What happened to you?” Tina asked.

“Fucking Colombians.”

“They are? Or, you were?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Huh?” Then he got it. “Oh, yeah . . . I mean, no. I wasn't. It's . . . they are.”

“Colombians?”

“Yeah.”

“David, what are you doing with Colombians?”

“A deal.”

“No, David. Not with Colombians.”

“Don't worry about them . . . honestly, they're not what y'all think.”

“Not what I think? I think they're Colombians. David . . . does the word cocaine ring any bells?”

“They're not that. They're strange but they're not.”

“Strange,” she repeated what he'd said to her on the phone. “Seriously very real strange. Well, how strange is ‘seriously very real strange'?”

“Strange because . . . they had guns.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

He insisted. “It's not what y'all think.”

“You just said they had guns. It's not what I think? David, they're Colombians with guns.”

“It's all about tax evasion.”

“I don't care. We're not touching that money.”

“We don't have to. That's the beauty of this. We never see their money.”

“Then what's the point?”

“We get to use it. It gets put in that lawyer's client account. He takes that to our bank . . . where we have a line of credit . . . and we get a big expansion on that line because our credit is now secured by the Colombians' money.”

“David . . . it's fucking cocaine!”

“No, Tina, it's fucking tax evasion. We never touch their money. We never even see their money.”

“But we use their money.”

“We use the bank's money.”

“The answer is no, David. We are not going there.”

“Listen to me . . .” He needed to make her understand. “With the kind of money they're talking, there isn't a deal we can't do. Airplane parts. Oil. All the really big stuff.”

“There isn't a deal I'm going to do, not with their money.”

“It's not their money, it's the bank's money.”

“Count me out.”

“How can I count you out?”

“You want to get involved with these sleazebags, then you open a separate trading account. My money stays out of it. Our joint money stays out of it. My name stays out of it.”

“If that's the way you want it,” he said, “fine.”

“If you're fucking stupid enough to get involved with these guys . . .”

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine,” she said, and went back to the office.

He went upstairs to sleep.

Before the banks closed, he set up a separate trading account for himself, with a $30 million line of credit. That done, he texted Zhadanov, “You back in NYC yet? I'm ready to go.”

“Me too.” Zhadanov texted back, then asked for David's banking information.

David sent him what he needed.

Zhadanov assured him, “Money is there. Go for it.”

Now for the first time since he'd gotten up from his sleep, David turned to Tina and said, “I'm on my way. Everything's good. I'm in and . . . y'all are completely locked out.”

“Fine,” she said, getting up from her desk and leaving the room.

“Fine,” he said, and began looking everywhere for a really big cargo.

P
ierre Belasco got out of his taxi at the Fifth Avenue entrance to Trump Tower, walked through the atrium—it was starting to get busy—stepped into the elevator, and hit the button for twenty-four.

He needed to speak to Bill Riordan.

But before the doors closed, he decided on a slight detour and hit the button for nineteen.

Getting out there, he walked down the hallway to the Scarpe Pietrasanta office.

The door was locked, and when he knocked on it, no one answered.

He took the next elevator up to twenty-four.

The security office had a windowless room with several banks of large monitors for the cameras positioned throughout Trump Tower and another windowless room with a bank of mainframe computers programmed to monitor everything that needed to be monitored.

Sitting directly in front of the doors to those rooms was a desk for the office secretary, and off that was a room with a view onto Fifty-Sixth Street, where Riordan worked.

“You got a minute?” Belasco asked.

Riordan looked up, “Sure,” and motioned to Belasco to come in. “Usually I'm here by seven. But I met a couple of my buddies for breakfast, guys who are still on the job. You know, to keep my hand in.”

Belasco smiled politely, sat in the chair facing Riordan's cluttered, folder-covered desk. “I'm still bothered about Carlos Vela.”

“Moot,” Riordan said. “You see the e-mail?”

“I haven't been downstairs yet.”

“From the boss himself.” He typed a few things on his computer keyboard, clicked his mouse, and turned the screen to face Belasco. “There.”

Leaning forward, Belasco looked at the e-mail signed DJT, which was in response to an e-mail from Anthony Gallicano earlier this morning. It was cc'd Belasco and Riordan, and said simply, “Fire him.”

Riordan announced, almost triumphantly, “Case closed.”

Belasco took a deep breath and stood up. “Not the first time an innocent man gets hung.”

“If he was innocent, okay. But he's not.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I'm not.”

“Does it matter?” Riordan asked, pointing to the e-mail on the computer screen. “He is.”

D
OWNSTAIRS
, Belasco found a copy of that e-mail waiting in his in-box. He didn't read it again—he didn't have to—because the boss' instructions were crystal clear.

With no choice, he rang Big Sam, the building engineer, and told him, “Decision's been made that Vela is gone. But I want to be the one who tells him. Can you have him, his union rep, and if he wants, his lawyer, in my office this morning at eleven? You can come along too.”

Big Sam answered, “I'll get on it right now.”

No sooner had he hung up when a young man he knew only as Gino knocked on his door and asked, “Can I see you for a moment?”

“Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“It's her again.” Gino worked in the food court, downstairs, at the coffee and pastry counter. “You wanted us to tell you if it ever happened again. And it has.”

“Her?”

“The old lady. This time, it's four donuts.”

“Oh . . . yes . . . okay.” He pulled himself up from behind his desk and walked out with Gino, going through the fire safety office into the atrium.

“She's there,” Gino pointed.

“Thank you,” Belasco said. “I'll take it from here.”

Gino headed for the escalators to go downstairs.

Belasco strolled to where Odette was leaning against a wall eating a donut, all the time careful not to let any crumbs fall on the polished marble floor.

“
Bonjour, Madame
,” he said. “
Bon appétit
.”

She answered in French, “Oh, Monsieur Belasco, will you join me for breakfast?”

“Thank you,” he continued in French, “I've already eaten. But, you know, you should never eat standing up.”

“Quite right,” Odette said, still chewing. “Are you sure?” She extended a napkin with three other donuts wrapped inside. “Please, help yourself. And perhaps someday you will install tables and chairs here so I don't have to eat breakfast standing up.”

“Perhaps . . . shall I hold those for you?”

“No,” she answered sharply.

“You are up early, Madame. I don't usually see you until . . .”

“Monday is a busy day for me here,” she said, “so many tourists on Monday morning . . .” Then she asked, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That Mr. Lips . . . you know who he is, that English musician?”

“Yes, I know Mr. Lips. But what about him?”

“Well . . . I heard . . .” She leaned forward to whisper, “that he fired his housekeeper all because she was allergic to cats.”

“Really?”

She continued whispering. “Apparently, he and Mrs. Cove, you know the Chinese woman on forty-five? Well, she was seen leaving Mr. Lips's apartment on thirty-two.”

Belasco smiled. “Perhaps she was visiting.”

“She was,” Odette assured him, “visiting. I should say so. All night. Quite a visit, no?”

“And you know this, Madame . . . how?”

Odette closed her eyes and shook her head as if to say,
I won't talk
.

“Of course.” He nodded that he understood. “You seem to know quite a bit about Mr. Lips.”

“Let's say,” she wiped her hands with one napkin while still holding onto
the donuts with another, “that I am very observant.” Then she handed the napkin with the donuts to him. “Imagine . . . firing a housekeeper because she's allergic to cats in a building where cats are not permitted.”

“Imagine that,” he said looking at the donuts, then at her.

“It's always lovely speaking with you, monsieur, but the tourists are here. I must go.
Au revoir
.”

He watched her approach a small group of Japanese tourists and start talking to them.

Allergic to cats. Mr. Lips and Mrs. Cove.

He shook his head.

Cats weren't permitted in the Tower. Nor were any other animals. But of course, Belasco knew, there were plenty of cats and dogs, and there were certainly birds and fish. He'd even been led to believe that at least one resident had a pet boa constrictor. He'd never seen it, and when he mentioned it to the resident, the resident denied it. Yet one of the maintenance men swore he'd seen it.