Trump Tower (28 page)

As for Mr. Lips and Mrs. Cove, that didn't concern him any more than the dogs, fish, birds and cats did.

He carried the three donuts downstairs to the counter, where he tried to hand them back to Gino. “Sorry about that,” he said.

Gino held up his hands to show Belasco that he didn't want them. “I can't take them back. Health regulations. They're no good to me once she's touched them.”

“Of course.” Belasco put them on the counter, then reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill. “Here . . . will this do?”

The man took the money. “That's fine. They're only . . .”

“Never mind,” Pierre said, taking the three wrapped donuts off the counter. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He walked away, went back to the residents' reception and put the donuts on the concierge's desk.

“Compliments of Madame Odette,” he said to Felicity, who was sorting mail, and to Pierro, who was going through undelivered newspapers.

“Thanks,” Felicity said. “And this is for you.”

She handed him a small box.

He saw the return address, “Ah . . . thank you . . .” brought it into his office, opened it, took what he wanted out of it, rewrapped the contents in a manila envelope, and added the note “Christmas is early this year.” Sealing the envelope, he addressed it and walked it back to Felicity. “Run it upstairs, please.”

She looked at it and nodded.

“Pierre?” Bill Riordan hurried out of the door at the end of the hallway, where the service elevator was. “Pierre, you need to see this.”

“What is it?”

“You won't believe it.” Motioning that they needed to speak privately, the two men went into Belasco's office and Riordan shut the door. “Have you got a DVD player?”

He pointed to the flat-screen television in the bookcase. “Under that.”

Riordan put a DVD into the machine, took the remote from Belasco's desk and pushed play. The screen flickered, and the camera shot remained static on a large table for a long time.

“The boardroom,” Riordan said. “The one the boss uses in the television show.”

“
The Celebrity Apprentice
boardroom?”

“Yeah . . . watch.”

Fast-forwarding the DVD, the time clock raced to 03:27. That's when Riordan slowed it down.

“Now, watch.”

Two shadows stepped in front of the camera, then moved away and came into focus.

It was hard to see because the boardroom set was unlit. But Belasco watched as the two people went to the big table.

It was a man and a woman.

“Here you go,” Riordan said.

The two looked around, then the man moved in on the woman, and they embraced. Then the man pulled down his pants, and pulled down the woman's pants, and within a minute she was lying on the table and he was lying on top of her.

“Can you believe that?” Riordan stopped the DVD.

“This was last night?”

“This morning . . . what did it say, three something in the morning.”

“How did they get in there? I thought the set was locked when they aren't filming.”

“Whole floor should be locked.”

“Then how . . .”

“You mean, you didn't recognize our little Romeo?”

“No.”

“Your boy Tomas.”

“Tomas Tejeda?” Belasco was shocked. “My elevator operator?”

“We've got him on camera sneaking up the back stairs and onto the floor with some woman. What time does he come on?”

“He's on now.”

“If you need any more proof than that . . .”

“The boss know?”

“You get a call from him yet?”

“No.”

“Then there's your answer. Because you can bet your ass as soon as he . . .”

“Wait here,” Belasco said, stepped outside, and saw that Jaquim's was the only elevator on the ground floor. “Which elevator is Tomas on?”

Jaquim answered, “Three.”

Belasco stood there waiting.

When the third elevator door opened, Robert Gildenstein, an orthopedic surgeon, got out.

“Good morning, Pierre,” he stopped to say hello. “I forget, do you go to the residents' board meetings?”

“Not usually.”

“It's at our place, tonight. Should be interesting. You might want to pop up.”

“Mrs. Essenbach's Brazilian jungle?”

Gildenstein whispered to Belasco, “Prakash . . . you know, Advani . . . he's been lobbying everybody. She doesn't stand a chance.” He slapped Belasco on the back, “Eight thirty if you can make it.”

“For all sorts of reasons, doctor, I think this time I'll keep my distance.”

“Then come for drinks afterward.”

“That might be a better idea.”

“Around nine thirty? Have a good day.”

“You too,” Belasco said as he left, then turned to Tomas, who was standing outside his elevator. “In my office, please.”

Tomas looked at Belasco, then at Jaquim, then walked into Belasco's office.

Immediately, Riordan barked, “How fucking stupid are you, pal?”

Belasco shut the door. “I would listen to an explanation if you had one.”

Tomas shook his head, “No.”

“I'm afraid that your dismissal is effective immediately,” Belasco said. “Mr. Riordan will accompany you to the locker room where you will be permitted to take any personal belongings. But your ID card and everything that is property of Trump Tower will stay here.”

“Who's the woman,” Riordan demanded. “I want to know right now . . .”

“No,” Belasco stopped him.

Riordan didn't like that. “It's important to find out who she is . . . if she works here . . .”

Belasco asked Tomas, “Does the woman work here?”

“No, Señor,” he said quietly.

“Then you will go with Mr. Riordan now.”

Riordan glared at Belasco. “You're going to take his word for it?” He turned to Tomas. “I want her name.”

“No,” Belasco said again.

“If she works here . . .”

Belasco ignored him and looked at Tomas. “Your union representative will explain that you are entitled to a lawyer, and I'm advising you now not to say anything to anyone about this without first consulting an attorney. I will make arrangements with accounting to send you whatever money is due, including vacation time. But you will not be permitted back in Trump Tower under any circumstances. And if asked by a future employer for a character reference, we will note that you were fired for conduct unbecoming an employee. Do you understand?”

Tomas nodded and said quietly, “Yes.”

“Wait outside,” Riordan ordered, watched as Tomas left, then berated Belasco, “How the hell can you let him walk without telling us who the woman was?”

“If she doesn't work here, it's none of our business.”

“And if she does work here?”

“He said she didn't.”

Riordan shook his head several times and started out of the office. “What a piece of cake you are, my friend.”

“Don't ask him again who the woman was,” Belasco warned. “It doesn't matter. And as for this . . .” He went to his DVD player, pulled out the disk, and snapped it in half. “One copy gets sent to the lawyers. All the others get shredded. This isn't for distribution.”

“This clown and the other one, Vela . . . two sleazebags give you a song and dance . . . and you buy their stories, lock, stock and barrel. Just like that, you believe them both. These guys need to be nailed.”

Belasco motioned to Riordan that the discussion was over. “I don't do crucifixions.”

R
icky Lips was half-asleep, laying on his back, naked except for his ankle bracelet, with the bed covers spilling onto the floor, when he felt her move close to him.

Instinctively, he reached for her.

With his eyes shut, he felt her slide up his chest, and then she was on his face, so he opened his mouth and then . . . “Ahhhhhhh.”

He screamed and sat up.

“Ahhhhhhh.”

The woman next to him screamed.

“Ahhhhhhh.”

The ocelot growled and hissed, clawed the woman, then jumped off Ricky's face to the floor and raced away from the bed.

“What the fuck . . .” He yelled, spitting the ocelot's taste off his tongue.

“Damn cat scratched me,” she shouted.

“Pthew.” He spit. “I licked it. Pthew.”

The ocelot crouched in the corner of the room, growling and hissing.

“I'm bleeding,” she screamed. “Fucking cat . . . I'm bleeding.”

“Pthew.” He looked at her. “You're bleeding.”

“Fucking cat . . .”

“Pthew.” He spit one more time, then reached for a pillow and tossed it at the ocelot.

The animal raced to the other side of the room, still hissing.

“Fuck me,” Ricky said, getting out of bed and going into the bathroom.

“I'm bleeding,” the woman yelled again. “Ricky, your fucking cat . . .”

“Hold on luv, I'm taking a whiz . . .” He stood at the toilet and peed, flushed, then came out carrying a towel. He tossed it to her. “Wrap it around your arm . . . ain't that bad anyway, just a little scratch . . .”

“Your fucking cat,” she kept saying.

He stared at the ocelot that was staring intently at him. Then he started looking around the room. “What's that smell?”

The woman was too busy inspecting her scratch.

“You smell that?” He moved through the room slowly, watching the ocelot out of the corner of his eyes, then got down on his knees and smelled under the bed. “Ah fuck me . . . the fucking cat shit under the bed.”

“Fuck you, Ricky . . .” The woman got out of bed nude—Ricky looked at her and nodded his approval—picked up a pillow to toss at the ocelot, then decided to toss it at Ricky. She grabbed her clothes, went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

“Fuck you,” Ricky screamed at the ocelot. “You're supposed to shit in that fucking cat litter box we bought for you.” He took the pillow the woman had thrown at him and threw it at the ocelot.

The animal leaped out of the way, raced across the room, and hissed at him.

“Fuck me,” Ricky said, left his bedroom, and went straight to Joey's room.

Joey was asleep, and there was some woman asleep next to him. He had no idea who she was. “Oy . . .” He went to the side of the bed to wake his son. “Oy. The fucking cat. Oy . . . get up.”

Joey didn't move, but the woman next to him opened her eyes, spotted Ricky standing there naked, and screamed.

“Oy.” Ricky shoved Joey.

Now Joey sat up and saw his father there. “What the fuck?”

The woman next to him continued screaming.

“It's that cat,” Ricky said. “He shit under me bed.”

“Go put some clothes on,” Joey ordered. “You're scaring me bird.”

“Oh yeah.” Ricky looked down at himself, then at the woman next to Joey. “Sorry luv . . . Little Ricky here . . .” He pointed to his crotch . . . “we didn't mean to frighten you.”

“Get dressed,” Joey shoved his father.

Back in his own bedroom, the woman he'd been sleeping with was gone. So was the ocelot.

Ricky stepped into a pair of shorts.

“Help.” The woman screamed from somewhere in the apartment. “Ricky . . . help . . .”

He raced out of his bedroom and found her in the kitchen.

“Help,” she screamed and pointed to the fridge door, which was open.

“What?” Ricky demanded.

“Your cat,” she said. “I came here to get some orange juice . . .”

“Hey Ricky . . .” Bugs appeared.

Ricky stared at him. “You still here?”

A woman Ricky had never seen walked up behind Bugs and put her arms around him. “What's all the noise?”

Both of them were naked.

“The chicken,” screamed the woman who'd been sleeping with Ricky.

Ricky inspected the naked woman next to Bugs. “What chicken?”

“The one in the fridge. I opened the door, it really stank in there, but that cat leaped in and grabbed it and . . .”

Bugs pointed under the kitchen table. “Look at that.”

Ricky bent down and watched as the ocelot ripped apart what was left of a broiled chicken. “Bloody hell . . .”