Trump Tower (53 page)

“He said he knew Asil . . .”

“Why didn't you call Asil to check? No, you're too smart for that. Too worried that Asil was going to make money off your back. Okay, now, call Asil and see if he'll shell up for your fucking stupidity.”

He looked at his watch—“What time is it in Istanbul?”—then grabbed the phone. “Fuck it.”

In fact, it was just after three in the morning.

“Asil, it's David . . . David Cove . . . I'm looking for Vasyl Zhadanov.”

“David . . . do you know what time it is?”

“Asil, I need to get in touch immediately with Vasyl Zhadanov.”

“Who?”

“Vasyl Zhadanov. The lawyer.”

“I never heard of such a person.”

“Don't tell me that . . . he said y'all gave him my name and number . . .”

“What is his name?”

“Vasyl . . . Zhadanov.”

“I may be asleep, but I promise I don't know anyone with that name.”

“You must know him.”

“I don't.”

“Then how did he get my name and number?”

“David, I have never heard of such a person.”

“Fuck you, Asil.” He slammed down the phone.

“That's right,” Tina yelled at him. “Blame everybody else.”

“Fuck you, too!”

“Yeah, right.” She reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Who are you calling?”

She ignored him and waited for someone to answer.

“Hello?”

She said, “Uncle RD, it's Tina. Sorry to bother you, but your nephew is an asshole. He's fucked up big-time and you need to know about it. Hold on.” She looked at David, forced a smile, and shoved the phone to him. “Go on, big shot.”

David gave her a nasty look. “It's nothing,” he said to RD, “everything is under control.”

He responded, “Clearly, boy, it isn't.”

“It's okay. It's all right. Tina's having her period.”

“Fuck you,” she shouted at him.

“Fuck you, too,” he screamed back.

“Sounds to me,” RD said, “you're having yours. This about the Colombians?”

“No. Well, sort of. The Rojas brothers put me onto a deal. I financed it with the Colombians' money, and then the lawyer who put me onto them disappeared with their money.”

“I warned you, boy. I said, you get your ass whipped on this, and we're gonna leave you swinging in the wind.”

“It's not the same thing. The Colombians are cool. This is that lawyer guy and the Rojas brothers. He's disappeared, and they fucked me. I keep calling Liberio, but he's not returning my calls.”

“How do they know each other?”

“They don't.”

“Then why are you telling me about both of them?”

“I'm telling you because . . . listen, the first thing that happened is the lawyer disappeared with the Colombians' money. Then the Rojas brothers . . .”

“And y'all owe that money to the Colombians?”

“Not me. The lawyer.”

“Better hope they see it that way, too, son. Now what was the deal with the Rojas brothers?”

“It was some heavy crude coming out of Iran, remanifested as Iraqi . . .”

“The one that was due to land in Trinidad and got arrested?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

“You are one fucking idiot, boy. Those three sleazebag brothers have been shopping that cargo around for two days.”

“So where do I find Liberio?”

“Why? Y'all think you're gonna get your money back?”

“I'm sure gonna try.”

“Good luck.”

“You know, y'all could help me, a bit.”

“I warned you the first time.”

He hung up.

“Fuck you, too,” David slammed down the phone. “Goddamned miserable old prick.” He turned to Tina . . .

She wasn't there.

“Tina?”

There was no answer.

He walked into their bedroom. “Where are you?” Then he went downstairs, “Tina?”

She was gone.

W
HEN
D
AVID
finally got Liberio on the phone, he didn't hold back. “Listen to me, shithead, that cargo you stuck me with . . .”

“My brother told me you were calling . . .”

“And did your brother say I've been trying to find you all day?”

“No, he said you would call me back.”

“He's a fucking liar, and so are you. That Iranian crude bound for Trinidad . . .”

“I heard about that this afternoon,” Liberio said, “I was shocked.”

“Y'all sure will be shocked if I don't get my money back.”

“I don't have your money.”

“I don't care who has it. I sent it to you. You send it back to me. The account is with you, pal. You've got twenty-four hours.”

There was a long pause. “Or what?”

“Or . . .” David hesitated, and as soon as he said it he knew he'd made a mistake . . . “or I'm putting a down payment on your ass.”

A
licia watched the piece running on her monitor as Phyllis the makeup lady lightly powdered her forehead.

“Coming to you in ten,” she heard the director, Paul, say in her earpiece.

She nodded to the camera so that he could see on his monitor in the control room that she'd heard him, then sat up straight and licked her lips.

That was a little trick she'd learned from listening to a Bette Davis interview a long time ago—“Lick your lips before the camera rolls”—and Alicia always did.

“In three . . . to camera one . . .” Paul said, “In two . . . in one . . . Alicia.”

She looked up from her monitor and smiled. “That's it from us. Thank you for watching. From all of us here at
News Four New York
, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow night at six. Brian Williams and
NBC Nightly News
. . . starts now.”

Smiling to camera, she paused, then looked down at her script and waited like that until she heard the intro to
NBC Nightly
.

“We're clear,” Paul said.

Alicia looked up at the big monitor in the studio and saw Brian start the program, “On our broadcast tonight . . .”

Tracy the floor manager called out, “Night, Alicia.”

“Good night,” she said, “thanks.”

A few other people said good night, and within twenty seconds the studio was empty.

Then the lights went off.

Alicia stayed where she was, behind the news desk, in the dark, alone in the studio.

“And later,” Brian said, “our exclusive one-to-one with former president Bill Clinton. You won't want to miss this. But first . . .”

She clenched her fist and grinned. “Yes.”

Behind her, she knew, the newsroom was now probably already empty. No one ever lingered.

That's when she heard Greg's voice. “You're allowed to go home.”

She pointed to the monitor where she was watching the program. “My debut.”

He walked into the studio. “Want company?”

“Sure.”

He fell into the chair next to the news desk where the sports guy usually sat, kicked his feet up onto the desk, and leaned back.

Neither of them spoke while they watched the program.

And then there were only six and a half minutes left.

“When we come back,” Brian said going to a commercial, “our exclusive sit-down with former president Bill Clinton.”

The monitor went to black. It was a studio monitor, not an air monitor, so it didn't show any commercials.

Alicia took a deep breath.

Greg looked at her and grinned, reassuringly.

And neither of them spoke.

Then Brian was back.

“Last night, Bill Clinton hosted a party on the roof garden of the Metropolitan Museum here in New York City. It was a charity event . . . the kind of big, glamorous, star-studded evening you might expect . . . which the Clinton Initiative called “New York Loves Haiti.” In the middle of last night's shindig . . . which raised more than seventeen million dollars to help our Caribbean neighbor so devastated by an earthquake in twenty ten . . . the former president took time away from his guests to sit down and speak with our own Alicia Melendez.”

The shot cut to Alicia and Clinton sitting with Manhattan at dusk behind them.

Alicia said to him, “Start with the misery that you still see in Haiti after all this time.”

For the next four minutes and forty seconds, the two of them talked about Haiti, and about what Clinton was trying to do there, about where he was succeeding, about where he was failing, and about what the future held.

It ended with Alicia asking, “One wish . . . what would it be?”

“Only one?” He laughed and tilted his head, the way he does when he's amused. “Make it right for ten million people down there whose own wishes have not yet come true.”

The shot cut to Brian Williams who looked up from his monitor and smiled warmly. “That's our broadcast for this Wednesday evening . . .”

Alicia turned to Greg and he looked at her and, at the very same moment, alone in the dark studio, the two of them started applauding.

T
ina banged on the door, and kept banging on the door until somebody finally opened it.

There was loud music playing, and she could see a lot of people in the living room getting stoned and playing music.

“What?” said the guy who'd opened the door. “What?”

“Where's Ricky?”

“And to whom does he owe the honor?”

“Fuck you,” she said, shoved him out of the way and stormed into the apartment.

“Close the door shithead,” someone shouted, “before the cat gets out.”

He closed it.

She looked around. “Where's Ricky?”

A guy pointed to his bedroom. “Ricky?”

He came out carrying a bass guitar, wearing Bermudas that were too big for him and a Brentwood FC soccer shirt. “What?” Then he saw Tina and smiled. “If it isn't me visiting nurse service.”

She walked up to him and grabbed his arm. “Come do me.”

“What a good idea,” he said. “Don't mind if I do.”

One of the women in the living room asked, “Can we watch?”

The guy next to her suggested, “Maybe we should film it.”

“Fuck you,” Tina said to them and dragged Ricky back into his bedroom.

“Nice to see you,” Ricky said to her, “to see you, nice.”

“Shut up, Ricky. Put the guitar down and lock the door.”

He did.

By that time, she was naked and on his bed.

“Little randy this evening, are we?”

“A lot pissed off. Come here.”

“Always glad to oblige the inflicted,” he said. “No prescription necessary.”

S
HE SPENT
the night with Ricky and in the morning didn't seem in her usual hurry to leave.

“What's for breakfast?”

“Breakfast, luv? I don't really know. I'm hardly ever up for breakfast.”

She got out of bed and started for the door. “Have you got coffee?”

“Don't know luv . . . but . . .” He warned, “I wouldn't do that. Not with all them people out there.”

She started looking for a robe. “Who are they?”

“Don't know.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Don't know.”

“Why do you let them stay?”

“Don't know, do I?” He shrugged, “I reckon if they had someplace else to be, they wouldn't be here. So, I suppose, that means they have no place else to be.”

She found an old silk robe in one of his closets, put it on and opened the door.

The ocelot raced in.

“What's that?” she screamed.

Ricky threw a pillow at it.

She turned around and tried to find it.

The ocelot dove under the bed.

“Fucking cat . . .” Ricky grabbed another pillow. “I'm going to drown it as soon as I can catch it.”

Tina bent down and looked under the bed. “It's not a cat . . . and it's trembling with fear.” She made some soft kissing sounds. “Come here . . . come on . . .”