Trump Tower Page 3

  Brenda continued through a short list of matters that concerned the residents and ended with, “Shannon will be coming back after maternity leave. Her temp replacement, Gilbert, will be leaving. He’s a nice young man and asked to be considered if a post opens up. Will you sign off on a gift?”

  “Of course,” Belasco said. “Invite him to choose three shirts and ties from the boss’ collection in the atrium. Is there a Mrs. Gilbert?”

  Brenda said, “No.”

  “Then . . . his mother. Let him choose something for her.” He turned to Brenda’s sister-in-law, Harriet, who was in charge of Commercial Services. “Please. Go.”

  She read through her list, noting that Scarpe Pietrasanta, the designer Italian women’s shoe company on the nineteenth floor, had missed their rent payment and that no one had responded to the follow-up.

  “We told you that the guy died,” Brenda reminded Belasco.

  “Yes. Under the circumstances . . .”

  “That’s no excuse,” Antonia cut in.

  Belasco was surprised. “What?”

  The twenty-nine-year-old assistant to the director of operations for the Trump Organization—who thought of herself as a Minnie Driver look-alike, except she was shorter and heavier than the dark-haired actress—had been attending these meetings for several months at her own request. “The lease belongs to a business. The business is still there. The rent is due on the first.”

  Harriet suggested, “Death isn’t quite the same as the check’s in the mail.”

  Antonia wasn’t having it. “If you must, send flowers and a sympathy card. But this is about business. We don’t do family problems.”

  “We don’t do family problems?” Belasco repeated in amazement. “Actually . . . yes we do.”

  “Why?” Antonia shot back.

  “Because compassion is always the right thing to do.” He pointed to the human resources supervisor known to everyone as Little Sam. “Please. Go.”

  “It’s bad business,” she said. “Can you imagine the signal that sends . . .”

  Belasco answered sharply, “I know exactly what signal it sends. And that is precisely the signal that I want to send.” He turned back to Little Sam, “Please excuse the interruption. Go.”

  Little Sam hesitated until he was sure that Antonia wasn’t going to interrupt again. “The Carlos Vela matter. I got with the lawyers again yesterday. They reiterated that theft is a de facto firing offense.”

  “Except,” Belasco said, “we don’t know if there was a theft. Or, if there was, we don’t know that Mr. Vela had anything to do with it.”

  “He was the only one with opportunity,” Bill Riordan pointed out. The ex-NYPD detective headed up the Tower’s security team. “If it quacks like a duck . . .”

  “There are two maids in the apartment,” Belasco reminded Riordan. “And she has a chef.”

  “They’ve been cleared.”

  “By who?”

  “First by me. Then by the police. It’s Vela.”

  Belasco argued, “But Mr. Vela says he’s innocent.”

  “Guilty people don’t just say they’re innocent, they swear to God they are.”

  “The police said they’re not going to charge him.”

  “Yet.”

  “It’s he-said-she-said.”

  “Not to a cop.” Riordan leaned forward to explain, “Means, motive, and opportunity. He had the means. Put it in a bag, and walk out the service door. The motive is money. He was working in the apartment so he had the opportunity. Unfortunately, I can’t talk to him without his union representative and lawyer present. But how much more do you need? Means . . . motive . . . opportunity. It’s all right there.”

  “What about logic?”

  “Logic?”

  “Yes, logic,” Belasco said. “Mr. Vela worked here for five years, and there has never been a problem. He’s a carpenter. A maintenance guy. He’s always had the means and the opportunity to steal anything he wanted, whenever he wanted . . .”

  “But now, this time,” Riordan noted, “he had a motive.”

  “What motive?”

  “Pick one from the usual menu. Debt. Drugs. Gambling. Wife problems. Girlfriend problems. Boyfriend problems. Family problems. Want more?”

  “I want something that makes sense,” Belasco insisted. “I’d be willing to bet that there are tens of million dollars in cash hidden all over the Tower. I suspect there are more safes in this building than there are residents. If Mr. Vela was going to steal something, why wouldn’t he go for Mrs. Essenbach’s cash? Look under the bed? In the back of a desk drawer? In a shoebox in the closet? He had plenty of time, but the police said nothing in the apartment was disturbed.”

  “He looked,” Riordan said, “couldn’t find anything, and was careful enough not to make it appear as if he looked.”

  “Then how about her jewelry?”

  “He couldn’t find any.”

  “Come on . . . that woman puts on jewelry to brush her teeth. If he couldn’t find any, it’s because he wasn’t looking.”

  “I’m not buying it,” Riordan said.

  “There are two maids and a chef working in the apartment. If he was crawling around searching through her things, wouldn’t they have asked him what he was doing?”

  “The chef was off, the first maid was out, and the second one says she was too busy to babysit a maintenance guy.”

  “Did he know that the chef was off and that the other maid was out? It’s a big apartment. He didn’t know who else might be there, so why not take something that’s easy, that’s right there, that fits into his pockets? She’s got silver and gold all over the place. You saw her apartment. The woman owns six Fabergé eggs, including one of the great Easter eggs. If Mr. Vela stole that, he could afford to move into the Tower. She also has a couple of hundred gold snuffboxes. He could have walked away with a handful of snuffboxes, and she might not have realized they were missing for months.”

  “Vela comes from the projects. What does he know from Fabergé eggs and snuffboxes?”

  “What does he know from a vicuna coat?”

  “He knows he can wear it or pawn it.”

  “Wear it? Where? To his local bodega?” Belasco shook his head. “And how do you pawn a vicuna coat? Who would want it, anyway?”

  Riordan sneered, “Ever been to the NBA?”

  “You’re out of line,” Belasco said.

  Riordan held up two hands. “Excuse me for stating the obvious.”

  “The question is moot,” Antonia cut in. “The fact is that Mrs. Essenbach went to DJT and said she wanted the man fired.”

  “You mean, Mr. Trump,” Belasco said.

  Ignoring him, she went on. “DJT has told us, repeatedly, anyone who’s been accused, or even suspected, of a crime jeopardizes the trust of the residents vis-à-vis the entire staff. Residents talk.”

  “So do the staff,” Belasco said. “What does it say to them if we fire someone unjustly?”

  “Bill’s absolutely right.” She looked at the former detective. “Means, motive, and opportunity? I’ll bet in the old days you would have already had a confession.”

  He nodded, “Give me a few minutes alone with Vela . . .”

  “Unfortunately,” Belasco said, “we’ve got no budget for rubber hoses.”

  The others laughed.

  Riordan didn’t. “I could always borrow one.”

  Antonia didn’t laugh, either. “If you don’t want to fire him, I will.”

  “To begin with,” Belasco pointed out, “you don’t have the power to hire or fire anyone.”

  “My boss does.”

  “But you don’t. And he won’t because I am dealing with this.”

  “I’ll be sure to let him know how you feel.”

  “I invite you to do that,” he said. “What’s more, you asked to be at these meetings as an observer. I agreed. As an observer.” He pointed to “Big Sam,” the building engineer who oversaw all of the maintenance functions. �
��Please. Go.”

  The man nodded. “Boiler one is up again. But I’ve got three guys off sick this week, so we’re a little backed up. And if Vela’s gone permanently . . .”

  “I understand,” Belasco said. “I’ll let you know as soon as a final decision is made. If Mr. Vela is not coming back, you’ll be authorized to hire someone in his place.” Now he turned to Riordan, “Did you see that we’ve added Tommy Seasons to the Chapman List?”

  “I’ve forwarded his name and photo to everyone.”

  “Tommy Seasons?” Antonia asked. “The actor? What’s he done?”

  Belasco told her, “He’s been banned from the Tower at the request of a tenant.”

  “Which tenant?”

  “That’s unimportant,” he said, then looked at the others. “Anyone else?”

  Antonia was determined to find out. “I haven’t seen anything about this coming across my boss’ desk. Does DJT know?”

  “You mean, does Mr. Trump know?” He answered her sternly, “At the moment this is a matter for my tenant, for Riordan and his staff, and for me. It will be noted in my weekly report to Mr. Trump. That report gets copied to the director of operations. So, yes, Mr. Trump will be informed of this and, yes, your boss will also be informed. Anything else?”

  “Is the tenant’s name some sort of national secret?”

  “The tenant’s name,” he repeated, “is unimportant.”

  She looked away, not hiding her annoyance with Belasco’s tone.

  “Anything else? If not, thank you.” He stood up, so did everyone else, and they all left the room.

  Except Antonia.

  She sat where she was, mumbling to one of the avocado plants.

  BELASCO ASKED Brenda to ring Mrs. Essenbach to say that he would like to stop up.

  While he was waiting at her desk, Riordan whispered in his ear, “If I was a cynic, I’d say El Bitcho is after your job.”

  He looked at Riordan, “You . . . a cynic?”

  “I’d hate to be the boyfriend . . . if there is a boyfriend. Get my drift?” He patted Belasco on the back and walked away.

  “No problem,” Brenda said, hanging up. “Mrs. Essenbach said to tell you, Monsieur Belasco is always welcome, any time.” She made a face. “Lucky you.”

  “Thank you.” Heading out of the offices, he walked past the bank of elevators that serviced the ten floors of offices, turned right, and went down the long hall to the residents’ elevators.

  Twenty-four is the only floor in Trump Tower where you can cross to either set of elevators.

  Riordan was waiting for an elevator.

  “What I can’t figure out,” he said to Belasco, “is how the hell she got her job.”

  “Antonia? Her grandfather was one of Fred Trump’s earliest backers,” Belasco explained. “So grandpa phoned the boss and said, ‘I stood by your old man, now my granddaughter is looking for a job.’ The boss is a loyal guy and hired her.”

  “Is she qualified?”

  “She has a background in hotels.”

  “I’ll rephrase that. Is she qualified to steal your job?”

  The elevator door opened and Alicia Melendez stepped out with a towel draped around her neck.

  The tall Cuban American brunette, statuesque with high cheekbones and café-au-lait skin, was wearing a dark green leotard that was cut very high at her hips. “Hi Belasco,” she said, then nodded at Riordan.

  “Miss Melendez.”

  She waved and walked down the hall, obviously on her way to the health club on the northeast corner of the floor.

  Riordan watched her walk away. “I know how she got her job.”

  Belasco disregarded the remark and stepped into the elevator. “Forty-two, please.”

  Miguel, the elevator operator, looked at Belasco.

  He shook his head.

  And the doors closed before Riordan had a chance to turn around.

  4

  Alicia stepped onto the treadmill, Alejandro set the speed, she started running, and he walked away.

  At this hour, the big room with row after row of machines—and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue and Central Park—was empty. She had no trouble getting the machine in the far corner, the one she liked best because it had such great views.

  “Very early or very late,” she’d advised Carson, who also liked that machine. “Very early to beat the before-the-market-opens crowd, or very late to beat the ladies who lunch.”

  Carson, a six-foot-three, mahogany-skinned former tennis player, eventually found that he could get that machine at 5:15. But Alicia didn’t have to be at NBC until 11, which meant that now, at 9:30 a.m., she usually had the place to herself.

  Herself and Alejandro.

  He was a good-looking, sleepy-eyed kid from Costa Rica who was always helpful and friendly but showed no interest in her. He was the same with Cyndi. So Alicia and Cyndi decided Alejandro must be gay.

  When Carson said, “Impossible,” the two women set out to prove him wrong. Not that it mattered to them if Alejandro liked girls or boys. It was a game to play and they called it “Alejandro In or Out?”

  One day, Alicia showed up in her coffee-with-cream-colored Lycra outfit, the one that Carson absolutely forbid her to wear in public because it made her look totally nude.

  Cyndi was dying to know, “What happened?”

  Alicia told her, “Nothing.”

  The day after that, Cyndi wore a tiny two-piece training set that was so tight there was absolutely nothing left for Alejandro to imagine.

  Alicia asked, “What happened?”

  Cyndi answered, “Nothing.”

  Finally, Carson decided it was up to him to make the winning move. “I’m going to ask.”

  “You can’t do that,” Cyndi said.

  “Why not?” And he did. “My wife says you’re gay. Are you gay?”

  “Me?” Alejandro started laughing, not the nervous laugh of someone caught in a lie, but the real laugh of someone who is truly amused. “Me? I am right now currently having it with four different ladies in the Tower. Almost every day. Each one. Quatro. Four. I like las mujeres very much.”

  He warned Alejandro, “Not Alicia. And not Cyndi.”

  “Your señora? Your mujer? And her friend? No,” he said, “only las pumas.”

  “Las pumas?”

  Alejandro tried to find the word, “You know . . . pumas, mujeres pumas . . . cougars?”

  “Old ladies?”

  He nodded several times. “Cincuenta. Cincuenta y cinco. Sesenta.” Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty.

  “I win,” Carson reported back to Alicia and Cyndi. “You guys are much too young for him.”

  Immediately, Alicia and Cyndi started making a list of the older women they spotted training with Alejandro. And within days, they were up to twenty.

  “He told me four,” Carson said.

  “No way,” Alicia said. “At least fourteen.”

  “Twenty-four,” Cyndi said.

  Carson eventually gave up and let the women play a new game they called, “Alejandro In or Out,” but added the words, “of Who?”

  Now, alone in the corner of the gym, running steadily on the machine with two clear views, Alicia stopped thinking about Alejandro and his pumas, and started thinking about Donald Trump, Fay Wray, Michael Jackson, Johnny Carson, Liberace, and Sophia Loren.

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE, just as she’d come out of the afternoon story meeting, one of the college students who worked as a research assistant in the newsroom announced, “Some agent-man called and left a voice mail.”

  “Some agent-man?”

  “He said he was an agent and he was a man, hence . . .”

  “Agent-man,” Alicia nodded. “Thanks,” and went to listen to the message.

  It was from Mel Berger at William Morris Endeavor. “We’ve got a project that might interest you. Will you give me a call, please?”

  She dialed the number he had left, and when a man answered, she announced, “It
’s Alicia Melendez calling for . . .”

  Before she could say, “Mr. Berger,” he himself asked, “How would you like to write a book?”

  “A book? Me? What about?”

  “Let’s meet.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “No,” he said, “because I may have to talk you into it and I won’t be able to do that over the phone.”

  Intrigued, she agreed to stop by his office that evening after she got off the air.

  “There’s not a lot of money in it,” Berger explained, sitting her down at the big, round table he used as his desk in the middle of the book-lined room. “But you’re the perfect person to write it.”

  He had a friendly face, a big smile, and seemed pretty hip. She thought he looked a little like a blue-eyed, younger version of Al Pacino.

  “Do I get to find out what I’m writing about before I write it?”

  “Biggest tourist attraction in New York.”

  She said, “The Empire State Building.”

  “Good guess, no cigar.”

  “The Statue of Liberty?”

  “Bigger. You need a boat to get to the statue. Your place, you don’t need a boat.”

  “My place? NBC? Thirty Rock?”

  He shook his head. “Trump Tower.”

  She didn’t understand. “Trump Tower is the biggest tourist attraction in New York?”

  “More tourists . . . more foot traffic . . . go through Trump Tower than anywhere else in New York. Iconic building. Big name brand. Free admission. No boat needed. The thirtieth anniversary is coming up. You live there, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Coffee table book. Gorgeous photographs. Twenty-five thousand words max. History of the building and some stories of the famous people who’ve lived there.”

  She was hesitant. “I don’t think the people who live there necessarily want to find their names in a book . . .”

  “Donald Trump?”

  “Okay, yeah,” she nodded. “But the others . . .”

  “Fay Wray?”

  “She’s dead, so she probably won’t mind.”

  “Michael Jackson?”

  “That’s three, but . . .”

  “Johnny Carson?”

  “Four.”

  “Liberace?”

  “He lived there?”

  “Sophia Loren?”