Trump Tower (22 page)

He missed the putt to the right by two inches.

T
INA STAYED
in bed all morning.

When she heard Luisa downstairs, she picked up the phone and dialed the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said. “Coffee and maybe some melba toast, please. That's all I want.”

“Yes, Señora,” Luisa said.

But by the time she'd brought up the tray, Tina was fast asleep again.

C
YNDI RACED
into her bathroom and filled the huge tub for a bath.

She got undressed, left her cell phone on the upholstered chair next to the tub and, when the tub was nearly full, tossed in one of those flavored bubble-bath bombs.

It exploded with foam in the water, filled the tub with bubbles, and suddenly her bathroom smelled of vanilla and peach.

Slipping into the water, she lay back and, with vanilla and peach flavored bubbles up to her neck, she waited.

At exactly ten o'clock, her phone rang.

“What time is it in Italy?” she asked.

The count's gravelly voice responded, “It is four in the afternoon.”

“And where are you?”

“I am in Rome . . . in my study watching football. Where are you?”

“I am in my bathtub, the way you asked.”

“Naked in your bathtub?”

“No,” she joked. “I'm wearing one of those wetsuits that surfers wear, with a mask and swim fins . . .”

He laughed. “I wish I could see you . . .”

“I think you prefer football.”

“No. I prefer you.”

“Then you should get someone to make your computer work and I would show you . . .”

The two of them talked for a long time—mostly about Cyndi being naked in the bathtub—until the Count said, quietly, “I must go.”

“Until next week,” she said and hung up.

By now the water was getting cold, so she flicked the hot button with the big toe on her right foot—the tub was custom-made and didn't work with a normal tap—and hot water started to pour into the tub.

She used the big toe on her left foot to push the little button marked “Drain” so that as more hot water came in, the colder water on the bottom drained out, until the water was hot enough.

Then she closed the drain and turned off the hot water and lay back to wait.

At exactly eleven o'clock, her phone rang again.

The Sheikh demanded, “Where are you?”

“If you really must know . . . I am naked in my bathtub.”

“Ah . . . this is very good.”

“What time is it in Kuwait?”

“I am in Doha.”

“Okay, what time is it in Doha?”

“Early evening.”

“And what are you doing?”

“I am alone in my suite. I have been working all day, and I am going out to dinner in a little while. What are you doing?”

“I am in my bathtub, naked, the way you asked.”

“Are you alone?”

“No,” she giggled, “I'm here with Ali Baba and thirty-seven of the forty thieves. The other three are waiting in the hallway. They didn't have tickets.”

She thought that was funny.

He didn't. “Never joke with me about that. I need to know you are alone.”

She assured him, “Yes, I am alone.”

“Good,” he said. “Now tell me what you look like and what you are doing . . .”

She talked to him—mostly about being naked in the bathtub—until the Sheikh said, “This is very good. I will go now.”

As soon as she hung up with him, she put her big toe on “Drain” and lay there until all the water was out of the tub.

She stood up, got out, and stepped into the large shower on the other side of the bathroom, where she washed off the bubbles.

Drying herself, she went to her bedroom and, still naked, climbed into bed.

She closed her eyes.

And as she fell asleep, she thought to herself, “What some girls have to do to pay the rent . . .
oy vey!
”

A
LICIA PULLED
herself out of bed, got into the shower, threw on some sweats, made coffee, and sat down at the dining room table to go through her notes from yesterday.

“L. Arthur Farmer,” she said. “Did you live here? Are you alive? Where are you?”

She randomly scanned a couple of hundred Google entries on him but couldn't find anything that answered any of those questions.

Except, perhaps, for the
where are you
part. Farmer's main business had an address and listed a phone number, not in Trump Tower, but in Saginaw, Michigan.

As far as Google was concerned, the last public sighting of Farmer had been in 1972 at a political fund-raiser in Florida for Richard Nixon. But there were almost as many entries suggesting that the sighting had not actually happened.

She found a reference to a more recent sighting that claimed Farmer had made an appearance in Federal District Court in San Francisco to testify in an antitrust suit against a consortium of freight shippers who were trying to take over the port. But when she looked into it further, instead of actually appearing in court, he'd consented to being deposed in a lawyer's office.

Other than that, there really wasn't anything in the way of sightings, or even recent facts about him. And though there were tens of thousands of Google hits with his name, nothing showed up anywhere—except the NBC archives—that satisfied the search terms, “L. Arthur Farmer” and “Trump Tower.”

Then she stumbled across something that struck her as downright bizarre.

It was a reference to a hearing that had apparently taken place in the Michigan Senate in 1974 that was entitled, “The Influence of Finfolkmen over the In-State Business Affairs of L. Arthur Farmer.”

The influence of what? She read it again, then Googled “Finfolkmen.” Up came several thousand references to a religious sect that hailed originally from Scotland and had settled in the eighteenth century in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

She clicked on a few of the links, read a couple of brief histories, and decided these people sounded very strange.

Next, she Googled “Finfolkmen” and “L. Arthur Farmer.” Sure enough, several hundred references appeared. From what she read, it looked to her like this religious sect had worked its way into Farmer's life.

Going deeper, she found a
Detroit Free Press
reference to the Michigan Senate hearing. “Amidst rumors that a religious group based in the Upper Peninsula has effectively taken control of all access to Farmer, State Senator John Penrose Selkirk (R-38th) tabled an adjournment motion before the committee that was accepted, effectively ending the inquiry before it even began.”

Now she queried “Finfolkmen” and “Trump.”

Nothing came up.

She read the NBC database reference again. “A mysterious buyer, believed to represent L. Arthur Farmer, has become the first residential tenant in Donald Trump's Tower.”

Alicia didn't understand why that reference should be the only one. Maybe, she rationalized, because it was 1979. Pre-Internet. That was the only thing
that made sense to her. Or maybe, she thought, he never lived here and that's why there's nothing anywhere else.

Then she looked again at the
Free Press
blurb again. “. . . has effectively taken control of all access to Farmer.”

The phone rang.

Finfolkmen?

It rang again. “Hello?”

Tina said, “Hey . . . meet you downstairs in half an hour?”

Alicia saw that it was already 12:15. “Oh my God . . . I didn't know it was this late. I'll be there.”

Hanging up, she bookmarked all the pages she wanted to save, shut down her laptop, and went to get ready, still asking herself,
L. Arthur Farmer, where are you?

T
ina told the driver, “T'ien,” and he asked, just to be sure, “That's . . . what . . . Ninety-Second between Madison and Park?”

“Yes,” she said, “that's right,” and sat back.

“I've been looking forward to this all week,” Alicia said.

“Me, too.” Then Tina leaned close to Alicia and whispered, so that the driver couldn't hear, “Apparently . . . Felipa . . . now this is the rumor . . . Felipa claims there actually is one masseur at T'ien.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“Really?”

“Apparently. I've never seen him, and no one ever mentions him, except Felipa, who says that he's there to do . . . you know . . . the full-body thing.”

“Get out.”

“That's the rumor.”

“You heard this from Felipa Guillermo?”

“At the party the other night.”

“I thought all she did was the entire Argentine polo team . . . and their horses . . .”

Tina laughed.

Alicia wanted to know, “This masseur have a name?”

“I asked the same question,” Tina confessed. “Alas.”

When they arrived at the beautiful white stone, five-story townhouse, Tina told the driver, “Four hours.”

There were no signs out front to say this was T'ien—in Cantonese it means “heaven”—but then heaven is not the sort of place that has to advertise.

The women who need to know where T'ien is and how to get an appointment, know.

A young Chinese woman greeted them at the door. “Miss Lee, Miss Melendez, it is so nice to see you both again.” She introduced herself as Huan and brought them into a small lobby area, where there was a low couch and a red bamboo desk. Huan checked their appointment times and took their credit cards. “I will return them to you at the end of your visit,” she said. “You are very welcome here,” then escorted Tina and Alicia to the elevator.

Bringing them up to the second floor, Huan showed Alicia into one of the private changing rooms, and showed Tina into the changing room next to it.

Inside was a bamboo table with a leather box, slippers, a very thick, very heavy terrycloth robe and a large bamboo basket.

Both women undressed completely, put their jewelry in the leather box, and folded their clothes into the bamboo basket.

Alicia had remembered to leave most of her jewelry at home. She was only wearing her small Piaget watch. But Tina was wearing a Bulgari sapphire ring and a Cartier watch, plus the gold Tiffany ankle bracelet that her father gave her for her twenty-first birthday. She took them off and left them sitting right there on the table.

Both women came out, wearing nothing but the terrycloth robes.

That's when Tina remembered her gold and diamond navel piercing, excused herself, went back to the changing room, and left it there with the rest of her jewelry.

Huan locked the changing rooms and accompanied Tina and Alicia to the third floor.

She brought them into a softly lit room with two chaise lounge beds and a small table with a teapot. Soft Chinese music was playing on hidden speakers. After motioning to Tina and Alicia to lie down, Huan poured them each a small cup of herbal tea, then left them there to sip their tea.

Ten minutes later, Huan returned to take them to the sauna. She helped them out of their robes and, now naked, Alicia and Tina stepped into the first of their four saunas.

“Wow,” Alicia said. “I forgot how hot this is.”

A typical rock sauna, it smelled of chamomile.

“Is it me,” Tina asked, sitting down on the lower of the two benches, “or do you think they put something in that tea?”

They stayed there for nearly fifteen minutes before Huan invited them to come out, handed them each another cup of that herbal tea, then took them into another sauna, this one more like a steam bath.

“Where's David?” Alicia asked.

“Where else?” Tina answered. “He loves to tell me that golf is like sex. He says, ‘When it's good, it's great, when it's bad, it's still pretty good.'”

“Only a man would say that.”

“Trust me,” Tina confided, “there are times when even I'd rather be playing golf.”

“I didn't know you played golf.”

“I don't.”

Before they knew it, Huan was back to give them more tea and take them into the third sauna, which was very dry and felt much hotter than the previous two.

It smelled of eucalyptus.

“Where's Carson?” Tina asked.

“One of his tennis weekends. He's got a list of people who are willing to pay a lot of money to play with an ex-tour pro. A lot of the guys do it when they quit the tour.”

“And it gives you the weekend off.”

“Except I like having him around. He keeps my feet warm.”