Trump Tower (52 page)

“Fuck me,” David said, his throat going dry and his stomach knotting into a tight wad. “Fuck me. . . .”

“Do you really have this?”

“Yeah.” He started checking the other chat rooms. “This is only a rumor . . . they don't know for sure . . . look, no one else has it . . . don't panic.”

“Don't panic? Are you fucking out of your mind? How much did you put down?”

“Let me see if I can stop it,” he said to her, grabbed the phone and called Wayne Grannum at the bank. “That money I sent out from Curaçao Trading One, get it back.”

“I can't get it back. It's gone.”

“Then put a stop on it.”

“What are you talking about? There's no way . . .”

“Try,” he shouted at Grannum. “Try to stop it. Try to get it back.”

He hung up and dialed Liberio Rojas.

Gonzolo took the call.

“Where's your brother?” David demanded.

“Gone. Won't be back today.”

“What's his cell number?”

“What's wrong?”

“He fucked me, that's what's wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

David told Gonzolo that the crude he'd bought through Liberio was about to be seized. “Your fucking brother knew. Give me his fucking cell.”

“Hold on,
hombre
. . . I said, he's not here. So you tell me . . .”

“Listen to me, you little shit, find Liberio and tell him to call me
pronto
, because if I find him first . . .”

“Don't threaten me,
hombre
.”

“Find him, motherfucker.” He banged down the phone.

Tina was staring at him. “How much?” She asked softly.

“I'll take care of it.” He tried to catch his breath.

“How much?”

“I said I'll . . .”

“David . . .” She suddenly screamed, “How much?”

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then said quietly, “Thirteen.”

“Oh fuck, David.” She stood up and walked to the window to stare outside.

“I'm taking care of it.”

She turned to look at him. “Which account?”

He confessed, “Curaçao Trading One.”

“The Colombians' money? You pissed away . . .”

“I didn't piss away anything.”

“How much is left?”

“I don't know.”

“How much?”

“I'm telling you, I don't know.”

“Then find out.”

Seeing how angry she was and knowing her well enough not to challenge her any more than he had to, he picked up the phone, got Grannum back on the line and asked him, “How much is left in the guarantee account that backs Curaçao Trading One?”

“Lawyer's client account?” Grannum typed on his keyboard to open the account. “Got it.”

“How much?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It's empty.”

“It can't be. We opened it with . . .”

“It is, I'm afraid,” Grannum said. “There was an initial deposit of . . . let's see . . . forty-five million.”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“But that was withdrawn.”

“Impossible.”

“First thing this morning.”

A
fter reassuring Vela again that he would not be arrested, Belasco went straight to Carole Ann Mendelsohn's office.

A no-nonsense woman in her midforties, she'd spent five years at the Justice Department dealing with blue-collar crime before going to work for Trump's old college friend Stenny Bayliss at his Wall Street law firm Crowther, Bayliss, Evers. “She's the best there is,” Stenny had bragged.

So when Trump needed someone, he hired her.

“Why would you steal her away from me?” Stenny wanted to know.

Trump shrugged. “You said it yourself. She's the best there is.”

Carole Ann sat down on the couch next to Belasco. “We need to talk about Mrs. Essenbach.”

“I know. But before we do . . .” He told her what had occurred with Bill Riordan.

“I'll call him, and we'll set up a meeting to redefine his parameters. We don't want dissension, and we certainly don't want him exposing us to lawsuits by calling the police when it's not warranted.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded like a schoolteacher to show him that part of this discussion was finished. “Now you need to get me up to speed on Mrs. Essenbach.”

Belasco outlined what had taken place on Monday night, after the residents' board meeting.

She took notes, then asked, “Did you at any time, or in any way, make any sort of promise to her, or say anything that she might construe or even misconstrue as a promise to act on her behalf?”

“No.”

“Did you at any time suggest that the residents' board decision could be influenced in any way?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea why she might believe that you had promised to influence the vote or help obtain a different result?”

“No.”

“Do you have any sort of personal relationship, whatsoever, with Mrs. Essenbach?”

He gave her an odd look. “Absolutely not.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Mrs. Essenbach?”

“Relationship? We don't have a relationship, other than a business relationship.”

“Have you ever visited her alone in her apartment at other than business hours?”

“Yes. As I said, I went to see her after the residents' board meeting.”

“And that was to advise her of the board's decision?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you meet with her?”

“In her library.”

“Was anyone else present?”

“No.”

“Where was her husband?”

“I have no idea. Although, he must have been in the apartment because . . . you've seen the CCTV footage, haven't you?”

“Yes,” she said. “During your meeting, was any food or drink served?”

“She offered me champagne, but I said no.”

“And . . .” she looked closely at him . . . “during this meeting, what was Mrs. Essenbach wearing?”

He was shocked. “What are you trying to say?”

“What was she wearing?”

“It was ten o'clock at night. She was in a housecoat . . . a dressing gown.”

“Surely you can see what I'm trying to say.”

He became defensive. “You're trying to insinuate that I had some sort of relationship with her. I did not. I have never acted unprofessionally with her or, in fact, with anyone at Trump Tower.”

“And yet, you visited her in her apartment after business hours, or what might be called unprofessional hours, to speak to her about the residents' decision to deny her the right to construct . . . a rain forest? This, despite the fact that you do not sit on the board, have no influence over the board's decisions, and claim that you have no relationship with Mrs. Essenbach, other than a business relationship?”

“Yes.”

“How many other clients with whom you have a business relationship have you visited at home, alone, after normal business hours?”

“I resent this.”

“As well you might. But believe it or not, I'm on your side.”

“You have an odd way of showing it.”

“Wait till you see how the other side shows it.”

“What other side?”

“One of my former colleagues, someone with whom I have remained very close, works at a firm called Dregger Simmons. They're a boutique firm that specializes in David-Goliath lawsuits.”

“What's that?”

“Poor people who want to take on rich people. Occasionally, they also represent rich people who want to take on extremely rich people. You see, if Goliath sues David, Goliath wins because he can outspend David. But when David sues Goliath, even if David is very rich, as long as Goliath is much richer, the costs of getting into the game can still be prohibitive. Goliath spends what he has to in order to lock David out. So David needs a pretty big stone. And Dregger Simmons have very big stones.”

Belasco was surprised that she would make reference like that. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Your contract with the Trump Organization contains a clause that protects you from certain liability during your employment. As long as you have acted properly, it falls on us . . . on me and my office . . . to protect your rights and defend you against any actions. Obviously, if you have at any time acted outside the boundaries, if there have been improprieties, that's a game changer. But as of right now, we will defend you.”

“From what?”

“From Mrs. Essenbach and Dregger Simmons. My friend there has given me a heads up that Mrs. Essenbach is going to file a lawsuit against you. Apparently she will claim in her suit that, as her lover, you promised to use your influence with the residents' board to grant her application for this rain forest project. She will also claim that, when she recently rejected your advances, you acted out of spite, using your influence to assure that her request was rejected.”

He was dumbfounded. “That's absurd. It's preposterous. It's a total lie.”

“It wouldn't be the first time someone involved in a lawsuit lied.”

“Totally, absolutely, and one hundred percent lying.”

“If she is,” the lawyer assured him, “there is recourse. On the other hand . . .”

“On the other hand, what?”

“On the other hand,” she said with no emotion, “there is also recourse.”

At the same time that Belasco was meeting with Carole Ann Mendelsohn, Bill Riordan was sending a scathing e-mail to Anthony Gallicano.

“Mr. Belasco refused to place a fired employee, Carlos Vela, on the Tower's persona non grata list, and subsequently proceeded to help him find a job at an office in the Tower. A man who was fired for theft therefore continues to work here. Furthermore, I believe that Mr. Belasco has overstepped his authority by intervening in the investigation by my office into a crime committed on the premises and has, furthermore, hampered the police in their duties when asked by a competent authority to have someone removed from the premises. I respectfully suggest that Mr. Belasco's behavior must not be tolerated.”

A
CROSS TOWN
at Columbus Circle, Antonia was sneaking into Anthony Gallicano's office to peek at his e-mail in-box.

She discovered Riordan's e-mail about Belasco.

Immediately, she forwarded it to her secret Gmail account, then erased both Riordan's original and the sent copy she'd forwarded to herself.

In her office, she went into her Gmail account and re-sent Riordan's e-mail back to Gallicano—being very careful to make sure that Riordan's return address showed in the sender box—but this time, she added to the recipient's box, “cc: DJT.”

D
avid was absolutely beside himself. “What do y'all mean there's no suite sixty-five oh one?”

The security guard in the lobby at 500 Fifth Avenue repeated, “What I mean is, there's no suite sixty-five oh one. There is no sixty-fifth floor.”

“Bastard,” he screamed, went outside, and grabbed the first taxi he found. “Plaza Hotel.”

Arriving at the main entrance on Central Park South, David took the steps two by two, charged through the lobby and stormed into the Champagne Bar.

“May I help you sir?” a waiter wanted to know.

He looked around until he spotted the waiter who'd served them. “You . . . I was in here the other day with a guy named Zhadanov . . .”

The waiter came over to him, “Yes, sir, I remember.”

“How do I find him?”

“I don't know.”

“He comes in here all the time, right? Y'all must know . . .”

“Never saw him before, sir.”

“What do you mean? Y'all said something like, nice to see you again. You knew his name. He asked for his usual.”

“Sir . . .” The waiter seemed genuinely embarrassed. “That sort of thing happens a lot. The guy gave me fifty bucks to pretend I knew him.”

David exclaimed loudly, “Ah . . . fuck,” and stormed out.

“Bastard set us up,” he said coming into his apartment.

Tina was livid. “I warned you this would happen. I warned you not to get involved with these people.” She berated him, “You're a fucking idiot.”