Trump Tower (18 page)

Ricky looked at her, then at Neville, because he didn't know what Neville was talking about, then looked past them both to the hallway where Miguel, the elevator operator, was standing waiting to make sure that he would let them in.

“It's okay,” Ricky waved to Miguel, then asked Neville, “Who's this?”

“It's Mrs. Whelan,” he said, motioning to Ricky to move aside so that they could come in. “She comes recommended by Bono.”

“Wayne Punch Webber,” she corrected him.

“You told me Bono,” Neville said.

“I told you Wayne Punch Webber.”

Ricky wanted to know, “Who the fuck is Wayne Punch Webber?” Then asked Mrs. Whelan, “You sure it wasn't Bono?”

She glared at him.

He told her, “That's all right. I don't like you any less,” and stepped aside to let them in.

Mrs. Whalen only got as far as the entrance to the living room and stopped right there. “What in the good Lord's name . . .”

“She also comes recommended by Rod Stewart,” Neville said.

“Leon Boss Sherman,” she corrected him again.

Ricky had to ask, “Who?”

“This place is a disaster,” Mrs. Whelan said. “One big, awful, horrible disaster.”

“Yeah,” Ricky agreed, then asked Neville, “Who's Leon Boss Sherman?”

“Don't you ever straighten up?” she asked.

He admitted, “No.”

Neville said, “Drummer?”

“How can you live like this?” Mrs. Whelan pointed to food cartons on the floor—most of them empty but a few half-full—ashtrays filled with cigarettes, and beer cans and soda bottles scattered everywhere.

He held out his hands in defeat, “Easy,” then said to Neville, “Big, baldheaded bloke?”

She reached for an empty vodka bottle. “Aren't you an alcoholic?”

“I go to meetings,” he said, then stopped. “Well, I can't exactly go to meetings because I can't exactly go anywhere, not with this . . .” He raised his leg to
show her the ankle bracelet. “But it's coming off in a couple of weeks and then we're going on tour. Until then, the meetings come to me.”

Neville looked at Mrs. Whelan. “They're going on tour.”

“Who?” She asked, incredulously. “Still Fools?”

“Sorry luv,” Ricky said, “me too, I was hoping for the Beatles.”

“And that . . . device?”

“It's coming off in . . . I got this countdown clock from NASA . . . I can show you exactly how many hours, minutes . . .”

“You and your cocaine” she said scornfully. “I read all about it in the
Post
.”

“They got it totally wrong,” he protested. “Honestly, they did. They busted me for eight ounces. Not true. Six months house arrest for eight ounces. Unbelievable. Especially because it was a kilo and a half.” He looked at Neville, “Can't believe anything you read in the papers, these days.”

Mrs. Whelan put the bottle down on a small table and turned to Neville, “You expect me to work in a pigsty like this?”

“Baldheaded bloke. That's him,” Neville said to Ricky, then told Mrs. Whelan, “I don't. He does.”

“You have a housekeeper?” she asked Ricky.

“Yeah. Absolutely.” He nodded. “I think so. I mean, I used to. Maybe I still do.”

“Where is she?”

“Not a clue, luv.”

“What's going on?” Ricky's son Joey appeared from the third bedroom.

“Our new housekeeper,” Ricky said.

Joey nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He asked Mrs. Whelan, “Can you live here when we go on tour?”

“No,” she said right away.

“As soon as this damn thing comes off . . . and if you want to step into my bedroom I could tell you exactly when it's coming off . . . then we're going to Toronto for three weeks to rehearse and then going on tour for six months.”

Joey looked at Mrs. Whelan, “Better not do my room yet ‘cause my bird is naked and tied to the bed, and I came to get a pair of scissors to cut her loose.”

Mrs. Whelan stared at him, shook her head, then dared to step, cautiously, through the living room. When she got to the master bedroom door, she opened it and looked inside. “Not any better in here,” she said, closed the door, and continued her tour.

“Where are the scissors?” Joey asked.

“Beats me, mate,” his father said.

“What am I supposed to do?”

His father repeated, “Beats me, mate,” and kept watching Mrs. Whelan's every move.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Joey said and went into the kitchen.

Mrs. Whelan made her way down the hallway to the second bedroom, opened the door, screamed, and shut the door. “There's a couple in there . . .”

“Really?” Ricky moved past her and opened the door. “Oh, yeah. Them.”

Bugs and Shari were naked in bed, with sheets and pillows all over the floor, still going at it.

“Oy,” Ricky said to them. “Checkout time is noon.”

“No problem,” Bugs said. “Finishing our shag now.”

Ricky shut the door. “They're finishing their shag now,” he repeated to Mrs. Whelan with some solemnity. “Won't be much longer.”

Mrs. Whelan took a deep breath. “Dare I ask if you have a kitchen?”

“Sure, you dare,” Ricky said. “You'll love it. Almost like new. Hardly ever used.”

She approached the kitchen just as Joey came out carrying a meat cleaver.

“My God,” Mrs. Whelan jumped in fright.

“Got to cut me bird loose,” Joey said and walked back into the third bedroom.

“See?” Ricky pointed to dishes piled high in the sink. “That's the kitchen.”

“Good Lord in heaven.”

“Oh, if you're looking for toilet paper, we keep it in the oven. Lots of space there.”

She opened the double doors of the huge fridge, but the moment she did an odor came out that was so pungent, she slammed the doors shut without ever seeing what was inside.

“None of this is mine,” Ricky said. “Honestly. And I can prove it. I mean, I don't cook.”

A phone started ringing.

“Can you get that?” Ricky said to Neville.

“Yeah, right,” Neville said, trying to follow the sound of the ringing. It led him into the living room. “Where's the phone?”

“Wherever it's ringing,” Ricky said.

“But where . . .” He looked behind the couch and got on his knees to search the floor, and then it stopped.

“Who is it?” Ricky asked.

“Couldn't find the phone,” Neville said.

“Bloody hell.” Ricky came into the living room and looked around until he saw an empty pizza box on the floor in the corner. He picked it up and found a BlackBerry. “Here it is.” He handed it to Neville. “Check to see who called, will you?”

Neville fumbled with the phone. “There's a number here . . .”

“Ring it.”

“You want me to press call?”

“Here.” Ricky grabbed the phone and dialed the last number that had called him.

A woman answered, “Concierge, this is Felicity.”

“Who?”

“This is Felicity.”

“Oy,” he said, “it's Ricky upstairs.” He looked at Neville, “Bird down at the front desk.” Then said to Felicity, “How are you, luv?”

“Mr. Lips? That you? I rang your apartment. You have some guests.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Send them up. But . . . do I know them?”

“It's Mr. Windsor, sir.”

“The King himself,” Ricky said. “Send them up.” He hung up and announced, “We have guests.”

Immediately, he bent down and picked up an empty pizza box, looked around, didn't know where to hide it, and tossed it on top of another empty pizza box.

“Perhaps the couch,” Mrs. Whelan suggested, took the cushions, and put them in place. Then she went to the empty pizza boxes and picked them up.

“Not too much,” he said. “These are friends. It's not as if we've got a bunch of strangers coming up.”

Mrs. Whelan glared at Neville. “Have you told him what this is going to cost?”

“Oh, yeah,” Neville said to Ricky. “Mrs. Whelan gets forty-five dollars an hour, with an eight-hour minimum per day.”

“In advance,” she added.

“Sure,” Ricky said. “That's fine. When do you want to start?”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Oy,” Ricky shouted and went to open it.

King Windsor, lead singer with Weekend Fling was there—wearing his traditional skin-tight leather pants and an open silk shirt, except there was now a lot of belly hanging out—alongside a very tall, very young, very busty blonde who was carrying a large carton.

“This is Tyne,” King said, “meet me old mate Ricky.”

“Pleasure,” she said.

Ricky hugged King and gave Tyne a wet kiss on the mouth. “Come on in.” He brought them into the living room. “You know Neville . . . and you're . . . Time?” He looked at her, “Like time marches on?” He pointed to Mrs. Whelan. “And this is my new housekeeper . . . this is King and Time . . .”

“Tyne,” she said, handing the box to him. “Like the river.”

“Which river?” Ricky said to her, then explained to King, “Mrs. Whelan also works for Bono.” He took the box. “For me?” But something inside moved. “Jeezus . . . what's in there?”

“Open it,” King said. “We found it in the neighborhood. A stray. And I figured with you all shut up in here like this . . .”

Ricky tore the box open and inside was a kitten. “Precisely what every guy needs . . . a little pussy.”

He lifted it up and took it out to show everyone.

The cream-colored cat was not so small—probably already weighed a couple of pounds—had very big eyes, pointed ears, and lots of light reddish-brown squares on its white body that almost looked like stripes.

“I love it,” Ricky said, showing it to them. “Look at that . . .” He turned it over and decided, “A little boy.” He showed them that, too. “What shall we name him?”

“Mr. Lips?” Mrs. Whelan was shaking her head and moving slowly toward the door.

“How about Felix?” Tyne suggested. “He was a boy cat.”

“Nah,” King said, “got to give it a real bloke's name. Let's call him Mike Tyson.”

“Mr. Lips?” Mrs. Whelan tried again, now from the hallway.

Just then Bugs and Shari appeared from the second bedroom. They were dressed, but disheveled. “We'll be off now Ricky,” Bugs said.

“Oh look,” Shari went to pet the animal. “A little pussy.”

“That's what I said when I saw you,” Ricky gave her one of his big wet kisses on the mouth.

“What's its name?” she asked.

King answered, “Mike Tyson.”

Bugs wondered, “Shouldn't it be something English? Like . . . Noel Gallagher?”

Ricky shook his head. “Remember me parrot that died? That was his name.”

“Oh, sorry to hear about your loss,” Bugs bowed his head.

“You want real English?” King suggested, “How about Freddie Mercury? You and him always got along good.”

Ricky glared at his old friend. “Freddie was a poofter.”

“Mr. Lips?” Mrs. Whelan was very anxious to get his attention.

Tyne piped up. “Then why not Queen?”

Ricky couldn't believe she'd said that. “‘Cause the cat's a bloke and the Queen's a bird.”

“I've got it,” Neville volunteered. “Real English. William the Shakespeare.”

“I like it,” Ricky agreed, and put his hand on the animal's head. “I dub thee, Bill the Shakespeare.”

“Mr. Lips?” Mrs. Whelan spoke loud and forcefully. “Mr. Lips, I cannot and will not work here.”

He turned and, for the first time, realized she was halfway out the door. “Why?”

“That.” She pointed to the animal.

“Bill?” He held it up. “You allergic to cats, or something?”

“That . . .” she turned and started out the door . . . “is not a cat. It's an ocelot.”

I
t was 6:30 that night when everyone started gathering in front of the residents' entrance.

Pierre Belasco, who'd been in the building since three-something in the morning, stepped out of his office.

Three maids, all in saris, were waiting at the curb with bouquets of flowers. Kajjili was standing off to the side with a bowl of rose petals.