Trump Tower (54 page)

“His name is Billy.”

“Come on . . . come on . . . it's okay . . .”

And very slowly, the ocelot came into her arms.

“It's okay . . . it's all right . . .” Tina lifted it up gently. “She's scared and much too thin . . . don't you ever feed her?”

“Billy's a bloke.”

“Okay,” she kept rubbing its neck, “don't you ever feed him?”

“Nah . . . I hate him. I'm going to drown him. Or cut him up and have him stuffed and made into a cushion.”

“Stop it.” She looked closely at Billy. “What is he?”

“Someone said he's an ocelot. I think of him as a cat.”

“You can't keep him in an apartment,” she said. “You've got to call a zoo or something. Ricky, this animal is going to die here.”

“I didn't want him, someone brought him, and now I'm stuck with him.”

“Have you got any milk?”

“He eats barbecued chicken. Or at least that's what he found in the fridge. And I think he found some pizza the other night.”

“This is awful,” she said. “I'll go out now and buy him some milk and . . . I don't know, maybe some cat food. Then when those assholes in your living room wake up, they have to take him to a zoo or an animal rescue shelter.”

“There's a zoo in Central Park.”

“Ricky, I'm serious.” She stroked the animal again. “If you don't do it today, I'm going to turn you in to the animal welfare people.”

“No reason to do that, luv.”

“I'll get the food. You take him to the zoo. And you better do it.”

“All right, luv . . . I promise.”

She carefully put the ocelot down on the bed and, immediately, he raced under it to hide.

THURSDAY

G
abriella Battelli phoned Pierre Belasco, and when he said to her, “I need you to convince your mother to keep the business open,” she agreed. “My father would be heartbroken if she closed it.”

“Tell me about your father's cousin.”

“There's not much to tell. My grandfather didn't want him in the business and paid him to stay away. Every now and then Johnny would get in touch with my father and demand money. My father would remind him that he'd signed an agreement to stay away from the business, but Johnny would say it's not worth the paper it's printed on, and they'd fight until my father would send him more money.”

“How did Johnny get along with your mother?”

She hesitated, then said quietly, “He was the one who told her . . . when my father died . . . he called her and told her . . .” She stopped.

“Told her what?”

“I probably shouldn't be talking to you about this . . . if my mother ever found out . . .”

“Gabriella . . . you're right that we shouldn't be talking. But I have to go behind her back because she doesn't want to deal with this. She wants to run away from it.”

She blurted out, “That my father had a girlfriend.”

Belasco waited a few seconds before he asked, “Why would he do that? Why would he deliberately want to hurt your mother? Especially right after your dad passed away.”

“My dad wrote a letter,” she went on, “to my mother and me. He said if anything ever happened to him, we were to make sure that Johnny was kept away from the business.”

“Please don't mention this call to your mother. She's not in the mood to understand just yet. The time will come when we can tell her. And we should tell her. But not yet.”

“I understand.”

“Convince her to keep the business.”

“I'll try,” she said, then added, “She's not acting like herself.”

“Don't give up on her.”

“I won't . . . if you won't,” Gabriella said, “but honestly, I don't hold out much hope.”

N
OW HE DIALED
the 855 number Forbes had given him and left a message. “It's Pierre Belasco. If you would be kind enough to call me, please, I'm in the office. Thank you.”

When Forbes didn't return the call within half an hour, he went upstairs to Scarpe Pietrasanta.

The door was locked.

He knocked on it but nothing happened.

Then he took his phone and rang Carlos Vela's number.

“
Hola
,” the man answered in Spanish.

“Carlos, it's Pierre Belasco. Where are you?”

“I am home, Señor.”

That surprised him. “I need you to come into Trump Tower.”

“I was there this morning, Señor, but the security man downstairs at the elevators confiscated my pass. He wouldn't let me upstairs.”

“You should have called me.”

“I called Mrs. Battelli. She said not to worry, that I did not any longer have to come in. She said the office was closed.”

“Can you come to my office this morning?”

“Señor . . . if I come in . . . you know how Mr. Riordan said . . .”

“Please come in,” he said. “I will take care of Mr. Riordan.”

An hour later when Vela showed up, Belasco said, “Give me your key, please.”

Vela confessed, “I don't have a key. The security man downstairs took it with my pass.”

“All right,” Belasco shook his head in frustration. “Come with me.”

The two of them went to the twenty-fourth floor and walked straight into Bill Riordan's office.

“His pass and the key to the door at Scarpe Pietrasanta,” Belasco demanded.

Riordan answered, “Mr. Vela's pass has been destroyed. Normally, Mrs. Battelli would have to request another one. But that won't happen now, either. As for the key, that is no longer operative.”

Belasco managed to keep his anger in tow. “Get me a pass for him and a door key.”

“I can't,” he said. “I spoke with Mrs. Battelli early this morning, and she informed me that the business is closed. Anyway, she is delinquent with the rent and charges. So, acting entirely within my job description, all of the passes that had been issued to her have been rendered void, and the locks on her
front door have been changed. If you want to go in there, seeing as how the business is defunct and in default, you will have to speak with Mrs. Mendelsohn. It's out of my hands.”

Belasco turned to Vela, said, “Come with me,” and went to Carole Ann Mendelsohn's office.

“I need access to the Scarpe Pietrasanta premises,” he said. “And I need a pass authorized for Mr. Vela here. According to Bill Riordan, neither is possible without you signing off on it.”

She gave him an odd look. “You're in charge of Trump Tower, you run the place, you can authorize anyone you want to have a pass. As for access to the premises, ditto.”

“Apparently the company is in default.”

“That has nothing to do with me. Go see accounting.”

“But Bill Riordan said . . .”

“But Bill Riordan doesn't seem to know what he's talking about.”

“Thank you.”

Belasco took Vela back to the staff offices, this time to Harriet's desk, where he told her, “I need a building pass for Mr. Vela.”

She made a face. “I have been ordered, expressly, not to do that.”

“By?”

She pointed to Riordan's office.

“He doesn't get to decide. I do. So please cut a pass for him. Also, do you have keys for the Scarpe Pietrasanta office?”

She pointed again to Riordan's office.

“No problem,” he said. “Send Mr. Vela's pass down to my office. And if he interferes, tell him I said . . .” He stopped, then decided, “Never mind. I'll tell him myself.”

Leaving Vela at Harriet's desk, Belasco went into Riordan's office. “If you interfere, ever again, with something I am trying to do, or something I want, or something I have asked someone else to do, I will personally take it up with the boss and recommend that you be summarily fired.”

Riordan didn't seem in the least bothered by that. “Take your best shot, pal.”

“I will,” Belasco said, “and it will be good enough.”

Walking away, he motioned to Vela to follow him. Once they were outside the office, Belasco phoned Big Sam, the building engineer in charge of all maintenance, and said he was on his way down to his office.

When he stepped into the long, windowless room, deep in the bowels of Trump Tower, not far from the boiler plant—it was filled with tools and generator parts and the walls were covered with blueprints and engineering designs—Big Sam was shocked to see Carlos Vela.

“What's he doing here? He's on the Chapman.”

“No, he's not,” Belasco said. “He works upstairs at Scarpe Pietrasanta on the nineteenth floor.”

Big Sam looked at Vela and nodded. “How you doing, Carlos?”

Vela nodded back shyly. “Okay, Señor.”

“I need someone to open the door and change the locks and give me three sets of keys. No one else is to have them.”

“But Bill Riordan said . . .”

“But you don't work for Bill Riordan.”

“No problem, boss.” Big Sam held up his hands to show him he was cool with that. “I'll send someone up right now.”

Belasco turned to Vela. “Go upstairs with whoever changes the locks, take all three sets of keys, and hold onto them. I will collect them from you later. Then go inside, lock the door, and go back to work. Got that?”

“Okay, Señor,” he said to Belasco but looked at Big Sam.

“It's all right, Carlos,” Big Sam reassured him. “Come on, you and I will find somebody and get that locked changed. Like old times, yes?”

W
HEN HE
got back to his own office, Belasco found a voice mail from Rebecca Battelli. He dialed her number, apologized for missing her call, then asked, “How are you?”

“It gets better and better,” she said. “Your office called to say that they're putting the company into default.”

“Who phoned you?”

“Mr. Riordan. He said the locks have been changed . . .”

“Well, here's the good news. Your company is not being put into default. Mr. Riordan has no authority to do anything of the kind. I'm having new locks put on the door and no one else will have the keys except you and Carlos and me.”

“Why Carlos?”

“Because he's upstairs now cleaning up the office.”

“I told him not to come in.”

“That's when you thought we were putting you in default. I called him and asked him to come back.”

There was a long pause. “This morning I arranged for a cleanup crew to get everything out of there. I will find some money, and you will be paid for back rent and however much the rent will be . . . you know, for those months during which we have to give you notice.”

“Don't worry about that. We can work it out . . .”

“Pierre . . . I'm not sure I want to work it out.”

He thought fast. “I'm afraid that someone from the company will have to . . . you know, authorize access for the cleanup crew.”

“You have my permission to be that person.”

He lied, “There are also some . . . there are some papers that need to be signed. Authorizations. Perhaps if your daughter were here?”

“Yes. Fine. I'll send Gabriella.” She paused, and then said, “Thank you for what you've been trying to do. Goodbye.” And she hung up.

He quickly went to his phone and checked the day's incoming caller IDs until he found Gabriella's number.

“I just got off the phone with your mother.”

“I'm sorry that I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet.”

“Plan B. She wants to clear out the office. I said we needed authorization. She said she'll send you. When you speak to her, tell her that you'll handle everything. When can you come in?”