Trump Tower (55 page)

“I have no classes tomorrow.”

“Good. Pick a time.”

“Noon?”

“Come to the residents' lobby on Fifty-Sixth Street. That's where my office is . . .”

“Hold on . . . my mother's on the other line . . . hold on . . .” She clicked off.

Belasco waited.

It was several minutes before Gabriella came back. “Sorry about that. She's not being rational. I've never seen her like this. She keeps saying she can't cope anymore. I tried to talk to her, but she didn't want to know. She said, go see Mr. Belasco and sign whatever needs to be signed.”

He smiled. “See you tomorrow at noon.”

Hanging up with her, he tried the 855 number for Forbes again and left another message.

This time Forbes phoned back.

“What's up?”

“The guys who broke into Scarpe Pietrasanta. I know what they were looking for.”

T
ina walked into the apartment as if nothing had happened.

“Luisa,” she called for her housekeeper.

David demanded, “Where the hell were you last night?”

“Out,” she responded. “Luisa?”

He wanted to know, “Out where?”

“What difference does it make?”

Luisa arrived. “Yes, ma'am, good morning.”

Tina smiled at her. “Would you bring me coffee and one buttered toast, please? I'll be upstairs.”

David waited for Luisa to say, “Yes, ma'am,” and hurry off.

“What difference does it make? I'm your husband, and I have every right in the world to know where my wife is sleeping, that's what difference it makes.”

She pulled her arm out of his grip. “If you must know, I was screwing a wild animal trainer.”

He moved in front of her to stop her walking away. “Dammit, where were you?”

She lied, “At Cyndi's.”

“And if I pick up the phone right now and call Cyndi, she's going to verify that?”

“Be my guest.”

He stared at her, then stepped out of her way.

Tina went upstairs and David went into the office.

He had to do something, but he didn't know what to do. There was no way he could call the police because they'd start asking a lot of questions about the Colombians. Nor could he tell them about how the Rojas brothers had sold him a cargo of illegal crude. The only thing he could think of was phoning his old buddy in Houston, Oscar Mack Moore.

“Law offices,” the operator answered.

“Mack around yet this morning? It's David Cove in New York.”

“Putting you through,” she said.

Right away, Moore came on the line. “Tell me you're in town and I'm leaving on the next freight train out.”

“Y'all can stay put,” David said. “But I got me a little problem and I need some free advice.”

“Free? Hardly. What's happening?”

David told him everything.

When he was done, Moore said, “I always knew you were one dumb son of a bitch, but I never knew how dumb.”

“Yeah, rub it in.”

“You want me to tell you it's gonna be all right? It ain't. You've got jeopardy written all over your sorry ass.”

“I want my money back from the Rojas brothers, fast, so I can pay the fuckers in Colombia before they find out their money is gone.”

“Now you know why, when you do business with criminals and they screw you, there's nobody you can complain to.” He barked, “Fucking idiot,” then asked, “How'd you leave it with the Rojas boys?”

“I phoned Liberio and made him understand . . . no doubts . . . that if I didn't get my money back I'd have him killed.”

“Key-rist . . . David . . . didn't your mama ever tell you to think before opening your mouth? You got yourself a real win-win situation going on. Either you have him killed, which means you never get your money. Or he has you killed first, which means you never get your money. Any other bright ideas?”

“Can we sue him in Mexico?”

“Sure. But you're asking the wrong question. You should be asking, if we sue him in Mexico can we win? The answer to that is, no way, José. If the Rojas boys don't already own all the judges down there, they'll buy a dozen first thing in the morning. And then, to hedge their bet, they'll kill you.”

David leaned way back in his chair and shut his eyes. “You got any better ideas?”

“Uncle RD might have some influence. But I never supposed the Rojas boys were very charitable. I don't see them giving you your money back just because ol' RD says pretty please.”

“How about a private detective to hunt down Zhadanov?”

“Hold on.” David could hear Mack moving some papers on his desk, then typing on his keyboard. Then he came back on the line to say, “Try this guy. Name is Renny Regis. Ex-FBI. Knows his way around the playground.”

Mack gave David a number in Austin, Texas.

“Lot of good this is going to do me in New York City.”

“You asked if I knew someone. Frankly, from what you're telling me, even Dick Tracy in New York City isn't going to do much good.”

“You saying I'm fucked?”

“Got that right.”

David took a deep breath. “Let me tell you, Mack, there are three types of friends in the world. One who tells you the glass is half-full. One who tells you the glass is half-empty. And then there's you, who says the fucking glass ain't even there no more.”

“Got that wrong, pal. There are people who will tell you what you want to hear. And there are people who tell you the truth, no matter what. Only one of them is your friend. You decide for yourself which is which.”

With that, Moore hung up.

David heard the phone go dead. “Fuck you, too.”

Looking up at the trading screens, he spotted a bunch of small deals sitting there waiting to be had. Aluminum in Indonesia. Cement in Papua New Guinea. Newsprint in Gulfport. Potatoes, of all things, in Angola. He knew he could make some money getting in and out fast, but with a big hole blown in his finances, he had enough sense not to start trading. If he got in the game without being able to cover his downside, and then somehow got caught short, he'd be dead as a trader. Best-case scenario was that no one would ever
trade with him again. Worst-case scenario was that the cops would show up and arrest him for fraud.

“Win-win my ass,” he said, and tried to think of some way to come up with fast money.

He phoned Uncle RD, but couldn't get through. He left a voice mail, but Uncle RD didn't phone back.

Then he called Carson.

Someone in his office said, “He's out of the country.”

“When will he be back?”

That person answered, “Not this week.”

David wondered for a moment if he should e-mail Carson and try to set up a phone call. But he knew that was a nonstarter. When you're trying to borrow money, you can't do it in an e-mail or over the phone. He needed to sit down with Carson and discuss his predicament face to face.

Next he took a deep breath and called Wayne Grannum at Caymans Comtrad.

“I'm looking to extend my line of credit . . . short term . . . a couple of months. What kind of rate can I get?”

Grannum shook his head. “David . . . looking at the hole you're in with us right now . . .”

“Short term,” he reiterated. “How long have I been with the bank?”

“I hear what you're saying, David . . .”

“People who say that never do. Just . . . yes or no.”

“Sorry, David . . . no.”

Now he started calling around to other banks where he had relationships. He phoned JP Morgan Chase, Citi, ING, Deutsche Bank and Credit Suisse. His contacts there were more receptive than Grannum, but when he said he was looking for upward of fifty million, each of them said he'd have to show that much in assets stashed away somewhere else.

Each of them said, “If the assets are there, no problem, we'd be happy to do business with you.”

Except it was a problem because they'd inevitably check with Caymans Comtrad and see that his ship was taking on water. Instead of manning the buckets, they'd do what banks typically do—head for the lifeboats and call in his outstanding debts.

Then he wondered, if instead of getting fifty from one bank, what would happen if he tried to get ten on his signature from five of them? Or, he might even be able to double-talk ten of them into five each.

One of the office lines rang.

Caller ID said, “Private Number.”

David hoped it was RD.

Instead, when he answered it, a man said, “David, long time no hear.”

“Who's that?” he asked.

“Pepe Forero.”

Oh, fuck me!
David took a deep breath. “Pepe, how are you?”

“How am I? To tell the truth, I'm a worried man.”

“What are you worried about?”

“When I send someone a lot of money and that person doesn't let me know how things are going, I worry.”

“It's only been a few days. Y'all still in Curaçao?”

“No,” he answered. “Tell me what's happening.”

Not sure what Don Pepe already knew, David tried, “Have y'all spoken to our mutual friend, Mr. Zhadanov?”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Any idea where he is?”

Shit
, David thought. “No. You?”

“And our money?”

Fuck me, here it comes
. “What about your money?”

“Playing coy does not suit you, my friend. Where is our money?”

He didn't want to be caught in a lie but, at the same time, he didn't want to tell Don Pepe the truth. “I put a call into our mutual friend first thing this morning . . .”

“That's not what I asked.”

“When I speak to Zhadanov, I'll let you know immediately . . .”

“That's not the way deals work, as I understand it.”

“As you understand it?”

“As I understand it, my money was transferred into an account you call Curaçao Trading One at Caymans Comtrad Bank. Where is it now?”

“Hold on,” David said. “That's not quite right. He held the money in his client account, and I used my account . . . listen, y'all got to speak to Zhadanov.”

“No,” Don Pepe said calmly. “You don't seem to understand that the moment you used my money, then my money becomes your problem.”

David lashed out, “But I didn't use your money . . .”

“We don't need to hear from Mr. Zhadanov. Perhaps you do. But we already know who owes us this money.”

“Y'all can't look to me. As soon as I find that little fucker . . .”

“As I said,” Don Pepe went on in a quiet voice, “our money was entrusted to you. We want it back . . . from you.”

“I never saw a penny of your fucking money. Zhadanov . . .”

“Mr. Cove, what is it you don't understand?” Don Pepe's voice was now almost in a whisper. “This is not about Mr. Zhadanov. This is about you returning my money within twenty-four hours. Please don't miss the deadline, Mr. Cove, because if you do, this will turn, decidedly, ugly.”

“Y'all don't know who you're threatening,” David yelled.

“Yes, I do,” Don Pepe said. “Twenty-four hours . . . you all.”

And then he hung up.

“Fuck you.” David slammed down the phone. “Fuck you.” And for a long time he sat there cursing, “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

“Y
ou're the designated driver,” Ricky told his son. “Take off your shoe.”

“You can't do this,” Joey objected.

Ricky insisted, “But that's what we're going to do.”

“And what if they don't want him?”

“They're a zoo . . . of course they want him.”

Joey appealed to Ricky's friend Neville. “You tell him.”

“Not my place, mate.”

“Come on,” Ricky said, “take off your shoe.”

“What happens if I say no?”

A woman sleeping on a couch turned around and looked at them. “Can't a girl get some sleep without everyone arguing all the bleeding time?”

“Somebody has to do it,” Ricky said to Joey, ignoring the woman. “How else can I get out of here?”

Another woman came out of the third bedroom carrying Billy. “He's the cutest cat. He's been purring all afternoon.”

“Did he finish that cat food?” Ricky asked.