Trump Tower (66 page)

“Sir, from where you're standing, can you see West Road?”

“No.”

“All right, sir . . . I'm sending the police to you now . . . but I would appreciate it very much if you or your friend would please go to West Road and wait there so that the police can find you. And . . . sir . . . please stay on the line with me.”

“Ah . . . really . . . we don't want to get involved . . .”

“I understand sir. Don't worry about that. Everything will be fine. But please . . . stay on the line with me . . .”

The man said to his girlfriend, “Don't do that. Come here. Move away. What?” Then he said to Janet, “Oh my God . . . my friend took a close look . . . she says this person has been shot through the head.”

T
here was an empty stool at the end of the bar, so Carson went there, ordered a vodka and sat with his back against the bar to watch the room.

“It's nothing new,” Jackson was explaining, “the original Model T . . . you know, Henry Ford's car . . . it ran on ethanol.”

“I never knew that,” Alicia said, pretending to be interested.

“Then along came Prohibition.” Martin picked up the story, “and the government ruled that ethanol was like some kind of moonshine and had to be outlawed.”

“So that,” she said, “was the end of that until you two came along.”

“Not us two, exactly,” Jackson said.

Carson sipped half his drink and checked his watch. He didn't want to be late at the restaurant. So now he got off the stool, walked halfway through the bar, then turned and looked at Alicia.

Still listening to the two men, she looked up at him.

“Ah . . . excuse me . . .” Carson started toward the table. “Excuse me . . . I'm sorry to interrupt but . . . aren't you part of the del Rio family from Miami? Scaffolding, right?”

She smiled politely.

Jackson looked uneasily at Martin.

Carson extended his hand to her. “Do you have a sister named Cyndi?” He grinned at the two men sitting there. “I'm sorry to interrupt like this . . .” He looked again at Alicia. “Cyndi is your sister, right?”

She nodded, “That's right.”

“I'll be. Who'd a thunk it. I come all this way . . .” He smiled again at Martin and Jackson. “My name is Lewis A. Riley . . .”

Which happened to be the name of the last husband of the actress Dolores del Rio.

“. . . I can't believe I'm in Paris and you're in Paris.”

“Hi Lewis,” Alicia said. “This is Mr. Jackson and Mr. Martin. They're in ethanol.”

He shook Alicia's hand, then shook both theirs. And while Alicia was still smiling, the two men were not hiding their impatience.

“How is Cyndi? I haven't seen her in years. Is she still working in the business?” He looked at Jackson and Martin, “Her family is in scaffolding, and I'm in fasteners, that's how I met Cyndi, and that's how I sort of know Dolores here.”

“Well,” Martin nodded. “That's real interesting to know. I hope you have a pleasant stay in Paris.”

Carson pointed to Alicia, “The last time I saw you . . . what's the place in Miami with the stone crabs . . . down at the beach . . .”

“Joe's.”

“That's right. You remember? You were having dinner at Joe's . . .” He smiled at Martin and Jackson—“You like stone crabs?”—then sat down. “I'll only be a minute,” he nodded and continued talking. “You were having dinner . . .”

“Look, Mr. Lewis . . .” Jackson tried to cut in.

“It's Riley,” Carson said. “Lewis Riley.”

“Sorry that my friend got your name wrong,” Martin said, “but you see, we're here with the lady . . .”

“You in scaffolding too?” Carson asked. “No, that's right, you're in ethanol. Damn but it's a small world.” Carson signaled to the waiter, “I'll have another vodka. You having something?” He asked Alicia.

“I'm good,” she said.

“Look pal,” Jackson was getting annoyed, “we're here with the lady, so why don't you take your drink . . .”

“No need to be rude about it, friend.” Carson said. “It's just because we're sort of in the same business and I know Cyndi . . .”

“It's all right,” Alicia reassured Jackson and Martin. “He'll have one drink.” She asked Carson, “That's right, isn't it?”

“One drink,” he said. “Unless, of course, you'd like to have dinner with me.”

“The lady's taken,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, pal,” Martin added, “we were here first . . .”

“The lady's taken?” Alicia looked at them. “You were here first?”

Jackson tried to reel that back. “I meant that we were having this nice conversation, you know, just the three of us . . .”

“That's right,” Martin said. “We weren't claiming you . . . not like Mount Everest and planting a flag . . .”

“Planting your flag?” Alicia asked. “Have you always had a way with women?”

“No . . . not that . . . nothing like that at all,” Jackson assured her. He turned to Carson, “Sure, if you want to have that drink with us . . .”

“No problem.” He waved at the waiter. “Cancel that vodka please. I'll take a bill. In fact, give me the whole bill for the table.”

“That's okay,” Martin said.

“I insist.”

When the waiter brought the bill, Carson paid it.

“I'm sorry about interrupting. Anyway, I'm hungry. I've been flying all day.” He smiled at Alicia, “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

Martin waved his finger. “We keep telling you the lady is taken . . .”

Alicia wanted to know, “Shouldn't the lady decide?”

“Of course,” Martin said. “We were about to invite you out . . . there's a great place we know . . .”

“Thank you,” she said to them, then smiled at Carson. “I'd love to.”

She stood up. “It's been very nice talking to you.”

Neither Jackson nor Martin knew whether to argue or just sit there.

Alicia and Carson left the bar.

“I am so turned on,” Alicia whispered.

“Should we find a cloakroom?”

“Like at Elliott and Linda's wedding?”

“I'm up for it if you are.”

She pinched his arm. “Is up the right word? I hope so because I'm not wearing a single thing under this dress.”

“
Bonsoir madame, bonsoir monsieur
.” The
maître d'
greeted them. “This way monsieur . . . for you and for this exceptional woman.”

Alicia nodded thank you as he brought them to their table.

Carson slipped him fifty euros. “I told you she was a
nana
.”

They sat down and as the champagne was poured, Alicia slipped one shoe off and ran it up the leg of Carson's pants.

“I don't know how we're going to get through this meal,” he said.

She assured him, “As horny as I am for you right now, we're not.”

“Plan B.” He signaled for the
maître d'
. When he came to their table, Carson told him, “Here's what we're going to do. We'll both start with the snails.”

Alicia nodded.

“And then . . . fish for you?” He asked Alicia.

She nodded again.

“The
dorade
for the lady and the
maigret de canard
for me.”

“And how would you like your duck, sir?”

“Rare,” he said. “For dessert, we'll do the soufflé. Raspberry for the lady, strawberry for me.”

“Yes, of course sir.”

“But . . .” Carson looked at him. “It's take-away.”

He didn't understand. “Sir?”

“Send it up with room service.”

The
maître d'
almost smiled because he understood. “Certainly sir. The room number?”

Alicia answered, “The Imperial suite.”

“Yes, of course,
madame
. . . but it may take up to forty-five minutes.”

“Give it a full hour,” Carson said, “don't rush,” took the champagne bottle, stood up, pulled Alicia's chair away from the table and slipped the
maître d'
another fifty euros.

In the elevator, Carson said, “Really? The Imperial suite?”

“We may not get there in time.” She put her mouth full on his.

While the elevator doors were still closing, she was already tugging at his belt buckle.

“Wait till you see this place.” Getting off the elevator on the first floor, she fumbled with her key card, opened the door to the suite, dragged him by the belt along the private corridor, then opened the living room door.

By that point she'd pulled down his trousers.

“Jesus,” he looked around as he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. “We could live here.”

“This is what happens when you travel to Paris with Cyndi Benson.” Now she was taking off his jacket and undoing his tie and pulling off his shirt.

He let her undress him completely, and when he was standing there with nothing but the champagne bottle, she said, “Come with me.”

Leading him out the living room door, she brought him back into the private corridor. “Wait here.”

She shut the door, disappeared, then quickly reappeared on the little balcony that looked down on the corridor. “This is where the Cossacks used to stand guard for the Czar.”

He looked up at her there. “That's cool.”

“But the Cossacks never did this.” Very slowly, she slipped out of the little black dress.

She was wearing nothing but her red shoes.

“How do I climb up there?”

She pointed at him, “With that thing at full mast, I wouldn't suggest climbing anywhere except on top of me. Meet you halfway.”

She raced down the steps. He was waiting for her as she came out of the secret door. And they fell onto the floor together.

By the time room service arrived, they were wearing terry cloth robes, finishing the champagne and filling the bathtub.

“That was better than the time in Hong Kong,” he said.

“Poor bastards from Texas . . .”

They ate dinner in the tub.

“Did both of them really think . . .”

“If I'd have uncrossed my legs . . . I mean, one guy was already starting to breathe so heavy . . .”

After they emptied a second bottle of champagne . . . “Here's to ethanol,” Alicia toasted . . . they made love again, splashing water all over the floor.

“Poor bastards from Texas,” she repeated.

“Remember that time in Buenos Aires?”

Getting out, they sort of dried off, and Carson carried their soufflés into bed.

That's when Alicia saw a small red box on the pillow.

“Classy place,” Carson said, admiring the room.

“Marie Antoinette almost slept here,” Alicia said. “Most hotels turn down your bed and then leave chocolates on your pillow.”

“They did,” he pointed.

The moment she picked up the box, she realized what it was.

It was the box she'd seen Cyndi slip into her shopping bag at Dior.

“Why don't you open it?” Carson asked.

She did.

A little card read, “Thank you so much for bringing me to Paris. I love you. C.”

Inside was a red, diamond-studded Dior cell phone.

SUNDAY

T
he priest's voice rang out. And the congregation answered in unison. That's when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.