Trump Tower Read Free

keep telling him that if he put a camera on his computer then we could have Skype sex . . . but he can’t figure out his computer.” She shrugged, “Anyway, Italian men are cool about these things. He has his wife, and he has at least one mistress that I know of . . . she’s in Venice . . . and come to think of it there might be another somewhere else. I suppose she’s in Rome. After all, he’s a very good-looking man.” She thought for a moment, then decided, “But you’re right, if His Excellency ever finds out . . . Arabs, you know, are born possessive. Especially Kuwaitis. It must have something to do with the water they drink. All that seawater after they take out the salt. He told me once that when he had this mistress in Brazil . . . she was a stewardess he picked up on a flight to somewhere, or from somewhere, I don’t know . . . but he started showing up there regularly, which is how he found out that she was also sleeping with some soccer player. Let’s face it, Belasco, every Brazilian girl I know is always sleeping with soccer players. Anyway, he found out and had the poor guy beat up by his bodyguards.” She made a face. “Kuwaiti princes aren’t as cool as Italian counts. In Kuwait they don’t do non c’è problema . . . that’s what the Duke says all the time, non c’è problema . . . no problem. In Kuwait they do, Imma gonna breaka you legs .” She giggled, “Did that sound more Italian than Kuwaiti?”
    Belasco smiled politely, then headed to the door. “These little peccadilloes with Mr. Seasons . . . they really must stop.”
    â€œPeccadilloes? Is that Swiss for fucking?” She looked at him and grinned shyly, like a child caught saying a dirty word. “Whoops.” Then she nodded several times, “I suppose I do need to call Tommy and tell him it’s over.” She stopped, nodded again, and added in a deep voice, “ Imma gonna breaka you legs .”
    â€œYou suppose wisely,” he agreed.
    â€œThank you, Belasco.” She gave him a little wave goodbye. “Can you believe he swallowed the key?”
    He headed for the door.
    â€œOh, Belasco?” She called after him. “I thought it was George, but even if it wasn’t him, or poor Tony . . . maybe we should put Tommy on the list?”
    â€œIf that’s what you want.”
    â€œBecause you’re right . . . if His Excellency ever finds out . . .”
    â€œI will notify security and Mr. Seasons won’t be back to see you . . . unless you change your mind.” He turned again to leave.
    â€œOh . . . Belasco?”
    He stopped and looked at her again. “Miss Benson?”
    She paused, then said quietly, “If I am ever found dead . . . you know, murdered in my bed . . . beaten up and bloodied or stabbed or shot or strangled or all of those things . . . if someone kills me, it won’t be Il Conte .”
    B ACK IN his own office, Belasco added Tommy Seasons to the long list of people who, for whatever reason, were banned from coming into the Tower.
    Their names and faces were circulated to everyone on the security staff. Tommy would be easy for them to recognize because his face was on billboards and in all the subway stations. There was no worry about preventing him, or anyone on the list, from coming up in the elevator because no one could get into an elevator without first being cleared and, even then, invited guests were always escorted upstairs. The idea was to prevent these people from hanging out in the atrium or in the immediate vicinity of the building and, perhaps, causing an incident there.
    â€œWe do not need another Chapman,” Trump himself once warned his chief of security, referring to the man who waited for John Lennon on the sidewalk outside his apartment at the Dakota and murdered him.
    So from now on, if Tommy Seasons was spotted anywhere near Trump Tower, a “Chapman