Trump Tower Read Free Page A

Alert” would be sent to everyone on staff.
    Belasco replaced the keys to Cyndi’s apartment in the armoire safe, locked it, then sat down and opened his laptop. Looking through his long list of bookmarked pages, he located the one he wanted—a company called B&L Loomis—and logged onto its site. He found what he was looking for—one set of blue mink-lined handcuffs—and ordered them.
    When he clicked the button, “Take me to checkout,” a small pop-up appeared. It read, “Perhaps you would also like . . .” and listed a few additional items.
    He agreed, “Good idea,” and checked the little box next to “An extra set of keys.”
2
    D avid Cove carefully lined up his putt. “Hundred bucks. Y’all okay with that?”
    Gavin agreed, “Hundred bucks.”
    â€œHundred bucks . . .” David gripped his Scott Cameron Tour Titleist triple black putter—“See, it’s signed Scott, not Scotty,” he pointed out to prove it was handmade—pulled the putter back ever so slowly, then moved the perfectly weighted club face right through the ball, sending it straight for the cup.
    Suddenly, Barry put the G-4 into a sweeping left bank.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” David bellowed.
    The ball swerved sharply, hit the storage unit, then bounced into the little galley up front where Wendy, the stewardess, was already starting to clean up for landing.
    â€œSumbitch!” He shouted to the cockpit. “Y’all did that on purpose.”
    â€œHundred bucks,” Gavin put out his hand.
    â€œSorry,” Barry called back from the cockpit.
    â€œI get a mulligan,” David insisted.
    â€œHundred bucks.” Gavin held out his hand.
    â€œOn our way down,” Barry said. “I need Gav up here ‘cause there ain’t no such thing as a mulligan landing.”
    â€œSumbitch,” David tossed the putter onto the cream leather couch, then bent down to pick up the little aluminum putting cup. “Sweetheart?” He asked Wendy, “Can y’all find that golf ball. Don’t step on it, now, and tumble. It’s down there at your feet, somewhere.”
    Gavin was still standing there, with his hand out.
    David glared. “What?”
    â€œHundred bucks, boss. Beat you fair and square.”
    â€œYou call that fair and square?” David reached into the front pocket of his golf slacks and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled off $100. “How much of this does Barry get for sucker-punching me?”
    Gavin handed the money to Wendy—“This is a tip from Mr. Cove”—then went into the cockpit and climbed into the right seat.
    â€œThank you,” Wendy said, found the golf ball, brought it back to David, hesitated, then showed him the $100. “This isn’t really mine.”
    â€œY’all buy yourself something nice.” He sat down, buckled up, checked his watch—it was after seven—grabbed his iPhone and went through some e-mails.
    â€œCopper wire,” he noticed. “We love copper wire.” Then he spotted, “Fasteners. Good.” He scrolled quickly through some others. “Airplane parts. Love airplane parts.”
    Reaching for the phone on the table in front of him, he got a connection and dialed his apartment.
    Inside the large duplex that took up the entire eastern half of the forty-fifth and forty-sixth floors, a phone rang once, then stopped.
    The apartment was dark.
    No one was home.
    T INA L EE C OVE’S cell phone picked up the forwarded call, rang once, then a second time.
    She opened her eyes.
    It rang a third time, and now she hurriedly leaned across the bed and grabbed it. “Where are you?”
    â€œLanding in twenty.”
    â€œHow’d you do?”
    â€œGood. Wait ‘till you hear what I won off Trump.”
    â€œOkay, I’m getting into the shower . . .”
    â€œSee you when I see you. I love you.”
    â€œI