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But at Trump Tower, nothing is quite what it seems to be.
Move in and meet your neighbors:
The "garbage" traders who are willing to do business with South American money brokers; the power couple, a TV anchor and her broker husband, for whom sex is sometimes an elaborate game; the Hollywood agent who is plotting to own the world; the British rock star under house arrest who sends out for good times, sex, and rock n' roll; the model with one of the most famous faces in the world who just happens to be kept by two men who don't know of each others existence; the Broadway star who is banned from the building; one of the richest men in the world who believes his innocent daughter is still innocent; the business owner who is being forced out by someone who wants her business; the mysterious and venomous woman who wants to build an indoor tropical rainforest; the assistant to the Director of Operations who is willing to do anything to get the General Manager's job; and Pierre Belasco, the General Manager and ringmaster of Trump Tower whose job is "ultimate discretion."
In the great tradition of Arthur Hailey, Harold Robbins, Dynasty, and Dallas comes Jeffrey Robinson's Trump Tower, where everyone's life is a drama.
Leave your modesty downstairs. Trump Tower is the sexiest novel of the decade.
she walked. Arriving in the newsroom, she went to her desk and signed the contracts. “What’s that?” her editor, Howie, wanted to know. “I’m writing a book,” she said. “Good for you,” he said. “I hope you have the time.” “Why wouldn’t I have the time?” “You didn’t hear this from me,” he whispered. “They may or may not want you to know yet. And if you are supposed to know, they’ll want to tell you themselves upstairs. But . . . substitute anchor at Nightly? You made the short list.” 5 Zeke
out to the curb. Then Belasco motioned to Gilbert, the temporary concierge, to come and hold the other doors open when the Advanis arrived. Now, three black four-door Mercedes E-Class sedans pulled up quickly, followed by a black Mercedes SUV. Immediately, two bodyguards jumped out of the first sedan. The chauffeur of the second jumped out equally as fast and went to open the rear door. Mr. Advani’s personal assistant, a sickly young man named Chakor, rushed out of the third car, followed
even recent facts about him. And though there were tens of thousands of Google hits with his name, nothing showed up anywhere—except the NBC archives—that satisfied the search terms, “L. Arthur Farmer” and “Trump Tower.” Then she stumbled across something that struck her as downright bizarre. It was a reference to a hearing that had apparently taken place in the Michigan Senate in 1974 that was entitled, “The Influence of Finfolkmen over the In-State Business Affairs of L. Arthur Farmer.” The
effectively taken control of all access to Farmer.” The phone rang. Finfolkmen? It rang again. “Hello?” Tina said, “Hey . . . meet you downstairs in half an hour?” Alicia saw that it was already 12:15. “Oh my God . . . I didn’t know it was this late. I’ll be there.” Hanging up, she bookmarked all the pages she wanted to save, shut down her laptop, and went to get ready, still asking herself, L. Arthur Farmer, where are you? 18 Tina told the driver, “T’ien,” and he asked, just to be sure,
up. Carson made a face, “Should have turned your phone off,” then rang McKeever back. “We’ll take it at thirty-eight.” “I’ll try. First Ace?” “No.” He thought quickly. “Put it through . . . company’s called Pennin Inc. It’s Hong Kong.” “Pen and . . . ink?” “Our little joke,” he said. “Pennin.” He spelled it. “Pennin Inc. Hong Kong Holdings.” “Call you back.” Off the phone with McKeever, Carson took a fast look at the Pennin account, which was held at HSBC in Hong Kong, to make certain