Trump Tower by Jeffrey Robinson

and two years later, in 1991, he was hired by the Société des Bains de Mer in Monaco to be general manager for group hotels.
    Overseeing the Hôtel de Paris, the Hermitage and the splendid Old Beach, Belasco worked out of a mezzanine office off the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris.
    That’s where Frank Sinatra changed his life.
    During the five years that Belasco was there, Sinatra and his wife were frequent guests. There had been occasional incidents where Sinatra showed his displeasure with one thing or another—usually the paparazzi—but there’d hardly ever been anything like that Saturday night in 1996.
    The Sinatras were having dinner in the big, ornate Louis XV restaurant on the ground floor with Roger Moore and his wife. Donald Trump was in Monaco at the same time and he’d joined them.
    The bodyguards were at a nearby table.
    Over dinner, Barbara Sinatra said something—no one remembers exactly what it was, except that it seemed harmless at the time—but it set off Sinatra’s temper, and he started yelling and shouting at her.
    Moore tried to calm him down, which did no good, while Trump tried to pretend it wasn’t happening by turning his chair halfway around toward Roger’s wife and making small talk with her. “Is your dish good? How’s the wine? Isn’t the bread wonderful? What do you think we should have for dessert?”
    Sinatra’s tirade went on to everyone’s great embarrassment—especially Barbara Sinatra’s—until, just like that, he went back to eating. He looked at the others, “Eat, mangiate , it’s going to get cold.” But before the five of them got to dessert, Sinatra announced, “Let’s go shoot craps,” got up and left.
    The others decided not to stay at the table, so they followed him out to the lobby.
    The bodyguards dropped their knives and forks and rushed out too.
    Sinatra led the march to the front of the lobby where, in the right corner, there is a glass door.
    Hidden behind it is an elevator.
    The five of them crammed in and rode it down to a secret tunnel. The bodyguards arrived on the next elevator. But just as they all started making their way through the well-lit underground passageway, heading for the elevator at the far end that would bring them up inside the casino, a young couple in evening dress approached from the other direction.
    The man, holding hands with a pretty woman, stopped. “Excuse me, Mr. Sinatra, my new wife and I, we just got married and we’re on our honeymoon, and I want you to know how many romantic evenings we’ve had to your music. May I take a picture of you with my wife?” He pulled a little camera out of his pocket.
    He might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull.
    Sinatra suddenly got furious, leaned back, and smacked the young man in the head, then screamed, “How the fuck dare you put your hand in my face?”
    The young man fell to the ground.
    His bride yelled.
    The bodyguards rushed forward as Sinatra kicked the young man.
    One of the guards grabbed Sinatra and pulled him away. The others got him into the elevator and to the Hôtel de Paris lobby, at which time Sinatra calmly announced, “The evening is over. Good night,” and went up to his suite.
    The young man, who had one black eye and several sore ribs, reported the incident to the night manager. Acting strictly by the book, the night manager alerted the general manager and the general manager alerted Belasco.
    Immediately, Belasco arranged for a doctor to come to the hotel to treat the young man, then comped the honeymooning couple’s entire stay. He insisted that there would be no bill and invited them to enjoy all of SBM’s facilities as his guest.
    The bride and groom said the only thing they wanted to do was go home.
    Belasco moved them into a big suite on the top floor and sat with them for several hours, eventually persuading them to stay so