Trump Tower by Jeffrey Robinson Page A

that he could arrange fabulous day trips with chauffeured limousines, helicopter rides, a day on a private yacht, several romantic meals, a private jet to Paris and Concorde tickets back to the States.
    On Sunday morning, Belasco told room service that he wanted to be notified as soon as the Sinatras ordered breakfast. He then went to speak to Moore and Trump about the incident. Both men admitted it might have been the most embarrassing night of their lives.
    He’d just finished with them when a room service order was placed for the Sinatra suite. Belasco hurried down to the florist, picked up a bouquet of thirty-six long-stemmed red roses and personally wheeled the breakfast cart into the suite.
    â€œThose for me?” Sinatra said, wearing a silk dressing gown. “I don’t usually get roses from guys.”
    Belasco smiled. “Do you mind if I give them to Madame, instead?”
    â€œGood idea, pal.” Sinatra said, “Maybe she’ll talk to you.” He walked into thehallway and shouted toward one of the suite’s two bedrooms, “How about breakfast and roses?”
    The door was shut and there was no answer.
    â€œI’ll put them in a vase,” Belasco said, then asked, “Dining room? Living room? Terrace?”
    While Belasco filled a vase with water and carefully placed the roses in it, Sinatra walked out onto the big terrace, which overlooked the harbor. “Weather’s great. Let’s eat out here.”
    â€œHave a seat, I’ll be right there.”
    He finished with the flowers, placed the vase in the living room with a note to Mrs. Sinatra that simply said, “We honor your presence—Pierre Belasco,” and brought a tray out to the terrace.
    â€œGrab a cup yourself,” Sinatra said. “You’re probably the only guy in town who’s still talking to me.”
    Belasco laid out Sinatra’s breakfast on a table next to his chair—the hotel specialized in fresh-baked mini- croissants and mini- pains au chocolate— poured coffee for him, and handed him a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
    â€œWhere’s your coffee?” he said. “Come on, sit down.”
    Belasco poured a cup for himself and sat down.
    â€œEver been over there?” Sinatra pointed to the palace. “I used to stay there when Grace was alive. Ever meet her?”
    â€œI have been to the palace, yes . . . but unfortunately, I did not know the princess.”
    â€œUnfortunately is right. She was one classy dame, let me tell you. When we did that picture together, High Society , she was already engaged to Ray. We knew that after we finished, she was going off to get married, so we gave her an early wedding present. Guess what it was?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œA roulette wheel.” Sinatra laughed. “What else? And in that picture, you know she’s supposed to be engaged to get married, so she’s wearing a big ring. That’s actually the ring Ray gave her. It’s real. No paste on her finger. Yeah,” he said, taking his orange juice, “one classy dame.”
    â€œShe certainly is missed,” Belasco said. “I saw that as soon as I arrived here.”
    â€œWhat’s it now . . . fourteen, fifteen years? Something like that.” He finished his juice. “Speaking of rings . . . is Van Cleef and Arpels open today?”
    â€œSunday? I’m afraid not.”
    â€œToo bad. Especially because she’ll know those roses are from you, not me.”
    Belasco understood what Sinatra was thinking. “If you’d like, I might be able to ring someone and make arrangements, not at the store, but for a visit here.”
    â€œYeah,” Sinatra nodded several times. “Good. Tell them big. I want a whole selection. Diamonds. You can do that?”
    â€œI’m sure I can,” Belasco said.
    â€œGood . . . good.” He took a croissant and ate it whole, followed it with