“I’d prefer shooting you with scopolamine and sodium pentothal, but the law frowns on such techniques.”
—President J. T. Tower to Jules Meredith
Jules Meredith’s cell phone rang a little after midnight. The caller was Brenda Tower.
“Well Jules,” Brenda said, “you aren’t going to believe this, but your wish has been granted. My brother is inviting you up to his New York penthouse.”
“You know I’ve been asking him for an interview for three years,” Jules said. “What made him change his mind?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” Brenda said. “Maybe your articles have so incensed the president that he finally feels compelled to set the record straight.”
Jules showed up at Tower’s penthouse a little after 1:00 A.M. The president let her in himself. Casually dressed in red sweatpants, a gray T-shirt and white Nike jogging shoes, he stood a good six four. Jules noted that his hair was colored—brownish-blond with a hint of red—but even so, it was, at age sixty-five, still full, piled thick and high on his head. His face was deeply but artificially tanned.
“At last, I meet the Troubler of my Peace,” he said, shaking her hand.
Jules’s attire was informal as well—pale bleached-out jeans, a navy blue silk blouse and ebony boots with three-inch heels. Her dense fluffed-out hair was, unlike Tower’s, black as obsidian.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. President. So this is your famous Tower of Power?”
“It’s one of them. I also built five other needle towers in this town. They all have penthouses just like this.”
“But you sold those penthouses to other billionaires.”
“I have to sell something to someone. I can’t own the world.”
“But still you try.”
“You ought to know,” Tower said. “You seem bent on scrutinizing and publicizing every business I’ve ever run since, at age five, I set up a lemonade stand. I’d like to know why.”
“May I speak plainly, Mr. President?”
“Please.”
“I was born to bring you down.”
”And to that end,” Tower asked, “you’ve made exposing my business dealings your life’s work?”
“Part of it.”
“A big part of it,” Tower responded. “You’ve unearthed stuff on me even I didn’t know about.”
“I’m a master of my craft.”
“So murdering Jim Tower in the press is now a ‘craft’?”
“Ah, Jimmy, no one can kill you.”
“Why not?”
“You reanimate yourself nightly in your coffin.”
“So now I’m a vampire.”
“A very dangerous one,” Jules said. “I don’t think J. T. Tower’ll die until he’s drawn, quartered, cremated … with a stake hammered through his ashes.”
“And you plan on driving the stake in yourself.”
“Oh, do I ever.”
Tower escorted Jules to the penthouse’s center. Turning in a circle, she studied his luxurious lair and the world beyond. The living room, dining area and the partitioned-off study were a single open space and made up half the apartment. The bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchen took up the rest. With the bedrooms’ and bathrooms’ sliding doors open, Jules saw that she had a 360-degree view of Manhattan.
Resisting the impulse to gawk, Jules forced herself to focus on the décor. She wanted to remember the furnishings for future reference. Their conversation might be off the record, but Tower’s penthouse wasn’t. One day—perhaps soon—she would want to write about it.
Given that the apartment occupied the entire top floor, it wasn’t as big as Jules had imagined—only forty-six feet long and forty-six feet wide—but then the building was a “needle tower.” One hundred stories high, it was ultra-thin for a skyscraper, its square base also forty-six feet on edge, and each apartment occupied a whole floor.
The walls were almost entirely unobstructed glass, so the view of the city was 360 degrees. To the south, the penthouse overlooked Lower Manhattan all the way to Staten Island. The northern view included Central Park, Harlem and the Bronx. To the east lay Long Island, and to the west, New Jersey, but it appeared from the penthouse’s point of view to be far more than two states. From her august vantage point, the entire country seemed to stretch before her in all directions.
Like a land of dreams.
The living room furniture was surprisingly simple—blond leather and blond wood. The large circular dining table was thick glass mounted on a chrome stand. The chairs were chrome with cream-colored leather seats and backs. The bar area and stools were also glass, chrome and leather.
Jules followed Tower into the living room. He motioned her toward an overstuffed leather chair, and he took the couch. A burnished oak end table sat between them. On it was a bottle of 100-year-old Rémy Martin Napoléon—his sister’s favorite.
“I can get you anything else you want,” Tower said, pouring a snifter.
“The Rémy is fine.”
He poured three inches of cognac into each of two snifters and handed the first to Jules. She waited for Tower to take a healthy drink. She did not intend to partake of any bottle Tower did not sample first.
“I thought you never drank,” Jules said.
“As a rule, I don’t,” Tower said, “but it seemed rude to suggest that you drink alone.”
“Then a toast?” Jules asked.
“To the bitter end,” he offered.
“That toast means you want us to do some serious drinking?”
“In vino veritas,” Tower said, “and I want to find out what you really want from me and why.”
“And you think liquor will loosen my tongue?” Jules asked.
“I’d prefer shooting you with scopolamine and sodium pentothal,” Tower said, “but the law frowns on such techniques.”
“You could always spirit me off to Guantanamo for physical coercion.”
“Don’t I wish.”
“So liquor will have to do?”
“Liquor will have to do.”
“And you know I won’t get drunk if you don’t join in.”
“Yes,” Tower said. “I expect you’ll find the opportunity to loosen my tongue with liquor irresistible, and I plan on drinking you under the table.”
“Let the games begin,” Jules said.
She watched him drink off a good two inches of brandy.
She then decided the liquor wasn’t drugged and took a drink herself.