Trump and Burge have a sitdown and Burge doesn't like how things are going. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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...as Canada Bill Jones said, "It's immoral to let a sucker keep his money." Matt Damon (Mike) Rounders
Trump called me again last night. We agreed to meet up for an early breakfast at the diner on the southwest corner of Kingsbridge Road and Jerome Avenue.
When I got there at six in the morning he was sitting in a booth sipping coffee and ogling one of the waitresses.
So I sat down and asked him how he was feeling, because he had told me a little bit about what happened the day before in Prospect Park.
I didn't ask him what he was doing in Prospect Park and he didn't volunteer anything either.
Trump actually had a written list of questions for me. He wanted to know what newspaper I work for. He also wanted to know when the story was being published and whether or not he could read it over before it's published. He repeated the question that he had asked me over the telephone twice already which was about the package I asked him to put on Hoffman's front door knob.
I had expected all these questions at this point. So I made up another story. I swore the shithead to secrecy and told him that the truth was that I am a special Federal investigator working on a secret case involving corruption in the taxi business in New York City. I apologized for misleading him and told him that he must understand that I am taking a big risk letting him know this, but that I had to trust him now (not).
I told him that Hoffman is a hostile witness and that by putting the package on his front door knob we were demonstrating our reach, to disabuse him of any ideas beyond total cooperation that he might have.
Trump demanded money, a thousand dollars, and he wanted the money tomorrow.
I told him that he's skating on thin ice, that he doesn't know what we know and that he should accept the situation as it is.
He seemed to accept this or I should say he acted as though he accepted it but I don't trust him. The man has a serpentine type of intelligence that is deceptive.He can be dangerous. Potentially very dangerous. Trump ordered and ate a stack of pancakes with bacon which he topped with plenty of maple syrup. He had three refills on his coffee, he downed a large fresh orange juice, went to the can, came back, ordered another cup of coffee and then he got up and left me with the bill. I took note that he crossed Jerome Avenue and started walking eastward. I happen to know that he lives west of where we met. Sneaky bastard.
...
The next early morning Trump picked up Hoffman this time with a different foster child (who got a housefly) Hoffman asked Trump why he had not showed up the last several days and he pointed to his bandage over his right eye.
"I slipped on a banana peel would you believe that?"
Hoffman seemed to be satisfied with this answer.
Then Trump said to him that he had a confession to make. He told Hoffman pretty much what I told him about the secret investigation and how Hoffman was a witness, and that a special Federal investigator had asked him to place that East Harlem supermarket flyer on his front door, and asked him also to meet up with Hoffman. (Trump didn't take note that Hoffman's charge was streetsmart and paying close attention to his words. He was making the same kind of error in judgement around this woman child that Hoffman had made earlier when he forgot that cabbies have ears.)
Hoffman of course was flabbergasted. But he perked up on the words "Special Federal Investigator" and quickly calculated that such a thing could be going on but not about the taxi industry. Hailing cabs, riding to wherever it was he was going and paying his fare were the only connections Hoffman had with taxis. It had to be about something else. And he told this to Trump and therefore also to Melanie Smith, his foster child who would only speak when spoken to.
As he was leaving the taxi Hoffman told Trump that he would like to continue being his steady ride in the mornings and that he appreciated the heads up. So did Melanie, though she played her part as dumb mute fixture.
As an Epstein girl she understood that she was fully dispensable and that she was seeing, hearing and doing things in the Epstein mansion that made her a candidate to be disappeared. The one flaw in her thinking was her hopes of becoming Jeffrey's "Bottom Bitch," something akin to being his partner.
Shit, Now Hoffman knows he's under the microscope and Epstein's been told about it. Still and all neither one can make a move or have a conversation that I'm not privy to. I doubt they understand that. And it might be to my advantage that they believe they're under some federal investigation. They might believe that they are protected by laws and that we have procedures.
You might be curious as to why a Democratic Party operative who lives on the edge of Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District gets up in the morning while it's still dark outside and takes a taxi to the Upper East Side drops a teenage foster child off at Jeffrey Epstein's mansion.
Supposedly Epstein has hired tutors to give these unfortunate, mistreated wayward High School girls another chance at life. My flies on the wall have a different tale to tell. None of this is going upstairs at Opticon, by the way. I'm strictly freelancing here.
Hoffman heads up to East 89th Street. Ah, love, or maybe lust.
Hoffman's having an affair with a Wall Street trader who plays the Hang Seng Market which is on the other side of the world as you know. She's got her Bloomberg terminal set up in her home, a townhouse on East 89th Street.
This guy is quite a risk taker. She must be something else.
It must be lust, and I don't think it would be appropriate to go into the detail.
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