The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “How’s Paul doing?” Rawson asked without looking up from his desk.

  “He’s rattled. Struggling.”

  Rawson nodded. “You’ve always handled things better than him.”

  “You’re too hard on Paul.” Alena waited a moment, then said, “I’d like you to invite Paul to attend the strategy meetings again.”

  “That will never happen,” Rawson said.

  “Paul is a part of this too. He’s going to have to give up his life, just like me. You can’t…”

  “My decision was not meant to leave room for negotiation,” Rawson said. “Paul is not welcome. If he’s having difficulty getting over the attack, he has my sympathies and he should see a therapist. But I will not allow any sort of weakness to pollute this. Not when we’re so close. Not ever.”

  “He’s not weak,” Alena said. “That’s my husband.”

  “Notice your words,” Rawson said. “That’s my husband, you said. Not he’s my husband.”

  “You’re adding meaning where there isn’t any.”

  “Am I?” Rawson said. He looked up at Alena. “Paul is not my blood. I don’t care if he understands the decision. It stands.”

  “You’re putting me in a tough place, Dad. What do I say to him?”

  “That’s up to you. You’re a Griggs. You’re my blood. You’ve faced far tougher decisions. You can handle your husband’s fragile ego.”

  Alena nodded resignedly.

  “You’re working late,” Rawson said.

  “Since when is eleven o’clock late?” she said playfully. Her father was still wearing his suit and jacket, his tie cinched. Anyone else would have taken his jacket off. Loosened his tie. Not Rawson. You were either working or you weren’t.

  Rawson smiled. “It would seem that neither of us wants to go home. But you’re the only one who has someone waiting for them.”

  She changed the subject. “What are you working on?”

  Rawson put his pencil down and sat back in his chair. The leather chair squeaked as the large man settled into it.

  “The Miami resort,” Rawson said. “I want the doors open in twenty-four months. But the local zoning board is giving us a hard time granting us access to the airspace we’ve requested. We need a helipad on the premises. They’re playing hardball, saying it will disrupt air traffic patterns and disrupt local residents. But the whales need to be flown in and land directly on the property. That’s a deal breaker.”

  “Will they budge?” Alena asked.

  “Everyone budges. For a price. We’re just feeling out what theirs is. It might be a generous contribution to a state senator’s reelection campaign. Or, more likely, preferred tee times on the golf course. Local politicians are pettier than purse snatchers.”

  Alena nodded. Stood there. Her father narrowed his eyes. He knew his daughter better than anyone. Including her best friends. Including her husband.

  “Something’s on your mind,” he said. “Is it Paul?”

  Alena shook her head. “He’ll be alright. He just needs reassurance.”

  “It doesn’t speak much about the man that he needs such constant reassurance.”

  “He’s a good husband,” Alena said. “And a better man than most of the spoiled heirs and trust fund babies you tried to set me up with.”

  “You make it sound like I was trying to arrange your marriage.”

  “Weren’t you?” Alena said. “You always wanted me to be with a man who could take care of me. Took you a long time to realize I didn’t want to be taken care of.”

  “You were the project that took the longest for me to learn.”

  “I would like Paul to have your approval at some point. We’ve been married for four years.”

  “Then he’s had four years to earn it,” Rawson said. “Ask your husband what’s taking so long.”

  Alena’s scowl let Rawson know she disapproved of that comment. He noticed this and sighed.

  “Why don’t you sit down.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.

  “I’m never sure whether I’m interrupting you.”

  “You never interrupt me.”

  Alena took a seat.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked. Rawson leaned forward and steepled his fingers together. To Alena, that posture always made her father look like some sort of Tibetan monk, a soothsayer, some mystic about to share the secrets of the universe to a cynic.

  “Do you think he’ll come in next week?” Alena said.

  “You mean Jeremy Stanton.”

  Alena nodded. “Yes. Are you sure it’s a good idea? How much do you know about him?”

  “You’d be very surprised,” Rawson said. “I made it my business to know everything about that young man before I set foot in his hospital room. He’s smart. He’s ambitious. And he has demons. But those demons can be harnessed.”

  “I understand why you want him. But we could easily let it go. Let him go. We don’t need him.”

  Griggs shook his head. “I have a feeling about Jeremy,” he said. “We need young blood to speak for us.”

  “That’s always been my job.”

  “And you’ve excelled. But we need someone who is not our blood who can speak for us, who’s not us.”

  “But not Paul.”

  “No,” he said. “Not Paul. This young man is a hero. Everyone loves him. Andrew Pulaski might be a mercenary, but he’s not an imbecile. Having someone like Jeremy…it appeals to hearts and minds. When an opportunity presents itself, you take it or you regret it.”

  “Is this an opportunity for him? Or for you?”

  “Both. Jeremy Stanton could be an asset. A valuable asset. And he knows what being on our side could do for him. It will change his life.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Alena said. “There is something about him. But he could say no.”

  Rawson smiled. “You know better than that.”

  She did. Her father had already considered every possibility, every permutation, before he set one foot into Remy Stanton’s hospital room. Alena looked at the ornate chess set on her father’s desk.

  “He won’t say no,” Alena said.

  “No. He won’t. When a young man comes from the background Jeremy did, it leaves them with endless ambition, but also lacking the guidance to achieve it. They work themselves to the bone, but only end up enriching other people. If you sell them a different life, a better life, they’ll kill for that life. Jeremy Stanton has been waiting for this door to open for a long time. I know it.”

  “How?” Alena said.

  “Because I see some of myself in him. Both diamonds and coal are composed of the same base elements. The only way to know which is which is by applying tremendous pressure. That’s what we’ll do to Mr. Stanton, and he’ll show us which he is.”

  “It could ruin him,” Alena said. “He’ll get torn apart. We all will.”

  “Lions don’t get torn apart,” Rawson said. “If Jeremy is one.”

  “You and your obsession with lions,” Alena replied. “I still remember the fable you told me when I was a girl.”

  “The lion and the sheep,” Rawson said, smiling. “You remember it.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You know that nobody can judge potential the way I can, Alena,” Rawson said. “And the greatest untapped potential lies in those who are ambitious and have been waiting for an opportunity. Remy has been waiting. I’m going to offer him what nobody else in the world can: power. I believe Mr. Stanton would do anything to wield it. And he may wield it well.”

  “These next few months are going to be different than anything we’ve done before,” Alena said. “I’ve been by your side my whole life, Dad. And I always will. But this changes everything. Are you ready?”

  “I am. Are you?”

  “Yes,” Alena said. “But I don’t know about Paul.”

  “It is not a wife’s job to worry about her husband.”

  “That’s very old-fashioned,” Alena said with a note of disa
pproval. “Attitudes are very different now compared to when you and my mother met.”

  “Not as much as you think,” Rawson replied. “We’re going to change the world. I think Jeremy will want to be a part of that. Whether Paul joins us is not my concern.”

  “I’ve seen what this can do to families. It can tear people apart.”

  Rawson paused. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Scared?”

  “A bit.”

  He nodded. “Good. You should be.”

  Remy had walked by the Castle a hundred times but had never once set foot inside. The Castle, officially known as Griggs Tower, was a sixty-five story behemoth of a skyscraper situated smack in the middle of midtown Manhattan, a gold monolith sparkling amidst the concrete jungle. It towered over the city, attracting hundreds of thousands of visitors a year. And now Remy was standing outside, wearing a freshly pressed suit that was an absolute bitch to put on given that his left arm was currently as useful as a rusty can opener. It wasn’t too often you were asked to meet with someone at the building that literally bore their name.

  The Castle had been erected in 1981, after Rawson Griggs bought the old, decrepit Shearson department store. Obtaining a seventy million dollar investment from half a dozen different banks, Rawson razed the Shearson building to the ground, and in its place built one of the city’s enduring monoliths. In order to erect a building of such height, Rawson had to purchase airspace rights from Oliver Mandel, the famous jeweler who owned the building next door. Mandel’s Jewelry, at five stories, was a toadstool compared to what Rawson had planned. They had a handshake agreement to sell the rights for five million dollars. But when Mandel took an extended vacation in Greece, Rawson, believing Mandel was getting cold feet, allegedly flew to the island of Santorini, found Mandel sunbathing on Perissa beach, and refused to leave until the contracts were signed.

  Construction on the Castle took six years. Over ten thousand workers were said to have had their fingerprints in its creation.

  Doormen wore black tuxedos with black top hats and white gloves, welcoming visitors. A horde of tourists stood at the lip of the sidewalk taking pictures, videos, and selfies. The tour guide, a bubbly blonde, enthusiastically recounted the history of Griggs Tower to her rapt audience.

  Remy noticed several news vans idling outside of the Castle, well-manicured newscasters doing their hair and makeup while burly cameramen hauled equipment around.

  One of the reporters was checking her makeup in a handheld mirror when she stopped primping and turned around. Remy’s heart skipped a beat when he realized she was staring at him. She motioned to her cameraman with one finger and said, “Isn’t that Jeremy Stanton?”

  Remy’s eyes went wide and he booked it towards Griggs Tower.

  A white-gloved doorman opened the gold-paneled door for him and said, “Welcome, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Remy said, hustling into the lobby. The atrium of Griggs Tower was an incredible sight to behold. The walls were adorned with gorgeous brown tile work, and a waterfall poured delicately down the left side of the atrium that must have been fifty feet high. Four escalators carried professionals and tourists to the second floor, where Remy could see a number of high-end retail shops. Armani. Mont Blanc. Hermés. And, of course, Starbucks.

  Remy looked up. He couldn’t even see the ceiling.

  By the escalator bank, there was a souvenir stand selling all sorts of Griggs-branded merchandise. Hats. Sweatshirts. Coffee table books featuring luscious photos of Griggs properties from all over the world. Inspirational business books authored by Rawson himself. Snow globes. Tie pins. Hats. Sweatshirts. Even a cookbook: Griggs at the Grill, with a cover that featured a marbled steak so mouth-watering it looked carved from a cow fit for Jesus himself. Everything about the Castle screamed over-the-top indulgence, with not a penny spared on opulence.

  At the security desk, two uniformed men with guns strapped to their belts logged people in and checked IDs. Remy approached and said, “Yeah, um, hi…I’m here to see Rawson Griggs.”

  Both guards looked skeptical. The one on the right said with exasperation, “Name and ID.”

  Remy got the sense a lot of crazy people showed up here asking to see Rawson Griggs. Wasn’t too much of a stretch for them to assume he was just another loon.

  “Jeremy Stanton. I was, um, invited by Mr. Griggs.”

  Remy handed the guard his driver’s license. The man’s eyes perked up. He scanned Remy’s ID, then pointed at a touchpad screen atop the security desk. A half dollar-sized circular outline appeared.

  “Press your thumb there.”

  Remy did so. The scanner read his fingerprint. The guard nodded.

  “Mr. Stanton, welcome to Griggs Tower. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Thank you for what you did for Alena and Paul.”

  “Oh, you know. Shit happens.”

  “Indeed it does. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Great. So I’ll just wait here. In the lobby of Griggs Tower. Where I was invited. By Rawson Griggs. Totally normal.”

  He didn’t have to wait long. Less than two minutes later, Remy saw a man approach the security desk. He looked directly at Remy and smiled. He was about six feet tall, thin, mid-fifties, black, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair and a trimmed, gray goatee. He wore a charcoal pinstriped suit and a bold blue tie, held in place by a gold tiepin with a capital G. His calfskin shoes were polished to a high gleam. Remy suddenly felt very self-conscious about his suit, his posture, his sling, everything. He was entering a world unlike any he’d ever known, where first impressions were etched in stone.

  “Jeremy Stanton,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Damn, it’s good to meet you. Kenneth Murphy. CFO of the Griggs Organization. You can call me Ken.”

  CFO. Christ.

  Remy held out his hand, and the man shook it vigorously. Murphy’s hand felt smooth, oiled.

  “Nice to meet you. Remy Stanton.”

  Murphy laughed. “We’ll see how Mr. Griggs feels about the Remy stuff. He’s not a fan of nicknames. Come with me.”

  Murphy led him towards an unmarked door off to the side of the security desk. He pulled out an ID card and scanned it against a digital reader. Remy heard a lock disengage. Murphy opened the door and gestured for Remy to follow him inside.

  They walked down a long corridor with gray walls and soft recessed lighting. At the end of the corridor there was a single elevator. Remy noticed there was no call button.

  Murphy pressed his thumb to a keypad. There was a chirping noise and the elevator opened. Murphy entered. Remy stood there.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yeah,” Remy said, stepping inside. “This just all feels kind of Mission Impossible.”

  “Oh, you have no idea of the security measures in this building. There are about half a dozen different sets of eyes watching at this very moment.”

  “Good thing I remembered to zip my fly.”

  Murphy laughed. “No wonder Rawson likes you.”

  Rawson Griggs likes me. Remy felt like a nerdy kid getting his first Valentine’s Day card.

  There were no buttons anywhere inside the elevator. It was programmed to go to one floor, and one floor only. After a minute, Remy’s ears popped. He worked his jaw to try and fix it. Murphy smiled.

  “Happens to everyone the first time,” he says. “Air pressure changes up here. Like an airplane.”

  Finally, the elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened. Murphy stepped outside, and Remy followed.

  A long hallway lay before them, painted in two tones: the top half a light gray, the bottom half a soft blue. Recessed lighting lined the ceiling. The walls were lined with transparent glass office doors. There were no names on the doors, just numbers. The people inside paid no attention to Remy and Murphy as they walked past.

  “This is the heart of the Griggs Organization,” Murphy said. “There’s enough brainpower here to run a country.”

&nb
sp; “This is like the adult version of Willy Wonka’s factory tour,” Remy said. He started to whistle I’ve Got a Golden Ticket while silently hoping that the day didn’t end with him being turned into a giant blueberry.

  “Not many people are permitted up here,” Murphy said, as though reading Remy’s mind. “Mr. Griggs keeps this floor completely secure at all times.”

  At the end of the hall, Remy saw three doors. The one in the middle had Rawson Griggs etched onto the glass in gold lettering. It was the only office with a name on it. The glass was frosted. It was the only door that wasn’t completely transparent.

  “This way,” Murphy said. He led Remy into the office on the left. Murphy sat down behind the desk. “Have a seat.”

  Remy looked around Murphy’s office. A framed diploma from Harvard Law School hung on the wall. There was a photo of Murphy shaking hands with Rawson Griggs while posing in front of a construction site with a hole large enough to fit a stadium. Another photo showed Murphy and a young woman with their arms around Oprah Winfrey.

  “My daughter interns for her,” Murphy said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oprah. My daughter is an intern for her magazine. She graduates from Princeton next May and wants to be a journalist.”

  Remy nodded, as though this explained how a routine journalism major ended up working for Oprah.

  “Rawson first went on her show almost twenty years ago,” Murphy said. “It was Rawson’s first interview after his wife died. The ratings were through the roof. They’ve been friends ever since. Last year, Rawson asked her to take on my Danielle so she could learn the ropes of working at a magazine. So she did. Rawson repaid the favor by taking out thousands of subscriptions to her magazine which he distributes throughout his properties worldwide.”

  “That’s a pretty nice quid pro quo.”

  “Rawson is loyal. You’ll hear Mr. Griggs talk about loyalty often. If someone is loyal to him, he’ll move heaven and earth for them. He likes people to come out on top, because if they do, they’re more valuable to him. And Rawson Griggs always repays his debts. Especially if those debts involve people who have shown kindness to Alena.”