by Jason Pinter
Please don’t.
Remy peeked into the hallway. “Your dad’s not coming up too, is he?”
Alena laughed. “No. He likes to make a grand entrance. I’m more subtle.”
“Well, then.” Remy stepped aside and made a matador wave with his hand. “Welcome to Chez Stanton. It’s not exactly the Castle. At a spacious four hundred and fifty square feet, it has all the amenities you need, provided you don’t require a separate living room, kitchen, or bedroom. And you’re much more likely to find spaghetti al dente than any paintings al fresco.”
Shit…when was the last time he cleaned the toilet?
“It’s charming,” Alena said. “I like it.”
“Charming is polite for tiny. I bet your bed is bigger than my apartment.”
Alena looked over at Remy’s desk, saw the wall calendar from his aunt, cocked her eyebrows, and said, “Corgis?”
“It was a gift from my aunt. I felt bad throwing it out.”
“I’m not judging. Well, maybe a little.” She pointed at the couch. “May I?”
Remy nodded, as though he could have possibly denied her. Alena moved to the sofa.
“Anyway, you’d be surprised,” she said. “We have a two bedroom. It’s twelve hundred square feet. I try to live a semi-normal life, but it’s not really possible given who my father is and that I work with him. It’s like trying to hide a boulder under a raincoat. And let’s just say my father and I have different tastes in décor.”
“You mean you’re not a fan of medieval warfare chic?”
“I told him it was a bit much. He took down the battle axe that used to hang on the wall of his office.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding? So, are you going to open the wine?”
Remy opened it successfully, petrified for a moment that he might disintegrate the cork and prove his lack of domesticity. Once the bottle was open, he took his only two wine stems from the cabinet—a Christmas gift from Trevor and Chris—and poured them each a healthy glass. They clinked.
Remy took a sip. “This is good. Really good. How much was this bottle? A grand? Flown in from your dad’s Sonoma winery?”
“Fifteen bucks at the liquor store next door,” Alena said. “But keep going. Let’s see what else you can be wrong about.”
“Oh, I can be wrong about a lot. It’s one of my most lovable traits.”
Alena laughed. “I’m a Griggs, but I’m not my father,” she said. “You know a lot less about us—about me—than you think you do.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He took another sip, chastened. “Worth every penny.”
“Sit with me,” Alena said. She moved over on the couch to make room. He hesitated. She was striking. Poised. The kind of girl he could never meet on his own. But he couldn’t think like that. Remy sat down on the couch and pushed himself into the corner.
“So, I need to ask,” Remy said. “Why are you here?”
“You don’t trust my motives?” Alena said.
“There’s a famous saying,” Remy replied. “Beware billionaire heiresses bearing good wine.”
“Pretty sure the actual saying is ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ But I get your point.”
Alena sipped her wine. She placed her glass on the coffee table. It was a brown wooden slab covered in notches, stains, and dents. Remy thought the dings added character, but houseguests tended to think it looked salvaged from a dumpster.
“I’m here as a friend,” she said, “and, not to put a fine point on it, as a closer.”
“A closer?”
“You’ve seen Glengarry Glen Ross.”
“I have. You don’t really look like Alec Baldwin.”
“Well, I’m guessing you don’t own any steak knives.”
“Touché.”
“No, what I mean is that I know my father offered you a job. And I know you wanted to take a little time to think about it.”
Remy nodded. “I asked for one night. Which, considering the fact that you’re here right now, means my night is already unproductive.”
“So then I’ll be quick.” Alena shifted in her seat, moving closer to Remy. He didn’t move, but felt his blood pump faster as she inched closer. “My father has accomplished just about everything a man can in life.”
“That, I know,” Remy said.
“And there are wonderful people who work for him. You met some them today. They’re loyal beyond reproach. They would fight for my father, kill for him, and he would do the same for them. Kenneth Murphy. Rebecca Blum. Jerry Kapinski. Myself.”
“And Phillip Costanzo.”
“My father has known Mayor Costanzo since he was a no-name prosecutor in the Bronx. My father supported him when he ran for attorney general. Costanzo came aboard about a year ago as a consultant when my father started seriously considering whether to run. As the former mayor of New York, Phillips wouldn’t back my father if he didn’t think he would be good at the job. And good for the country.”
“So where do I fit into this motley crew?” Remy said. “I’m not a mayor. I’ve never worked for a company like your father’s. The closest I’ve ever come to working in politics was handing out flyers on a street corner for eight bucks an hour in college for some state senator whose name I can’t even remember. Until last week, nobody knew who I was. If I’d had one more drink at that bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“And I might not be here right now,” Alena said.
Remy looked down. Sipped his wine. “I’m glad I was there. For you and Paul.”
“You see? You know the kind of man you are,” Alena said. “The kind of man you can be. When I said that people have worked for my father for decades, that’s a double-edged sword. My father, well, he doesn’t employ a lot of people who tell him no.”
“What about family? Friends?”
Alena laughed. “Well, I’m his only family. And you don’t get to where my father has by chumming it up at sports bars. He has business partners, and he has enemies. Bottom line: we need fresh blood. We need people who haven’t done things the ‘Griggs way’ their whole life. My father needs clear eyes and a young heart. He needs energy and passion. I think you have that. Maybe it’s been hiding away, but it’s there.”
“You may not be your father. But you sound an awful lot like him.”
“I love my father. I would do anything for him. That’s why I’m here. You’d be good for him. For us.”
Remy said. “So how do you do it?”
Alena looked at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Be Rawson Griggs’s daughter and still have a regular life. A regular marriage.”
Alena turned away from Remy and took a sip of her wine. He caught a flash of sadness on her face.
“It’s never easy. I can’t say I really know what a regular life is or what a regular marriage is. This is all I’ve known, since I was old enough to realize my father wasn’t like most dads. He never took me to the zoo. He never pushed me on a swing set. I was never allowed to have slumber parties. But I know my father would start a war for me.”
“I hope he never has to,” Remy said. “Can I ask a personal question?”
Alena smiled. “Didn’t you do that already?”
“Your husband. Paul. Is it hard for him?”
Alena finished her wine and said, “Every day.”
Remy nodded.
“Taking this job will change your life,” Alena said. “But I don’t think you would have come today if that didn’t appeal to you. You want to see where this might take you. And so do I.”
“Just one more question,” Remy said.
“Let me guess. Personal.”
“Sort of. What do you do in your spare time? Like, for fun?”
Alena smiled. “You mean do I Netflix and chill? Not really.”
“So what do you do, then, when you’re not being a Griggs?”
“Well, I try to read for at least an hour a night. I tu
rn my phone to silent, prop myself up against approximately a thousand pillows, and read while my favorite opera music plays in the background.”
“I don’t know why, but that’s not what I expected.”
“My family is full of surprises.”
“What do you read?”
“Mostly fiction,” she said. “When you’re knee-deep in multi-million dollar business negotiations fifteen hours a day, you need an escape. I love a good mystery series where I can start the next book as soon as I finish one. And sometimes I’ll pour a glass of wine and read a romance novel.”
“Saucy,” Remy said. “Always with opera on?”
“Always,” Alena said. “Maria Callas is my goddess. I cry every time I play her recording of La Traviata. Listen to her when you have some spare time.”
“I will.”
Alena reached into her purse and took out a business card. She put it atop her empty wine glass.
“That’s the number for a woman named Grace Rivas. She’s a reporter for the New York Gazette. She’s written pretty extensively about my father and his businesses. She’s tough on us, but I trust her to be honest. She’s young and hungry and good. If you decide to accept, reach out to Grace. Tell her I suggested you get in touch, and that you’re offering her an exclusive—the first interview with you since the attack. She’ll do a good job. It’s time for you to break your silence, Remy.”
Remy nodded. “Thank you. I’ll think about all of this.”
He stood up and walked Alena to the door. She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in close for a hug. She smelled like sugar with a hint of lemon. He still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Alena.
She leaned in and said, “Say yes.”
When she was gone, Remy sat down and finished the rest of the bottle of wine. Then opened his Internet browser and searched for Maria Callas and La Traviata. He sat and listened to several tracks. Then he made three phone calls. And by the time he went to sleep, he’d made his decision.
At eleven o’clock at night, Wanda Lefebvre pushed open the door to Rawson Griggs’s office.
“How’s your evening?”
Her eyes were red behind her black-rimmed glasses. Her gray hair was pulled up tight into a bun, and her navy suit had faint wrinkle lines. She was tired, but like Rawson would never let on. That was one of the reasons he trusted her—they both knew the importance of hiding weakness. He depended on Wanda for just about everything, and she had access to information about the Griggs Organization nobody else did. Despite all the women who came and went following Liliana’s death, Wanda Lefebvre was the closest thing he’d ever had to a second wife.
“Quite good actually,” he said. “Today went well.”
“The Stanton boy seems like he could be a good fit,” she said. “Rebecca and Murphy liked him. And Phillip Costanzo was gushing. Phillip said he senses a little pit bull in Jeremy.”
“As long as the pit bull is trained properly,” Rawson said.
“Can I get you a coffee? Something to eat?”
He thought about it for a moment, but declined. “I’m going to head out within the hour and get a little sleep.”
“I’ll have Marco pull the car around at midnight,” she said.
“Thank you.” Rawson removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d been poring over speech drafts for the better part of a week. Put together and torn apart and re-stitched. Monday was one of the most important days of his life. Maybe the most important. It was the start of something revolutionary. He wished Liliana could have been here for this. The world would have loved her. And god, what that would have meant to Alena.
Rawson had given hundreds of speeches over the years, in front of some of the wealthiest and most powerful people alive. He knew how to hold a room, to feel the pulse of the crowd, how to have them eating from the palm of his hand. Yet he was never nervous. Preparation reduced chance, and chance led to weakness.
Rawson shifted in his chair. He felt the familiar ache in his right knee. The ACL tendon he’d torn right before Alena’s wedding had never properly healed. He had waited his whole life to walk his daughter down the aisle, and only cowards limped. Pain was simply an obstacle. And like any obstacle, it could be hurdled or, with enough force, driven through.
That first dance, he’d been in agony. But nobody could tell. Everyone was focused on Alena. Her smile that could have melted steel, her gorgeous dress flowing like a lace waterfall. She was born the Griggs princess, and on that day she truly was, in every way. Each dance step sent a wave of nauseating pain through his body. But Rawson Griggs did not fall. Diamonds did not crack.
Wanda opened her purse. She pulled out a small object, a USB drive, which she placed on Rawson’s desk.
“It’s all set. With Stanton. They had no problems getting access.”
“Good. Have they found the father?”
“Yes. He was apparently eyeball-deep in a bottle of Jim Beam, but Phillip’s people will have him ready. Just in case.”
“I hope it won’t be necessary.”
“Me either.
“I think Jeremy could be a diamond,” Rawson said.
“Someone else seems to think so too. You’ll want to see this.” She gestured towards the fob.
Rawson picked it up, rolled it over in his fingers.
“I didn’t know you sent Alena to see him,” she said.
“I didn’t.”
“Then she went on her own.”
Rawson dismissed her. “Thank you, Wanda. Get some rest.”
“I will when you do,” she said. And then she left.
Rawson waited until the door had closed, then plugged the drive into a USB port. A few seconds later, a folder appeared on his desktop. He opened the video file within.
The file was named Stanton 01.
Griggs double-clicked the file.
Rawson pressed play and turned the volume up.
A video appeared. The feed had been recorded directly from a computer’s webcam. The image was being broadcast from inside a small studio apartment. The feed sputtered. The image was poor quality, but the technology had not been perfected yet.
At first, there was nothing but static and the sounds of car horns coming from outside the apartment. Two minutes later, the front door opened and Jeremy Stanton entered the apartment.
Jeremy disappeared for a moment, then plopped onto his couch and sipped a beer.
Then, at the twenty-three minute mark, a buzzer rang from inside Stanton’s apartment. Stanton answered the intercom, and immediately became flustered. He looked around the apartment as though searching for the cause of a fire. Then the doorbell rang.
Jeremy answered it. Rawson recognized the other voice instantly. His daughter, Alena. She entered Jeremy’s apartment.
Rawson watched as Alena handed him a bottle of cheap-looking wine in a paper bag. No Griggs label. Jeremy opened it and poured them each a glass. He listened to their conversation. Then Alena left Jeremy’s apartment.
Rawson sat back in his chair. His daughter still had the ability to surprise him.
Rawson let the video run. Jeremy sat on his couch. Then he listened to opera music. For some reason, Rawson enjoyed watching the young man. You could always learn more about a person when they didn’t think they were being watched.
Then Rawson’s private phone line rang.
“Griggs,” he said.
“Mr. Griggs. It’s Jeremy Stanton. “I’m in.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, Jeremy.”
“There’s one small condition.”
“One condition,” Griggs replied. “Alright.”
Rawson was still watching the video as Jeremy spoke. It was an odd thing, Rawson thought, speaking to a man while simultaneously watching him on a video that had been recorded the same day with his knowledge.
When they hung up, Rawson had a new employee. He sent an email to Andrew Pulaski. Then his phone rang once more.
“Go secure,”
Phillip Costanzo said.
Rawson plugged in the code to click over a secure connection.
“What is it?” Rawson said. “Please tell me they’ve found Alexay.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griggs. They haven’t found him yet.”
“Goddamnit, Phillip.”
“We know he hasn’t left the country. My sources at the FAA tell me his plane ticket was never used and nothing else has been purchased in his name. We have people at the border looking for him, unofficially.”
“Have you talked to Brent Scott?”
“Yes. He’s reaching out to the Kremlin. He’s also put in a word to Kamurzenov. They relocated the family, and we’re hoping they might have a lead. But so far, we’ve come up empty.”
Rawson pounded his desk. “So he’s out there planning god knows what? We had assurances from these people. You know he skipped that flight for a reason, Phillip. Either he knew we’d be looking for him, or he wanted to stay here.”
“I don’t know what else to say, Mr. Griggs,” Costanzo said. “But we’ll find him. One thing to consider: if Jeremy Stanton joins the campaign, Alexay could take that as a personal insult, given Stanton is responsible for Nogoyev’s arrest.”
“I’m not going to let some mercenary dictate the future of my campaign before it’s started. Increase security for Monday’s event.”
“I understand. With Stanton, sir, it’s just something to consider.”
“You’re using Stanton as an excuse for your failures. Good night, Phillip. Get me answers. Find him. Before Monday.”
Rawson slammed the phone down. He massaged the bridge of his nose, then turned back to his speech. He needed to concentrate on the factors he had control over. Rawson Griggs could not remember the last time he truly felt fear. But tonight, a cold shiver ran down his spine.
Stanton to Accept Griggs Post
Speculation runs rampant as “Upper East Side Hero” joins the Griggs Organization on eve of major announcement
by Grace Rivas, New York Gazette
The Griggs Organization announced today that Jeremy Stanton, hailed as the ‘Upper East Side Hero’ for his role in foiling the attack that targeted Alena Griggs and Paul Bracewell, would be joining the company in an unspecified role. Stanton, 28, intervened several weeks ago when two assailants attacked Mrs. Griggs and Mr. Bracewell, suffering a life-threatening gunshot wound among other injuries in the meleé. One of the alleged gunmen, Dastan Nogoyev, 26, was murdered in the Tombs by Domingo Diaz, a fellow inmate. Nogoyev’s accomplice remains at large, his identity still unknown.
