by Jason Pinter
“Likewise, Ms. Rivas.”
“I will. Oh, and OTR, anger and loneliness never go away on their own. It’s good to have someone to talk to. You don’t want to go through life like that. Trust me. I know.”
“Thank you, Grace.”
“So if you ever want to talk about that, OTR, I’ll have that drink with you.”
“I might just take you up on that.”
She turned to leave. Then stopped and looked at Remy.
“One more question, actually. On the record.”
“Shoot.”
“Doug Rimbaud didn’t come here by accident. He must have known we were meeting. Senator Shaw has a rally in Portsmouth, New Hampshire tonight. Rimbaud went out of his way to stop by. Which means he knew about our meeting, the time, and the place. How is that?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Remy said.
“Hmm. Interesting. Take care, Remy.”
Grace walked away, leaving Remy asking himself that same question.
How did Rimbaud know about the meeting?
Paul Bracewell looked behind him. Then looked again. He stopped on the corner of Bowery and Third, leaned up against a lamp post, and watched passersby, his brow furrowed, waiting to recognize someone, waiting to see if anyone recognized him, making sure he wasn’t followed. He wore a pair of loose-fitting jeans, an untucked flannel shirt, and a cracked leather jacket. His brown hair was hidden beneath a trucker cap. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Paul never wore hats. Rarely wore jeans. But he needed to blend in.
He insisted on meeting down here, far away from the madness of midtown. He didn’t like being so close to the Castle for fear of being recognized, and over the last year had begun to despise the mere sight of that godforsaken building. Thousands of tourists flocked to the massive metal and gold and steel monstrosity every day to fill up their iPhones with pictures of the Griggs golden calf.
He couldn’t walk ten feet from the Castle without being stopped on the street by some tourist group begging for photos. He’d posed for more selfies in the past few months than he ever hoped to in a lifetime. After the incident on the Upper East Side, he felt like a Times Square street performer. A Minion, Captain Jack Sparrow. Miserable beneath a bulky costume. Paul no longer felt like a person. Just a living mannequin to be gawked at.
He should have known better. He should have known that going into the marriage. That wedding was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Now it was time to figure out how to get out of it without ruining his life.
He twirled the wedding ring on his finger. It slipped on and off so easily. He remembered the day Alena put it on him. Her fingers were so smooth and delicate, like silk on bone. That ruby red smile could have made an army stand down. Once upon a time, he had truly felt like the luckiest man on earth. He wanted to marry that woman, wanted to be a part of the heralded family. He would have a beautiful, intelligent wife and a father-in-law who could open doors that nobody else on earth could.
Paul thought he would never look back. And he’d spent every day since then doing exactly that.
Paul was an accountant, and a good one. He was also smart, caring, dedicated, prudent. He’d met Alena at a charity ball to raise money for Pencils of Promise, an organization that built schools and offered greater access to education for children all over the world. A great cause.
Paul ended up there by accident.
Oliver Lawton, his college roommate at Wharton, was one of the founders. Oli was a venture capitalist, and like any VC with more money than he knew what to do with, Oli founded a charity and let others run it for him.
Alena Griggs was on the board. She helped run it.
It was luck, really. Paul only went to the ball because his friend Mike O’Brien was in town from Spokane, and the two hadn’t had a proper night out since Paul had moved to the big city. Oli comped them the one hundred and fifty dollar tickets, he and Mike dressed like they were going to a James Bond costume party, and hit the town.
The last thing Paul expected was to meet his wife that night.
When he met Alena, Paul was waiting for a drink. Waiting forever. That was the problem with open bars: people wanted to get their money’s worth, and you could grow old before you got served your weak vodka soda.
When Paul finally got the bartender’s attention, he noticed a girl standing beside him. He didn’t know who she was, only that she was sighing, like many, over the insanely long wait and the dismissive attitude of the bartenders.
“Why is it that every bartender acts like it’s a personal affront to them when you order a drink?” Paul said.
The girl laughed. “I could sew my own dress in the time it takes to get a drink.”
Finally, the bartender acknowledged him. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll order yours with mine,” he said to the girl. “What can I get you?”
“Stoli and tonic,” she said. A fairly innocuous drink, he remembered thinking. He ordered her drink and got a Makers Mark on the rocks for himself. He left a five dollar tip. More to impress the girl than because the bartender earned it.
When he turned around, he realized that Stoli girl was Alena Griggs. He nearly dropped her drink. She was wearing a white cap sleeve flair dress, and her blonde hair flowed in beachy, sun-kissed waves over her shoulders. She was just a stunning woman. That was the only word that came to mind. Stunning.
Alena sipped her drink and sighed. “I think he forgot the Stoli part of the Stoli and tonic.”
He saw Mike O’Brien from the corner of his eye, grinning like an idiot. Mike knew who she was and didn’t want to interrupt them.
“Next time I’ll order two drinks for each of us.”
Alena laughed. Laughed at his joke. They spent the night laughing and dancing, then shared a brief, soft kiss before parting ways.
For a long time, Paul made her laugh.
They didn’t laugh much anymore.
He never fit into Alena’s life. He always felt like Rawson expected more from him. Demanded more from him. Wanted him to be a different man with different ambitions.
But the truth was, Paul never changed. He didn’t want to change. And Rawson couldn’t stand that.
Being a member of the Griggs family was a daily toxic cocktail of anxiety, anger, depression, and near madness. Rawson wanted Paul to alter the very fiber of his being. He was a human metal smith, used to hammering people into the shape he wanted. And if they resisted, they broke.
Paul had resisted at first. And it dawned on him, far too late, that Rawson was the hammer and he was the iron.
Eventually, Paul broke. Which was what led him down this current path. There was no turning back. Not now. He’d done too much, come too far.
When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, Paul entered an upscale dive bar off of Bowery called Phebes, pulled a stool out from the bar, and ordered a Makers, straight up. The drinkers didn’t pay him a moment’s notice. The dark wood décor and low lighting allowed him to keep to himself. He was on his second drink when he felt the tap on his shoulder.
He turned around, petrified for a moment that someone might have recognized him. He breathed easy when he saw who it was.
“I’d buy you a drink,” said Doug Rimbaud, “but I see you’re already way ahead of me.”
Rimbaud took the seat next to Paul and a Grey Goose martini, slightly dirty, with olives. When Rimbaud’s drink came, he tipped it back and let out a satisfying moan.
“God, I needed one of those.”
Paul said. “You’re late.”
“I stopped by to say hello to Jeremy Stanton,” he said. “They were at that coffee shop forever. Either your boy Stanton likes to talk, or that Gazette diva Rivas thinks she’s Barbara Walters.”
“He’s not my boy,” Paul said. “And Grace Rivas is a good reporter. Alena likes her.” He sipped his drink. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t even still be talking to you.”
“But you are, and you are. You know you’re doing the rig
ht thing.”
“The right thing is going to get me killed.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Rimbaud said. “Rawson has you wound up. There’s no way he’d try anything now. Not after what happened at the Castle.”
“You don’t know him,” Paul said. “You think it’s a joke. But it’s a nightmare.”
“That’s why you need to keep helping us,” Rimbaud said. He placed his hand on Paul’s arm. Paul pulled it away.
“I don’t even know if I can trust you,” Paul said.
“Who else can you trust? Alena? She’ll go crying to her daddy the moment she finds out. Stanton? He’s bought and paid for. That hero shit has about a one month expiration date.”
“I have options,” Paul said.
“The feds? Not a chance. You need proof.”
Paul finished his Makers and ordered another.
“Maybe I have proof.”
“Bullshit,” Rimbaud said. “You would have told me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I already sent it to someone who I can trust. Because after all the info I’ve sent your way, you haven’t changed a damn thing. So maybe I sent it to someone who will.”
“Come on, Paul. You know we have to be careful. If we accuse him without proof, it backfires and makes us look like we’re spreading unfounded rumors.”
“Because everyone knows that nobody spreads rumors in politics.”
“We’re working on it,” Rimbaud said.
“Keep working on it. This is the last time you and I talk.”
“Just like that? We’re breaking up?”
“You don’t get how serious this is. You want to win an election. But you’re missing the point. If you lose, you have no idea what’s going to happen. This is bigger than Senator Shaw.”
“No, I get it,” Rimbaud said.
“I don’t think you do. Rawson barred me from the strategy meetings. Alena is still in the dark about all of it. She thinks he just doesn’t like me, but she doesn’t understand the whole picture. She’ll refuse to see it. Because he’s her father. She’d never turn on him.”
“What about Stanton? He’s new enough to still have his eyes open.”
“He’s a wild card. He’s smart, but he’s naïve. He thinks this is his meal ticket. He won’t give that up.”
“So work with him. Get him on our side.”
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stanton doesn’t know me,” Paul said. “And I doubt he trusts me.”
“I think you’re overestimating him,” Rimbaud said.
“Maybe. But whatever you think of him, Rawson isn’t stupid.”
Rimbaud sipped his beer. The bravado left his voice.
“You know, when you and I first started talking, I didn’t actually think people would support him. This was a precaution. I thought it would be a big joke.”
“I took Rawson as seriously as a heart attack. You should have too. Now it might be too late.”
“I think people will see through him eventually,” Rimbaud said. “Populism has a shelf life.”
“And I think your candidate is a sixty-six-year-old career politician who’s staler than year-old bread, connects with voters like the wrong puzzle piece, and is going to have to spend half a billion dollars to have any sort of chance. And if she does win, people will resent how much money it took to get her there.”
Paul swallowed his third Makers in one gulp.
“Take it easy there,” Rimbaud said.
“Go to hell,” Paul replied.
“If Rawson is as dangerous as you think he is, you’re risking everything.”
“I already have,” Paul said. “Whatever happens to me has already happened.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.”
“So when will I hear from you again?” Rimbaud said. “The first Democratic debates are coming up and Senator Shaw would love to have some more ammo to fire at Griggs.”
“I’m done being your errand boy. It’s amazing: Senator Shaw is trying to become the most powerful woman in the world and you’re depending on the husband of her opponent’s wife.”
“We’re not depending on you,” Rimbaud said.
“Right. Good luck, then. See you on CNN.”
Paul slid off the stool. He wobbled, bracing himself on Rimbaud’s shoulder.
“Christ, kid, you need to ease up on the drinking.”
“This is me easing up.”
“Once this is over,” Rimbaud said, “I know a great divorce lawyer. This guy could get a pearl out of an oyster without opening it. You’ll need someone on your side.”
Paul didn’t respond. He stumbled out of the bar, leaving Rimbaud to pick up the tab. He paused for a moment, waiting to see if he was going to throw up. When the nausea passed, he stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. When a cab pulled up, Paul checked his wallet. He needed to make sure he had enough cash. His credit card receipts all went through the finance department at the Griggs organization. He couldn’t risk using his credit card or taking an Uber.
He slid in and gave the driver his address. When the car pulled away, Paul belched.
“Hey, man,” the driver said, “you’d better not hurl in my cab. It’s only one o’clock anyway. Ain’t it a little early to tie one on?”
Paul ignored him. He looked down and saw that both of his hands were shaking. He checked himself in the rearview mirror. He looked haggard, anxious. Paul looked away.
What Paul did not see was Jerry Kapinski, standing one block south of Phebes, watching the cab speed away, holding a cell phone to his ear.
Remy looked out over the audience. Four hundred young men and woman, dressed to the nines, lubricated to the gills, all here to see him. He was wearing a fifteen hundred dollar Brioni suit that had been custom-tailored by the same guy who made Rawson’s duds. It felt like he was wearing air. He looked like a million—no, a billion—bucks. And he needed to. Because tonight was Remy’s first time as a headliner. This was his moment.
The Empire ballroom at the Grand Hyatt on 42nd Street had recently undergone a fourteen million dollar renovation, and it showed. Greek-style columns carved from white Italian marble lined the foyer. The ballroom itself sported original tin tiling and metal grillwork, with a recessed ceiling fitted with state-of-the-art digital lighting. Tonight’s colors were red, white, and blue. The gorgeous chandeliers dripped with seven thousand pieces of hand-blown glass. Amber lighting spotlighted every table, while the podium itself was bathed in soft white.
A twelve-piece band, all wearing white tuxedos and shimmering dresses, played soft rock and Motown hits as people ate and drank.
Every table was topped with crisp, creamy-white tablecloths and pointed napkins, with sparkling crystal stemware. White-gloved waiters were clearing plates of filet mignon and herb-crusted salmon while refilling glasses of white and red. Two hundred bottles had been flown in from Rawson’s own Sonoma vineyard.
This was the ballroom where John F. Kennedy accepted the Democratic nomination for president in 1960. Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke in this very room in 1956, back when it was called the Commodore Ballroom. This was where Hillary Clinton celebrated her election to the Senate. Heads of state from around the world had dined here. Remy was fully aware of the room’s history. And tonight, he was the guest of honor.
The invite-only, thousand dollar a plate event had booked up in minutes. Every cent taken in had been earmarked for charity—from wounded veterans to inner city education to reading materials for underprivileged youth. Remy and Jerry Kapinski had put the list together themselves.
Every invitee was handpicked by the campaign due to their influence, be it on social media, on television, in charitable organizations. The money was incidental. The influence was invaluable. This wasn’t about asking people to spend a grand for some undercooked meat. This was Rawson proving to the world that he could be the voice of a new generation.
The social me
dia clout alone in the room was astronomical. Remy had tried to calculate the total reach of the attendees, but lost count at a hundred million followers. That was what Rawson was after. There were a hundred ways to make money, but very few ways to gain influence.
The room was packed with start-up pioneers. Charity founders. Tech entrepreneurs, dating app CEOs, authors, artists, and, of course, socialites. People who, just a few months ago, couldn’t pick Remy out of a lineup. And now they were paying to see him. The Upper East Side Hero.
It was one thing to fight for a cause on Twitter. Remy had taken a bullet. And that was something that even the most cynical tech bros had to respect.
That morning, Grace Rivas’s Gazette profile of him had gone live. The timing was perfect. Remy’s first big PR hit, right before his first event as a Griggs headliner. Just another day in a life that resembled his old one as much as a chicken nugget resembled caviar.
The podium was bookended by two American flags. A placard on the stand read BE THE BEAST and directed people to visit the campaign website.
The room quieted as Rawson Griggs walked to the podium. Remy sat at the head table and quickly checked himself in his phone’s camera. He looked good. He smiled.
A round of loud but polite applause greeted Rawson. He wore a Brioni tuxedo with a red bow tie and Armani shirt. An American flag pin sparkled on his lapel.
The microphone stand was about a foot too short. Rawson raised it and smiled mock-sheepishly, as if to say, “Hey, not everyone is this tall.”
This was a trick Rawson had taught Remy: ask whoever was in charge of AV to set the microphone about a foot too low. Then, when Rawson raised it, he would appear taller, more impressive.
During one late-night strategy session, Phillip Costanzo had said, “Half of politics is what you say. The other half is how you look while saying it.” Remy took the former mayor’s words to heart. And thanked his lucky stars and genetic makeup that he and Rawson were only about an inch apart.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rawson said, his voice slow and purposeful, “thank you all for coming tonight. Now I know you’re not here to see me…” There was a smattering of laughter. He played the audience, pretending to be surprised. “Well, most of you aren’t here to see me. So I’ll be quick.”