TEN HOURS AFTER landing in the Netherlands, I re-board the Gulfstream. Jennie, walking through the cabin with a tray of sandwiches, stops midstride when she sees me. She looks me up and down.
“We’re about twenty minutes until we taxi. Why don’t you freshen up. I’ll pull you a fresh suit.”
I toss my glasses and DHL baseball cap onto one of the seats, step into the bathroom, and strip off the DHL shirt. I rinse my face. The icy cold water is refreshing. It stings my split lip, which I like, welcome. Without drying my face, I just stare at myself in the mirror, water dripping everywhere.
Shane’s disappearance coming to the surface was only a matter of time. Now it just adds to the spinning carousel of chaos that has once again become my life. There’s Perry’s upcoming trip to Miami, and my follow-up meeting with Cass on behalf of Landis. There’s Minnie Peretsky, Greg Albert, and Bobby Sturner—and the fact I, in conjunction with my partners, am looking to get them all to sell to a psychopath. A psychopath who may just bury me if I don’t come through.
I need to get Roddy Laskowski into line, which in order to pull off means I need the right site. Which just may mean a meeting and some subsequent strong-arming of Fucking Anshel, which is not exactly what I need at this particular moment. Madame Martine. Esparanza. Morante. Marilena. Greg Shand. All of this on top of keeping up appearances, both literally and figuratively, while running the hottest boutique commercial real estate shop in the city.
My mind and body, both willing as always to forge ahead relentlessly, feel tired. They are both craving something—the way they used to crave coke when I was a younger power-beast, the way I craved and devoured Life Fuel Energy Shots during those four sleepless days and nights before the heart attack. My history, Perry’s present—all of this should lead to me being straight up scared of any and all substances. But it doesn’t. And I’m not. I have to get where I need to go at all costs, and fatigue inhibiting my mission never has been, and never will be, acceptable.
What does this make me? Fearless? Reckless? Determined? Senseless? Protective? Loyal?
Again I splash my face with freezing cold water. Again I stare at myself, letting it drip.
Is it pain that I’m craving?
Because it invigorates me?
Because I deserve to have it find me?
* * *
In a fresh Assiagi suit minus the jacket, and all the Assiagi accouterments from head to toe, I sit in the same seat in front of the same table I did last night. I look across to the couch. My eyes on my briefcase, I call for Jennie. She peeks her head out of the galley.
“Yes, Jonah?”
For all the same reasons I won’t touch my iPhone for anything out of the business realm, I want no part of my laptop or iPad. Have these devices been part of Cobus’ monitoring scheme? Has he watched me reviewing and manipulating maps of cities like Berlin and Rotterdam and Manhattan? How? Who around me could have ever given him access to these devices?
“I spilled water on my laptop so it’s completely screwed. Do you have one I could borrow for a little while?”
“I do. Is an Apple MacBook Air okay?”
“Perfect. My weapon of choice.”
Jennie disappears. I hear her going through what I presume to be her bag. She returns twenty seconds later, MacBook Air in tow.
“Thanks so much. I really appreciate it,” I say, extending my hand to take it from her.
“Not a problem,” she says as she hands it over.
I place it on the table and power it up.
“Is there a password?”
“Nope. Nothing to hide,” she responds in that hot, sultry voice.
“Too bad,” I say, eyes still on the booting machine. “Nothing like a little naughtiness.”
She giggles then pauses.
“We’ve got about five minutes till wheels up. Can I bring you anything for while you work?”
I’d love a line. Or a Red Bull. Or a punch to the face.
“Just some ice water would be great.”
“Coming up. Flight time this afternoon will be about one hour and fifteen minutes.”
Once the machine is powered up and ready to go, I jump in with Google. I have nowhere to start but the beginning. I type in the letters “Rh,” just as I saw them—capital “R,” and lowercase “h.” I hit search.
My iPhone rings. It’s L. I don’t answer. Instead I dial him back on my new Samsung Galaxy.
“Hello?” he says, hesitation in his voice.
“It’s me.”
“What number is this? Are you out of the country?”
“I had to take off for a quick trip—which I’d appreciate you mentioning to no one, and I’ll explain when I see you. What’s up?”
“Fucking Mister Jet Set. I love that shit. You on the private jet?”
“L—no time today. We can talk toys later. What’s up?”
“My sense of timing, punk ass. I popped in on your new friend to ask a car question right at the time he was seething from a fight with his ex-wife. I told him he needed to relax with some booze and ass, and that I’d take him out tonight. All you gotta do is call me, ask what’s up, I give you the ‘I thought you and Perry had a charity function’ bullshit, you pop over to meet us—done and done. You work him over Jonah Gray-style.”
“I like it. Nice.”
I look at the World Time and crunch the time like a computer. By the time we lift off, it will be about 12:25 p.m.—7:25 a.m. at home. An hour and change flight time to Hamburg will bring me to 1:30 p.m. and 8:30 a.m., respectively. I know exactly which building in Hamburg I’ll be going to see, and it’s only fifteen minutes from the airport. I don’t plan on being in Hamburg any more than an hour or so—3:30 p.m. and 9:30 a.m. Eight hours flight time gets me home today at 5:30 p.m. Aside from some serious jet lag issues, I should have no problem going out tonight with L and my new friend Roddy.
“Once you know the plan, text it to me on this phone,” I go on. “And I’ll call you later.”
“You got it, bro. Over and out. Too bad about that Page Six bullshit. Not used to seeing things written about you and Perry there unless it’s what party you two were at, who you were with, and what you two were wearing.”
Page Six is the gossip page in the New York Post.
“What does it say?” I ask.
“You haven’t seen it? Bro, what went—”
“Just,” I cut him off while closing my eyes, “read it to me.”
“Hold on.”
Ten seconds later he’s back with the paper.
“It’s a small paragraph on the left. Right above one about DiCaprio being spotted downtown at The Electric Room with some of his boys and a new ten on his arm. Like that’s fucking news.”
“L. Seriously. Just—”
“Right. Just read it. The headline is ‘REAL ESTATE POWER PLAYER JONAH GRAY IN SECURITY SNAFU.’ Then it goes on to read: ‘Word on the street is security detail in one of Mr. Gray’s Park South properties may have fallen asleep on the job. It seems the prototype for a new Madame Martine—the legendary perfumer who recently moved into a Resurrection Realty property—fragrance has gone missing. Foul play? Inside job? Either way, it seems Mr. Gray may have some explaining to do.’”
“Gotta go. See you tonight.”
Without waiting for a response I hang up. I go straight to my contacts. I find Dawn London, the publicist for me personally as well as for Resurrection. I dial on the iPhone, since it’s business, and if Cobus is watching and, or, listening as closely as I think he may be, he already knows about this situation.
“You were my next call, sunshine.”
Dawn London is a young, sharp publicist who’s as good at spin and crisis management as she is with promotion. The girl could convince you an old lady with the right of way, crossing the street, run over by a motorcycle gang, was at fault as easily as she could convince you everyone needs flavored toilet paper.
“Page Six is just one outlet who has this news,” I say. “According to Perry, the New York Times knows about it too. I’m guessing they’re about to try to dig deeper.”
“It will be. For the time being, I’d like to release a short statement.”
“I’ve already drafted it and upon your approval will release it on your behalf. I want it kept short, owning the situation, vowing resolution, and expressing that Resurrection is working with all parties necessary—including the vendor under contract to handle security in Resurrection properties—to rectify the situation. I want it made clear you hire an outside company to handle the expertise of security, whereas your expertise is real estate.”
She goes on to read me the statement.
“Sounds right on all around,” I confirm.
“Do we want to name the firm who handles security? Give everyone interested an actual name to start looking into?”
Absolutely. But I can’t. Not until I’ve spoken with Shand from Spectrum Global. I need to keep him in a good place.
“No,” I respond. “I’m not in the business of throwing people I do business with under the bus. People want to dig, let them start digging.”
I hang up and return to my Googling. “Rh.” Restoration Hardware’s homepage is the top result. Under that is something called the Rh blood group system on Wikipedia. I click on the result and begin reading: “The Rh blood group system (including the Rh factor) is one of thirty-three current human blood group systems. It is the most important . . .”
I go back to the search results. The next one down is RH Contemporary Art, a multichannel platform looking to bring the work of international artists to a global audience. The address is on West Sixteenth Street in Manhattan. Could this be it? Art? Doesn’t feel right—not with those tamper-proof drums that were all exactly the same size. I keep going. Next: “What is Rh Incompatibility? Rh incompatibility is a condition that occurs during pregnancy . . .” Nope. Next: RH-Yahoo Finance, the stock ticker quote for Restoration Hardware. I keep going, then move on to the second page of results. Everything is still about Restoration Hardware or blood. Page three, more of the same with a few new results mixed in that seem equally way off-base. Page four and on gets more and more random, with nothing seemingly on point whatsoever.
As the jet barrels down the runway and lifts off, I decide to move on to the gray plastic containers. I type in “Ir”—again, exactly as I saw it—into Google. The first result is Ir Conjugation—Conjugate Ir in Spanish. The second one says: IR—Wikipedia. I begin reading the summary. “Ir or ir may refer to: iridium (chemical symbol Ir), the 77th element; ir, the Internet country code top-level domain for Iran; IR may refer to Iran, which has the . . .”
I keep going. Next up: International Rectifier—The Power Management Leader. I click on it. Some type of automotive company it seems. I click on “About Us.” “International Rectifier Corporation is a world leader in power-management technology. Leading manufacturers of computers, energy-efficient appliances, lighting, automobiles, satellites, aircraft and defense systems rely on IR’s power management benchmarks to power their next generation products.” Huh. I click on the “Products” tab. There are multiple products listed under headings such as Power MOSFETs, Gate Driver ICs and Controllers, IGBTs, Motor Control Solutions—I have minimal, if any, understanding of what any of this means.
Doesn’t feel right. On the gray containers Ir was printed in a very simple, black font, and there was that gray logo that looked like two G’s backed up to one another. This IR—International Rectifier—has a very bold, red, unique logo. On each of the two labels back in that storage space the two letters were written very plain, simply matter of fact next to a unique logo. Ir was not the name of a company, nor was Rh. These initials have to do with what’s inside those drums and containers, not who’s responsible for getting them there.
I click back to my results and move on. Next, IR: Summary for Ingersoll Rand plc—Yahoo Finance. The summary says “View the basic IR stock chart on . . .” No need to go any further. Ingersoll Rand is one of the world’s behemoth companies, and has brand names like American Standard, Trane, Thermo King, and ARO under its umbrella to go along with its well-known, red, bold, IR logo.
Spanish Verb Conjugation—ir—123TeachMe comes next, followed by IR—Proactive Performance Management Solutions. The summary says, “That’s where we come in. Where others see disaster, we see solutions. Customers in over 60 countries rely on IR Prognosis to optimize systems and help . . .” Another Ir company. I move on.
More entries related to Ingersoll Rand and Spanish verb conjugation. I move on to page two, then three, and find the same with yet more companies appearing with the initials Ir from IR Illuminators to Indian Railways to IR Mobile. Soon we start moving into articles past and present on which professional athletes have hit the IR List—Injury Reserve—in their respective sports.
I sit back and take a deep breath. I turn and look out the window just as we blast through a thin layer of clouds into the clear, endless, blue sky. My father crosses my mind. As much as I want to ask what he would do with all the shit dropped into my lap, I hate myself for still wanting his advice this many years after his death. I loathe him for betraying my mother all those years ago. I love him for being my brutally honest father. And for the fact his huge balls showed me the way to an iron backbone.
My eyes move to my briefcase on the couch across from me. I stand up and walk over to it. I reach inside, into one of the side pockets, and pull out a business card I’ve had in my possession for ten years. “Agliani Brothers—New York City’s Most Respected Tailors” is embossed in red on the front of the nice, thick, white stock. The address is 149 West Forty-Eighth Street. I flip the card over. Handwritten is another address. “9009 Pettit Avenue. Queens, NY.” I’m not looking at it because I need to remember the address—this has been seared into my memory from the moment I saw it. I’m looking at it because I want to remember who it’s from, what it means.
I return the card to its rightful place in my briefcase. I retake my seat. Then put my eyes back on the screen, and keep going.