West moves his hands up to his temples, massages them.
“Wow, is he about to admit something?” Josh asks.
“He’s taking a long time,” Shawn says.
“Sir, did you understand the question?”
“I’m tired,” he says. “I’m so tired of all of this. I worked my ass off to build this company. I knew I’d get backlash. You take your lumps, you forge ahead. But this? This constant barrage of attacks, even from my own employees? There’s so much you don’t understand.”
“Enlighten us.”
West leans back in his chair, then forward, his elbows on his quads. “I was laid off from my job back in the nineties. I was fine, my wife still worked, we had some savings, but I knew in the long term, I needed to provide for my kids. I needed an idea, a fresh start. After our second child, my beautiful wife was searching through a plethora of Cooper Harlow magazines, ripping out pictures, trying to find out where to buy the things she loved. I thought, wouldn’t it be great to start a fashion magazine that was online? That’s it. Simple as that. No one was doing it at the time. No one. Magazines were talking about it, absolutely, and industry experts were warning that publishing would be left in the dust if they didn’t start incorporating an online platform into their media mix. But I did it. That was my big idea, my fresh start. So I emptied my savings, took out a second mortgage. From the first digital magazine, I knew I was onto something. An idea that would, pardon my use of an extremely overused phrase, ‘disrupt the market.’ Internet commerce was fledgling, but it was taking over. Fast. I knew that print was on its way out. I flipped the script. I concentrated on digital first. With Walter Gordon’s help, we fucking pioneered the platform.”
“Can he say fuck on live TV?” Shawn asks.
“The bleeper musta missed it,” Josh replies.
“Then I backed up the immersive digital platform with a killer print mag. It took off. Then I did it again. And again. Before I knew it, we were profitable, gaining market share, acquiring new companies; delving into entertainment, news, streaming; leaving everyone else by the wayside. Just last week, half of our organization moved into our new building. We’re calling it TriCity Towers. Others call it the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World.’ In Hell’s Kitchen, just south of Hudson Yards. Three waterfront towers. It’s beautiful. State-of-the-art. It houses all of our acquisitions, all of our employees, taking over an entire city block in New York City, with room to spare for shopping, condos, restaurants, other tenants. We have a grand opening in less than a month, honoring beautiful people taking part in real change all across the globe, raising millions and millions of dollars for charity.
“Do you know how huge and crazy all of that sounds to a Podunk like me?” West straightens his torso, looks as if he’s placing his hand on his heart. “Have I made mistakes to get where I am? Sure. Have I opened myself up to others who want to take advantage of me? Absolutely. But I’ll be damned if I let anyone even suggest I was involved in someone’s murder. Not ever again.”
West pulls his microphone out of his shirt, throws it on the ground and storms off camera.
Tracy raises her hand. “Mr. West, please come—”
She stands, places her note cards on her chair, exits the screen, then turns back to the camera. “Leslie, we can go to break.”
“This. This is what I have to go back to?” Josh sits wide-eyed at the TV screen. “This is going to ruin Élan before we even move in the building. West is a lunatic. We have to take him down.”
“You’re meeting with Agent Pillsbury tomorrow, right?” Shawn presses the mute button.
“I am.”
“I met with her this morning, handed over the flash drives of the 4JFK file. Pillsbury wanted to have a look at them before your meeting.”
“Thank you.”
“When’s your meeting?”
“Seven a.m.”
“At the FBI?”
“No.”
C h a p t e r 3 9
BETWEEN DUANE AND Thomas Streets on the outskirts of Tribeca, Josh crosses Broadway to the store façade of NyYo Frozen Yogurt. He grabs the pink metallic handle and opens the door. A fluorescent wonderland smacks him in the face.
Spinning on each wall are dozens of pinwheels, lit from the inside, shooting psychedelic spirals onto the already overly lit interior. Willy Wonka music plays over a beaten-up speaker in the corner next to the stairs, while two young employees dressed in pink polos sit unamused at the front counter.
“What is this place?” Josh asks.
“New York Yogurt, how may I help you.”
Without the lilt, the question was more of a statement—monotone, flat. Neither of the employees’ lips really moved, so Josh has no idea whom to address.
“So this is a New York business?” Josh realizes his black suit jacket and crisp white shirt must look adrift amidst the cacophony of color. “Have the owners even visited New York?”
“We used to be everywhere, now there’s just the one,” the female employee says, nose in a book.
“The FBI is across the street,” the other one says. “They love us. For some reason they never stopped coming, even after the death of frozen yogurt. At least that’s what they say.”
“The Feds force us to be open in the mornings.” She flips a page. “Morning froyo. It’s a thing.”
Josh looks at their nametags. Her name is Simone. The other one is Chuck. Combined, their ages have a slight chance of equaling his own.
“Speaking of FBI, I’m supposed to meet—”
Chuck points upstairs, says nothing.
“Thanks, Chuck.” Josh turns toward the stairs.
“You’re welcome, Josh.”
“Wait. How did you know my—”
“We got a full description of you. Would you like to know where you went to college?”
A FULL SEATING area encompasses the entire second floor of NyYo Yogurt, with maybe
