Larchmont Yacht Club is home to overextended Wall Streeters who are stuck in middle management. Range Rover lease payments, private school tuition, and mortgages on their castles keep them in a fiscal quagmire. They’re one stock market blow from complete financial ruin and do everything they can to hide the cracking façade.
They’re a happy bunch though after a good sail, or if they shot below par that week. Tonight though the clubhouse held a tense and somber tone. It was bonus season and it looks like they’d be spending most of their sleepless night thinking about corporate growth opportunities instead of the lift lines at Aspen.
Grigsby entered the clubhouse and scanned the room. He saw men who considered themselves titans of industry but moved past them in search for actual kings. He walked fast through trophy-lined halls and black and white photos of tall ships. Soon Grigsby entered the map room and looked through an old bookcase. Ira caught up with him, Daria too.
“To the left,” Daria said.
Grigsby nodded and grabbed hold of the Annapolis Book of Seamanship. Yanking it outward a latch fell behind the bookshelf and a door opened to the side of it. The trio entered a narrow corridor that smelled like a dry, dusty attic. Soon they entered a wide room at the top of the clubhouse. It overlooked the bay which was as black as oil. Daria flicked on the lights. An elegant boardroom with two phones, one black the other red, sat in the center.
“Setup it up,” Grigsby said.
Ira opened the briefcase and took out a strange looking laptop with a satellite uplink. It looked more like a device used for drone strikes in Kandahar Province than something a Jewish lawyer would be lugging around. Grigsby took this time to check on Ryūki. He picked up the phone and dialed the hospital that sits along the East River. The nurses said Ryūki was pulling through at triple the speed they’d never seen anything like it. Grigsby told the nurse to pass along a message, “The Oni has fallen.” Grigsby hung up.
“We’re online,” Ira said,
Grigsby turned to face the laptop screen. A grey-haired man with a stone jawline stared back. He gave a curt bow and spoke, “Grigsby Ives Pemberton,”
“Mr. Hayakawa, good to see you.”