Grigsby stared at Mr. Hayakawa, the financial backer of Very Ferry, he did not look pleased.
“I trust you’ve heard the news?” Grigsby asked.
“No, we didn’t need to, we saw it happen live and then the feed cut out. Did the ship sink?”
“Yes. Thanks to your man.”
Mr. Hayakawa shook his head annoyed. “He’s brought dishonor to his family.”
“Yeah and he’s no Mr. Rogers either, I know who he’s Yakuza.”
Mr. Hayakawa’s face tensed, but he remained silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You better find Joji and put him on the next flight to Tokyo,”
“Now you wait—”
“If you don’t comply, Mr. Hayakawa, I’ll inform Homeland Security that your company is backing a terrorist organization.”
A heavy silence lingered, Grigsby waited for his investor’s response.
The Japanese man folded his hands. “Very well, Joji will fly home tonight.”
Ira smiled and mouthed “thank God.” Grigsby smirked and looked back at the screen, “Back row, middle seat, preferably between two people from one of those square states where their waistbands are elastic.”
“Nevermind. Just get rid of him.”
Grigsby continued negotiating with Mr. Hayakawa. After a long discussion with many obscure metaphors and corporate bullshit terminology, they reached a favorable resolution. The investment Grigsby owed Mr. Hayakawa had been cut in half, provided Grigsby never reveals the truth about tonight’s snafu to the American press. They both agreed and Grigsby ended the conversation in Japanese with flawless annunciation.
He nodded at Ira and Sofia and sat in a tuft leather chair the color of chestnut. A grandfather clock began tolling nine bells. “Well, I’m famished.”
“Shall I put in an order to the kitchen?” Sofia asked.
“No. Yacht Clubs seldom cook anything edible, only Country Clubs and Golf Clubs have proper chefs. Regardless, we’re eating Sushi, I know a place in New Canaan. Let’s go.”