It’s what Vaughan hired him for. The two men go back, they get along. It was a clear succession strategy.
But these things rarely go smoothly. Of the major buyout firms that are still run by their founders, most of them have no strategies in place at all for handing on the reins-which is fine, or will be for a while, because the CEOs in these places tend to be in their mid- to late sixties. But in Vaughan’s case, strategy notwithstanding, the situation has become critical.
Client confidence is key here. It’s not something you can afford to mess around with. The Global Equities Conference starts today, for example, and there are a lot of people in town, some of whom will be dropping by the office later on for a cocktail reception. And the Jimmy Vaughan of legend is one thing, but the Jimmy Vaughan of yesterday? That’s another matter entirely.
So he really needs to know what’s going on.
Howley turns and catches Angela’s eye again. He brings a hand up to his ear and makes a phone gesture.
She nods.
He’ll have a word with Meredith, try to get the point across. She’s not the only one who can speak in code.
Leaving the Melmotte Room on the tenth floor of the Rygate Hotel, Scott Lebrecht turns to his assistant.
“This interview, Baxter? Where we doing it again?”
“The Wilson. It’s uptown a bit. On Madison.”
“I know where the Wilson is.”
Baxter shrugs. They arrive at the elevators.
“So that went well.”
“No it fucking didn’t.”
“What. You got a great reception.”
“Nah.” Lebrecht shakes his head. “You know what it is? Most of these big equity guys are twenty years older than I am, more in some cases, and it’s like they think of me as the kid or something. They talk down to me. And I hate that.” He pauses. “What I hate is these events. I mean, a panel discussion? Come on. People here don’t think I have better uses for my time than a fucking panel discussion? Please.”
The elevator doors open, and they get in.
A lot of the delegates at the conference are from out of town and are staying for the full three days that it’s on. In between sessions, and over dinners, they’ll be discussing everything from how the industry needs to embrace change to the vexed question of going public.
Lebrecht can think of nothing worse.
Cutting out early like this, not sticking around, gives him some satisfaction. But now he has to face an interview with a business journalist.
In another hotel.
More convoluted questions, more evasive answers.
It’ll be a welcome distraction if she’s cute, but really, he has better uses for his time than that, too. Black Vine Partners is currently circling distressed European retailer Ballantine Marche, which fell into administration last month. Plus, they’re trying to raise capital for a new mezzanine fund.
He has stuff to do.
The elevator door opens, and they head out across the lobby.
It’s probably fair to say that Black Vine Media takes up more of his time than it should, but he’s determined to make it work. If this movie comes together, Shem Tyner or no Shem Tyner, they could have a valuable franchise on their hands.
Young Adult Post-Apocalyptic meets High School Gross-out.
As they approach the exit, Baxter puts a hand up to his earpiece. “You want to talk to Paris?”
Lebrecht stops. “Yeah.”
This’ll be Dan Travers, about Ballantine Marche.
“Okay,” Baxter says, moving off. “I’ll be out at the car.”
“Dan the Man,” Lebrecht says, leaning back a little to look up at the lobby’s soaring stained-glass dome. “Comment ça va?”
Sitting opposite a line of nervous-looking Japanese tourists on the downtown A train, Ellen Dorsey-sleep deprived, but hopped up on java-is feeling pretty nervous herself.
It’s a different kind of nervous, though.
She’s decided to head down to the Herald Rygate hotel in midtown and then… assess the situation. She won’t get past the lobby, because she’s not registered, or accredited, to attend the conference.
So in all likelihood she won’t get to see Scott Lebrecht.
But even if she did, if she pulled some ballsy reporter moves and got five minutes with him, what would she say? I’m running a story about an Internet post that suggests you as a suitable candidate for assassination? I was wondering if you’d care to comment?
Yes, that probably is what she’d say. Except for one thing-she isn’t running the story anywhere. Because that’s all she’s got and it isn’t enough, and if she were to alert Lebrecht or the police, the story would get out at once and that’d be the end of any advantage she had.
Or might have had.
The train pulls into Seventy-second Street. The Japanese tourists get off and are replaced by three randoms-business guy in a suit, sultry teen boy, and a woman about Ellen’s own age but considerably better dressed.
And saner-looking.
The train rattles on.
Ellen doesn’t really have any option here, does she? There’s no obvious solution that presents itself. She’s going to have to give this up.
Sultry teen boy stifles a sneeze, which seems to hurt. He then looks around scowling, as if it was someone else’s fault.
She’ll go into the Parallax offices and lay it all out for Max. She has a contact in the NYPD, and if it comes to it, she can make the call from there.
She stares down at the floor.
But first she’ll swing by the Rygate.
Train pulls in at Fifty-ninth Street.
It can’t hurt. She’ll wander around for a while, see what’s going on, play it by ear. Maybe inveigle her way in to the conference.
She runs through a couple of scenarios in her head.
A short time later, as the train is pulling out of Forty-second Street, she looks up again, at the seats opposite. Only one of the original three randoms is left.
Her enhanced doppelgänger.
They both get out at Thirty-fourth Street, and as Ellen trails behind, along the platform, she fantasizes briefly about having this woman’s life-the confidence to wear those clothes, the because-she’s-worth-it hair, the Jell-O-on-springs gait. But as they approach the stairs weariness prevails, slowing Ellen down, and the fantasy fragments, disassembles.
The woman vanishes into the crowd.
Up at street level, heading east, Ellen regroups, sort of. Even if she were to change her mind about the Rygate, she could still pass close by it on her way to the Parallax offices. She wouldn’t have to turn north for at least another few blocks.
But she hasn’t changed her mind.
A little sunshine has broken through, and the city is wet and glistening from the earlier rain.
She walks on.
A few minutes later she turns a corner and there it is, on the other side of Broadway-the Herald Rygate, town cars and limos lining the curb in front of it, drivers and doormen gathered under its awning.
Pedestrians streaming by.
Ellen pulls out her phone, checks the time, looks around, and starts crossing the street.
“So, you’d say five, six feet?”
“Yeah, five, six.”
“Five or six feet at the widest point?”
“That’s correct, sir. The widest point.”
“Which is at the bottom.”
“Yeah.”
“The bottom of the staircase?”