Chapter 5 - Caroline
Caroline
“You did what?” Eddie snapped.
“Not so loud,” I said. “Your door is open.”
Eddie got up from his desk, closed the door, and sat back down across from me. “Let me repeat myself. You did what, Caroline?”
“This is a good thing, Eddie. The Journal is off the hook for the puff piece, and I get to write a more comprehensive story about Harrison Blackstone. Everyone wins.”
“Including Blackstone. He’s going to control what you write, Caroline.”
I tapped the desk between us. “The contract specifically states that I have full editorial control of what’s written. He can’t veto anything he doesn’t like.”
Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me a headache, Caroline. A good lawyer will be able to twist the wording of that contract any way they want. And Blackstone has excellent lawyers.”
“I honestly don’t think so,” I replied. “For whatever reason, I think he wants the biography to be an honest look at his life, not just an ego-boost for publicity.”
“You’re being naive.” He glanced at a message on his phone, then put it back down on the desk. “It feels premature to write a biography about a man who isn’t even old enough to rent a car.”
“He’s thirty-one.”
“Which is about halfway to the age where someone deserves a biography.”
“You’re not thinking about the big picture,” I insisted.
“I’m going to get unprecedented access to Harrison Blackstone.
The contract doesn’t prohibit me from writing articles about him while working on the biography.
I’ll basically be a spy on the inside. And he’s paying me an insane rate to do it, along with three percent of the net royalties. ”
“I think you’re seriously over-estimating how much information Blackstone and his retinue intend to give you.” Eddie picked up his pen and began tapping it anxiously on the edge of the desk. “How much time off do you need to work on this biography?”
“None,” I replied. “I can do this while maintaining my current workload.”
“You say that now…” He tapped the pen some more, then placed it on his notepad. “Just keep me updated. Let me know if you get overwhelmed. We have other writers we can delegate your work to.”
“I said I can handle the workload, Eddie.”
He gave me a curt nod, which I knew meant he trusted me. To a point.
I spent the rest of the morning finishing my workload, then took a taxi to the Blackstone & Moreau headquarters in downtown Manhattan. Technically, only sixty-two out of the ninety-one floors were owned by the investment firm, but everyone in the city knew who the building belonged to.
I checked in with the security desk on the first floor. The guard verified my credentials and appointment information, then printed out a custom ID badge with my photo.
“Right this way, Ms. Fairfax.”
“I can find the way myself.”
The security guard’s face was as hard and immovable as a mountain. “This is all protocol. I’m sure you understand.”
I allowed myself to be escorted to the elevator and up to the proper floor. As I passed through three more checkpoints where I was asked to scan my badge, I felt like I was meeting a member of the royal family.
The eighty-fifth floor had an open layout, one enormous room with high ceilings and glass windows that gave views of the towering Manhattan skyscrapers that surrounded the building.
The space was filled with dozens of cubicles, each one with an array of computer monitors showing stock charts and news bulletins.
It was green and red candle charts as far as the eye could see.
Every employee turned and watched as I was escorted to Blackstone’s office at the end of the floor. Many seemed curious, but some outright glared at me. They knew who I was and had probably read the articles I had written about their company and their boss.
I had hoped to chat with some of the employees after the meeting, get some inside information before they knew who I was. So much for that idea.
Blackstone’s office occupied the back-right corner, with a second, smaller office serving as the anteroom. I could see him inside, striding back and forth while gesturing toward his desk. He looked like he was on a conference call.
Inside the anteroom was Rafael, the bodyguard I’d seen at the charity event and at the restaurant last night.
Once my escort handed me off, Rafael narrowed his eyes at me like I was an unpleasant chore he needed to handle.
His desk was positioned such that anyone wanting to approach Blackstone’s office door had to walk right by his desk.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Unfortunately, Mr. Blackstone is occupied by a last-minute issue. Your interview today will be with me instead.”
I blinked. This felt like a joke, but Rafael seemed like the kind of man who never joked about anything. “What could be more important than his biography?” I demanded.
“A lot of things,” he replied. “He will prioritize your interview next time, I assure you. And there is still a chance his current meeting will end in time to speak with you for a few minutes.”
I groaned internally. Blackstone was right there, visible through the glass wall, smiling and laughing at whatever the person on his call had said.
He glanced up at me, then returned his focus to the conference phone on his desk.
This felt like a power move. The kind of macho nonsense that shitty New York businessmen would do in the 80s to assert their dominance over other shitty New York businessmen. I was tempted to counter it by leaving.
No. I wasn’t going to let him waste my time. Besides, this biography was going to take countless interviews over months. The sooner I got things started, the sooner it would be over.
I sat down. Rafael looked relieved.
“I’m Rafael Mercer, Mr. Blackstone’s bodyguard and the head of security here at Blackstone and Moreau. I’ve known him for nearly a decade, so I can give quite a bit of background information.”
Rafael crossed bulging arms across his chest. He was a fortress in a tailored suit, all clenched jaw and quiet watchfulness.
He looked like he’d rather be doing anything other than talking to a journalist, which made me wonder if he was unhappy with Blackstone’s decision to hire me to write his biography.
I wondered if there was a way I could exploit that later.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “I guess we’ll start at the beginning.”
“Harrison Blackstone was born in Brooklyn,” Rafael began.
“Oh,” I said. “I meant the beginning of your relationship with Mr. Blackstone, but if you’re familiar with his backstory…”
Rafael spoke quickly, like he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. He listed off Blackstone’s entire backstory, growing up in a poor neighborhood in Brooklyn before it was gentrified.
He played baseball with the neighborhood kids and went to public school.
Boring, boring, boring.
All of this was public information that I already knew. It was like Rafael was reciting his Wikipedia page. But that’s not why I was here. I wanted details nobody else knew, stories about his childhood that helped explain how he’d climbed to the top of the financial world.
While Rafael spoke, I couldn’t help but glance past him into the main office. Blackstone was grinning and laughing. Whatever meeting he was in, it didn’t seem like an emergency that was worth bumping my appointment.
An idea came to me. It was risky, but it would speed this interview along. It would also probably annoy Blackstone himself, which I decided was a delicious side benefit.
“Any questions so far?” Rafael asked after explaining his high school history.
“Actually, can I get a water? I left my water bottle back at the office.”
Rather than leave to fetch one for me, Rafael pressed an intercom button and made his request. Ten seconds later, an assistant hurried into our room and placed a bottle of water on the desk in front of me. It was branded with the Blackstone & Moreau logo.
Damn.
“Where were we?” Rafael asked. “Senior year of high school, Harrison was struggling to choose between Princeton and the University of Chicago. He hadn’t settled on a career in finance yet, and was drawn to Chicago’s strong mathematics program…”
Blackstone was sitting at his desk now, hands behind his head while he leaned back in his chair. Relaxed. Unhurried despite my presence in the room with Rafael.
I took a sip of water, placed it back on the desk… and intentionally let it fall forward.
“Shit,” Rafael cursed as water gushed out of the bottle, spreading across the table.
“I’m so sorry!” I said while he stood up, grabbing envelopes and folders off the table before they could get wet. He turned around to retrieve a towel from the cabinet behind him…
I darted for the door. Fortunately, it was unlocked. The last thing I heard was Rafael cursing before I closed the door behind me and flipped the lock.
The man on the conference call was droning on about something. His voice sounded familiar, but all my attention was on the man seated at the desk. I expected Blackstone to be annoyed by my intrusion, or outright upset, but instead he wore a curious smile on his lips. Like he was impressed.
“If you think I’m going to be bullied by your tactics, then you don’t know who you’re working with,” I said. “Clearly this meeting isn’t an emergency, so how about we dispense with the bullshit?”
Rafael unlocked the door and stepped inside. His muscular presence behind me was a threat, like someone was holding a gun to my head, but Blackstone held a hand up to stop him from dragging me out of the room.
“Dispense with the bullshit?” Blackstone repeated, still smiling.
“I won’t tolerate this, not from the start,” I said firmly. “If you don’t intend to take this seriously, then I’ll tear up our contract and go back to writing hit pieces about this cesspool you call a hedge fund.”