What Happened at East Houston Street

Chapter 26

Cal Newell sat at his desk in his office on High Street with his head propped in his hand and pulling at his collar that felt too tight. He stared at the red brick building across the street from his third floor window. He had already read The Boston Globe from front to back. Jittery from the three cups of coffee he drank earlier, he pushed his chair back and stood up, stretching his arms over his head, moving from side to side. Letting out a long breath, he walked over to the window and looked down at the street, hoping to find some entertainment to watch outside.

In the next office, Mason sat at his ornate oak desk, opening the mail that had arrived that afternoon. Having to cut back on expenses, he had to let his secretary go, opting to keep a receptionist in the front lobby instead. Usually a task as clerical as sorting the mail was left for her, but she delivered any unopened parcels that seemed confidential directly to Mason. He turned the envelope over in his hands, the words "Final Notice" stamped on the front. The worry lines on his forehead deepened as he looked at the red words on the paper. This was the first time he had ever received a piece of mail with that kind of warning. He tsked to himself and sliced a brass letter opener through the top of the envelope. Unfolding the letter inside, he scanned the words, some standing out more than others.

...formal notice demanding that you make immediate payment...
This is a serious situation which requires your immediate attention...
...legal action to enforce your obligation....
...forced to begin eviction proceedings...

He let out a long sigh and turned his gaze to the window that barely let in any light, as they were on a lower floor of the building. A knock interrupted his thoughts. He looked over to see Cal leaning against the door.

"Hey, Dad. What do you say we go for a nice lunch at Mistral?" he offered.

Mason shook his head and gave an annoyed chuckle. "Cal, the last thing on your mind right now should be food." He pushed his chair back and stood behind his desk, both hands lying flat on its surface. "Have you made any deals today?"

Cal rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Come on, Dad! It's always work with you. Why don't we call it a day and relax a little? Have a little fun?"

The older man looked at the final notice on his desk and slammed his hands down hard, causing Cal to jump. "You've been having fun your entire life. Ever since Milton Academy, when I had to replace an industrial oven that you and your friends ruined with your pranks. Or when I had to settle out of court with Ms. Newman after you drove your Porsche into her shed." Mason stared at his hands, with his head down, and gulped. "Or when you were so reckless that you...that you..." He began to choke up, stopping himself mid-sentence. 

Cal stepped toward his father until Mason put a finger up to stop him. "Stay right there" he said while shaking his head. "It's time to get to work. I can't carry you on my back anymore."

Cal gave his father a pained look, as if he was about to cry. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could speak, his father started again.

"I don't want to hear a single word out of you, Charles." His icy blue eyes locked straight on his son. "We won't even be able to keep the lights on in this place in another month. If it wasn't for the consistent returns that Tip brings in every month, I'd hardly be able to put gas in my car." Mason walked over to the window and stared out, his hands folded behind his back. He didn't look at his son when he said, "You need to close that deal with the Mistlers right away. I won't have you ruin all of my hard work. You've brought us as close to the brink as I'd ever like to get. Now you need to fix it. Get out of my office and don't come back until you have some business to do."

Cal turned on his heel and stormed down the three steps into the mezzanine level near Tip's office. On his way out of the building, he paused at his door and leaned in. Tip looked up from his computer screen when he noticed Cal in his doorway.

"Hi, Mr. Newell," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Cal sneered, shaking his head, still upset from his father's stern lecture. "I need every comparative market analysis of Kendall Square that you can get your hands on," he barked. Without another word, he left, slamming the front door on his way out.

Tip sat stunned. Cal had just given him at least three days' worth of work. He already had meetings booked throughout the week, so he was going to be pulling some long hours at the office. He leaned back in his chair and groaned just as Mason was walking by his open door.

The older man stopped when he heard the grunt of frustration from Tip's direction. He walked into his office and said, "Having a rough day, Mr. Wellington?"

As soon as he saw Mason Newell standing in his office, he sat straighter in his chair. He started to tidy his desk, arranging his papers neatly into piles. "Oh, hi, Mr. Newell!" he said, a slightly higher pitch to his tone. "What can I do for you today?"

Not originally intending on stopping to chat with Tip, the question caught Mason off guard. After a few seconds, though, he rebounded and said, "Thomas, what do you know about the Mistler family?"

Upon hearing the Mistler name, Tip's heart jumped into his throat. His grandfather, Harry, had always taught him to keep a straight face at work, no matter how well you think you might know someone. He obviously knew Brent from the BC frat. That was common knowledge. What wasn't common knowledge, however, was the nature of Brent's girlfriend's relationship with his best friend. Tip wanted to keep it that way.

"Hmm," he feigned an unaffected look on his face, "I know Brent from my Kappa Sigma days. Pretty successful family, I believe." He gave Mason a quick smile and raise of his eyebrows, as if to ask if he needed anything else.

Mason nodded. He walked towards the door and, with his back turned, said, "Thank you for your hard work, Thomas."