What Happened at East Houston Street

Chapter 36

As soon as Tip finished signing the contract with Trevor Klein, he stayed at the restaurant after his new client left and ordered himself a glass of Johnny Walker. His morning had been filled with anxiety and he needed to relax. He needed to clear his mind. After finishing the glass of scotch, he was still preoccupied. Wracking his brain, he tried to figure out why "OBC" had sounded familiar to him. At a loss for an answer, he gathered his satchel and made his way out of the restaurant. Instead of hailing a taxi, he chose to walk back to the office, hoping the fresh air would make him feel better. He passed the Museum of Contemporary Art and saw a group of guys around his age, who were dressed in skinny jeans and ripped T-shirts. They were laughing to each other about a robotic art display they had just seen at the museum. They were carefree, as one guy jumped on his friend's back and began to talk like a robot, while the other mechanically moved his arms while walking. They laughed and pushed each other playfully and laughed again.

So much fun in the middle of a work day, Tip thought. Lucky bastards.

He more so moped his way back to the office, and by the time he got there, he immediately wanted to leave. Upon pulling out his phone to call his father, he found that Stephanie had texted him.

Hey, Tip. Sorry I haven't gotten back to you sooner. It's been a crazy few days. You're more than welcome to crash here (you ARE my landlord after all). Let me know which day.

For the first time in days, he smiled. With his newfound happiness about seeing Stephanie soon, he pushed his chair back and walked out of his office, letting the receptionist know that he was leaving for the day.

Once he made it home, he called his father. "Hey, Tip," Rich Wellington answered. "I'm just walking into a meeting. Everything okay?"

Tip looked at his watch and saw it was almost 4pm. "Yeah, Dad! I was thinking you and I could meet for dinner later. How about Toscano's?"

His father, seeming to be having an outside conversation with someone else, distractedly answered, "Uh, yeah sure! How's 6:30 sound?"

"Great, Dad. See you soon."

He ended the call and decided to relax for a bit before dinner. He changed out of his suit and put on a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and removed the "OBC" folder from his work bag. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he took a sip of his beer and began flipping through the account statements. He saw big amounts of KYD. The ending balance was 4,374,96. He pulled up a currency conversion website and typed in the amount, choosing it to convert to USD. His eyes bulged when he saw the result. 4,374,96 KYD equaled $59,000,000 USD.

His mind raced. This OBC company that was listed to his dead aunt's address had the same amount of money three years ago that went missing from the Newell tax return three years ago. He shot up from the couch and paced with his head in his hands, pulling at his hair.

What did Aunt Maggie have to do with OBC Inc.?

He thought back to his childhood, trying to recall all of the times he met her. He didn't recall her having a job. She was a homemaker, until her husband died, making her a widow. She never had children, so it was just her.  And then there was the fact that $59 million was placed into OBC's portfolio seven years after her death. None of it made any sense to him. He needed help. 6:30pm couldn't come quick enough. He needed his father's advice.

"Hey, Dad," Pete answered his cell phone. "What's up?" He was walking back to his dorm room since his last class of the day had just ended.

Cal cleared his throat, attempting a jovial tone. "Hi, Pete! How's Hobart?"

Pete rolled his eyes, not in the mood for small talk. He had to finish writing a paper before heading out to a party later. "It's good. What's up, Dad?"

"Um, have you talked to your sister lately?" he asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Pete took a second to recall the last time he had talked to Lauren. "Uh, no, not since my birthday," he responded. "Why? What's up?" he asked, curious as to why his father, who rarely calls him, was now asking him about his sister.

Cal took a moment before responding, unsure of how to brace the topic.

"Daaaad?" Pete asked in a serious questioning tone.

"Oh! It's nothing! It's just that she's...uh, well...we need her home and she's in New York." Cal placed his hand on his forehead, realizing how ridiculous he must sound. He quickly recovered though, knowing that he needed Pete's help in finding out where Lauren was in New York.
"Listen, son. Your sister broke up with Brent and then she took off without telling us where she was going. Your mother is a nervous wreck worrying about her safety," he lied. "We need to know where she is. Can you get in touch with her?" He gritted his teeth while waiting for Pete to respond. After a few seconds, he added, "Please?"

Pete cocked his head, stopping his walk and sitting on a bench outside of his dorm building. "She finally dumped that idiot?! Good for her!" He beamed with pride for his sister.

Cal sighed, "Can you just try to call her? Find out exactly where she is? Make sure you get an address."

Pete was suspicious at his father's specific request. "Uh, yeah sure, Dad. I'll let you know."

Cal breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, son. Keep me updated," he said. "Uh, please!" he added for good measure.

The call ended and Pete typed out a text to Lauren.

Heard you finally cut that fat bastard loose. Proud of you, sis! You can do waaay better. Heads up, Dad is desperate to know where you are right now, so it's probably best to avoid him and mom at all costs. Let me know you're safe though. Love you!

Pete got up and went into the building, still smiling about his sister's breakup.

Tip got to Toscano's twenty minutes early. He couldn't wait at his apartment any longer. Looking at the "OBC" folder on his coffee table every two minutes was driving him crazy. He stood in the front waiting area by the door, watching the cooks in the back through the take-out window. It was like watching a tennis match, his eyes following them as they raced from the stove to the sink to the stove again. He got lost in their movements until a tap on his shoulder snapped him out of it.

"Hey there, Tip!" His father pulled him in for a hug and a pat on the back. "You were in a daze there!" He pointed to the take-out window.

Tip grinned. "I'm fine, Dad! Just impressed by how efficient those guys are back there. I put our name in when I got here, so our table is ready."

The two made it through half a bottle of Chianti and an appetizer before Tip shifted in his seat, wanting to broach the subject of the "OBC" folder. His father noticed a change in his demeanor and rested his folded hands on the table.

"So what's up, son? You seem a little preoccupied," he asked.

Tip looked at his father with a shy smile, a little embarrassed for being so transparent with his emotions.

"It's just work, Dad," he said, reaching for a piece of bread and ripping it in half. "I'm trying to work out some details of an account and I'm kind of hitting a dead-end." He shrugged, popping the bread into his mouth.

Rich nodded. "Ah, we've all been there before. I remember being in a bind early on in my career. I couldn't figure out how to get Burt Sandberg to invest with me. You remember him, his grandson played you in lacrosse at Rivers."

Tip nodded. "So what did you do?"

"I called your grandfather for advice. He'd always been good with the client relations aspect of the job." Rich sipped his wine. "He told me that Burt was part of the older era, where men didn't want to be sold on something. Instead, they wanted to feel like they were being let in on a secret."

Tip nodded, listening intently to his father's story. He didn't say a word, wanting him to continue.

Rich twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and said, "They want to be part of the Old Boys Club."

Tip raised an eyebrow at this. He looked down at his hands, working out what his father had just revealed. Old Boys Club. OBC.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful. They ate veal scallopini and frutti di mare, making small talk until Rich paid the bill and hugged his son goodbye. Tip watched him walk down the dark Beacon Hill sidewalk until he was out of view. He strolled back to his apartment with his hands in his pockets and head down, lost in thought about the Old Boys Club.