What Happened at East Houston Street

Chapter 44

After he got off the phone with the NYPD and Sarah had gone outside to check on Lauren, Tip made another call. He dialed his grandfather's number, hoping to get some answers. He was desperate at this point and knew that the only other way to know if Mason had something to do with Stephanie's disappearance was to call his grandfather. He was prepared to lay out all of the information he'd found about OBC Inc., demanding his help in finding her. He knew that he and Mason were still close. They'd known each other for over 60 years. If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was him.

When Harry's voicemail picked up without it ringing first, he knew that his cell phone was off. Not leaving a message, he dialed his home phone number instead. It rang endlessly. The answering machine never clicked on. He ended the call and tried again, getting the same result. Frustrated and angry, he called again. No answer. He called again. Still no answer.
"FUCK!" he yelled, dropping his phone on the counter and kicking the cabinet.

When he heard the front door open, he ran his hand through his hair and turned back to the boiling pot of spaghetti, his back to the living room. As he stirred the pasta, he tried to calm down, not wanting to raise any suspicion.

"Hey," Sarah said, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.

"Hey," he responded, his back still to her. He stirred the pot, wracking his brain for the next plan. As he watched the spaghetti swirl in the water, he got lost in the fluid movement. He thought about his grandfather. Looking over at the clock on the microwave, he saw that it was close to 7pm. His 7-year-old grandfather was usually at home at this time in the evenings, unless he was attending a weekend event. It was a Thursday night. Something was off about the situation.

Tip pulled a noodle from the pot and furiously chucked it at the wall, alarming Sarah, who had been looking at her phone. When the noodle stuck to the paint, he turned off the stove burner and poured the spaghetti into a strainer in the sink. Sarah watched him, her mouth agape, as steam swarmed around his head. He swirled the pasta around and dropped it back into its pot. Clumsily pouring the tomato sauce into the pasta pot, hot bits of it splattered onto his wrists. Sarah winced as she watched him, seemingly unbothered by the burning liquid on his skin. He tossed the empty pot into the sink, causing a loud crashing sound. Sarah jumped at the noise. Tip, back at the stove, used a pair of tongs to mix the sauce with the noodles, aggressively tossing the utensil around, metal on metal ringing throughout the kitchen. Sarah gritted her teeth. The sound was grating. He served two bowls of the pasta and set them on the counter where Sarah sat. He spun around quickly and pulled two forks and two spoons out of a drawer, placing them next to each bowl.

With a glimmer of sweat on his upper lip, he grabbed his phone and key ring. Resting his palms against the cold granite countertop, he looked at Sarah. "I need to go visit my grandfather. I'll take care of the dishes when I get back."

As he raced to the front door, he bumped into Lauren, who was making her way back inside. "Sorry!" he waved as he flew out the door.

Lauren looked at Sarah questioningly. She gave no response, only a shrug. The next moment, the door flung open and Tip reappeared, racing past the living room and down the hall. He opened his closet door and put on a fleece jacket. He unzipped the duffel bag on the floor and removed the manila envelope and the handgun, stuffing both into his pockets. He ran back down the hall and out the front door, leaving Sarah and Lauren in stunned silence.

Tip jogged the entire way to Harry's house, holding both of his jacket pockets so as not to lose their contents. They were his only forms of protection in what he was about to do. When he got to his grandfather's street, he immediately went to the garage, peeking through the glass of the side door window. He saw the Jaguar, confirming that Harry was home.

Running around to the front of the house, he climbed the three stairs to the door and pulled his key ring from his jeans pocket. Finding the old silver spare key that he had since he was a teenager, he quietly slid it into the lock and took a deep breath. With closed eyes, he turned the key and pushed the door slowly, thankful that his grandfather never cared to spend the money for an alarm system.

He opened his eyes and slid sideways through the half open door. The house was dark, except for a faint glow from under the sitting room door. Tiptoeing down the hallway, he passed chunky gold frames that hung on the wall. Knowing the house well, he didn't need to turn on the light to help navigate his way. Pausing at the door to the room, he put his left hand in his jacket pocket and then turned the knob with his right. He looked through the small opening in the door and saw his grandfather's tasseled loafers resting on an ottoman. Harry's back was to him, as he sat in the armchair by the lit fireplace. Tip could see that he was resting his head in his hand. He seemed tired.

Tip loosened his grip on the object in his left pocket and slunk into the room. He crept over to the armchair, leaning forward to get a better view of his grandfather's face.

"Grandad?" he said in a soft voice.

When the older man didn't respond, Tip moved closer. Seeing that he was asleep, he spoke again, this time in a louder tone.

"Grandad," he commanded.

Harry jumped a little in the chair, dropping his hand from his face and looking around the room.

Though the room was dim, Tip could see the red rings around his eyes. The skin around them puffy. He crouched to meet his grandfather's face.

"Jesus! What happened to you?" he asked, shocked by his appearance. He looked down at his grandfather's clothes. Though they were typical of his style, he noticed the collar of his dress shirt was stretched and his slacks were wrinkled and soiled.

Harry stirred around, pulling himself forward to sit up straight. He blinked his eyes, wincing at the stinging irritation.

Tip put his hand on his shoulder. "Grandad? What the hell happened? Were you attacked?" His initial suspicion turned into serious concern, seeing his disheveled state. He's just an old man, he thought.

Harry licked his dry lips. He said weakly, "Tip, what are you doing here?" He darted his red eyes around the room, not looking at his grandson.

"Jesus," Tip said, shaking his head. He stood up. "We need to get you to the hospital. Come on." He tugged at Harry's arm, trying to pull him up from the chair.

Harry dug his nails into the arms of the chair. "No!" he shouted nervously. "I don't need a doctor!" He shrugged Tip off, standing up on his own. He wobbled a bit when he stood, rubbing his palms against his burning eyes.

Tip stood, open-mouthed, watching his grandfather struggle. What the hell happened to him? he thought, clueless.

Harry, regaining his balance, walked to him and grabbed his arm tightly. "I'm fine, Tip. Now get going." He shoved him towards the door.

Surprised by his grandfather's sudden strength, Tip planted his feet on the carpet. Struggling to push him out, Harry became weak again and fell into the velvet sofa. He rubbed at his eyes, huffing for breath.

Tip looked at him, utterly baffled as to what was going on. He looked around the room, scanning the heavy curtains and the built-in bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. Nothing seemed out of place.
He dropped his eyes to the silk Persian rug, looking to see if there were any dark spots. He saw something on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. Stepping around it to get a better look, he found a pair of worn Converse sneakers. Picking one up and walking to the fireplace to get some light, he read the inside label. Size 7.

His grandfather was a typical rich old man who, at 7-years-old, was still a tall 6'1". He looked down at Harry's shiny tasseled loafers. He definitely did not fit into a size 7 shoe. If he could, it would most definitely never be a pair of Converse sneakers.

His mind racing between the worn sneakers and his injured grandfather, Tip's pulse quickened. He looked at the couch, Harry was slumped, leaning a bit to the side with his eyes closed. Deciding now was his chance, he raced to the door and down the dark hallway.

"STEPHANIE!" he shouted, as he ran from room to room on the first level.
Not finding her there, he jumped up the stairs, nearly falling onto the top landing. He broke his fall with his hands, but crashed into the wall at the force of the impact.
"STEPHANIE!" he shouted, straightening himself and throwing open doors, flipping the light switches in each room. "STEPHANIE! IT'S TIP! STEPHANIE!"

He stopped for a moment to listen for her voice, hoping that she heard him, hoping she was there. He panted heavily, straining his ears to hear over his breathing and the loud heartbeat that was pounding in his head. Realizing she wasn't on the second floor, he ran to the stairs to ascend to the next level. Why is this Goddamn place so big?! he cursed to himself.

Taking the stairs, a narrower and steeper set than the last ones, his thighs burned as he climbed each tread. His breathing was heavier and he was covered in sweat.
"STEPHANIE!"
He raced around the narrow hallway, ducking into the rooms with lower ceilings. Struggling to find some light switches, it was dark on this level of the house. "STEPHANIE!" he bellowed desperately.
Racing back down the hall, he started to cry because he didn't find her in any of the rooms, becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness. Grief was starting to set in.
When he got to the small door at the end of the hall, he took a moment to steady his breathing. He leaned his back against the wall and tilted his head up to try to get some air. When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he straightened up. He put his hand in his left pocket to get the gun, only to find it was empty. He shot his eyes around the carpet, searching for where he must have dropped it. Remembering his fall onto the second floor landing, he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a groan.

"Don't worry," Harry's voice sounded as he appeared at the top of the stairs. "I found your gun." He pointed the weapon directly at Tip's heart.

Tip instinctively threw his hands up in surrender, slightly crouching and moving his head to the side. His mind was struggling to catch up with the reality that his beloved grandfather was pointing a gun at him. "Gran...Grandad," he said in a shaky high-pitched voice. He was breathing heavily and the tears in his eyes blurred his vision.

Harry shook his head, his hand slightly trembling as he used all his strength to hold the gun in place. With his free hand, he squeezed the top of his nose, trying to stem the tears that were pooling at the corners of his burning eyes. He was flooded with a mix of exhaustion and heartache, ashamed that he and his favorite grandson were in this unfathomable scenario.

Since the day his grandson was born, he was smitten with him. He remembered his big blue eyes and quivering bottom lip when he would cry as a baby. He thought about the night he sat in the auditorium at Rivers, listening to him read his essay about the most influential person in his life, Harold Wellington. He recalled the pride he felt when Tip announced at a family dinner that, though he had been accepted at Yale, he was choosing to attend BC because his grandfather went there.

Tears fell down Harry's face, his hand shaking even more. He was losing his will to keep the gun pointed at Tip, who at this point was sitting on the floor, bawling.

"Grandad, don't," he pleaded.

He couldn't believe it was down to this. His life could be over in an instant. He thought about his father, who would be all alone. He'd never survive this, he worried. They were all each other had. His parents couldn't have more kids after he was born. Crying hard, he thought about Stephanie. I can't believe I let her down. She's so good and I couldn't help her. He shook his head and buried his wet face in his hands. His mind focused on Sarah. Knowing she would be distraught about this, after having just lost her sister, he thought about how she would crumble. She, like his father, would have no one left either. His tears slowed at the thought and his breathing evened. He kept his head down, though, needing to figure out how to get out of this. He remembered the manila envelope in his right pocket.

In a low voice, his head still down, he said, "I know about OBC Inc. I know you laundered 60 million dollars for Mason Newell." He swallowed hard and wiped the last of the tears from his face.