What Happened at East Houston Street

Chapter 21

Mason Newell stood by a large window, overlooking High Street. He peered down at the people outside, watching them shuffle in and out of the coffee shop. The view was unimpressive from his third floor office. He shook his head and sneered, a pang of discontent in his sigh. For decades, he had been accustomed to seeing the expanse of the Boston skyline when he would look out of his office window. Though he had swapped his spacious executive suite for a smaller, less impressive space, he still dressed the part of a successful businessman, wearing an English tweed blazer over a wool vest. His tie was a perfect Windsor knot with a matching pocket square in his jacket pocket. His pleated dress pants were perfectly creased and his tasseled Italian loafers shone with a fresh polish.

Three years ago, Mason and his son, Charles "Cal" Newell, had to make a decision to keep their investment firm alive. Their financiers of a large two lot construction project had demanded a full $30 million payment after Cal had sold the first completed condo building without immediately repaying half of the borrowed funds, which was a requirement in the terms of their agreement. Instead, unknowingly to Mason, he had used the proceeds to invest in an offshore deal. He had been convinced by a foreign developer to go in on a project he was building in Dubai. Cal, always being obsessed with growing his family's wealth, deposited $60 million into an offshore account, giddy with the prospect of making double from the return. When the lender found out that the first building on Binney Street had sold, they expected payment. When the funds were not returned, they came calling for the full amount. Having nowhere near enough to satisfy his lenders, to avoid a lawsuit and possible bankruptcy, the younger Newell had agreed to a structured deal with the bank. He wouldn't have to immediately payoff the loan, but payments would begin with an interest rate that left something to be desired as well as additional penalties. Mason, fuming with anger and disappointment, had to give up the $100,000 per month lease on the 33rd floor of the Devonshire building and move his business to High Street, a considerably more affordable location. Between the loss of business from the disastrous 2008 economy and Cal's loan payments, he was drawing from his personal funds to keep the business afloat.

Mason heard the door creak and turned from the window to find his son entering with a coffee cup in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was dressed in loose fitting khakis and a golf shirt.

"Where's your suit?" he questioned Cal, his icy pale blue eyes scanning the man's casual outfit. "Don't you have any meetings today?"

Cal sat his coffee on Mason's ornate oak desk and leaned back in a chair, propping his feet up. He didn't place the cup on a coaster. Mason watched a drip of brown liquid slowly travel down the side of the paper cup and fall onto the shiny surface of the wood. The desk had been gifted to him by his father, who beamed with pride when Mason had signed the lease on Devonshire Street 40 years ago. He remembered how two workmen wheeled the heavy piece of furniture into his new 33rd floor office. Once they had set it down and unwrapped the plastic, he was left breathless by its ornate details of filigree along the metal drawer knobs and mahogany inlays around its outer edges. He took great care of the desk, having a piece of glass fitted to its top to avoid any scratches to its surface. The protective shield had been shattered during the move from Devonshire to High Street, leaving the desk susceptible to damage.

Cal sat with his feet propped on the desk, reading The Boston Globe. He read the newspaper front to back every day. In his business, he had to know what was going on in every aspect of the world, from farming to entertainment. You never knew where the next business opportunity could be, so it was important to know about everything.

Mason tsked at his careless son and said, "Cal, I asked you a question. Don't you have any meetings today?"

The younger man looked up from his newspaper and replied, "I was just golfing with Roland Mistler and his boy, Brent. I'm getting closer to sealing the Binney Street deal with them." He looked back at his newspaper, happy to report his progress.

Mason, making a confident nod, turned back to the window and said, "That's good news. Don't mess this up, Cal."