The Millionaires (11 page)

The cursor glides to the
Send
button and I start saying my goodbyes. I could still stop it, but…

The
Send
icon blinks to a negative and then back again. The words are so small, but I know them like the Big E on the eye chart:

Status: Pending.

Status: Approved.

Status: Paid.

“Listen, I should be getting back to my office…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mary says without even turning around. “I can handle it from here.”

S
taring at his computer screen and running his tongue across a cold sore inside his lip, he had to admit, he didn’t think Oliver
would go through with it. Charlie, maybe. But not Oliver. Sure, he sometimes showed moments of greatness… the Tanner Drew
incident being the most recent… but deep down, Oliver Caruso was still as scared as the day he started at Greene & Greene.

Still, the proof was always in the pudding—and right now, the pudding looked like it was about to be sent to London, England.
Using the same technology he knew Shep had, he called up Martin Duckworth’s account and scanned the column marked
Current Activity.
The last entry—
Balance of Account to C.M.W. Walsh Bank
—was still marked
Pending.
It wasn’t going to be long now.

He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and jotted down the bank’s name, followed by the account number. Sure, he could call
the London bank… try to catch the money… but by the time he got through, it’d almost certainly be gone. Besides, why interfere
now?

His phone started ringing and he picked up immediately. “Hello?” he answered, standardly confident.

“Well…?” a gruff voice asked.

“
Well,
what?”

“Don’t jerk me around,” the man warned. “Did they take it?”

“Any second now…” he said, his eyes still focused on the screen. At the very bottom of the account, there was a quick blink—and
Pending
… became
Paid.

“There it goes,” he added with a grin. Shep… Charlie… Oliver… if they only knew what was coming.

“So that’s it?” the man asked.

“That’s it,” he replied. “The snowball’s officially rolling.”

T
here’s someone watching me. I didn’t notice him when I said goodbye to Lapidus and left the bank—it was after six and the
December sky was already dark. And I didn’t see him trail me down the grimy subway stairs or follow me through the turnstile—there’re
way too many commuters crisscrossing through the urban anthills to notice any one person. But as I reach the subway platform,
I swear I hear someone whisper my name.

I spin around to check, but all that’s there is the typical Park Avenue post-work crowd: men, women, short, tall, young, old,
a few black, mostly white. All of them in overcoats or heavy jackets. The majority stare down at reading material—a few lose
themselves in their headphones—and one, just as I turn around, abruptly lifts a
Wall Street Journal
to cover his face.

I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his shoes or pants—anything for a context clue—but at the height of rush hour, the
density of the crowd’s too thick. In no mood to take chances, I head further up the platform, away from the
Journal
man. At the last second, I once again look over my shoulder. A few more commuters fill out the crowd, but for the most part,
no one moves—no one except the man, who once again—like a villain in a bad Cold War movie—lifts the
Journal
to cover his face.

Don’t get nuts, I tell myself—but before my brain can buy it, a quiet rumble fills the air. Here comes the train, which barrels
into the station and blows my hair into an instant comb-over. Brushing it back into place with my fingers, I make my way toward
the subway car and take one last peek down the platform. Every twenty feet, there’s a small crowd shoving itself toward an
open door. I don’t know if he’s on board or gave up, but the man with the
Journal
is gone.

I fight my way onto the already overstuffed subway car, where I’m smashed between a Hispanic woman in a puffy gray ski jacket,
and a balding man in a flasher overcoat. As the train makes its way downtown, the crowd slowly begins to thin and a few seats
actually open. Indeed, when I transfer at Bleecker and pick up the D train at the Broadway-Lafayette stop, all the downtown
fashion plates wearing black shoes, black jeans, and black leather jackets make their way off. It’s not the last stop before
we head to Brooklyn, but it is the last
cool
stop.

Enjoying the extra space on the car, I lean up against a nearby metal pole. It’s the first time since I left the office that
I actually catch my breath—that is, until I see who’s waiting for me at the far end of the car—the man hiding behind the
Wall Street Journal.

Without the crowds and the distance, it’s easy to give him the quick once-over. That’s all I need. I plow toward him without
even thinking. He lifts the paper a little higher, but it’s too late. With a sharp swipe, I rip it from his hands and reveal
who’s been stalking me for the past fifteen minutes. “What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?”

My brother ekes out a playful grin, but it doesn’t help.

“Answer me!” I demand.

Charlie looks up, almost impressed. “Wow—the full
Starsky & Hutch.
What if I was a spy… or a man with a hook?”

“I saw your shoes, dimwit—now what do you think you’re doing?”

Pointing with his chin, Charlie motions to the crowd in the car, all of whom are now staring. Before I can react, he slips
out from under me, heads to the other end of the subway car, and invites me to follow. As we pass, a few people look up, but
only for a second. Typical New York.

“Now you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just add it to your ever-growing list of stupid moves?” I scold as
we continue to move through the train.

“Ever-growing?” he asks, weaving his way through the crowd. “I don’t know what you’re—?”

“With Shep,” I snarl, feeling the vein throb in my forehead. “How could you give him our final location?”

Turning my way, but refusing to slow down, Charlie waves a hand through the air as if it’s an absurd question. “C’mon, Oliver—you’re
still in a huff over that?”

“Dammit, Charlie, enough with the jokes,” I say, chasing after him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I mean, do you
ever actually stop and think about the consequences, or do you just jump off the cliff, content with being the town idiot?”

At the far end of the car, he stops dead in his tracks and turns around, glaring straight at me. “Do I look that stupid to
you?”

“Well, considering what you—”

“I didn’t give him anything,” Charlie growls in a low whisper. “He has no idea where it is.”

I pause as the train skids into Grand Street—the last subway stop in Manhattan. The moment the doors open, dozens of hunched-over
Chinese men and women flood the car carrying pink plastic shopping bags that reek of fresh fish. Chinatown for groceries—then
on the subway, back to Brooklyn. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“When I showed him the Red Sheet… I pointed to the wrong bank. On purpose, Ollie.” Stepping in close, he adds, “I gave him
some random place in Antigua where we have nothing. Not even a shiny dime. Of course—and this is really the best part—you
were so busy yelling, he believed every word.” It takes me a second to process. “Don’t have a brain blow, Oliver. I’m not
letting anyone take our cash.”

With a sharp tug, he tries to slide open the service door between the two subway cars. It’s locked. Annoyed, he cuts around
me, heading back exactly the way we came. Before I can say a word, the train chugs forward… and my brother’s lost in the crowd.

“Charlie!” I shout, racing after him. “You’re a genius!”

* * * *

“I still don’t understand when you planned it,” I say as we walk up the broken concrete sidewalks of Avenue U in Sheepshead
Bay, Brooklyn.

“I didn’t,” Charlie admits. “I thought of it as I was folding over the Red Sheet.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask, laughing. “Oh, man—he never knew what hit him!”

I wait for him to laugh back, but it never happens. Nothing but silence.

“What?” I ask. “Now I can’t be happy the money’s safe? I’m just relieved you—”

“Oliver, have you been listening to yourself? You spend the whole day crying a river and saying we have to play it cool, but
then the moment I tell you I screwed over Shep, you’re acting like the guy who got the last pair of Zeppelin tickets.”

Heading up the block, I stare around at the mom-and-pop storefronts that dot the Avenue U landscape—pizza parlors, cigar stores,
discount shoes, a barely breathing barber shop. Except for the pizza place, they’re all closed for the night. When we were
little, that meant the owners shut the lights and locked the doors. Today, it means lowering a roll-down steel-reinforced
shield that looks like a metal garage door. No doubt about it, trust isn’t what it used to be.

“C’mon, Charlie—I know you love taking in the lost puppy, but you barely know this guy—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Charlie interrupts. “We’re still screwing him over and twisting the butter knife in his back!” Nearing
the corner of the block, he stretches his arm out and lets his fingertips skate along the metal shield that hides the used
bookstore. “Damn!” Charlie shouts, punching the metal as hard as he can. “He trusted us t—” He grits his teeth and cuts himself
off. “It’s exactly what I hate about money…”

He makes a sharp right on Bedford Avenue, and the garage door storefronts give way to an uninspired 1950s-era six-story apartment
building.

“I see handsome men!” a female voice shouts from a window on the fourth floor. I don’t even have to look up to know who it
is.

“Thanks, mom,” I mutter under my breath. Keep the routine, I tell myself as I follow Charlie toward the lobby. Monday night
is Family Night. Even when you don’t want it to be.

By the time the elevator reaches the fourth floor and we head to mom’s apartment, Charlie’s yet to say a single word to me.
That’s how he always gets when he’s upset—shut-down and turned off. The same way dad solved his problems. Naturally, if he
were dealing with anyone else, they’d be able to read it on his face, but with mom…

“Who wants a nice baked ziti!?” she shouts, opening the door even before we hit the doorbell. As always, her smile’s wide
and her arms are outstretched, searching for a hug.

“Ziti!?” Charlie sings, jumping forward and hugging her back. “We talking original or extra-crispy?” As corny as the joke
is, mom laughs hysterically… and pulls Charlie even closer.

“So when do we eat?” he asks, sidestepping her and pulling the sauce-covered wooden spoon from her hand.

“Charlie, don’t…”

It’s too late. He shoves the spoon in his mouth, taking an early taste of the sauce.

“Are you happy?” she laughs, turning around to watch him. “Now you’ve got your germs all over it.”

Holding the spoon like a lollipop, he presses it flat against his dangling tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa,” he moans, his tongue still
out of his mouth. “Ah ott o ehrrs.”

“You do too have germs,” she continues to laugh, facing him directly.

“Hi, ma,” I say, still waiting at the door.

She turns back immediately, the wide smile never leaving her face. “Ooooh, my
big
boy,” she says, taking me in. “You know I love seeing you in a suit. So professional…”

“What about
my
suit?” Charlie calls out, pointing to his blue button-down and creased khakis.

“Handsome boys like you don’t have to wear suits,” she says in her best Mary Poppins tone.

“So that means I’m not handsome?” I ask.

“Or does that mean I look bad in a suit?” Charlie adds.

Even she knows when the joke’s gone too far. “Okay, Frick and Frack—everybody inside.”

Following my mom through the living room and past the framed painting Charlie did of the Brooklyn Bridge, I breathe deep and
take a full whiff of my youth. Rubber erasers… crayons… homemade tomato sauce. Charlie has Play-Doh—I have Monday night dinners.
Sure, some of the knickknacks shift, but the big things—grandma’s dining room set, the glass coffee table I cut my head on
when I was six—the big things are always the same. Including my mom.