The Millionaires (13 page)

“Have you signed in?” the agent with blond hair snaps.

“Y-Yeah,” I say as the co-workers in line stare me down. “Oliver Caruso.”

He checks his list, then looks up. “Go ahead.”

I plow forward shoulder-first and push the door as hard as I can. As it gives, I’m thrown out on the frozen street, skidding
full speed around the corner.

Racing up Park Avenue, I look around for a newsstand. I should know better. This neighborhood doesn’t exactly attract the
crowd who buys off the street. Except for payphones, the corners are empty. Ignoring the pain of running in dress shoes, I
make a sharp left on 37th and take off toward the end of the block. The concrete’s making me feel every step. The moment I
hit Madison Avenue, I slam on the brakes and slide up to an outdoor newsstand.

“Do you have phone cards?” I ask the unshaven guy who’s warming himself on a space heater behind the counter.

He motions Vanna White—style at his world of wares. “Whattya
you
think?”

I look around, searching for—

“
Here,
” he interrupts, pointing over his own shoulder. Next to the toilet-paper-rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets.

“I’ll take the twenty-five-dollar one,” I tell him.

“Beautiful,” he says. He pulls the Statue of Liberty one from the clipboard, and I toss him two twenties.

Waiting for my change, I rip off the plastic wrapper right there. Sure, I could go back to the law firm, but after this morning,
I don’t want anything tracing me to yesterday. “Will these work to call out of the country?” I ask.

“You can call the Queen of France and tell her to shave her pits!”

“Great. Thanks.” Gripping the card in a tight fist, I dart back toward Park Avenue, cross the six-lane street, and stop at
a payphone diagonally down the block from the entrance to the bank. There’re more inconspicuous places to call from, but this
way, no one in the bank has a clear view of me. More important, since I’m only a few blocks from the subway, I have the best
possible location for spotting Charlie.

I dial the 800 number on the back of the Lady Liberty calling card and punch in the PIN code. When it asks for the number
I want to dial, I pull out my wallet, slide my finger behind my driver’s license, and pull out a tiny scrap of paper. I punch
in the ten-digit number that I’d written on the paper in reverse order. I may carry the Antigua phone number on me, but if
I get caught, it doesn’t mean I have to make it easy.

“Thank you for calling Royal Bank of Antigua,” a digital female voice answers. “For automated account balance and information,
press one. To speak to a personal service representative, press two.”

I press two. If someone stole it from us, I want to know where it went.

“This is Ms. Tang. How can I help you today?”

Before I can answer, I spot Charlie trailing a pack of people across the street.

“Hello…?” the woman says.

“Hi, I just wanted to check the balance of my account.” I wave to get Charlie’s attention, but he doesn’t see me.

“And your account number?” the woman asks.

“58943563,” I tell her. When I memorized it, I didn’t think I’d be using it this soon. Directly across, Charlie’s by himself,
but he’s practically dancing up the street.

“And who am I speaking with?”

“Martin Duckworth,” I say. “It’s under Sunshine Distributors.”

“Please hold while I check the account.”

The moment the Muzak starts, I cover the receiver. “
Charlie!”
I scream. He’s already too far past—and with the buzz of rush hour traffic between us…
“Charlie!”
I shout again. He still doesn’t hear.

Making his way up the block, Charlie steps off the curb and gets his first good look at the bank. As always, his reaction
is faster than mine. He spots the unmarked cars and freezes, right there in the middle of the street.

I expect him to run, but he’s smarter than that. Instinctively, he glances around, searching for me. It’s like my mom used
to say: she never believed in ESP—but siblings… siblings were connected. Charlie knows I’m here.

“Mr. Duckworth…?” the woman asks on the other line.

“Y-Yeah… right here.” I wave my hand in the air, and this time, Charlie sees it. He looks my way, studying my body language.
He wants to know if it’s real, or if I’m just playing Chicken Little. Refusing to wait for the light, he hops into traffic,
dodging and weaving through the onslaught of cars. A yellow cab lets loose with its horn, but Charlie shrugs it off, unbothered.
Seeing me hit full panic means he doesn’t have to.

“Mr. Duckworth, I’m going to need the password on the account,” the woman from the bank says.

“
FroYo,”
I say to her.

“What happened?” Charlie asks the instant he hits the curb.

I ignore him, waiting for the bank teller.

“Tell me!” he challenges.

“Now what can I help you with today?” the woman on the other line finally says.

“I’d like the balance, as well as the most recent activity on the account,” I reply.

Right there, Charlie lets out a belly laugh—the same patented little-brother taunt from when he was nine. “I knew it!” he
shouts. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself!”

I put a finger in front of my lips to quiet him down, but I don’t have a prayer.

“You couldn’t even hold out twenty-four hours, could you?” he asks, leaning in closer to the booth. “What’d it take? The cars
outside? The federal plates? Have you even spoken to anyone or did you just see the cars and wet your pa—?”

“Can you please shut up! I’m not a moron!”

“Mr. Duckworth…?” the original woman returns.

“Y-Yeah… I’m here,” I say, turning back to the phone. “I’m right here.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I was hoping to get a supervisor on the line to—”

“Just tell me the balance. Is it zero?”

“Zero?” she says with a laugh. “No… not at all.”

I let out a nervous laugh of my own. “Are you sure?”

“Our system’s not perfect, sir, but this one’s pretty clear. According to our records, there’s only one transaction on the
whole account—a wire transfer that was received yesterday at 12:21
P.M.
”

“So the money’s still there?”

“Absolutely,” the woman says. “I’m looking at it right now. A single transfer via wire—for a total of three hundred and thirteen
million dollars.”

W
e’ve got
what!?
” Charlie shouts.

“I don’t believe this,” I stammer, my twitching hand still resting on the hung-up receiver. “Do you have any idea what this
means?”

“It means we’re rich,” he shoots back. “And I’m not talkin’ filthy rich, or even extremely rich—I’m talkin’ obscenely, grotesquely,
do-re-mi-fa-so-much-money-we-got-a-gross-domestic-product rich. Or as my barber said when I tipped him five bucks once: ‘Dat’s
some major clam action.’”

“We’re dead,” I blurt, my full body weight collapsing against the frame of the payphone. That’s what I get—all from a stupid
moment of anger. “There’s no way to explai—”

“We’ll tell ’em we won it in the Super Bowl pool. They might believe that.”

“I’m serious, Charlie. This isn’t just three million—it’s…”

“Three hundred and thirteen million. I heard you the first three times.” He counts on his fingers, from pinky to pointer finger:
“Three hundred and ten… three hundred and eleven… three hundred and twelve… three hundred and thirteen… Holy guacamole, I
feel like the little old guy with the mustache in Monopoly—you know, with the monocle and the bald h—”

“How can you make jokes?”

“What else am I gonna do? Lean up against a payphone and cower for the rest of my life?”

Without a word, I stand up straight.

“Feels pretty good now, don’t it?” he asks.

“It’s not a game, Charlie. They’ll kill us for this…”

“Only if they find it—and last I checked… all those fake companies—this bad boy’s foolproof.”

“Foolproof? Are you nuts? We’re not—” I cut myself off and lower my voice. There’re still plenty of people on the street.
“We’re way beyond petty cash,” I whisper. “So stop with the Butch Cassidy bravado and—”

“No. Not a chance,” he interrupts. “It’s time to kiss a little reality, Ollie—this isn’t another thing to run from—this is
Candyland. All that money; all of it ours. What else do you want? No one knows how to find it… no one suspects it’s us—if
it was good before, it’s doubly better now. Three hundred and thirteen times better. For once in our lives we can actually
sit back and kick up our—”

“
Dammit, what’s wrong with you!?
”I shout, flying from the booth and grabbing him by the collar of his coat. “Have you even been paying attention? You heard
Shep—the only way it works is if no one knows it’s gone. Three million fits in our pockets… but three hundred and thirteen…
do you realize what they’ll do to get that back?” I’m trying my best to whisper, but people are starting to stare. Looking
around, I abruptly let go. “That’s it,” I mutter. “I’m done.”

Charlie straightens his coat. I turn back to the payphone.

“Who’re you calling?” Charlie asks.

I don’t answer, but he watches my fingers pound the digits. Shep.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warns.

“What’re you talking about?”

“If they’re smart, they’re watching incoming calls. Maybe even listening. If you want information, go inside and talk to him
face-to-face.”

I stop mid-dial, glare at Charlie over my shoulder, and officially start the staring contest. He knows my look: the doubting
Thomas. And I know his: the honest Injun. I also know it’s just a trick… his favorite scheme for settling me down so he can
get his way. It’s what he always does. But even I can’t argue with the logic. I slam down the phone and brush past him. “You
better be right,” I warn as I head back to the bank.

* * * *

A quick stop at the local coffee shop gives me an eight-ounce cup of calm, and a perfect excuse for why I left the building
in the first place. Still, it doesn’t stop the Secret Service agent at the front door from putting another check mark next
to my name—and one next to Charlie’s.

“What’s with the anal attendance taking?” Charlie asks the agent.

The agent jabs us with a look as if the check mark alone should bring us to our knees—but we both know the reality of this
one: If they had a semblance of a clue, we’d be walking out in handcuffs. Instead, we’re walking in.

On most days, I go straight for the elevator. Today is clearly different. Following Charlie as he slides past the marble-top
teller window, I let him drag me toward the maze of rolltop desks. As always, it’s packed with gossiping employees, but today,
that’s actually the payoff.

“Howya doin’?” Jeff from Jersey calls out, cutting us off and patting Charlie on the chest.

“There it is,” Charlie sings. “My daily pat on the chest. Awkward to most—revered by a few.”

Laughing, Jeff stops us just a few feet short of the elevator.

“You know I’m right,” Charlie says, enjoying every moment. I’m tempted to drag him along, but it’s clear what my brother’s
after. Jersey Jeff may violate just a bit too much of your personal space, but when it comes to office gossip, even I know
he’s king bee.

“What’s the story with Mr. Attendance?” Charlie asks, elbowing toward the blond guy at the front door.

Jeff smiles wide. Finally, a chance to strut. “They say he’s doing some security upgrade, but no one believes it. I mean,
how stupid do they think we are?”

“Pretty stupid?” Charlie offers.

“Plenty stupid,” Jeff agrees.

“What do you think it is?” I blurt with the patience of… well… with the patience of someone who just stole three hundred and
thirteen million dollars.

“Hard to say, hard to say,” Jeff replies. “But if I had to guess…” He leans in close, relishing the moment. “I’m betting on
a pickpocket. Inside job.”

“
What?
” Charlie whispers, playing up the outrage. From the strain on my face, he can tell I’m ready to lose it.

“It’s just a theory,” Jeff begins. “But you know how it goes—this place doesn’t change the toilet paper without firing off
a memo—but suddenly, they’re redoing all of security without even a heads-up?”

“Maybe they wanted to see our normal routines,” I offer.

“And maybe they didn’t want to scream fire in the crowded movie theater. It’s just like when they caught that woman embezzling
from Accounts Payable—they try to keep everything quiet. They’re not dumb. If it goes public, the clients’ll panic and start
taking back their cash.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I add, refusing to give in.

“Hey, believe what you want—but there’s gotta be some reason all the bigshots are up on the fourth floor.”

The fourth floor. Charlie stares my way.
That’s where my desk is,
he glares.

“Excuse me?” Charlie blurts.

Jeff grins. That’s what he was saving. “Oh, yeah,” he says, walking back to his desk. “They’ve been up there all morning…”

I look at Charlie and he looks at me. Fourth floor it is.