The Millionaires (15 page)

“This is where you used to play?” I ask as we stare at two construction workers through a lit window in the trailer.

“No…” he answers, cutting toward a short path on my left. “This is where we used to hide…”

Reading the confused look on my face, he explains, “Back when I was a junior in high school, me and Randy Boxer used to go
track-to-track, playing music for Friday night commuters. His harmonica, my bass, and the biggest potential audience this
side of Madison Square Garden. Naturally, the transit cops chased us at every opportunity, but in the labyrinth of staircases,
the lower level always had the best places to disappear. And here—behind 117—this was where we’d reconvene so we could pick
the fight all over again.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask as he rushes across the dirt-covered catwalk that runs perpendicular over Track 117. It’s
not the catwalk that’s giving me pause—it’s the metal door at the end—and the brown, faded words painted on it:

Danger. That’s where I hit the brakes. And, as always, where Charlie picks up speed.

“Charlie, maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” he calls out as he grabs the handle to the door. Eyeing the rusted metal frame, he gives it a hard
yank, and just as the door swings open, a sandstorm of dust tumbles toward us. Charlie steps right into the whirlwind. And
I realize I’m all alone.

As I follow him through to the adjoining room, we’re in a huge underground station, standing on the edge of an abandoned set
of train tracks.

For Charlie, it’s a homecoming. “
Where trains come to die,
Randy used to say.”

Looking around, I can see why: The tunnel is wide enough for three sets of tracks, tall enough to fit the old diesel trains,
and has ceilings black enough to show why they dropped the diesels in the first place. Next to the rusted tracks and between
the even rustier I-beams, the floor is covered with condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and at least two used hypodermic needles.
No question, it’s a good place to hide.

“Close the door,” Shep calls out from further up the platform.

“Nice to see you too,” Charlie says. Pointing over his shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry about the door—you can’t hear anything
from back here.”

Shep looks at him like he’s not even there. “Oliver, shut the door,” he demands. I don’t hesitate. The door slams with a muffled
thud, encasing us in silence. We’ve got fifteen minutes before someone realizes we’re all gone at the same time. I’m not wasting
a second.

“How bad is it?” I ask, wiping my soot-covered hands on the back of my pants.

“Ever heard of the
Titanic?
” Shep asks. “You should see it up there—every single one of them’s a lit match away from exploding. Lapidus is tearing his
ears off and threatening to unleash the ten plagues on anyone who leaks the info to the public. Across the table, Quincy’s
screaming through the phone at the insurance company and clicking his calculator to figure out just how much they’re personally
on the hook for.”

“Have they told the other partners yet?”

“There’s an emergency meeting tonight. In the meantime, they’re waiting for the Service to dissect the computer system and
possibly get a nibble on where the money went after London.”

“So they still don’t know where it is…” Charlie begins.

“… and they still don’t know it’s us,” Shep closes. “At least, not yet.”

That’s all I need to hear. “Fine,” I say, my hands squarely on my hips.

Charlie glares my way. He hates this stance.

In no mood to listen, I turn to Shep. “Now how do you think we should turn ourselves in?” I ask.

“
What?
” Shep blurts.

“Whoa doggy,” Charlie begs.

“Oliver, don’t be hasty,” Shep adds. “Even if it’s a tornado now, it’ll eventually slow down.”

“Oh, so now you think we can outrun the Secret Service?”

“All I’m saying is it can still work out,” Shep replies. “I know the Service’s protocols. When it comes to the money, it’ll
take at least a week before they figure out if they can find it. If they do, we turn ourselves in with a full explanation.
But if they don’t… why walk away from the pot of gold? Forget the pocket change—three hundred and thirteen million means over
a hundred and four million
each.
”

Across Charlie’s cheeks, the smile takes hold. Noticing the anger on my face, he pushes a bit further and starts to dance.
Nothing big—just a little bounce in the shoulders and a stomp in the feet. It’s purposely designed to annoy. “Mmmmm-mmm,”
he says, doing the full Stevie Wonder neck-sway. “Smells like rich!”

“I’m telling you, there’s no reason to turn ourselves in,” Shep adds, hoping to ram it home. “If we play it smart, we’ll all
be whistling a wealthy tune.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” I snap back. “We can’t win. Think of what you said when we started—
it’s a perfect crime when no one knows it’s gone; it’s only three million dollars
—that was your whole big speech. And where are we now? Three hundred and thirteen million missing… the Secret Service parked
in our front yards… and when the press get ahold of it… plus whoever wanted this money in the first place… by the time this
is done, the whole world’s gonna be hunting our asses.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Shep says. “But that doesn’t mean we have to go for the hara-kiri on day one either. Besides, there’s
no way Lapidus is letting this get out. If he does, the other clients’ll start hurtling for the exits. It’s like when that
guy hacked ten million out of Citibank a few years back—they did everything in their power to keep it out of the papers—”

“But eventually, it was on page one,” I interrupt. “The word always gets out. There’re no secrets anymore—this isn’t the Fifties.
Even if Lapidus can hold it back for a month… between reports, and insurance claims, and lawsuits… it’ll eventually worm its
way free. And then we’re back where we are right now… three dumb sitting ducks who—”

There’s a loud thump, and we all stop. It’s not like the random clangs that echo from the other tracks. Whatever just made
that noise, it was in the room.

Shep jerks his head to the left and scans the crumbling concrete wall, but there’s nothing in sight. Just a few long-abandoned
electrical boxes and some faded graffiti.

“I thought it came from up
there,
” Charlie whispers anxiously as he points toward the shadows of the arched ceiling. Between the lack of lighting and the stains
from the soot, every arch is a dark floating cave.

“Were you followed?” Shep mouths.

I stop for a second. “No… I don’t think so. Unless—”

Shep covers his lips in a Shhhh motion. Rotating his neck side to side, side to side, side to side, he scans the rest of the
room with military precision. But it doesn’t take years of Secret Service training to tell me what my gut already knows. We
all get the same out-of-body feeling when we’re being watched. And as Charlie nervously glances around, a pregnant silence
settles on the room, and we can’t help but feel like we no longer have this place to ourselves.

“Let’s get out of here,” Charlie says.

But just as he turns to the door, there’s another noise. Not a thud. More like a creak. I instinctively look up, but it’s
not coming from the ceiling. Or the walls. It’s lower.

There’s another quiet creak and we all look down. “Behind you,” Charlie motions to Shep. He spins around and checks out a
section of flat wood planks that’re built into the ground like a mini-life-raft.

“What’re those?” I ask quietly.

“Vertical passageways. Underneath the planks, they lead down to the tracks below,” Charlie explains. “That’s how they move
the big equipment and generators—they just take out the wood and lower them through the holes.” He’s trying to sound relaxed,
but from the crinkle in his forehead—and the way he backs away from the planks—I can tell he’s creeped out. He’s not the only
one.

“Can we please get out of here?” I ask.

Bending down toward the floor, Shep angles his head, trying to peer between the planks of wood. It’s like staring into an
underground air-conditioning vent. “You sure it’s from here?” he asks. “Or is it echoing from somewhere else?” Changing course,
Charlie moves in for a closer look.

“Charlie, get away from there,” I plead.

There’s another creak. Then another. Slow at first, but getting faster.

Shep looks up and re-scouts the entire tunnel. If it is an echo, it has to start somewhere.

I rush in and grab Charlie by the shoulder. “Let’s go!” I say as I head for the door.

Stumbling to his feet, Charlie follows me, but keeps his eyes on Shep.

Through the planks, the pace of the noise gets even quicker. Like a soft scraping…

“C’mon!” I insist.

…or someone walking… no, more like running. The sound’s not coming from in here. It’s outside. I stop and slide to a halt
along the dusty floor. “
Charlie, wait!
”

Passing me by, he turns around like I’m insane. “What’re you t—”

There’s a sharp crash in the corner, and the door we’re headed for bursts open. “
Secret Service—nobody move!
” a beefy man shouts, rushing into the room with his gun pointed straight at my face.

Instinctively, I back up. He slows down, and I spot his limp. Mr. Squat. The lead investigator.

“He said
don’t move!
” a blond-haired agent yells, racing in right behind him. Like his partner, he aims his gun straight at us—first at me, then
at Charlie, then back to me. All I see is the black hole of the barrel.

W
-We didn’t…” Charlie tries to say something, but nothing comes out. My throat locks up and I feel like I swallowed my tongue.

“Back up!” the bull-necked agent shouts, moving deeper into the cavern.

My legs are jelly as we step back. I look to Charlie, but it only gets worse. His whole face is white… his mouth gapes open.
Like me, all he can do is stare at the gun.

“Officer…” I stutter.

“Agent!” the man with the bull neck corrects me.

“I-I’m sorry… I just…”

“You must be Oliver.”

“How’d you…”

“You really thought you could leave the bank twice without being followed?”

“What the hell’re you doing, Gallo?” Shep calls out. “I was just about to bring them in. All I needed was—”

“Don’t bullshit me!” Gallo barks as Shep falls silent. Before we can react, Gallo pushes between me and Charlie, shoving us
back with his shoulders. Not too far. Just enough to aim his gun at Shep. “I’m not a moron,” Gallo says. “I know what you’re
up to!”

Oh, God—he thinks we— “I-It’s not how it looks,” I blurt as Gallo turns back to me. “We were about to come in! I swear, that’s
where—”

“Enough,” Gallo interrupts. He’s got a heavy Boston accent that doesn’t apologize for a single syllable. “It’s over, Oliver.
Y’understand?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer. “The only thing that’s gonna make your day better is if you spare us some
headache and tell us where you hid the money.”

It’s a simple question. Spill the beans, hand over the money, and take the first step to getting our lives back. But the way
Gallo asks it… the anger in his voice… the way he grits his teeth… you’d think he had a personal interest. I’ve seen enough
divorce settlements to know something’s up.

I look to Charlie, who slowly shakes his head. He sees it too.

“Oliver, this isn’t the time to play hero,” Gallo warns. “Now I’m gonna ask you again: Where’d you put the money?”

“Don’t tell him!” Shep shouts.

“Shut up!” Gallo snaps.

“Once you give it up, we’ve got nothing left!” Shep continues. “It’s our only bargaining chip!”

“
You want to see a bargaining chip!?
” Gallo explodes, his face a deep red rage. Standing between me and Charlie, he lifts his gun and points it directly at Shep.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding,” Shep blurts.

“What’re you doing?” Charlie asks, stepping forward.

“Plant your feet!” Gallo shouts, turning his gun to Charlie’s face. My brother backs up, hands in the air. “
DeSanctis
…” Gallo shouts to the lanky blond agent by the door.

“I got him,” DeSanctis says, aiming his gun straight at Charlie’s back.

Unable to turn around, Charlie looks my way to get the overview.

Don’t move,
I say with a glance.

Don’t tell them,
Charlie shoots back. He’s trying to play strong, but I see the way he’s breathing. Already short of breath.

“Last chance, Oliver,” Gallo warns. “Tell me where the money is, or we start with Shep and work our way to your brother.”

Charlie and I lock eyes. Neither of us says a word.

“He’s bluffing,” Shep says. “He’d never do it.”

Gallo keeps his gun on Shep, but he’s watching me. “You sure you’re willing to take that chance, Oliver?”

“Please just put the gun down…” I plead.

“Don’t fall for it,” Shep says. “They’re Secret Service, not hitmen. They’re not gonna kill anyone.” Turning to the blond
agent by the door, he adds, “Isn’t that right, DeSanctis? We all know the protocol.”