The Millionaires (42 page)

“So you’re Dotty’s?” he asks, suddenly warming up.

“Y-Yeah, Dotty’s,” I say, stepping into the lobby. Sure, it’s a lie, but it’s not like I’m a stranger. For almost fifteen
years, my grandmother, Pauline Balducci, lived in this building. Three years ago, she died here—which is precisely why I use
the name of her old neighbor to get us in.

“Dotty’s grandson!” the security guy boasts to passing residents in the lobby. “He’s got the same nose, no?”

Dragging Gillian by the arm, I cut through the lobby, pass the bank of elevators, and follow the exit signs down the twisting,
peeling-wallpapered hallway that reeks of chlorine. Pool area, straight ahead. Mom used to send us here for some quality time
with the
good
side of the family. Instead, it was two weeks of splash fights, breath-holding contests, and the Condo Commandos complaining
that we were diving too loud, whatever that meant. Even now, as I step outside, a brother and sister are knee-deep in a ruthless
game of Marco Polo. The boy closes his eyes and yells, “Marco!” The girl shouts, “Polo!” When he gets close, she darts up
the stairs, runs around the pool, and jumps back in. Blatant cheating. Just like Charlie used to do to me.

“Oliver, where’re we—?”

“Wait here,” I say, pointing Gillian to an open lounge chair.

Next to the pool, a grandfather with a white shirt, white shorts, and pulled-up-to-his-knees black socks is studying a betting
sheet from the racetrack. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir—but can I borrow your clubhouse key?” I ask him. “My grandmother took
ours upstairs.”

He looks up from the betting sheet with black button eyes. “Who you belong to?”

“Dotty Miller.”

Giving me the once-over, he pulls the key from his pocket. “Bring it right back,” he warns.

“Of course—right away.” I nod to Gillian, and she follows me past the shuffleboard court and around the tree-shaded footpath
that hides the one-story clubhouse. Once she’s inside, I return the key to Mr. Black Socks and head right back to her.

Inside, the “clubhouse” is exactly as we left it years ago: two cruddy bathrooms, a broken sauna, and a rusty, universal weight
set that predates Jack LaLanne. It was designed to be a social setting where the elderly residents could interact and make
new friends. It’s never been used. We could stay here for days and no one would interrupt.

Gillian takes a seat on the red vinyl of the bench press. I look at the mirror-covered walls and sink down to the floor.

“Oliver, are you sure he knows this place?”

“We talked about it a thousand times. When we were little, we used to hide back here in the sauna. I’d jump inside and pretend
I was Han Solo getting frozen in carbonite. Then he’d swing to my rescue and… and…” My voice trails off and I once again stare
in the mirror. Half a person.

“Please don’t do this to yourself,” Gillian begs. “It took us forty minutes to get here, and we have a car. If he’s in a cab
or a bus—it’ll take him a bit longer—it doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he’s fine.”

I don’t even bother to reply.

“You have to be positive,” she adds. “You think the worst; you’ll get the worst. But if you think the best—”

“Then everything will blow up in your face anyway! Don’t you get the punch line yet? It’s the great cosmic practical joke.
Knock, knock. Who’s there? Big kick in the ass. That’s it—end of joke. Isn’t it a riot?”

“Oliver…”

“It’s like running the Boston Marathon: You train forever… you pour your life into it—and then, just as you’re about to hit
the finish line, some jerk-off sticks his leg out and you limp home on two broken ankles, wondering where all that hard work
disappeared to. Before you know it, it’s all gone—your life, your work… and your brother…”

Watching me carefully, Gillian raises her head. Like she’s seen something she’s never seen before.

“Maybe we should just go to the police,” she interrupts. “I mean, finding out about my dad is one thing, but when they start
shooting at us… I don’t know… maybe it’s time to wave the white flag.”

“I can’t.”

“What’re you talking about? All we have to do is dial 911. If you tell them the truth, there’s no way they’ll turn you over
to the Service.”

“
I can’t,
” I insist.

“Sure you can,” she shoots back. “All you did was see a bank account on a computer screen—it’s not like you did anything wrong…”

I turn away as the silence wipes the pulse from the air.

“What?” she asks. “What’re you not saying?”

Again, I don’t respond.

“Oliver—”

Nothing but silence.

“Oliver, you can tell m—”

“We stole it,” I blurt.

“Excuse me?”

“We didn’t think it belonged to anyone—we looked up your dad, but he was dead… and the state couldn’t find any relatives,
so we thought it was a victimless—”

“You
stole
it?”

“I knew we shouldn’t—I
told
Charlie that—but when I found out Lapidus was screwing me… and Shep said we could pull it off…It all seemed to make sense
back then. But the next thing we knew, we were sitting with three hundred million of the Secret Service’s money.”

Gillian coughs like she’s about to choke. “How many million?”

I look her dead in the eye. If she were working against us, there’s no way she’d attack Gallo and DeSanctis. Instead, she
did. She saved us. Just like she saved me diving last night. It’s time I returned the favor. “Three hundred and thirteen.”

“Three hundred and thirteen
million?
”

I nod.

“You stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars?”

“Not on purpose—not that amount.” I expect her to scream, or slap me, or slice at my neck, but she doesn’t. She just sits
there. Perfect Indian position. Perfect silence. “Gillian, I know what you’re thinking—I know it’s your money—”

“It’s not
my
money!”

“But your dad…”

“That money got him killed, Oliver! All it’s good for now is lining his casket.” She looks up and her eyes are filled with
tears. “How could you not tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?
Hi, I’m Oliver—I just stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars of your dad’s money—want to come and get shot at?
We just wanted to know if he was alive. But after meeting you… and spending time—I never meant to hurt you, Gillian—especially
after all this.”

“You could’ve told me last night…”

“I wanted to—I swear.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I just… I knew it would hurt.”

“And you think this doesn’t?”

“Gillian, I didn’t want to lie—”

“But you did. You did,” she insists as her voice shakes.

I look away, unable to face her. “If I could do it all over, I wouldn’t do it again,” I whisper.

She sniffles at the statement, but it doesn’t do much good.

“Gillian, I swear to you—”

“It’s not even about the lie,” she cuts me off. “And it certainly isn’t about some truckload of dirty cash,” she adds, wiping
her eyes with the palm of her hand. She’s still stunned, but deep down I hear the first tinge of anger. “Don’t you get it
yet, Oliver? I just want to know why they killed my dad!”

As she says the words, the quiver in the back of her throat shakes me by the shoulders and once again reminds me what we’re
doing here in the first place. I lift my chin and stare in the mirror. Bags under my eyes. Black hair on my head. And my brother
still missing.

Please, Charlie—wherever you are—come home.

W
hat’re you doing in there?” an elderly woman asked, tapping Joey on the shoulder.

“Sorry—just searching for a lost sock,” Joey replied as she backed her way out of the laundry room. Turning around in the
hallway to face the woman, Joey eyed the
Trash Room
sign on the nearby metal door.

“Do you even live here?” the woman challenged with her plastic laundry basket and her gold-plated Medic-Alert bracelet.

“Absolutely,” Joey said, stepping around the woman and peeking her head in the trash room. Smell of rotting oranges. Trash
chute in the corner. No Oliver or Charlie.

“Listen to me—I’m talking to you,” the woman threatened.

“I’m sorry,” Joey said. “It’s just that it’s my mother’s favorite sock. She made me do the laundry down here because the dryers
are better on the lower floors…”

“They
are
better.”

“… I completely agree, but now the sock is gone, and, well… it was her favorite sock.” Rushing away from the woman, Joey pressed
the button for the elevator, ran to the doors as they opened, and quickly hopped inside.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it!” the woman shouted. But before she could finish, the doors slammed shut.

“
It was her favorite sock?
”Noreen teased through the earpiece.

“Oh, bite yourself,” Joey said. “It got the job done.”

“Yessiree, you’ve once again outsmarted the ninety-year-old retirees in that hotbed of spydom—the Wilshire Condominium & Communist
Lodge.”

“What’s your point?”

“All I’m saying is, I don’t see the use in scouring some condo—much less the third floor and its laundry room—just because
Charlie and Oliver’s grandmother once lived there.”

“First of all, if grandma lived on the third floor, that’s the one they’ll know best. Second, never underestimate a laundry
room as a hiding place. And third, when it comes to human behavior, there’s only one thing in the whole world that you can
absolutely, unquestionably count on…”

“
Habit,
” Joey and Noreen said simultaneously.

“Don’t mock,” Joey warned as the elevator doors opened in the lobby. “Habit’s the only thing all human animals share. We can’t
help ourselves. It’s why we drive home by the same route; and get our morning coffee from the same place; and brush our teeth
and wash our face in the same order.” Sidestepping a group of old ladies in matching lavender sweatsuits and headbands, Joey
followed the sign for the pool area and pushed her way outside. “It’s the same reason my dad only enters his house through
the back door. Never the front. I call it insanity—he thinks it makes his life easier—”

“And that’s where all habits are born,” Noreen interrupted. “Slight moments of control in a world of black chaos. We’re all
afraid of death, so we all put on our underwear before we slide on our socks.”

“Actually, some people put on their socks first,” Joey pointed out as she eyed the old man by the swimming pool with the racing
form and the black knee-grabbers. “But when we’re in trouble, we run to what’s familiar. And that’s the most basic habit of
all.” Strolling past the pool, Joey studied Oliver and Charlie’s favorite old playground. For the two kids currently in the
Marco Polo Super Bowl, there was no place better. But as she watched the brother and sister chase each other back and forth
across the shuffleboard court, she knew that the best games always keep moving. On her left was a path that led around to
the condo sales office. On her right was the clubhouse. One was filled with condo employees. The other was obscured by bushes
and trees. Joey didn’t hesitate.

“They have a clubhouse,” she said to Noreen as she passed the hot tub and threaded down the tree-lined path. A right and left
turn later, the pool area was out of sight. Checking over her shoulder, Joey slowly approached the door.

She put her ear up against it, but heard nothing from inside. Trying not to scare, she tapped lightly with her knuckle, then
listened again. Still nothing. “Hello! Anyone there?” she called out, banging a bit harder. Again, no one answered.

Reaching into her purse, she unzipped her black leather lockpick case. A branch snapped behind her and her purse slipped off
her shoulder.

“Everything okay?” Noreen asked.

Spinning around, Joey scanned the bushes and trees on the path. Nothing there. At least nothing she could see. Beyond a thick
hibiscus, another twig snapped. Joey boosted herself up on her tiptoes while craning her neck. The bush was too tall. Reaching
out, she shoved the branches aside, hopped the metal chain that ran alongside the path, and ducked through the landscaping.

“Joey, is everything okay?” Noreen repeated.

Sneaking quietly under a stray branch, Joey crouched and leaned in toward the bush where the noise came from. There was a
hushed tapping on the opposite side of it. Someone being impatient. Lowering her head toward the mulch-covered earth, Joey
tried to get a better look, but the underbrush was too thick. Only one way around it.

She reached back into her purse and pulled out a highly polished revolver. Miniature five-shot .38. Her dad’s gun.
On three,
Joey counted to herself as she slid her finger around the trigger. Her legs coiled, humming with anticipation.
Uno… dos…

Charging out at full speed, she sped to the other side of the bush and aimed her gun at the source of the noise—the stark
white egret with wide, flapping wings. As Joey turned the corner, the bird took off toward the sky—once again leaving Joey
all alone.