The Millionaires (10 page)

As I shut off the speakerphone, Charlie points to his Wonder Woman watch with the magic lasso second-hand. Twenty minutes,
start to finish. Forty minutes left and four more accounts to open. Not good enough.

“C’mon, coach, I got my skates on,” Charlie says. “Get me in the game.”

Without a word, I rip two pages from the Red Sheet and slide them across the table. One says
France,
the other
Marshall Islands.
Charlie darts to the phone on his far right; I race to the one on mine. Opposite corners. Our fingers flick across the keypads.

“Do you speak English?” I ask a stranger from Latvia. “Yes… I’m looking for Feodor Svantanich or whoever’s handling his accounts.”

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Lucinda Llanos,” Charlie says. “Or whoever has her accounts.”

There’s a short pause.

“Hi,” we both say simultaneously. “I’d like to open a corporate account.”

* * * *

“Okay, and can you read me the number one more time?” Charlie asks a French man who he keeps calling Inspector Clouseau. He
scribbles down the number and calls it out to me. “Tell your English bloke it’s HB7272250.”

Here we go—HB7272250,” I say to the rep from London. “Once it comes in, we want it transferred there as soon as possible.”

Thanks again for the help, Clouseau,” Charlie adds. “I’m gonna tell all my rich friends about you.”

Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll look for it tomorrow—and then hopefully we can start talking about some of our other overseas business.”

Translation: Do me this solid and I’ll throw you so much business, it’ll make this three million look like gum money. It’s
the third time we’ve played this game—relaying the account number of one bank to the bank that precedes it.

“Yeah… yeah… that’d be great,” Charlie says, switching to his I-really-gotta-run voice. “Have a croissant on me.”

Charlie hops out of his seat as I lower the receiver. “Aaaaaaannnnnnnd… we’re done,” he says as soon as the phone hits the
cradle.

My eyes go straight to the clock. Eleven thirty-five. “Damn,” I whisper under my breath. In a blur, I rake the loose pages
of the Red Sheet back into one pile and stuff them in my briefcase. “C’mon, let’s go,” Charlie demands, flying toward the
door. As I run, I shove the chairs back under the table. Charlie sweeps the bagels back on their tray. Neat and perfect. Just
like we found it.

“I got the coats,” I say, grabbing them from the chair.

He doesn’t care. He just keeps running. And before the receptionist notices the blur in front of her desk, we’re gone.

* * * *

“Where the hell were you guys—braiding each other’s hair?” Shep asks as we plow into his office. Ten minutes and counting.
I throw the coats on the leather sofa; Shep leaps out of his seat and jams a sheet of paper in front of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Transfer request—all you need to do is fill in where it’s going.”

Ripping the mess of paperwork from my briefcase, I flip to the Red Sheet marked
England.
Charlie bends over so I can use his back as a desk. I scribble as fast as I can and copy the account info. Almost done.

“So where’s it finally going?” Shep asks.

Charlie stands up, and I stop writing. “What’re you talking about?”

“The last transfer. Where’re we putting it?”

I look to Charlie, but he returns a blank stare. “I thought you said…”

“… that you could pick where the money goes,” Shep interrupts. “I did—and you can bounce it wherever you want—but you better
believe I want to know the final stop.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I growl.

“Guys, can we just save this one for later?” Charlie pleads.

Shep leans in, plenty annoyed. “The deal was to give the two of you control… not to freeze me out altogether.”

“So suddenly you’re worried we’re going to keep the cake?” I ask.

“Fellas, please,” Charlie begs. “We’re almost out of time…”

“Don’t fuck with me, Oliver—all I’m asking for is a taste of some insurance.”

“No, all you’re asking for is
our
insurance. This is what’s supposed to keep us safe.”

“I just hope you both realize you’re about to blow this whole thing,” Charlie says. Neither of us cares. That’s how it always
is with money—everything gets personal.

“Just tell me where the damn bank is!” Shep explodes.

“Why? So you can live your duffel bag fantasy and leave us chewing dirt?”

“Dammit, you two, no one’s leaving anyone!” Charlie shouts. Shoving himself between us, he reaches out and grabs my stack
of Red Sheets.

“What’re you doing?” I yell, pulling them back.

“Let…
go!
” Charlie insists with one last yank. The top two pages tear in half and I fly backwards. I’m fast enough to regain my footing,
but not fast enough to stop him. Spinning toward Shep, he flips to the bottom of the pile, pulls out the Red Sheet marked
Antigua,
and folds it back so you can only see one bank on the list.

“
Charlie… don’t!
”

Too late. He covers the account number with his finger and rams it in Shep’s face. “You got it?”

Shep studies it with a quick look. “Thank you… that’s all I ask.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Charlie shoots back. “If we sit here arguing, no one’s getting anything—so finish the damn paperwork
and get going. We’ve got only a few minutes!”

Spinning toward the clock, I check for myself.

“Eyes on the prize, Oliver. Eyes on the prize,” Shep says.

“Go, go, go!” Charlie shouts as I jot in the last line. He just gave away our entire insurance policy—but it’s still not worth
losing everything. Not when we’re this close. Charlie stuffs the Red Sheets back in my briefcase; I’ve got a stack of forty
abandoned accounts under my arm. Stumbling out the door, I don’t once look back. Just forward.

“That’s the way, bro,” Charlie calls out.

Here we go. Time to nab some cash.

C
harlie slams the door behind me and I rush down the fifth-floor hallway, still juggling a mound of paper. On my right, the
doors to the public elevator slide shut, which is why I double my pace and head straight for the private one in the back.

The indicator panel above the doors is lit up at eight… then seven… then six… I can still catch it. I rush forward and punch
in the six-digit code as fast as I can. Just as I hit the last digit, the abandoned accounts pile gives way. I pull the full
stack against my chest, but the pages are already sliding down my stomach. They crash to the floor and spread out amoeba-style.
Dropping to my knees, I madly shuffle them back into place. That’s when the elevator sounds. The doors slide open and I’m
staring at two sets of nice shoes. And not just anyone’s nice shoes…

“Can I help you with that, Oliver?” Lapidus asks as I look up to see his wide grin.

“Still using the boss’s code, huh?” Quincy adds, jamming his arm in front of the door to hold it open.

I force a strained smile—and feel the blood seep from my face.

“Do you need some…”

“No. I got it,” I insist. “You two go ahead.”

“Don’t worry,” Quincy teases. “We’re thrilled to wait.”

Seeing that they’re not leaving, I straighten the pile, scramble to my feet, and join them inside the elevator.

“What floor would you like, sir?” Quincy adds.

“Sorry,” I stutter. Once again forcing a grin, I reach forward and press four. My finger shakes as it taps the button.

“Don’t let him get to you, Oliver,” Lapidus offers. “He’s just mad he doesn’t have his own protégé.” Like always, it’s the
perfect reaction to the situation. Like always, it’s exactly what I want to hear. And like always… just as he pulls me close
for the fatherly hug, he’s carving his initials straight into my back. Drop dead, Lapidus. The whipping boy is moving on.

There’s a ping and the elevator doors glide open. “See you tomorrow,” I say, feeling like I’m about to vomit.

Quincy nods; Lapidus pats me on the shoulder.

“By the way,” Lapidus calls out, “did you have a nice conversation with Kenny?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, leaving them behind. “It was just perfect.”

* * * *

Fighting the vertigo that’s pounding my head, I speedwalk down the hallway. Eyes front. Stay on course. By the time I approach
The Cage, my whole body’s numb. Hands, feet, chest—I can’t feel a thing. In fact, as I reach down to open the door, my hands
are so sweaty, and the doorknob’s so cold, I’m worried I’m going to spot-weld right to it. My stomach caves out from under
me, begging me to stop—but it’s too late—the door’s already open.

“About time,” Mary says as I enter The Cage. “You had me worried, Oliver.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask, smiling anxious hellos to the other four officemates who look up as I cross the industrial carpet.
“I still have a good three—” The door slams behind me and I jump at the crash. I almost forgot… in The Cage, the door shuts
automatically.

“You okay there?” Mary asks, immediately shifting to mother hen.

“Y-Yeah… of course,” I say, struggling to pull it together. “I was just saying… we still have at least three minutes…”

“And worse comes to worst, you can always do it yourself, right?” As she asks the question, she wipes a smudge from the glass
of her oldest son’s picture frame. The one with her password…

“Listen, about Tanner Drew…” I beg. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry…”

“I’m sure you are.” She lowers her head, refusing to face me. No question, she’s ready to blow. But out of nowhere, her high-pitched
laugh cuts through the room. Then Polly, who sits next to her, joins in. Then Francine. All of them laughing. “C’mon, Oliver,
we’re only teasing,” Mary finally adds, a big smile on her face.

“Y-You’re not mad?”

“Honey, you did the best you could with what you had… but if I ever find out you use my password again…”

I wince slightly, waiting for the rest of the threat.

Once again, Mary smiles wide. “It’s a joke, Oliver… it won’t kill you to laugh.” She pulls the stack of abandoned accounts
from my hand and lightly slaps me across the chest with it. “You take things too seriously, y’know that?”

I try to answer, but nothing comes out. All I see are the forms as they wave through the air.

Turning to her computer, Mary clips the whole stack to the vertical clipboard attached to her monitor. She knows the deadline.
No time to waste. Luckily, the transfers are already keyed in—all she has to do is enter the destinations. “I don’t see why
the state gets this,” she adds as she opens the
Abandoned Accounts
file. “Personally I’d rather see it go to charity…”

She says something else, but it’s drowned out by the blood rushing through my ears. On the screen, a twenty-thousand-dollar
account gets zapped to New York’s Unclaimed Funds Division. Then a three-hundred-dollar one. Then a twelve-thousand. One by
one, she works her way through the pile earmarked for the state. One by one, she hits that
Send
button.

“So I think you’re going to be able to steal it,” Mary eventually says.

A hot jolt stabs me in the legs, like someone shoving a knife in my thigh. I can barely stand. “E-Excuse me?”

“I said, we’re going to be able to go on our ski trip,” Mary adds. “Justin’s knee isn’t as bad as we thought.” Turning around,
Mary catches me wiping a wave of sweat from my forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay, Oliver?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Just one of those days.”

“More like one of those years, the way you’re always running around. I’m telling you, Oliver, if you don’t start taking it
easy, the people here’ll kill you.”

There’s no arguing with fact.

Flipping to the next sheet in the pile, Mary finally gets to a four-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer to someone named Alexander
Reed. I expect her to make some comment about the amount, but at this point, she’s dead to it. She sees it every day.

And so do I. Hundred-thousand-dollar checks… finding decorators for their Tuscan villas… the dessert chef at L’Aubergine who
knows exactly the right crispiness they like for their chocolate soufflés. It’s a nice life. But it’s not mine.

It takes Mary a total of ten seconds to type in the account number and hit
Send.
Ten seconds. Ten seconds to change my life. It’s what my dad was always chasing, but never found. Finally… a way out.

Mary licks her fingertips for a touch of traction, leafs to the next sheet in the pile, and lowers her fingers to the keyboard.
There it is:
Duckworth and Sunshine Distributors.

“So what’d you do this weekend?” I ask, my voice racing.

“Oh, same as every weekend for the last month—tried to show up all my relatives by buying them better holiday presents than
the ones they bought me.”

Onscreen, the name of our London bank clicks into place.
C.M.W. Walsh Bank.

“That sounds great,” I say vacantly.

Digit by digit, the account number follows.

“
That sounds great?
” Mary laughs. “Oliver, you’ve really got to get out more.”