The Millionaires (6 page)

“She’s not second-class.”

“She is, Ollie. And so are we,” Charlie insists. “Now I’m sorry if that ruins your priceless self-image, but it’s time to
find a way to get her out. Everyone deserves a fresh start—especially mom.”

As the words leave Charlie’s lips, I feel them tear at my belly. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Taking care of mom has
always been top priority. For both of us. Of course, that doesn’t mean I have to follow him over the cliff. “I don’t need
to be a thief.”

“Who said anything about thieves?” Charlie challenges. “Thieves steal from
people.
This money doesn’t belong to anyone. Duckworth’s dead—you tried to contact his family—he’s got no one. All we’d be taking
is some cash that would never be missed. And even if something goes wrong, we can just blame it on whoever faxed us that letter.
I mean, it’s not like he’s in any position to tell on us.”

“Oh, okay, Lenin, so when we’re done redistributing the wealth, we’ll just take this show on the road and go on the run for
the rest of our lives. That’s clearly the best way to help mom—just abandon her and—”

“We don’t have to abandon anyone,” he insists. “We’ll do exactly what this guy’s doing—transfer the money out, and then we
don’t touch it until we know it’s safe. After seven years, the FBI closes the investigation.”

“Says who?”

“I read this article in the
Village Voice
—”

“The
Village Voice?
”

“No screwing around—all it takes is seven years—then we’re just another unsolved file. Case closed.”

“And then what do we do? Retire on the beach, open a bar, and write sappy little songs for the rest of our lives?”

“It’s a lot better than wasting another four years kissing corporate ass and going nowhere.”

I hop off the bed and he knows he’s overstepped the boundaries. “You
know
business school is the best way out, and you
know
I can’t go there directly after college,” I insist, shoving a finger in his face. “You have to work a couple years first.”

“Fine. A couple years—that’s two. You’re finishing four.”

Taking a breath, I try not to lose it. “Charlie, I’m applying to the top schools in the country. Harvard, Penn, Chicago, Columbia.
That’s where I want to go—anything else is second best and doesn’t help anyone, including mom.”

“And who decided that, you or Lapidus?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many opportunities did you give up because Lapidus put his grand plan about B-school in your head? How many companies
have you refused offers from? You know it as well as I do—you should’ve left the bank years ago. Instead, it’s been back-to-back
B-school rejection letters. And you think this year’s gonna be any different? Broaden your horizons a little. I mean, it’s
just like dating Beth—sure, you make a nice picture, but that’s all it is—a nice picture, Oliver—a Sears portrait of how you
think things should be. You’re one of the most brilliant, dynamic people I know. Stop being so scared of living.”

“Then stop judging me!” I explode.

“I’m not judging you…”

“No, you’re just asking me to steal three million dollars—that’ll solve all my problems!”

“I’m not saying it’s the answer to every prayer, but it’s the only way we’re ever gonna dig out of this.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong!” I shout. “You may be thrilled nursing paper cuts in the file room, but I’ve got my eyes
on something bigger. Trust me on this one, Charlie—once I’m done with business school, mom’s never gonna see another bill
again. You can tease and joke all you want—sure, the path is safe, and it may be simple—but all that matters right now is
that it works. And when the payoff hits, that three million dollars is gonna look like bus fare from Brooklyn.”

“And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something, buddy-boy—you may think you’re all private jet
going straight to the summit, but from my side of the river, all you’re doing is standing in line like the rest of the lower-level
drones you used to hate. A drone like dad.”

I want to smack him across the face, but I’ve been there before. I don’t need another fistfight. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about,” I growl.

“Really? So you think that even though you’re one of the bank’s top associates, and even though you’ve single-handedly brought
in over twelve million dollars’ worth of new accounts for Lapidus just by scouring the NYU alumni magazine, and even though
almost every partner in the firm went to one of the four business schools you’re applying to, it’s still possible that you’ve
been rejected two years in a row?”

“That’s enough!”

“Uh-oh, sore spot! You’ve already thought it yourself, haven’t you?”

“Shut up, Charlie!”

“I’m not saying Lapidus planned it from the start, but do you have any idea what a pain it is for him to hire someone new
and train him to think exactly like he does? You gotta find the right kid… preferably a poor one with no connections…”

“I said, shut up!”

“… promise him a job that’ll keep him there for a few years so he can pay off his debt…”

“Charlie, I swear to God…!”

“… then keep stringing him along until the poor fool actually realizes he and his whole family are going nowhere…”

“
Shut up!
” I yell, rushing forward. I’m in full rage. My hands go straight for the collar of his shirt.

Always the better athlete, Charlie ducks under my grasp and races back toward the eat-in kitchen. On the table, he spots a
B-school catalogue from Columbia and a file folder with the word “Applications” on it.

“Are these…?”

“Don’t touch them!”

That’s all it takes. He goes straight for the file. But just as he flips it open, a letter-sized blue-and-white envelope falls
to the floor. There’s a signature across the back, right where it’s sealed. Henry Lapidus.

The signature on the envelope is required by all four schools—to make sure I don’t open it. Indeed, the typed pages inside
are the most important part of any business school application—the boss’s recommendation.

“Okay, who wants to play detective?” Charlie sings, waving the envelope over his head so it scrapes the basement’s low ceiling.

“Give it back!” I demand.

“Oh, c’mon, Oliver, it’s been four years already—if Lapidus is locking you in the dungeon, at least this way, you get the
truth.”

“I already know the truth!” I yell, lunging forward and reaching out for the envelope. Once again, he ducks and spins under
the attack.

Back by the bed, Charlie’s no longer dangling it in front of me. For once, he’s serious. “You know something’s screwy, Oliver—I
can see it in your eyes. This guy took four years of your life. Four years in shackles on the promise of a later payoff. If
he’s bashing you in the letter—forget about the fact that all the B-schools keep it on file—he’s ruined the whole plan. Your
way out—how to pay mom’s debts—everything you were counting on. And even if you think you can start over, do you know how
hard it is to move to a new job without a recommendation? Not exactly the ideal situation for covering the hospital bills
and mom’s mortgage payments, now is it? So why don’t we just tear this bad boy open and—”

“
Let go of it!
” I explode. I plow straight at him, ready for the sidestep. But instead of ducking under, he hops backwards onto my bed and
bounces like a seven-year-old. “Laaaaadies aaaaaaaaaand geeeeentlemen, the heavyweight champion of the wooooooorld!” He sings
the last part, then imitates a crowd cheering wildly. When we were little, this is where I’d dive at his feet. Sometimes I’d
catch him, sometimes I’d miss—but eventually, the four-year age difference would catch up with him.

“Get off my bed!” I shout. “You’ll pop one of the springs!”

Right there, Charlie stops. He’s still on the bed, but he’s done jumping. “I love you when I say this, Oliver—but that last
statement—that’s exactly the problem.”

He steps to the edge of the mattress, and in one smooth move, drops himself on his butt, bounces off the bed, and springboards
to his feet. No matter how risky, no matter how wild—always a perfect landing.

“Oliver, I don’t care about the money,” he says as he slaps the envelope against my chest. “But if you don’t start making
some changes soon, you’re gonna be that guy who—when he hits his forty-third birthday—hates his life.”

I stare him straight in the eye, unmoved by the comment. “At least I won’t be living with my mother in Brooklyn.”

His shoulders fall and he steps backwards. I don’t care.

“Get out,” I add.

At first, he just stands there.

“You heard me, Charlie—get out.”

Shaking his head, he finally heads toward the door. First slow, then fast. As he turns, I swear there’s a grin on his face.
The door slams behind him and I look through the peephole. Doop, doop, doop—Charlie bounds up the stairs. “Open it and find
out!” he shouts from outside. And just like that, he’s gone.

* * * *

Ten minutes after Charlie leaves, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring down at the envelope. Behind me, the refrigerator’s
humming. The radiator’s clanging. And the water in the teapot is just starting to boil. I tell myself it’s because I’m in
the mood for some instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn’t buy it for a second.

It’s not like I’m talking about stealing the money. It’s just about my boss. It’s important to know what he thinks.

Outside, a car whizzes by, thumping through the crater-sized pothole that’s in front of the brownstone. Through the tops of
my windows, I see the car’s black wheels. That’s the only view I get from the basement. The sight of things moving on.

The water starts boiling—hitting its high note and screaming wildly through my mostly bare kitchen. Within a minute, the high-pitched
shriek feels like it’s been going for a year. Or two. Or four.

Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That’s what happens when you miss an insurance
payment to juggle your other bills. It’s another two decades of mom’s life. Two decades of worrying. Two decades of being
trapped. Unless I can get her out.

My eyes go straight to the blue-and-white envelope. Whatever’s inside… whatever he wrote… I need to know. For all of us.

I grab the envelope and shoot out of my seat so fast, I knock the chair to the floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front
of the tea kettle, watching the geyser of steam pound through the air. With a quick flick of my thumb, I open the tea kettle’s
spout. The whistling stops and the column of steam gets thicker.

In my hands, the envelope’s shaking. Lapidus’s signature, perfect as it is, becomes a mess of movement. I hold my breath and
struggle to keep it steady. All I have to do is put it in the steam. But just as I go to do it, I freeze. My heart drops and
everything starts to blur. It’s just like what happened with the wire transfer… but this time… No. Not this time.

Tightening my grip on the envelope, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing at all. Then, in one quick
moment, I hold on to the bottom of the envelope, lower the sealed side into the steam, and pray to God this works just like
it does in the movies.

Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from the condensation. Working the corners first, I angle the edge toward the tea
kettle. The steam warms my hands, but when I bring it too close, it burns the tips of my fingers. As carefully as I can, I
slide my thumb into the edge of the envelope and pry open the smallest of spaces. Letting it fill with steam, I work my thumb
in deeper and try to inch the flap open. It looks like it’s about to rip… but just as I’m about to give up… the glue gives
way. From there, I peel it like I’m pulling the back from a Band-Aid.

Tossing aside the envelope, I yank open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, looking for buzzwords, but it’s like
opening a college acceptance letter—I can barely read.
Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top.

Dear Dean Milligan.
Personalized. Good.
I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program…
blah, blah, blah
… Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years…
blah and more blah
… sorry to say…
Sorry to say?...
that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism…
maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…

I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere…
beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”

Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the
letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and—

“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”

I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.

Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”

I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.

“Y’mean with the—”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”

He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it—” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through
the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”