The Millionaires (60 page)

“Where’s your Calvin Kleinish bed?” Charlie asks.

“Mom said she kept my old one in the basement. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“
Fine?
” He shakes his head, unable to accept it. “Ollie, this is stupid—I don’t care how good an actor you are—I can hear the pain
in your voice. Now if you want, we can pawn some of my speakers. That’ll give you at least another month to—”

“We’ll be okay,” I interrupt as I grab the other duffel. “We’ll definitely be okay.”

“But if you don’t have a job—”

“Believe me, there’re plenty of good ideas out there. All it takes is one.”

“What, you’re gonna go selling T-shirts again? You can’t make money doing that.”

Letting the duffel slouch to the floor, I put a hand on his good shoulder and stare him straight in the eye. “One good idea,
Charlie. I’ll find it.”

Charlie looks down at the way I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Okay, so we’re past the College Ollie, and the Banking
Ollie, and the easily forgettable Dying to Impress Ollie with its very own Removable Soul. So which one’s this? Entrepreneur
Ollie? Go-Getter Ollie? Working at Foot Locker in a Month Ollie?”

“How about the real Ollie?” I ask.

He likes that one.

Crossing back into the dining room, I can already feel the energy rumbling through my stomach. “I’m telling you, Charlie—now
that I have the time, there’s nothing to get in the—”

Cutting myself off, my eyes dart to the torn-open envelope on the edge of the table. Return address says Coney Island Hospital.
I know the account cycle. “They sent us another bill already?” I ask.

“Sorta,” Charlie answers, trying to brush past it.

That’s it—something’s up. I go straight for the envelope. As I unfold the bill, it’s all the same. Total balance is still
eighty-one thousand, payment due at the end of the month is still four hundred and twenty dollars, and payment status is still
“On Time.” But at the top of the bill, instead of saying “Maggie,” the name above our address now says “Charlie Caruso.”

“What’re you—? What’d you do?” I ask.

“It’s not hers,” he says. “It shouldn’t be on her shoulders.”

Standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, he’s got a calmness to his voice I haven’t heard in years. That being
said, taking over the hospital bill is easily one of the rashest, unnecessary, and uncalled for things my brother’s ever done.
That’s why I tell him the truth. “Good for you, Charlie.”

“
Good for you?
That’s it? You’re not gonna grill me on the details: Why I made the change? How it’s gonna play out? How’m I possibly gonna
afford it?”

I shake my head. “Mom already told me about the job.”

“She told you? What’d she say?”

“What’s to say? It’s illustration work down at Behnke Publishing. Ten hours a day doing drawings for a line of technical computer
manuals—boring as watching shoe polish dry—but it pays sixteen bucks an hour. Like I said, good for y—”

Before I can finish, the front door slams behind us. “I see handsome men!” mom’s voice calls out as we spin around. She’s
balancing two brown bags of groceries in a double-barreled headlock. Charlie races for one bag; I race for the other. The
moment she’s free, her smile spreads wider and her thick arms wrap around our necks.

“Ma, careful of my stitches…” Charlie says.

She lets go and looks him in the eye. “You say no to a hug from your mother?”

Knowing better than to argue, he lets her put a wet one on his cheek.

“Charlie told me he hates your hugs,” I jump in. “He said he hopes you don’t give him another.”

“Don’t start—you’re next,” she warns. She plants one on me and fights her way out of her winter coat. Noticing the crates
and boxes all over the floor, she can barely contain herself. “Oh, my boys are back,” she coos, following us to the kitchen.

Charlie starts stuffing groceries into the cabinets. On the counter, I take a long hard look at the Charlie Brown cookie jar.
I’m already biting the inside of my lip. For almost five years it’s been my most regular habit. I’m dying to open it. But
for once, I don’t.

Charlie watches me closely.
It’s okay,
he says with a glance.
Everyone needs a day off. Including you.

“And guess who I got a present for?” mom asks, grabbing my attention. From one of the shopping bags, she pulls out a blue
plastic bag. “I saw it in the yarn shop—I couldn’t resist…”

“Mom, I told you not to buy me anything,” I moan.

She doesn’t care; she’s too excited. Reaching into the bag, she takes out a needlepoint canvas and holds it up. In thick,
red stenciled letters are the words, “Bloom Where You’re Planted.”

“What do you think?” mom asks. “It’s just a little coming-home gift. I can put it in a frame or on a pillow—whichever you
want.”

Like most of mom’s needlepoints, the slogan is mushy and over-sentimental.

“I love it,” I say.

“Me too,” Charlie agrees. Pulling out his notepad, he scribbles the words as fast as he can.
Bloom where you’re planted.
As he writes the words, he looks good with the pen back in his hand.

“By the way, I saw Randy Boxer’s mother in the yarn shop,” mom adds, turning to Charlie. “She was so glad you called—it just
made her day.”

“Randy Boxer’s mom?” I ask. “What’re you calling her for?”

“I was actually trying to get Randy’s number,” he explains as if it happens every day.

“Really?” I ask, noticing the quickness of his answer. He’s not fooling anyone. He hasn’t seen Randy in at least four years.
“So why the sudden high school reunion?”

He spins back to the groceries, refusing to say. “Not yet,” he explains without facing me. “Not until it’s all in place.”

“Charlie…”

He thinks about it again. Whatever it is, it’s got him nervous. But after a lifetime of telling me to eat the dandelions,
he knows it’s time for him to finally take his first bite. “We were… we were thinking of maybe starting a little band…”

I can barely contain myself. “A band, huh?” I ask, wide smile across my face.

“Nothing big—y’know, just something loud but smart. We figure we can get together after work… start at Richie Rubin’s club
over in New Brunswick… then maybe work our way into the city.”

“No, that sounds great,” I say, trying to keep it cool. “Of course, now you’re gonna have to find something to call yourselves.”

“
Please
—how d’ya think we spent our first three hours of practice?”

“So you’ve already got a name?”

“C’mon, baby, we look like novices? Coming to Shea Stadium early next summer—ladies and gentlemen… please give a Big Apple
welcome to…
The Millionaires!
”

I laugh out loud. So does mom.

“You really gonna use that?” I ask.

“Hey, if I’m gonna be struggling to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I might as well be wearing a cool cape. Start low—aim
high.”

“That’s very Power of Positive Thinking of you.”

“Well I’m a very Power of Positive Thinking kinda guy. Ask anyone. Besides, who wants to see a band called
Pluto’s Severed Head?
We do that, we lose the whole kiddie market.”

Back by the sink, mom turns on the faucet and washes the daily grime from her hands. She’s got Band-Aids on four of her fingertips.
Behind her, I spot Charlie eyeing the Charlie Brown cookie jar. The paint’s scraped off the nose. He reaches out and taps
the ceramic round ears. “He’s not nearly as big as he used to be,” Charlie whispers my way. “I don’t care how many drawings
I have to do—this sucker’s gonna be empty within the year.”

“So you’re ready?” mom interrupts, focused on Charlie.

“Excuse me?” he asks. At first, he takes it as a typical mom question. But as he reads her face—as I replay it in my head—we
both realize it’s not a question.
So you’re ready.
It’s a statement. “Yeah,” Charlie tells her. “I think so.”

“Can I come watch you practice?” she adds.

“Forget watching, we need star power like you on stage. Whattya say, ma—ready to bang some tambourines? We got our first tryouts
tomorrow night.”

“Oh, I can’t tomorrow night,” she says. “I have a date.”

“A date? With who?”

“Who do you think, mushmouth?” I jump in. Cutting between them, I slide my arm around mom. “You think you’re the only one
who knows how to cha-cha? Dance lessons wait for no man. Hit it, sweet momma—and a-one, and a-two—right-foot-first-now…”

Swinging mom out and banging her into the metal stove, I laugh loudly and bounce to my own imaginary beat.

“Did someone actually teach you how to move that awkwardly?” Charlie teases. “You dance like a fifty-year-old man in a bad
wedding conga line.”

He’s absolutely right. But I don’t care.

After years of busting my ass at the nation’s most prestigious private bank, I—at this moment—have no job, no income, no savings,
no girlfriend, no discernible professional future, and not a single safety net to catch me if I plummet off the trapeze. But
as I twirl our mom through the kitchen and watch her gray hair spin through the air, I finally know where I’m going and who
I want to be. And as my brother angles in for the next dance, so does he.

“And a-one, and a-two… right-foot-first-now…”

W
ith a twist of the Victorian bronze oval doorknob, Henry Lapidus stepped into his office, shut the door behind himself, and
headed straight for his desk. Picking up the phone, he glanced at the Red Sheet in his in-box, but didn’t bother to take it
out. He learned that lesson years ago—like a magician protecting his tricks, you don’t put every number on the sheet—especially
the ones you know by heart.

As he dialed and waited for someone to pick up, he stared down at the letter of recommendation he’d written for Oliver, which
he was still gripping in his left hand.

“Hi, I’d like to speak with Mr. Ryan Isaac, please. This is one of his clients from the private group,” he explained. Lapidus
couldn’t help but be amused. Sure, his priority had always been to get the money back. Indeed, he was the one who personally
called the bank in Antigua to secure the return of every last cent. Without a doubt, it was the right thing to do.

But that didn’t mean he had to tell the Antigua bank about the theft, or Duckworth’s worm, or the fact that none of the money
was real.

“Mr. Isaac, it’s me,” Lapidus said the instant Isaac said hello. “I just wanted to make sure everything got there okay.”

“Absolutely,” Isaac answered. “It came this morning.”

Three weeks ago, the bank in Antigua was surprised to receive a three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-dollar deposit. For four
days, it was sitting on one of the largest individual accounts in the world. For four days, it was flushed with more cash
than it had ever seen. And for four days, in Lapidus’s opinion, Oliver had done at least one thing right. It was one of the
first lessons Lapidus taught:
Never open a bank account unless you’re getting interest.

Lapidus nodded to himself, enjoying the moment.

Four days of interest. On three hundred and thirteen million.

“One hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars,” Isaac clarified on the other line. “Should I put it in your regular account?”

“That’d be perfect,” Lapidus replied as he swiveled around in his seat and stared out the window at the New York City skyline.

Hanging up the receiver, Lapidus knew that once the principal was returned, the government would be far too preoccupied with
tracking the worm and figuring out how it worked. And now that they were knee-deep in that, well… thanks to a well-placed
payment to the Antiguan bank manager, all records of the interest were long gone. Like they never existed.

His eyes still on the skyline, Lapidus crumpled up Oliver’s recommendation letter and tossed it in the eighteenth-century
Chinese porcelain vase that he used as a garbage can.
One hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars,
he thought to himself as he leaned back in his leather chair. Not a bad day’s work.

As he took in the shadows of the late afternoon, a ray of sun gleamed off the Kamakura samurai helmet that was hanging on
the wall behind him. Lapidus didn’t notice. If he did, he would’ve seen the twinkle of light just under the helmet’s forehead,
where a silver object barely peeked out. To the untrained eye, it looked like a nail holding the mask in place… or the tip
of a fine silver pen. But nothing more.

Except for the occasional glare of sunlight, the tiny videocamera was hidden perfectly. And wherever Joey was, she was smiling.

* * * *