The Millionaires (7 page)

S
o whatta we do now?” Charlie asks as he shuts the door to my office early Monday morning.

“Just what we talked about,” I say, pulling weekend work from my briefcase and dumping it on my desk. I’m moving at my typical
frantic pace, rushing from desk to filing cabinet back to desk, but today…

“You’ve got some bounce in your step,” Charlie decides, suddenly excited. “And not just the hamster-on-a-treadmill thing you’ve
usually got going.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah I do.” He watches me carefully, consuming every move. “Arms swaying… shoulders rising… even under the suit—Yeah,
brother. Let freedom ring.”

I grab the fax from Friday night and slide it in front of my computer. At noon today, the abandoned accounts have to be sent
to the state or returned to their owners. That gives us three hours to steal three million dollars. Just as I’m about to start,
I crack my knuckles.

“Don’t hesitate,” Charlie warns.

He’s worried I’ll talk myself out of it. I crack my knuckles one last time and start copying from the Duckworth fax.

“Now what’re you doing?” Charlie asks.

“Same thing our mystery person did—writing a fake letter that claims the money—but this one puts the cash in an account for
us.”

Charlie nods and grins. “Y’know last night was a full moon,” he points out. “I bet that’s why they took it in the first place.”

“Can you please not get all creepy on me?”

“Don’t mock the moon,” Charlie warns. “You can bathe in all the left-brain logic you want, but when I was working that telemarketing
job taking consumer complaints, we got seventy percent more calls on nights when the moon was full. No joking—that’s when
all the crazies come out to dance.” He falls silent, but he can barely sit still. “So any new ideas on who the original thief
was?”

“Actually, that was going to be my next…” Picking up the phone, I read the number from the Duckworth fax and start dialing.
Before Charlie can even ask the question, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear.

“Directory Assistance,” a mechanized female voice says. “For what city?”

“Manhattan,” I say.

“What listing?”

I read from the fax. “Midland National Bank.” Where the thief wanted to transfer the money.

“Why’re you…”

“Shhhh,” I say as I dial the new number.

Charlie shakes his head, clearly amused. He’s used to being the little brother.

“Midland National,” a female voice answers. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, back in my customer service voice. “My name is Marty Duckworth, and I just wanted to confirm the details for
an upcoming wire transfer.”

“I’ll do my best—what’s your account number, sir?”

I once again read it straight from the letter, and even throw in Duckworth’s Social Security number as a bonus. “First name
Martin,” I add.

We hear a quiet clicking as she types it in. “Now what can I help you with today, Mr. Duckworth?”

Charlie leans forward on my desk. “Ask her name,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I add. It’s the same trick Tanner Drew used on me—ask their names and they’re suddenly
accountable.

“Sandy,” she answers quickly.

“Okay, Sandy, I just wanted to confirm…”

“… the wire instructions for the incoming transfer,” she offers a bit too enthusiastically. “I have it right here, sir. The
transfer will be coming from the Greene & Greene Bank in New York City, and then, upon receipt, we have your instructions
to send it to TPM Limited at the Bank of London, into account number B2178692792.”

The faster writer, Charlie scribbles down the number as quickly as he can. Next to
TPM Ltd.,
I take his pen and write,
Fake company. Smart.
“Wonderful. Thanks, Sandy…”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Duckworth?”

I look Charlie’s way, and he moves closer to the speakerphone. Dropping his voice down to his best impersonation of me, he
adds, “Actually, as long as I have you on the line… I haven’t gotten my last few statements—can you please check and see if
you have my right address?”

Oh, the boy’s good.

“Let me take a look,” Sandy says.

When I was nine years old and sick with a hundred and three fever, Charlie made me a peanut butter and mayo sandwich that
he said would make me feel better. It made me barf everywhere. Today, Charlie’s voice is as sweet as ever. There’s a thin
smirk across his face. All these years, I thought he was trying to be helpful. Now I wonder if he’s just plain ruthless.

“Okay, I think I see the problem,” Sandy interrupts. “Which address do you want us to send it to?”

Confused, Charlie hesitates.

“You have more than one?” I jump in.

“Well, there’s the one in New York: 405…”

“… Amsterdam Avenue, Apartment 2B,” I agree, reading from the address on the letter.

“And then I have another in Miami…”

Charlie flings me a Post-It, and I dive for a pen. We’re only going to get this once.

“1004 Tenth Street, Miami Beach, Florida, 33139,” she announces.

Instinctively, Charlie writes down city, state, and zip. I write down the street address. It’s the way we used to remember
phone numbers: I get the first half; he gets the last. “Story of my life,” he used to say.

“If you want, I can change it to the New York one,” Sandy explains.

“No, no, leave it as is. As long as I know where to look for—”

There’s a loud knock on my office door. I jerk myself around just in time to see it open. “Anyone home?” a deep voice asks.

Charlie grabs the letter. I grab the receiver, killing the speakerphone. “Okay, thanks again for the help.” With a crash,
I’m off.

“H-Hey, Shep,” Charlie sings, putting on his happy face for the head of Security.

“Everything okay?” Shep asks, stepping toward us.

“Yeah,” Charlie says.

“Absolutely,” I add.

“What could possibly be wrong?”

The last one’s Charlie’s and he kicks himself as soon as it leaves his lips.

“So what can I help you with today, Shep?” I ask.

“Actually, I was hoping to help
you,
” Shep blurts. There go the kid gloves.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“I just wanted to talk to you about that transfer you made to Tanner Drew…”

Charlie’s shoulders sag with instant dread. He’s no good with confrontation.

“That was a perfectly legal transfer,” I challenge.

“
Listen,
” Shep interrupts. “Spare me the tone.” Sensing that he has our attention, he adds, “I already spoke to Lapidus—he’s thrilled
you had the balls to take charge. Tanner Drew’s happy; all is well. But from my side of the desk… well, I don’t like seeing
forty million dollars go zip… especially when you’re using someone else’s password.”

How’d he know we—

“You think they hired me for my looks?” Shep asks, laughing. “With thirteen billion at risk, we’ve got the best security money
can buy.”

“Well, if you need any backup, I’ve got a pretty good bike lock,” Charlie adds, trying to keep things light.

Shep turns directly toward him. “Oh, man, would you love it, Charlie—I got this one option—you ever heard of Investigator
software?”

Charlie shakes his head. He’s out of jokes.

“It lets you do keystroke monitoring,” Shep adds, all his attention now on me. “Which means when you’re sitting at your computer,
I can see every word you’re typing. E-mail, letters, passwords… as soon as you hit the key, it pops up on my screen.”

“You sure that’s legal?” I ask.

“You kiddin’? It’s like standard issue these days—Exxon, Delta Airlines, even bitchy spouses who want to see what their husbands
are doing in chat rooms—they all use it. I mean, why do you think the bank puts all our computers on one network—so you can
send in-house e-mail? Big Brother ain’t comin’—he’s been here for years.”

I glance over at Charlie, who’s staring way too intently at the computer screen. Oh, jeez. The fake letter…

“It’s really amazin’,” Shep continues. “You can program it like an alarm—so if someone’s using Mary’s password, and the security
system says she’s no longer in the building… it’ll pop up on your screen and tell you what’s going on.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I hadda do that…”

“So there’s the Brooklyn accent,” Shep grins. “What, it only comes out when you’re nervous? Is that when you forget to hide
it?”

“No, it’s just… under the circumstances, I didn’t know what to…”

“Donworryaboudit,” Shep says, rubbing in the old neighborhood. “Like I said, Lapidus didn’t give a squat. When it comes to
the tech stuff, he doesn’t care that I can see when someone types in Mary’s name, or his name…” Shep glances over my shoulder
and his voice slows down. “… or even that I can see when someone’s using a company computer to write a fraudulent letter.”

Charlie shoots up in his seat, and suddenly I’m not the only one wearing the constipated mask.

“I’ll tell ya, they never had that when I was in the Service,” Shep continues, taking a few steps toward us and rolling up
his shirtsleeves. He scratches his forearms—first right, then left—and I see for the first time how massive they are. “These
days… with the computers… you can have ’em notify you of anything…” he adds, the old neighborhood now long gone. “… forty-million-dollar
transfers to Tanner Drew… or three-million-dollar transfers to Marty Duckworth…”

Son of a bitch.

I’m paralyzed. I can’t move.

“It’s over, son. We know what you’re up to.”

Charlie jumps out of his seat and pumps a little laughter into his voice. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Shep—easy on the nightstick—you
don’t think we—”

Shep plows past him, a finger pointed straight at my face. “Do I look blind to you, Oliver!?” Looking down, I don’t answer.
“I asked you a question, son: Do you really think I’m that much of a moron? I knew from the second you sent that first fax,
it was just a matter of time until you blew it.”

“The first fax?” Charlie blurts. “The Kinko’s one? You think that was
us?
” He puts a hand on Shep’s shoulder, hoping to buy a second or two. “I swear to you, buddy—we never sent that—in fact… in
fact, when we got in this morning… we were… we were trying to catch the thief ourselves… isn’t that right, Oliver? We were
doing the same thing as you!”

Ghost white, I just sit there. Charlie knows I’m lost. He glares my way.
Dammit, Ollie… get with it. Please.

Turning back to Shep, Charlie laughs like it’s a riot. “I swear to you, Shep. We were trying to track the thief oursel—”

“Knock, knock—anyone home?” a scratchy voice shouts as the door to my office swings open. Shep spins around and finds the
source of the voice—the paunchy, but still impeccably dressed middle-aged man who’s now approaching my desk—Francis A. Quincy,
head financial partner of the firm. Behind him is the boss himself. Henry Lapidus.

I throw on a phony grin, but down low, my toes dig toward the carpet.

“Look who it is—the forty-million-dollar man!” Lapidus sings my way. “Believe it or not, I hear Tanner Drew’s holding a spot
for you in his will.” As he says the words, he wipes his hand across his mostly bald head—it’s part of his constant state
of kinetic motion. Despite his towering six-foot-three frame, Lapidus is like a hummingbird in human form… flap, flap, flap,
all day long. I used to think it was an energy that couldn’t be contained. Charlie used to say it was hemorrhoids. They always
show up around assholes.

“And guess who we brought for you?” Lapidus asks. Stepping aside, he reveals a nebbishy turtle-faced kid slicked up in a way-too-expensive
Italian suit. He’s our age and looks familiar, but I…

“Kenny?” Charlie blurts.

Kenny Owens. My freshman year roommate at NYU. Obnoxious Long Island rich kid. Haven’t seen him in years—but the suit alone
tells me nothing’s changed. Still a putz.

“Been a long time, huh?” Kenny asks. He’s waiting for an answer, but Charlie and I are both eyeing Shep.

“I thought you’d like some time to catch up,” Lapidus says, sounding like he’s setting us up on a date.

“Old friends and all that…” Quincy adds.

Cocking his head, Charlie knows something’s up. As a rule, Quincy hates everyone. Like most CFOs, all he cares about is the
money. But today… today, we’re all family. And if Lapidus and Quincy are personally taking Kenny around… he must be interviewing
for a job.

Before anyone can get a word in, Lapidus follows our gaze to Shep. “And what’re you doing here?” Lapidus asks, sounding pleasantly
surprised. “More lecturing about Tanner Drew?”

“Yeah,” Shep says dryly. “All about Tanner Drew.”

“Well, why don’t you save it for later,” Lapidus adds. “Let these boys have some time alone.”

“Actually, this is more important,” Shep challenges.

“Maybe you didn’t understand,” Quincy jumps in. “We want these boys to have some time alone.” Right there, the fight’s over.
CFO outranks Security.

“Thanks again for doing this,” Lapidus says to me. Leaning in close, he whispers, “And take it from me, Oliver—helping us
get Kenny—it’s a perfect way to round out your B-school applications.”

Charlie and I sit there silently as Shep grudgingly follows Lapidus and Quincy to the door. Just as they leave, Shep turns
around and pegs Charlie with a javelin glare that pins him through the heart. The door slams shut, but there’s no doubt about
it. All we’ve done is prolong the pain.

“So do I look good, or do I look good?” Kenny asks as soon as they’re gone.

Charlie’s still in shock.

“What’re you doing here?” I blurt.

“Nice to see you too,” Kenny says, taking a seat in front of the desk. “You always so warm to your guests?”

“Yeah… no…. Sorry—just one of those days,” I stammer. I’m trying to keep it calm—even if it’s obvious I’m failing.

Kenny says something else, but all I can think about is Shep. I look at Charlie, and he looks at me. There’s nothing worse
than fear in your brother’s eyes.

“So tell us what’s going on,” I say to Kenny. “What position are you interviewing for?”