The Millionaires

8

Charlie 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.”

The cursor glides to the Send button and I start saying my goodbyes. I could still stop it, but…

The Send icon blinks to a negative and then back again. The words are so small, but I know them like the Big E on the eye chart:

Status: Pending.

Status: Approved.

Status: Paid.

“Listen, I should be getting back to my office…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mary says without even turning around. “I can handle it from here.”