The Millionaires

10

There’s someone watching me. I didn’t notice him when I said goodbye to Lapidus and left the bank – it was after six and the December sky was already dark. And I didn’t see him trail me down the grimy subway stairs or follow me through the turnstile – there’re way too many commuters crisscrossing through the urban anthills to notice any one person. But as I reach the subway platform, I swear I hear someone whisper my name.

I spin around to check, but all that’s there is the typical Park Avenue post-work crowd: men, women, short, tall, young, old, a few black, mostly white. All of them in overcoats or heavy jackets. The majority stare down at reading material – a few lose themselves in their headphones – and one, just as I turn around, abruptly lifts a Wall Street Journal to cover his face.

I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his shoes or pants – anything for a context clue – but at the height of rush hour, the density of the crowd’s too thick. In no mood to take chances, I head further up the platform, away from the Journal man. At the last second, I once again look over my shoulder. A few more commuters fill out the crowd, but for the most part, no one moves – no one except the man, who once again – like a villain in a bad Cold War movie – lifts the Journal to cover his face.

Don’t get nuts, I tell myself – but before my brain can buy it, a quiet rumble fills the air. Here comes the train, which barrels into the station and blows my hair into an instant comb-over. Brushing it back into place with my fingers, I make my way toward the subway car and take one last peek down the platform. Every twenty feet, there’s a small crowd shoving itself toward an open door. I don’t know if he’s on board or gave up, but the man with the Journal is gone.

I fight my way onto the already overstuffed subway car, where I’m smashed between a Hispanic woman in a puffy gray ski jacket, and a balding man in a flasher overcoat. As the train makes its way downtown, the crowd slowly begins to thin and a few seats actually open. Indeed, when I transfer at Bleecker and pick up the D train at the Broadway-Lafayette stop, all the downtown fashion plates wearing black shoes, black jeans, and black leather jackets make their way off. It’s not the last stop before we head to Brooklyn, but it is the last cool stop.

Enjoying the extra space on the car, I lean up against a nearby metal pole. It’s the first time since I left the office that I actually catch my breath – that is, until I see who’s waiting for me at the far end of the car – the man hiding behind the Wall Street Journal.

Without the crowds and the distance, it’s easy to give him the quick once-over. That’s all I need. I plow toward him without even thinking. He lifts the paper a little higher, but it’s too late. With a sharp swipe, I rip it from his hands and reveal who’s been stalking me for the past fifteen minutes. “What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?”

My brother ekes out a playful grin, but it doesn’t help.

“Answer me!” I demand.

Charlie looks up, almost impressed. “Wow – the full Starsky & Hutch. What if I was a spy… or a man with a hook?”

“I saw your shoes, dimwit – now what do you think you’re doing?”

Pointing with his chin, Charlie motions to the crowd in the car, all of whom are now staring. Before I can react, he slips out from under me, heads to the other end of the subway car, and invites me to follow. As we pass, a few people look up, but only for a second. Typical New York.

“Now you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just add it to your ever-growing list of stupid moves?” I scold as we continue to move through the train.

“Ever-growing?” he asks, weaving his way through the crowd. “I don’t know what you’re-?”

“With Shep,” I snarl, feeling the vein throb in my forehead. “How could you give him our final location?”

Turning my way, but refusing to slow down, Charlie waves a hand through the air as if it’s an absurd question. “C’mon, Oliver – you’re still in a huff over that?”

“Dammit, Charlie, enough with the jokes,” I say, chasing after him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I mean, do you ever actually stop and think about the consequences, or do you just jump off the cliff, content with being the town idiot?”

At the far end of the car, he stops dead in his tracks and turns around, glaring straight at me. “Do I look that stupid to you?”

“Well, considering what you-”

“I didn’t give him anything,” Charlie growls in a low whisper. “He has no idea where it is.”

I pause as the train skids into Grand Street – the last subway stop in Manhattan. The moment the doors open, dozens of hunched-over Chinese men and women flood the car carrying pink plastic shopping bags that reek of fresh fish. Chinatown for groceries – then on the subway, back to Brooklyn. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“When I showed him the Red Sheet… I pointed to the wrong bank. On purpose, Ollie.” Stepping in close, he adds, “I gave him some random place in Antigua where we have nothing. Not even a shiny dime. Of course – and this is really the best part – you were so busy yelling, he believed every word.” It takes me a second to process. “Don’t have a brain blow, Oliver. I’m not letting anyone take our cash.”

With a sharp tug, he tries to slide open the service door between the two subway cars. It’s locked. Annoyed, he cuts around me, heading back exactly the way we came. Before I can say a word, the train chugs forward… and my brother’s lost in the crowd.

“Charlie!” I shout, racing after him. “You’re a genius!”

“I still don’t understand when you planned it,” I say as we walk up the broken concrete sidewalks of Avenue U in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

“I didn’t,” Charlie admits. “I thought of it as I was folding over the Red Sheet.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask, laughing. “Oh, man – he never knew what hit him!”

I wait for him to laugh back, but it never happens. Nothing but silence.

“What?” I ask. “Now I can’t be happy the money’s safe? I’m just relieved you-”

“Oliver, have you been listening to yourself? You spend the whole day crying a river and saying we have to play it cool, but then the moment I tell you I screwed over Shep, you’re acting like the guy who got the last pair of Zeppelin tickets.”

Heading up the block, I stare around at the mom-and-pop storefronts that dot the Avenue U landscape – pizza parlors, cigar stores, discount shoes, a barely breathing barber shop. Except for the pizza place, they’re all closed for the night. When we were little, that meant the owners shut the lights and locked the doors. Today, it means lowering a roll-down steel-reinforced shield that looks like a metal garage door. No doubt about it, trust isn’t what it used to be.

“C’mon, Charlie – I know you love taking in the lost puppy, but you barely know this guy-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Charlie interrupts. “We’re still screwing him over and twisting the butter knife in his back!” Nearing the corner of the block, he stretches his arm out and lets his fingertips skate along the metal shield that hides the used bookstore. “Damn!” Charlie shouts, punching the metal as hard as he can. “He trusted us t-” He grits his teeth and cuts himself off. “It’s exactly what I hate about money…”

He makes a sharp right on Bedford Avenue, and the garage door storefronts give way to an uninspired 1950s-era six-story apartment building.

“I see handsome men!” a female voice shouts from a window on the fourth floor. I don’t even have to look up to know who it is.

“Thanks, mom,” I mutter under my breath. Keep the routine, I tell myself as I follow Charlie toward the lobby. Monday night is Family Night. Even when you don’t want it to be.

By the time the elevator reaches the fourth floor and we head to mom’s apartment, Charlie’s yet to say a single word to me. That’s how he always gets when he’s upset – shut-down and turned off. The same way dad solved his problems. Naturally, if he were dealing with anyone else, they’d be able to read it on his face, but with mom…

“Who wants a nice baked ziti!?” she shouts, opening the door even before we hit the doorbell. As always, her smile’s wide and her arms are outstretched, searching for a hug.

“Ziti!?” Charlie sings, jumping forward and hugging her back. “We talking original or extra-crispy?” As corny as the joke is, mom laughs hysterically… and pulls Charlie even closer.

“So when do we eat?” he asks, sidestepping her and pulling the sauce-covered wooden spoon from her hand.

“Charlie, don’t…”

It’s too late. He shoves the spoon in his mouth, taking an early taste of the sauce.

“Are you happy?” she laughs, turning around to watch him. “Now you’ve got your germs all over it.”

Holding the spoon like a lollipop, he presses it flat against his dangling tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa,” he moans, his tongue still out of his mouth. “Ah ott o ehrrs.”

“You do too have germs,” she continues to laugh, facing him directly.

“Hi, ma,” I say, still waiting at the door.

She turns back immediately, the wide smile never leaving her face. “Ooooh, my big boy,” she says, taking me in. “You know I love seeing you in a suit. So professional…”

“What about my suit?” Charlie calls out, pointing to his blue button-down and creased khakis.

“Handsome boys like you don’t have to wear suits,” she says in her best Mary Poppins tone.

“So that means I’m not handsome?” I ask.

“Or does that mean I look bad in a suit?” Charlie adds.

Even she knows when the joke’s gone too far. “Okay, Frick and Frack – everybody inside.”

Following my mom through the living room and past the framed painting Charlie did of the Brooklyn Bridge, I breathe deep and take a full whiff of my youth. Rubber erasers… crayons… homemade tomato sauce. Charlie has Play-Doh – I have Monday night dinners. Sure, some of the knickknacks shift, but the big things – grandma’s dining room set, the glass coffee table I cut my head on when I was six – the big things are always the same. Including my mom.

Weighing in at over a hundred and eighty pounds, my mom’s never been a petite woman… or an insecure one. When her hair went gray, she never dyed it. When it started thinning, she cut it short. After my dad left, the physical nonsense didn’t matter anymore – all she cared about were me and Charlie. So even with the hospital bills, and the credit cards, and the bankruptcy dad left us with… even after losing her job at the secondhand store, and all the seamstress jobs she’s had to do since… she’s always had more than enough love to go around. The least we can do is pay her back.

Heading straight for the kitchen, I reach for the Charlie Brown cookie jar and tug on its ceramic head.

“Ow,” Charlie says, using his favorite joke since fourth grade.

The head pops off, and I pull a small stack of papers from inside.

“Oliver, please don’t do this…” mom says.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring her and carrying the stack to the dining room table.

“I’m serious – it’s not right. You don’t have to pay my bills.”

“Why? You helped me pay for college.”

“You still had a job…”

“… thanks to the guy you were dating. Four years of easy money – that’s the only reason I could afford tuition.”

“I don’t care, Oliver. It’s bad enough you paid for the apartment.”

“I didn’t pay for the apartment – all I did was ask the bank to work out better financing.”

“And you helped with the down payment…”

“Mom, that was just to get you on your feet. You’d been renting this place for twenty-five years. You know how much money you threw away?”

“That’s because your-” She cuts herself off. She doesn’t like blaming my father.

“Ma, you don’t have to worry. This is a pleasure.”

“But you’re my son…”

“And you’re my mom.”

It’s hard to argue with that one. Besides, if she didn’t need the help, the bills wouldn’t be where I could find them, and we’d be eating chicken or steak instead of ziti. Her lips slightly quiver and she bites nervously at the Band-Aids that cover her fingertips. The life of a seamstress – too many pins and too many hems. We’ve always lived paycheck to paycheck, but the lines on her face are starting to show her age. Without a word, she opens the window in the kitchen and leans outside into the cold air.

At first, I assume she must’ve spotted Mrs. Finkelstein – mom’s best friend and our old babysitter – whose window is directly across the alley between our buildings. But when I hear the familiar squeaky churn of the clothesline we share with The Fink, I realize mom’s bringing in the rest of today’s work. That’s where I learned it – how to lose yourself in your job. When she’s done, she turns back to the sink and washes off Charlie’s spoon.

The second it’s clean, Charlie grabs it from her and presses it against his tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaa,” he hums. My mom fights as hard as she can, but she still laughs. End of argument.

One by one, I flip through the monthly bills, totaling them up and figuring out which ones to pay. Sometimes I just do the credit cards and the hospital… other times, when the heating gets high, I do utilities. Charlie always does insurance. As I said, for him, it’s personal.

“So how was work?” mom asks Charlie.

He ignores the question, and she decides to let it go. She had the same hands-off approach two years ago when Charlie became Buddhist for a month. And then again a year and a half ago when he switched to Hinduism. I swear, sometimes she knows us better than we know ourselves.

Scanning through the credit card bill, my bank instincts kick in. Check the charges; protect the client; make sure nothing’s out of place. Groceries… sewing materials… music store… Vic Winick Dance Studio?

“What’s this Vic Winick place?” I ask, leaning my chair back toward the kitchen.

“Dance lessons,” my mother says.

“Dance lessons? Who do you take dance lessons with?”

“Wif me!” Charlie shouts in his best French accent. He takes the wooden spoon, grips it like a flower between his teeth, grabs my mother, and pulls her close. “And a-one… and a-two… right-foot-first-now…” Breaking into a quick lindy, they bob and weave around the narrow kitchen. My mother is positively flying, her head held higher than… well, even higher than when I graduated college.

Twisting his neck, Charlie wings the spoon in the sink. “Not bad, huh?” he says.

“So how do we look?” she asks as they bang into the oven and nearly knock the pot of sauce to the floor.

“G-Great… just great,” I say, my eyes falling back to the bills. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I may’ve always had her head and her pocketbook, but Charlie… Charlie’s always had her heart.

“Lookin’ good, sweet momma – lookin’ good!” Charlie yells, his hand waving in the air. “You’re gonna be sleepin’ easy tonight!”

I’ve made this walk 1,048 times. Out from the subway sauna, up the never-clean stairs, slalom-skiing through the freshly showered crowd, and straight up Park Avenue until I hit the bank. 1,048 times. That’s four years, not including weekends – some of which I also worked. But today… I’m done counting the days I’ve put in. From now on, it’s a countdown until we leave.

By my estimate, Charlie should be the first out – maybe a month or two from now. After that, when everything’s long settled, it’s a coin toss between me and Shep. For all we know, he may want to stay. Personally, I don’t have that problem.

Continuing up Park Avenue toward 36th Street, I can practically taste the conversation. “I just wanted to let you know I think it’s time I moved on,” I’ll tell Lapidus. No need to burn bridges or bring up the B-school letters – just a mention of “other opportunities elsewhere” and a thank-you for being the best mentor anyone could ever ask for. The fake bullshit will be oozing through my teeth. Just like he does to me. Still, the whole thing brings a smile to my face… that is, until I see the two navy blue sedans parked in front of the bank. Actually, forget parked. Stopped. Like they raced in for an emergency. I’ve seen enough black limos and privately driven town-cars to know they’re not clients. And I don’t need sirens to tell me the rest. Unmarked cop cars stand out everywhere.

My chest constricts and I take a few steps back. No, keep walking. Don’t panic. As I edge toward the car, my eyes skate from the city-soot eyebrows at the top of the windshield, down to the blue-and-white “U.S. Government” placard sitting on the dashboard. These aren’t cops. They’re feds.

I’m tempted to turn and run, but… not yet. Don’t get mental – keep it calm and get answers. There’s no way anyone knows about the money.

Praying I’m right, I shove my way through the revolving door and search frantically for the early-arriving co-workers who sit at the wide-open web of desks that fill the first floor. To my relief, everyone’s in place, first cup of coffee already in hand.

“Excuse me, sir, can I speak with you for a second?” a deep voice asks.

On my left, in front of the mahogany reception desk, a tall man with stiff shoulders and light blond hair approaches with a clipboard. “I just need your name,” he explains.

“W-What for?”

“I’m sorry – I’m from Para-Protect – we’re just trying to figure out if we need to increase security in the welcoming area.”

It’s a clean answer with a clean explanation, but last I checked, we weren’t having security issues.

“And your name?” he reiterates, keeping the tone friendly.

“Oliver Caruso,” I offer.

He looks up – not startled – but just fast enough that I notice. He grins. I grin. Everybody’s happy. Too bad I’m ready to pass out.

On the clipboard, he puts a small check next to my name. There’s no check next to Charlie’s. Not here yet. As the blond man leans against his clipboard, his jacket slides open and I get a quick peek at his leather shoulder-strap. This guy’s carrying a gun. Behind me, I take one last glance at the unmarked cars. Security company, my ass. We’re in trouble.

“Thank you, Mr. Caruso – you have a nice day now.”

“You too,” I say, forcing a smile. The only good sign is that he lets me pass. They don’t know who they’re looking for. But they are looking. They just don’t want anyone to know.

That’s it, I decide. Time to get some help. Blowing through the lobby and past the bullpen of rolltop desks, I head for the public elevator, but quickly change course and keep walking toward the back. I use Lapidus’s code every day. Don’t call attention to it by stopping now.

By the time I reach the private elevator, I’m a sweaty mess – my chest, my back – I feel like I’m soaking through my suit and wool coat. From there, it only gets worse. Stepping into the elevator’s wood-paneled embrace, I go to loosen my tie. That’s when I remember the surveillance camera in the corner. My fingers bounce off my tie and scratch an imaginary itch on my neck. The doors slam shut. My throat goes dry. I just ignore it.

My first instinct is to go see Shep, but it’s no time to be stupid. Instead, I pound the button for the seventh floor. If I want to get to the bottom of this, I need to start at the top.

“He’s been waiting for you,” Lapidus’s secretary warns as I fly past her desk.

“How many stars?” I call out, knowing how she rates Lapidus’s moods. Four stars is good; one is a disaster.

“Total eclipse,” she blurts.

I stop in my tracks. The last time Lapidus was that upset, it came with divorce papers. “Any idea what happened?” I ask, struggling to keep it together.

“I’m not sure, but have you ever seen a live volcano…?”

Taking a quick gulp of air, I reach for the bronze doorknob.

“… I don’t care what they want!” Lapidus screams into his phone. “Tell them it’s a computer problem… blame it on a virus – until they hear otherwise, it’s staying shut down – and if Mary has a problem with that, tell her she can take it up with the agent in charge!” He slams the receiver just as I shut the door. Following the sound, he jerks his head toward me – but I’m too busy staring at the person sitting in the antique chair on the opposite side of his desk. Shep. He shakes his head ever so slightly. We’re dead.

“Where the hell’ve you been!?” Lapidus yells.

My eyes are still on Shep.

“Oliver, I’m talking to you!”

I jump, turning back to my boss. “I-I’m sorry. What?”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door behind me. “Come in!” Lapidus barks.

Quincy opens it halfway and sticks his head in. He’s got the same look as Lapidus. Gritted teeth. Manic head movements. The way he surveys the room – me… Shep… the couch… even the antiques – everything gets a look. Sure, he’s a born analyzer, but this is different. The pale look on his face. It’s not anger. It’s fear.

“I have the reports,” he says anxiously.

“So? Let’s hear ’em,” Lapidus says.

Standing on the threshold and still refusing to enter the room, Quincy tightens his glance. Partners only.

With a swift push away from the desk, Lapidus climbs out of his leather wingback and heads for the door. The moment he’s gone, I go straight for Shep.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask, fighting to keep it to a whisper. “Did they-”

“Was this you?” Shep shoots back.

“Was what me?”

He looks away, completely overwhelmed. “I don’t even know how they did it…”

“Did what?”

“They set us up, Oliver. Whoever took it, they were watching the entire time…”

I grab him by the shoulder. “Dammit, Shep, tell me w-”

The door swings wide and Lapidus storms back in the room. “Shep – your friend Agent Gallo’s waiting in the conference room – do you want to-?”

“Yeah,” Shep interrupts, leaping from his seat.

I shoot him a sideways glance. You called in the Service?

Don’t ask, he motions, shaking his head.

“Oliver, I need you to do me a favor,” Lapidus adds, his voice on fire. He flips through a stack of papers, looking for…

“There,” I say, pointing to his reading glasses.

He snatches them and stuffs them in his jacket pocket. No time for thank-yous. “I want someone downstairs as people start coming in,” he says. “No offense to the Service, but they don’t know our staff.”

“I don’t underst-”

“Stay by the door and watch reactions,” he barks, his patience long gone. “I know we’ve got an agent taking attendance… but whoever did this… they’re too smart to call in sick. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on people when they walk in. If they’ve got a guilty conscience, the agent alone’ll freak them out… you can’t hide panic. Even if it’s just a pause or an open mouth. You know the people, Oliver. Find out who did it for me.” He puts an arm on my shoulder and rushes me toward the door. Lapidus and Shep march off to the conference room. Searching for options, I head downstairs. I just need a second to think.

By the time the elevator doors open in the lobby, I’m completely exhausted. The hurricane’s hit too fast. Everything’s spinning. Still, there’s not much of a choice. Follow orders. Anything else is suspicious.

Sliding up to the teller booth that runs along the righthand wall, I grab a deposit slip and pretend to fill it out. It’s the best way to watch the door, where the agent with the blond hair is still checking people off.

One by one they walk in and give their names. Not a single one of them pauses or thinks twice about it. I’m not surprised – the only one with the guilty conscience is me. But the more I sit there, the more the whole thing doesn’t make sense. Sure, for me and Charlie, three million is a solid hunk of change, but around here… it’s not a life-changer. And the way Shep asked me about it – about whether it was me – he wasn’t just worried about being caught… he lost something too. And now that I finally stop to think about it… maybe… so did we.

Searching the always bustling front lobby, I check to see if anyone’s watching. Secretaries, analysts, even the agent in charge – everyone’s caught up in their day-to-day. The crowd comes in the revolving door and their names are checked off. I glide toward the same door, figuring it’s my best way out-

“Have you signed in?” the agent with blond hair snaps.

“Y-Yeah,” I say as the co-workers in line stare me down. “Oliver Caruso.”

He checks his list, then looks up. “Go ahead.”

I plow forward shoulder-first and push the door as hard as I can. As it gives, I’m thrown out on the frozen street, skidding full speed around the corner.

Racing up Park Avenue, I look around for a newsstand. I should know better. This neighborhood doesn’t exactly attract the crowd who buys off the street. Except for payphones, the corners are empty. Ignoring the pain of running in dress shoes, I make a sharp left on 37th and take off toward the end of the block. The concrete’s making me feel every step. The moment I hit Madison Avenue, I slam on the brakes and slide up to an outdoor newsstand.

“Do you have phone cards?” I ask the unshaven guy who’s warming himself on a space heater behind the counter.

He motions Vanna-White-style at his world of wares. “Whattya you think?”

I look around, searching for-

“Here,” he interrupts, pointing over his own shoulder. Next to the toilet-paper-rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets.

“I’ll take the twenty-five-dollar one,” I tell him.

“Beautiful,” he says. He pulls the Statue of Liberty one from the clipboard, and I toss him two twenties.

Waiting for my change, I rip off the plastic wrapper right there. Sure, I could go back to the law firm, but after this morning, I don’t want anything tracing me to yesterday. “Will these work to call out of the country?” I ask.

“You can call the Queen of France and tell her to shave her pits!”

“Great. Thanks.” Gripping the card in a tight fist, I dart back toward Park Avenue, cross the six-lane street, and stop at a payphone diagonally down the block from the entrance to the bank. There’re more inconspicuous places to call from, but this way, no one in the bank has a clear view of me. More important, since I’m only a few blocks from the subway, I have the best possible location for spotting Charlie.

I dial the 800 number on the back of the Lady Liberty calling card and punch in the PIN code. When it asks for the number I want to dial, I pull out my wallet, slide my finger behind my driver’s license, and pull out a tiny scrap of paper. I punch in the ten-digit number that I’d written on the paper in reverse order. I may carry the Antigua phone number on me, but if I get caught, it doesn’t mean I have to make it easy.

“Thank you for calling Royal Bank of Antigua,” a digital female voice answers. “For automated account balance and information, press one. To speak to a personal service representative, press two.”

I press two. If someone stole it from us, I want to know where it went.

“This is Ms. Tang. How can I help you today?”

Before I can answer, I spot Charlie trailing a pack of people across the street.

“Hello…?” the woman says.

“Hi, I just wanted to check the balance of my account.” I wave to get Charlie’s attention, but he doesn’t see me.

“And your account number?” the woman asks.

“ 58943563,” I tell her. When I memorized it, I didn’t think I’d be using it this soon. Directly across, Charlie’s by himself, but he’s practically dancing up the street.

“And who am I speaking with?”

“Martin Duckworth,” I say. “It’s under Sunshine Distributors.”

“Please hold while I check the account.”

The moment the Muzak starts, I cover the receiver. “Charlie!” I scream. He’s already too far past – and with the buzz of rush hour traffic between us… “Charlie!” I shout again. He still doesn’t hear.

Making his way up the block, Charlie steps off the curb and gets his first good look at the bank. As always, his reaction is faster than mine. He spots the unmarked cars and freezes, right there in the middle of the street.

I expect him to run, but he’s smarter than that. Instinctively, he glances around, searching for me. It’s like my mom used to say: she never believed in ESP – but siblings… siblings were connected. Charlie knows I’m here.

“Mr. Duckworth…?” the woman asks on the other line.

“Y-Yeah… right here.” I wave my hand in the air, and this time, Charlie sees it. He looks my way, studying my body language. He wants to know if it’s real, or if I’m just playing Chicken Little. Refusing to wait for the light, he hops into traffic, dodging and weaving through the onslaught of cars. A yellow cab lets loose with its horn, but Charlie shrugs it off, unbothered. Seeing me hit full panic means he doesn’t have to.

“Mr. Duckworth, I’m going to need the password on the account,” the woman from the bank says.

“FroYo,” I say to her.

“What happened?” Charlie asks the instant he hits the curb.

I ignore him, waiting for the bank teller.

“Tell me!” he challenges.

“Now what can I help you with today?” the woman on the other line finally says.

“I’d like the balance, as well as the most recent activity on the account,” I reply.

Right there, Charlie lets out a belly laugh – the same patented little-brother taunt from when he was nine. “I knew it!” he shouts. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself!”

I put a finger in front of my lips to quiet him down, but I don’t have a prayer.

“You couldn’t even hold out twenty-four hours, could you?” he asks, leaning in closer to the booth. “What’d it take? The cars outside? The federal plates? Have you even spoken to anyone or did you just see the cars and wet your pa-?”

“Can you please shut up! I’m not a moron!”

“Mr. Duckworth…?” the original woman returns.

“Y-Yeah… I’m here,” I say, turning back to the phone. “I’m right here.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I was hoping to get a supervisor on the line to-”

“Just tell me the balance. Is it zero?”

“Zero?” she says with a laugh. “No… not at all.”

I let out a nervous laugh of my own. “Are you sure?”

“Our system’s not perfect, sir, but this one’s pretty clear. According to our records, there’s only one transaction on the whole account – a wire transfer that was received yesterday at 12:21 P.M.”

“So the money’s still there?”

“Absolutely,” the woman says. “I’m looking at it right now. A single transfer via wire – for a total of three hundred and thirteen million dollars.”