The Millionaires

19

As the bus pulls up to a pristine brownstone on the corner of 81st Street, I dial the number for the Kings Plaza Movie Theater in Brooklyn and hit Send. When the prerecorded voice picks up, I grab a newspaper from the seat next to me, wrap my cell phone in it, and slide the phone package under my seat. If they’re tracing it, this should buy us at least an hour – and the infinite loop of movie times should give them a working signal that’ll have them goosechasing all the way up to Harlem.

Before my fellow passengers realize what’s going on, the bus bucks to a stop, the doors open, and I’m gone. My trip’s over. Luckily, abandoned phones ride for free.

It takes ten more minutes for the bank teller at Citibank to empty the three thousand five hundred dollars that’s left in my checking account, and it’s one of the few times I’m glad that I can’t afford the private bank minimums. With their access to Lapidus, the Service would’ve had an account at Greene shut down in no time.

Back at the church, I keep my head down and speedwalk through the main sanctuary, straight toward the private chapel. Up ahead, the glow of candlelight seeps out from the crack beneath the door. I grab the doorknob in a tight fist and check once over my shoulder, then again to be safe. No one looks up.

Shoving the door open, I rush into the candlelit room and scan the benches for Charlie. He’s in the same one I left him in – in the corner – still hunched over. But now… there’s something in his hands. His notepad. Once again, he’s writing… no, not just writing. Scribbling. Furiously. The man who can’t be stopped.

I nod to myself. He’s finally coming back. “So what’s the emergency?” I ask.

It’s the only time he stops writing. “I can’t find mom.”

The words collide like a kidney-punch. No wonder he snapped out of his silence. “What’re you talking about?”

“I called her before and-”

“I told you not to call her!”

“Just listen,” Charlie begs. “I called her from a payphone seven blocks away… she never once picked up.”

“So?”

“So, it’s Tuesday, Oliver. Tuesday afternoon and she’s not there?” Falling silent, he lets it sink in. As a seamstress, mom spends most of her time either in the house or at the fabric store – but Tuesdays and Thursdays are reserved for fittings. Out goes the coffee table; in come the clients. All day long.

“Maybe she was in the middle of measuring,” I suggest.

“Maybe we should go check it out,” he shoots back.

“Charlie, you know that’s the first place they’ll look. And if they nab us there, we’re only putting mom at risk.”

His eyes drop back to his notepad. Forget what I said. Everyone can be stopped.

“You okay?” I ask.

Charlie nods, which means it’s a giant lie. Once he’s wound up, he’s allergic to quiet.

“Don’t shut down again,” I tell him. “She’ll be okay. As soon as we get out of here, we’ll figure out a way to get in touch.”

“I’m sure we will,” he says. “But let me tell you something – if they go near her…”

I look up, noticing the change in Charlie’s voice. He doesn’t joke about mom. “She’ll be fine,” I insist.

He nods to himself, trying his best to believe it. With his back to me, he adds, “Now tell me what happened with Duckworth. You find out where he got the money?”

“Not exactly,” I say, carefully relaying my conversation with the woman at the bank. As always, Charlie’s reaction is immediate.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “Even though when we checked, it said three million, Duckworth had the three hundred and thirteen all along…?”

“Only if you believe what it says in the files.”

“You think she was making it up?”

“Charlie, you know how many clients have over a hundred million in assets? Seventeen at last count… and I can name every one of them. Marty Duckworth isn’t on that list.”

Charlie stares at me, completely silent. “How’s that possible?”

“That’s the issue now, isn’t it?” I ask. “Obviously, someone was doing a primo job of making it look like Duckworth only had three million to his name. The real question is, who did it, and how’d they hide it from the rest of the bank?”

“You really think someone can just hide all that cash?”

“Why not? That’s what the bank’s paid to do on a daily basis,” I point out. “Think about it – it’s the one thing every rich person loves: hiding their money. From the IRS… from ex-wives… from snotty kids…”

“… that’s why people come to us in the first place,” Charlie adds, quickly catching on. “So with a specialty like that, there’s gotta be someone here who’s figured out how to make an account look like one thing and actually be another. Yes, Mr. Duckworth, your balance is three million dollars – wink, wink, nudge, nudge.”

“Stupid us, when Mary transferred the balance, we got the whole megillah.”

Staring at the candles, we both kick our way through the logic. “It’s not bad…” Charlie admits. “But for an insider to pull that off…”

“I don’t think it was just an insider, Charlie – whoever it was, they were getting help…”

“Gallo and his buddy in the Service?”

“You heard what Shep said – he wasn’t the one who called them in. They showed up the moment their money went poof.”

We simultaneously nod our heads. It’s not a bad theory. “So they were in on it from the start?” Charlie asks.

“You tell me: What’s the likelihood that two Secret Service agents would wander into a case and then kill Shep just to turn a quick buck? I don’t care how much money’s at stake, Gallo and DeSanctis weren’t randomly assigned. They came to protect their investment.”

“Maybe they were on the take, selling their services…”

“Maybe they’ve been working with the bank all along.”

“You mean like money laundering?” Charlie asks.

I shrug, still thinking it through. “Whatever it was, these guys had their hands in something bad, something big… and something that, if all went right, would’ve netted them three hundred and thirteen million George Washingtons.”

“Not a bad day’s work,” Charlie agrees. “So who do you think they were scheming with?”

“Hard to say. All I know is, you can’t spell Secret Service without Secret.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t spell Asshole without Lapidus or Quincy,” Charlie says, pointing a finger.

“I don’t know,” I say doubtfully. “You saw their reactions – they were even more scared than we were.”

“Yeah… because you, me, and everyone else were watching. Actors don’t exist without an audience. Besides, if it wasn’t Lapidus or Quincy, who could it possibly be?”

“Mary,” I challenge.

Charlie stops, stroking an imagined goatee on his chin. “Not a bad call.”

“I’m telling you, it could’ve been anyone. Though it still leaves us with the original question: Where’d Duckworth get three hundred and thirteen million?” The candles continue their dance. I stay quiet.

“Why don’t you ask the man himself?” Charlie says.

“Duckworth? He’s dead.”

“You sure about that?” Charlie asks, cocking an eyebrow. “If everything else is a hall of mirrors, what makes you think this is the only wall?”

It’s a good point. Actually, it’s a great point. “Do you still have his…”

Charlie reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper. “That’s the beauty of rewearing yesterday’s slacks,” he says. “I’ve got it right… here.” Unfolding the paper, he reveals the Duckworth address that was on the Midland National Bank account: 405 Amsterdam Avenue. With his fuse lit, he takes off for the door.

“Charlie…” I whisper. “Maybe it’s better to go to the police.”

“Why – so they can turn us over to the Service, who’ll put bullets in both our heads? No offense, Ollie, but the fact that we have the money… and the way they set us up with Shep – no one’s gonna believe a word.”

I close my eyes, trying to paint a different picture. But all I see is Shep’s blood… all over our hands. It doesn’t matter what we say. Even I wouldn’t believe us. Stepping backwards, I take a seat on the bench. “We’re dead, aren’t we?”

“Don’t say that,” Charlie scolds. I’m not sure if it’s denial or little-brother stubbornness, but I’ll take it either way. “If we find Duckworth… that’s our first step to finding answers,” he insists. “This is our chance to shake the Magic Eight-Ball. I’m not giving that up.” Yanking the door open, he disappears into the sanctuary.

Turning toward the votive stand, I watch the melted wax trickle down the necks of the candles. It doesn’t take long for each one to burn down. Just a little time. That’s all we have.