The Millionaires

25

It takes us almost a full hour to get from Duckworth’s to Hoboken, New Jersey, and as the PATH train pulls into the station, I carefully nod to the opposite end of the subway car, where Charlie’s hidden amongst the after-work yuppified crowd. No reason to be stupid.

In one giant push, the human wave of commuters flush from the train and flood the stairwells, shoving their way toward the street. As always, Charlie’s at the front, bodysurfing his way through the crowd. He moves with ease. Hitting the street, he continues to pick up the pace. I stay a good twenty steps behind, never letting him out of my sight.

Following Bendini’s instructions, Charlie blows past the New York-wannabe bars and restaurants that line Washington Avenue and takes a sharp left on Fourth. Right there, the neighborhood morphs. Coffee shops become townhouses… bakeries become brownstones… and uber-trendy clothing stores become five-story walk-ups. Charlie takes one look and stops dead in his tracks.

“This can’t be right,” he calls out.

Moving in close, I have to agree. We’re looking for a storefront; this is all residential. Still, when it comes to Bendini, nothing surprises. “Just follow the address,” I whisper as an old Italian man stares curiously down at us from a nearby window. His TV flickers behind him. “Hurry,” I insist.

Sure enough, three blocks later, we see it: Smack in between a string of row houses is a one-story square brick building with a home-painted Mumford Travel sign right above it. The letters on the sign are thin and gray – and like the brass plaque outside the bank – it’s clearly meant to be overlooked. Inside, the lights are on, but the only one there is a sixty-year-old woman sitting behind an old metal desk and flipping through a thumb-worn copy of Soap Opera Digest.

Charlie goes straight for the doorbell. Please ring for service.

“It’s open,” the woman calls out without looking up. A push on the door lets us in.

“Hi,” I say to the woman, who still won’t face us. “I’m here to see-”

“I got it…!” a screechy voice calls out in a heavy Jersey accent. From the back room, a wiry man in a white golf shirt pushes aside a red curtain and steps out to greet us. He’s got slightly bulging eyes and a brushed-back receding hairline. “You got an emergency?” he asks.

“Actually, we were sent by-”

“I know who sent you,” he interrupts, staring over our shoulders and checking out the street through the plate glass window. In his line of work, it’s pure instinct. Safety first. Convinced we’re alone, he motions us to join him in the back.

As we follow, I notice the faded and outdated travel posters that cover the walls. Bahamas… Hawaii… Florida – every ad is filled with big-haired women and mustache-wearing men. The bubble font dates it as late-Eighties, though I’m sure the place hasn’t been touched in years. Travel agency, my ass.

“Let’s get you started,” the man calls out, holding open the drape that leads to the back room.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” Charlie says, already trying to make nice.

“You got that right,” the man agrees. “But if I’m Oz, who’re you – the Cowardly Lion?”

“Nah, he’s the Cowardly Lion,” Charlie says, pointing my way. “Me? I see myself more as Toto… or maybe a flying monkey – the lead one, of course – not one of those simpleton primate lackeys who stand in the background.”

Oz fights his smile, but it’s still there.

“So I hear you need to get to Miami,” he says, moving toward his desk, which sits in the direct center of the dingy back room. It’s the same size as the room out front, but back here, there’s a copier, a shredder, and a computer hooked up to a high-tech printer. All around us, the walls are stacked high with dozens of unmarked brown boxes. I don’t even want to know what’s inside.

“Um… can we get started?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” Oz says, rubbing his thumb against his pointer and middle finger.

Charlie shoots me a look, and I reach for the wad of money stuffed into my wallet. “Three thousand, right?”

“That’s what they say,” Oz replies, once again serious.

“I really appreciate you helping us out,” Charlie adds, hoping to keep it light.

“It’s not a favor, kid. It’s just a job.” Leaning over, he reaches down to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulls two items out, and wings them our way. I catch one; Charlie catches the other.

“Clairol Nice ’n Easy Hair Color,” Charlie reads out loud. On the front of his box is a woman with silky blond hair. On the cover of mine, the model’s hair is jet black.

Oz immediately points us to the bathroom in the corner. “If you really want to get lost,” he explains, “you gotta start up top.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m staring in a filthy mirror, amazed at the magic of a cheap dye job. “How’s it look?” I ask, brushing my newly black hair into place.

“Like Buddy Holly,” Charlie says, peering over my shoulder. “Only nerdier.”

“Thank you, Carol Channing.”

“Bullet-head.”

“Aquaman.”

“Hey, at least I don’t look like all of mom’s friends,” Charlie shoots back.

I check myself in the mirror. “Who’re you-?”

“You two ready yet?” Oz interrupts. “Let’s go!”

Snapped back to reality, we head out of the bathroom. I’m still playing with my hair. Charlie hasn’t touched his. He’s already used to it. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s changed color. Blond in tenth grade, dark purple in twelfth. Back then, mom knew he had to get it out of his system. I wonder what she’d say now.

“Stand over there and pull the shade,” Oz says, pointing to the window at the back of the room. On the floor, there’s a small X taped on the carpet. Charlie leaps for it and jerks down the shade’s cord.

“Blue?” he asks, noticing the pale blue color on the inside of the shade.

On Oz’s computer, the screen blinks on and a digital image of a blank New Jersey driver’s license blooms into focus. The background for the photo is pale blue. Just like the shade. Grinning at the technology, Oz steps in front of Charlie, digital camera in hand.

“On three, say ‘Department of Motor Vehicles…’”

Charlie says the words, and I squint at the bright white flash.