The Millionaires

27

“Here you go,” Oz says, slapping a blue-and-white Continental Airlines envelope against Charlie’s chest. I rip mine open; Charlie does the same. Flight 201 – 9:50 tonight, nonstop to Miami.

“You didn’t put us next to each other, did you?” I ask.

Oz stings me with the same do-I-look-like-a-schmuck look I usually get from Charlie. Still, this is no time to take chances. “ 25C,” I tell my brother.

He studies his ticket. “7B.” Turning to Oz, Charlie adds, “You stuck me in a middle seat, didn’t you?”

Oz rolls his eyes. It’s always been Charlie’s best magic trick. Keep ’ em talking. Reaching down to the laminating machine that’s balanced on a stack of boxes, Oz picks up the iron-on wrapper and peels it open. “Remember that crappy fake ID that helped you buy beer in high school?” he brags. “Well, say hello to the real thing…” Like a cop flashing his badge, Oz shoves the laminated card straight at us. Without question, it’s a perfect New Jersey license, complete with my picture and brand-new black hair.

“Spiffy,” Charlie adds.

Oz told us to pick easy-to-remember names. Charlie’s says Sonny Rollins, jazz master and legend. Mine says Walter Harvey, dad’s first and middle names. Physically and in name, we’re no longer brothers.

Charlie kisses the picture of himself. “Mmmmm, mmmm – this baby’s gold…”

“But it ain’t foolproof,” Oz warns in full Hoboken accent. “Like I tell everyone, don’t put all your eggs on the ID. It may get you on the plane… and maybe into a motel… but it only gets you so far…”

“What do you mean?” I interrupt.

“It’s just the way the world spins,” Oz explains. “No matter how fast you think you are, three things always pull the rug out: ego, greed, and sex.” Knowing he has our attention, his high voice gets quicker. “Ego – you mouth off to your waiter; you’re a jerk to the maître d’ – that’s how the guy at the restaurant remembers you and picks you out for the cops. Greed – you buy a big watch; you bite off five lobster dinners in a row – that’s how the bartender recognizes your photo. And sex – baby, that’s why all the clichés are true. Ain’t nothing like a woman scorned.”

“Do you see this streaky blond hair?” Charlie asks, pointing to himself. “And his nasty black bird’s nest?” he adds, pointing to me. “From here on in, women are the least of our worries.”

“So when you add in the travel and everything else,” I interrupt, “how long you think we have before people realize we’re gone?”

Oz turns to his computer and studies Charlie’s fake driver’s license, which is still staring back at us from the screen. “Hard to say,” Oz replies as his voice gets shaky. “Depends who you’re running from.”