The Millionaires

57

When I was twelve years old, I lost Charlie in the mall at Kings Plaza. Mom was in one of the old discount stores, deciding what to put on layaway; Charlie was sneaking through Spencer Gifts, trying his best to sniff the “Adults Only” erotic candles; and I… I was supposed to have him right by my side. But when I turned around to show him their selection of nudie playing cards, I realized he was gone. I knew it instantly – he wasn’t hiding or wandering off in a corner of the store. He was missing.

For twenty-five minutes, I frantically ran from store to store, shouting his name. Until the moment we found him – licking the glass at JoAnn’s Nut House – there was a stabbing pain that burrowed into my chest. It’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now.

“Can I help you?” the security guard at the front desk asks. He’s an older man with a Kalo Security uniform and white orthopedic shoes. Welcome to the Wilshire Condominium in North Miami Beach, Florida. The one place to go in an emergency.

“I’m here to see my grandma,” I say, using my nice-boy voice.

“Write your name,” he says, pointing to the sign-in book. Scribbling something illegible, I scan every signature above mine. None of them is Charlie’s. Still, we went over this a dozen times. If we ever got lost, go to what’s safe. Under Resident, I add the words “Grandma Miller.”

“So you’re Dotty’s?” he asks, suddenly warming up.

“Y-Yeah, Dotty’s,” I say, stepping into the lobby. Sure, it’s a lie, but it’s not like I’m a stranger. For almost fifteen years, my grandmother, Pauline Balducci, lived in this building. Three years ago, she died here – which is precisely why I use the name of her old neighbor to get us in.

“Dotty’s grandson!” the security guy boasts to passing residents in the lobby. “He’s got the same nose, no?”

Dragging Gillian by the arm, I cut through the lobby, pass the bank of elevators, and follow the exit signs down the twisting, peeling-wallpapered hallway that reeks of chlorine. Pool area, straight ahead. Mom used to send us here for some quality time with the good side of the family. Instead, it was two weeks of splash fights, breath-holding contests, and the Condo Commandos complaining that we were diving too loud, whatever that meant. Even now, as I step outside, a brother and sister are knee-deep in a ruthless game of Marco Polo. The boy closes his eyes and yells, “Marco!” The girl shouts, “Polo!” When he gets close, she darts up the stairs, runs around the pool, and jumps back in. Blatant cheating. Just like Charlie used to do to me.

“Oliver, where’re we-?”

“Wait here,” I say, pointing Gillian to an open lounge chair.

Next to the pool, a grandfather with a white shirt, white shorts, and pulled-up-to-his-knees black socks is studying a betting sheet from the racetrack. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir – but can I borrow your clubhouse key?” I ask him. “My grandmother took ours upstairs.”

He looks up from the betting sheet with black button eyes. “Who you belong to?”

“Dotty Miller.”

Giving me the once-over, he pulls the key from his pocket. “Bring it right back,” he warns.

“Of course – right away.” I nod to Gillian, and she follows me past the shuffleboard court and around the tree-shaded footpath that hides the one-story clubhouse. Once she’s inside, I return the key to Mr. Black Socks and head right back to her.

Inside, the “clubhouse” is exactly as we left it years ago: two cruddy bathrooms, a broken sauna, and a rusty, universal weight set that predates Jack La Lanne. It was designed to be a social setting where the elderly residents could interact and make new friends. It’s never been used. We could stay here for days and no one would interrupt.

Gillian takes a seat on the red vinyl of the bench press. I look at the mirror-covered walls and sink down to the floor.

“Oliver, are you sure he knows this place?”

“We talked about it a thousand times. When we were little, we used to hide back here in the sauna. I’d jump inside and pretend I was Han Solo getting frozen in carbonite. Then he’d swing to my rescue and… and…” My voice trails off and I once again stare in the mirror. Half a person.

“Please don’t do this to yourself,” Gillian begs. “It took us forty minutes to get here, and we have a car. If he’s in a cab or a bus – it’ll take him a bit longer – it doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he’s fine.”

I don’t even bother to reply.

“You have to be positive,” she adds. “You think the worst; you’ll get the worst. But if you think the best-”

“Then everything will blow up in your face anyway! Don’t you get the punch line yet? It’s the great cosmic practical joke. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Big kick in the ass. That’s it – end of joke. Isn’t it a riot?”

“Oliver…”

“It’s like running the Boston Marathon: You train forever… you pour your life into it – and then, just as you’re about to hit the finish line, some jerk-off sticks his leg out and you limp home on two broken ankles, wondering where all that hard work disappeared to. Before you know it, it’s all gone – your life, your work… and your brother…”

Watching me carefully, Gillian raises her head. Like she’s seen something she’s never seen before.

“Maybe we should just go to the police,” she interrupts. “I mean, finding out about my dad is one thing, but when they start shooting at us… I don’t know… maybe it’s time to wave the white flag.”

“I can’t.”

“What’re you talking about? All we have to do is dial 911. If you tell them the truth, there’s no way they’ll turn you over to the Service.”

“I can’t,” I insist.

“Sure you can,” she shoots back. “All you did was see a bank account on a computer screen – it’s not like you did anything wrong…”

I turn away as the silence wipes the pulse from the air.

“What?” she asks. “What’re you not saying?”

Again, I don’t respond.

“Oliver-”

Nothing but silence.

“Oliver, you can tell m-”

“We stole it,” I blurt.

“Excuse me?”

“We didn’t think it belonged to anyone – we looked up your dad, but he was dead… and the state couldn’t find any relatives, so we thought it was a victimless-”

“You stole it?”

“I knew we shouldn’t – I told Charlie that – but when I found out Lapidus was screwing me… and Shep said we could pull it off… It all seemed to make sense back then. But the next thing we knew, we were sitting with three hundred million of the Secret Service’s money.”

Gillian coughs like she’s about to choke. “How many million?”

I look her dead in the eye. If she were working against us, there’s no way she’d attack Gallo and DeSanctis. Instead, she did. She saved us. Just like she saved me diving last night. It’s time I returned the favor. “Three hundred and thirteen.”

“Three hundred and thirteen million?”

I nod.

“You stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars?”

“Not on purpose – not that amount.” I expect her to scream, or slap me, or slice at my neck, but she doesn’t. She just sits there. Perfect Indian position. Perfect silence. “Gillian, I know what you’re thinking – I know it’s your money-”

“It’s not my money!”

“But your dad…”

“That money got him killed, Oliver! All it’s good for now is lining his casket.” She looks up and her eyes are filled with tears. “How could you not tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Oliver – I just stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars of your dad’s money – want to come and get shot at? We just wanted to know if he was alive. But after meeting you… and spending time – I never meant to hurt you, Gillian – especially after all this.”

“You could’ve told me last night…”

“I wanted to – I swear.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I just… I knew it would hurt.”

“And you think this doesn’t?”

“Gillian, I didn’t want to lie-”

“But you did. You did,” she insists as her voice shakes.

I look away, unable to face her. “If I could do it all over, I wouldn’t do it again,” I whisper.

She sniffles at the statement, but it doesn’t do much good.

“Gillian, I swear to you-”

“It’s not even about the lie,” she cuts me off. “And it certainly isn’t about some truckload of dirty cash,” she adds, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. She’s still stunned, but deep down I hear the first tinge of anger. “Don’t you get it yet, Oliver? I just want to know why they killed my dad!”

As she says the words, the quiver in the back of her throat shakes me by the shoulders and once again reminds me what we’re doing here in the first place. I lift my chin and stare in the mirror. Bags under my eyes. Black hair on my head. And my brother still missing.

Please, Charlie – wherever you are – come home.