The Millionaires

4

I hang up the phone, and Charlie and I stare down at the fax. “I don’t believe this.”

“Me either,” Charlie sings. “How X-Files is this moment?”

“It’s not a joke,” I insist. “Whoever sent this – they almost walked away with three million dollars.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“It’s a perfect crime when you think about it. Pose as a dead person, ask for his money, and once the account’s reactivated, you close up shop and disappear. It’s not like Marty Duckworth’s going to complain.”

“But what about the government?” Charlie asks. “Won’t they notice their money’s missing?”

“They have no idea,” I say, waving the master list of abandoned accounts. “We send them a printout, minus anything that’s been reactivated. They’re just happy to get some free cash.”

Charlie bounces restlessly on the bed, and I can see his wheels spinning. When you eat the dandelions, everything’s a thrill ride. “Who do you think did it?” he blurts.

“Got me – but it has to be someone in the bank.”

Now his eyes go wide. “You think?”

“Who else would know when we sent out the final notice letters? Not to mention the fact that they’re faxing from a Kinko’s around the corner…”

Charlie nods his head in steady rhythm. “So what do we do now?”

“Are you kidding? We wait until Monday, and then we turn this bastard in.”

No more nodding. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, Am I sure? What else are we gonna do? Take it ourselves?”

“I’m not saying that, but…” Once again, Charlie’s face flushes red. “How cool would it be to have three million dollars? I mean, that’d be like… it’d be like-”

“It’d be like having money,” I interrupt.

“And not just any money – we’re talkin’ three million monies.” Charlie jumps to his feet and his voice picks up speed. “You give me cash like that and I’d… I’d get me a white suit and hold up a glass of red wine and say things like, ‘I’m having an old friend for dinner…’”

“Not me,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d pay off the hospital, take care of the bills, then take every last penny and invest it.”

“Oh, c’mon, Scrooge – what’s wrong with you? You have to have some insane wastefulness… do the full Elvis… now what would you buy?”

“And I have to buy something?” I think about it for a moment. “I’d get wall-to-wall carpeting…”

“Wall-to-wall carpeting? That’s the best you can…?”

“For my blimp!” I shout. “A blimp that we’d keep chained in the yard.”

Charlie laughs out loud at that one. The game is on. His eyes squint at the challenge. “I’d buy a circus.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil and rename it Cirque du Sole. It’d be a three-ring all-fish extravaganza.”

I fight a smile, refusing to give up. “In my bathrooms, I’d get fur-covered toilet seats – the really good kind – like you’re crapping right on top of an expensive rodent.”

“Those’re sweet,” Charlie agrees. “But not as sweet as my gold-plated pasta!”

“Diamond-crusted mondel-bread.”

“Sapphire-studded blueberry muffins.”

“Lobsters stuffed with spare-ribs… or spare-ribs stuffed with lobsters! Maybe even both!” I shout.

Charlie nods. “I’d buy me the Internet – and all the porn sites.”

“Nice. Very tasteful.”

“I try.”

“I know you do – that’s why I’d buy you Orlando.”

“We talking Tony Orlando, or we talking Florida?” Charlie asks.

I look him straight in the eye. “Both.”

“Both?” Charlie laughs, finally impressed.

“There’s the pause! Count it right there!” I shout. It’s been a long time since he’s been the first to give up. Still, I’ll take it. It’s not every day you get to beat a master at his own game.

“See, now that’s what I’m talking about,” he eventually says. “Why would we spend another day busting our humps at the bank when we can get ourselves blimps and Internets and lobsters?”

“You’re so right, Charles,” I say in my best British accent. “And the best part is, no one would know the money was gone.”

Charlie stops. “They wouldn’t, would they?”

I come out of character. “What’re you talking about?”

“Is it really that crazy, Ollie?” he asks, his voice now serious. “I mean, who’s really gonna miss that cash? The owner’s dead… it’s about to be stolen by someone else… and if the government gets it… oh, they’ll really put the funds to good use.”

Just like that, I sit up straight. “Charlie, I hate to burst your seventeenth fantasy for the day, but what you’re talking about is illegal. Say it out loud… illll-eeeeeegal.”

He shoots me a look that I haven’t seen since our last fight about mom. Son of a bitch. He’s not joking.

“You said it yourself, Oliver – it’s the perfect crime-”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right!”

“Don’t talk to me about right – rich people… big companies… they steal from the government all day long and no one says a word – but instead of stealing, we just call ’em loopholes and corporate welfare.”

Typical dreamer. “C’mon, Charlie, you know the world’s not perfect…”

“I’m not asking for perfect – but you know how many breaks the tax code has for the rich? Or for a big corporation that can afford a good lobbyist? When people like Tanner Drew file their 1040EZ, they barely pay a dollar in income tax. But mom – who’s barely making twenty-eight grand a year – half of what she owns goes straight to Uncle Sam.”

“That’s not true; I had the planners at the bank-”

“Don’t tell me they’re saving her a few bucks, Oliver. It’s not gonna make a difference. Between the mortgage, and the credit cards, and everything else dad stuck us with when he left – you have any idea how long that’ll take to pay off? And that’s not even including what we owe the hospital. What’s that at now? Eighty thousand? Eighty-two thousand?”

“Eighty-one thousand four hundred and fifty dollars,” I clarify. “But just because you feel guilty about the hospital, doesn’t mean we have to-”

“It’s not about guilt – it’s about eighty thousand dollars, Ollie! Do you even realize how much that is? And it’s still growing every time we head back to the doctor!”

“I have a plan-”

“Oh, that’s right, your great, fifty-step plan! How’s it go again? Lapidus and the bank bring you to business school, which’ll bring you up the ladder, which’ll make all our debt disappear? Does that about cover it? ’Cause I hate to break it to you, Ollie, but you’ve been there four years and mom’s still breathing hospital fumes. We’re barely making a dent – this is our chance to set her free. Think about how many years that’ll add to her life! She doesn’t have to be second-class anymore…”

“She’s not second-class.”

“She is, Ollie. And so are we,” Charlie insists. “Now I’m sorry if that ruins your priceless self-image, but it’s time to find a way to get her out. Everyone deserves a fresh start – especially mom.”

As the words leave Charlie’s lips, I feel them tear at my belly. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Taking care of mom has always been top priority. For both of us. Of course, that doesn’t mean I have to follow him over the cliff. “I don’t need to be a thief.”

“Who said anything about thieves?” Charlie challenges. “Thieves steal from people. This money doesn’t belong to anyone. Duckworth’s dead – you tried to contact his family – he’s got no one. All we’d be taking is some cash that would never be missed. And even if something goes wrong, we can just blame it on whoever faxed us that letter. I mean, it’s not like he’s in any position to tell on us.”

“Oh, okay, Lenin, so when we’re done redistributing the wealth, we’ll just take this show on the road and go on the run for the rest of our lives. That’s clearly the best way to help mom – just abandon her and-”

“We don’t have to abandon anyone,” he insists. “We’ll do exactly what this guy’s doing – transfer the money out, and then we don’t touch it until we know it’s safe. After seven years, the FBI closes the investigation.”

“Says who?”

“I read this article in the Village Voice-”

“The Village Voice?”

“No screwing around – all it takes is seven years – then we’re just another unsolved file. Case closed.”

“And then what do we do? Retire on the beach, open a bar, and write sappy little songs for the rest of our lives?”

“It’s a lot better than wasting another four years kissing corporate ass and going nowhere.”

I hop off the bed and he knows he’s overstepped the boundaries. “You know business school is the best way out, and you know I can’t go there directly after college,” I insist, shoving a finger in his face. “You have to work a couple years first.”

“Fine. A couple years – that’s two. You’re finishing four.”

Taking a breath, I try not to lose it. “Charlie, I’m applying to the top schools in the country. Harvard, Penn, Chicago, Columbia. That’s where I want to go – anything else is second best and doesn’t help anyone, including mom.”

“And who decided that, you or Lapidus?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many opportunities did you give up because Lapidus put his grand plan about B-school in your head? How many companies have you refused offers from? You know it as well as I do – you should’ve left the bank years ago. Instead, it’s been back-to-back B-school rejection letters. And you think this year’s gonna be any different? Broaden your horizons a little. I mean, it’s just like dating Beth – sure, you make a nice picture, but that’s all it is – a nice picture, Oliver – a Sears portrait of how you think things should be. You’re one of the most brilliant, dynamic people I know. Stop being so scared of living.”

“Then stop judging me!” I explode.

“I’m not judging you…”

“No, you’re just asking me to steal three million dollars – that’ll solve all my problems!”

“I’m not saying it’s the answer to every prayer, but it’s the only way we’re ever gonna dig out of this.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong!” I shout. “You may be thrilled nursing paper cuts in the file room, but I’ve got my eyes on something bigger. Trust me on this one, Charlie – once I’m done with business school, mom’s never gonna see another bill again. You can tease and joke all you want – sure, the path is safe, and it may be simple – but all that matters right now is that it works. And when the payoff hits, that three million dollars is gonna look like bus fare from Brooklyn.”

“And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something, buddy-boy – you may think you’re all private jet going straight to the summit, but from my side of the river, all you’re doing is standing in line like the rest of the lower-level drones you used to hate. A drone like dad.”

I want to smack him across the face, but I’ve been there before. I don’t need another fistfight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growl.

“Really? So you think that even though you’re one of the bank’s top associates, and even though you’ve single-handedly brought in over twelve million dollars’ worth of new accounts for Lapidus just by scouring the NYU alumni magazine, and even though almost every partner in the firm went to one of the four business schools you’re applying to, it’s still possible that you’ve been rejected two years in a row?”

“That’s enough!”

“Uh-oh, sore spot! You’ve already thought it yourself, haven’t you?”

“Shut up, Charlie!”

“I’m not saying Lapidus planned it from the start, but do you have any idea what a pain it is for him to hire someone new and train him to think exactly like he does? You gotta find the right kid… preferably a poor one with no connections…”

“I said, shut up!”

“… promise him a job that’ll keep him there for a few years so he can pay off his debt…”

“Charlie, I swear to God…!”

“… then keep stringing him along until the poor fool actually realizes he and his whole family are going nowhere…”

“Shut up!” I yell, rushing forward. I’m in full rage. My hands go straight for the collar of his shirt.

Always the better athlete, Charlie ducks under my grasp and races back toward the eat-in kitchen. On the table, he spots a B-school catalogue from Columbia and a file folder with the word “Applications” on it.

“Are these…?”

“Don’t touch them!”

That’s all it takes. He goes straight for the file. But just as he flips it open, a letter-sized blue-and-white envelope falls to the floor. There’s a signature across the back, right where it’s sealed. Henry Lapidus.

The signature on the envelope is required by all four schools – to make sure I don’t open it. Indeed, the typed pages inside are the most important part of any business school application – the boss’s recommendation.

“Okay, who wants to play detective?” Charlie sings, waving the envelope over his head so it scrapes the basement’s low ceiling.

“Give it back!” I demand.

“Oh, c’mon, Oliver, it’s been four years already – if Lapidus is locking you in the dungeon, at least this way, you get the truth.”

“I already know the truth!” I yell, lunging forward and reaching out for the envelope. Once again, he ducks and spins under the attack.

Back by the bed, Charlie’s no longer dangling it in front of me. For once, he’s serious. “You know something’s screwy, Oliver – I can see it in your eyes. This guy took four years of your life. Four years in shackles on the promise of a later payoff. If he’s bashing you in the letter – forget about the fact that all the B-schools keep it on file – he’s ruined the whole plan. Your way out – how to pay mom’s debts – everything you were counting on. And even if you think you can start over, do you know how hard it is to move to a new job without a recommendation? Not exactly the ideal situation for covering the hospital bills and mom’s mortgage payments, now is it? So why don’t we just tear this bad boy open and-”

“Let go of it!” I explode. I plow straight at him, ready for the sidestep. But instead of ducking under, he hops backwards onto my bed and bounces like a seven-year-old. “Laaaaadies aaaaaaaaaand geeeeentlemen, the heavyweight champion of the wooooooorld!” He sings the last part, then imitates a crowd cheering wildly. When we were little, this is where I’d dive at his feet. Sometimes I’d catch him, sometimes I’d miss – but eventually, the four-year age difference would catch up with him.

“Get off my bed!” I shout. “You’ll pop one of the springs!”

Right there, Charlie stops. He’s still on the bed, but he’s done jumping. “I love you when I say this, Oliver – but that last statement – that’s exactly the problem.”

He steps to the edge of the mattress, and in one smooth move, drops himself on his butt, bounces off the bed, and springboards to his feet. No matter how risky, no matter how wild – always a perfect landing.

“Oliver, I don’t care about the money,” he says as he slaps the envelope against my chest. “But if you don’t start making some changes soon, you’re gonna be that guy who – when he hits his forty-third birthday – hates his life.”

I stare him straight in the eye, unmoved by the comment. “At least I won’t be living with my mother in Brooklyn.”

His shoulders fall and he steps backwards. I don’t care.

“Get out,” I add.

At first, he just stands there.

“You heard me, Charlie – get out.”

Shaking his head, he finally heads toward the door. First slow, then fast. As he turns, I swear there’s a grin on his face. The door slams behind him and I look through the peephole. Doop, doop, doop – Charlie bounds up the stairs. “Open it and find out!” he shouts from outside. And just like that, he’s gone.

Ten minutes after Charlie leaves, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring down at the envelope. Behind me, the refrigerator’s humming. The radiator’s clanging. And the water in the teapot is just starting to boil. I tell myself it’s because I’m in the mood for some instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn’t buy it for a second.

It’s not like I’m talking about stealing the money. It’s just about my boss. It’s important to know what he thinks.

Outside, a car whizzes by, thumping through the crater-sized pothole that’s in front of the brownstone. Through the tops of my windows, I see the car’s black wheels. That’s the only view I get from the basement. The sight of things moving on.

The water starts boiling – hitting its high note and screaming wildly through my mostly bare kitchen. Within a minute, the high-pitched shriek feels like it’s been going for a year. Or two. Or four.

Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That’s what happens when you miss an insurance payment to juggle your other bills. It’s another two decades of mom’s life. Two decades of worrying. Two decades of being trapped. Unless I can get her out.

My eyes go straight to the blue-and-white envelope. Whatever’s inside… whatever he wrote… I need to know. For all of us.

I grab the envelope and shoot out of my seat so fast, I knock the chair to the floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the tea kettle, watching the geyser of steam pound through the air. With a quick flick of my thumb, I open the tea kettle’s spout. The whistling stops and the column of steam gets thicker.

In my hands, the envelope’s shaking. Lapidus’s signature, perfect as it is, becomes a mess of movement. I hold my breath and struggle to keep it steady. All I have to do is put it in the steam. But just as I go to do it, I freeze. My heart drops and everything starts to blur. It’s just like what happened with the wire transfer… but this time… No. Not this time.

Tightening my grip on the envelope, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing at all. Then, in one quick moment, I hold on to the bottom of the envelope, lower the sealed side into the steam, and pray to God this works just like it does in the movies.

Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from the condensation. Working the corners first, I angle the edge toward the tea kettle. The steam warms my hands, but when I bring it too close, it burns the tips of my fingers. As carefully as I can, I slide my thumb into the edge of the envelope and pry open the smallest of spaces. Letting it fill with steam, I work my thumb in deeper and try to inch the flap open. It looks like it’s about to rip… but just as I’m about to give up… the glue gives way. From there, I peel it like I’m pulling the back from a Band-Aid.

Tossing aside the envelope, I yank open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, looking for buzzwords, but it’s like opening a college acceptance letter – I can barely read. Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top.

Dear Dean Milligan. Personalized. Good. I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program… blah, blah, blah… Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years… blah and more blah… sorry to say… Sorry to say?… that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism… maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…

I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere… beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”

Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and-

“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”

I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.

Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”

I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.

“Y’mean with the-”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”

He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin” bout, Willis?”

“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it-” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”