The Millionaires

15

The backseat of the black gypsy cab is covered with a stained brown towel that smells like feet. Under normal circumstances, I’d roll down the bubbling tinted windows for some air, but right now – after hearing those sirens – we’re better off behind the tint. Ducking down so no one can see us, Charlie and I haven’t said a word since I waved down the car. Obviously, neither of us will risk talking in front of the driver – but as I stare at Charlie, who’s curled up against the door and staring vacantly out the window, I know it’s not just because he wants privacy.

“Make a right up here,” I call out, peeking above the headrest so I can get a better view of Park Avenue. The driver makes a sharp turn on 50th Street and gets about halfway up the block. “Perfect. Right here.” As the car jerks to a halt, I toss a ten-dollar bill between the armrests, kick open the door, and make sure he never gets a good look. We’re only a few blocks from Grand Central, but there was no way I was running on the open street.

“Let’s go,” I call to Charlie, who’s already a few steps behind. I head straight for the front door of the Italian bakery right outside the cab. But the moment the driver speeds away, I turn around and walk out. This is no time to take chances. Not with myself – and certainly not with Charlie.

“C’mon,” I say, rushing back toward Park Avenue. The sharp December wind tries to blow us back, but all it does is make the surrounding after-lunch crowd bundle up and hunch over. Good for us. As soon as we turn back onto Park Avenue, I bound up the concrete steps. Behind me, Charlie looks up at the ornate pink brick structure and finally understands. Nestled between the investment banks, the law firms, and the Waldorf, it’s the one island of piety in what’s otherwise an ocean of the ostentatious. More important, it’s the nearest place I could think of that wouldn’t kick us out – no matter how late we wanted to stay.

“Welcome to St. Bart’s Church,” a soft voice whispers as we step inside the arched stone foyer. On my left, from behind a card table covered with stacks of Bibles and other religious books, a pudgy grandmother nods hello, then quickly looks away.

I shove two dollars into the see-through donation box and head for the doors of the main sanctuary, where – the instant they open – I’m hit with that incense and old wood church smell. Inside, the ceiling rises to a golden dome, while the floor stretches out with forty rows of maple pews. The whole room is dark, lit only by a few hanging chandeliers and the natural light that filters through the stained glass along the walls.

Now that lunch is over, most of the pews are empty – but not all of them. A dozen or so worshipers are scattered throughout the rows, and even if they’re praying, it only takes one random glance for one of them to be Crimestopper of the Week. Hoping for something a bit less crowded, I glance around the sanctuary. When a church is this big, there’s usually… There we go. Three-quarters down the aisle – along the lefthand wall – a single unmarked door.

Trying not to be too quick or noticeable, Charlie and I keep the pace nice and smooth. There’s a loud creak as the door opens. I cringe and give it a fast push to end the pain. We rush forward so quickly, I literally stumble into the stone room, which is just big enough to hold a few benches and a brass votive stand filled with burning candles. Otherwise, we’re the only ones in the private chapel.

The door slams shut and Charlie’s still silent.

“Please don’t do this to yourself,” I tell him. “Take your own advice: What happened with Shep… it’s not my fault and it’s not yours.”

Collapsing on a wooden bench in the corner, Charlie doesn’t answer. His posture sinks; his neck bobs lifelessly. He’s still in shock. Less than a half-hour ago, I saw a co-worker get shot. Charlie watched someone he thought was a friend. And even if they barely knew each other – even if all they did was talk a few games of high school football – to Charlie, that’s a lifetime. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The sight alone makes me taste the lingering vomit in my throat. “Charlie, if you want to talk about it…”

“I know,” he interrupts, his voice shaking. He’s fighting to hold it together, but some things are too strong. This isn’t just for Shep. On our left, the candles burn and our shadows flicker against the stone wall. “They’re gonna kill us, Ollie – just like they killed him.”

Moving in close, I palm the back of his neck and join him on the bench. Charlie’s not a crier. He didn’t shed a tear when he broke his collarbone trying to ride his bike down the stairs. Or when we had to say goodbye to Aunt Maddie in the hospital. But, today, as I open my arms, he falls right in.

“What’re we gonna do?” he asks, his voice still a whisper.

“I have a few ideas,” I tell him. It’s an empty promise, but Charlie doesn’t bother to challenge. He just keeps his head against my shoulder, searching for support. On the wall, we’re one big shadow. Then my phone rings.

The shrill screech echoes through the room. I jerk back; Charlie doesn’t move. Reaching into my suit pocket, I quickly shut off the ringer. When there’s no answer, the person calls back. Whoever it is, they’re not giving up. The phone vibrates against my chest. I reach back in and shut it off.

“You sure we shouldn’t get it?” Charlie asks, reading my expression.

“I don’t think so,” I quickly reply.

He nods as if that’ll keep us safe. We both know it’s a lie. Along the back wall, the candles’ tiny flames are dancing in place. And no matter how much we want to shut our eyes, from here on in, it’s only getting worse.