The Millionaires

2

“What’re you saying? You think it’s fake?”

“I have no idea – but just think how easy that was: Some guy calls up, threatens that he wants his forty million bucks, then gives you an account number and says ‘Make it happen.’”

I stare back at the eleven-digit account number that’s glowing on the screen in front of me. “No,” I insist. “It can’t be.”

“Can’t be? It’s just like that novel they release every year – the villain sets up the overachiever hero right at the beginning…”

“This isn’t a stupid book!” I shout. “It’s my life!”

“It’s both our lives,” he adds. “And all I’m saying is the moment you hit that button, the money could be headed straight to some bank in the Bahamas.”

My eyes stay locked on the glow of the account number. The more I look at it, the brighter it burns.

“And you know who gets hit if that money disappears…”

He’s careful the way he says that. As we both know, Greene & Greene isn’t like a normal bank. Citibank, Bank of America – they’re big faceless corporations. Not here. Here, we’re still a closely held partnership. For our clients, it keeps us exempt from some of the government’s reporting requirements, which helps us maintain our low profile, which keeps our names out of the papers, which allows us to pick only the clients we want. Like I said: You don’t open an account at Greene. We open one with you.

In return, the partners get to manage a significant amount of wealth under an incredibly small roof. More important – as I stare at Tanner’s forty-million-dollar transfer – each partner is personally liable for all of the bank’s holdings. At last count, we had thirteen billion dollars under management. That’s billion. With a B. Divided by twelve partners.

Forget Tanner – all I can think of now is Lapidus. My boss. And the one person who’ll shove the walking papers down my throat if I lose one of the bank’s biggest clients. “I’m telling you, there’s no way it’s all a setup,” I insist. “I overheard Lapidus talking about the transfer last week. I mean, it’s not like Tanner’s calling up out of nowhere.”

“Unless, of course, Lapidus is in on it…”

“Will you stop already? You’re starting to sound like… like…”

“Like someone who knows what he’s talking about?”

“No, like a paranoid lunatic divorced from reality.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m offended by the word lunatic. And the word from.”

“Maybe we should just call him to be safe.”

“Not a bad idea,” Charlie agrees.

The clock on the wall says I have four minutes. What’s the worst a phone call can do?

I quickly scan the Client Directory for Tanner’s home number. All it has is his family office. Sometimes, privacy sucks. With no other choice, I dial the number and look at the clock. Three and a half minutes.

“Drew Family Office,” a woman answers.

“This is Oliver Caruso at Greene & Greene – I need to talk to Mr. Drew. It’s an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?” she snips. I can practically hear the sneer.

“A forty-million-dollar one.”

There’s a pause. “Please hold.”

“Are they getting him?” Charlie asks.

Ignoring the question, I click back to the wire transfer menu and put the cursor on Send. Charlie’s back on sidesaddle, grabbing the shoulder of my shirt in an anxious fist.

“Momma needs a new pair of stilettos…” he whispers.

Thirty seconds later, I hear the secretary back on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso – he’s not answering his work line.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

“Sir, I’m not sure you understand…”

“Actually, I understand just fine. Now what’s your name, so I can tell Mr. Drew who I was talking to?”

Again, a pause. “Please hold.”

We’re down to a minute and ten seconds. I know the bank is synchronized with the Fed, but you can only cut these things so close.

“What’re you gonna do?” Charlie asks.

“We’ll make it,” I tell him.

Fifty seconds.

My eyes are glued to the digital button marked Send. At the top of the screen, I’ve already scrolled past the line that reads “$40,000,000.00,” but right now, that’s all I see. I put the phone on Speaker to free my hands. On my shoulder, I feel the grip of Charlie’s fist tighten.

Thirty seconds.

“Where the hell is this woman?”

My hand’s shaking so hard against the mouse, it’s moving the cursor onscreen. We don’t have a chance.

“This is it,” Charlie says. “Time to make a decision.”

He’s right about that one. The problem is… I… I just can’t. Searching for help, I look over my shoulder, back to my brother. He doesn’t say a word, but I hear it all. He knows where we’re from. He knows I’ve spent four years killing myself here. For all of us, this job is our way out of the emergency room. With twenty seconds to go, he nods his head ever so slightly.

That’s all I need – just a nudge to eat the dandelions. I turn back to the monitor. Push the button, I tell myself. But just as I go to do it, my whole body freezes. My stomach craters and the world starts to blur.

“C’mon!” Charlie shouts.

The words echo, but they’re lost. We’re in final seconds.

“Oliver, push the damn button!”

He says something else, but all I feel is the sharp yank on the back of my shirt. Pulling me out of the way, Charlie leans forward. I watch his hand come thundering down, pounding the mouse with a tight fist. On screen, the Send icon blinks into a negative of itself, then back again. A rectangular box appears three seconds later:

Status: Pending.

“Does that mean we-?”

Status: Approved.

Charlie now realizes what we’re looking at. So do I.

Status: Paid.

That’s it. All sent. The forty-million-dollar e-mail.

We both look at the speakerphone, waiting for a response. All we get is a cruel silence. My mouth hangs open. Charlie finally lets go of my shirt. Our chests rise and fall at the same pace… but for entirely different reasons. Fight and flight. I turn to my brother… my younger brother… but he won’t say a word. And then, there’s a crackle from the phone. A voice.

“Caruso,” Tanner Drew growls in a Southern accent that’s now as unmistakable as a fork in the eye, “if this isn’t a confirmation call, you better start praying to heaven above.”

“I-It is, sir,” I say, fighting back a grin. “Just a confirmation.”

“Fine. Goodbye.” With a slam, it’s over.

I turn around, but it’s too late. My brother’s already gone.

Racing out of The Cage, I scan for Charlie – but as always, he’s too fast. At his cubicle, I grab on to the top edges of his wall, boost myself up, and peek inside. With his feet up on his desk, he’s scribbling in a spiral green notebook, pen cap in mouth and lost in thought.

“So was Tanner happy?” he asks without turning around.

“Yeah, he was thrilled. All he could do was thank me – over and over and over. Finally, I was like, ‘No, you don’t have to include me in the Forbes profile – just having you make the top 400 is all the thanks I need.’”

“That’s great,” Charlie says, finally facing me. “I’m glad it worked out.”

I hate it when he does that. “Go ahead,” I beg. “Just say it.”

He drops his feet to the floor and tosses his notebook on his desk. It lands right next to the Play-Doh, which is only a few inches from his collection of green army men, which is right below the black-and-white bumper sticker on his computer monitor which reads, “I sell out to The Man every day!”

“Listen, I’m sorry for freezing like that,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry about it, bro – happens to everyone.”

God, to have that temperament. “So you’re not disappointed with me?”

“Disappointed? That was your puppy, not mine.”

“I know… it’s just… you’re always teasing me about getting soft…”

“Oh, you’re definitely soft – all this high living and elbow-rubbing – you’re a full-fledged baby’s bottom.”

“Charlie…!”

“But not a soft baby’s bottom – one of those completely hard ones – like a sumo baby or something.”

I can’t help but smile at the joke. It’s not nearly as good as the one three months ago, when he tried to talk in a pirate voice for an entire day (which he did), but it’ll do. “How about coming over tonight and letting me say thank you with some dinner?”

Charlie pauses, studying me. “Only if we don’t take a private car.”

“Will you stop? You know the bank would pay for it after everything we did tonight.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’ve changed, man – I don’t even know you anymore…”

“Fine, fine, forget the car. How about a cab?”

“How ’bout the subway?”

“I’ll pay for the cab.”

“A cab it is.”

Ten minutes later, after a quick stop in my office, we’re up on the seventh floor, waiting for the elevator. “Think they’ll give you a medal?”

“For what?” I ask. “For doing my job?”

“Doing your job? Aw, now you sound like one of those neighborhood heroes who pulled a dozen kittens out of a burning building. Face facts, Superman – you just saved this place from a forty-million-dollar nightmare – and not the good kind either.”

“Yeah, well, just do me a favor and tone down the advertising for a bit. Even if it was for a good reason, we were still stealing other people’s passwords to do it.”

“So?”

“So you know how they are with security around here-”

Before I can finish, the elevator pings and the doors slide open. At this hour, I expect it to be empty, but instead, a thick man with a football-player-sized chest is leaning against the back wall. Shep Graves – the bank’s VP of Security. Dressed in a shirt and tie that could’ve only been bought at the local Big & Tall, Shep knows how to hold his shoulders back so his late-thirties frame looks as young and strong as possible. For his job – protecting our thirteen billion – he has to. Even with the most state-of-the-art technology at his fingertips, there’s still no deterrent like fear – which is why, as we step into the elevator, I decide to end our discussion of Tanner Drew. Indeed, when it comes to Shep, except for some minor chitchat, no one in the bank really talks to him.

“Shep!” Charlie shouts as soon as he sees him. “How’s my favorite manhandler of misappropriation?” Shep puts his hand out and Charlie taps his fingers like they’re piano keys.

“You see what they got going at Madison?” Shep asks with a clumsy boxer’s grin. There’s a trace of a Brooklyn accent, but wherever he’s been, they trained it out of him. “They got a girl who wants to play boys varsity b-ball.”

“Good – that’s the way it should be. When do we see her play?” Charlie asks.

“There’s a scrimmage in two weeks…”

Charlie grins. “You drive; I’ll pay.”

“Scrimmages are free.”

“Fine, I’ll pay for you too,” Charlie says. Noticing my silence, he motions me into the elevator. “Shep, you ever meet my brother, Oliver?”

We both nod our cordial nods. “Nice to see you,” we say simultaneously.

“Shep went to Madison,” Charlie says, proudly referring to our old rival high school in Brooklyn.

“So you also went to Sheepshead Bay?” Shep asks. It’s a simple question, but the tone of his voice – it feels like an interrogation.

I nod and turn around to hit the Door Close button. Then I hit it again. Finally, the doors slide shut.

“So what’re you guys doing here with everyone else gone?” he asks. “Anything interesting?”

“No,” I blurt. “Same as usual.”

Charlie shoots me an annoyed look. “Didja know Shep used to be in the Secret Service?” he asks.

“That’s great,” I say, my eyes focused on the five-course menu that’s posted above the call buttons. The bank has its own private chef just for client visits. It’s the easiest way to impress. Today they served lamb chops and rosemary risotto appetizers. I’m guessing a twenty- to twenty-five-million-dollar client. Lamb chops only come out if you’re over fifteen.

The elevator slows at the fifth floor and Shep elbows himself off the back wall. “This is me,” he announces, heading for the doors. “Enjoy the weekend.”

“You too,” Charlie calls out. Neither of us says another word until the doors shut. “What’s wrong with you?” Charlie lays into me. “When’d you become such a sourpuss?”

“Sourpuss? That’s all you got, Grandma?”

“I’m serious – he’s a nice guy – you didn’t have to blow him off like that.”

“What do you want me to say, Charlie? All the guy ever does is lurk around and act suspicious. Then suddenly, you walk in and he’s Mr. Sunshine.”

“See, there’s where you’re wrong. He’s always Mr. Sunshine – in fact, he’s a rainbow of fruit flavors – but you’re so busy angling with Lapidus and Tanner Drew and all the other bigshots, you forget that the little people know how to talk too.”

“I asked you to stop with that…”

“When was the last time you spoke to a cab driver, Ollie? And I’m not talking about saying ‘53rd and Lex’ – I’m talking a full-fledged conversation: ‘How ya been? What time’d you start? You ever see anyone shaking their yummies in the backseat?’ ”

“So that’s what you think? That I’m an intellectual snob?”

“You’re not smart enough to be an intellectual snob – but you are a cultural one.” The elevator doors open, and Charlie races into the lobby, which is filled with a grid of gorgeous antique rolltop desks that add just the right old-money feel. When clients come in and the hive is buzzing with bankers, it’s the first thing they see – that is, unless we’re trying to close someone big, in which case we bring them through the private entrance around back and lead them straight past Chef Charles and his just-for-us, oh-you-should-check-out-our-million-dollar kitchen. Charlie blows past it. I’m right behind him. “Don’t worry, though,” he calls out. “I still love you… even if Shep doesn’t.”

Reaching the side exit, we punch in our codes at the keypad just inside the thick metal door. It clicks open and leads us into a short anteroom with a revolving door on the far end. In the industry, we call it a man-trap. The revolving door doesn’t open until the door behind us is closed. If there’s a problem, they both shut and you’re nabbed.

Without a care, Charlie closes the metal door behind himself and there’s a slight hiss. Titanium bolts clamp shut. When it’s done, there’s a loud thunk straight ahead. Magnetic locks on the revolving door slide open. On both ends of the room, two cameras are so well hidden, we don’t even know where they are.

“C’mon,” Charlie says, charging forward. We spin through the revolving doors and get dumped out on the black-snow-lined streets of Park Avenue. Behind us, the bank’s subdued brick facade fades inconspicuously into the low-rise landscape – which is really why you go to a private bank in the first place. Like an American version of a Swiss bank, we’re there to keep your secrets. That’s why the only sign out front is a designed-to-be-missed brass plaque that reads, “Greene & Greene, est. 1870.” And while most people have never heard of private banks, they’re closer than anyone thinks. It’s the small, understated building people pass by every day – the unmarked one, not far from the ATM, where people always wonder, “What’s in there anyway?” That’s us. Right in front of everyone’s face. We’re just good at keeping quiet.

So is that worth the extra fees? Here’s what we ask the clients: Have you gotten any credit card offers in the mail recently? If the answer’s yes, it means someone sold you out. Most likely, it was your bank, who culled through your personal info and painted a bull’s-eye on your back. From your balance, to your home address, to your Social Security number, it’s all there for the world to see. And buy. Needless to say, rich people don’t like that.

Hurdling over some recently shoveled snow, Charlie goes straight for the street. A hand in the air gets us a cab; a gas pedal sends us downtown; and a look from my brother has me asking the cab driver, “How’s your day going?”

“Pretty okay,” the cabbie says. “How ’bout yourself?”

“Great,” I say, my eyes locked out the window on the dark sky. An hour ago, I touched forty million dollars. Right now, I’m in the back of a beat-up cab. As we hit the Brooklyn Bridge, I glance over my shoulder. The whole city – with its burning lights and soaring skyline – the whole scene is framed by the back window of the cab. The further we go, the smaller the picture gets. By the time we get home, it’s completely disappeared.

Eventually, the cab pulls up to a 1920s brownstone just outside of Brooklyn Heights. Technically, it’s part of the rougher Red Hook district, but the address is still Brooklyn. True, the front stairs have a brick or two that’re loose or missing, the metal bars on my basement apartment’s windows are cracked and rotting, and the front walk is still glazed with a layer of unshoveled ice, but the cheap rent lets me live on my own in a neighborhood I’m proud to call home. That alone calms me down – that is, until I see who’s waiting for me on my front steps.

Oh, God. Not now.

Our eyes lock and I know I’m in trouble.

Reading my expression, Charlie follows my gaze. “Oh, jeez,” he whispers under his breath. “Nice knowing you.”