The Millionaires

7

“Hi,” Charlie coos with a beauty pageant smile as he glides up to the black granite reception desk. We’re on the fourth floor of the Wayne & Portnoy building, a sterile cavernous structure that, even though it has all the architectural charm of an empty shoebox, still has two redeeming qualities: First, it’s across the street from the bank, and second, it’s home to the largest stuffed-shirt law firm in the city.

Behind the desk, an overdressed, overexcited receptionist is yammering into her headset, which is exactly what Charlie’s counting on. Sneaking in may be my idea, but we both know who’s better face-to-face. We all play to our strengths. “Hi,” he says for the second time, knowing it’ll charm. “I’m waiting for Bert Collier to come down… and I was wondering if I could use a phone for a quick private call.” I smile to myself. Norbert Collier was just one of a hundred names listed on the firm directory in the lobby. By calling him Bert, Charlie has them sounding like old friends.

“Back past the elevators,” the receptionist says without even hesitating.

Still hiding out of sight around the corner, Shep and I wait for Charlie to pass, then fall in line behind him. I point him to the wood-paneled door and usher them into a small conference room. The words Client Services are on a brass nameplate just outside the door. It’s not a huge room. Small mahogany table, a few upholstered chairs, bagels and cream cheese on the sideboard, a fax machine against the wall, and four separate telephones. Everything we need to do some damage.

“Nice choice,” Shep says, dumping his pea coat on the back of a chair. “Even if they trace it…”

“… all they’ll find are some Wayne & Portnoy clients,” I add, throwing my coat on top.

“You’re all geniuses,” Charlie adds. “Now can we get going on our stutterer? Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

Shep slides into a seat, pulls the number from his pocket, and grabs the phone in a meaty paw. As he dials, Charlie hits the Hands-Free button on the starfish speakerphone system that’s at the center of the table. Everybody loves conference calls.

It rings three times before someone picks up. “Law offices,” a male voice answers.

Shep keeps it cool and calm. “Hello, I’m looking for a lawyer and was wondering what type of law Mr… uh… Mr…”

“Bendini.”

“Right… Bendini…” Shep repeats, writing it down. “I was wondering what type of law Mr. Bendini specializes in.”

“What type of law are you looking for?”

Shep nods to the two of us. The only thing fishier is Starkist. Here’s our man. “Actually, we’re looking for someone who specializes in keeping things… well, we’re hoping to keep things low-profile…”

There’s a short pause on the other line. “Talk to me,” Bendini says.

Bam, Shep’s out of his seat. He paces slightly, though his big frame makes it look more like lumbering. I can’t tell if he’s thrilled or scared. I’m betting thrilled. All those years behind the desk, he’s feeling his inner James Bond. “I’m gonna put on my associate,” he tells Bendini. Shep nods to me as I strain to get as close as I can to the speakerphone.

“You lean in any more, you’re gonna start humping it,” Charlie teases.

“Mr. Bendini…?” I ask.

No one answers.

Shep shakes his head. Charlie laughs and pretends it’s a cough.

Catching on, I start over. Without using names. “Here’s the story: I want you to listen carefully, and I want you to call the following number…” I want, I want, I want, I say, driving home my point. Charlie sticks his chest out at my newfound tone. He’s happy to see me strong… more demanding. At least I learned something from Lapidus after all these years.

“The place is called Purchase Out International, and you want to ask for Arnie,” I explain. “Don’t let them give you anyone else. Arnie’s the only one we deal with. When you get him on the line, tell him you need a same-day four-layer cake, endzone in Antigua. He’ll know what it is.”

“Believe me, kid, I know how to stack corporations,” Bendini interrupts in a brickyard Jersey accent.

“Don’t back down,” Charlie whispers. I’m not. My eyes are sharp, my face is flushed. I’m finally feeling my pulse.

“What name you want to put it in?” Bendini adds.

“Martin Duckworth,” all three of us say simultaneously.

I swear, I hear Bendini roll his eyes. “Fine – Martin Duckworth,” he repeats. “And for initial ownership?”

He needs another fake name. This one doesn’t matter – everything’s ultimately owned by Duckworth. “Ribbie Henson,” I say, using the name of Charlie’s imaginary friend from when he was six.

“Fine – Ribbie Henson. Now how do you wanna pay Arnie’s bill?”

Damn. I hadn’t even thought of that.

Charlie and Shep both go to jump in, but I wave them back. “Tell him we’ll pay when we request the original paperwork – right now all we need is a fax,” I decide. Before Bendini can argue, I add, “It’s what he does with the big fish – they don’t pay until the money hits. Tell him we’re whales.”

Charlie looks at me like he’s never seen me before. “Now we’re talking,” he whispers to Shep.

“And when do you need it by?” Bendini asks.

“How’s a half-hour sound?” I reply.

Again, there’s a short pause. “I’ll do what I can,” Bendini says, unfazed. Clearing his throat for emphasis, he adds, “Now how’m I gonna get paid?”

I look at Charlie. He looks to Shep. Bendini doesn’t sound like the kinda guy you just say “bill me” to.

“Tell me your rates,” Shep says.

“Tell me what it’s worth,” Bendini shoots back.

Smacking the Hands-Free button, I shut off the speakerphone. “Don’t dicker!” I hiss. “We’re running out of-”

“I’ll give you a thousand cash if you can do it in a half-hour,” Shep says as he turns the phone back on.

“A grand?” Bendini asks. “Boys, I don’t piss for a grand – even when I have to. The minimum is five.”

Shep shoots a panicked look to me, and I go back to Charlie. My brother shakes his head. His cookie jar’s always empty. As my eyes drop down to my watch, I press my lips together. Takes money to make money. Looking back at Shep, I can’t help but nod. Charlie knows what it means. There go some B-school funds – and hospital bills.

“Don’t worry,” Charlie whispers with a hand on my shoulder. “It’s another staple we’re gonna put in Lapidus’s head.”

“Okay, you got it,” Shep tells Bendini. “We’ll wire it as soon as we hang up.” Reading from the white sticker on the fax machine, Shep relays our phone and fax numbers, thanks the price-gouger, and hangs up the phone.

The room is corpse silent.

“Well I think that went great,” Charlie announces, swinging his arm through the air aw-shucks style.

“We’ll be fine,” Shep interrupts.

I nod my head quickly. Then slower. “So you think it’ll work?” I ask anxiously.

“There we go – three full seconds,” Charlie says. “The old Oliver’s back.”

“As long as your buddy Arnie comes through…” Shep says.

“Trust me, Arnie’ll have it done in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most,” I add, watching Charlie’s reaction. He thinks I’m rationalizing. “Arnie’s this hippie leftover who lives in the Marshall Islands, makes pro-level margaritas, and sticks it to the government by plucking shelf corps off the wall all day long.”

“Shelf corps?” Charlie asks.

“Corps… corporations. Arnie registers them all across the world – gives them names, addresses, even boards of directors. You’ve seen the classified ads – they’re in every in-flight airline magazine in existence: Hate the IRS? Paying Too Much in Taxes? Private Offshore Companies! Guaranteed Privacy!”

“And you think he’s gonna be able to set up an entire company in the next half-hour?” Charlie asks.

“Trust me, he’s set these up months ago. ABC Corp. DEF Corp. GHI Corp. All the paperwork’s already done… each corporation is just a notebook on a shelf. When we call, he scribbles our fake name into the few blanks that are left and gives it a quick notary stamp. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s taking this l-”

The phone rings and Charlie leaps forward, answering it through the speakerphone. “H-Hello.”

“Congratulations,” Bendini says in full Jersey accent. “Ribbie Henson is now the proud owner and sole shareholder of Sunshine Distributors Partnership, Limited, in the Virgin Islands, which is owned by CEP Worldwide in Nauru, which is owned by Maritime Holding Services in Vanuatu, which is owned by Martin Duckworth in Antigua.”

Four layers – endzone in Antigua. When law enforcement digs, it’ll take ’em months to sort through all the paperwork.

“Sounds like you boys are in business. Just make sure you wire my cash.”

The moment the line goes dead, the fax machine hums to life. I swear, it almost gives me a heart attack.

Over the next five minutes, the fax machine vomits up the rest of the paperwork – from bylaws to articles of incorporation – everything we need to open up a brand-new corporate account. I check the clock on the wall: two hours to go. Mary asked for the paperwork by noon. Damn. All three of us know this can’t be like Tanner Drew. No stolen passwords. It’s gotta be done by the book.

“Can we make it?” Charlie asks.

“If you want, we can hand the original letter to Mary right now,” Shep offers. “My Duckworth accounts are already set up, since they belonged to the real Duckworth-”

“Not a chance,” I interrupt. “Like you said – we pick the places where the money goes.”

Shep’s tempted to argue, but quickly realizes he can’t win. If the first transfer goes to him, he’s got his duffel bag of cash, and we risk getting nothing. Even Charlie’s not willing to take that risk.

“Fine,” Shep says. “But if you’re not going to use the already existing Duckworth account, I’d go offshore as soon as possible. That’ll get it out of the United States and away from the reporting requirements. You know the law – anything that looks suspicious gets reported to the IRS, which means they’ll track it anywhere.”

Nodding, Charlie pulls a thin stack of red paper from my briefcase. The Red Sheet – the partners’ master list of favorite foreign banks, including the ones that’re open twenty-four hours. It’s on red paper so no one can photocopy it.

“I vote for Switzerland,” Charlie adds. “One of those bad-ass numbered accounts with an unguessable password.”

“I hate to break it to you, shortie, but Swiss bank accounts aren’t what they used to be,” Shep says. “Contrary to what Hollywood wants you to think, anonymous Swiss accounts have been abolished since 1977.”

“What about the Cayman Islands?”

“Too Grisham,” Shep shoots back. “Besides, even those are opening up. People got so many ideas after reading The Firm, the U.S. had to step in. Since then, they’ve been working with law enforcement for years.”

“So what’s the best-”

“Don’t focus so much on one place,” Shep says. “A quick transfer from New York to the Caymans is suspicious no matter who it’s from, and if the bank clerk raises an eyebrow – it’s hello IRS. It’s the first principle for laundering money: You want to send it to the foreign banks because they’re the ones who’re least likely to cooperate with law enforcement. But if you transfer it there too fast, the reputable banks over here will tag it as suspicious, and quickly put the IRS on your tail. So whattya do? Focus on short jumps – logical jumps – that way you won’t get a double take.” Pulling a bagel from the breakfast spread, Shep slaps it on the table. “Here we are in the U.S. – now what’s the number one location where we bank abroad?”

“England,” I say.

“England it is,” Shep replies, slapping another bagel down a few inches from the first. “The epicenter of international banking – Mary does almost thirty transfers there a day. She won’t think twice. Now once you’re in London, what’s close by?” He slaps another bagel down. “France is the easiest – nothing suspicious about that, right? And once your money’s there – their regulations are softer, which means the world opens up a little.” Another bagel hits. “Personally, I like Latvia – nearby… slightly smarmy… the government hasn’t decided if it likes us yet. And for international investigations, they only help us about half the time, which means it’s a perfect place to waste an investigator’s day.” Rapid-fire, two more bagels hit. “From there you slam the Marshall Islands, and from there, you bounce it close to home in Antigua. By the time it gets there, what started out as dirty cash is now so untraceable, it’s clean.”

“And that’s it?” Charlie asks, looking from Shep to me.

“Do you even realize how long it takes to investigate in a foreign territory?” Shep points to the first bagel, then the second, then the third. “Bing, bing, bing, bing, bing. That’s why they call it the Rule of Five. Five well-chosen countries and you’re gone. In the Service, it’d take us six months to a year to investigate with no guarantees.”

“Ohhh, baby, pass me the cream cheese,” Charlie sings.

Even I grin. I try to bury it down, but Charlie spots it in my eyes. That alone makes him happy.

Leaning on the desk, I skim through the Red Sheet and pick out a bank for each territory. Five banks in an hour. It’s going to be close.

“Listen, I should go check in with Lapidus,” Shep says, pulling his coat from the chair. “How ’bout we meet back in my office at eleven-thirty?”

I nod, Charlie says thanks, and Shep hightails it out of the office.

The moment the door shuts, I once again dive for the speakerphone, rehump the table, and punch in the phone number for the Antigua bank.

“I have a calling card in case it doesn’t go through,” Charlie offers.

I shake my head. There’s a reason I picked the law firm. “Hi, I’d like to speak to Rupa Missakian,” I read from the sheet.

Within five minutes, I’ve relayed the tax ID number and all the other vital stats for Sunshine Distributors’s first bank account. To really sell it, I throw in Duckworth’s birthday and a personally selected password. They never once give us a hard time. Thank you, Red Sheet.

As I shut off the speakerphone, Charlie points to his Wonder Woman watch with the magic lasso second-hand. Twenty minutes, start to finish. Forty minutes left and four more accounts to open. Not good enough.

“C’mon, coach, I got my skates on,” Charlie says. “Get me in the game.”

Without a word, I rip two pages from the Red Sheet and slide them across the table. One says France, the other Marshall Islands. Charlie darts to the phone on his far right; I race to the one on mine. Opposite corners. Our fingers flick across the keypads.

“Do you speak English?” I ask a stranger from Latvia. “Yes… I’m looking for Feodor Svantanich or whoever’s handling his accounts.”

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Lucinda Llanos,” Charlie says. “Or whoever has her accounts.”

There’s a short pause.

“Hi,” we both say simultaneously. “I’d like to open a corporate account.”

“Okay, and can you read me the number one more time?” Charlie asks a French man who he keeps calling Inspector Clouseau. He scribbles down the number and calls it out to me. “Tell your English bloke it’s HB7272250.”

“Here we go – HB7272250,” I say to the rep from London. “Once it comes in, we want it transferred there as soon as possible.”

“Thanks again for the help, Clouseau,” Charlie adds. “I’m gonna tell all my rich friends about you.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll look for it tomorrow – and then hopefully we can start talking about some of our other overseas business.”

Translation: Do me this solid and I’ll throw you so much business, it’ll make this three million look like gum money. It’s the third time we’ve played this game – relaying the account number of one bank to the bank that precedes it.

“Yeah… yeah… that’d be great,” Charlie says, switching to his I-really-gotta-run voice. “Have a croissant on me.”

Charlie hops out of his seat as I lower the receiver. “Aaaaaaannnnnnnd… we’re done,” he says as soon as the phone hits the cradle.

My eyes go straight to the clock. Eleven thirty-five. “Damn,” I whisper under my breath. In a blur, I rake the loose pages of the Red Sheet back into one pile and stuff them in my briefcase. “C’mon, let’s go,” Charlie demands, flying toward the door. As I run, I shove the chairs back under the table. Charlie sweeps the bagels back on their tray. Neat and perfect. Just like we found it.

“I got the coats,” I say, grabbing them from the chair.

He doesn’t care. He just keeps running. And before the receptionist notices the blur in front of her desk, we’re gone.

“Where the hell were you guys – braiding each other’s hair?” Shep asks as we plow into his office. Ten minutes and counting. I throw the coats on the leather sofa; Shep leaps out of his seat and jams a sheet of paper in front of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Transfer request – all you need to do is fill in where it’s going.”

Ripping the mess of paperwork from my briefcase, I flip to the Red Sheet marked England. Charlie bends over so I can use his back as a desk. I scribble as fast as I can and copy the account info. Almost done.

“So where’s it finally going?” Shep asks.

Charlie stands up, and I stop writing. “What’re you talking about?”

“The last transfer. Where’re we putting it?”

I look to Charlie, but he returns a blank stare. “I thought you said…”

“… that you could pick where the money goes,” Shep interrupts. “I did – and you can bounce it wherever you want – but you better believe I want to know the final stop.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I growl.

“Guys, can we just save this one for later?” Charlie pleads.

Shep leans in, plenty annoyed. “The deal was to give the two of you control… not to freeze me out altogether.”

“So suddenly you’re worried we’re going to keep the cake?” I ask.

“Fellas, please,” Charlie begs. “We’re almost out of time…”

“Don’t fuck with me, Oliver – all I’m asking for is a taste of some insurance.”

“No, all you’re asking for is our insurance. This is what’s supposed to keep us safe.”

“I just hope you both realize you’re about to blow this whole thing,” Charlie says. Neither of us cares. That’s how it always is with money – everything gets personal.

“Just tell me where the damn bank is!” Shep explodes.

“Why? So you can live your duffel bag fantasy and leave us chewing dirt?”

“Dammit, you two, no one’s leaving anyone!” Charlie shouts. Shoving himself between us, he reaches out and grabs my stack of Red Sheets.

“What’re you doing?” I yell, pulling them back.

“Let… go!” Charlie insists with one last yank. The top two pages tear in half and I fly backwards. I’m fast enough to regain my footing, but not fast enough to stop him. Spinning toward Shep, he flips to the bottom of the pile, pulls out the Red Sheet marked Antigua, and folds it back so you can only see one bank on the list.

“Charlie… don’t!”

Too late. He covers the account number with his finger and rams it in Shep’s face. “You got it?”

Shep studies it with a quick look. “Thank you… that’s all I ask.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Charlie shoots back. “If we sit here arguing, no one’s getting anything – so finish the damn paperwork and get going. We’ve got only a few minutes!”

Spinning toward the clock, I check for myself.

“Eyes on the prize, Oliver. Eyes on the prize,” Shep says.

“Go, go, go!” Charlie shouts as I jot in the last line. He just gave away our entire insurance policy – but it’s still not worth losing everything. Not when we’re this close. Charlie stuffs the Red Sheets back in my briefcase; I’ve got a stack of forty abandoned accounts under my arm. Stumbling out the door, I don’t once look back. Just forward.

“That’s the way, bro,” Charlie calls out.

Here we go. Time to nab some cash.