The Millionaires (12 page)

Weighing in at over a hundred and eighty pounds, my mom’s never been a petite woman… or an insecure one. When her hair went
gray, she never dyed it. When it started thinning, she cut it short. After my dad left, the physical nonsense didn’t matter
anymore—all she cared about were me and Charlie. So even with the hospital bills, and the credit cards, and the bankruptcy
dad left us with… even after losing her job at the secondhand store, and all the seamstress jobs she’s had to do since… she’s
always had more than enough love to go around. The least we can do is pay her back.

Heading straight for the kitchen, I reach for the Charlie Brown cookie jar and tug on its ceramic head.

“Ow,” Charlie says, using his favorite joke since fourth grade.

The head pops off, and I pull a small stack of papers from inside.

“Oliver, please don’t do this…” mom says.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring her and carrying the stack to the dining room table.

“I’m serious—it’s not right. You don’t have to pay my bills.”

“Why? You helped me pay for college.”

“You still had a job…”

“… thanks to the guy you were dating. Four years of easy money—that’s the only reason I could afford tuition.”

“I don’t care, Oliver. It’s bad enough you paid for the apartment.”

“I didn’t pay for the apartment—all I did was ask the bank to work out better financing.”

“And you helped with the down payment…”

“Mom, that was just to get you on your feet. You’d been renting this place for twenty-five years. You know how much money
you threw away?”

“That’s because your—” She cuts herself off. She doesn’t like blaming my father.

“Ma, you don’t have to worry. This is a pleasure.”

“But you’re my son…”

“And you’re my mom.”

It’s hard to argue with that one. Besides, if she didn’t need the help, the bills wouldn’t be where I could find them, and
we’d be eating chicken or steak instead of ziti. Her lips slightly quiver and she bites nervously at the Band-Aids that cover
her fingertips. The life of a seamstress—too many pins and too many hems. We’ve always lived paycheck to paycheck, but the
lines on her face are starting to show her age. Without a word, she opens the window in the kitchen and leans outside into
the cold air.

At first, I assume she must’ve spotted Mrs. Finkelstein—mom’s best friend and our old babysitter—whose window is directly
across the alley between our buildings. But when I hear the familiar squeaky churn of the clothesline we share with The Fink,
I realize mom’s bringing in the rest of today’s work. That’s where I learned it—how to lose yourself in your job. When she’s
done, she turns back to the sink and washes off Charlie’s spoon.

The second it’s clean, Charlie grabs it from her and presses it against his tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaa,” he hums. My mom fights
as hard as she can, but she still laughs. End of argument.

One by one, I flip through the monthly bills, totaling them up and figuring out which ones to pay. Sometimes I just do the
credit cards and the hospital… other times, when the heating gets high, I do utilities. Charlie always does insurance. As
I said, for him, it’s personal.

“So how was work?” mom asks Charlie.

He ignores the question, and she decides to let it go. She had the same hands-off approach two years ago when Charlie became
Buddhist for a month. And then again a year and a half ago when he switched to Hinduism. I swear, sometimes she knows us better
than we know ourselves.

Scanning through the credit card bill, my bank instincts kick in. Check the charges; protect the client; make sure nothing’s
out of place. Groceries… sewing materials… music store… Vic Winick Dance Studio?

“What’s this Vic Winick place?” I ask, leaning my chair back toward the kitchen.

“Dance lessons,” my mother says.

“
Dance lessons?
Who do you take dance lessons with?”

“Wif me!” Charlie shouts in his best French accent. He takes the wooden spoon, grips it like a flower between his teeth, grabs
my mother, and pulls her close. “And a-one… and a-two… right-foot-first-now…” Breaking into a quick lindy, they bob and weave
around the narrow kitchen. My mother is positively flying, her head held higher than… well, even higher than when I graduated
college.

Twisting his neck, Charlie wings the spoon in the sink. “Not bad, huh?” he says.

“So how do we look?” she asks as they bang into the oven and nearly knock the pot of sauce to the floor.

“G-Great… just great,” I say, my eyes falling back to the bills. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I may’ve always had her head
and her pocketbook, but Charlie… Charlie’s always had her heart.

“Lookin’ good, sweet momma—lookin’ good!” Charlie yells, his hand waving in the air. “You’re gonna be sleepin’ easy tonight!”

* * * *

I’ve made this walk 1,048 times. Out from the subway sauna, up the never-clean stairs, slalom-skiing through the freshly showered
crowd, and straight up Park Avenue until I hit the bank. 1,048 times. That’s four years, not including weekends—some of which
I also worked. But today… I’m done counting the days I’ve put in. From now on, it’s a countdown until we leave.

By my estimate, Charlie should be the first out—maybe a month or two from now. After that, when everything’s long settled,
it’s a coin toss between me and Shep. For all we know, he may want to stay. Personally, I don’t have that problem.

Continuing up Park Avenue toward 36th Street, I can practically taste the conversation. “I just wanted to let you know I think
it’s time I moved on,” I’ll tell Lapidus. No need to burn bridges or bring up the B-school letters—just a mention of “other
opportunities elsewhere” and a thank-you for being the best mentor anyone could ever ask for. The fake bullshit will be oozing
through my teeth. Just like he does to me. Still, the whole thing brings a smile to my face… that is, until I see the two
navy blue sedans parked in front of the bank. Actually, forget parked. Stopped. Like they raced in for an emergency. I’ve
seen enough black limos and privately driven town-cars to know they’re not clients. And I don’t need sirens to tell me the
rest. Unmarked cop cars stand out everywhere.

My chest constricts and I take a few steps back. No, keep walking. Don’t panic. As I edge toward the car, my eyes skate from
the city-soot eyebrows at the top of the windshield, down to the blue-and-white “U.S. Government” placard sitting on the dashboard.
These aren’t cops. They’re feds.

I’m tempted to turn and run, but… not yet. Don’t get mental—keep it calm and get answers. There’s no way anyone knows about
the money.

Praying I’m right, I shove my way through the revolving door and search frantically for the early-arriving co-workers who
sit at the wide-open web of desks that fill the first floor. To my relief, everyone’s in place, first cup of coffee already
in hand.

“Excuse me, sir, can I speak with you for a second?” a deep voice asks.

On my left, in front of the mahogany reception desk, a tall man with stiff shoulders and light blond hair approaches with
a clipboard. “I just need your name,” he explains.

“W-What for?”

“I’m sorry—I’m from Para-Protect—we’re just trying to figure out if we need to increase security in the welcoming area.”

It’s a clean answer with a clean explanation, but last I checked, we weren’t having security issues.

“And your name?” he reiterates, keeping the tone friendly.

“Oliver Caruso,” I offer.

He looks up—not startled—but just fast enough that I notice. He grins. I grin. Everybody’s happy. Too bad I’m ready to pass
out.

On the clipboard, he puts a small check next to my name. There’s no check next to Charlie’s. Not here yet. As the blond man
leans against his clipboard, his jacket slides open and I get a quick peek at his leather shoulder-strap. This guy’s carrying
a gun. Behind me, I take one last glance at the unmarked cars. Security company, my ass. We’re in trouble.

“Thank you, Mr. Caruso—you have a nice day now.”

“You too,” I say, forcing a smile. The only good sign is that he lets me pass. They don’t know who they’re looking for. But
they are looking. They just don’t want anyone to know.

That’s it, I decide. Time to get some help. Blowing through the lobby and past the bullpen of rolltop desks, I head for the
public elevator, but quickly change course and keep walking toward the back. I use Lapidus’s code every day. Don’t call attention
to it by stopping now.

By the time I reach the private elevator, I’m a sweaty mess—my chest, my back—I feel like I’m soaking through my suit and
wool coat. From there, it only gets worse. Stepping into the elevator’s wood-paneled embrace, I go to loosen my tie. That’s
when I remember the surveillance camera in the corner. My fingers bounce off my tie and scratch an imaginary itch on my neck.
The doors slam shut. My throat goes dry. I just ignore it.

My first instinct is to go see Shep, but it’s no time to be stupid. Instead, I pound the button for the seventh floor. If
I want to get to the bottom of this, I need to start at the top.

* * * *

“He’s been waiting for you,” Lapidus’s secretary warns as I fly past her desk.

“How many stars?” I call out, knowing how she rates Lapidus’s moods. Four stars is good; one is a disaster.

“Total eclipse,” she blurts.

I stop in my tracks. The last time Lapidus was that upset, it came with divorce papers. “Any idea what happened?” I ask, struggling
to keep it together.

“I’m not sure, but have you ever seen a live volcano…?”

Taking a quick gulp of air, I reach for the bronze doorknob.

“…
I don’t care what they want!
” Lapidus screams into his phone. “
Tell them it’s a computer problem… blame it on a virus—until they hear otherwise, it’s staying shut down—and if Mary has a
problem with that, tell her she can take it up with the agent in charge!
” He slams the receiver just as I shut the door. Following the sound, he jerks his head toward me—but I’m too busy staring
at the person sitting in the antique chair on the opposite side of his desk. Shep. He shakes his head ever so slightly. We’re
dead.

“Where the hell’ve you been!?” Lapidus yells.

My eyes are still on Shep.

“
Oliver, I’m talking to you!
”

I jump, turning back to my boss. “I-I’m sorry. What?”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door behind me. “Come in!” Lapidus barks.

Quincy opens it halfway and sticks his head in. He’s got the same look as Lapidus. Gritted teeth. Manic head movements. The
way he surveys the room—me… Shep… the couch… even the antiques—everything gets a look. Sure, he’s a born analyzer, but this
is different. The pale look on his face. It’s not anger. It’s fear.

“I have the reports,” he says anxiously.

“So? Let’s hear ’em,” Lapidus says.

Standing on the threshold and still refusing to enter the room, Quincy tightens his glance. Partners only.

With a swift push away from the desk, Lapidus climbs out of his leather wingback and heads for the door. The moment he’s gone,
I go straight for Shep.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask, fighting to keep it to a whisper. “Did they—”

“Was this you?” Shep shoots back.

“Was
what
me?”

He looks away, completely overwhelmed. “I don’t even know how they did it…”

“Did what?”

“They set us up, Oliver. Whoever took it, they were watching the entire time…”

I grab him by the shoulder. “Dammit, Shep, tell me w—”

The door swings wide and Lapidus storms back in the room. “Shep—your friend Agent Gallo’s waiting in the conference room—do
you want to—?”

“Yeah,” Shep interrupts, leaping from his seat.

I shoot him a sideways glance.
You called in the Service?

Don’t ask,
he motions, shaking his head.

“Oliver, I need you to do me a favor,” Lapidus adds, his voice on fire. He flips through a stack of papers, looking for…

“There,” I say, pointing to his reading glasses.

He snatches them and stuffs them in his jacket pocket. No time for thank-yous. “I want someone downstairs as people start
coming in,” he says. “No offense to the Service, but they don’t know our staff.”

“I don’t underst—”

“Stay by the door and watch reactions,” he barks, his patience long gone. “I know we’ve got an agent taking attendance… but
whoever did this… they’re too smart to call in sick. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on people when they walk in. If
they’ve got a guilty conscience, the agent alone’ll freak them out… you can’t hide panic. Even if it’s just a pause or an
open mouth. You know the people, Oliver. Find out who did it for me.” He puts an arm on my shoulder and rushes me toward the
door. Lapidus and Shep march off to the conference room. Searching for options, I head downstairs. I just need a second to
think.

By the time the elevator doors open in the lobby, I’m completely exhausted. The hurricane’s hit too fast. Everything’s spinning.
Still, there’s not much of a choice. Follow orders. Anything else is suspicious.

Sliding up to the teller booth that runs along the righthand wall, I grab a deposit slip and pretend to fill it out. It’s
the best way to watch the door, where the agent with the blond hair is still checking people off.

One by one they walk in and give their names. Not a single one of them pauses or thinks twice about it. I’m not surprised—the
only one with the guilty conscience is me. But the more I sit there, the more the whole thing doesn’t make sense. Sure, for
me and Charlie, three million is a solid hunk of change, but around here… it’s not a life-changer. And the way Shep asked
me about it—about whether it was me—he wasn’t just worried about being caught… he lost something too. And now that I finally
stop to think about it… maybe… so did we.

Searching the always bustling front lobby, I check to see if anyone’s watching. Secretaries, analysts, even the agent in charge—everyone’s
caught up in their day-to-day. The crowd comes in the revolving door and their names are checked off. I glide toward the same
door, figuring it’s my best way out—