The Millionaires (3 page)

“Thank you,” I offer, heading deeper into the office. But just as I approach Mary’s desk, I hear scribbling behind me. “What’re
you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” he laughs, jotting a few final words in his notepad. “Okay, I’m done.”

“What’d you write?” I demand.

“Nothing, just a—”

“What’d you write!?”

He holds up the notepad. “
I don’t need this in one of your songs,
” he relays. “How good of an album title is that?”

Without responding, I once again look back at Mary’s desk. “Can you please just show me where she keeps her password?”

Strolling over to the neatest, most organized desk in the room, he mockingly brushes off Mary’s seat, slides into her chair,
and reaches for the three plastic picture frames that stand next to her computer. There’s a twelve-year-old boy holding a
football, a nine-year-old boy in a baseball uniform, and a six-year-old girl posing with a soccer ball. Charlie goes straight
for the one with the football and turns it upside down. Under the base of the frame is her username and password: marydamski—3BUG5E.
Charlie shakes his head, smiling. “Firstborn kid—always loved the most.”

“How did you…?”

“She may be the queen of numbers, but she hates computers. One day I came in, she asked me for a good hiding spot, and I told
her to try the photos.”

Typical Charlie. Everyone’s pal.

I turn on Mary’s computer and glance at the clock on the wall: 3:37
P.M.
Barely twenty-five minutes to go. Using her password, I go straight to
Funds Disbursement.
There’s Tanner’s transfer queued up on Mary’s screen—waiting for final approval. I type in the code for Tanner’s bank, as
well as the account number he gave me.

“
Requested Amount?
” It almost hurts to enter:
$40,000,000.00.

“That’s a lot of sweet potatoes,” Charlie says.

I look up at the clock on the wall: 3:45
P.M.
Fifteen minutes to spare.

Behind me, Charlie’s once again jotting something in his notepad. That’s his mantra: G
rab the world; eat a dandelion.
I move the cursor to
Send.
Almost done.

“Can I ask you a question?” Charlie calls out. Before I can answer, he adds, “How cool would it be if this whole thing was
a scam?”

“What?”

“The whole thing… the phone call, the yelling…” He laughs as he plays it out in his head. “With all the chaos blowing, how
do you know that was the real Tanner Drew?”

My body stiffens. “
Excuse me?
”

“I mean, the guy has a family office—how do you even know what his voice sounds like?”

I let go of the mouse and try to ignore the chill that licks the hairs on the back of my neck. I turn around to face my brother.
He’s stopped writing.

W
hat’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.