The Millionaires (32 page)

“Sombitch,” he whispers.

“What now?” Stepping behind him and trying to make the best of the fading light, I lean over his shoulder. He points down
at the 8-track.

“I don’t get it” I tell him.

“Not the 8-track, Ollie. Here…” He points again. But what he points at isn’t the player. It’s the nightstand underneath. “Check
out the dust,” he explains.

I angle my head just enough to see the thick layer of dust that blankets the top of the nightstand.

“It’s so perfect, you barely notice it,” Charlie says. “Like no one’s put anything on it, or even touched it… in months, even
though it’s right next to her bed.” He turns back to me and tightens his gaze.

“What?”

“You tell me, Ollie. How could she not—”

“What’s this, a panty raid?” a female voice asks behind us.

Charlie whips around to face Gillian.

She flicks on the lights, making us squint to compensate. “What’re you doing in my room?”

O
h, this is yours?” Charlie asks. “We were just… just checking out this awesome 8-track.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder
to point, but she doesn’t bother to look. Her dark eyes lock on his and don’t let go. She just stands there, arms crossed
against her chest. I don’t blame her. We shouldn’t have been snooping through her stuff.

“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I offer. “I swear, we didn’t touch anything.” Locking on me, she puts me through the exact same
test. But unlike Charlie, I don’t lie, fumble, or condescend. I give her the absolute truth and hope it’s enough. “I… I just
wanted to learn more about you,” I add.

Perfect,
Charlie smirks.

He thinks it’s an act, but in many ways, it’s the most honest thing I’ve said today. With everyone else after us, Gillian’s
the only one who’s offered to help. As she stares me down, her arms are still crossed in front of her chest. The free spirit’s
gone. And then… just like that… it’s back again.

“It
is
pretty cool, isn’t it?” she asks as her shoulders bounce.

I smile a thank-you. Suspicious of the kindness, Charlie looks around like she’s talking to someone else.

“The 8-track,” she explains, moving excitedly toward the nightstand.

With a shove, she pushes my brother aside and sits on the bed, right next to me. She scoots back, then forward, then back
a little more. “Wait’ll you see what he did to it,” she tells me eagerly. “Hit the
Pause
button.”

She’s got that same singsong laugh as before. Next to her, though, Charlie motions down low, where her bare toes are balled
up like fists against the carpet.

See?
Charlie scowls with that I-told-you-so look he usually reserves for Beth. But we both know Gillian’s no Beth.

Gillian flicks the power switch on and leans back on her hands. “Just hit
Pause,
” she adds.

Following instructions, I reach down and press the
Pause
button. The ancient machine hums with a mechanical whir. It’s such a familiar sound… and just as I place it, a plastic CD
tray—complete with a shiny compact disc—slides out of the widened opening where you’d normally put the 8-track.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Gillian asks.

“Where’re you from again?” Charlie blurts.

“Excuse me?”

“Where’re you from? Where’d you grow up?”

“Right here,” Gillian replies. “Just outside Miami.”

“Oh, that’s so weird,” Charlie says. “Because when you just said
Pretty cool,
I coulda sworn I smelled a hint of New York accent.”

Clearly amused, Gillian shakes her head, but she won’t take her eyes off my brother. “Nope, just Florida,” she sings without
a care. It’s the best way to take him on—don’t take him on at all. She turns back to me and the CD/8-track. “Check out the
disc,” she offers.

I reach down and spear it with a finger:
The Collected Speeches of Adlai E. Stevenson.
“I take it your dad did this?”

“I’m telling you, after he left Disney, he had way too much time—he used to always—”

“And when did you move in here again?” Charlie interrupts.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. If she’s annoyed, she’s not showing it.

“Your dad died six months ago—when did you move in here?”

Playfully grinning, she hops up from the bed and crosses around to the foot of the mattress.

See that?
Charlie glares my way.
That’s the same trick I use on you. Distance to avoid confrontation.

“I don’t know,” she begins. “I guess a month or so ago… it’s hard to say. It took a while to do the paperwork… and then to
get my stuff over here…” She turns toward the window, but never gets flustered. I listen for a New York accent, but all I
hear is her short-O Flooorida tone. “It’s still not that easy sleeping in his old bed, which is why most nights I’m curled
up on the couch,” she adds, watching Charlie. “Of course, the mortgage is paid, so I got no reason to moan.”

“What about a job?” Charlie asks. “Are you still working?”

“What do I look like, some trust fund beach bunny?” she teases. “Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Waterbed.”

“Waterbed?”

“It’s a club over on Washington. Velvet rope, guys looking for supermodels who’ll never show… the whole sad story.”

“Let me guess: You bartend in a tight black T-shirt.”

“Charlie…” I scold.

She shrugs it off without a care. “Do I seem like that much of a cliché to you? I’m a manager, cutie-pie.” She’s trying to
make nice, but Charlie’s not biting. “The good part is, it leaves the days free for the paintings, which’re really the best
release,” she adds.

Paintings? I scan the canvas in the corner and search for a signature.
G.D.
Gillian Duckworth. “So this
is
yours,” I say. “I was wondering if—”

“You painted that?” Charlie asks skeptically.

“Why so surprised?” she asks.

“He’s not surprised,” I interrupt, trying to keep it light. “He just doesn’t like the competition.” Pointing to Charlie, I
add, “Guess who used to go to art school—and is still a wannabe musician?”

“Really?” Gillian asks. “So we’re both artists.”

“Yeah. We’re both artists,” he says flatly. He quickly checks her fingers—if I had to guess, I’d bet he’s looking to see if
there’s any paint trapped under her nails.
Strike two,
he warns as if it means anything. “You ever sell any of these?” he continues.

“Only to friends,” she says softly. “Though I’m trying to get them in a gallery…”

“
You
ever sold any songs?” I jump in. I’m not letting him hit below the belt. Besides, whatever else his imagination comes up
with, Gillian is letting us pick through the whole place. Of course, Charlie can’t stop staring at the dust that blankets
the nightstand.

“Did I say something wrong?” Gillian asks.

“No, you’ve been great,” Charlie says as he takes off for the door.

“Where’re you going?” I call out.

“Back to work,” he tells me. “I’ve got a closet to rummage through.”

A
t midnight, Maggie Caruso sat at her dining room table with the newspaper spread out in front of her and a hot cup of tea
by her side. For fifteen minutes, she didn’t touch either.
Give it time,
she told herself as she glanced up at Charlie’s painting of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Better to wait the full two hours.
That’s how they passed it at nine o’clock, and that’s how they did it at eleven. Anxious to get up, but unwilling to reveal
her expression, she subtly angled her wrist and watched the seconds tick away on the plastic
Wizard of Oz
Wicked Witch watch Charlie gave her for Mother’s Day. All it took was a little patience.

* * * *

“I hate it when she does this,” DeSanctis said, glaring at the laptop. “It’s the same as last night—she stares down at the
crossword, but never puts in an answer.”

“It’s not the puzzle,” Gallo began. “I’ve seen it before—when people know they’re in the fire, they freeze. They’re so scared
of making the wrong move, they’re completely paralyzed.”

“So go to bed,” DeSanctis yelled at Maggie on the screen. “Make it easy on yourself!”

“We all have our habits,” Gallo said. “This one’s clearly hers.”

* * * *

Fifty minutes later, Maggie’s eyes continued to tick-tock between her watch and the newspaper. On any other night, the waiting
alone would’ve put her to sleep. Tonight, her feet tapped against the floor to keep her awake.
Two more minutes,
she counted to herself.

* * * *

Annoyed and impossibly antsy, DeSanctis flicked on the thermal imager and aimed it up the block. Through the viewfinder, the
world had a dark green tint. Street lamps and house lights glowed bright white. So did the hood of Joey’s car, which was now
impossible to miss even though it was tucked into an alley. If she wanted the heat to work, the engine had to be at least
partially on.

“Guess who’s still watching us?” DeSanctis asked.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Gallo rumbled. Pointing to the laptop, he added, “Meanwhile, look who’s finally ready for bed…”

* * * *

Battling exhaustion, Maggie shuffled toward the kitchen and pretended to take a final gulp of tea. But as she tilted her head
back, she reached into the pouch of her apron and felt around for her newest note. That was it. Time to get moving. With a
twist of her wrist, she poured out the full mug of tea. But instead of marching off to her bedroom, she turned back toward
the kitchen window.

* * * *

“What’s she doing now?” Gallo asked.

“Same thing she’s been doing all day—being cheap about dry cleaning.”

* * * *

Leaning out toward the clothesline, Maggie tugged hand over fist to rein in the night’s final load. Halfway through, she stopped
to stretch her fingers, which were suddenly burning with pain. Forget the arthritis and the hours hunched over the sewing
machine—the stress alone was finally taking its toll.

* * * *

“She’s ready to break,” Gallo said, studying the small screen and reading her body language from behind. “She can’t take another
night like this.”

“Check it out—you can see her arms,” DeSanctis gloated, still looking through the thermal imager. He flipped open the LCD
screen on the side of the camera so Gallo could get a look. Sure enough, sticking out of the green-tinted building were two
pasty white arms that glowed like incandescent snakes slithering through the night.

“What’s that stuff over here?” Gallo asked as he pointed to tiny white splotches on the rope of the clothesline.

“That’s the residue from her touch,” DeSanctis explained. “The rope’s so cold, every time she grabs it, it holds the warmth
and gives us a thermal afterglow.”

Gallo’s eyes narrowed as he studied the white spots on the glowing conveyor belt. As they scrolled away from Maggie, each
spot faded and disappeared.

* * * *

One by one, Maggie inspected each piece of clothing on the line. Dry came in; wet stayed out. By the time she was done, the
only thing left was the still damp white sheet. Keeping her head down, Maggie eyed the dark window across the alley. In the
shadows, as before, Saundra Finkelstein nodded.

* * * *

On the LCD screen, Gallo and DeSanctis watched Maggie unclip the clothespins, reach under the sheet, and rotate it a half-turn.
Thanks to the low temperature of the wet fabric, her arms glowed faintly underneath. Clipping the pins back in place, she
gave the rope a final tug and sent the sheet on its way. Once again, the thermal white splotches on the rope faded in a horizontal
blur—but this time, something else remained: Just below the rope—where the clothespin hit the sheet—a white golfball-sized
comet streaked across the alleyway. And disappeared.

“What the hell was that?” Gallo asked.

“What’re you talking about?”

“On the sheet! Play that back!”

“Hold on a second…”

“
Now!
” Gallo roared.

Frantically pressing buttons on the camera, DeSanctis froze the picture and punched
Rewind.
Onscreen, it scrolled in reverse, and Maggie’s sheet zoomed back toward her window.