The Millionaires (4 page)

“
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.”

H
ere! Pay!” I shout, tossing Charlie my wallet and kicking open the door to the cab. He fishes out a twenty, tells the cabbie
to keep the change, and bounces his butt out of there. No way he’s missing this.

Skidding across the ice, I’m already in apology mode: “Beth, I’m so sorry—I totally forgot!”

“Forgot what?” she asks, her voice as calm and pleasant as can be.

“Our dinner… inviting you out here…”

“Don’t worry—it’s already done.” As she talks, I notice that she’s blown her long brown hair completely straight.

“No bounce,” Charlie whispers, acting innocent behind me.

“I have my own key, remember?” Beth asks. She steps around me, but I’m still confused.

“Where’re you going?”

“Soda. You were all out.”

“Beth, why don’t you let me…”

“Go relax—I’ll be right back.” She turns away from me, and it’s the first time she sees Charlie.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” He opens his arms for a huge hug. She doesn’t take him up on it.

“Hi, Charlie.”

She tries to step around him, but he cuts in front of her. “So how’s the world of corporate accounting?” he asks.

“It’s good.”

“And your clients?”

“They’re good.”

“And your family—how’re they?”

“Good,” she smiles, putting up her best defense. Not an annoyed smile; not a jaded smile; not even an angry get-outta-my-face-you-overhyper-little-gnat
kinda smile. Just a nice, calming Beth smile.

“And whattya think of vanilla as an ice cream flavor?” Charlie asks, raising a devilish eyebrow.

“
Charlie,
” I warn.

“What?” Turning to Beth, he adds, “So you sure you don’t mind if I crash all over your dinner?”

She looks to me, then back at Charlie. “Maybe it’d be better if I left you two alone.”

“Don’t be silly,” I jump in.

“It’s okay,” she adds with a wave that tells me not to worry about it. She’s never one to complain. “You two should have some
time together. Oliver, I’ll call you later.”

Before either of us can stop her, she walks up the block. Charlie’s eyes are on her L.L. Bean duck boots. “My God—my whole
sorority had those,” he whispers. I pinch the skin on his back and give it a twist. It doesn’t shut him up. As Beth walks,
her beige camel-hair coat fans out behind her. “Like Darth Vader—only boring,” Charlie adds.

He knows she can’t hear him, which only makes it worse.

“I’d give my left nut to see her slip on her ass,” he says as she disappears up the block. “No such luck. Bye-bye, baby.”

I shoot Charlie a look. “Why do you always have to make fun of her like that?”

“I’m sorry—she just makes it so easy.”

I spin around and storm for the door.

“
What?
” he asks.

I yell without facing him. Just like dad. “You can be a real jerk-off, y’know that?”

He thinks about it for a second. “I guess I can.”

Once again, I refuse to face him. He knows he’s pushed too far. “C’mon, Ollie—I’m only teasing,” he says, chasing me down
the wobbly-brick stairway. “I only say it because I’m secretly in love with her.”

I stuff my key in the door and pretend he’s not there. That lasts about two seconds. “Why do you hate her so much?”

“I don’t hate
her,
I just… I hate everything she stands for. Everything she represents. The boots, the quiet smile, the inability to express
anything approaching an opinion… that’s not what I—It’s not what you should want for yourself.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious,” he says as I work on the third deadbolt. “It’s the same thing as this teeny basement apartment. I mean, no
offense, but it’s like taking the blue pill and waking up in a young urban twentysomething sitcom nightmare.”

“You just don’t like Brooklyn Heights.”

“You don’t live in Brooklyn Heights,” he insists. “You live in Red Hook. Understand? Red. Hook.”

As I shove open the door, Charlie follows me into the apartment.

“Well, bust out the Magic Markers and color me impressed,” he says, wandering inside. “Look who’s decorated.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play modest with me, Versace. When you first moved in, you had a used, stained mattress from Goodwill, a dresser you
stole from our old bedroom, and the table and chairs mom and I bought from Kmart as a housewarming gift. Today, what’s that
I see on the bed? A knockoff Calvin Klein comforter? Plus the Martha Stewart faux-antique crackle-paint on the dresser, and
the table that’s now sporting the imitation Ralph Lauren tablecloth, perfectly set for two. Don’t think I missed that sweetheart
touch. And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, it’s like the existence of show towels, bro—the whole thing’s a symptom
of a deeper problem.”

He repeats the last few words to himself. “
Symptom of a deeper problem.
” Stopping in the kitchen, he pulls out his notepad and jots them down. “
For some, life is an audition,
” he adds. His head bobs in place as he puts together a quick melody. When he gets like this, it takes a few minutes, so I
leave him be. On his notepad, his hand suddenly stops, then starts scribbling. The pen scratches furiously against the page.
As he flips to the next sheet, I spot a tiny, perfect sketch of a man bowing in front of a curtain. He’s done writing—now
he’s drawing.

It’s the first thing that came naturally to him, and when he wants to, Charlie can be an incredible artist. So incredible,
in fact, that the New York School of Visual Arts was willing to overlook his spotty high school record and give him a full
college scholarship. Two years into it, they tried to steer him into commercial work, like advertising and illustration. “It’s
a nice living,” they told him. But the instant Charlie saw career and art converge, he dropped out and finished his last two
years at Brooklyn College studying music. I yelled at him for two days straight. He told me there’s more to life than designing
the new logo for a bottle of detergent.

Across the room, I hear him wandering through the rest of the apartment and sniffing the air. “Mmmmm… smells like Oliver,”
he announces. “Air freshener and loafer whiff.”