Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

Tossing aside the envelope, I yank open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, looking for buzzwords, but it’s like opening a college acceptance letter – I can barely read. Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top .

Dear Dean Milligan. Personalized. Good . I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program… blah, blah, blah … Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years… blah and more blah … sorry to say… Sorry to say ?… that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism… maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…

I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere… beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”

Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and-

“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”

I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.

Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”

I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.

“Y’mean with the-”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”

He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin” bout, Willis?”

“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it-” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”

“So whatta we do now?” Charlie asks as he shuts the door to my office early Monday morning.

“Just what we talked about,” I say, pulling weekend work from my briefcase and dumping it on my desk. I’m moving at my typical frantic pace, rushing from desk to filing cabinet back to desk, but today…

“You’ve got some bounce in your step,” Charlie decides, suddenly excited. “And not just the hamster-on-a-treadmill thing you’ve usually got going.”

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

“Oh, yeah I do.” He watches me carefully, consuming every move. “Arms swaying… shoulders rising… even under the suit – Yeah, brother. Let freedom ring.”

I grab the fax from Friday night and slide it in front of my computer. At noon today, the abandoned accounts have to be sent to the state or returned to their owners. That gives us three hours to steal three million dollars. Just as I’m about to start, I crack my knuckles.

“Don’t hesitate,” Charlie warns.

He’s worried I’ll talk myself out of it. I crack my knuckles one last time and start copying from the Duckworth fax.

“Now what’re you doing?” Charlie asks.

“Same thing our mystery person did – writing a fake letter that claims the money – but this one puts the cash in an account for us.”

Charlie nods and grins. “Y’know last night was a full moon,” he points out. “I bet that’s why they took it in the first place.”

“Can you please not get all creepy on me?”

“Don’t mock the moon,” Charlie warns. “You can bathe in all the left-brain logic you want, but when I was working that telemarketing job taking consumer complaints, we got seventy percent more calls on nights when the moon was full. No joking – that’s when all the crazies come out to dance.” He falls silent, but he can barely sit still. “So any new ideas on who the original thief was?”

“Actually, that was going to be my next…” Picking up the phone, I read the number from the Duckworth fax and start dialing. Before Charlie can even ask the question, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear.

“Directory Assistance,” a mechanized female voice says. “For what city?”

“Manhattan,” I say.

“What listing?”

I read from the fax. “Midland National Bank.” Where the thief wanted to transfer the money.

“Why’re you…”

“Shhhh,” I say as I dial the new number.

Charlie shakes his head, clearly amused. He’s used to being the little brother.

“Midland National,” a female voice answers. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, back in my customer service voice. “My name is Marty Duckworth, and I just wanted to confirm the details for an upcoming wire transfer.”

“I’ll do my best – what’s your account number, sir?”

I once again read it straight from the letter, and even throw in Duckworth’s Social Security number as a bonus. “First name Martin,” I add.

We hear a quiet clicking as she types it in. “Now what can I help you with today, Mr. Duckworth?”

Charlie leans forward on my desk. “Ask her name,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I add. It’s the same trick Tanner Drew used on me – ask their names and they’re suddenly accountable.

“Sandy,” she answers quickly.

“Okay, Sandy, I just wanted to confirm…”

“… the wire instructions for the incoming transfer,” she offers a bit too enthusiastically. “I have it right here, sir. The transfer will be coming from the Greene & Greene Bank in New York City, and then, upon receipt, we have your instructions to send it to TPM Limited at the Bank of London, into account number B2178692792.”

The faster writer, Charlie scribbles down the number as quickly as he can. Next to TPM Ltd ., I take his pen and write, Fake company . Smart . “Wonderful. Thanks, Sandy…”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Duckworth?”

I look Charlie’s way, and he moves closer to the speakerphone. Dropping his voice down to his best impersonation of me, he adds, “Actually, as long as I have you on the line… I haven’t gotten my last few statements – can you please check and see if you have my right address?”

Oh, the boy’s good.

“Let me take a look,” Sandy says.

When I was nine years old and sick with a hundred and three fever, Charlie made me a peanut butter and mayo sandwich that he said would make me feel better. It made me barf everywhere. Today, Charlie’s voice is as sweet as ever. There’s a thin smirk across his face. All these years, I thought he was trying to be helpful. Now I wonder if he’s just plain ruthless.

“Okay, I think I see the problem,” Sandy interrupts. “Which address do you want us to send it to?”

Confused, Charlie hesitates.

“You have more than one?” I jump in.

“Well, there’s the one in New York: 405…”

“… Amsterdam Avenue, Apartment 2B,” I agree, reading from the address on the letter.

“And then I have another in Miami…”

Charlie flings me a Post-It, and I dive for a pen. We’re only going to get this once.

“1004 Tenth Street, Miami Beach, Florida, 33139,” she announces.

Instinctively, Charlie writes down city, state, and zip. I write down the street address. It’s the way we used to remember phone numbers: I get the first half; he gets the last. “Story of my life,” he used to say.

“If you want, I can change it to the New York one,” Sandy explains.

“No, no, leave it as is. As long as I know where to look for-”

There’s a loud knock on my office door. I jerk myself around just in time to see it open. “Anyone home?” a deep voice asks.