Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

“Of course, the only problem was, I never found the plane. And after missing four consecutive promotions and barely surviving on government pay, I realized that I don’t want to work until the day they put me in the ground. I saw what it did to my dad… forty years for a handshake and a fake gold plaque. There’s got to be more to life than that. And with Duckworth… a dead man with three million dollars… it may not be as much as the clients here have, but I’ll tell you… for guys like us… it’s as good as we’re gonna get.”

Charlie nods his head ever so slightly. The way Shep talks about his dad… there’re some things you can’t make up. “So how do we know you won’t play Take the Money and Run?” I ask.

“What if I let you pick where the transfers go? You can start over from scratch… put it in whatever fake company you want. I mean… with your mom here… you’re not going on the run for two million dollars – that’s the only guarantee I need,” Shep says, ignoring Charlie and watching my reaction. He knows who he has to work on.

“And you really think it’ll work?” I ask.

“Oliver, I’ve been watching this one for almost a year,” Shep says, his voice picking up speed. “In life, there’re only two perfect – and I mean perfect – crimes where you can’t be caught: One is where you’re killed, which isn’t too great an option. And the other is when no one knows that a crime took place.” Swinging his sausage-shaped forearm through the air, he motions to the paperwork on my desk. “That’s what’s here on a silver platter. That’s the beauty of it, Oliver,” he says as he lowers his voice. “No one’ll ever know. Whether the three million goes to Duckworth or to the government, it was always leaving the bank. And since it’s supposed to be gone, we don’t have to go on the run or give up our lives. All we do is say thank you to the forgetful dead millionaire.” Pausing to drive it home, he adds, “People wait their whole lives and never get an opportunity this good. It’s even better than the plane and the duffel bag – the bank spent the last six months trying to contact his family – no one’s there. No one knows. No one but us.”

It’s a good point. Actually, it’s a great point… and the best insurance that Shep’ll stay quiet. If he toots his horn to anyone, he risks his own share too.

“So whattya say, Oliver?” he adds.

The Art Deco clock on my wall was last year’s holiday gift from Lapidus. I stare up at it, studying the minute hand. Two and a half hours to go. After that, the opportunity’s gone. The money’ll be transferred to the state. And all I’ll be left with is a clock, a handshake, and eighty thousand dollars’ worth of hospital bills.

“It’s okay to want something more,” Charlie says. “Think of what we can do for mom… all the debt.”

Back in my seat, I take a deep breath and spread my palms flat on my desk. “You know we’re gonna regret this,” I say.

They both break into smiles. Two kids.

“We have a deal?” Shep asks, extending a hand.

I shake Shep’s hand and watch my brother. “So what do we do now?” I ask.

“Know any good fake companies?” Shep replies.

That’s my department. When Arthur Mannheim divorced his wife, Lapidus and I opened a holding company and an Antigua bank account in a total of an hour and a half. It’s Lapidus’s favorite dirty trick – and one I know all too well. I reach for the phone.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Shep scolds, pulling my hand away. “You can’t call these people yourself anymore. Everything you touch, everything you do – all of it’s a link, just like a fingerprint. That’s why you need a go-between – and not just some schlub off the street – you want a professional who can protect your interests so no one ever sees you. Someone who you can send a thousand dollars and say, ‘Make this phone call for me and don’t ask any questions…’”

“Like a mob lawyer,” Charlie blurts.

“Exactly,” Shep grins. “Just like a mob lawyer.” Before I can even ask, Shep stands up and leaves my office. Thirty seconds later, he returns with a phonebook under each arm. One for New York; one for Jersey. He tosses them on my desk and they hit with a thud.

“Time to find the stutterers,” Shep says.

Charlie and I look at each other. We’re lost.

“You’ve seen ’em in every phonebook,” Shep explains. “The first alphabetical entries in every category. AAAAAA Flower Shop. AAAAAA Laundromat. And the most pathetic and desperate of all the stutterers – the ones most likely to do anything for a buck: AAAAAA Attorneys At Law.”

I nod. Charlie grins wide. Par for the course. Without a word, we dive for the phonebooks. I get New York; Charlie gets Jersey; Shep reads over our shoulders. Flipping as fast as I can, I go straight for the Lawyer section. The first one I spot is “A Able Accident Attorneys.”

“Too specialized,” Shep says. “We want a general practitioner – not an ambulance chaser.”

My finger scrolls up the page. “A AAAA Attorneys.” On the next line are the words, “All Your Needs – Lowest Prices.”

“Not bad,” Shep says.

“I got it!” Charlie shouts. Shep and I both shush him down to a whisper. “Sorry… sorry,” he says, barely audible. He spins his book around and shoves it in front of my face, knocking my own phonebook straight into my lap. His pointer finger jabs right to the spot. All it says is “A.” Under it, the text has one word: Lawyer .

“I still vote for mine,” I say. “You gotta like the low price guarantee.”

“Are you on crack?” Charlie asks. “All. Mine’s. Using. Is. An. A.”

“Mine’s got five As – all in a row.”

Charlie looks me straight in the eye. “Mine’s from Jersey.”

“We have a winner,” Shep announces.

This time, Charlie’s the one who leaps for the phone. Shep pounds him in the knuckles. “Not from here,” Shep says. Heading for the door, he adds, “That’s why God invented payphones.”

“Are you crazy?” I ask. “All three of us hovering over a payphone? Yeah, that’s inconspicuous.”

“I suppose you have a better idea?”

“I work with rich people every day,” I say, stepping in front of Shep and taking a quick glance at the clock. “You think I don’t know the best places to hide money from the government?”

“Hi,” Charlie coos with a beauty pageant smile as he glides up to the black granite reception desk. We’re on the fourth floor of the Wayne & Portnoy building, a sterile cavernous structure that, even though it has all the architectural charm of an empty shoebox, still has two redeeming qualities: First, it’s across the street from the bank, and second, it’s home to the largest stuffed-shirt law firm in the city.

Behind the desk, an overdressed, overexcited receptionist is yammering into her headset, which is exactly what Charlie’s counting on. Sneaking in may be my idea, but we both know who’s better face-to-face. We all play to our strengths. “Hi,” he says for the second time, knowing it’ll charm. “I’m waiting for Bert Collier to come down… and I was wondering if I could use a phone for a quick private call.” I smile to myself. Norbert Collier was just one of a hundred names listed on the firm directory in the lobby. By calling him Bert, Charlie has them sounding like old friends.

“Back past the elevators,” the receptionist says without even hesitating.

Still hiding out of sight around the corner, Shep and I wait for Charlie to pass, then fall in line behind him. I point him to the wood-paneled door and usher them into a small conference room. The words Client Services are on a brass nameplate just outside the door. It’s not a huge room. Small mahogany table, a few upholstered chairs, bagels and cream cheese on the sideboard, a fax machine against the wall, and four separate telephones. Everything we need to do some damage.