Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

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.”

“Here! 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.