Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

“Don’t laugh – some of these folks are still alive. They just forget where they put their cash.”

“Y’mean like Mr. Three-Million-Dollar Duckworth over here.”

“That’s our boy,” I say. “The only bad part is, he wants to transfer it somewhere else.”

Looking down, Charlie rereads the grainy type on the faxed letter. He runs his fingers across the blurry signature. Then, his eyes shoot to the top of the page. Something catches his eye. I follow his fingers. The phone number on the top of the fax. He makes that face like he smells sewage.

“When’d you get this letter again?” Charlie asks.

“Sometime today, why?”

“And when does the money get turned over to the state?”

“Monday – which is why I assume he sent it by fax.”

“Yeah,” Charlie nods, though I can tell he’s barely listening. His whole face flushes red. Here we go.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Lookie here,” he says, pointing to the return fax number at the top of the letter. “Does this number look familiar to you?”

I grab the sheet and study it close. “Never seen it before in my life. Why? You know it?”

“You could say that…”

“Charlie, get to the point – tell me what’s-”

“It’s the Kinko’s around the corner from the bank.”

I force a nervous laugh. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m telling you – the bank doesn’t let us use the fax for personal business – so when Franklin or Royce need to send me sheet music, it goes straight to Kinko’s – and straight to that number.”

I look down at the letter. “Why would a millionaire, who can buy ten thousand fax machines of his own, and can walk right into the bank, send us a fax from a copy shop that’s right around the corner?”

Charlie shoots me a way-too-excited grin. “Maybe we’re not dealing with a millionaire.”

“What’re you saying? You think Duckworth didn’t send this letter?”

“You tell me – have you spoken to him lately?”

“We’re not required to-” I cut myself off, suddenly seeing what he’s driving at. “All we do is send a letter to his last known address, and one to his family,” I begin. “But if we want to be safe, there’s one place open late…” I sit up in bed, flick on the speakerphone, and start dialing.

“Who’re you calling?”

The first thing we hear is a recorded voice. “Welcome to Social Se-”

Without even listening, I hit one, then zero, then two on the phone. I’ve been here before. The speaker fills with Muzak.

“The Beatles. ‘Let It Be,’” Charlie points out.

“Shhh,” I hiss.

“Thank you for calling Social Security,” a female voice eventually picks up. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, this is Oliver Caruso calling from Greene & Greene Bank in New York,” I say in that overly sweet voice I know turns Charlie’s stomach. It’s the tone I save for customer service reps – and no matter how much Charlie despises it, deep down, he knows it works. “I’m wondering if you can help us out,” I continue. “We have a loan application that we’re working on, and we just wanted to verify the applicant’s Social Security number.”

“Do you have a routing number?” the woman asks.

I give her the bank’s nine-digit ID. Once they get that, we get all the private info. That’s the law. God bless America.

Waiting for clearance and unable to sit still, I pick at the seams of my sage green comforter. It doesn’t take long to come undone.

“And the number you’d like to check?” the woman asks.

Reading from the printout of abandoned accounts, I give her Duckworth’s Social Security number. “It’s under the name Marty or Martin.”

A second passes. Then another. “Did you say this was for a loan application?” the woman asks, confused.

“Yeah,” I say anxiously. “Why?”

“Because according to our files here, I have a June twelfth date of death.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m just telling you what it says, sir. If you’re looking for Martin Duckworth, he died six months ago.”

I hang up the phone, and Charlie and I stare down at the fax. “I don’t believe this.”

“Me either,” Charlie sings. “How X-Files is this moment?”

“It’s not a joke,” I insist. “Whoever sent this – they almost walked away with three million dollars.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“It’s a perfect crime when you think about it. Pose as a dead person, ask for his money, and once the account’s reactivated, you close up shop and disappear. It’s not like Marty Duckworth’s going to complain.”

“But what about the government?” Charlie asks. “Won’t they notice their money’s missing?”

“They have no idea,” I say, waving the master list of abandoned accounts. “We send them a printout, minus anything that’s been reactivated. They’re just happy to get some free cash.”

Charlie bounces restlessly on the bed, and I can see his wheels spinning. When you eat the dandelions, everything’s a thrill ride. “Who do you think did it?” he blurts.

“Got me – but it has to be someone in the bank.”

Now his eyes go wide. “You think?”

“Who else would know when we sent out the final notice letters? Not to mention the fact that they’re faxing from a Kinko’s around the corner…”

Charlie nods his head in steady rhythm. “So what do we do now?”

“Are you kidding? We wait until Monday, and then we turn this bastard in.”

No more nodding. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, Am I sure ? What else are we gonna do? Take it ourselves?”

“I’m not saying that, but…” Once again, Charlie’s face flushes red. “How cool would it be to have three million dollars? I mean, that’d be like… it’d be like-”

“It’d be like having money,” I interrupt.

“And not just any money – we’re talkin’ three million monies.” Charlie jumps to his feet and his voice picks up speed. “You give me cash like that and I’d… I’d get me a white suit and hold up a glass of red wine and say things like, ‘I’m having an old friend for dinner…’”

“Not me,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d pay off the hospital, take care of the bills, then take every last penny and invest it.”

“Oh, c’mon, Scrooge – what’s wrong with you? You have to have some insane wastefulness… do the full Elvis… now what would you buy?”

“And I have to buy something?” I think about it for a moment. “I’d get wall-to-wall carpeting…”

“ Wall-to-wall carpeting ? That’s the best you can…?”

“For my blimp!” I shout. “A blimp that we’d keep chained in the yard.”

Charlie laughs out loud at that one. The game is on. His eyes squint at the challenge. “I’d buy a circus.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil and rename it Cirque du Sole. It’d be a three-ring all-fish extravaganza.”

I fight a smile, refusing to give up. “In my bathrooms, I’d get fur-covered toilet seats – the really good kind – like you’re crapping right on top of an expensive rodent.”

“Those’re sweet,” Charlie agrees. “But not as sweet as my gold-plated pasta !”

“Diamond-crusted mondel-bread.”

“Sapphire-studded blueberry muffins.”

“Lobsters stuffed with spare-ribs… or spare-ribs stuffed with lobsters! Maybe even both!” I shout.

Charlie nods. “I’d buy me the Internet – and all the porn sites.”

“Nice. Very tasteful.”

“I try.”

“I know you do – that’s why I’d buy you Orlando.”