The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [10]
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.”
3
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.
“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