The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [124]
“Oliver, where’re we—?”
“Wait here,” I say, pointing Gillian to an open lounge chair.
Next to the pool, a grandfather with a white shirt, white shorts, and pulled-up-to-his-knees black socks is studying a betting sheet from the racetrack. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir—but can I borrow your clubhouse key?” I ask him. “My grandmother took ours upstairs.”
He looks up from the betting sheet with black button eyes. “Who you belong to?”
“Dotty Miller.”
Giving me the once-over, he pulls the key from his pocket. “Bring it right back,” he warns.
“Of course—right away.” I nod to Gillian, and she follows me past the shuffleboard court and around the tree-shaded footpath that hides the one-story clubhouse. Once she’s inside, I return the key to Mr. Black Socks and head right back to her.
Inside, the “clubhouse” is exactly as we left it years ago: two cruddy bathrooms, a broken sauna, and a rusty, universal weight set that predates Jack LaLanne. It was designed to be a social setting where the elderly residents could interact and make new friends. It’s never been used. We could stay here for days and no one would interrupt.
Gillian takes a seat on the red vinyl of the bench press. I look at the mirror-covered walls and sink down to the floor.
“Oliver, are you sure he knows this place?”
“We talked about it a thousand times. When we were little, we used to hide back here in the sauna. I’d jump inside and pretend I was Han Solo getting frozen in carbonite. Then he’d swing to my rescue and… and…” My voice trails off and I once again stare in the mirror. Half a person.
“Please don’t do this to yourself,” Gillian begs. “It took us forty minutes to get here, and we have a car. If he’s in a cab or a bus—it’ll take him a bit longer—it doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he’s fine.”
I don’t even bother to reply.
“You have to be positive,” she adds. “You think the worst; you’ll get the worst. But if you think the best—”
“Then everything will blow up in your face anyway! Don’t you get the punch line yet? It’s the great cosmic practical joke. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Big kick in the ass. That’s it—end of joke. Isn’t it a riot?”
“Oliver…”
“It’s like running the Boston Marathon: You train forever… you pour your life into it—and then, just as you’re about to hit the finish line, some jerk-off sticks his leg out and you limp home on two broken ankles, wondering where all that hard work disappeared to. Before you know it, it’s all gone—your life, your work… and your brother…”
Watching me carefully, Gillian raises her head. Like she’s seen something she’s never seen before.
“Maybe we should just go to the police,” she interrupts. “I mean, finding out about my dad is one thing, but when they start shooting at us… I don’t know… maybe it’s time to wave the white flag.”
“I can’t.”
“What’re you talking about? All we have to do is dial 911. If you tell them the truth, there’s no way they’ll turn you over to the Service.”
“I can’t,” I insist.
“Sure you can,” she shoots back. “All you did was see a bank account on a computer screen—it’s not like you did anything wrong…”
I turn away as the silence wipes the pulse from the air.
“What?” she asks. “What’re you not saying?”
Again, I don’t respond.
“Oliver—”
Nothing but silence.
“Oliver, you can tell m—”
“We stole it,” I blurt.
“Excuse me?”
“We didn’t think it belonged to anyone—we looked up your dad, but he was dead… and the state couldn’t find any relatives, so we thought it was a victimless—”
“You stole it?”
“I knew we shouldn’t—I told Charlie that—but when I found out Lapidus was screwing me… and Shep said we could pull it off…It all seemed to make sense back then. But the next thing we knew, we were sitting with three hundred million of the Secret Service’s money.”
Gillian coughs like she’s about to choke. “How many million?”
I look her dead in the eye. If she were working against us, there’s no way she’d attack Gallo and DeSanctis. Instead, she did. She saved us. Just like she saved me diving last night. It’s time I returned the favor. “Three