The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [173]
Another dozen officers race into the warehouse. They’re all shouting static. And as gray blurs to pitch, lifeless black, I never get my answer.
88
Just like Charlie predicted, it’s the staring that’s the worst. Forget the whispering, and the unsubtle pointing, and even the way they walk past me as the gossip burns its way through the office. All those I can live with. But as I sit in the oh-so-pristine first-floor conference room and gaze through the plate glass window that separates me from my former bank co-workers, I can’t help but feel like the monkey in the zoo. Scurrying through the maze of rolltop desks, they’re trying their best to play it cool. But each time one of them passes—each time someone steps off the elevator, or races to the copy machine, or even sits back at their desk—their head turns for a split second and they hit me with that stare: part curiosity, part moral judgment. Some pepper it with shame; others add a smidgen of disgust.
It’s been two weeks since the news hit, but this is their first chance to actually see it for themselves. And even though most of them have made up their minds, there are still a few who want to know if it’s true. Those are the hardest ones to face. Whatever else Charlie and I did to save the day, it still was never our money.
For almost a full hour, I sit there and take the beating of their stares and whispers and awkward pointing. I try to make eye contact, but that’s when they look away. On most days, only the lowest of the worker bees are caught in the hive of rolltop desks by the front entrance. Today, by the end of the first half-hour, almost every employee in the bank has found an excuse to come down and check out the monkey behind the glass. That’s why they put me here in the first place. If they wanted to make it easy, they could’ve snuck me through the rock star entrance around back and whisked me upstairs in the private elevator. Instead, they’ve decided to put on a show and remind me that my private elevator days are over. Like everything at Greene & Greene, it’s all about perception.
The traffic peaks when Lapidus and Quincy finally make their entrance. They don’t say anything to me directly. Everything’s done through their lawyer—a nasty mosquito with a high-pitched drone. He tells me that they’re withholding my final paycheck until the full investigation is complete, that my health benefits are terminated effective immediately, that they’ll seek legal recourse if I contact any current or former bank clients, and as a cherry on top, that they’ll be contacting the SEC and the banking regulatory agencies with the hope that it’ll stop me from working at any other bank in the future.
“Fine,” I say. “Are you done?”
The lawyer looks to Lapidus and Quincy. Both nod.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Then this is for you…” I slap a letter-sized blue-and-white envelope onto the desk and slide it across to Lapidus. It’s blank on top. Lapidus glances at the lawyer.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a summons,” I tell him.
Flipping it over, Lapidus notices his own shredded signature across the back flap.
It’s the only reason I came back here today…
He opens the envelope and unfolds my business school recommendation letter.
… I wanted to see his face. And let him know I knew.
He keeps his eyes on the letter, refusing to look my way. The discomfort alone makes every second worth it. Folding it up, he stuffs it back in the envelope and heads silently for the door.
“Where’re you going?” Quincy asks.
Lapidus doesn’t answer. He and Quincy may’ve never been involved