The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [24]
“Know any good fake companies?” Shep replies.
That’s my department. When Arthur Mannheim divorced his wife, Lapidus and I opened a holding company and an Antigua bank account in a total of an hour and a half. It’s Lapidus’s favorite dirty trick—and one I know all too well. I reach for the phone.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Shep scolds, pulling my hand away. “You can’t call these people yourself anymore. Everything you touch, everything you do—all of it’s a link, just like a fingerprint. That’s why you need a go-between—and not just some schlub off the street—you want a professional who can protect your interests so no one ever sees you. Someone who you can send a thousand dollars and say, ‘Make this phone call for me and don’t ask any questions…’”
“Like a mob lawyer,” Charlie blurts.
“Exactly,” Shep grins. “Just like a mob lawyer.” Before I can even ask, Shep stands up and leaves my office. Thirty seconds later, he returns with a phonebook under each arm. One for New York; one for Jersey. He tosses them on my desk and they hit with a thud.
“Time to find the stutterers,” Shep says.
Charlie and I look at each other. We’re lost.
“You’ve seen ’em in every phonebook,” Shep explains. “The first alphabetical entries in every category. AAAAAA Flower Shop. AAAAAA Laundromat. And the most pathetic and desperate of all the stutterers—the ones most likely to do anything for a buck: AAAAAA Attorneys At Law.”
I nod. Charlie grins wide. Par for the course. Without a word, we dive for the phonebooks. I get New York; Charlie gets Jersey; Shep reads over our shoulders. Flipping as fast as I can, I go straight for the Lawyer section. The first one I spot is “A Able Accident Attorneys.”
“Too specialized,” Shep says. “We want a general practitioner—not an ambulance chaser.”
My finger scrolls up the page. “A AAAA Attorneys.” On the next line are the words, “All Your Needs—Lowest Prices.”
“Not bad,” Shep says.
“I got it!” Charlie shouts. Shep and I both shush him down to a whisper. “Sorry… sorry,” he says, barely audible. He spins his book around and shoves it in front of my face, knocking my own phonebook straight into my lap. His pointer finger jabs right to the spot. All it says is “A.” Under it, the text has one word: Lawyer.
“I still vote for mine,” I say. “You gotta like the low price guarantee.”
“Are you on crack?” Charlie asks. “All. Mine’s. Using. Is. An. A.”
“Mine’s got five As—all in a row.”
Charlie looks me straight in the eye. “Mine’s from Jersey.”
“We have a winner,” Shep announces.
This time, Charlie’s the one who leaps for the phone. Shep pounds him in the knuckles. “Not from here,” Shep says. Heading for the door, he adds, “That’s why God invented payphones.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask. “All three of us hovering over a payphone? Yeah, that’s inconspicuous.”
“I suppose you have a better idea?”
“I work with rich people every day,” I say, stepping in front of Shep and taking a quick glance at the clock. “You think I don’t know the best places to hide money from the government?”
7
Hi,” Charlie coos with a beauty pageant smile as he glides up to the black granite reception desk. We’re on the fourth floor of the Wayne & Portnoy building, a sterile cavernous structure that, even though it has all the architectural charm of an empty shoebox, still has two redeeming qualities: First, it’s across the street from the bank, and second, it’s home to the largest stuffed-shirt law firm in the city.
Behind the desk, an overdressed, overexcited receptionist is yammering into her headset, which is exactly what Charlie’s counting on. Sneaking in may be my idea, but we both know who’s better face-to-face. We all play to our strengths. “Hi,” he says for the second time, knowing it’ll charm. “I’m waiting for Bert Collier to come down… and I was wondering if I could use a phone for a quick private call.” I smile to myself. Norbert Collier was just one of a hundred names listed on the firm directory in the lobby. By calling him Bert, Charlie has them sounding like old friends.
“Back past the elevators,” the