The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [29]
“So suddenly you’re worried we’re going to keep the cake?” I ask.
“Fellas, please,” Charlie begs. “We’re almost out of time…”
“Don’t fuck with me, Oliver—all I’m asking for is a taste of some insurance.”
“No, all you’re asking for is our insurance. This is what’s supposed to keep us safe.”
“I just hope you both realize you’re about to blow this whole thing,” Charlie says. Neither of us cares. That’s how it always is with money—everything gets personal.
“Just tell me where the damn bank is!” Shep explodes.
“Why? So you can live your duffel bag fantasy and leave us chewing dirt?”
“Dammit, you two, no one’s leaving anyone!” Charlie shouts. Shoving himself between us, he reaches out and grabs my stack of Red Sheets.
“What’re you doing?” I yell, pulling them back.
“Let… go!” Charlie insists with one last yank. The top two pages tear in half and I fly backwards. I’m fast enough to regain my footing, but not fast enough to stop him. Spinning toward Shep, he flips to the bottom of the pile, pulls out the Red Sheet marked Antigua, and folds it back so you can only see one bank on the list.
“Charlie… don’t!”
Too late. He covers the account number with his finger and rams it in Shep’s face. “You got it?”
Shep studies it with a quick look. “Thank you… that’s all I ask.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Charlie shoots back. “If we sit here arguing, no one’s getting anything—so finish the damn paperwork and get going. We’ve got only a few minutes!”
Spinning toward the clock, I check for myself.
“Eyes on the prize, Oliver. Eyes on the prize,” Shep says.
“Go, go, go!” Charlie shouts as I jot in the last line. He just gave away our entire insurance policy—but it’s still not worth losing everything. Not when we’re this close. Charlie stuffs the Red Sheets back in my briefcase; I’ve got a stack of forty abandoned accounts under my arm. Stumbling out the door, I don’t once look back. Just forward.
“That’s the way, bro,” Charlie calls out.
Here we go. Time to nab some cash.
8
Charlie slams the door behind me and I rush down the fifth-floor hallway, still juggling a mound of paper. On my right, the doors to the public elevator slide shut, which is why I double my pace and head straight for the private one in the back.
The indicator panel above the doors is lit up at eight… then seven… then six… I can still catch it. I rush forward and punch in the six-digit code as fast as I can. Just as I hit the last digit, the abandoned accounts pile gives way. I pull the full stack against my chest, but the pages are already sliding down my stomach. They crash to the floor and spread out amoeba-style. Dropping to my knees, I madly shuffle them back into place. That’s when the elevator sounds. The doors slide open and I’m staring at two sets of nice shoes. And not just anyone’s nice shoes…
“Can I help you with that, Oliver?” Lapidus asks as I look up to see his wide grin.
“Still using the boss’s code, huh?” Quincy adds, jamming his arm in front of the door to hold it open.
I force a strained smile—and feel the blood seep from my face.
“Do you need some…”
“No. I got it,” I insist. “You two go ahead.”
“Don’t worry,” Quincy teases. “We’re thrilled to wait.”
Seeing that they’re not leaving, I straighten the pile, scramble to my feet, and join them inside the elevator.
“What floor would you like, sir?” Quincy adds.
“Sorry,” I stutter. Once again forcing a grin, I reach forward and press four. My finger shakes as it taps the button.
“Don’t let him get to you, Oliver,” Lapidus offers. “He’s just mad he doesn’t have his own protégé.” Like always, it’s the perfect reaction to the situation. Like always, it’s exactly what I want to hear. And like always… just as he pulls me close for the fatherly hug, he’s carving his initials straight into my back. Drop dead, Lapidus. The whipping boy is moving on.
There’s a ping and the elevator doors glide open. “See you tomorrow,” I say, feeling like I’m about to vomit.
Quincy nods; Lapidus pats me on the shoulder.
“By the way,