The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [33]
“Charlie!” I shout, racing after him. “You’re a genius!”
* * * *
“I still don’t understand when you planned it,” I say as we walk up the broken concrete sidewalks of Avenue U in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.
“I didn’t,” Charlie admits. “I thought of it as I was folding over the Red Sheet.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, laughing. “Oh, man—he never knew what hit him!”
I wait for him to laugh back, but it never happens. Nothing but silence.
“What?” I ask. “Now I can’t be happy the money’s safe? I’m just relieved you—”
“Oliver, have you been listening to yourself? You spend the whole day crying a river and saying we have to play it cool, but then the moment I tell you I screwed over Shep, you’re acting like the guy who got the last pair of Zeppelin tickets.”
Heading up the block, I stare around at the mom-and-pop storefronts that dot the Avenue U landscape—pizza parlors, cigar stores, discount shoes, a barely breathing barber shop. Except for the pizza place, they’re all closed for the night. When we were little, that meant the owners shut the lights and locked the doors. Today, it means lowering a roll-down steel-reinforced shield that looks like a metal garage door. No doubt about it, trust isn’t what it used to be.
“C’mon, Charlie—I know you love taking in the lost puppy, but you barely know this guy—”
“It doesn’t matter!” Charlie interrupts. “We’re still screwing him over and twisting the butter knife in his back!” Nearing the corner of the block, he stretches his arm out and lets his fingertips skate along the metal shield that hides the used bookstore. “Damn!” Charlie shouts, punching the metal as hard as he can. “He trusted us t—” He grits his teeth and cuts himself off. “It’s exactly what I hate about money…”
He makes a sharp right on Bedford Avenue, and the garage door storefronts give way to an uninspired 1950s-era six-story apartment building.
“I see handsome men!” a female voice shouts from a window on the fourth floor. I don’t even have to look up to know who it is.
“Thanks, mom,” I mutter under my breath. Keep the routine, I tell myself as I follow Charlie toward the lobby. Monday night is Family Night. Even when you don’t want it to be.
By the time the elevator reaches the fourth floor and we head to mom’s apartment, Charlie’s yet to say a single word to me. That’s how he always gets when he’s upset—shut-down and turned off. The same way dad solved his problems. Naturally, if he were dealing with anyone else, they’d be able to read it on his face, but with mom…
“Who wants a nice baked ziti!?” she shouts, opening the door even before we hit the doorbell. As always, her smile’s wide and her arms are outstretched, searching for a hug.
“Ziti!?” Charlie sings, jumping forward and hugging her back. “We talking original or extra-crispy?” As corny as the joke is, mom laughs hysterically… and pulls Charlie even closer.
“So when do we eat?” he asks, sidestepping her and pulling the sauce-covered wooden spoon from her hand.
“Charlie, don’t…”
It’s too late. He shoves the spoon in his mouth, taking an early taste of the sauce.
“Are you happy?” she laughs, turning around to watch him. “Now you’ve got your germs all over it.”
Holding the spoon like a lollipop, he presses it flat against his dangling tongue. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa,” he moans, his tongue still out of his mouth. “Ah ott o ehrrs.”
“You do too have germs,” she continues to laugh, facing him directly.
“Hi, ma,” I say, still waiting at the door.
She turns back immediately, the wide smile never leaving her face. “Ooooh, my big boy,” she says, taking me in. “You know I love seeing you in a suit. So professional…”
“What about my suit?” Charlie calls out, pointing to his blue button-down and creased khakis.
“Handsome boys like you don’t have to wear suits,” she says in her best Mary Poppins tone.
“So that means I’m not handsome?” I ask.
“Or does that mean I look bad in a suit?” Charlie adds.
Even she knows when the joke’s gone too far. “Okay, Frick and Frack—everybody inside.”
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