The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [39]
“It means we’re rich,” he shoots back. “And I’m not talkin’ filthy rich, or even extremely rich—I’m talkin’ obscenely, grotesquely, do-re-mi-fa-so-much-money-we-got-a-gross-domestic-product rich. Or as my barber said when I tipped him five bucks once: ‘Dat’s some major clam action.’”
“We’re dead,” I blurt, my full body weight collapsing against the frame of the payphone. That’s what I get—all from a stupid moment of anger. “There’s no way to explai—”
“We’ll tell ’em we won it in the Super Bowl pool. They might believe that.”
“I’m serious, Charlie. This isn’t just three million—it’s…”
“Three hundred and thirteen million. I heard you the first three times.” He counts on his fingers, from pinky to pointer finger: “Three hundred and ten… three hundred and eleven… three hundred and twelve… three hundred and thirteen… Holy guacamole, I feel like the little old guy with the mustache in Monopoly—you know, with the monocle and the bald h—”
“How can you make jokes?”
“What else am I gonna do? Lean up against a payphone and cower for the rest of my life?”
Without a word, I stand up straight.
“Feels pretty good now, don’t it?” he asks.
“It’s not a game, Charlie. They’ll kill us for this…”
“Only if they find it—and last I checked… all those fake companies—this bad boy’s foolproof.”
“Foolproof? Are you nuts? We’re not—” I cut myself off and lower my voice. There’re still plenty of people on the street. “We’re way beyond petty cash,” I whisper. “So stop with the Butch Cassidy bravado and—”
“No. Not a chance,” he interrupts. “It’s time to kiss a little reality, Ollie—this isn’t another thing to run from—this is Candyland. All that money; all of it ours. What else do you want? No one knows how to find it… no one suspects it’s us—if it was good before, it’s doubly better now. Three hundred and thirteen times better. For once in our lives we can actually sit back and kick up our—”
“Dammit, what’s wrong with you!?”I shout, flying from the booth and grabbing him by the collar of his coat. “Have you even been paying attention? You heard Shep—the only way it works is if no one knows it’s gone. Three million fits in our pockets… but three hundred and thirteen… do you realize what they’ll do to get that back?” I’m trying my best to whisper, but people are starting to stare. Looking around, I abruptly let go. “That’s it,” I mutter. “I’m done.”
Charlie straightens his coat. I turn back to the payphone.
“Who’re you calling?” Charlie asks.
I don’t answer, but he watches my fingers pound the digits. Shep.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he warns.
“What’re you talking about?”
“If they’re smart, they’re watching incoming calls. Maybe even listening. If you want information, go inside and talk to him face-to-face.”
I stop mid-dial, glare at Charlie over my shoulder, and officially start the staring contest. He knows my look: the doubting Thomas. And I know his: the honest Injun. I also know it’s just a trick… his favorite scheme for settling me down so he can get his way. It’s what he always does. But even I can’t argue with the logic. I slam down the phone and brush past him. “You better be right,” I warn as I head back to the bank.
* * * *
A quick stop at the local coffee shop gives me an eight-ounce cup of calm, and a perfect excuse for why I left the building in the first place. Still, it doesn’t stop the Secret Service agent at the front door from putting another check mark next to my name—and one next to Charlie’s.
“What’s with the anal attendance taking?” Charlie asks the agent.
The agent jabs us with a look as if the check mark alone should bring us to our knees—but we both know the reality of this one: If they had a semblance of a clue, we’d be walking out in handcuffs. Instead, we’re walking in.
On most days, I go straight for the elevator. Today is clearly different. Following Charlie as he slides past the marble-top teller window, I let him drag me toward the maze of rolltop desks. As always, it’s packed with gossiping employees, but today, that’s actually