The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [44]
Reading the confused look on my face, he explains, “Back when I was a junior in high school, me and Randy Boxer used to go track-to-track, playing music for Friday night commuters. His harmonica, my bass, and the biggest potential audience this side of Madison Square Garden. Naturally, the transit cops chased us at every opportunity, but in the labyrinth of staircases, the lower level always had the best places to disappear. And here—behind 117—this was where we’d reconvene so we could pick the fight all over again.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask as he rushes across the dirt-covered catwalk that runs perpendicular over Track 117. It’s not the catwalk that’s giving me pause—it’s the metal door at the end—and the brown, faded words painted on it:
Employees Only
Stop! Look!
Listen!
Danger
Danger. That’s where I hit the brakes. And, as always, where Charlie picks up speed.
“Charlie, maybe we shouldn’t…”
“Don’t be such a wuss,” he calls out as he grabs the handle to the door. Eyeing the rusted metal frame, he gives it a hard yank, and just as the door swings open, a sandstorm of dust tumbles toward us. Charlie steps right into the whirlwind. And I realize I’m all alone.
As I follow him through to the adjoining room, we’re in a huge underground station, standing on the edge of an abandoned set of train tracks.
For Charlie, it’s a homecoming. “Where trains come to die, Randy used to say.”
Looking around, I can see why: The tunnel is wide enough for three sets of tracks, tall enough to fit the old diesel trains, and has ceilings black enough to show why they dropped the diesels in the first place. Next to the rusted tracks and between the even rustier I-beams, the floor is covered with condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and at least two used hypodermic needles. No question, it’s a good place to hide.
“Close the door,” Shep calls out from further up the platform.
“Nice to see you too,” Charlie says. Pointing over his shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry about the door—you can’t hear anything from back here.”
Shep looks at him like he’s not even there. “Oliver, shut the door,” he demands. I don’t hesitate. The door slams with a muffled thud, encasing us in silence. We’ve got fifteen minutes before someone realizes we’re all gone at the same time. I’m not wasting a second.
“How bad is it?” I ask, wiping my soot-covered hands on the back of my pants.
“Ever heard of the Titanic?” Shep asks. “You should see it up there—every single one of them’s a lit match away from exploding. Lapidus is tearing his ears off and threatening to unleash the ten plagues on anyone who leaks the info to the public. Across the table, Quincy’s screaming through the phone at the insurance company and clicking his calculator to figure out just how much they’re personally on the hook for.”
“Have they told the other partners yet?”
“There’s an emergency meeting tonight. In the meantime, they’re waiting for the Service to dissect the computer system and possibly get a nibble on where the money went after London.”
“So they still don’t know where it is…” Charlie begins.
“… and they still don’t know it’s us,” Shep closes. “At least, not yet.”
That’s all I need to hear. “Fine,” I say, my hands squarely on my hips.
Charlie glares my way. He hates this stance.
In no mood to listen, I turn to Shep. “Now how do you think we should turn ourselves in?” I ask.
“What?” Shep blurts.
“Whoa doggy,” Charlie begs.
“Oliver, don’t be hasty,” Shep adds. “Even if it’s a tornado now, it’ll eventually slow down.”
“Oh, so now you think we can outrun the Secret Service?”
“All I’m saying is it can still work out,” Shep replies. “I know the Service’s protocols. When it comes to the money, it’ll take at least a week before they figure out if they can find it. If they do, we turn ourselves in with a full explanation. But if they don’t… why walk away from the pot of gold? Forget the pocket change—three hundred and thirteen million means over a hundred and four million each.”
Across Charlie