The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [64]
“Actually, Mrs. Caruso, I’m here about your sons…”
Her mouth opened and her shoulders dropped. “What’s wrong? Are they okay?”
“Of course they’re okay,” Gallo promised, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. “They just got into a little trouble at work, and, well… we were hoping you could come downtown and answer a few questions.”
Instinctively, she hesitated. The phone started ringing in the kitchen, but she didn’t answer it.
“I promise, it’s nothing bad, Mrs. Caruso. We just thought you might be able to help us clear it up. You know… for the boys.”
“S-Sure…” she stammered. “Let me get my purse.”
Watching her scurry back into her apartment, Gallo stepped inside and slammed the door. Like he was always taught, if you want the rats to come running, you have to start messing with their rathole.
21
Is this even right?” Charlie asks.
“That’s what it says,” I point out. I recheck the address, then look up at the numbers stickered to the filthy glass door: 405 Amsterdam. Apartment 2B. Duckworth’s last known address.
“No. There’s no way,” Charlie insists.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Open an eyeball, Ollie. This guy’s got a three-hundred-million-dollar piggy bank. This should be some Upper West Side, snooty doorman snazzfest. Instead, he’s living in a scrubby bachelor pad that’s tucked above a bad Indian restaurant and a Chinese laundromat? Forget three hundred million… this isn’t even three hundred thousand.”
“Looks can still be a liar,” I counter.
“Yeah, like when three million turns out to be three hundred?”
Ignoring the comment, I point to the unlabeled button for Apartment 2B. “Should I ring it or not?”
“Sure—what else we got to lose?”
It’s not a question I’m ready to answer. The gray sky’s getting dark. In a few hours, mom’ll start to panic. Unless, of course, the Service has already been in touch.
I ring the buzzer.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice shouts back.
Charlie spots an empty brown box in front of the laundromat. “I got a delivery here for 2B,” he says.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the raspy buzzer explodes, and Charlie pulls on the door. He holds it open; I grab the brown box. Duckworth, here we come.
* * * *
As we climb the stairs, the poorly lit hallway is haunted by the potent smell of Indian curry and laundromat bleach. The paint on the walls is cracked and mildewy. The old tile floor is missing pieces in every direction. Charlie lobs me another glance. Bank customers don’t live in places like this. He expects it to slow me down, but all it does is make me pick up the pace.
“That’s it…” Charlie says.
At 2B, I stop and hold the brown box up to the eyehole. “Delivery,” I announce, banging on the door.
Locks crackle and the door swings open. I’m ready for a fifty-year-old man on the verge of tears—just dying to tell us the full story. Instead, we get a frat boy with a perfectly curved Syracuse baseball cap and oversized lacrosse shorts.
“You got a delivery, yo?” he asks in full white-boy accent.
I shoot a glance at Charlie. Even in his Brooklyn-rapper phase, my brother wasn’t this cliché.
“Actually, it’s for Marty Duckworth,” I say. “Does he live here?”
“You mean that freaky little guy? Kinda looked like the mole-man?” he laughs.
Flustered, I don’t answer.
“That’s him,” Charlie jumps in just to keep him talking. “Any idea where he went?”
“Florida, baby. Ocean retirement.”
Retirement, I nod. Charlie’s got the same thought. That means he’s got money. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is this dump.
“What about a forwarding address?” Charlie asks. “Did he leave one for you to—”
“What country do you think this is?” Frat Boy teases. “Everybody loves their mail…” Crossing back through the studio apartment, he grabs his electronic organizer from the top of his TV. “I keep it under ‘M,’ for Moleman,” he sings, plenty amused.
Charlie nods appreciatively. “Sweet, dude.”
From my back pocket, I pull out the letter where we wrote down Duckworth