The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [80]
“Why don’t you ever take the top one?” Charlie asks.
Ignoring the little-brother challenge, I grab my middle paper.
“No, you’re absolutely right,” he continues. “The top one’s got cooties.” As the newspaper machine slams shut, he shakes his head.
“Let’s go,” I call out, rushing back down Sixth Street. As we walk, I open the paper and flip through the front section.
“Are we in there?” Charlie asks.
I keep flipping, scouring for any mention of yesterday’s events. No money; no embezzlement; no murder. To be honest, I’m not surprised. Lapidus is keeping this on lockdown from the press. Still, some things run every day. I stop on the side street and fold the paper back. Right at Obituaries.
“Lemme see,” Charlie says, stepping next to me.
Standing under a dried-out palm tree, I hold the left half of the page; Charlie holds the right. We both find it alphabetically. On most days, I read and he skims. Today it’s reverse. “Graves—Shepard… 37… of Brooklyn… Vice President of Security… Greene & Greene… survived by wife, Sherry… mother, Bonnie… sister, Claire… memorial service to be announced…”
“I didn’t know he was married,” Charlie says, already lost in Shep’s life. But the more he reads on… “Those revisionist bastards,” he blurts. “It doesn’t even say he was in the Service.”
“Charlie…”
“Don’t Charlie me! You didn’t know him, Ollie—that was his life!”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t—I’m just asking you to pay attention for once! This isn’t about his résumé… it’s about what’s missing from the picture.” Catching myself, I turn it down to a whisper. “Three hundred million gets lifted, and it doesn’t even make the gossip columns? A former Secret Service agent is shot in the chest and no one reports a word!? Don’t you see what they’re doing? For these guys, a fake obit is the easy part. Whatever they say, people believe it. And whatever really happened… it’s all being erased. That’s what they’re gonna do with us, Charlie. They shake the Etch-A-Sketch and the whole picture disappears. Then they write in whatever they want. Suspects found with millions—investigation points to murder. That’s the new reality, Charlie. And by the time they’re done scribbling, there’ll be no way for us to change it.”
I stare Charlie down and let it burrow into his brain. At the exact same moment, we both head toward Tenth Street. Duckworth’s only a few blocks away.
* * * *
With three hundred million in his account and retirement on his mind, Marty Duckworth could’ve picked anything. I predicted Art Deco townhouse; Charlie said Mediterranean bungalow. We couldn’t be more wrong if it were a contest.
“I don’t believe it,” Charlie says, staring across the street at the one-story 1960s rambler. Beaten by weather and covered in peeling light pink paint, the building is clearly past its prime.
“It’s definitely the right address,” I confirm as I check it for the third and fourth time.
Charlie nods, but stays silent. After everything it took to get here—just the sight of it… this is finally it.
“Maybe we should come back later,” he suggests.
“Come back later? Charlie, this is the guy with all the answers. Now c’mon, all we have to do is ring the doorbell …” I step off the curb and cross the street. When Charlie doesn’t follow, I stop mid-step and look back over my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” he says. But he still refuses to cross the street.
“You sure?”
This time, he takes slightly longer to answer. Charlie doesn’t like fear on me—and he hates it on himself.