There’s no arguing with fact.
Flipping to the next sheet in the pile, Mary finally gets to a four-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer to someone named Alexander Reed. I expect her to make some comment about the amount, but at this point, she’s dead to it. She sees it every day.
And so do I. Hundred-thousand-dollar checks… finding decorators for their Tuscan villas… the dessert chef at L’Aubergine who knows exactly the right crispiness they like for their chocolate soufflés. It’s a nice life. But it’s not mine.
It takes Mary a total of ten seconds to type in the account number and hit Send. Ten seconds. Ten seconds to change my life. It’s what my dad was always chasing, but never found. Finally… a way out.
Mary licks her fingertips for a touch of traction, leafs to the next sheet in the pile, and lowers her fingers to the keyboard. There it is: Duckworth and Sunshine Distributors.
“So what’d you do this weekend?” I ask, my voice racing.
“Oh, same as every weekend for the last month – tried to show up all my relatives by buying them better holiday presents than the ones they bought me.”
Onscreen, the name of our London bank clicks into place. C.M.W. Walsh Bank.
“That sounds great,” I say vacantly.
Digit by digit, the account number follows.
“That sounds great?” Mary laughs. “Oliver, you’ve really got to get out more.”
The cursor glides to the Send button and I start saying my goodbyes. I could still stop it, but…
The Send icon blinks to a negative and then back again. The words are so small, but I know them like the Big E on the eye chart:
Status: Pending.
Status: Approved.
Status: Paid.
“Listen, I should be getting back to my office…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mary says without even turning around. “I can handle it from here.”
9
Staring at his computer screen and running his tongue across a cold sore inside his lip, he had to admit, he didn’t think Oliver would go through with it. Charlie, maybe. But not Oliver. Sure, he sometimes showed moments of greatness… the Tanner Drew incident being the most recent… but deep down, Oliver Caruso was still as scared as the day he started at Greene & Greene.
Still, the proof was always in the pudding – and right now, the pudding looked like it was about to be sent to London, England. Using the same technology he knew Shep had, he called up Martin Duckworth’s account and scanned the column marked Current Activity. The last entry – Balance of Account to C.M.W. Walsh Bank – was still marked Pending. It wasn’t going to be long now.
He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and jotted down the bank’s name, followed by the account number. Sure, he could call the London bank… try to catch the money… but by the time he got through, it’d almost certainly be gone. Besides, why interfere now?
His phone started ringing and he picked up immediately. “Hello?” he answered, standardly confident.
“Well…?” a gruff voice asked.
“Well, what?”
“Don’t jerk me around,” the man warned. “Did they take it?”
“Any second now…” he said, his eyes still focused on the screen. At the very bottom of the account, there was a quick blink – and Pending… became Paid.
“There it goes,” he added with a grin. Shep… Charlie… Oliver… if they only knew what was coming.
“So that’s it?” the man asked.
“That’s it,” he replied. “The snowball’s officially rolling.”
10
There’s someone watching me. I didn’t notice him when I said goodbye to Lapidus and left the bank – it was after six and the December sky was already dark. And I didn’t see him trail me down the grimy subway stairs or follow me through the turnstile – there’re way too many commuters crisscrossing through the urban anthills to notice any one person. But as I reach the subway platform, I swear I hear someone whisper my name.
I spin around to check, but all that’s there is the typical Park Avenue post-work crowd: men, women, short, tall, young, old, a few black, mostly white. All of them in overcoats or heavy jackets. The majority stare down at reading material – a few lose themselves in their headphones – and one, just as I turn around, abruptly lifts a Wall Street Journal to cover his face.
I crane my neck, trying to get a look at his shoes or pants – anything for a context clue – but at the height of rush hour, the density of the crowd’s too thick. In no mood to take chances, I head further up the platform, away from the Journal man. At the last second, I once again look over my shoulder. A few more commuters fill out the crowd, but for the most part, no one moves – no one except the man, who once again – like a villain in a bad Cold War movie – lifts the Journal to cover his face.
Don’t get nuts, I tell myself – but before my brain can buy it, a quiet rumble fills the air. Here comes the train, which barrels into the station and blows my hair into an instant comb-over. Brushing it back into place with my fingers, I make my way toward the subway car and take one last peek down the platform. Every twenty feet, there’s a small crowd shoving itself toward an open door. I don’t know if he’s on board or gave up, but the man with the Journal is gone.
I fight my way onto the already overstuffed subway car, where I’m smashed between a Hispanic woman in a puffy gray ski jacket, and a balding man in a flasher overcoat. As the train makes its way downtown, the crowd slowly begins to thin and a few seats actually open. Indeed, when I transfer at Bleecker and pick up the D train at the Broadway-Lafayette stop, all the downtown fashion plates wearing black shoes, black jeans, and black leather jackets make their way off. It’s not the last stop before we head to Brooklyn, but it is the last cool stop.
Enjoying the extra space on the car, I lean up against a nearby metal pole. It’s the first time since I left the office that I actually catch my breath – that is, until I see who’s waiting for me at the far end of the car – the man hiding behind the Wall Street Journal.
Without the crowds and the distance, it’s easy to give him the quick once-over. That’s all I need. I plow toward him without even thinking. He lifts the paper a little higher, but it’s too late. With a sharp swipe, I rip it from his hands and reveal who’s been stalking me for the past fifteen minutes. “What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?”
My brother ekes out a playful grin, but it doesn’t help.
“Answer me!” I demand.
Charlie looks up, almost impressed. “Wow – the full Starsky & Hutch. What if I was a spy… or a man with a hook?”
“I saw your shoes, dimwit – now what do you think you’re doing?”
Pointing with his chin, Charlie motions to the crowd in the car, all of whom are now staring. Before I can react, he slips out from under me, heads to the other end of the subway car, and invites me to follow. As we pass, a few people look up, but only for a second. Typical New York.
“Now you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just add it to your ever-growing list of stupid moves?” I scold as we continue to move through the train.
“Ever-growing?” he asks, weaving his way through the crowd. “I don’t know what you’re-?”
“With Shep,” I snarl, feeling the vein throb in my forehead. “How could you give him our final location?”