The Millionaires (27 page)

“Clear!” a garbage man shouts as the truck churns up the block.

I roll over. My left arm’s asleep. And just as I blink myself into the day, I swear… for the tiniest of seconds… I have no
idea where I am. That’s when I open my eyes.

Rank beige carpet. Stale bug-spray smell. Rotting vinyl floor in the filthy kitchenette. Damn. The sight alone floods it back.
Shep… the money… Duckworth. I was hoping it was a bad dream. It’s not. It’s our life.

Next to me, Charlie’s still asleep, cuddling with his own pillow and content in his drool pool. I pull the tattered blanket
up to his chin and make my way to the shower.

Ten minutes later, it’s time for Charlie to do the same.

“Charlie! Get up!” I call from the bathroom.

No response.

“C’mon, Charlie! Get up!”

He shrugs it off and finally rolls over to face me. Rubbing the crust from his eyes, he doesn’t remember where he is either.
Then he looks around and realizes we’re in the same bad dream. “Crap,” he mutters.

“There’s no hot water,” I tell him, drying my Johnny Cash hair with a fistful of left-behind paper towels.

“I’ll be sure to drop a note in the landlord’s suggestion box.”

In New York, they call it a studio. Here, it’s an efficiency. To me, it’s a no-bedroom rathole. But last night, when we were
searching through the neighborhood at two in the morning, it was exactly what we needed: located on a side street, a “For
Rent” sign out front, and a light on in the apartment marked “Manager.” Anywhere else, they would’ve been suspicious and called
the cops. But on the sketchy outskirts of Miami’s beyond-trendy South Beach, we’re business as usual. Between the drug dealers
and the illegal foreigners, they’re well accustomed to tenants who show up at two
A.M.

“C’mon, we should get going,” I say, pulling on a pair of fresh underwear. “I want to get there early.”

He sits up in bed and rolls his eyes. “What else is new?”

Stepping back into the main room, I finish getting dressed. Outside, the sun is shining, but we can barely see through the
papers that cover the windows. Last night, in the dark, Charlie thought they were broken vertical blinds. Today, we see reality.
Ripped pages from a free Budweiser girls-in-bikinis calendar Scotch-taped to every window. Whoever was here last didn’t want
to be seen. Neither do we. The calendar stays where it is.

“Let’s go, Charlie—you’re up,” I say as I move back to the bathroom. I turn on the shower. That’s what mom used to do to get
us moving.

“Those tricks don’t work anymore,” he warns me.

Ten minutes later, he paper-towels himself dry and jumps into his own new pair of boxers.

“All set?” I ask.

“Almost…” He reaches back into the gym bag and feels around for something inside.

“What’re you looking for?” I ask even though I know the answer. The metal box with Gallo’s gun.

“Nothing,” Charlie tells me, digging even deeper. Unable to find it, he starts yanking clothes from the bag. Within seconds,
the bag’s empty. “Ollie—the box… it’s not here…”

“Relax,” I say. He looks over his shoulder, and I pull up the edge of my untucked shirt. I’ve got the gun stuffed in the waist
of my pants.

“Since when’re you—?”

“Can we go now?” I interrupt.

Charlie cocks his head at my tone. “Let me guess,” he says. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

I don’t bother to answer. Turning around, I head outside. Charlie’s a few steps behind. Ready or not, Duckworth—here we come.

* * * *

“What’re you doing?” Charlie calls out, chasing me as I make a sharp right on Sixth Street and accelerate up the block. Straight
ahead, early-rising holiday tourists and late-to-work locals crisscross along Washington Avenue. Here on the side streets,
we’re safe. Half a block up, we’re out in the open. Even Charlie wouldn’t take that risk, which is why he grabs the back of
my shirt and tugs me to a sudden halt. “Are you drinking suntan lotion?” he asks. “I thought we were going to Duckwor—?” “Don’t
say it,” I cut him off, scanning the block around us. “Trust me, this is just as important.” Wriggling my arm free, I hustle
to the corner, where a long row of newspaper vending machines stretches up the block.
Miami Herald, el Herald, USA Today
… and the one I fly toward—the
New York Times.
I shove four coins in the machine’s throat, pull down on the door, and reach for a paper from the middle of the stack.

“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. “I’m fine,” he
insists. “Just ring the bell.”

Weaving past the overgrown shrubbery and around the classic blue Beetle that’s parked out front, I race up the front walk,
open the humidity-rusted screen door, and jam an anxious finger at the doorbell.

No answer.

I ring it again, leaning against the open screen door and trying to look relaxed.

Still no answer.

Hiking myself up on my tiptoes, I crane my neck, struggling to peek through the diamond-shaped windowpane that’s set into
the door.

“What’s in there?” Charlie asks.

I press my nose against the pollen on the glass, trying to get a better view… and then from inside… locks clunk open. The
doorknob turns. I jump back. It’s already too late.

“Can I
help
you?” a young woman asks, opening the door. She’s got black ringlet hair, thin lips, and a tiny, pointed nose. My eyes go
straight to her beat-up jeans and spaghetti-strap white tank top.

“I-I’m sorry,” I begin. “I wasn’t trying to… we were just looking for a friend…”

“We’re trying to find Marty Duckworth,” Charlie blurts.

I thank him for the save as the woman’s body language shifts—her brow unfurrows; her shoulders sag. “You’re friends of his?”

“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

She pauses a moment, choosing the words carefully. “Marty Duckworth died six months ago.”

The statement floats in the air, and I stare up at it, mesmerized. It’s almost like I’m waiting for Duckworth himself to jump
out and scream, “
April Fool’s—I’m right here!
” Needless to say, it never happens. I look around, but nothing’s in focus. I-It can’t be. Not after all this …

“So he’s really dead?” Charlie asks, already starting to panic.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, reading his expression. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You couldn’t have—”

“Did you know him?” I interrupt.

“Excuse me?”

“Duckworth—did you know him?”

“No,” she stammers. “But—”

“Then how do you know he’s dead?”

“I-I just remember his name from the deed,” she adds. “It was an estate sale.”

“What about a forwarding address? Is there somewhere we can contact him?”

Unsure of what to say, the woman shakes her head, clearly overwhelmed. I don’t care—we didn’t come this far to not get answers.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “There’s no forwarding address… he’s dead.”

The words don’t make sense. “It’s impossible,” I tell her as my voice cracks. “What abou—”

“He’s just upset,” Charlie says. He leans in and pinches the skin on my back. “We should get going,” he adds through gritted
teeth. Fake-smiling at the woman, he gives her a quick wave. “Thanks again for all the help…”

“I’m really sorry,” she calls out as we walk away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah,” Charlie whispers as he shoves me up the block. “That makes three of us.”

* * * *

“What’s wrong with you?” Charlie asks as we cut back through our courtyard. He steps over the sprawling hose and ducks past
the rotating sprinkler that’s spraying everything in sight. Checking to see that no one’s around, he makes a quick beeline
for our new apartment. “Why’d you go after her like that?”

“She might’ve known something.”

“Are you really that delusional?” Charlie asks, racing inside. He watches uncomfortably as I pace back and forth between the
living room and kitchenette. “Didn’t you see her reaction, Ollie—she was floored. Newsflash at eleven: Duckworth’s dead. End
of story.”

“It can’t be,” I insist. As I say the words, I hear my own voice stuttering.

Charlie hears it too. “Ollie, I know you’ve always had more to lose, but—”

“What if there’s something we’re missing?”

“What could we possibly miss? They told us he was dead in New York… we came down here to see for ourselves… and she tells
us the same thing. Duckworth’s gone, bro. Show’s over—time to find a new drummer.”

Still pacing, I stare down at the ground. “Maybe we should go back and talk to her again…”

“Ollie…”

“Duckworth could be hiding somewhere else…”

“Are you even listening? The man’s dead!”

“Don’t say that!” I explode.

“Then stop acting like a lunatic!” he shoots back. “The sun doesn’t rise and set on Marty Duckworth!”

“You think that’s all it’s about? Marty Duckworth!? I could give a crap about Duckworth—I just want my old life back! I want
my apartment, and my job, and my clothes, and my old hair…” I grip a fistful of black follicles from the back of my head.
“I want my life back, Charlie! And unless we figure out what’s going on, Gallo and DeSanctis are going t—”

A loud splat smacks against the window. We both duck down. The noise stays loud—rat-a-tat-tatting against the glass—like someone
breaking in. I look up to see who, but the only thing there is a starburst of water. It pummels the calendar-covered glass
and quickly drips down the pane. Sprinkler… just the sprinkler.

“Someone probably tripped on the hose…” Charlie says.

I’m not taking any chances. “Check outside,” I insist.

I run to the small window in the kitchenette; he goes for the one near the door. The sprinkler’s still barreling against the
glass. I peel back a piece of the calendar and peek outside… just as a blurred figure darts below the windowsill. I jump back,
almost falling over.

“What? What is it?” Charlie asks.

“Someone’s out there!”

“Are you sure?”

“I
just saw him!
”

Staggering backwards, Charlie does his best to fight fear, but even he’s not that good.

“Do you have the—?”

“Right here,” I answer, reaching down and grabbing the gun from my pants. I cock back the pin and put a finger on the trigger.

Stuck in the kitchen, Charlie rummages through the drawers, looking for a weapon. Knives, scissors, anything. Top to bottom,
he rips open each drawer. Empty. Empty. Empty. The last one slides out and his eyes go wide. Inside is a rusted machete, broken
in half so it fits perfectly in the drawer.