The Millionaires (57 page)

Scrambling up the hall, she kept an eye out for DeSanctis. He was still pissed about the blender to the head—but not enough
to ruin it all, she decided as she slid past the folding screen. Still, better to stay quiet and figure out the lay of the—

Gillian stopped right there. From the floor to the tops of the costume racks, Minnie, Donald, Pluto, and dozens of other character
heads stared back at her, each one with its own empty, frozen smile. Purposefully avoiding their glare, she cautiously stepped
deeper into the room. “Hello…” she whispered again. “Anyone there?”

Again, no one answered. And then she realized why.

Straight ahead, at the end of the first aisle of costume racks, DeSanctis was facedown on the floor, his arms tied behind
his back with what looked like a jump rope. Gillian couldn’t believe it. His nose was covered in blood; his left eye was swollen
shut. He wasn’t moving. She nudged his shoulder with her foot, but it was like kicking a brick. Surprised, she squatted down
for a better look. Was he—? No, she realized as she saw his chest rise and fall. Just unconscious.

There was another noise, this one from a few aisles over. Jarred by the sound, Gillian shot straight to her feet. But as she
heard it again, she cracked a small grin. This sound was different than the first. Deeper. More guttural. Like someone breathing…
or panting. Someone out of breath.

She glanced around and made her way across the back of the aisle. “Charlie!” she called out. “It’s me—it’s Gillian!”

The breathing stopped.

“Charlie—are you there!?”

Still no response.

She crossed over to the next aisle of costumes, then the next. Except for the colorful sequined outfits and a set of Chip
’n Dale costume heads, both aisles were empty.

“Charlie, I know you heard the gunshots—Oliver’s been hit!”

Again, nothing.

“He’s been shot, Charlie! He hit Gallo, and Gallo shot him in the thigh—if we don’t get him to a doctor—!”

“Gillian, this better not be bullshit,”a voice warned behind her.

She wheeled around as Charlie stepped out from the aisle she just passed. He held the broom in his right hand, and while he
tried to put on a strong face, he was clearly wheezing with each breath. Between the running and the fighting, it was all
too much. “Are you okay?” she asked.

He studied her carefully. Her hands were empty. Nothing out of place. “Just show me where Ollie is,” Charlie demanded. Turning
his back to Gillian, he headed for the door—but before he could take a single step—there was a muffled click behind him.

Charlie froze mid-step.

“Sorry,” Gillian said as she aimed her gun behind him. “That’s what you get for trusting strangers.”

Refusing to face her, Charlie closed his eyes. He wasn’t going down without a fight. His fingers tightened around the broom—and
Gillian’s tightened around the trigger. Charlie spun around as fast as he could. He wasn’t nearly fast enough.

J
oey’s got her finger on the trigger, and her eyes on me and Shep, but she’s clearly focused on whatever’s coming out of her
earpiece. My arms are up above my head, but I can still see my watch. It’s already past seven. Lapidus is in his car, on his
way to Connecticut. There’s no way she’ll be able to—

“Hello, Mr. Lapidus?” she says into the microphone. “This is Joey calling… right, the private investi— No, we haven’t found
the money yet… No, I understand, sir, but I have a quick question I was hoping you could help me with. Do you know anyone
named…” She looks down at Shep’s ID. “… Kenneth Kerr?”

There’s a long pause as Joey listens. The longer it goes, the more she watches Shep. He doesn’t flinch. He thinks she’s bluffing.
So as long as he stays calm, she can’t prove him wrong.

“No… I understand,” Joey says. “Of course, sir. No, I just wanted to be sure.”

She unhooks the cell phone from her belt and pulls out the earpiece. She’s got her gun in her right hand and the phone in
her left. Holding the receiver out for Shep, she adds, “Lapidus wants to speak to you…”

Shep glances at me, then back to Joey. Without the slightest of pauses, he steps forward, studying Joey’s reaction. Joey smiles
playfully, studying his. I stand there motionless and realize these two are playing in a different league. I have no idea
who’s got the advantage.

As Shep approaches her, Joey watches for the tell. A twitch in his eye… a shift in his shoulder… anything she can latch on
to. But Shep’s too good to give it.

The closer Shep gets, the more he towers over her. I expect Joey to step back. She doesn’t. “Here you go,” she says, reaching
out to hand him the phone. Her gun is cocked as he steps close to her.

“Thanks,” Shep says as he goes to take it. There’s no fear in his voice. He’s perfectly calm. They’re close enough to touch.
Neither one backs off. I can see it on Joey’s face—he’s passed her test. But just as he reaches for the phone—as their palms
brush against each other—Shep widens his grip, seizes the phone and Joey’s whole hand, and thrusts both their fists and the
phone against Joey’s face. It’s all so fast, I barely realize what’s happening. Joey staggers backwards as the phone cracks
against the floor. Joey tries to lift her gun, but Shep never gives her a chance.

Lashing out with another punch, he buries his fist in her face and she reflexively pulls the trigger. There’s a loud bang
as the stray shot ricochets off the concrete, making a pinhole in the metal wall. Joey crumbles to the floor, unconscious.
Her head hits the pavement with a hollow thunk. Standing over her, Shep reaches for his own gun to finish the job.

“Get away from her!” I shout, tackling Shep from behind. It’s like tackling a motor-home. I plow into him, but he barely budges.
I don’t have a prayer. He whips around, backhanding me so hard across the face I almost black out.

“Do you realize how easy this could’ve been!?” he yells.

I’m on my feet, but as I fight for equilibrium, he grabs my neck and tosses me back toward the parade floats. As I crash into
the float that’s shaped like a train engine, hundreds of tiny Christmas lights shatter. I swing furiously to hit him back.
He blocks my punch and lashes out even harder than before. “No more chances!” he shouts, raging toward me. “I want my money!”

With a violent pop and a neanderthal grunt, he plants his whole fist in my left eye. Then he pulls back and does it again.
My eye twitches and burns, somehow moving by itself. It’s already swelling shut. “Tell me where it is, Oliver!” Shep growls
as he pounds me once more. “Where’s my fuckin’ money!?”

Something wet runs down my cheek. In the background, I hear a gun go off in the other room. Then I hear my brother scream.
I try to look over Shep’s shoulder to see what’s happening. But all I see is Shep’s fist, once again crashing toward me.

A
s Charlie tried to complete his swing, the gunshot thundered from Gillian’s gun. The bullet whistled through the dusty air.
There was a quick sucking sound. A spurt of blood erupted from Charlie’s shoulderblade just as the broom stung Gillian in
the hand and sent her gun sliding under the metal clothes rack. Charlie screamed. A snakebite of pain ran down to his elbow.

Feeling his left arm go numb, he gripped the broom in his right fist and squeezed it tight to kill the pain. Gillian reached
down to chase the gun, but Charlie wasn’t letting her get there. Not after all this. As adrenaline took over, he raised the
broom over his head and swung vertically toward the ground.

Jumping back out of the way, Gillian fell backwards into a row of costumes and tripped on the bar underneath. As she tumbled
between the costumes, Charlie’s broomstick smashed against the concrete. Already feeling light-headed, he tried to raise the
stick for another shot, but he didn’t have the strength. He gasped for air. His shoulder was dead at his side, pulsing with
its own heartbeat. Reading the pained look on his face, Gillian kicked the legs of the rack and tipped the whole thing forward.
Dozens of character heads—from Mickey to Pluto to Goofy—all rolled to the floor as the metal rack crashed between them.

Before Charlie could react, Gillian was back on her feet, plowing over the costumes. She tackled him around the waist and
knocked the wind from his lungs. Lost in momentum, they barreled toward a spare laundry cart that sat against the far wall.
Refusing to let up, Gillian rammed Charlie’s lower back into the metal edge of the cart, but at the pace they were moving—like
a seesaw tipping—they went right over the top.

In mid-flip, though, their combined weight was too much, and the cart flipped forward, slamming Charlie to the floor. He landed
on his back, his head banging hard against the ground. Gillian landed right on top of him, a pile of brightly colored costumes
from the cart spilling over her shoulder.

Climbing up so she was sitting on Charlie’s chest, Gillian bunched the tips of her fingers together like a dull dagger and
aimed for the open wound on Charlie’s shoulder. “Don’t black out on me,” she warned. She raised her arm back t—

A thunderbolt of a blast detonated in the other room. A gunshot. The echo rumbled along the metal walls of the warehouse.

Jolted, Gillian turned at the sound. That was all Charlie needed. Reaching up, he threw a single punch and plowed his fist
into her neck. With Gillian off-balance, he turned on his stomach. Ten feet away—beyond the character heads wobbling along
the floor—Charlie spotted the gun under the clothes rack. Scrambling on his elbows, he tried to reach it, but Gillian was
still on his back. From behind, he felt a sudden shift in weight. A blur of orange and black fur flashed in front of him.
And before he knew what was happening, something furry wrapped around his neck. Pulling Tigger’s tail like the reins on a
horse, Gillian leaned back as far as she could.

Gasping for air, Charlie clawed at his neck, trying to wedge his fingers under the costume tail. That’s when he felt the wire.
It was curled inside the tail—a thin metal spring, like a Slinky. On most days, it convinced thousands of kids that Tigger
could really bounce. Today, as Gillian looped it around her hands and pulled it taut, all it did was dig deeper into Charlie’s
throat.

Arching upward on his stomach and scratching ruthlessly at his own neck, Charlie twisted and turned, but Gillian wouldn’t
let go. The more he bucked, the tighter she pulled, and the harder it was for Charlie to breathe. Gagging from the pressure,
he felt the blood flood his face. He gritted his teeth, trying to suck in one last breath. Nothing came. Across his throat,
the metal wire sliced against his Adam’s apple.

His nose started to bleed and a dribble of blood matched the one on his lip. In front of him, floating gray spots cartwheeled
through the air. But even with his vision blurred… even with Gillian on his back… he couldn’t shake the mental picture of
Oliver. Or his mom. Blinking back to consciousness, Charlie let go of the wire around his neck. Some strings had to be cut.

Across the floor, past Mickey’s and Pluto’s wobbling heads, he could still see the gun. It was too far. But there was one
thing closer. With one final burst from his good arm, Charlie reached out, grabbed the leather strap that was attached to
the inside of Pluto’s head, and turned as hard as he could on his side. The wire was still digging into his throat. This part
would definitely hurt. Ignoring the burning against his neck, he twisted around, held the strap with everything in him, and
swung Pluto’s head back toward Gillian. Arcing through the air, the head clipped her on the side of her face like a fifteen-pound
cannonball and sent Gillian crashing to the floor.

As Charlie rolled over on his back, Gillian let go of Tigger’s tail, but she didn’t let up.

“
You’re a dead man!
” she roared as Charlie coughed in a chestful of newfound air. She quickly climbed to her feet. Searching for balance, so
did Charlie. But he still couldn’t catch his breath. Bent over with his shoulder throbbing, he could barely stand, much less
hold off another attack. A thin stream of blood ran down from Gillian’s nose. “Feeling it now, aren’t you?” she asked.