We both stare at the phone, waiting for an answer. We only get a devastating silence. I have my mouth open. Charlie finally lets go of my shirt. Our breasts rise and fall at the same rate... although for completely different reasons. Fight and flee. I turn to my brother… my little brother… but he doesn't say a word. And then there's a noise on the phone. A voice.
"Caruso," Drew growls in a southern accent that's now as unmistakable as a fork in the eye, "if this isn't a confirmation call, you better start praying.
"It…it is, sir," I say, suppressing a smile. It's just a confirmation.
-Fine. Goodbye.
The communication has ended.
I turn back but it's too late. My brother has left.
I quickly get out of The Cage and look for Charlie, but, as always, he's too fast. In his cubicle, I grip the top edge of his wall with both hands, pull myself up, and peer into him. With her feet propped up on his desk, she's scribbling something in a green spiral-bound notebook, the cap of the pen in her mouth, lost in thought of him.
"Was Tanner happy?" He asks without turning around.
"Yeah, he was really excited.
He kept saying thank you... over and over again. Finally, I said something like, No, there's no need for you to profile me on Forbes, being able to help you make the top 400 is all the thanks I need.
"That's great," Charlie says, finally looking at me. I'm glad everything went well.
I hate when he does that.
"Go ahead," I implore. Let it go. He drops his feet to the floor and tosses the notebook onto the desk.
He lands right next to the Play-Doh, which is mere inches from his collection of green soldiers, which is just below the black and white sticker on his monitor that reads I Betray Man Every Day! "Listen, I'm sorry I reacted like that," I say.
"Don't worry bro, it happens to everyone.
My God, how lucky to have that temperament!
"So I haven't let you down?"
-Upset? It was your puppy, not mine.
I know...it's just...you're always picking on me because I get soft...
"Well, you sure are a soft guy; all this lavish living and hobnobbing with the powerful... you're like a baby's ass.
"Charlie...!"
"But not a soft baby butt, but one of those completely hard butts, like a sumo baby or something."
I can't help but smile at the joke. It's not as good as the one he did to me three months ago, though, when he tried to talk in a pirate voice all day (which he did).
"How about you let me thank you with a dinner?"
Charlie studies me for a moment.
"Only if we're not in a private car."
"Do you want to quit now?" You know the bank will pay it after all we've done tonight.
Charlie shakes her head in disapproval.
—You've changed, man... I don't recognize you anymore...
"Okay, okay, forget the car. What about a taxi?
"What about the subway?" "I'll pay for the taxi."
—Let it be a taxi then.
Ten minutes later, after a brief stop at my office, we are on the seventh floor waiting for the elevator.
"Do you think they'll give you a medal?"
-Why? -I ask-. For doing my job?
-Do your job? Wow, now you look like one of those neighborhood heroes who pulled a dozen kittens out of a burning building. Face facts, Superman, you've saved this place a forty million dollar nightmare, and not exactly a good one.
"Well, yes, but do me a favor and tone down that triumphant tone for a while." Even if it was for a good reason, we have stolen other people's passwords in order to achieve this.
-And?
—And you know very well how they spend it here with security issues...
Before he can finish, the elevator reaches the floor with a slight thud and the doors open. By this time I expect it to be empty, but instead a stout man with the chest of a football player is leaning against the far wall. Shep Graves: the bank's head of Security. Dressed in a shirt and tie that could only have been bought at the local Big & Tall store, Shep knows how to keep his shoulders square so that his forty-something body looks as young and strong as possible. For this job—protecting our thirteen trillion dollars—he has to do it. Even with the most advanced technology at his disposal, there is no more deterrent than fear, which is why I decide to end our discussion of Tanner Drew as soon as we step into the elevator. In fact, when it comes to Shep, except for some small, circumstantial chatter, no one at the bank really talks to him.
"Shep! Charlie exclaims when he sees him. How's my favorite embezzlement warden?
Shep holds out his hand and Charlie touches his fingers as if they were piano keys.
"Have you heard what's going on at the Madison?" Shep asks with an awkward boxer's smile. There are traces of a Brooklyn accent, but wherever he came from, no trace of him remains. There's a girl who wants to play for her uncle's varsity basketball team.
"Well... that's how it should be." When will we see her play?
—There is a game scheduled in two weeks...
Charlie smiles.
-You drive; I pay.
The games are free.
"Okay, I'll pay for you too.
Charlie says. Noticing my silence, he motions for me to come closer.
Shep, do you know my brother, Oliver? we greet each other by moving
head slightly.
"Nice to see you," we say in unison.
"Shep went to Madison," Charlie says, proudly referring to our old rival high school in Brooklyn.
"So you also went to Sheepshead Bay?" Shep asks. It's a simple question, but the tone of his voice... sounds like an interrogation.
I nod and turn to hit the Door Close button. Then I tighten it again. Finally, the doors close.
"What are you still doing here?" Everyone has left," he asks. Something interesting?
I don't answer quickly. As usual.
Charlie looks at me surprised.
"Did you know that Shep worked in the secret service?" he asks.
"That's great," I say, not taking my eyes off the five-course menu that's been placed above the elevator buttons.
The bank has its own chef just for visiting customers. It is the easiest way to impress them. Today they served lamb ribs and rosemary rice appetizers. I suspect it was a twenty to twenty five million dollar client. Rack of lamb is only on the menu if you have more than fifteen million.
The elevator slows down on the fifth floor and Shep steps away from the far wall.
"Here I get off," she announces, heading for the door. Hope you enjoy the weekend.
"You too," Charlie says. Neither of them says anything until the doors close again. What's about you? Charlie scolds me. Since when are you such a killjoy? -Killjoy? Is that all you can think of, granny?
-I'm serious. Shep is a good guy, you had no reason to treat him that way.
"What did you want me to say, Charlie?" That guy does nothing but hang around the building and act suspicious. So, you go into the elevator and suddenly he turns into Mr. Joy.
"You see, that's where you're wrong. Shep is always Mr. Joy (in fact, he's a rainbow of fruit flavors), but you're so busy with Lapidus and Tanner Drew and all the other big shots that you forget that little people can talk too.
"I asked you to please stop...
"When was the last time you talked to a taxi driver, Ollie?" And I don't mean to tell him 53 with Lexington, I'm talking about a conversation: How is he? What time has the service started? Have you ever seen someone fucking in the back seat?
"So that's what you think?" That I am an intellectual snob?
"You're not smart enough to be an intellectual snob, but you are a cultural snob."
The elevator doors open and Charlie rushes out into the lobby, which is filled with beautiful old desks that give it the exact old-money feel.
When customers walk in and the hive is seething with bankers, it's the first thing their eyes meet; Unless we're trying to nab someone really important, in which case we usher you in through the private entrance at the back of the building and lead you past Chef Charles and his oh you should check out our million dollar kitchen just to U.S. Charlie speeds past the kitchen. I'm right behind him.
"You don't have to worry though," he says. I still love you... even if Shep doesn't.
When we reach the side exit, we enter our codes into the keypad just inside the thick metal door. It clicks open, ushering us into a small antechamber with a revolving door at the other end. In industry jargon we call it a man trap. The revolving door does not open until the heavy metal door behind us has closed. If there is a problem, both doors close and you are trapped.
Charlie closes the metal door behind him and there is a slight hiss. Titanium bolts crash. When the door is closed tightly, a loud noise is heard in front of us. The magnetic latches on the revolving door begin to open. At either end of the room are two cameras so well concealed that we don't know where exactly they've been installed.
"Come on," Charlie says, leading the way.
We left through the revolving door and began to get wet on the dirty snow-lined streets of Park Avenue. Behind us, the bank's brick façade fades discreetly into the low-rise landscape, which is precisely one of the main reasons one goes to a private bank. Like an American version of a Swiss bank, we're here to keep your secrets. That's why the only sign on the façade is a designed to go inconspicuous bronze plaque that reads "Greene & Greene, Founded 1870." And while most people have never heard of private banks, they're much closer than you might think. It is the small and inconspicuous building in front of which we pass every day, the one with no visible reference, not far from the ATM, where people always ask: What must be in there? That's us. Right under everyone's nose. We are very good at staying unnoticed.
Is that worth a high fee? And this is the question we ask customers: Have you recently received any offers in the mail for a credit card? If the answer is yes, it means that someone has betrayed you. And in all likelihood it was his bank, examining his personal information and then drawing a bullseye on his back. From your account statement to your home address and Social Security number, it's all there for the world to see. And buy. Needless to say, rich people don't like such things.
Through a light blanket of freshly fallen snow, Charlie heads toward the street. A raised hand gets us a cab; an accelerator pedal takes us to the center; and a look from my brother makes me ask the taxi driver:
"What, how was your day?"
"Pretty good," the man says. And you?
"Great," I say, looking up at the dark sky outside the window. An hour ago I had forty million dollars in my hands. And now I'm sitting in the back seat of an old taxi. As we enter the Brooklyn Bridge I look over my shoulder. The whole city, with its bright lights and the soaring line of the sky, the whole scene is framed by the rear window of the taxi. The further we go, the smaller the box becomes. When we got home it has completely disappeared.
Finally, the taxi stops in front of a 1920s four-story building just on the edge of Brooklyn Heights. Technically it's part of the tough Red Hook district, but the address is still Brooklyn. True, the front stairway has a brick or two loose or missing, the metal bars on my basement apartment window are rusted and dented, and the driveway is still covered in a sheet of unmelted ice, but the rent is cheap and it allows me to live alone in a neighborhood that I am proud to call home. That gives me peace of mind, that is, until I see who's waiting for me on the front steps.
OMG. Not now.
Our eyes meet and I know I'm in trouble.
Charlie reads the expression on my face and follows my gaze.
"Finally," he murmurs. It's been a pleasure meeting you.