The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer

money. Looking back at Shep, I can’t help but
     nod. Charlie knows what it means. There go some B-school funds—and hospital bills.
    “Don’t worry,” Charlie whispers with a hand on my shoulder. “It’s another staple we’re gonna put in Lapidus’s head.”
    “Okay, you got it,” Shep tells Bendini. “We’ll wire it as soon as we hang up.” Reading from the white sticker on the fax machine,
     Shep relays our phone and fax numbers, thanks the price-gouger, and hangs up the phone.
    The room is corpse silent.
    “Well I think that went great,” Charlie announces, swinging his arm through the air aw-shucks style.
    “We’ll be fine,” Shep interrupts.
    I nod my head quickly. Then slower. “So you think it’ll work?” I ask anxiously.
    “There we go—three full seconds,” Charlie says. “The old Oliver’s back.”
    “As long as your buddy Arnie comes through…” Shep says.
    “Trust me, Arnie’ll have it done in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most,” I add, watching Charlie’s reaction. He thinks I’m rationalizing.
     “Arnie’s this hippie leftover who lives in the Marshall Islands, makes pro-level margaritas, and sticks it to the government
     by plucking shelf corps off the wall all day long.”
    “Shelf corps?” Charlie asks.
    “Corps… corporations. Arnie registers them all across the world—gives them names, addresses, even boards of directors. You’ve
     seen the classified ads—they’re in every in-flight airline magazine in existence: Hate the IRS? Paying Too Much in Taxes?
     Private Offshore Companies! Guaranteed Privacy!”
    “And you think he’s gonna be able to set up an entire company in the next half-hour?” Charlie asks.
    “Trust me, he’s set these up months ago. ABC Corp. DEF Corp. GHI Corp. All the paperwork’s already done… each corporation
     is just a notebook on a shelf. When we call, he scribbles our fake name into the few blanks that are left and gives it a quick
     notary stamp. To be honest, I’m surprised it’s taking this l—”
    The phone rings and Charlie leaps forward, answering it through the speakerphone. “H-Hello.”
    “Congratulations,” Bendini says in full Jersey accent. “Ribbie Henson is now the proud owner and sole shareholder of Sunshine
     Distributors Partnership, Limited, in the Virgin Islands, which is owned by CEP Worldwide in Nauru, which is owned by Maritime
     Holding Services in Vanuatu, which is owned by Martin Duckworth in Antigua.”
    Four layers—endzone in Antigua. When law enforcement digs, it’ll take ’em months to sort through all the paperwork.
    “Sounds like you boys are in business. Just make sure you wire my cash.”
    The moment the line goes dead, the fax machine hums to life. I swear, it almost gives me a heart attack.
    Over the next five minutes, the fax machine vomits up the rest of the paperwork—from bylaws to articles of incorporation—everything
     we need to open up a brand-new corporate account. I check the clock on the wall: two hours to go. Mary asked for the paperwork
     by noon. Damn. All three of us know this can’t be like Tanner Drew. No stolen passwords. It’s gotta be done by the book.
    “Can we make it?” Charlie asks.
    “If you want, we can hand the original letter to Mary right now,” Shep offers. “My Duckworth accounts are already set up,
     since they belonged to the real Duckworth—”
    “Not a chance,” I interrupt. “Like you said—we pick the places where the money goes.”
    Shep’s tempted to argue, but quickly realizes he can’t win. If the first transfer goes to him, he’s got his duffel bag of
     cash, and we risk getting nothing. Even Charlie’s not willing to take that risk.
    “Fine,” Shep says. “But if you’re not going to use the already existing Duckworth account, I’d go offshore as soon as possible.
     That’ll get it out of the United States and away from the reporting requirements. You know the law—anything that looks suspicious
     gets reported to the