The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer Page B

read from the sheet.
    Within five minutes, I’ve relayed the tax ID number and all the other vital stats for Sunshine Distributors’s first bank account.
     To really sell it, I throw in Duckworth’s birthday and a personally selected password. They never once give us a hard time.
     Thank you, Red Sheet.
    As I shut off the speakerphone, Charlie points to his Wonder Woman watch with the magic lasso second-hand. Twenty minutes,
     start to finish. Forty minutes left and four more accounts to open. Not good enough.
    “C’mon, coach, I got my skates on,” Charlie says. “Get me in the game.”
    Without a word, I rip two pages from the Red Sheet and slide them across the table. One says
France,
the other
Marshall Islands.
Charlie darts to the phone on his far right; I race to the one on mine. Opposite corners. Our fingers flick across the keypads.
    “Do you speak English?” I ask a stranger from Latvia. “Yes… I’m looking for Feodor Svantanich or whoever’s handling his accounts.”
    “Hi, I’m trying to reach Lucinda Llanos,” Charlie says. “Or whoever has her accounts.”
    There’s a short pause.
    “Hi,” we both say simultaneously. “I’d like to open a corporate account.”
    * * * *
    “Okay, and can you read me the number one more time?” Charlie asks a French man who he keeps calling Inspector Clouseau. He
     scribbles down the number and calls it out to me. “Tell your English bloke it’s HB7272250.”
    Here we go—HB7272250,” I say to the rep from London. “Once it comes in, we want it transferred there as soon as possible.”
    Thanks again for the help, Clouseau,” Charlie adds. “I’m gonna tell all my rich friends about you.”
    Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll look for it tomorrow—and then hopefully we can start talking about some of our other overseas business.”
    Translation: Do me this solid and I’ll throw you so much business, it’ll make this three million look like gum money. It’s
     the third time we’ve played this game—relaying the account number of one bank to the bank that precedes it.
    “Yeah… yeah… that’d be great,” Charlie says, switching to his I-really-gotta-run voice. “Have a croissant on me.”
    Charlie hops out of his seat as I lower the receiver. “Aaaaaaannnnnnnd… we’re done,” he says as soon as the phone hits the
     cradle.
    My eyes go straight to the clock. Eleven thirty-five. “Damn,” I whisper under my breath. In a blur, I rake the loose pages
     of the Red Sheet back into one pile and stuff them in my briefcase. “C’mon, let’s go,” Charlie demands, flying toward the
     door. As I run, I shove the chairs back under the table. Charlie sweeps the bagels back on their tray. Neat and perfect. Just
     like we found it.
    “I got the coats,” I say, grabbing them from the chair.
    He doesn’t care. He just keeps running. And before the receptionist notices the blur in front of her desk, we’re gone.
    * * * *
    “Where the hell were you guys—braiding each other’s hair?” Shep asks as we plow into his office. Ten minutes and counting.
     I throw the coats on the leather sofa; Shep leaps out of his seat and jams a sheet of paper in front of my face.
    “What’s this?” I ask.
    “Transfer request—all you need to do is fill in where it’s going.”
    Ripping the mess of paperwork from my briefcase, I flip to the Red Sheet marked
England.
Charlie bends over so I can use his back as a desk. I scribble as fast as I can and copy the account info. Almost done.
    “So where’s it finally going?” Shep asks.
    Charlie stands up, and I stop writing. “What’re you talking about?”
    “The last transfer. Where’re we putting it?”
    I look to Charlie, but he returns a blank stare. “I thought you said…”
    “… that you could pick where the money goes,” Shep interrupts. “I did—and you can bounce it wherever you want—but you better
     believe I want to know the final stop.”
    “That wasn’t part of the deal,” I