The Millionaires Read Online Free Page B

end our discussion of Tanner Drew. Indeed, when it comes to Shep, except for some minor chitchat, no one in the bank really
     talks to him.
    “
Shep!
” Charlie shouts as soon as he sees him. “How’s my favorite manhandler of misappropriation?” Shep puts his hand out and Charlie
     taps his fingers like they’re piano keys.
    “You see what they got going at Madison?” Shep asks with a clumsy boxer’s grin. There’s a trace of a Brooklyn accent, but
     wherever he’s been, they trained it out of him. “They got a girl who wants to play boys varsity b-ball.”
    “Good—that’s the way it should be. When do we see her play?” Charlie asks.
    “There’s a scrimmage in two weeks…”
    Charlie grins. “You drive; I’ll pay.”
    “Scrimmages are free.”
    “Fine, I’ll pay for you too,” Charlie says. Noticing my silence, he motions me into the elevator. “Shep, you ever meet my
     brother, Oliver?”
    We both nod our cordial nods. “Nice to see you,” we say simultaneously.
    “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—it feels like an interrogation.
    I nod and turn around to hit the
Door Close
button. Then I hit it again. Finally, the doors slide shut.
    “So what’re you guys doing here with everyone else gone?” he asks. “Anything interesting?”
    “No,” I blurt. “Same as usual.”
    Charlie shoots me an annoyed look. “Didja know Shep used to be in the Secret Service?” he asks.
    “That’s great,” I say, my eyes focused on the five-course menu that’s posted above the call buttons. The bank has its own
     private chef just for client visits. It’s the easiest way to impress. Today they served lamb chops and rosemary risotto appetizers.
     I’m guessing a twenty- to twenty-five-million-dollar client. Lamb chops only come out if you’re over fifteen.
    The elevator slows at the fifth floor and Shep elbows himself off the back wall. “This is me,” he announces, heading for the
     doors. “Enjoy the weekend.”
    “You too,” Charlie calls out. Neither of us says another word until the doors shut. “What’s wrong with you?” Charlie lays
     into me. “When’d you become such a sourpuss?”
    “Sourpuss? That’s all you got, Grandma?”
    “I’m serious—he’s a nice guy—you didn’t have to blow him off like that.”
    “What do you want me to say, Charlie? All the guy ever does is lurk around and act suspicious. Then suddenly, you walk in
     and he’s Mr. Sunshine.”
    “See, there’s where you’re wrong. He’s always Mr. Sunshine—in fact, he’s a rainbow of fruit flavors—but you’re so busy angling
     with Lapidus and Tanner Drew and all the other bigshots, you forget that the little people know how to talk too.”
    “I asked you to stop with that…”
    “When was the last time you spoke to a cab driver, Ollie? And I’m not talking about saying ‘
53rd and Lex
’—I’m talking a full-fledged conversation: ‘
How ya been? What time’d you start? You ever see anyone shaking their yummies in the backseat? ’”
    “So that’s what you think? That I’m an intellectual snob?”
    “You’re not smart enough to be an intellectual snob—but you are a cultural one.” The elevator doors open, and Charlie races
     into the lobby, which is filled with a grid of gorgeous antique rolltop desks that add just the right old-money feel. When
     clients come in and the hive is buzzing with bankers, it’s the first thing they see—that is, unless we’re trying to close
     someone big, in which case we bring them through the private entrance around back and lead them straight past Chef Charles
     and his just-for-us, oh-you-should-check-out-our-million-dollar kitchen. Charlie blows past it. I’m right behind him. “Don’t
     worry, though,” he calls out. “I still love you… even if Shep