Free The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer

over from scratch… put it in whatever fake company you want.
     I mean… with your mom here… you’re not going on the run for two million dollars—that’s the only guarantee I need,” Shep says,
     ignoring Charlie and watching my reaction. He knows who he has to work on.
    “And you really think it’ll work?” I ask.
    “Oliver, I’ve been watching this one for almost a year,” Shep says, his voice picking up speed. “In life, there’re only two
     perfect—and I mean
perfect
—crimes where you can’t be caught: One is where you’re killed, which isn’t too great an option. And the other is when no one
     knows that a crime took place.” Swinging his sausage-shaped forearm through the air, he motions to the paperwork on my desk.
     “That’s what’s here on a silver platter. That’s the beauty of it, Oliver,” he says as he lowers his voice. “No one’ll ever
     know. Whether the three million goes to Duckworth or to the government, it was always leaving the bank. And since it’s supposed
     to be gone, we don’t have to go on the run or give up our lives. All we do is say thank you to the forgetful dead millionaire.”
     Pausing to drive it home, he adds, “People wait their whole lives and never get an opportunity this good. It’s even better
     than the plane and the duffel bag—the bank spent the last six months trying to contact his family—no one’s there. No one knows.
     No one but us.”
    It’s a good point. Actually, it’s a great point… and the best insurance that Shep’ll stay quiet. If he toots his horn to anyone,
     he risks his own share too.
    “So whattya say, Oliver?” he adds.
    The Art Deco clock on my wall was last year’s holiday gift from Lapidus. I stare up at it, studying the minute hand. Two and
     a half hours to go. After that, the opportunity’s gone. The money’ll be transferred to the state. And all I’ll be left with
     is a clock, a handshake, and eighty thousand dollars’ worth of hospital bills.
    “It’s okay to want something more,” Charlie says. “Think of what we can do for mom… all the debt.”
    Back in my seat, I take a deep breath and spread my palms flat on my desk. “You know we’re gonna regret this,” I say.
    They both break into smiles. Two kids.
    “We have a deal?” Shep asks, extending a hand.
    I shake Shep’s hand and watch my brother. “So what do we do now?” I ask.
    “Know any good fake companies?” Shep replies.
    That’s my department. When Arthur Mannheim divorced his wife, Lapidus and I opened a holding company and an Antigua bank account
     in a total of an hour and a half. It’s Lapidus’s favorite dirty trick—and one I know all too well. I reach for the phone.
    “No, no, no, no, no,” Shep scolds, pulling my hand away. “You can’t call these people yourself anymore. Everything you touch,
     everything you do—all of it’s a link, just like a fingerprint. That’s why you need a go-between—and not just some schlub off
     the street—you want a professional who can protect your interests so no one ever sees you. Someone who you can send a thousand
     dollars and say, ‘Make this phone call for me and don’t ask any questions…’”
    “Like a mob lawyer,” Charlie blurts.
    “Exactly,” Shep grins. “Just like a mob lawyer.” Before I can even ask, Shep stands up and leaves my office. Thirty seconds
     later, he returns with a phonebook under each arm. One for New York; one for Jersey. He tosses them on my desk and they hit
     with a thud.
    “Time to find the stutterers,” Shep says.
    Charlie and I look at each other. We’re lost.
    “You’ve seen ’em in every phonebook,” Shep explains. “The first alphabetical entries in every category. AAAAAA Flower Shop.
     AAAAAA Laundromat. And the most pathetic and desperate of all the stutterers—the ones most likely to do anything for a buck:
     AAAAAA Attorneys At Law.”
    I nod. Charlie grins wide. Par for the course. Without a word, we dive for the