Free The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer Page A

phonebooks. I get New York; Charlie gets Jersey;
     Shep reads over our shoulders. Flipping as fast as I can, I go straight for the Lawyer section. The first one I spot is “A
     Able Accident Attorneys.”
    “Too specialized,” Shep says. “We want a general practitioner—not an ambulance chaser.”
    My finger scrolls up the page. “A AAAA Attorneys.” On the next line are the words, “All Your Needs—Lowest Prices.”
    “Not bad,” Shep says.
    “I got it!” Charlie shouts. Shep and I both shush him down to a whisper. “Sorry… sorry,” he says, barely audible. He spins
     his book around and shoves it in front of my face, knocking my own phonebook straight into my lap. His pointer finger jabs
     right to the spot. All it says is “A.” Under it, the text has one word:
Lawyer.
    “I still vote for mine,” I say. “You gotta like the low price guarantee.”
    “Are you on crack?” Charlie asks. “All. Mine’s. Using. Is. An. A.”
    “Mine’s got five As—all in a row.”
    Charlie looks me straight in the eye. “Mine’s from Jersey.”
    “We have a winner,” Shep announces.
    This time, Charlie’s the one who leaps for the phone. Shep pounds him in the knuckles. “Not from here,” Shep says. Heading
     for the door, he adds, “That’s why God invented payphones.”
    “Are you crazy?” I ask. “All three of us hovering over a payphone? Yeah, that’s inconspicuous.”
    “I suppose you have a better idea?”
    “I work with rich people every day,” I say, stepping in front of Shep and taking a quick glance at the clock. “You think I
     don’t know the best places to hide money from the government?”

7

    H i,” Charlie coos with a beauty pageant smile as he glides up to the black granite reception desk. We’re on the fourth floor
     of the Wayne & Portnoy building, a sterile cavernous structure that, even though it has all the architectural charm of an
     empty shoebox, still has two redeeming qualities: First, it’s across the street from the bank, and second, it’s home to the
     largest stuffed-shirt law firm in the city.
    Behind the desk, an overdressed, overexcited receptionist is yammering into her headset, which is exactly what Charlie’s counting
     on. Sneaking in may be my idea, but we both know who’s better face-to-face. We all play to our strengths. “Hi,” he says for
     the second time, knowing it’ll charm. “I’m waiting for Bert Collier to come down… and I was wondering if I could use a phone
     for a quick private call.” I smile to myself. Norbert Collier was just one of a hundred names listed on the firm directory
     in the lobby. By calling him Bert, Charlie has them sounding like old friends.
    “Back past the elevators,” the receptionist says without even hesitating.
    Still hiding out of sight around the corner, Shep and I wait for Charlie to pass, then fall in line behind him. I point him
     to the wood-paneled door and usher them into a small conference room. The words
Client Services
are on a brass nameplate just outside the door. It’s not a huge room. Small mahogany table, a few upholstered chairs, bagels
     and cream cheese on the sideboard, a fax machine against the wall, and four separate telephones. Everything we need to do
     some damage.
    “Nice choice,” Shep says, dumping his pea coat on the back of a chair. “Even if they trace it…”
    “… all they’ll find are some Wayne & Portnoy clients,” I add, throwing my coat on top.
    “You’re all geniuses,” Charlie adds. “Now can we get going on our stutterer? Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
    Shep slides into a seat, pulls the number from his pocket, and grabs the phone in a meaty paw. As he dials, Charlie hits the
Hands-Free
button on the starfish speakerphone system that’s at the center of the table. Everybody loves conference calls.
    It rings three times before someone picks up. “Law offices,” a male voice answers.
    Shep keeps it cool and calm. “Hello, I’m looking for a lawyer and was