“Do you have a routing number?” the woman asks.

I give her the bank’s nine-digit ID. Once they get that, we get all the private info. That’s the law. God bless America.

Waiting for clearance and unable to sit still, I pick at the seams of my sage green comforter. It doesn’t take long to come undone.

“And the number you’d like to check?” the woman asks.

Reading from the printout of abandoned accounts, I give her Duckworth’s Social Security number. “It’s under the name Marty or Martin.”

A second passes. Then another. “Did you say this was for a loan application?” the woman asks, confused.

“Yeah,” I say anxiously. “Why?”

“Because according to our files here, I have a June twelfth date of death.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m just telling you what it says, sir. If you’re looking for Martin Duckworth, he died six months ago.”

I hang up the phone, and Charlie and I stare down at the fax. “I don’t believe this.”

“Me either,” Charlie sings. “How X-Files is this moment?”

“It’s not a joke,” I insist. “Whoever sent this – they almost walked away with three million dollars.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“It’s a perfect crime when you think about it. Pose as a dead person, ask for his money, and once the account’s reactivated, you close up shop and disappear. It’s not like Marty Duckworth’s going to complain.”

“But what about the government?” Charlie asks. “Won’t they notice their money’s missing?”

“They have no idea,” I say, waving the master list of abandoned accounts. “We send them a printout, minus anything that’s been reactivated. They’re just happy to get some free cash.”

Charlie bounces restlessly on the bed, and I can see his wheels spinning. When you eat the dandelions, everything’s a thrill ride. “Who do you think did it?” he blurts.

“Got me – but it has to be someone in the bank.”

Now his eyes go wide. “You think?”

“Who else would know when we sent out the final notice letters? Not to mention the fact that they’re faxing from a Kinko’s around the corner…”

Charlie nods his head in steady rhythm. “So what do we do now?”

“Are you kidding? We wait until Monday, and then we turn this bastard in.”

No more nodding. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, Am I sure? What else are we gonna do? Take it ourselves?”

“I’m not saying that, but…” Once again, Charlie’s face flushes red. “How cool would it be to have three million dollars? I mean, that’d be like… it’d be like-”

“It’d be like having money,” I interrupt.

“And not just any money – we’re talkin’ three million monies.” Charlie jumps to his feet and his voice picks up speed. “You give me cash like that and I’d… I’d get me a white suit and hold up a glass of red wine and say things like, ‘I’m having an old friend for dinner…’”

“Not me,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d pay off the hospital, take care of the bills, then take every last penny and invest it.”

“Oh, c’mon, Scrooge – what’s wrong with you? You have to have some insane wastefulness… do the full Elvis… now what would you buy?”

“And I have to buy something?” I think about it for a moment. “I’d get wall-to-wall carpeting…”

“Wall-to-wall carpeting? That’s the best you can…?”

“For my blimp!” I shout. “A blimp that we’d keep chained in the yard.”

Charlie laughs out loud at that one. The game is on. His eyes squint at the challenge. “I’d buy a circus.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil.”

“I’d buy Cirque du Soleil and rename it Cirque du Sole. It’d be a three-ring all-fish extravaganza.”

I fight a smile, refusing to give up. “In my bathrooms, I’d get fur-covered toilet seats – the really good kind – like you’re crapping right on top of an expensive rodent.”

“Those’re sweet,” Charlie agrees. “But not as sweet as my gold-plated pasta!”

“Diamond-crusted mondel-bread.”

“Sapphire-studded blueberry muffins.”

“Lobsters stuffed with spare-ribs… or spare-ribs stuffed with lobsters! Maybe even both!” I shout.

Charlie nods. “I’d buy me the Internet – and all the porn sites.”

“Nice. Very tasteful.”

“I try.”

“I know you do – that’s why I’d buy you Orlando.”

“We talking Tony Orlando, or we talking Florida?” Charlie asks.

I look him straight in the eye. “Both.”

“Both?” Charlie laughs, finally impressed.

“There’s the pause! Count it right there!” I shout. It’s been a long time since he’s been the first to give up. Still, I’ll take it. It’s not every day you get to beat a master at his own game.

“See, now that’s what I’m talking about,” he eventually says. “Why would we spend another day busting our humps at the bank when we can get ourselves blimps and Internets and lobsters?”

“You’re so right, Charles,” I say in my best British accent. “And the best part is, no one would know the money was gone.”

Charlie stops. “They wouldn’t, would they?”

I come out of character. “What’re you talking about?”

“Is it really that crazy, Ollie?” he asks, his voice now serious. “I mean, who’s really gonna miss that cash? The owner’s dead… it’s about to be stolen by someone else… and if the government gets it… oh, they’ll really put the funds to good use.”

Just like that, I sit up straight. “Charlie, I hate to burst your seventeenth fantasy for the day, but what you’re talking about is illegal. Say it out loud… illll-eeeeeegal.”

He shoots me a look that I haven’t seen since our last fight about mom. Son of a bitch. He’s not joking.

“You said it yourself, Oliver – it’s the perfect crime-”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right!”

“Don’t talk to me about right – rich people… big companies… they steal from the government all day long and no one says a word – but instead of stealing, we just call ’em loopholes and corporate welfare.”

Typical dreamer. “C’mon, Charlie, you know the world’s not perfect…”

“I’m not asking for perfect – but you know how many breaks the tax code has for the rich? Or for a big corporation that can afford a good lobbyist? When people like Tanner Drew file their 1040EZ, they barely pay a dollar in income tax. But mom – who’s barely making twenty-eight grand a year – half of what she owns goes straight to Uncle Sam.”

“That’s not true; I had the planners at the bank-”

“Don’t tell me they’re saving her a few bucks, Oliver. It’s not gonna make a difference. Between the mortgage, and the credit cards, and everything else dad stuck us with when he left – you have any idea how long that’ll take to pay off? And that’s not even including what we owe the hospital. What’s that at now? Eighty thousand? Eighty-two thousand?”

“Eighty-one thousand four hundred and fifty dollars,” I clarify. “But just because you feel guilty about the hospital, doesn’t mean we have to-”

“It’s not about guilt – it’s about eighty thousand dollars, Ollie! Do you even realize how much that is? And it’s still growing every time we head back to the doctor!”

“I have a plan-”

“Oh, that’s right, your great, fifty-step plan! How’s it go again? Lapidus and the bank bring you to business school, which’ll bring you up the ladder, which’ll make all our debt disappear? Does that about cover it? ’Cause I hate to break it to you, Ollie, but you’ve been there four years and mom’s still breathing hospital fumes. We’re barely making a dent – this is our chance to set her free. Think about how many years that’ll add to her life! She doesn’t have to be second-class anymore…”

“She’s not second-class.”

“She is, Ollie. And so are we,” Charlie insists. “Now I’m sorry if that ruins your priceless self-image, but it’s time to find a way to get her out. Everyone deserves a fresh start – especially mom.”