The Millionaires Read Online Free PDF Page A

doesn’t.”
    Reaching the side exit, we punch in our codes at the keypad just inside the thick metal door. It clicks open and leads us
     into a short anteroom with a revolving door on the far end. In the industry, we call it a man-trap. The revolving door doesn’t
     open until the door behind us is closed. If there’s a problem, they both shut and you’re nabbed.
    Without a care, Charlie closes the metal door behind himself and there’s a slight hiss. Titanium bolts clamp shut. When it’s
     done, there’s a loud thunk straight ahead. Magnetic locks on the revolving door slide open. On both ends of the room, two
     cameras are so well hidden, we don’t even know where they are.
    “C’mon,” Charlie says, charging forward. We spin through the revolving doors and get dumped out on the black-snow-lined streets
     of Park Avenue. Behind us, the bank’s subdued brick facade fades inconspicuously into the low-rise landscape—which is really
     why you go to a private bank in the first place. Like an American version of a Swiss bank, we’re there to keep your secrets.
     That’s why the only sign out front is a designed-to-be-missed brass plaque that reads, “
Greene & Greene, est. 1870.
” And while most people have never heard of private banks, they’re closer than anyone thinks. It’s the small, understated
     building people pass by every day—the unmarked one, not far from the ATM, where people always wonder, “What’s in there anyway?”
     That’s us. Right in front of everyone’s face. We’re just good at keeping quiet.
    So is that worth the extra fees? Here’s what we ask the clients: Have you gotten any credit card offers in the mail recently?
     If the answer’s yes, it means someone sold you out. Most likely, it was your bank, who culled through your personal info and
     painted a bull’s-eye on your back. From your balance, to your home address, to your Social Security number, it’s all there
     for the world to see. And buy. Needless to say, rich people don’t like that.
    Hurdling over some recently shoveled snow, Charlie goes straight for the street. A hand in the air gets us a cab; a gas pedal
     sends us downtown; and a look from my brother has me asking the cab driver, “How’s your day going?”
    “Pretty okay,” the cabbie says. “How ’bout yourself?”
    “Great,” I say, my eyes locked out the window on the dark sky. An hour ago, I touched forty million dollars. Right now, I’m
     in the back of a beat-up cab. As we hit the Brooklyn Bridge, I glance over my shoulder. The whole city—with its burning lights
     and soaring skyline—the whole scene is framed by the back window of the cab. The further we go, the smaller the picture gets.
     By the time we get home, it’s completely disappeared.
    Eventually, the cab pulls up to a 1920s brownstone just outside of Brooklyn Heights. Technically, it’s part of the rougher
     Red Hook district, but the address is still Brooklyn. True, the front stairs have a brick or two that’re loose or missing,
     the metal bars on my basement apartment’s windows are cracked and rotting, and the front walk is still glazed with a layer
     of unshoveled ice, but the cheap rent lets me live on my own in a neighborhood I’m proud to call home. That alone calms me
     down—that is, until I see who’s waiting for me on my front steps.
    Oh, God. Not now.
    Our eyes lock and I know I’m in trouble.
    Reading my expression, Charlie follows my gaze. “Oh, jeez,” he whispers under his breath. “Nice knowing you.”

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    H ere! Pay!” I shout, tossing Charlie my wallet and kicking open the door to the cab. He fishes out a twenty, tells the cabbie
     to keep the change, and bounces his butt out of there. No way he’s missing this.
    Skidding across the ice, I’m already in apology mode: “Beth, I’m so sorry—I totally forgot!”
    “Forgot what?” she asks, her voice as calm and pleasant as can be.
    “Our dinner… inviting you out here…”
    “Don’t