Episode 27.2

Instead it was two weeks of wrestling in the water, contests to see who could last the longest underwater, and complaints from the right-thinking people in the compound that we were diving too loud, whatever that meant. Even now, when we step outside, a brother and sister are knee-deep in playing a cruel game of Marco Polo. The boy, with his eyes closed, shouts: "Marco!": The girl shouts: "Polo!" As he approaches, she climbs the ladder, runs around the pool, and jumps back into the water. She evidently is a bit of a cheater. Just like Charlie used to do to me.

"Oliver, where...?"

"Wait here," I say, motioning Gillian to a lounge chair.

By the pool, a man dressed in a white shirt, shorts of the same color, and black knee-high socks is studying the racetrack betting page.

'Sorry to bother you, sir, but could I have your key to the club?' I ask him. My grandmother has taken ours to the apartment.

Grandpa looks up from her betting page and looks at me with his small black eyes.

"Who is her grandmother?"

—Dotty Miller.

After taking a look at me, he takes the key out of his pocket.

"Then bring her back," she warns me. "Of course... right away."

I nod to Gillian, and she follows me past the shuffleboard court and up the tree-lined path that hides the one-story club. Once Gillian has entered, she handed the key back to Mr. Black Socks and returned to Gillian.

Inside, the "club" is exactly the same as we left it a bunch of years ago: two filthy bathrooms, a non-functioning sauna, and a pre-Jack La Lane set of weights. The place was designed to be a social meeting point, for older people to meet and make new friends. It was never used. We could stay for days and no one would interrupt us.

Gillian sits on the red vinyl upholstery of the weight bench. I look at the mirrored walls and sit on the floor.

"Oliver, are you sure Charlie knows about this place?"

We've talked about this place a thousand times. When we were little we used to hide in the sauna. I would jump in and pretend I was Han Solo frozen in carbonite. Then Charlie came to my rescue and... and... - My voice shakes and I look at myself in the mirror again. I'm missing a half.

"Please don't do this to yourself," Gillian pleads. It took us forty minutes to get here and we have a car. If Charlie is on the way by taxi or bus it will take him a little longer to get there, that doesn't mean anything. I'm sure nothing happened to him.

I don't even bother answering.

"You have to be positive," he adds. If you think the worst; you get the worst But if you think the best...

"Then it's all going to blow up in your face anyway!" Still don't understand the key phrase, the one that finishes the joke? It's the great cosmic practical joke. Knock Knock. Who is it? A big kick in the ass. That's it... end of joke. Isn't that very funny?

"Oliver..."

"It's like running the Boston Marathon: you train like crazy…you put your life into it, and then just as you're about to cross the finish line, some jerk stretches out his leg and you limp to the finish line on both ankles." broken and wondering where all that hard work has gone. Before you know it, everything is gone: your life, your job... and your brother...

Gillian raises her head and looks at me intently. As if seeing something she had never seen before.

"Maybe we should go to the police her," she cuts me off. I mean, finding out about my father is one thing, but when they start shooting at us…I don't know…maybe it's time to raise the white flag.

-I can not do it.

-What are you talking about? All we have to do is dial 911. If you tell them the truth, they can't turn you over to the secret service.

"I can't do it," I insist. "Of course you can."

Gillian replies. All you did was see a bank account on your computer screen, it's not like you did anything wrong...

I turn my head while the silence marks the cadence of the air.

-What? Gillian asks. What are you not telling me?

Again I remain silent. "Oliver..."

Just silence.

"Oliver, can you tell me...

"We stole it," I blurt out.

-Forgiveness?

"We don't think that money belonged to anyone; we looked up your father's records, but he was dead... and the state couldn't find any relatives, so we thought no one would be harmed.

"Did you steal it?"

"I knew I shouldn't, I told Charlie, but when I found out Lapidus was screwing me…and Shep said we could get him out of the bank…it all seemed to make sense. But the next thing we knew, we were left with three hundred million dollars of Secret Service money.

Gillian coughs like she's about to choke.

"How many millions?"

I stare into her eyes. If she was working against us there is no way she would have attacked Gallo and DeSanctis the way she did. Instead, she did. She saved our lives.

The same way she saved me last night when we were underwater. It's time to return the favor.

-Three hundred thirteen.

"Three hundred and thirteen million?" Seat.

"You stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars?"

"Not deliberately… not that amount. "I expect him to start screaming, or slap me, or cut my throat, but he doesn't do any of that. She just sits there. In a perfect Indian pose. In absolute silence. Gillian, I know what you're thinking, I know it's your money...

"It's not my money!"

"But your father...

"That money got him killed, Oliver! The only thing it's good for now is to line her coffin. Her."

He looks up and her eyes are full of tears. How could you not tell me?