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what I’m working on. When it hits year four and a half, we’re required to send out a warning letter saying
     ‘
Your account’s going to be turned over to the state.
’ At that point, anyone who’s still alive usually responds, which is better for us, since it keeps the money in the bank.”
    “So that’s your responsibility? Dealing with dead people? Man, and I thought my customer service skills were bad.”
    “Don’t laugh—some of these folks are still alive. They just forget where they put their cash.”
    “Y’mean like Mr. Three-Million-Dollar Duckworth over here.”
    “That’s our boy,” I say. “The only bad part is, he wants to transfer it somewhere else.”
    Looking down, Charlie rereads the grainy type on the faxed letter. He runs his fingers across the blurry signature. Then,
     his eyes shoot to the top of the page. Something catches his eye. I follow his fingers. The phone number on the top of the
     fax. He makes that face like he smells sewage.
    “When’d you get this letter again?” Charlie asks.
    “Sometime today, why?”
    “And when does the money get turned over to the state?”
    “Monday—which is why I assume he sent it by fax.”
    “Yeah,” Charlie nods, though I can tell he’s barely listening. His whole face flushes red. Here we go.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask.
    “Lookie here,” he says, pointing to the return fax number at the top of the letter. “Does this number look familiar to you?”
    I grab the sheet and study it close. “Never seen it before in my life. Why? You know it?”
    “You could say that…”
    “Charlie, get to the point—tell me what’s—”
    “It’s the Kinko’s around the corner from the bank.”
    I force a nervous laugh. “What’re you talking about?”
    “I’m telling you—the bank doesn’t let us use the fax for personal business—so when Franklin or Royce need to send me sheet
     music, it goes straight to Kinko’s—and straight to that number.”
    I look down at the letter. “Why would a millionaire, who can buy ten thousand fax machines of his own, and can walk right
     into the bank, send us a fax from a copy shop that’s right around the corner?”
    Charlie shoots me a way-too-excited grin. “Maybe we’re not dealing with a millionaire.”
    “What’re you saying? You think Duckworth didn’t send this letter?”
    “You tell me—have you spoken to him lately?”
    “We’re not required to—” I cut myself off, suddenly seeing what he’s driving at. “All we do is send a letter to his last known
     address, and one to his family,” I begin. “But if we want to be safe, there’s one place open late…” I sit up in bed, flick
     on the speakerphone, and start dialing.
    “Who’re you calling?”
    The first thing we hear is a recorded voice. “Welcome to Social Se—”
    Without even listening, I hit one, then zero, then two on the phone. I’ve been here before. The speaker fills with Muzak.
    “The Beatles. ‘Let It Be,’” Charlie points out.
    “Shhh,” I hiss.
    “Thank you for calling Social Security,” a female voice eventually picks up. “How can I help you?”
    “Hi, this is Oliver Caruso calling from Greene & Greene Bank in New York,” I say in that overly sweet voice I know turns Charlie’s
     stomach. It’s the tone I save for customer service reps—and no matter how much Charlie despises it, deep down, he knows it
     works. “I’m wondering if you can help us out,” I continue. “We have a loan application that we’re working on, and we just
     wanted to verify the applicant’s Social Security number.”
    “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.
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