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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.”

4

    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