read.
Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top.
Dear Dean Milligan.
Personalized. Good.
I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program…
blah, blah, blah
… Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years…
blah and more blah
… sorry to say…
Sorry to say?...
that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism…
maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…
I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere…
beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”
Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the
letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and—
“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”
I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.
Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”
I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.
“Y’mean with the—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”
He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it—” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through
the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”
5
S o whatta we do now?” Charlie asks as he shuts the door to my office early Monday morning.
“Just what we talked about,” I say, pulling weekend work from my briefcase and dumping it on my desk. I’m moving at my typical
frantic pace, rushing from desk to filing cabinet back to desk, but today…
“You’ve got some bounce in your step,” Charlie decides, suddenly excited. “And not just the hamster-on-a-treadmill thing you’ve
usually got going.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yeah I do.” He watches me carefully, consuming every move. “Arms swaying… shoulders rising… even under the suit—Yeah,
brother. Let freedom ring.”
I grab the fax from Friday night and slide it in front of my computer. At noon today, the abandoned accounts have to be sent
to the state or returned to their owners. That gives us three hours to steal three million dollars. Just as I’m about to start,
I crack my knuckles.
“Don’t hesitate,” Charlie warns.
He’s worried I’ll talk myself out of it. I crack my knuckles one last time and start copying from the Duckworth fax.
“Now what’re you doing?” Charlie asks.
“Same thing our mystery person did—writing a fake letter that claims the money—but this one puts the cash in an account for
us.”
Charlie nods and grins. “Y’know last night was a full moon,” he points out. “I bet that’s why they took it in the first place.”
“Can you please not get all creepy on me?”
“Don’t mock the moon,” Charlie warns. “You can bathe in all the left-brain logic you want, but when I was working that telemarketing
job taking consumer complaints, we got seventy percent more calls on nights when the moon was full. No joking—that’s when
all the crazies come out to dance.” He falls silent, but he can barely sit still. “So any new ideas on who the original thief
was?”
“Actually, that was going to be my next…” Picking up the phone, I read the number from the Duckworth fax and start dialing.
Before Charlie can even ask the question, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear.
“Directory Assistance,” a mechanized female voice says.
Slow down, Oliver. Start at the top.
Dear Dean Milligan.
Personalized. Good.
I’m writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is applying as a fall candidate for your MBA program…
blah, blah, blah
… Oliver’s supervisor for the past four years…
blah and more blah
… sorry to say…
Sorry to say?...
that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate to your school… much as it pains me… lack of professionalism…
maturity issues… for his own sake, would benefit from another year of professional work experience…
I can barely stand. My hands clamp tightly around the letter, chewing the sides to pieces. My eyes flood with tears. And somewhere…
beyond the potholes… across the bridge… I swear I hear someone laughing. And someone else saying, “I told you so.”
Spinning around, I race to the closet and pull out my coat. If Charlie’s taking the bus, I can still catch him. Gripping the
letter as I fight my coat on, I yank open the door and—
“So?” Charlie asks, sitting there on my front steps. “What’s new in Whoville?”
I screech to a halt and don’t say a word. My head’s down. The letter’s crumpled in my fist.
Charlie studies me in an instant. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”
I nod, seething. “Were you serious about before?” I ask him.
“Y’mean with the—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, thinking about mom’s face when all the bills are paid. “With that.”
He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Whatchu’ talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
“No more playing around, Charlie. If you’re still up for it—” I cut myself off mid-sentence. In my head, I’m working through
the permutations. There’s still a lot to do… but right now… all I have for him are two words: “I’m in.”
5
S o whatta we do now?” Charlie asks as he shuts the door to my office early Monday morning.
“Just what we talked about,” I say, pulling weekend work from my briefcase and dumping it on my desk. I’m moving at my typical
frantic pace, rushing from desk to filing cabinet back to desk, but today…
“You’ve got some bounce in your step,” Charlie decides, suddenly excited. “And not just the hamster-on-a-treadmill thing you’ve
usually got going.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yeah I do.” He watches me carefully, consuming every move. “Arms swaying… shoulders rising… even under the suit—Yeah,
brother. Let freedom ring.”
I grab the fax from Friday night and slide it in front of my computer. At noon today, the abandoned accounts have to be sent
to the state or returned to their owners. That gives us three hours to steal three million dollars. Just as I’m about to start,
I crack my knuckles.
“Don’t hesitate,” Charlie warns.
He’s worried I’ll talk myself out of it. I crack my knuckles one last time and start copying from the Duckworth fax.
“Now what’re you doing?” Charlie asks.
“Same thing our mystery person did—writing a fake letter that claims the money—but this one puts the cash in an account for
us.”
Charlie nods and grins. “Y’know last night was a full moon,” he points out. “I bet that’s why they took it in the first place.”
“Can you please not get all creepy on me?”
“Don’t mock the moon,” Charlie warns. “You can bathe in all the left-brain logic you want, but when I was working that telemarketing
job taking consumer complaints, we got seventy percent more calls on nights when the moon was full. No joking—that’s when
all the crazies come out to dance.” He falls silent, but he can barely sit still. “So any new ideas on who the original thief
was?”
“Actually, that was going to be my next…” Picking up the phone, I read the number from the Duckworth fax and start dialing.
Before Charlie can even ask the question, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear.
“Directory Assistance,” a mechanized female voice says.
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