The Homeless Millionaire

The Noyces did not fuck off as usual the next morning. Nine o'clock came and went, and I could still hear activity: a door opening and closing, floorboards and stairs creaking, a voice speaking so softly it dissolved in the rain pattering on my window.

I didn't encounter anyone on my bathroom sally. The house was deadly quiet, so quiet that for a moment I thought I'd imagined everything I'd heard earlier. When I was shaving, I discovered a blood vessel had burst in my right eye: a red thunderbolt was aimed at my iris. A sign of things to come? I was properly paranoid by the time I descended the stairs on my way to work.

Birgit ambushed me just as I was reaching out to open the front door.

"Good morning, Michael," she suddenly said behind my back, and my eyes nearly popped out.

I blinked a couple of times and turned round and saw Birgit's head sticking out of the doorway to the living room and said:

"Hi. Is something wrong?"

There was. One of the little witches had a badly upset tummy. She was presently asleep on the living room sofa. Birgit asked if I'd been woken up by the frequent night-time visits to the bathroom.

"No," I said. "I slept like a log. No worries there. Sorry to hear about Julie. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"No, she'll probably be fine tomorrow. Just needs to get something out of her system."

"Don't we all," I said, and left.

On the way to the office, I found myself hoping the Noyces would cancel the party on Friday due to little Julie getting the shits. Maybe Diane, the other little witch, would get the shits too, along with the two Charleses. But that was too much to hope for.

Robinson's Rolls-Royce was parked near the office entrance. He was sitting at his/my desk and he was on the phone. I undressed and performed a pantomime with the teapot to find out whether Robinson wanted any tea; he did not. I retreated to the annex and ran a rag over everything as usual and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. After an hour I went to the can, and spent ten minutes examining the red thunderbolt in my eye. I hoped it would disappear by Saturday.

Robinson was still on the phone when I emerged: this time, he was doing a lot of talking. He spoke so softly it was difficult for me to make out what he said. I stayed in the annex, overdosing on nicotine and caffeine: I had no idea what else to do. I really regretted not getting a newspaper on my way in.

I made Robinson a pot of tea at two o'clock and brought him a cup, timing my move so that I arrived just as he was frowning at his notebook, one hand resting on the phone.

"I thought you might like a cup," I said, putting it down on the desk.

He lit up as if I were Santa Claus.

"My dear boy!" he said. Then he returned to his notebook, ignoring both me and the tea. I waited a moment, and said:

"Is there anything you'd like me to do?"

"Yes, of course," he said to his notebook. "Naturally." He turned to me and asked:

"Could you hand-deliver something for me? Right away?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. Give me ten minutes."

I fucked off to the annex and spied on Robinson from there. I swear he spent at least three minutes staring at his open notebook. Then he got a sheet of the firm stationery and wrote busily for a while. I was expecting I would be typing it up, converting it into Canadian spelling, so he surprised me greatly when he folded what he'd written and put it in an envelope and sealed it. He waved the envelope at me and I trotted to his desk like a dog expecting a treat.

"It's not far away," Robinson said, handing me his secret letter. "About the same distance as the post office. Go south on Willingdon and turn right into something called Still Creek Drive. Follow it west until it changes into Still Creek Avenue after Gilmore, and then, and then—"

"It's all right, Mr. Robinson," I said, looking at the envelope. "I know Myrtle Street."

"Do you really? How convenient. Make sure you deliver this to Mr. Kovacs—the name on the envelope—and no one else. I'll call him and tell him you're coming. But if he's been forced to step out in the meantime, wait for him."

"Absolutely," I said. I very nearly asked Robinson if he wanted me to see Mr. Kovacs' ID before giving him the letter.

I got going right away while the going was good: it wasn't raining. I was tempted to pay G. Papadopoulos a visit after I'd delivered Robinson's letter; I would be passing by his office. But then I had the thought he would probably ask if I'd gotten in touch with Jane Moore. He'd given me her phone and address so he was sure to ask about that, if only as a way of making conversation. He'd be surprised to hear I hadn't even called her. He'd ask why.

I couldn't help glancing guiltily at the building containing G. Papadopoulos when I passed.

14 Myrtle Street turned out to be a large parking lot decorated with two white vans, looking forlorn and lonely in all that empty space. There was a long, low building at the back which on closer inspection turned out to be half garage, half office. A sign advertised Herald Carriers; the vans had that name spray-painted on their sides. I had just passed the second van when the door with a sign advertising the office was opened by a tall thin guy wearing a dark suit.

He had longish black hair slicked back with something greasy and a five o'clock shadow on his long, horsey jaw. He stood in that doorway watching me approach, smoking a cigarette. When I got closer I saw he had bitter black eyes and a mouth that wasn't enjoying the cigarette or pretty much anything else.

"Mr. Kovacs?" I said.

"You Robinson's guy?" He sounded as if he had laryngitis.

"Yes," I said. "If your name is Kovacs, I have a letter for you."

He nodded, and stretched out a hand.

"Are you Mr. Kovacs?" I said.

"For fuck's sake," he said. He put his cigarette in his mouth and reached to his back pocket and got out a wallet. He took out a driver's license and shoved it in my face.

"I hope you can fucking read," he said.

His name was Istvan Kovacs and I was reminded of Gabor, the mechanic who'd won a million dollars in the lottery and came to regret it deeply. He was Hungarian as well.

"I hope you can read, too," I said, handing him the letter. Then I turned round and went away. The office door slammed shut behind my back.

On my way back to Robinson & Klein, I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon and had a chicken leg with fries and a coleslaw that looked like cow puke and didn't taste much better. While I was flagellating myself with that coleslaw, I decided that I would call Jane Moore: I had the piece of paper G. Papadopoulos had given me in my wallet. The restaurant had a payphone and I stopped on my way out, fed it a coin, and dialed seven-four-three-one-one-five.

The line was busy. I lit a cigarette and smoked it for a minute and tried again. My call was answered almost instantly.

"You fucking bastard," said a hoarse female voice, "If you call me once again I swear I'll fucking kill you."

Then the receiver on the other end was slammed down so hard it was painful on my eardrum.

I hung up and rubbed my ear and started laughing. I got a couple of curious glances from passers-by when I went out on the street. As I walked, I methodically tore up Jane Moore's phone number and address into confetti-sized pieces. I dropped them into the gutter, where they'd belonged from day one.

Klein had taken Robinson's place at the office. When I entered, he was busy blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. He gave me a lazy glance and said, pointing to my desk:

"I left a couple of letters for you. Can you get them done right away? They have to go out today."

I had planned to hit the Park Pub right after work. But by the time I got back from the post office, I was so tired I wanted nothing but to go home and sleep. Klein noticed that.

He said:

"Hey. You all right?"

"I'm fine. It's just that I had a lot of walking to do today."

"See, that's exactly why you should get a car. We've been lucky with the weather. December and January are bad. You're going to end up with pneumonia, doing all this walking."

"Mr. Robinson told me it will do me a world of good."

"That's horseshit. Know why he said that? He—no, no, I can't tell you that. Take it from me, you're gonna end up sick. Go get yourself a coffee."

I did better than that: I had two. But they failed to pick me up, and after I'd left work and had some essential shopping done, I went straight home.

The adult Noyces were conferring in low voices in the kitchen and the two little witches were watching cartoons: I could hear them squeal and giggle. Julie sounded like she was back in top form. I trudged up the stairs to my room and undressed and unpacked my shopping and collapsed on my bed.

I intended to light a cigarette and get up when it was time to use the ashtray. It didn't work out that way. I fell asleep.

I woke up around two in the morning and activated the pissbottle and drank some water without using my brain even once. Then I went back to sleep.