The Homeless Millionaire

I slept in very late the next day. I woke up feeling something was very wrong. I checked the time and it was past eleven o'clock and I panicked that I would be late for work. Then I realized that it was Sunday.

But I still felt something was wrong. Things felt strange. The house was deathly quiet: the Noyce gang was out. I immediately did the bathroom thing: I wanted all that to be over and done with before they returned. I was hungry as hell, and since the weather wasn't bad—there was a bit of sun every now and then—I got dressed very quickly and went for a proper hot meal at the Park Pub.

It was half-full and a few people glanced at me when I entered and I just wanted to disappear. I got a pint of Toby and ordered a burger with fries and got another pint when my food was ready. It helped: I stopped feeling as if the sky would fall at any moment.

I told myself that I'd just had my first show and all my pictures had been sold within an hour. I reviewed everything that had happened the previous day, and it was all good, no fuckups.

I'd gotten home about half past six. The Noyces were out, and I'd gone straight up to my room and smoked a couple of joints rolled with the pot Harry had given me. It was good, not as good as the Cambodian stuff but still potent, and it made me feel so tired I went to sleep. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night to use the piss bottle, and falling asleep again the moment I got back into bed.

In many respects, the previous day had been the best day of my life so far. I really had no reason to worry.

Then I remembered something the artist who'd visited my school had said, the guy who'd said working artists didn't experience recessions and economic downturns because there always was a recession in that line of work. He'd also said an artist wasn't really a creator at all. An artist was a lightning rod for all the shit currently going on, a sort of a medium communicating with the collective subconscious.

I'd thought he was talking out of his ass, but maybe there was something there. Maybe I was picking up bad vibes from other people.

That was when my paranoid pal struck. He told me that indeed, I had plenty to worry about. He told me I was a killer and a thief and would always stay a killer and a thief. What I had done couldn't be undone.

I finished my pint and paid up and hit the can and spent a long time washing my hands without looking at the mirror. On the way out of the pub, I called Roch. He wasn't there. His mother told me he'd gone away for a few days with a friend of his—yes, with Michel. He would be back Tuesday or Wednesday.

I thanked her and walked home wondering what Roch and Michel were up to. I was convinced it was something in connection with the stuff we'd stolen, and by the time I got home I'd almost convinced myself that they'd been caught. Being a psychic lightning rod, I'd caught wind of that. This was the reason for my mood.

And I was supposed to feel happy! A dream of mine came true, I should be jumping with joy! I felt so sorry for myself that I was close to sobbing when I went up the front steps.

The door opened before I could get my key out and Birgit said:

"Michael! Where have you been? We missed you yesterday."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't understand." I didn't. I was 100% sure I hadn't made any arrangements to meet with the Noyces. My paranoid pal whispered this was exactly what going mad felt like.

"We went round to the gallery to see your show," Birgit said. "But wait, get in, what am I doing keeping you outside. Come in, and please join us downstairs for a drink. Jane's here."

"Who?"

"My friend Jane. Didn't David tell you about her? He told me he did."

I remembered then that David did indeed tell me about a Jane when we shared a couple of beers in the kitchen.

"He did tell me about her," I said, "But I'm sure he didn't say anything about her being here today."

"Will you come down for a drink?" Birgit said, and there was a dangerous metallic tone in her voice.

"Oh yes," I said. "Of course. Just let me get upstairs and change."

"We'll see you in a bit, then," she said, fixing me with a piercing eye.

"You will."

She finally let me go and I went upstairs and took off my jacket and smoked a cigarette, so angry I was close to frothing at the mouth. I was sick and tired of Janes and Fionas and Birgits. I wanted to get stoned and fool around with pencil. I knew drawing something would calm me down and make me focus and generally make me feel better.

But there was no way I could wriggle out of the visit downstairs, not without making the Noyces enemies for life. I really wanted to smoke that joint though, so eventually I compromised by rolling a couple, and taking them with me.

"He's coming!" I heard Dave shout when I was descending the stairs. He popped out of the kitchen at a strategic moment, erasing any remaining possibility of escape.

"Getting more ice," he said, and grinned and added in a stage whisper:

"Jane's here. You know, Birgit's friend. She's hot." He mouthed the 'hot' soundlessly, as if the mysterious Jane's looks struck men dumb.

"David! Are you coming?" called Birgit.

"I am, I am," sang out Dave, and I followed him into the living room.

Birgit was standing in the centre of the room, and so was the famous Jane. They both looked at me when I came in. Jane was tall and slim and dressed like a cowgirl: flannel shirt, a knee-length jean skirt, and long brown boots. She had frizzy brown hair gathered at the back and pale skin and freckles. She also had huge green eyes and cheekbones that could crack coconuts and full lips that were exquisitely shaped. Like Dave had told me, she was hot.

Birgit did the introductions and we shook hands and I saw that Jane had vamp nails: long scarlet almonds with sharp tips. I didn't know what to say and was saved by Dave, who pressed a triple scotch on the rocks into my hand, and Birgit, who began prattling about what had happened the previous day.

"We went round to the gallery to see your pictures," she told me. "We were there around one and it was so crowded we had difficulty getting in. And then we found out you weren't there! So we left and had lunch and when we went back later, you'd been and gone!"

"I looked at every single picture of yours," chimed in Dave, "They were great. Not just good, great."

"And they all had stickers saying they'd been sold! Is that true?" That was Birgit.

"Yes," I said, squirming with embarrassment. "I'm sorry I missed you. I just felt really tired, and had to leave early."

"Someone told us you left with a gorgeous girl," Birgit said.

"By coincidence, yes. We took separate cabs home," I said.

"But you weren't home when we got in last night. Were you home?"

"I was asleep. I went to bed right away." I took a swig from my glass. It was good old Johnnie Walker and my mood instantly improved a little.

"Give him a break," said Dave.

"Yeah, give the guy a break, Birgit," said Jane, pleasantly surprising me. "If it was your show yesterday, you'd be still having hysterics."

David and I laughed and Birgit had no choice but to join in. I decided this was the right moment to introduce drugs to the party.

It was. I was rewarded with applause and appreciation and a second, meatier scotch the moment I finished my first. Jane made a show of sucking on the joint and looked me in the eyes when she did that and the message was, think what it would be like if I were sucking on your dick. She had very mobile lips and lots of practice throwing that look, and it was deadly.

Dave put on some music, Alvin Lee and Ten Years After, and who knows how things might have developed from there. But the doorbell started ringing and Dave turned down the music and went to answer the door while Birgit and Jane rushed to open the windows and I produced as much legal smoke as I could with my cigarette.

Dave came back, and said I had a visitor.

"It's your friend Harry," he said. His tone indicated that he wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to ask Harry to join the merrymaking.

I quickly saw why. Harry's face was pinched with tension. He didn't want to come in at all. He asked me to walk him back to his car. He waited until we were clear of the house. Then he said:

"A friend of my Dad's from work dropped in on Mum today. To see how she was doing and stuff. I know him well, I used to call him Uncle Don when I was a kid. So we shared a few beers and talked and he told me they had a small breakthrough in the Schmidt murder case."

I stopped and fumbled for my cigarettes and had to ask Harry for one: I'd left mine inside the house. Harry waited until I'd lit it, and said:

"A security guy in a store in some shitty little town told the local cops he'd seen someone answering your description. You know, the one they put out after talking to the two kids at the gas station. Remember? You were still at the cottage when it appeared."

"I remember," I said. I was glad to hear my voice wasn't shaking.

"Well, apparently that security guy said you told him you were headed west. So they're looking for you in Vancouver."

"Jesus," I said. "But they've just finished looking for me as a missing person. They already know my face. They've had it on the wall in every fucking police station only last month."

"I know," Harry said. "Uncle Don wasn't aware of that angle. He's too high up to waste time looking at the missing people posters. Anyway, what I want to tell you is this: if worst comes to worst, I'll say you were at my cottage when Schmidt was killed. Twenty fifth is a good date, it was a Monday and I remember I drove back to the cottage that day. I'll say I stopped to eat at the A&W near the train station and got to talking with you and hired you to help with the roof renovation. It's been freshly done, we've got that to back us up. And then we became friends and you stayed for a few weeks drawing and painting, and we can back that up, too."

"Twenty fifth isn't so good," I said. "I was still in Montreal on the twenty fifth, and some people know that. Can we make it the twenty seventh?"

"I wasn't in town on the twenty seventh," said Harry. "But okay. I'll think of something. Important thing is, we met where we really met, same circumstances, different day. Get it?"

"What about those girls? Those Americans that were with you?"

"They're gone. They aren't a problem. They weren't there. It was just you and me."

"In the good old A&W."

"Yes."

"What time?"

"Let's make it early afternoon. Nice and neutral."

"Okay. I'll have to think of a story, too. And we'll have to get together to make sure our stories fit."

"Call me at my mother's place tomorrow afternoon. I have to do her shopping in the morning. We can meet tomorrow evening, if you like."

"I do."

"Okay. Later."

I went back home and of course I couldn't run and hide, I had to face the Noyces and Jane and they instantly knew something was wrong. So I said Harry and I had this plan I'd really been looking forward to, and that I'd just learned it fell through. They bought it or at least pretended to, and were polite enough not to press for details.

Dave forced me to drink an enormous scotch to improve my mood but it didn't work. I pulled out the second joint and they all got so stoned they didn't mind me leaving.

Jane did seem a little disappointed, but I winked at her when I was saying goodbye and made a point of asking if I could call her sometime. I said I would get her number from Birgit and Jane said it was a very good idea, and did some fancy work with her cigarette. It had no effect on me this time because I was really worried about what Harry had told me.

I spent the rest of the evening going out my fucking mind with fear.