The Homeless Millionaire

It was grey and raining when I woke up the next day to discover that I'd had a wet dream. I had no recollection whatsoever of what I'd dreamed about, but the evidence was irrefutable: I had been dreaming about sex with beautiful women. I had been scared shitless the previous evening, I was scared shitless the moment I woke up, but in the meantime I had been dreaming about women and sex.

By the time I'd done the bathroom thing, I came to the conclusion that maybe it was an automatic defense mechanism built into the mind: the worse the situation one was in, the nicer the dreams—to keep hopes up, to restore the balance.

It made me wonder about the dreams of the convicts waiting on death row: very few of them committed suicide, and waiting for death was surely as bad or worse than death. Did they have recurring dreams of a last-moment reprieve? No, that was too lame; it had to be something grander. Waiting for death in a prison cell had to produce some pretty wild dreams.

I consoled myself with that thought while getting ready to leave for work. The way I saw it, it was just a matter of time before Detective Moore paid a visit to the office to ask me a few questions. He'd recognized me from the Missing poster, and had made it clear I wasn't one of his favourite people. He'd jump at the chance to get tough with me.

My paranoid pal was having a great day by the time I arrived at the office. As usual, I was a couple of minutes early, which made Robinson very happy. He was practically trembling with impatience to leave.

"Abel's doing poorly," he told me, as I helped him with his coat. "I must visit him today. I have a series of meetings in the afternoon, so I won't be back before five. If you need to nip out to get something to eat, make sure to lock the office, and to return quickly. I left the spare key to the front door on the desk. But really, it would be best if you had something delivered... Hang on a moment... Here."

He gave me a five-dollar banknote, raised his hand in farewell, and left. He was truly a gentleman.

The moment he was out of sight I seriously considered locking the office and hiding somewhere until five o'clock, preferably in a bar, although that could be pushing it a little. I settled for escaping into the annex, from where I could see the front door but could immediately slide out of sight if need be. I expected Moore to show up at any moment. My paranoid pal was present of course, but didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

I couldn't stay hidden for long, however, because for the first time ever the phones started ringing, both Robinson's and Klein's. I took over a dozen messages—one for Klein, to get better soon. In the space of three hours, I answered more calls than I had in the preceding three weeks.

The phones abruptly stopped ringing just after three. It coincided with the sun showing its face for the first time that day: it had stopped raining a while earlier. My inner, superstitious barbarian declared it was a sign: better times were coming! I really was no better than the idiots with chalk on their faces mumbling prayers to a big, dead tree or a rock whose shape appealed to their imagination.

After I finished smoking, I sat down at Klein's desk and tugged on the top drawer. It wasn't locked. It contained two big fat brown envelopes. They had been opened, and they contained a magazine each, latest issue. One of these was a bridal magazine, yet again. The other was a fucking hobby magazine, for people into model trains. It just didn't make any sense.

I put the magazines back and closed the drawer and went to my/Robinson's desk and sat down. Then I called Harry. I'd been holding off on that call because I hoped I would get some kind of idea of what to do about my present situation. But I didn't, and felt like a hopeless nitwit when Harry asked what was up.

"I have no fucking idea," I told him. "I just don't know what to do. Can we get together for a beer tonight?"

"Can't make it tonight, Mike. Some stuff came up. But it should be okay tomorrow. You wanted to meet at that pub on the corner? Near Richard's guesthouse?"

I told him it was called the Park Pub, and that tomorrow evening would be fine. It wasn't, of course. It was one of those fine, no problem bullshit situations. I wasn't sure how I would survive until the meeting with Harry.

"Seven o'clock?" said Harry.

I said seven was just fine, and we disconnected.

Although I'd eaten next to nothing so far that day, I didn't feel hungry. My stomach was knotted tight and it would have taken too much of an effort to force down anything solid. So I made myself what was likely my eighth coffee and drank it while smoking a cigarette. I had gone through almost a whole pack since morning; happily I'd anticipated that, and brought a spare. Without cigarettes, I would've thrown a chair through the front window or went and bashed my head bloody on the toilet tank or done something equally clever.

It was nearing four and dark outside and after a while I stopped worrying so much about Moore: it looked as if he wasn't coming, at least not that day. I relaxed to the point where I pulled the pad closer and picked up a pencil and started drawing Klein.

He was on his knees on the floor, fooling around with a model train set. He was dressed in a splendid bridal gown, with a veil and everything, cut very low in front to show off that sexy chest hair. I had the thought this wasn't the most tasteful thing to do considering his circumstances, but it was funny enough to make me smile.

I was looking at that drawing and smiling when the telephone on my desk rang.

"Robinson and Klein, good afternoon," I said.

No one spoke. All I heard was the low hum of the telephone line.

"Hello?" I said.

No answer.

I disconnected and sat there frowning at the phone for quite a while. I seemed to remember there had been a call like that once before. I wondered if it was the same person and who that could be, and my paranoid pal took this chance to inform me that Schmidt probably had an accomplice. This accomplice would naturally be someone close to Schmidt, and strongly disliked me. He was sure to have come to the conclusion that I should be killed too, or at the very least brought to the cops' attention through an anonymous tip.

It was totally absurd, but it had emotional logic and emotional logic won over real logic and reason every time. My pal was really good at emotional logic. When he sketched out the future flow of events everything made sense, even being both charged with murder and getting killed by Schmidt's deadly accomplice. Maybe he was already waiting for me in jail, put there by something stupid like brawling or beating up on his girlfriend. Maybe that was why I'd managed to fight Schmidt off: it hadn't been two against one.

I was close to crazy when Robinson returned. I was walking around the office and smoking like a maniac and I very nearly screamed when I heard the door opening behind my back. Helping him with his coat had a calming effect.

I asked him about Klein's health, and he shook his head.

"Not very good, I'm afraid," he said. "Not very good at all."

I gave him the message slips, and fucked off to make him tea. He sat down at his/my desk and started calling people so I had an excuse to stay in the annex, smoking cigarettes and looking at my watch every fifty seconds.

At five to six I emerged from my hole, and began hovering in Robinson's vicinity. He was so wrapped up in his call that he took no notice of me until he'd finished talking. It was four past six.

"Yes?" he said, looking at me blankly.

"I was wondering whether you have anything more for me today," I said, as if I'd spent the past hour rushing around to get things done instead of smoking myself stupid in the annex.

"Anything more? Ah, I see, I've completely lost track of time. No, my dear boy, you're free to go home. But actually, I'd appreciate it if you could come in a little bit earlier tomorrow."

"What time would you like me to come?"

"An hour earlier. At eleven. Would that be all right?"

"Yes, absolutely," I said.

"Excellent. One more thing. The mail comes in just after eleven, on most days. Check it to see if it contains one of Abel's magazines. If there are any, please put them in his drawer."

"One of Mr. Klein's magazines? Of course."

Robinson had a well-trained ear and heard the questioning note in my voice. He said:

"Abel has this little business on the side, you see. His wife is an art director and they run a small, ah, advertising agency. He gets the clients, and she does the ads. He gets complimentary copies of the magazines that run the ads."

"I understand," I said, with deep emphasis. "That's fascinating."

"Yes, Abel is a multi-talented man. I really couldn't cope without him. Oh well. I'll see you tomorrow, my boy."

"At eleven. Goodbye."

I was relaxed enough to eat two combos at the A&W. My visit there was reassuring: no one took any notice of me except for the girl that took my order, and she was interested in her fingernails more than she was in me. Her nail polish was cracked and flaking off and when she was punching the numbers into the register she frowned very heavily, as if she were risking life and limb in the line of duty.

I picked up a few things at a convenience store along the way, wishing it sold beer like in Montreal. I bought three Cokes instead: I was planning to smoke at least a couple of joints once I got home, and anticipated getting thirsty.

The Noyces were watching TV as usual, but Birgit ambushed me the moment I got inside.

"Michael!" she said, leaning out of the doorway and waving a piece of paper at me. I took it.

"Jane's phone number," she said. "By the way, you can use the phone for local calls. Long-distance calls too, as long as they're collect."

"Thank you very much," I said. "That's really kind of you."

"Are you planning to get a phone?"

"Once my, uh, financial situation stabilizes, yes," I said.

"Of course," she said. She beamed at me and I beamed back at her and she went back to watching TV with her family.

I went upstairs and put Jane's number on the table without looking at it and undressed, feeling hollow in spite of all the food I'd eaten earlier.

I opened a Coke and rolled a joint and lit it. I was feeling really bitter. Rewards were dropping into my lap in a steady stream, and I wasn't able to enjoy them. I smoked that joint and gradually started to enjoy things, little by little.

When I was done, I picked up the paper with Jane's number. It started with 4–3–1. Right in front, in case I felt inclined to dismiss it.

I flicked my lighter on and put the flame to the corner of the paper. It was beginning to burn in earnest when I changed my mind, and pinched the flame out.

Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to just go along with it. Maybe that number got pushed in my face constantly for a reason. Maybe it was time I got some chalk, and found a dead tree to pray to. Maybe Jane would let me hide behind her sofa when the cops came.

I was reminded of something Voltaire had said. As he lay dying, he was pestered by a priest who urged him to renounce the devil before it was too late. Voltaire said:

"My good man, this isn't a good time to make new enemies."

I definitely didn't need new enemies. I needed new friends.. And so I carefully folded up Jane's number, and put it in my wallet.