The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up the next day totally ghosted out because all night I'd been dreaming about my family.

I could remember a series of absurd scenes that had absolutely no connection with anything that had really happened.

The four of us were sitting at an outdoor table in a cafe somewhere in Europe, all silent and looking everywhere but at each other.

My father was trying to unblock a toilet (I'd never seen him do that in real life) while wearing a smoking jacket; my mother was watching him with her arms crossed over her chest.

The three of them—father, mother, Josh—were walking barefoot along a deserted sandy beach. I was walking a few steps behind them. They never turned around to look at me although I wanted them to. I glanced at my feet and saw that I was wearing cowboy boots. It felt as if I'd committed a crime.

That was the last scene I remembered from my dreams. It was still in my head when I woke up, and it fucked up my day even before it began. Yeah, I'd committed a crime, several in fact. It was a mystery why Moore hadn't already shown up at the office with a couple of uniformed cops in case I resisted arrest.

It was on my mind all morning and it was one of those situations that turn people into nutjobs who believe they can shape reality with their thoughts. Because when I got to the office and was just about to go in I saw Moore was inside, engaged in a conversation with Robinson.

Moore's cop radar must have been on full alert because he turned and glanced at me the moment I made up my mind to quietly slither away, and hide. I had no choice but to go in as if everything was fine.

So I went in and wished everyone good morning and hung up my jacket feeling Moore's eyes drill a hole between my shoulder blades.

"Michael, my boy," said Robinson the moment I turned around. "Detective Moore here would like to talk to you. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," I said, approaching them: they were standing by Klein's desk. I stopped and looked Moore straight in the eye and said:

"Talk away."

He seemed slightly off balance and I realized that I was wearing my most ferocious scowl. I had been very careful about keeping it off my face at the office, and when I permitted myself a glance at Robinson I saw he was taken aback, too. Most likely I looked the way killers look when they are caught.

"You're from Toronto, aren't you? When did you arrive in Vancouver?" Moore said.

"Back in September."

"When in September?"

"End of the month."

He liked that a lot, a glint appeared in his eye. He said:

"On the thirtieth?"

"No," I said. "Earlier than that. The twenty seventh, I think."

"You think?"

"I can check."

"How did you get here?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did you travel? Plane, car, bus?"

"By train."

"What?"

"Train. I still have the ticket lying around somewhere. It has the exact date."

"You took the train all the way from Toronto?"

"No, from Montreal. I was traveling on the Canadian."

That threw him, and he took instant revenge by saying:

"I need to talk to you down at the station. With a stenographer present. It's best we do it right away."

He was turning to Robinson to ask his permission to take me away when I said:

"I'll be glad to help you, but right away just isn't possible."

He whirled round as if I'd stuck a pin in his backside.

"Oh really? And why?"

"Because I'm waiting for an important call from a collector who wants to commission a painting from me. I can come over right after I'd had that talk, if Mr. Robinson lets me. It's just the two of us in the office, lately, and he might need me here."

Robinson took the hint instantly.

"It really would be most inconvenient," he drawled. "My partner is in hospital, as a matter of fact I was planning to see him today. I need Michael here while I'm away."

Moore had smoke coming out of his ears when he said:

"What's all this crap about being commissioned to do a painting? You expect me to believe that?"

"As a matter of fact, you should," said Robinson. He sounded as if he was reproaching a cat for spilling the milk.

"Michael here is an accomplished artist," he said. "He has a show running at a gallery. I gather it's a great success."

"Really," sneered Moore. He gave me a glare, and said:

"What's the name of that collector? The person you say has commissioned your painting?"

"Fiona McKay."

It hit him right between the eyebrows, went through his head, then turned around and bonked him on the cranium. He blinked and looked completely retarded for a moment. It was very obvious Moore knew the name McKay very well. I had the thought that he could be one of the people sitting in Fiona's father's pocket.

I said:

"You can call and check, if you like. I have her phone number."

That finished him off. He was silent for a few seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Robinson stifle an evil smile before turning away to face the window.

"You can give it to me when you're making a deposition at the station," Moore said eventually. "And I'd like to see that train ticket."

"Of course," I said. "When would you like me to come?"

He came close to grinding his teeth.

"I suppose you need him at the office during the day?" he said to Robinson.

"Absolutely," said Robinson, without deigning to turn around and look at Moore.

"My partner's gravely ill," he said. "I have to handle all his appointments as well as mine. I'm usually out all day once Michael comes in."

This time, Moore did grind his teeth. I heard it.

He gave me his nastiest glare, and said:

"We'll have to do it in the evening. I have to check my schedule. I'll call to give you the time and address."

"It would be best if it were between six and seven," Robinson said to the window. "That way, I could drop Michael off at the station in my car."

"I'm going to call later today or tomorrow," Moore said, and gave me a final glare and added:

"You'd better be here."

"I'll be here," I assured him.

He stormed out without saying goodbye, slamming the door hard. Robinson broke his contemplation of the view outside, and frowned at the door.

"What an unpleasant man," he said. "I expect it's the nature of his work. Michael?"

"Yes?"

"You really took the train all the way from Montreal?"

"Yes."

He sighed.

"It's one of the things I've always wanted to do," he said. "Ride the train all across Canada, from coast to coast. Never found the time, something was always popping up."

It was my turn to take the hint.

"It was a spur of the moment decision," I said. "I'd just decided not to go to college—I told you about that—and this guy was trying to sell his ticket outside the train station. He was desperate, he couldn't get a refund because he'd changed his mind too late. I guess I felt that since I was throwing my life away, I might as well go all the way."

"What really made you change your mind about college?" asked Robinson. "I must admit I'm curious."

I took a deep breath and said:

"It was the general atmosphere. I went there to attend my first class and got there early and sat on a bench for a while. And it dawned on me that I didn't want to attend classes for the next few years while other people told me how I should paint. And the people there, everyone I saw seemed to have this air of smug superiority. I just couldn't imagine staying there year after year. It was too depressing. So I got up from that bench and walked away and kept walking without thinking where I'm going and found myself in front of the train station with a guy begging me to buy his ticket at a huge discount. So that's what I did."

"I suppose that's how this whole missing person business came around."

"Yes."

"Hmm."

Robinson left soon after that and the moment he did I grabbed the phone, and called Harry.

"Harry," I told him," I've just got to see you and tell you about something. Won't take long, ten minutes tops. But we have to get together today."

He had already planned an evening with Gina, his girlfriend: she'd recovered from her flu, and sex was on the menu. But he could stop by the office later that afternoon. He was taking the car to the supermarket to do some shopping for his mother, and he'd make a detour to see me.

I waited, walking in circles around the office and drinking coffee and smoking like a maniac. I had forgotten to bring a spare pack, and had to lock the office and run to the closest store to buy cigarettes. They'd run out of Rothmans and I bought a pack of Craven A and ran back to the office reflecting that Mr. Chance was throwing me one lousy roll after another. I hoped he would change his act soon.

Harry showed up around an hour later. I told him what had happened earlier, and concluded:

"So I arrived here late on the twenty seventh, aboard the Canadian. That's why we met at the fast food joint next to the railway station. But it wasn't our first meeting. We'd met before, maybe when you were visiting Toronto, and we became friends. So when you saw me again and I told you I had no place to stay you invited me to the cottage. Make sense?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully a few times.

"It does," he said. "I was in Toronto this summer. In July, I saw the Stones at Maple Leaf Gardens."

"You're shitting me."

"No. Why?"

"Because I saw that show too."

"Great. So that's how we met. At the show, and later went for drinks at a series of bars. With hazy memories as a result, please don't ask for details."

"That sounds good."

"Yeah. So this Moore guy wants you to make a deposition at the station, eh?"

"A deposition?"

"You told me he mentioned a stenographer. That means a formal statement that you'll have to sign afterwards."

"I see."

"Okay, I gotta run. It all sounds good. Tell that Moore asshole there's someone who can confirm you were already in Vancouver a couple of days before, before you know what."

"Great. Thanks so much."

"See you."

"Hey, Harry."

"What?"

"How did you like the show? I mean the Stones."

"I thought they sucked."

I laughed.

"Oh man," I said. "You're the first person who agrees with me on that."

"Great minds think alike," he said, and fucked off.

I spent another couple of hours smoking cigarettes and waiting for Moore to call and tell me when I was supposed to report at the station. I was also waiting for Robinson to return. I hoped he would let me go home early, and that I would be able to sneak upstairs undetected and spend the evening stoned, drawing stuff. I needed to shelter in my own world. Mr. Chance was coming up with one poor roll after another and it was best to wait it out hidden inside my room.

Moore didn't call and Robinson was actually a few minutes late, apologizing profusely for keeping me past office hours.

"Did Moore call?" he asked.

"No."

"Very good. Maybe he won't bother you again. Why does he want to talk to you? Is it about that missing person business?"

"I assume so. I can't think of any other reason."

I got home and to my room feeling bad about that lie. I wanted to stop thinking about it so I smoked a joint and grabbed my pad and a pencil and drew Moore.

He looked good: I gave him horns and added a discreet forked tail. Then I drew Robinson hovering above him with a pair of angel wings attached and a wicked-looking spear he was about to bury in Moore's back. Then I drew Harry and myself, standing to the side and watching the scene with beers in our hands and silly grins on our faces.

I put a lot of work into that drawing: it was very finely done, and it was completely stupid. It was quite late before I finished; I kept taking breaks to let my hand rest, it was really out of shape.. Then I looked at the drawing for two cigarettes and tore it up and threw the bits out before going to bed.