The Homeless Millionaire

My hangover kept me busy for the first couple of hours after waking up the next day. I drank a series of coffees made with the help of my new kickass drip coffeemaker. I paid three carefully spaced visits to the bathroom, performing a different set of functions each time, but always ending each visit by brushing my teeth. I forced myself to eat breakfast - it wasn't easy - food kept threatening to jump out of my plate, and punch me in the face. Doing anything at all, even something as simple as tapping the ash of my cigarette into the ashtray, was a complex, multi-layered task.

Going for a stroll with Johnnie Walker was exhilarating, but like all the nice things in life it didn't come free of charge.

It was actually good that dealing with the hangover handicap kept me busy, because I had an excuse not to look at the portrait I had painted. I was afraid it would turn out to be shit. I knew from sad personal experience that something which felt divinely inspired when I was drunk frequently turned out to be shit the next day. I managed not to look at that painting, not even once, for nearly three hours, the last hour spent standing by the open window smoking until I'd finished the pack.

I got a fresh pack from the carton I'd bought and saw that I'd managed to go through three packs the previous day. I had a shopping trip scheduled, and briefly wondered whether it wouldn't be a good idea to do it right away, thus postponing looking at that painting for another couple of hours. But I was supposed to get some stuff for Birgit, and I'd told her I'd be leaving around noon. She was to leave a list on the hallway table and I was sure I didn't hear anyone go down to the ground floor, as yet - just some weary shuffling between bedroom and bathroom.

I eyed the bottle a few times: there were a couple of fingers of scotch left, exactly the right amount for a pick-me-up. But I really needed to look at the portrait stone cold sober. Being hungover was okay, being hungover was beneficial in fact. Being hungover made every mistake appear twice as large. It was very helpful in making an accurate evaluation of what my creation was really worth.

I had put the painting face down on my sketch pad, after it had dried. I lit a fresh cigarette and told myself to be a brave boy and reached out and flipped it over.

It was still fucking good. It was too good, in fact. It was the kind of picture that was perfect for exhibition at a gallery, but wouldn't work well as a Christmas present. Christmas presents were supposed to make people feel good. Fiona's father wouldn't feel good when he saw evidence that some kid he hadn't even met had thrust a hand down his throat, and dragged out everything that was supposed to stay secret out into the open.

He wouldn't hang this portrait on his wall. He'd hide it somewhere deep in a drawer and do his best to forget about it.

I had to tone it down a little. It was Thursday, and I still had a couple of days, plenty of time to paint another, gentler take on Fiona's father. It wouldn't be hard; making something worse was pretty easy, much easier than making it better. That was likely the reason why everything had to go downhill sooner or later.

I spent the next half an hour congratulating myself and generally jerking off on being talented. I felt this entitled me to a celebratory drink, and I emptied the bottle into a glass and sipped scotch and smoked and listened hard. Birgit didn't go downstairs to leave her list for me until it was almost exactly noon. She barely made the deadline.

I got dressed and got my wallet and counted my cash. I had spent plenty, but I still had plenty left. I went downstairs as softly and swiftly as possible and saw that Birgit hadn't left me a list. She'd written a three-page script with detailed instructions and explanations. Almost an entire page was devoted to a transcript of her latest phone conversation with the doctor, and the arrangements they'd made. He would drop off his prescription at a pharmacy on East Hastings Street. The Noyces had an account there, and I could collect the prescribed drugs without paying anything provided I used the secret codeword: the Noyce name followed by a number.

She even wrote what I was supposed to say at the pharmacy, word for word. 'Tell them: "I have come to collect dr. Rayne's prescription for the Noyce family. He dropped it off this morning around eleven." It would be best if you talked to Mr. Anthony Fraser, he manages the place and he knows us personally.' It was incredible.

I folded that three-page operating manual and put in my pocket and went out. It was great to get out of the house. It wasn't raining and it was cold just enough to make it bracing without being chilly. I hoofed it down to the pharmacy - it was a full mile - and spoke the magic words and was rewarded with a pretty large bag half-full of little boxes and bottles and plastic containers. Then I hit a supermarket nearby and by the time I was done with shopping for myself and the Noyces I was easily carrying thirty pounds, if not more.

Birgit had left a twenty to cover her shopping expenses but I couldn't be bothered to fuck around with two separate checkouts, I just made sure to get the cash register receipt with everything itemized. It took me a while to carry all that stuff home. I had to take a couple of breaks along the way, smoking a cigarette and looking at the sky and wondering when it would start to rain. It did just as I was turning into the last stretch and could already see the house.

I trotted up to it in a hurry, head bent, and thus didn't see Detective Moore until I was about to climb the front steps. He appeared from behind the corner of the house, walking fast and with his eyes fixed on me. I went up the steps and put all those fucking bags down and flexed my fingers and waited for him to join me.

When he did, he immediately became unpleasant. He didn't waste his time on good mornings or any of that stuff.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone in," he said in a tone that accused me of planning to break in.

"They're all down with the flu," I told him. "They're so bad I have to do their shopping for them."

"Ah," he said. He had been eyeing the bags and probably thinking about digging through their contents, just in case.

"I want to see you tomorrow," he said. "At the station, ten sharp. It's best if you come in ten minutes earlier. I understand you're not bound by office hours any more."

He delivered that last line with a sneer. I sneered back and said:

"It's best if we put it off till Monday. I am delivering the painting commissioned by Fiona McKay Saturday afternoon, and I haven't finished it yet."

"Now look here - "

"No, you look here," I interrupted. "You seem to have some sort of a personal vendetta going against me. You haven't even told me what all this is about. What is it about?"

He liked that. It gave him the perfect opening for his killer line. He gave me his hard cop stare and said:

"It's about a murder."

I grinned at him and said:

"You're suggesting I shot those two policemen last week? It's insane."

It was insane and it wasn't what he'd been suggesting and it put him on his back foot. He glared at me, and said:

"No, it's not about that. But why would you come to that conclusion? It makes one think."

"That's good," I said, and instantly saw that I'd gone too far. He reddened with anger. I said quickly:

"It was all over the news last week. And I read that practically the whole police force is working on that case. So that was the first thing that came to my mind. I'd been thinking about it quite a lot, actually. It's a real tragedy."

"I told you I wanted to talk to you before that happened," he said. I shrugged.

"So you did," I said. "But you never told me why."

"I want you to make a formal statement specifying the date and time of your arrival in Vancouver. You said you have a train ticket that confirms it?"

"I did," I said. "But I've found out in the meantime that I don't. I must have thrown it away. I'm sorry."

He loved that.

"You don't have any confirmation of when and how you arrived here?" he said, with a new gleam in his eye.

"Well, I don't have the ticket. But I have a witness."

"A witness? Someone you were traveling with on the train?"

"No. A friend I met right after arriving. He'll confirm everything for you. As a matter of fact, I think it's best if I bring him with me to the station."

"Who is he? What's his name?"

"His name is Harry Gibson. We met in Toronto last July. Actually, you might know him. His father was a captain with the Vancouver police. He died a few weeks ago. Harry told me he knew several policemen that were friends of his father's. Do you know him?"

He did, or at the very least he'd heard about Harry. I could see it in his face. But he wouldn't admit that. He said:

"You'd better bring your friend."

"I will. But could we please make it Monday? I'm not even sure if he's in town. He said the roof was leaking at this cottage his family have on an island in the bay. He was going to fix it this week. If he's there, there's no way I can reach him. He is sure to be back on Sunday, though."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's at his mum's house every weekend."

Moore's attitude was improving slightly with every extra detail. He likely knew about the cottage. He definitely knew about Harry's father's death. Who knew, he even might have been present at his funeral. He said:

"All right. But we'll make it ten o'clock Tuesday, not Monday. You'll call me Monday to confirm. If I'm unavailable, leave a message."

"Okay," I said.

"I'll see the two of you Tuesday, then."

He actually nodded goodbye when he left. Things were improving between me and Detective Moore. Who knew, maybe it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I unlocked the door and opened it and picked up those fucking bags and went in. The first thing I saw was Dave, shakily descending the stairs with one hand gripping the railing.

"Hi," he croaked. "Someone was trying to get in. It wasn't you, was it? Who was it?"

"Someone with a message for me," I said.

"Oh. We thought it was one of those Jehovah's witnesses. They get active around this time of the year for some reason, last year there was this couple that came around three times before I hammered it into their heads we didn't feel like switching faiths. But that guy actually went round the back to knock at the back door. Jehovah's witnesses don't do stuff like that."

"I'm sorry about that. I'll tell the guy to be a little more well-behaved in the future."

"Never mind all that. I see you're brought in plenty of stuff."

"Yes. A lot of it is yours. Where shall I put it?"

"Just leave it where it is. I'll deal with it a little later."

He retreated back upstairs. I gathered what I'd bought for myself, and carried it up to my room. After unpacking it and undressing and having some of the coffee still left in the jug of the coffeemaker, I opened the second fourty-ouncer of Johnnie Walker and drank a glass, smoking and ruminating on the latest developments.

I had to call Harry, that was for sure. I didn't fancy using the Noyces' phone; it would have to wait a day. I had another, long look at the portrait of Fiona's father. It definitely needed a bit of softening.

I'd bought a big coil of Polish sausage and I had some of that with cold baked beans and bread. Then I sat down with pen and paper and the receipt and calculated how much change I owed the Noyces from the twenty. It came to twenty one cents. Birgit, in spite of her flu, had kept a clear head for calculating. So I did some calculating too, and added the money I owed for back rent. It left me with just over thirty bucks in cash. I definitely hadn't wasted any time spending most of the two hundred I'd taken from Robinson's check.

This reminded me I had another check coming, and that I had to visit the Space gallery on Saturday. The prospect of receiving money for my pictures made me feel like a professional artist, and I engaged in some pleasant mental masturbation over a joint.

Then I cleared and set the table for action, and got down to work.