The Homeless Millionaire

When you're sitting with a beautiful girl in a private room at a swanky restaurant and that girl asks you about your plans for the evening - well, that's the moment you should roll over onto your back, tail wagging wildly.

Unfortunately, over the past hour my stomach had been sending me increasingly strong signals that it was upset about my recent diet. It didn't like the brandy and soda I'd had earlier even though the brandy really had been top quality. It didn't like me reading the menu and ordering food, it was preparing to lodge a strong protest through the usual channels. So I said:

"My plan for the evening is to lie down and try to get my breathing and heartbeat right. I really got hammered last night. I'd spent four days in a very intimate relationship with your father and I needed to flush it out of my system. He isn't my father, you understand. It was stressful."

She didn't understand, and I couldn't blame her. So I gave her a basic translation in simple English:

"This is the first time I've done a portrait on commission and it scared the fuck out of me. Excuse me, but can you tell me where the washroom is? I left my compass at home."

She laughed and gave me the directions in a very friendly manner. It had pleased her greatly to hear I'd been scared shitless of fucking up the portrait. Telling someone you were afraid of them was a surefire way to make them feel friendly. And if they tried to exploit that and got unpleasantly heavy, the subsequent kick in the crotch worked twice as well, too. I hated to admit it, but I'd learned a lot of tricks from my father the professional diplomat.

The washroom was mercifully empty and there were no witnesses to my humiliation over the toilet bowl. I retched for what seemed like a small eternity, then spent another small eternity coughing and spitting. Someone entered the washroom just as I was flushing the toilet for the third time, and I had no choice but to exit the cabin and confront myself in the mirror over the hand basin.

The guy that had entered was hidden in a cabin that didn't quite muffle his fart and the subsequent tinkling in the toilet bowl. I thanked Mr Chance for keeping him out when I was throwing up, and washed my face with cold water. I really wished I had a toothbrush and toothpaste with me, or at least some chewing gum. I rinsed my mouth twice and gargled discreetly but not discreetly enough, because a voice from the cabin drawled lazily:

"Too much social lubricant?"

This was followed by the sound of the toilet flushing, and the guy who had spoken emerged from the cabin. He was a young guy, around my age. He was wearing a suit of dark grey tweed with rusty accents and his tie had that dent below the knot which is the designated spot for an expensive tie pin. This guy's tie pin was a pearl clasped in silver.

It was discreet and in good taste and so was the rest of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had stylishly cut blond hair and a face with regular, pleasant features that somehow stopped short of being handsome. It was flawless, it hadn't been marked by life yet. The absence of any flaws made it bland.

However, he did have interesting eyes. They had that special shine that suggested the brain behind them had been thoroughly pickled in alcohol. I said:

"Were you eavesdropping? That's not nice."

He laughed at that and began to wash his hands in the basin next to mine and said:

"I actually came inside earlier, and then stepped out for a while. I could tell you wanted some privacy. Can you tell Fiona Robert says hi?"

"Sure," I said. "I'll write her a note if I find it difficult to speak."

"Nice," he said. I glanced at him and saw that he was busy examining his teeth in the mirror. I went out.

I walked back to the private room doubly aware of glances that were directed my way. It seemed showing up in Fiona's company guaranteed lots of attention. It seemed Vancouver was a small town after all, and that it might have been better to let Fiona view the portraits in my humble home.

Gregory had delivered the goods in the meantime, and Fiona was busy with a prawn cocktail that had been served in a silver goblet. My veal and rice steamed dangerously. I sat down and delivered the message from Robert of the washroom and it was acknowledged by a careless soft grunt. Fiona appeared to be really enjoying her prawn cocktail. I sat and stared at my full plate, feeling like a general about to do battle against impossible odds. I took a small sip of wine and waited for a newsflash from my stomach and it issued a cautious pass.

"Robert is my cousin," Fiona said, dabbing her lips with her napkin. She pushed the plate with the goblet a couple of inches away from her and drank a sip of wine and asked:

"Why aren't you eating? Doesn't look good?"

"It looks dangerous and daunting," I said. "But I'm a tough guy, I can handle it." I loaded a couple of grains of rice on my fork and put them in my mouth.

"You never told me anything about your family," said Fiona. "What does your father do?"

That was a trick question I'd often run into in Europe. In North America, people usually asked what you did; in Europe, they asked about your parents. What your parents did determined who you were. In Europe, self-made men were regarded with a condescending suspicion, like kids that had been stealing candy from the store. I said:

"He's a civil servant."

"Aren't we all," Fiona said. "What does he do?"

"He's a professional liar in the diplomatic corps," I said. My stomach sent a signal that boiled rice was okay, but to go easy on the white sauce.

"A spy?" Fiona said. She must have been reading James Bond novels.

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"Brothers, sisters?" It seemed she wasn't interested in my mother. I said:

"I have an older brother who is a major pain."

"Older brothers usually are."

Gregory chose that moment to enter with Fiona's grilled chicken breast but that didn't stop her from grilling me. She fired off a new question after every mouthful. It almost felt like being interviewed for a much-coveted job. My paranoid pal got active. He told me I was being vetted for a partnership position. It would be a junior partnership of course, I would be like poor Prince Philip in England who was married to a queen but would never become king.

I managed to eat most of my veal as this went on but told Fiona I'd pass on dessert and coffee and brandy. Halfway through her profiteroles, she asked me what I was doing next. Was I going straight home to lie down and practice breathing?

"No," I told her. "I have to go round to the gallery. They might have a check for me."

She drove me there after we left the restaurant. I think she was expecting me to ask her to go in with me, but I didn't. I thanked her profusely for the lunch and told her I was beside myself with joy that she'd liked the portrait and asked if it was okay for me to call and find out whether her father liked it, too.

She sounded a little disappointed when she gave me permission to call. She told me to take care of myself and took off and left me standing on the pavement with night falling fast and the veal in my stomach having a serious argument with the rice about the white sauce.

I went inside the gallery and there were quite a few people milling around and I saw that almost all the pictures had orange SOLD stickers, not just mine. Chaz seemed to be one hell of an art dealer. He wasn't around; a frazzled Melanie told me he was busy selling pictures in a bar. She also told me she had the flu and couldn't wait to get home before she revealed there was no check for me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Do you want to talk to Chaz? That place is just a couple of blocks away, I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

I told her I wasn't feeling well either, and wanted to go home as much as she did. We agreed I'd call middle of next week: Melanie was sure my check would be ready by then.

I had a new two hundred in my wallet and another eight in the bank, so I had no reason for worry. But it was a clear warning that Mr Chance was changing tack, so I caught a cab home right away. It cost a small fortune. My paranoid pal was happy to exploit this opening and when I finally got to my room, successfully avoiding any contact with the Noyce gang, I undressed and lay down on my bed and started worrying about money.

After a while I got up and made myself a mug of tea - it wasn't so bad if I put in three teabags at a time. I sat at the table and sipped my bitter tea and did more worrying and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I comforted myself with the thought that Klein had told me Space was guy that could be depended on. But my paranoid pal was quick to point out that Klein was presently in hospital and generally in poor shape and that this wasn't exactly a great advertisement for his powers of judgment. Being a great real estate agent wasn't a guarantee of being a great judge of people, my pal said.

I was too tired to fight my pal's bullshit.. I ran a quick raid on the bathroom and brushed my teeth and went straight to bed.