The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up just before dawn the next morning and ran to the bathroom right away because Harry was supposed to pick me up at half past eight. The Noyce bathroom pilgrimage often stretched past eight, and I wanted to be sparkling clean and freshly shaved. It wasn't every day that I visited a police station to make a deposition.

I had come across two promising entries when I was looking through the rental ads the previous evening. I wrote down the phone numbers, hoping that Harry wouldn't have to rush off the moment we were done with the police business. I would be happy to buy him not only breakfast but also lunch and dinner if he agreed to help me with looking for a new place to stay.

When I was brushing my teeth I realized that I'd forgotten to call Detective Moore the previous day to confirm the appointment. It was surprising, actually, that he hadn't showed up by the evening with handcuffs ready. He really seemed to have it in for me.

It started raining just as I was getting dressed to leave the house. I put an extra twenty dollars in my wallet, just in case, and went downstairs. The Noyces had just completed feeding and Dave was putting on his overcoat in the hall, looking at the big mirror in a way that suggested he didn't like what he saw.

"Good morning, Dave," I said, trying to be as chirpy as possible.

"Good morning," he said. It was obvious that it wasn't a good morning for him, and that he resented having to lie.

Birgit chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen, shepherding the little witches. She was intrigued by my early morning presence downstairs. We exchanged good mornings and she couldn't resist asking if I was going out, as if I'd lately taken to wearing my outdoor jacket and scarf around the house.

Of course, what she really wanted to know was where I was headed. I told her a friend was picking me up shortly. I didn't tell her why or who the friend was and I could almost hear her speculations. But she didn't comment, she got the witches dressed to go out and then dressed herself and they all fucked off. Dave had left earlier and had started up the car and was blipping the engine impatiently.

Harry arrived the moment the Noyces drove off: I didn't even have the time to light a cigarette. I put it away and went out and locked the door and ran to the car. It was raining harder and as I got in a thunderclap sounded in the distance.

"Nice day," I said by way of greeting.

"Yeah," Harry said. He put the car in gear and we drove off to the place he'd picked for breakfast: he said it was right next to the police station. It wasn't a long drive, two–three miles, and Harry seemed to be in a mood similar to Dave's.

I could understand that. I probably wouldn't have been in the best of moods myself if I were in his shoes. He had to get up early and drive across town to visit a police station and make a deposition full of lies. It wasn't a nice way to start a day.

The place Harry had picked was spewing people rushing off to work; it looked like a popular breakfast spot. There was a wonderful, homey smell of fried bacon inside. We sat down at a window table—we could actually see the police station across the street—and ordered eggs and bacon and sausages with home fries.

We got served right away and the food was fucking good, it was the best breakfast I had in quite a while: a big step up from bread and corned beef. We opened our mouths solely to shove another load inside, and didn't discuss our forthcoming meeting with Detective Moore until we'd lit cigarettes.

"It's important to keep it simple," Harry told me. "If he starts digging for details, tell him you can't remember. No normal person would remember details from over two months ago. You've just got to be rock-solid on the basic facts. You arrived on the Canadian on Wednesday morning, around nine. You were starving so you went to the A&W at the station for breakfast, and as it happened so did I, on my way to the cottage. We'd met in Toronto at the Stones concert and hit the bars together and had a great time and were delighted to bump into each other again. I needed someone to help me repair the roof and you ended up going to the cottage with me and staying there for a while. You stayed there for so long because, because—"

"Because I felt truly inspired there," I said. "I did a lot of painting and drawing and it culminated in my getting a show at the Space gallery."

"Spot on," Harry nodded. "It all makes sense." He grinned and added:

"Just don't go overboard and tell him about the pot or that business with the assholes who tried to steal it."

"That was a joke, right?" I said.

We lingered over coffee and cigarettes until a quarter to ten and left the restaurant confident we could handle anything Detective Moore threw at us. We crossed the street and went into the police station and lined up to announce ourselves to the cop handling visitors. There were quite a few that morning, we were fourth or fifth in line and I got to report my presence at exactly ten o'clock.

I had half-expected Moore to jump out snorting fire and slipping a knuckleduster onto his hand the moment he was told I was there. But he didn't. We waited for ten minutes, then another ten. It was close on half an hour before a uniformed cop showed up to lead us to Moore's office.

On the way there, it turned out that this cop knew Harry. They had met at one of the charity balls cops threw from time to time to show the public that they were really as sweet and cuddly as teddy bears, except with softer hearts.

The cop told Harry he was really sorry about his father and shook his hand before leaving us in front of Moore's office. Moore was standing in its doorway with his hands in his pockets, talking to a female in a sharp business suit. She was ugly as sin and had a brown leather briefcase and I guessed she was a lawyer.

"Here they are," our cop said to Moore and fucked off, leaving us standing like a pair of dolts. Moore glanced at us and looked at the woman in the business suit and said:

"You're going to get a copy of the report when it's ready. It's not ready yet. Come around in the late afternoon, and I'll make sure it's waiting for you at the front desk."

"I will," said the woman, in a tone that implied she would be bringing a flamethrower. She fucked off and Moore glared at me and said:

"You were supposed to call me yesterday."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

He gave me a look of deep contempt and turned to Harry.

"You're the witness? Harry Gibson?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"I'm sorry about your father. He was a great man."

"Yes, he was."

"I'll have to ask you to wait outside. I'll take his statement first, then it's your turn. Okay?"

Harry shrugged.

"Sure," he said.

I hadn't expected that. Somehow, I'd assumed the two of us would go in together.

"Let's go," said Moore without looking at me and I followed him inside his office. It was larger than I expected and even had a couch set against the wall. I stopped by the chair in front of Moore's desk and remained standing and forced him to invite me to sit down.

He had told me there would be stenographer present but he took down my statement in person. He had a portable typewriter on his desk and he was a pretty good typist, even though he used just two fingers. We went through the preliminaries—name, place and date of birth, addresses in Vancouver and Toronto. I confirmed that I arrived in Vancouver on the morning of Wednesday, September 27th. He wanted the exact time.

"I don't remember," I told him. "I think it was sometime around nine. I don't know."

"Think hard. Before nine or after nine?"

"I don't know."

"How come you don't know? You didn't check the time when you arrived? In a strange city, after a long journey?"

"Maybe I did. I can't remember now. It was over two months ago."

"Interesting," said Moore. I didn't ask why. He seemed disappointed about that.

"The train was late that day," he said finally. "Over half an hour late. You should remember it being late."

"I wouldn't," I said. "I was asleep. The conductor shook me awake a long time after everyone had left the train. I was so groggy I nearly left without some of my luggage."

"I see," said Moore. He typed busily for a while with a small smile that was meant to signal he'd smelled a lie.

We went on, and he constantly pressed for details and I remembered Harry's advice and went hazy whenever he did that. When he asked about the work on the roof, I told him one day was very much like another at the cottage, and that I couldn't give him exact dates.

It made him angry, but there was nothing he could do about it. My statement came to a single page that I read carefully before signing. Then it was Harry's turn and I went out of the police station—it had stopped raining—and walked back and forth across its parking lot, worrying and smoking and splashing water from the puddles. Then I went back in and waited outside the door to Moore's office.

Harry seemed to be inside much longer than I had been. It might have been that it felt longer because I was in waiting mode. I couldn't be sure because in keeping with my assumed character, I didn't check my watch when I went in and out. Anyway, it was nearing eleven when Harry finally emerged.

Moore followed on Harry's heels and gave me the usual glare and said:

"I want you to notify me immediately if you move. We'll be talking again in the near future."

"Why?"

"You'll find out." And with that, he went back inside his room and slammed the door shut.

"What a charming guy," Harry said.

We left the police station and I immediately invited Harry to a very early, very long lunch during which we could compare notes. Unfortunately, Harry was in a hurry. Gina still wasn't feeling hundred percent after her recent bout with flu and had taken the week off; he'd promised her he would see her by noon. So he drove me back home, and on the way he described his Moore experience. Moore had tried to trip him up on little details just like he'd tried to trip me, with no success.

"I wonder why he wants to talk to me again," I said.

"Maybe it's just his exit line. He's one of those assholes that like to make people apprehensive. Some cops are like that."

"He could have a good reason."

"Such as?"

"He might want to confront me with that store security guy in Salmon Arm. Or with those kids at the gas station in Calgary."

"I really doubt that. They'd have to drag them all the way over here, and pay their expenses."

"They wouldn't do that?"

"Extremely unlikely."

I was silent and it must have felt like an apprehensive silence, because Harry said:

"Listen, even if they do, it's still those kids' word against mine."

I had to be happy with that. I asked Harry to drop me off at a convenience store close to my house and bought baked beans and bread and a newspaper. Then I walked home, smoking a cigarette along the way. I decided that I would follow it up with a joint as soon as I was back in my room, look through the rental ads, then nip down to the hallway phone and call promising numbers.

Following that, I'd smoke another joint and paint something. No, I'd start by drawing a caricature of Detective Moore, making him look as nasty and stupid as possible. If he wanted me to see him at the station again, I'd take that drawing with me, and put it up in the toilet.

It was a good plan and it improved my mood until my paranoid pal pointed out that Moore knew I was an artist. He would put two and two together, and would like me even less—much less. I weighed all the pros and cons by the time I was back in my room, and decided that I would do it anyway. I wanted to do it so badly that I put off the newspaper and the phone calls till later.

I made myself a coffee and smoked that joint and got right down to work, feeling talented like hell.