The Homeless Millionaire

Detective Moore was looking down at me from the wall when I woke up the next day. I hung him there because I knew seeing him first thing would put me in an excellent mood. I had felt truly inspired drawing him the previous day, and my hand had been totally obedient to my vision.

I drew Detective Moore as the embodiment of ham-fisted, crude stupidity. He wasn't totally stupid in my portrait: he had that small, dangerous bit of intelligence which, married to an animal aggression, made a moron think he was a genius. It was clear that he owed his professional advancement to the kind of dumb luck that drops a drunk bricklayer twenty feet onto a pile of sand. It was almost as if Mr Chance took pity on him, perhaps sensing a kindred soul, and cheated a little in his favor now and then.

But what made that drawing really funny was that it also made clear Detective Moore had no clue what was really going on. Things happened to him, and smoke poured from his ears as he pushed and shoved them into place so that they formed a sequence he could understand. He was the archetypal fool, convinced that his victories were won by his cunning, and not luck. Because he was lucky, fools were always lucky. The cosmos strived for balance in all things.

My drawing said all that and a lot more besides and it made me smile whenever I looked at it, not least because it was good. I was sure it would be a huge hit if I ever did put it up in the men's can at the police station. Moore might even be forced to ask for a transfer. I decided that no matter what happened, that drawing deserved to be put on display. If it didn't get its world premiere in the cops' toilet, I would include it in my spring show at the Space gallery.

The Noyces were preparing to leave and it sounded as if things weren't going well - I heard raised, angry voices, although I couldn't understand what was being said. When they finally fucked off I got up and did my bathroom thing. I spent a long time in the bathroom. It was nice to do everything in an easy, relaxed manner, without any hurry or tension like the previous day.

I returned to my room and drank coffee and smoked five or six cigarettes while staring out of the window. Snow was beginning to fall; every now and then, a snowflake would drift down lazily just outside the window pane, slowly enough for me to have a good close look. They were all different from each other in size and shape and I remembered seeing a drawing of an ice crystal. It formed a perfect pattern that was copied endlessly. Snow was soft ice; each of the flakes I'd watched was composed of those perfect crystals, all exactly the same, and yet the snowflakes were all different.

There seemed to be a lesson of some sort buried inside the snow and it took me three coffees and five or six cigarettes to conclude everything everywhere was composed of the same basic elements. It was one of those brilliant realizations, like discovering the kettle's boiling because the gas is on. I sneered at myself for a while, basking in the glow of approval from my paranoid pal, who seemed to be suspiciously relaxed that morning. It was as if he knew for sure there would be heavy shit coming down in the near future. He didn't need to put in any work, he could take it easy while waiting for the entertainment to commence.

It made no sense. I'd just gotten rid of the Moore menace the previous day. And I'd paid the rent I owed the Noyces. When they'd put the little witches to bed, I slunk down the stairs and ambushed Dave on the landing when he was headed for his pre-sleep bathroom session. Under these circumstances, there was absolutely no chance of him trying to engage me in conversation. He was surprised but happy. Money always made people happy.

I had money, too. I still had eight hundred in my bank account and around fifty in cash after paying off the Noyces. And I still had a check coming from the gallery - that was it! That was what was making my good pal so contented. There would be trouble with that check.

I ate my classic breakfast and it compared very poorly with the breakfast I'd had the previous day and this put me in a foul mood. I smoked a cigarette staring at the Johnnie Walker, and then another thinking a beer might be sensible compromise between my conscience and my need. My conscience won and that made my mood even uglier and I decided I'd go to the gallery and have it out with them over that check.

It wasn't a well-timed move: the snow was thickening fast, and this time it stayed on the ground instead of melting. I got dressed and went out anyway. I was determined to be the blue-eyed man of steel and take the bus and walked all the way to East Hastings. I passed Robinson & Klein along the way. I looked at the dark windows the way I'd look at a dead fish washed up on the beach: sad, but such was life. Life stank, and death stank even worse.

My steel resolve was shattered at the bus stop. I couldn't work out how to get to the gallery - it definitely required changing buses at least once - and there was no one to ask for help. I was completely alone at the bus stop and there were next to no people on the street and very little traffic because by then the snow was coming down like there was no tomorrow. The flakes had grown to the size of small saucers and were so dense I could hardly make out the houses across the street.

It was increasingly obvious that going to the gallery wasn't a good idea. This made me absolutely determined to get there, and I spent an increasingly chilly ten minutes at the bus stop waiting for the bus and another ten trying to hail a cab. The driver was Indian and we exchanged disparaging remarks about the weather and then he really had to concentrate on his driving. Everyone had their headlights on and combined with the snow it felt like interstellar travel, or at the very least a trip to the North Pole.

It took over half an hour to get to the Space gallery and it was expensive. I gave the guy ten bucks and told him to keep the change. It made him happy. Money made people happy. It was time Chaz made me happy. If he didn't, well -

Exactly, sneered my paranoid pal. What will you do then? Sue him? But I wasn't really listening to my friend. I was staring at the Space gallery. It was closed.

I went up to the front door and confirmed it was scheduled to open at ten on weekdays. It was now a quarter past eleven, and it was still closed. Things didn't look good. I shut my eyes and immediately saw Chaz getting aboard a small private plane together with Melanie. Chaz was carrying a big attache case stuffed full of banknotes and they were wearing summer clothes and laughing about all the silly jerks they'd fucked.

"Excuse me?"

I jerked and turned around and saw Melanie. Actually, I saw her nose first: it was as red as the noses owned by Christmas card reindeer. Her lips were white going on grey. I didn't see her eyes, her head was bent as she rummaged inside her bag. She fished out a key ring and I moved away from the door and waited while she unlocked it and went inside. I was already wearing a cap of snow on my bare head so I followed her and stopped right by the door and brushed the snow off my head and shoulders while she took off and hung up her sheepskin coat. She was wearing a fluffy black turtleneck and a long black leather skirt and black boots and her hair stood on end when she pulled off her toque. In spite of all that she looked as dangerous as a half-drowned kitten. She looked deeply unhappy, as a matter of fact. She looked as if her own paranoid friend had kicked the shit out of her that morning.

She was so engrossed in her own misery that she took no notice of me at all. I watched her fuck around with the coffee maker and then turned my attention to the walls and saw that my pictures were gone, all the pictures from the show were gone. They had been replaced by a motley collection of paintings and drawings by various artists I didn't know, and didn't want to get to know. I wanted to get my check. Money made people happy. I wanted to be happy. There was nothing wrong with that.

I lit a cigarette and waited until Melanie had settled down behind her counter with a mug of coffee. She deigned to look at me then and I looked back and we were about to exchange good mornings when the phone on the counter started ringing. Melanie picked up the receiver without taking her eyes off me and said 'The Space, good morning' in a mournful voice. I walked up to her and smoked and listened to her say 'yes' twice and 'no' once before saying goodbye. When she put the receiver down, I said:

"Good morning. Even though it's not a really good morning."

"It's awful," she said. After a pause, she added:

"And to think I used to love snow when I was a kid."

I really wasn't interested in her childhood memories. I said:

"I've come to collect my check. If you've got it."

"Oh," she said. It was instantly clear she did not. She put on a little show to buy time, opening and shutting a couple of drawers while frowning as if it was a task demanding utmost concentration. Then she said:

"I haven't got it. It must be in Chaz's office."

"Great," I said. She didn't move and didn't look at me. She developed a sudden interest in her fingernails. I looked and saw some of her black nail polish had indeed flaked off.

"You'll have to paint them again," I said. "But could you get my check first?"

"Oh but I can't. I can't go inside Chaz's office, not when he isn't there. He'd bite my head off. It's locked, anyway."

"You don't have the key?"

"I do. But like I said, he'd kill me."

"Why?"

She actually smiled at that and I felt like reaching out and grabbing her tousled hair and banging her face on the counter. She said:

"Well, Chaz sometimes leaves stuff lying around he doesn't want anyone to see. Know what I mean?"

"No," I said. "What is it? Dismembered corpses waiting for disposal?"

"Oh no. Just... stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like a bag of weed."

"Really?"

"Really. He gets forgetful sometimes."

"Very true," I said heavily. "Very true."

"But he has your check ready for you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I printed it. I printed checks for you and Corinne and Jimmy. You know, the artists you shared the show with."

"When was that?"

"Yesterday morning."

"So what do I do now?"

She considered that for a while, and said:

"I think it's best if you wait. If you can, of course. Chaz will be here by noon. And I know he wants to talk to you, anyway."

"Could I get a cup of coffee?"

"Sure."

I spent the next half an hour smoking and drinking coffee. It felt as if I was smoking and drinking coffee all the time. I probably did it in my sleep. I looked at the pictures on display and thought they were shit. But when I brought up the mental images of my own stuff for comparison, they were shit as well. The coffee tasted of shit, and so did my cigarettes.

I had just made up my mind to have a serious conversation with Johnnie Walker the moment I got home when Chaz breezed in. He was miraculously clean of snow - it was falling heavier than ever - and he grinned from ear to ear when he saw me.

"Hey, hotshot," he said. "Hang on a minute."

I did. I was becoming pretty good at hanging on. Chaz conferred with Melanie for a couple of minutes while I pretended to look at the pictures. Then he walked over to me and punched my shoulder before shaking my hand and saying:

"Come with me. I've got a nice surprise for you."

"I love nice surprises," I said. He laughed and walked up to the door to his office and unlocked it.

"Half a sec," he said to me and opened the door and put his head inside. He must have spotted the surprise, waiting patiently, because he glanced at me and said:

"Come on in."

He went inside and I followed, looking for surprises. I could see none. In fact, everything looked very neat and orderly. After what Melanie had told me, I half-expected to see at least some evidence of debauchery.

Chaz went around his desk and opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope and held it out to me. I reached for it and he snatched it back and said:

"Wait. Sit down. I have something important to say to you." He pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

I sat down and so did he and after some grinning he said:

"Now listen to me very, very carefully. I want to see you exactly a month from now. I want you to bring at least twenty pieces that will blow my mind. You're to stay at home and work and work. You're allowed one free evening a week to get laid, but that's it. No, not one a week, one every two weeks. I want you feeling horny and lonely and unhappy and working your ass off. You're going to do fantastic stuff."

My eyes were on that envelope while he was saying that. He noticed and waved the envelope around and said:

"I have half a mind to keep this until you deliver. Because the moment I give it to you, you're going to bank it and then get fucking obliterated. I know you will. You're going to have a heart attack after drinking a gallon of assorted alcoholic beverages and smoking half a pound of pot and snorting two ounces of coke. Or you'll walk under a bus while concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Or something. Remember Jimmy?"

"What? Who?"

"Jimmy Carr. The guy who shared the show with you."

"Yeah."

"He got his check yesterday. This morning, I got a call he's in hospital with a broken leg. Multiple fracture. Jimmy likes to go all the way, so while he was breaking his leg he also sprained his wrist and cracked his jaw and lost a couple of teeth. He's in hospital eating through a straw. He's out of commission for a couple of months and if you do this to me, I'll come to the hospital and smother you with your fucking pillow. You understand?"

"What happened to Jimmy? Did he walk under a bus?"

"No. He was at home and trying to get to the can and there were some stairs along the way. See what I mean?"

"I think I do," I said.

"Good," said Chaz. He threw the envelope at me. I tried to catch it but I was late and batted it away instead and had to get up to pick it off the floor.

I couldn't wait. I opened it right away, standing with my back to Chaz. I pulled out the check. It was big and crisp and clean and beautiful, with the gallery name and address printed in a typeface meant to induce an aesthetic orgasm.

But the most beautiful thing about it was the number. It was printed by a check printing machine, with digits made up of multicolored wavy lines to prevent forgery. The number was 1664.31, and under that were the words one thousand six hundred sixty four dollars and thirty one cents.

"Oh fuck," I said.