The Homeless Millionaire

Robinson turned out to live not far from Fiona: he had a house on York Avenue in Kitsilano, a neighbourhood named after an Indian chief. It was a neighbourhood worthy of chiefs, with many elegant houses. Robinson's was one of those.

It was a big Victorian job ideal for a horror movie, all spiky and turreted, with a front porch featuring at least half a dozen slender columns. It was an open porch, and I guessed that once upon a time it had been the venue for outdoor parties. It would have been a time when drinking outdoors was only acceptable under a roof.

The front path was paved with large multi-coloured stones: the colours had been selected very carefully. It was flanked by cone-shaped juniper bushes in need of a trim. There were several magnificent trees growing on the grounds; their size suggested they'd been planted when the house was built.

Robinson had told me to come any time between noon and one o'clock. I glanced at my watch when I was getting out of the cab: it was exactly twenty past twelve. Climbing the steps to the porch, I saw that there were two doorbells. One was brass, with a fine chain attached to the clapper. The other was electric, with a white porcelain button set in the middle of a brass rosette.

I pressed that button, expecting a series of melodious chimes. Instead, there was a muffled, businesslike buzz. I waited. I was about to ring the bell again when I heard movement inside the house. The footsteps that approached the door sounded tired.

The door opened and I saw that Robinson was wearing a fucking three-piece suit: trousers, waistcoat, jacket. I was glad that I'd put on my newly arrived black casuals with a proper shirt and tie under my black jumper. I said:

"Hello. I hope I haven't arrived too early."

"My dear boy! Of course not. Come in, come in," said Robinson, stepping back to let me pass. I saw him casting an interested glance at the tube slung from my shoulder. He knew, of course, that I'd brought him a picture. He was curious what it was about.

The hall was all dark wood panelling and ivory paint. A huge dressing mirror stood across from a coat and umbrella stand that mercilessly exposed the bargain-basement pedigree of my Canadian Tire jacket. I caught Robinson giving it a dubious glance when I was hanging it up, although of course he'd seen it many times at the office. It was making a fresh impact in new surroundings.

Robinson led the way into the day room. It was furnished with heavy brown leather armchairs and a sofa that could comfortably sleep a family of three, as long as its members weren't fat or very tall. A real fire was burning in a fireplace whose metal front grate represented hundreds of hours of work of a master craftsman. I couldn't help staring at it and Robinson noticed I was staring at it, so I said:

"Wow. This—it's beautiful."

"Yes," said Robinson. "Well, it was made at a time when people took real pride in their work. What will you drink? A glass of sherry?"

"That would be excellent," I lied. I'd been quietly hoping the pre-lunch drink would be along the gin-and-tonic/scotch-and-soda lines.

"Dry or sweet? I have Amontillado and Bristol Cream."

"Amontillado," I said. "It carries all those nice Edgar Allan Poe associations."

Robinson snorted with laughter.

"Yes," he said. "I suspect Edgar Allan Poe would have liked this house. My dear boy, I know that you've brought me a picture in that tube of yours. Take it out and show me. I'm beside myself with anticipation."

I heard movement upstairs while I was fucking around with the tube and Robinson was pouring drinks. I raised a polite eyebrow while taking my sherry from his hand. Robinson caught on instantly. He said:

"It's my housekeeper. She'll be down in a moment to serve us lunch. Are you hungry, my boy?"

"I've definitely got an appetite," I said, examining the glass. It was tulip-shaped cut crystal. It was a glass that had cost more than a dozen bottles of Amontillado.

"Excellent," Robinson said. He held out his glass to meet mine, adding:

"Here's to the New Year and all that."

The sound our glasses made when they met was a rich, melodious tinkle that promised a very good New Year. I took a large sip of my sherry. It was excellent. Robinson said:

"Well unroll that thing, and let me see it. I'm dying of curiosity."

He seemed to be as curious as a cat sleeping in its basket. I set down my glass and unrolled the drawing, holding it with a forearm across my chest to keep it from curling. I turned around to show it to Robinson.

"Oh," he said. I suspected he'd thought it would be a portrait of himself, or maybe a street view of the Robinson & Klein office. He definitely didn't expect it to be Klein.

His face became stern as he looked at my drawing, and I began feeling that bringing it might have been a bad idea. But then his face melted. It sagged, making him suddenly seem much older; his eyes glistened, and a tear slid down his cheek. He cleared his throat, and said:

"This is wonderful, my dear boy. You've really got great talent. I, I think this is the most valuable gift I've received in a long while. It must have taken you hours to draw that."

"It did," I said. "But I flatter myself that they were well spent."

"They were. They absolutely were. This—my dear boy! I shall put it up in my study. Oh dear. I think I need something a little stronger than sherry. I think I shall have some whisky. Would you like some?"

"Yes," I said, with great alacrity. "May I smoke?"

"Of course you may. There's an ashtray on the table."

The ashtray was old brass, a big triangle with corners decorated by miniature statues of guys resembling ancient Greek gods; a god was guarding your cigarette. The whisky turned out to be Dimple Haig. It was fucking fantastic. That Haig guy, he really knew his stuff.

We began talking about the good old times at the office, and I asked what happened to Shelby.

"Shelby?" Robinson said, frowning. "Ah yes. Shelby! A most precious ass, Shelby. You know, he became infatuated with that girl we had working for us, before you came. She did have a nice voice, I'll admit that. She drank milk all day, my boy. Disgusting. Why are you interested in Shelby?"

"I gathered his own dog shot him when they went hunting. I thought maybe there are more interesting news."

Robinson laughed.

"Do you know, that ass actually blamed the dog," he said. "He gave it away to someone else, and it's an excellent duck dog—people were lining up to take it. Shows how silly you can get. Ah, I think I can hear my housekeeper coming down. She'll want to serve us lunch so that she can go home. Do you mind? It's a little early. It's a cold lunch, so we don't have to start eating right away."

I assured Robinson I didn't mind at all. Robinson raised his glass to that and so did I and he poured us more Dimple Haig. Then he excused himself for a tête-à-tête with his housekeeper in the kitchen.

"Do you like prawn salad, my boy?" he asked when he returned.

I assured him I did, a lot.

"Excellent. Of course there's more to choose from, but that's the crown piece. Shall I refresh your drink?"

Things got quite boozy before we rose for lunch. Before long, we were discussing the philosophy of life. Robinson was reminded of a war episode. He said:

"Well doing a good deed can backfire quite often, my boy, and in a variety of unexpected ways—sometimes, years and years after the fact. I learned recently—but let me start at the beginning. If you remember, I spent most of the war escorting convoys across the Atlantic. On one of those occasions, my ship picked up some Jerries. They were the crew of a German reconnaissance plane that had crashed for whatever reason. They'd spent a couple of days in a rubber dinghy and were close to death by the time we found them. Young boys, the kind of nice boys you wouldn't mind your daughter going out with. And there we were, on opposing sides, trying to kill each other. I thought, every man aboard my ship thought that we were paying back, if just a little, for all the deaths we'd caused. We sank or helped sink quite a few submarines, Michael. We also shot down a few aircraft. I remember one in particular, burning for a long time before it finally hit the water. I remember there were no parachutes.

"There was a fellow among those Jerries we rescued that was particularly pleasant. Am I boring you, my dear boy?"

"No, not at all," I said, very truthfully. I was the opposite of bored. My paranoid pal was smoking a cigarette, like me. He was dressed like me: black slacks, black V-neck sweater, shirt and tie. But unlike me he was grinning from ear to ear. He was about to score a major triumph.

Robinson said:

"If I recall correctly, he was their navigator and radio operator. Definitely not the warlike type. We were on our way back to Halifax and he got packed off to a camp in Canada along with his friends. After the war, he stayed. From what I’d heard he led a blameless life and was a pillar of the community and all that rot.

"He married and begot a son. Not a nice son. A few weeks ago, I found out this son was the infamous Trans-Canada highway killer. He was a truck driver who took hitchhikers and then raped and killed them, or maybe the other way around. So you see my boy, in a sense I'm responsible for that."

"What was his name?" I asked. I did that because I felt I just had to say something. Otherwise, I'd start to whimper or maybe even scream.

"I'm not sure. Wait… Schmidt. Yes, Schmidt. Jerry equivalent of our Smith. Why?"

"I think I read about that in the paper," I said.

"Yes, it was quite the topic for a while… Shall we go and eat?"