The Homeless Millionaire

I wanted to present my stuff properly to Chaz. I'd worked out the sequence in which I'd show him the pictures I'd brought. But Chaz held on to the tube as he led the way to his office.

I followed him inside still trying to think of a good way to ask him to give me my fucking tube back. But he used it to sweep everything on his desk to the side, overturning a mug that held a bunch of pens, pencils, and so on. A fat marker rolled off the desk and fell to the floor.

I bent to pick it up and found myself eye-to-eye with a small brown cockroach. It must've been having a snooze inside the mug. It waved its antennae at me suspiciously, and then it was off like fucking lightning, disappearing from sight in a heartbeat.

I put the marker back on the desk. Chaz was busy extracting the innermost picture from the tube. It was the last picture I'd painted—the Caron family feeding by the lake—and I wanted to show it last.

"Chaz?"

"Yeah?" He was already busy unrolling it, the impatient little fucker.

"Would you let me handle that? I'd like to present my stuff to you properly."

"No."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. I don't want you doing a sales job on me. I want to look at your stuff without listening to any prattle. Here, help me with this."

Burning with shame, I held down one side of the picture while he held the other. He was an art dealer. He was constantly dealing with people trying to convince him their stuff was great. It was easy to get sick of something like that.

He stared at the watercolour of the Caron family in total silence for quite a while. Then he sighed, and said:

"You know, if that was oil I could easily sell it for a couple of grand. Why the fuck don't you work in oils? I remember you told me, but I forgot what you told me. What is it?"

"The smell of turpentine fucks me up."

"Wear a gas mask. Or go to a shrink or get hypnotized or something. Hey, didn't I tell you to try acrylic? You got anything in acrylic?"

"No. I was planning to give it a try once I had enough pieces for the show. Just to be on the safe side. I mean, I've never painted with acrylic paint before. I've no idea how it will turn out."

He straightened up to give me the heavy eye, letting go of the picture. It curled up and Chaz picked up the overturned mug and examined its bottom with a suspicious eye.

"You've got a cockroach living in this mug," I said.

"Yes, I know. I call him Timmy. He keeps me company in the evenings. I'll have to kill him soon, before he starts to breed."

He gave the bottom of the mug a wipe with his sleeve, and put it down to hold the picture flat. Then he got a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and offered me a cigarette.

We lit up, and Chaz said:

"Michael, I have to explain something to you. I'm an art dealer. I make a living selling other people's work. And you know something, it takes as much time and effort to sell a picture for five hundred as it does to sell a picture for five grand. Get my drift?"

I said I did.

"People are willing to pay a lot more for oils. That's just the way it is. They pay less for acrylics. But they are still willing to pay a fucking lot more for acrylics than for watercolours. Okay, we'll discuss that later. Let's see the rest of your stuff."

He liked it. He loved James. He also loved Mr. Chance. He spent a long time looking at the drawing of the champagne bottle. He shook his head, and said:

"That must've taken you hours. You could've done two small oils in the same time, same quality. I would've sold them for at least a grand apiece. But this is a drawing. It's a fucking drawing! I mean it's great. It's more than great, it's fucking great. But I can't price it over eight hundred. Once everyone knows you're a genius, yeah. But not yet, not now."

I was silent. He was making me angry. He must have picked up on that because he turned to face me and fucking fell to his knees, raising his hands in supplication.

"I'm fucking begging you to start painting with the heavy stuff," he bleated. "I'm begging you. Please? Please?"

"I promise I'll give it a try," I said. Chaz got up and dusted his knees and said:

"Good. If you don't, you'll leave me no choice but to shoot you."

"But first I think I'd better produce enough stuff for the show," I said. 'I don't need the extra pressure while learning to paint with acrylic. "I don't need the extra pressure while learning to paint with acrylic."

"Makes sense," Chaz said. He lit another cigarette, and blew a thoughtful plume of smoke. He said:

"I haven't set a date for you in stone, but I was thinking middle of April. I want thirty pieces by the end of February. Then you can spend March dicking around with acrylic and let me tell you, I'm sure you're going to blow yourself away. It's much easier to work with than watercolour. I anticipate at least a dozen masterpieces by the end of March."

"I'll do my best."

"And I'm sure it will be great. I'm keeping all the stuff you brought, all right?"

"Sure."

"Good! I gotta tell you, I really love that couple on the street. That guy is such a slick asshole it's almost as if I were looking at myself. Okay, let me put all this away. Then we can have a drink and discuss the other stuff."

His tone hinted that discussing the other stuff wasn't going to be all that pleasant. He fucked around with the pictures until they were safely stowed away in the corner of his office. Then he extracted a bottle of Vat 69 from a file cabinet drawer and asked:

"You want ice?"

"No, it's okay."

"Great."

He got a couple of thick glass tumblers from his desk and poured.

"To success," he said, raising his glass. I didn't say anything. I just nodded, and drank. That scotch was supposed to be called Vat 69 because that was the number of the vat containing the best blend of whiskies. This was probably horseshit. Most likely, some marketing genius chose 69 because it was naughty with its suggestion of French love.

Chaz said:

"Michael, there was a cop here asking about you."

I kind of expected that. I'd been expecting that ever since Chaz got cagey on the phone, and wouldn't give me a name. I said:

"Was his name Detective Moore?"

That surprised Chaz. It was highly gratifying to see him surprised by something, for once.

I explained that I'd been featured on a Missing Persons poster, courtesy of my neurotic parents. I told Chaz that Moore bumped into me at the real estate office where I used to be gainfully employed. I made it clear it was one of those instant hate situations.

"Oh," Chaz said. "When was that?"

When I told him, he said:

"He was here last week. He wanted to confirm you had a show here, and he wanted to know when we'd met. I basically told him to fuck off. But I have to ask you this: are you in trouble with the law? Have you done something bad? You can tell me. Bad isn't necessarily bad, these days. It can be good. You know, last year I was representing this photographer. He turned out to have a taste for underage girls. Boy, did his photos sell well when people found out."

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," I said. "I don't have a taste for underage girls. And I haven't really done anything to be in trouble with the law. If you don't count smoking pot and stuff like that."

Chaz nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Another drop?"

I nodded and he poured me half a glass and we refreshed ourselves. I could tell there was more coming, and I was right. Chaz said:

"I didn't call you because of that stupid cop.. I called you because a client I value highly has made it clear she was pissed off at you. Tell me, Michael: what did you do to make Fiona McKay hate your guts?"