The Homeless Millionaire

I was in the shower when the cops arrived, so they took me by surprise. I became aware of the hammering on the door when I was towelling myself dry. Naturally I thought it was the woman of my dreams, the Lady Across The Lake, and spent extra time primping myself before going to answer the door. On the way there I realized it couldn't be her: the fist that had begun to beat on the door sounded massive.

The two cops were pissed off by the time I finally opened the door. Seeing angry cops instead of her shocked me. My body went limp, and my mouth fell open. I must have looked like the proverbial village idiot, and the cops were pleased. They were getting a return of sorts on all that knocking and waiting.

The cop to my right was as tall as me. He had blue eyes and freckles and pale, sandy eyebrows. The one to my left was a good couple of inches shorter. He compensated for that with a black moustache and piercing dark eyes full of hostility. He barked something at me in French which I failed to understand. It made him dislike me even more.

"Good morning," I said, and the tall, blue-eyed cop snorted. He was a snorting artist: his snort conveyed amusement and irritation and irony, all at the same time.

"I'm sorry I took so long," I said. "I couldn't hear you, I was taking a shower."

They looked at each other in a way that suggested I’d been washing the blood off after killing someone. The tall blue-eye said:

"You live here? Is this your cottage?" He was English, a Quebec Anglo, and probably that was why he had to have a French partner. A couple of Anglo cops arresting a French Quebecker—that could provoke major unrest.

"Yes and no," I told the Anglo cop. Cops, irrespective of nationality, didn’t like answers like that; it pissed him off. I added quickly:

"This cottage belongs to monsieur Caron. I’m a family friend, so yes, I’m temporarily staying here. I'm a good friend of his son’s. His name is Roch, Roch Caron."

"What's your name? You have any ID?" That was the French guy. He sounded angry, maybe because he had to speak English. I said:

"Sure, let me show you. I'll just get my wallet from the bedroom."

They exchanged a knowing look. Then the tall cop put his hand on his belt, next to the gun, and said:

"Okay, go get it. But be quick about it."

I was quick about it, as requested. I half-ran to the bedroom—I suspected they would enjoy hearing me hurry—grabbed my wallet, and also the envelope with my documentation from the Ecole. I half-ran back and held out my wallet to the Anglo cop and said:

"You'll find several pieces of ID in there." Then I turned to the French cop and said, offering him the envelope:

"I'm a student at the Ecole des beaux–artes in Montreal. These are my papers."

I scored points with both of them. The Anglo guy liked the fact that I’d trusted him with my wallet. The French guy was impressed by my educational status, and liked that I’d chosen to study in Montreal; he could see from the papers that I lived in Toronto. They weren't hostile any more by the time they returned my documents. The Anglo guy said:

"Can we ask you a couple of questions, sir? How long have you been staying here?"

I had been promoted to a sir; things were improving fast. I said:

"A little under a week. Roch, Roch Caron, he was here too, he's just gone for a couple of days to take care of some business back in Montreal. He'll be back soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow."

The French guy said:

"Is there anyone staying in the house across the lake from you? Did you see anyone?"

I was instantly on guard: what the fuck was this? I saw that they saw I was getting tense, so I said:

"I don’t know what to tell you. I didn't see anyone, but I did see a light in that house. Yesterday. But I thought it might be one of those automatic light switches that are supposed to deter burglars. I definitely didn’t see anyone."

They bought it. The Anglo cop said:

"Thank you. That's all we wanted to know. Enjoy your stay, sir."

"We’ll be back in a few days," the French cop warned me.

They turned and walked to their cruiser. I watched them drive away. Then I went to the kitchen and opened a beer and lit a cigarette. I went out on the deck and smoked and drank and looked at the house across the water. No one, just like I’d told the cops. I listened hard, then realized I wouldn't hear the cop car approach her house because the wind was blowing the wrong way.

I tried to think of a reason why the cops could be interested in her, and it dawned on me that I finally had the perfect excuse to pay her a visit. It could earn me some points with her, too.

Of course I also thought about the possibility that those cops weren’t really interested in her: they were interested in me. Or rather, in Michel and Roch because they got drunk one weekend and boasted about smoking on the museum’s roof while high on mushrooms and joked about robbing the place. It didn’t seem likely, but—

I wondered when Michel and Roch would show up. There was a possibility that they'd arrive the next day. I found myself wishing that they wouldn’t. I needed a deep rethink before they did. My previously optimistic imagination was showering me with assorted doom scenarios.

I drank a lot of beer that evening, just so that I could sleep.