The Homeless Millionaire

My hand still hurt the next day and over my morning coffee, I decided that I would give work a miss. I had no idea what to paint or draw next, anyway.

It looked like it was going to be another relatively nice day so I decided I'd go out for a long walk, and get to know the area a little better. Tony had told me Royal Bank had a branch in north Vancouver, but I'd forgotten his directions: we'd gone through most of the whisky by then.

I decided that I'd make locating the bank my main task for the day. The shopping I'd done the previous day had cleaned me out, and I needed to cash a cheque. I ate the standard breakfast and showered—I noticed that I was becoming skilled at manoeuvres inside the narrow cabin. Then I got dressed, checked out the street for Roy Maddon—just in case—and left.

The bank had to be located on the commercial strip running along Marine Drive. I turned south at the nearest intersection and passed the school just as the bell inside rang for the break. How I'd longed for that sound when I was still going to school! How long ago that was!

My step faltered when I was hit by the realization that I'd done a whole fucking lot of growing up in the meantime. Yes, killing someone added a lot of years to mental age. Maybe that was why most killers were morons. They were just trying to improve.

I couldn't recall passing a Royal Bank when I went exploring a few days earlier. I'd turned west on Marine Drive then, so now I chose to go east. Before I'd walked a hundred steps, I came across a pawnshop.

I slowed down, then stopped. I felt compelled to go inside that pawnshop, find out if they had a list of stolen goods, and whether my medallion was on that list. I told myself this was the stupidest idea ever. I walked on a few steps, slowed down, stopped, and hesitated. The pawnshop was exerting an irresistible pull.

I lit a cigarette and pretended to examine the window display of the store I'd stopped by. It was a hardware store, and the display featured a hammer that would be perfect for the purpose of turning the medallion into a faceless chunk of gold. I stared at it for a while, smoking. Then I dropped the butt on the pavement and ground it out and walked back to the pawnshop.

A bell tinkled as I went in—totally unnecessarily, because the entrance was being closely watched by an obscenely fat guy that sat at the back end of a broad, metal-topped counter. He weighed at least three hundred pounds and was wearing a thick fisherman's jersey that made him seem even larger. He had a few tendrils of dark hair plastered to his forehead, piggy eyes, and a stare that shouted he hated the world because he was fat and ugly. He didn't respond to my good afternoon greeting, just stared at me without moving from his seat.

"Good afternoon, good afternoon," said a wheezing, reedy voice immediately to my left. It nearly made me jump. I turned and stared at the old man that emerged from behind the counter. He'd been crouched there, most likely examining his merchandise. It was a fair bet there were all kinds of interesting items hidden on the shelves behind the counter.

The old man was thin and frail and bald. But but he also had the piggy eyes: two dark marbles. The fat guy at the end of the counter had to be his son, or maybe grandson.

The old guy asked:

"How can I help you, sir?"

I stepped up to the counter and said:

"I'm looking for a Royal Bank branch that's supposed to be somewhere around here. I'm new to this area, and don't know my way around. Could you kindly help me?"

"Royal Bank," the old man said thoughtfully. He raised his hand to his face and pinched his nose. Maybe he had a device hidden in there that pumped extra blood to his brain when it was squeezed.

"It's down the street," said the fat guy at the end of the counter. He had a very deep voice. It sounded like his vocal cords were buried somewhere inside that enormous belly.

"Which way?" I asked, shooting him a glance.

"East," he said. His stare told me to look away. He knew he was ugly as hell, and he didn't want people looking at him.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you very much."

I took a step back from the counter and turned and then turned back again and said to the old man:

"By the way, did anyone sell or pawn an antique gold medal with you recently?"

"A gold medal?"

It was hard to look right back into the old man's marble eyes, but somehow I managed it. I said:

"Well, it looks like an oversized coin. It had a guy's profile on one side and a bunch of leaves, like a laurel wreath, on the other. And an inscription in Latin. You have anything like that?"

The thin old man and his fat descendant exchanged glances. Then the old guy said:

"I don't think so. It sounds like an antique medallion of some kind. Are you looking for something like that, sir? Or do you want to pawn or sell it?"

"I, um, lost it a couple of weeks ago. It was a gift from my grandfather. It must have happened while I was moving house. I thought that if someone had, um, found it they could have brought it here."

The old man gave me a hard stare. The fat monster at the far end of the counter said:

"You're saying it was stolen? You're saying we deal in stolen goods?"

"No," I said quickly. "I just thought there was a chance someone would try to pawn or sell it, that's all. I was told you guys get lists of stolen stuff, and call the cops when an item like that appears, right? My medal or medallion or whatever wasn't stolen. I lost it. I'm just asking on the off chance it ended up here."

"Did you tell the cops about it?" asked the old guy.

"Yes," I said. "They basically laughed in my face. But they told me they'll put in on this list they send to pawnshops and jewellers in case someone tries to sell it. You have a list like that, right?"

They looked at each other again, and then the old guy said:

"I think you should go now."

I shrugged.

"Fine," I said. "But can you tell me why?"

"Because we don't buy stolen goods."

I fucking froze for a moment. I looked at him and said:

"What?"

"I've been in business fifty years," he said. "Now go."

I went.

My face was burning as I did. I had to light a cigarette the moment I left the pawnshop. I forced myself to walk at a steady, relaxed pace. It called for so much concentration I nearly bumped into two guys that had stopped in front of an entrance to another store. I swerved at the last moment and said 'sorry' like a true Canadian and walked on.

Pawnshops dealt with thieves all the time. Pawnshop owners and staff had built-in radars for instant thief recognition. Any smoke-and-mirrors act would only feed suspicion.

Attempting to sell that medallion was beyond moronic. I could as well go to a police station and announce I took part in the Montreal museum robbery. And selling a lump of gold wasn't going to be easy, either. The first obvious question that I'd have to answer was: where and how did you get that gold?

I was so deeply into inventing various answers that I almost walked past the Royal Bank. I likely would have, but a couple of people were leaving and I almost walked into them. I stopped and saw that I was standing right in front of the bank entrance.

I cashed a cheque for fifty dollars, promising myself I'd make stretch for two weeks. Predictably, that put me in a very bad mood. I decided I'd try and walk it off. Instead of going home, I kept going west for a mile or so and then turned south. A couple of minutes later, I stopped on the shore of the bay.

A brisk breeze was stirring the water; a couple of seagulls were circling above the small, choppy waves. Further out, a large cargo ship was slowly making its way into the bay and as I watched, it blew a blast from its siren, most likely to warn a boat I couldn't see. It was a curiously mournful sound, fitting for a funeral.

I smoked a cigarette staring at the scene. Ships sailed, ocean tides rose and fell, life went on. As long as you were alive, you just kept going. That was all there was to it. That was all I could do.

I went home.