The Homeless Millionaire

I stayed home for the next three days, working my ass off and getting nowhere. Well, almost nowhere.

I painted only one picture during those three days that I could show to Chaz. It was a view of the bay as I saw it during my last excursion, but the big cargo ship was sailing out of port instead heading in. The ship was in the background; in the foreground, a small rowing boat bobbed on the waters of the bay.

The man inside the boat had stopped rowing. He held the oars tilted out of water, and he was looking at the big ship sailing out into the ocean. His boat was going in the opposite direction. He was returning from a fishing trip: a couple of rods angled out in front, propped up by the boat's bows.

I painted that guy in the boat on automatic and it was only later that I realized he was the guy I saw on a lake I passed when I riding that train, freezing to death on a cistern wagon. Both the real-life guy and the guy I painted wore the same silly fisherman's hat.

Of course, I also attempted to paint half a dozen other pictures (I didn't attempt to draw anything. I was sick of drawing after doing that tree, and anyway I only had a single pencil left). None of those pictures were good. One of them came close, but I screwed up the perspective. What was worse, I only became aware of it after I'd finished the fucking thing.

Tony was absent from the house throughout all this suffering. He didn't come home from work on Friday and he didn't show up on Saturday. He showed up on Sunday morning—very early morning, while it was still night.

He walked into at least two pieces of furniture while he was navigating his way into the house. The first of those was the coat stand in the hallway, and that was what woke me up. A couple of minutes later there was a crash and tinkle and I guessed he'd upset the little casual table that stood to the side of the entrance to the living room. It had a glass top.

I wasn't too upset on being woken up because Tony's attempts to move around were quite entertaining. There was a number of bumps and thuds, and I also heard a couple of muffled curses. I wondered what he'd been up to to get into such a state and decided that I'd waylay him that evening, and conduct a skillful interrogation. I'd burn an offering, i.e. treat Tony to a joint, and that would be sure to get the conversation rolling. Who knew, he might even offer me a drink.

But after I woke up again at the civilized hour of ten o'clock—civilized because it was Sunday morning, after all—talking to Tony assumed a new urgency. I had several phone calls to make. I wanted to call Roch, I wanted to call Harry, and I needed to call my parents. I didn't really want to call them, but I'd told them I'd be getting a phone and staying in touch. And I definitely didn't want them to pull that missing person number again and run to the cops.

Talking to Roch took precedence; that whole medallion business made me anxious to find out what was going on in Montreal. I hoped to hell he and Michel didn't do anything really stupid, such as trying to sell some of the loot at a pawnshop.

Unfortunately, the call to Roch was the one call that would have to wait. I couldn't call him collect—it just wouldn't do—and I definitely couldn't afford to spend any money on phone calls. I was fairly sure Tony would let me make a local call, and a collect call to Toronto. Being his tenant made me his hostage, and he could always threaten to cut my off balls if a long-distance charge appeared on his phone bill.

That left Harry, and my parents. I went through my morning routine and smoked a couple of moody cigarettes after breakfast, listening for signs of life from the floor below. There were none, and in despair I opened the door to my flat and stood next to the doorway, ears flapping while smoking yet another cigarette.

I was about to give up—it was nearing noon— when there finally was a promising wet cough from the floor below. I waited and my patience was rewarded, for there were more wet coughs followed by a retching sound. That made it clear that the right policy was to back off, and let Tony pick up and reassemble his pieces before asking him if I could use the phone.

I really didn't feel like working—it was Sunday, for fuck's sake—so eventually I picked up The Hashish Runners and resumed reading about Valentin's adventures.

I had gotten sick of that story because right after he'd beheaded that cobra he spent several pages washing and shaving and getting dressed while thinking about that chick from the tavern. He dwelled on her looks at length—her flashing dark eyes alone merited a full page—and it was really sickening.

Fortunately, once Valentin had finished washing his stupid face and putting on his clothes, he went out to eat and instantly ran into a couple of guys who came around to check on the progress made by the cobras they'd dropped on the sleeping Valentin. Valentin quickly made it obvious that the cobras had been a total fail, giving the two guys a good beating with the flat of the old family sword.

Following that, he went to that fucking tavern for food and romance and found that his chick was wasn't there: she was on evening duty that day. This helped Valentin regain reason and he became aware of the fact that he was captaining a boat that was due to sail later that very day after taking delivery of fresh cargo. Putting duty before pleasure for a change, he went to have a look at his ship and run a general check on things.

It was fortunate he got all conscientious because when he got there, he found half his crew were missing. Some crewmen had gotten into trouble and got killed or locked up, and others had been hired away by Valentin's competition. Of course he wasn't going to stand for that. He strolled over to another hashish smuggler's ship, provoked its captain into fighting a duel, and killed him with his usual effortless skill.

Having thus lost their jobs and not being eligible for unemployment benefits, the dead rival's crew were happy to sign on with Valentin. His crew problem solved, Valentin had a go at solving his personal problem: he returned to the tavern to talk the chick into quitting her job, and sailing with him. He'd gotten hungry again from all this fighting so he had another meal while he was waiting for her to show up.

I stopped reading at this point because Tony had finally become fully mobile downstairs. He paid what sounded like a painful but successful visit to the bathroom, then moved to the ground floor, presumably to get some nutrients. I rolled and rerolled a joint several times—it was either too fat or too thin. I had very little pot left but did not want to appear miserly. After all I was going to ask Tony a favour.

I gave Tony nearly half an hour to refresh himself. I listened to that fucking kettle whistle twice before I went downstairs.

The door to the kitchen was open, but when I poked my head inside Tony wasn't there. Logic dictated he would be in the living room. Its door was closed and I knocked on it timidly, waited, and knocked again a little more forcefully.

"Come in," Tony called out. He sounded weak.

I entered. Tony was sprawling on the sofa, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. I glanced to my left and saw that the glass top was missing from the casual table. Tony had attempted to mask its absence with an absolutely hideous ceramic bowl. It was brown and featured a ring of very red roses around its middle. Whoever had painted those roses deserved to be shot at dawn without being given the chance to smoke a last cigarette.

"Good morning, Tony," I said. "I mean, good afternoon."

He raised a hand in answer, rather like a boxer being carried off the ring on a stretcher.

"I wanted to ask you something," I said. "Can I? I mean, I can come around later."

"No, no, it's okay," he whispered, and finally opened his eyes and looked at me. He should've kept them closed. They were so bloodshot that given his pallor, he resembled a red-eyed white bunny.

"Just lower your voice a little," he whispered. "I've got a bad headache. Well, what is it?"

"I was wondering if you would let me use your phone to make a local call. And another call collect to my parents in Toronto."

"No."

"Uh… I can't use your phone?"

"Not today. I'm waiting for a very important call."

"Maybe later, then?"

"No."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted ask why, but Tony's manner, appearance, and tone forbade questions. So I just stood there silently like an idiot for a while and eventually Tony said hoarsely:

"There is a very strong possibility that this important phone call will be followed by several other equally important phone calls. Jesus, Mike, what are you trying to do to me, fucking kill me? Leave me be, for fuck's sake."

The white red-eyed bunny was about to turn into the fire-breathing dragon Tony had warned me about when discussing the rules of the house. I smiled at him, but he'd already closed his eyes again.

"I'll talk to you later, then," I said.

He reacted as if I'd made a threat. He sat up and opened his eyes again and fixed me with a red glare that announced he was about to start spewing flame.

"No," he said. "No! A thousand times no!"

I left quickly without saying another word.