The Homeless Millionaire

By ten o'clock the next morning, I was already halfway to her house. I hadn't washed or shaved, just brushed my teeth after drinking the remaining three beers. My breakfast had consisted of hamburger buns without the hamburgers, and a couple of raw eggs stirred with Tabasco sauce and salt. I walked as fast as I could without breaking into a run, and I covered the distance to her house in half the time it took me the other day.

There was no car in the driveway, so most likely there was no one home. It made me angry. I marched up to the front door and banged the bejesus out of it with the big brass knocker. I was pretty sure there was no one inside, so I really let myself go with that knocker.

When I stopped hammering on the door I turned away and lit a cigarette, seething with fury at the prospect of walking all the way back without having achieved anything. I barely managed to get a single lungful of smoke in before I heard quick, heavy steps approaching the door from the other side.

The guy that opened the door was pissed off, too. He was as tall as me, with iron grey hair arranged in a combover that had gone astray, revealing strips of sunburnt scalp. By way of compensation, he had bushy sideburns and eyebrows like fat, hairy caterpillars. He wore an open-necked shirt, black with revolting purple whorls, and dressy black bell bottoms.

He also wore a scowl to rival my own. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes and he did his best to pierce me with them. I glared right back, mad as hell. I said:

"You own this house?"

"And who the hell are you to ask?" he snarled.

"Your neighbour across the water. I've got cops visiting me at inconvenient times, asking questions about this house and the people staying there. I don't need that. You likely don't need that either. So why don't you stop whatever you're doing, or maybe do it somewhere else. Okay? That's all. Have a nice day."

I turned my back on him and began to walk away. He called out:

"Hey."

I ignored him, and kept on walking.

"Hey," he called again. "Hold on a minute. Please wait."

I stopped; it was the 'please' that did it. I looked at him and smoked my cigarette.

"When did they—those cops you're talking about, when was that?"

"Yesterday."

"They were asking you questions about this house?"

"My guess is that they weren't interested in the house," I said. "They didn't look like they're into real estate. My guess is they were interested in you. Enjoy your day." I turned my back on him again, and resumed walking. When I was nearing the end of the driveway, I heard the front door slam shut with a bang that scared a couple of birds out of nearby trees.

I was nearing the main track that led to the highway when I heard a car approaching. A moment later, the red snout of her Mustang appeared round the bend. I felt fresh anger and put out my hand and signaled for her to stop.

She did, a few steps away from me. She was watching me through the windshield as I approached. She was wearing big black sunglasses even though it wasn't a sunny day. Her hands held the top of the steering wheel and I noticed her fingernails had been painted red. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her mouth was set in a thin line. It seemed everyone around was pissed off that morning.

I walked over to the driver's side and bent down to look at her. She was wearing a skimpy tie-and-dye tank top and there were goosebumps on her arm. I said:

"Hi. I've just been to your house. I told the guy there I had cops come over yesterday, asking questions about you guys. That's just so you know what's going on."

She didn't say anything. She just stared at me with the insect eyes of those big glasses.

"See you," I said, patted the roof above her head and shoved off. She remained where she was for a quite a while, engine idling; I heard her accelerate just before I turned into the track leading to Roch's place.

I was boiling with rage. I kept imagining the guy I saw at the house humping her: over, under, from the back, every which way. I burned up the track to Roch's house in record time.

There was no booze left at the house, which made everything even worse. I rolled a joint from what remained of the pot and was about to light it when I heard a car coming. My first thought was that the fucking cops had returned for another pow-wow about the house across the lake. But the engine sounded familiar—I’d just heard that engine—it was a Ford Mustang, it was her!

It was Michel and Roch. I stood in the doorway, staring stupidly as they got out of the car. They saw me and waved and grinned. I didn't grin or wave back. I called:

"Did you bring any booze?"

Those two idiots started laughing. Michel opened the trunk and Roch heaved out a twenty-four, held it and called:

"You want to help with this?"

I did. I helped them carry stuff inside the house, and I had even begun to smile. They noticed my mood, of course, but assumed it was caused by a hangover. They were both very merry, throwing jokes and fooling around, and it really got on my nerves. Once we all had a beer going, I said:

"Listen, guys. This museum thing, I'm out. And if you've got any brains, you're out too. There were a couple of cops here yesterday, asking questions."

That got their attention, all right. They stopped grinning like idiots and looked at me. Roch said:

"The police?"

"That's right. Uniformed members of the Surete du Quebec. I didn't ask them for their ID, but they looked genuine. They asked me for my ID, though. They also said they'd be coming back."

Michel frowned and said:

"What did they want? Apart from your ID. You said they asked questions. What did they ask about?"

"They wanted to know who I was, and what I was doing here. They also wanted to know about the people in the house across the lake."

"There are people in the house across the lake?"

"Yes," Roch told Michel. "I saw lights there the other night. You saw them, too."

Michel shrugged, and said:

"Okay. So they wanted to see your ID, because you're a strange new face. And they asked about the people in that house. So what's the big deal? Hey, Roch. Didn't you tell me cops come round at the end of the summer, checking everything's okay? Remember? When you were getting all paranoid about the gun."

"It's too early for that," Roch said. "They never come before Labour Day. Two–three weekends later, end of September, something like that."

Michel frowned again. I suspected he'd be doing a lot of frowning that day. He said:

"Let's back up for minute. Can you tell us exactly what went down, blow by blow? What they said, word for word if you can?"

So I did. I went over everything word by word. They interrupted me constantly with extra questions, and tried to trip me up—you said something else a moment ago, no, you said—that kind of shit. It got me so angry that I threatened to clam up a couple of times. But they apologized and bribed me with more beer, and so it went, on and on.

It was late afternoon by the time we were done with all this shit, and it ended mainly because we were all very hungry, and snapping at each other all the time. But it started all over again even before we finished eating. Michel got into full Grand Inquisitor mode and grilled Roch about everyone he'd talked to in the meantime.

Roch didn't like being accused of blabbing something, and they quarreled with each other for quite a while, which was good: they left me in peace. However, I felt far from peaceful. I didn't care about those two retards and their retarded plans, what made me furious was the presence of that asshole with sideburns in the house across the lake. I was jealous! It was incredible, I hadn't touched her, I didn’t even know her name! But I was as jealous as if she was my girl.

I waited until Michel and Roch stopped fighting and asked:

"Hey, Roch. Don't you know anything about the guys in that house? Maybe there's a valid reason the cops are interested.”

"Yes," Michel said instantly: he was quick to pick up on anything that made the planned robbery still viable. "What do you know about them, Roch? Any trouble with the law?"

"How the fuck should I know? I haven’t met them, I don't even know what they look like. The old man said that the guy that owned the place was some kind of a businessman. That was ages ago. I don't remember anything else."

"Come on," said Michel. "You must have seen them, a few times. Out on the deck or whatever. They never came over? Your people never went to visit? Two houses in the middle of nowhere, and the neighbours don't get to know each other?"

"Maybe my old man went over there, I don't know. And maybe he didn't. Fuck! What does it matter? The point is, I don't know. You want to know more about these guys, go talk to my old man."

"Come on," Michel repeated. "You must remember something."

“I really can’t.”

They started fighting again, in French this time. I felt excused and went to get more beer. When I returned I told those idiots there might be cops hidden in the bushes listening to everything that was said. We all knew it was nonsense, but they shut up.

It didn’t last. There was no ignoring the elephant in the room. We spent the rest of the day and most of the evening talking about it.. When we finally broke up to go to bed nothing had been cleared up, and nothing decided.