The Homeless Millionaire

I saw Tony the moment I entered. I instantly started turning to leave, but it was too late. The waft of cold air I'd let in upon entering made Tony look at the front door: he was seated at the door-side end of the bar counter, and he spotted me right away.

This was one of the worst places to sit down in a bar, with people coming and going, and I found myself hoping this meant he was waiting for someone. I was hoping that this mysterious someone would show up quickly, giving me an excuse to escape Tony's company.

For the moment, however, I was obliged to walk up to him and smile at him as if I meant it and say:

"Hi, Tony. I was wondering where you'd disappeared."

"I didn't disappear, worse luck," said Tony, and it was immediately clear he was well-oiled already. After smirking at me in a horrible manner, he added:

"I have to continue with that bullshit called life. If this wasn't a Friday and I had to go to work tomorrow, I would fucking die. Maybe it would've been better if I had to go into work tomorrow. Fuck that. What's your drink?"

His words were music to my ears: Tony was buying me a drink! It greatly changed my disposition towards him for the better; I came close to patting his arm. I said:

"Toby, if they have it on tap."

"They don't. Why don't you have a Guinness? You could use something solid. You're fucking pale, so pale you're almost fucking transparent."

"Whatever you say," I said, and was thrilled to see Tony wave the barkeep over and order a pint of Guinness in a very firm, don't-fuck-around-with-me kind of voice. He was drinking a cocktail himself; judging by the speared olive, it was a martini. He'd mentioned to me earlier that he got paid twice a month. And so he was flush with cash, this being the sixteenth, and the end-of-the-month bills still weeks away.

He was wearing a brown leather car coat and a blue turtleneck that made his head appear as if it was perched on a tee, like a golf ball waiting to be hit. But there was this new kick-ass-and-take-no-names air about him; he wasn't a sad loser any more. I wondered what had brought that change about and found out very quickly, because the moment my Guinness was brought Tony said:

"Guess what happened. I got promoted! I told them I wasn't coming into work and that I was sick of the fucking place and they promoted me! Got a nice raise, too."

"When did that happen? I mean, how did you find out? You didn't go there today, did you?"

"Of course I didn't. I phoned them and said I wasn't feeling too well and that it was just possible that I wouldn't come in on Monday. And they told me I was getting promoted! I thought I'd shit myself. They sounded as if they'd already done that."

"They must love you," I said.

"They should. The number of times I've pulled their collective ass out of the fucking fire—no, I don't want to talk about that. I want to know what you've been up to. You're so fucking quiet up there it's unbelievable. Busy creating outstanding works of art?"

"I don't really know if they're any good," I lied. "But yes, I've been busy drawing and painting various stuff."

"What's the stuff you did most recently?"

"Eh?"

"What's your last picture about. What does it show? No, don't tell me now. Drink that beer first and I'll get you another. You're looking fucking dead, pal, you know that? But wait. What do I know. Maybe it's part of your artist image."

Tony's speech style and speed suggested he'd had at least half a dozen martinis before I came along. I said:

"I hope to be able to change my image very soon. The image I'd like to have is of a red-faced, happy drunk."

Tony liked that very much. He threw his head back and laughed and slapped my arm playfully and offered me a cigarette. When we'd lit up, he said:

"Well you've come to the right place for that. You know this place?"

"Actually, I do. I dropped in here the day we met, when I was looking at the flat. You know, while you were showing it to that other guy. I thought it would be wise to check on alcohol availability in the neighbourhood."

"Very good move," Tony said, and laughed again. Then he said:

"He was here a moment ago. Left just before you walked in."

"What?"

"The guy who looked at the flat after you did. He was here."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's not surprising, really. He told me he had a job in North Vancouver and that he wanted to rent a place close by."

"You talked to him?"

"Not today. He told me that when he was looking at the flat. Hey, did I ever tell you he told me he knew you from somewhere? Because he did. And you, I remember now, when you saw him at the front door you seemed, like, uh, you've just had an unpleasant surprise."

"It was," I said truthfully, and then lied:

"I wanted that flat of yours. It wasn't nice to be reminded you could still rent it to someone else."

Tony beamed.

"You like the flat?" he said.

"I love it. It's perfect. Those double windows front and back, there's tons of light."

Tony nodded, pursing his lips slightly as if he were Solomon deciding to cut the disputed baby in half.

"Of course," he said. "You need good light like other people need a chair."

He fell silent after that and I didn't fill that silence because I was busy listening to my paranoid friend. He was grinning and saying lots of things that were very unpleasant but had to be listened to anyway, not least because they made a lot of sense.

What the fuck had possessed me to rent that place after I'd run into the Salmon Arm guy at the front door? I remembered my thinking back then. I'd told myself I couldn't live the rest of my life with Schmidt's death—okay, with my killing him—hanging over my head.

But did I really have a choice?

I'd killed him, and it would be always hanging over my head, no matter what I thought or did. Facts were unassailable. You couldn't negotiate with a fact.

Facts were unmovable: they stood their ground. You could take the easy way and ignore those that didn't fit your beliefs, but that didn't make them disappear. They still were there. And it was their presence that determined your future and your fate, not what you thought about it.

You were fucked by facts no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise. The only choice you really had was to make that fucking as pleasant as possible.

"Hey," Tony said. "Hey! Drink up. You have a fresh Guinness here."

I noted that he, in turn, had a fresh martini. But it turned out to be his last. He left right after he'd drank it, which he did pretty fast while I was laying it in with a trowel about how grateful I was to him for buying my drinks. I wasn't lying, for a change. It made me feel good and it made Tony feel good as well because he was grinning from ear to ear when he said goodbye.

I still had half a pint in my glass when he left and I drank it slowly, luxuriating in every sip. But I didn't get as much pleasure out of it as I should, because I kept thinking about fucking Roy Maddon.

So he was living in the neighbourhood. I was practically guaranteed to bump into him sooner or later, North Vancouver being little bigger than a shithole little town.

I knew that if that happened I should simply ignore him, as if he was a total stranger. But I also knew I wouldn't be able to ignore him, if only because sure as hell he wouldn't ignore me.

Did he file a fresh report with the cops, did he tell them he'd seen me again in Vancouver? If a report like that got to cross Detective Moore's desk, he'd be on to me like a homing rocket. It struck me there was a bad side to everything. I'd enjoyed working or rather not working but still getting paid at Robinson & Klein very much, but had I not worked there chances were I'd have never met Moore.

And then, of course, I'd made him suspect and dislike me right away when I asked if he had a daughter named Jane. Fathers were really protective of their daughters. I knew that for a fact, having had plenty of dealings with various daughters belonging to various fathers.

Fathers regarded their daughters as their most precious property. They were the women they loved most, but couldn't fuck. The most precious things in anyone's life were the things one wanted, but couldn't have.

My Jane question had put me right on top of Detective Moore's 'Assholes I Hate' list. My appearance on a Missing poster, and subsequently the possibility of my being involved in Schmidt's death were a dream come true to Detective Moore. They gave him the excuse to bite my ass whenever he felt like it. Come to think of it, it was odd that he hadn't, lately.

I could sense my pal grinning and saying: you just haven't seen anything yet.

I drank what was left of Tony's second Guinness and then I left myself, feeling a distinct buzz.

It was dark outside and starting to get newly wet: rain, again, was beginning to fall. It began falling in earnest when I was about halfway home, and although I ran the rest of the way back I was drenched by the time I made it inside.

Tony wasn't in. I'd expected him to be there, but he wasn't.

As I went up the stairs to my flat, my pal told me what he thought about my expectations.

My hand still hurt and there was no question of my starting a new picture and I couldn't face Valentin. Unlike him, I didn't find his insides attractive. And the way The Hashish Smugglers story was going, he'd continue to admire them for quite a few pages before he got to the real business, i.e. killing other people in a graceful fashion during his adventures.

I wished I could do a Valentin on Detective Moore. But I didn't even have a sword!

I spent the rest of the evening pacing around my flat and smoking cigarettes and worrying about things.. Eventually, it tired me out and I was able to go to sleep.