The Homeless Millionaire

Next day, breakfast was a very subdued affair. No one spoke much, and when someone did say something, they did so in a soft voice. There was a short dialogue about the unavailability of Alka Seltzer and Tylenol, and the sad condition of the aspirins left in the bathroom cabinet. The pimply Heloise did not put in an appearance at all. When I was sharing a post-meal cigarette with Roch, he told me that she'd claimed menstrual pains.

I really wanted to pay one final visit to the house across the lake. However, Roch insisted that we get an early start. He reminded me that Sunday night was the night we were going to rob the museum. It would be a good idea to get a couple of hours of sleep in the afternoon. Michel was scheduled to show up at Roch's house by early evening. We'd go over the plan a couple of times, clear up whatever needed clearing up, and move into action close to midnight.

We didn't talk much during the drive back to Montreal; both Roch and I were sunk deeply into our private thoughts. I had a major problem reconciling my current reality with the reality of what I was about to do. I was sitting beside Roch, in a car driving down a road along with other cars. But just a handful of hours from now, I'd be robbing a museum of art worth millions of dollars. It seemed unreal.

When we got there, a couple of surprises awaited me: the horror-movie staircase had been fixed. It had been strengthened by several two-by-fours nailed onto its sides, and a couple of steps had been replaced. When I went up to my old room, I found it had been painted. The walls and ceiling were a dazzling white; the smell of paint hung heavily in the air.

Roch enjoyed my surprise a lot; he was grinning from ear to ear while I thanked him. He confirmed what he'd mentioned back at the cottage: he'd fixed things up with his old man, and I could stay at the house. The rent would be symbolic, just twenty bucks a month. In exchange, I would help Roch from time to time with various tasks, when my schedule would allow it.

I wasn't sure my schedule would allow me to help out with anything apart from taking out the garbage, what with the full-time night job at the Montrose and my full-time, daytime studies. But I didn't say anything. Sometimes, it was best just to keep quiet.

We unpacked the car, and tried to get some sleep. I couldn't. The smell of paint was too strong, and I was far from relaxed. I tossed and turned until Michel showed up.

He arrived around five in the afternoon. He brought two huge pizzas, but they were slathered with cheese. I didn't eat cheese: whenever I ordered a pizza, I forced the guy taking my order to promise me twice they wouldn't put any cheese on it. I fried myself a couple of eggs, and opened a can of beans. Michel made fun of me, saying I was a typical Anglo. Fried eggs and beans, roast beef, pudding, cucumber sandwiches. I reminded him that I'd told him I didn't like cucumber sandwiches, and the way I said it made him shut up.

When we'd finished eating and cleared the table and lit cigarettes, Michel said, very solemnly:

"Okay, I know that there's been some very bad news. But it's actually very good news for us. It—"

"Hold on," Roch and I said simultaneously. We looked at each other without smiling. Roch turned to Michel, and said:

"What bad news? What are you talking about?"

"You don't know? Fuck. Yeah, right, you were cut off at the cottage. But I thought you parents would have told you," he added, looking at Roch.

"They didn't say a thing."

"They didn't tell you about the fire?"

"What fire?"

"At the Blue Bird Cafe. Late Friday night some assholes set it on fire. It was packed with people. Over thirty dead. What, you really don't know about that? Roch, your parents didn't tell you anything?"

I shook my head, looking at the table. Roch said:

"They left very early. They didn't read the morning paper, I guess. Shit! What happened? You're saying someone set it on fire? Why? Who did it?"

"Some assholes that weren't let inside because they were drunk. They set fire to the front steps in revenge, and the whole place went up in flames."

"Fuck! The cops must be going crazy."

"They are. They've already got one guy, and are looking for his friends. They're totally focused on that. They've hardly any people to spare. I'm telling you gentlemen, this is a lucky break. Tragic for most people, but lucky for us."

It just didn't feel right to go and rob a museum when there'd just been a tragedy in the city. But neither Roch or I said that. Instead, we pestered Michel with questions and petty objections. The omniscient, omnipotent Michel shrugged everything off. He'd confirmed there would be only three guards in the museum, and that the guys working on the roof left the ladder there without fail when they were finished for the day.

He kept repeating that the nightclub fire was the best thing that could have happened to us, and when I got over my initial outrage I concluded that he was probably right. But somehow, it still felt as if were planning to cash in on the deaths of all those people. I said so, and Michel gave us a small speech about feelings being often totally incompatible with logic. Then he pulled out the plan he'd drawn.

It was quite detailed, in many cases very specific: this painting on that wall in this room, and that one over there. He'd clearly put in a lot of work. We went over everything twice, every single fucking detail, and then Michel hit us with the most important detail of them all. He said:

"If we run into any of the guards, we fire a shot into the ceiling just to show we're not carrying toys. That will bring the other guards running. We'll tie them up and gag them and most importantly, take the storeroom keys. There's some stuff in the storeroom we need to take. Compact, very valuable, and most importantly someone already wants to own it, badly. Matter of fact, my contact says he'll be able to sell most things within a week at the outside. We're going to be very rich a week from now, gentlemen."

"You've told him we're going to rob the museum?"

"You kidding? There was no need. He already knew. He's a guy who knows how to put two and two together. When people come to talk to him about disposing of some stuff, they're not talking about scrap metal and dirty diapers. He doesn't deal in scrap iron and dirty diapers. He deals in stolen art. He has been dealing in stolen art for over thirty years now, and he's never even come under suspicion."

"How come you know a guy like that?" I asked. Michel waved my question away, throwing me a reproachful glance. He said:

"All right. Are we all set? It's close to eight now. You have two hours to vacate your bowels and your bladders, gentlemen. If you want to drink something, do it now. But no booze."

I snorted at that, and Michel threw me a sharp glance before continuing:

"We leave at ten, taking my car. We drive by the museum to check on things, and leave the car at least five blocks away. Then we split up and walk to the museum separately, taking different routes and taking in the scene. We meet up by the tree that grows between the museum and the church. We compare notes, and make one last check that everything and everyone is okay."

He broke off and looked at Roch and me, in turn. We both nodded silently. Michel nodded too, and grinned.

"And then," he said, looking at Roch, "You get to climb a tree."