The Homeless Millionaire

Saturday started with a downpour. Big, fat raindrops were hammering on my window when I woke up; the world was grey and wet.

Roch and I shared a gloomy breakfast. The light made our faces look like dishrags. When we were done and smoking post-meal cigarettes we did our best not to look at each other: it was too depressing. Eventually, Roch voiced the thought that maybe we should take a break from working that day. He sounded like a guy announcing his own forthcoming suicide.

"That's probably a good idea," I said. Roch fucked off upstairs; I cleared the table, and washed up after breakfast. By the time I'd finished, Roch returned with two fat joints.

"We need to relax a little," he said.

"That's probably a good idea," I said again.

We smoked them in silence, and then sat in more silence for a while. We heard a car out on the street approach, and stop right in front of Roch's house. Roch said:

"Fuck. I hope that isn't the old man. He'll smell the pot. I can't handle anyone shouting at me today. If he does that, I'll shout back and there'll be a hell of a shitstorm."

"Let's hide," I said.

"He's got the key."

"Let's hide anyway."

Someone banged on the front door with a fist and we looked at each other and smiled for the first time that day.

"I bet it's Michel," Roch said, getting up.

It was. When he followed Roch into the kitchen, I saw that he was far from happy. In fact, he looked twice as depressed as we had, earlier.

He wasted no time at all in breaking the bad news. He said:

"Armand is dead. He died last night at the hospital. We don't have a buyer any more, gentlemen."

I was too shocked to speak. Roch said:

"Armand, that's the guy that was to sell everything for us?"

"Yes," said Michel. He drew out a chair and sat down and repeated:

"Yes. Basically, we need a new plan."

"Basically?" I asked.

"Fuck off."

But we were stuck with each other, and stuck with stolen property too. We sat around that table and smoked silently a while. Eventually I said:

"I understand looking for a buyer is out."

"Absolutely and totally," Michel said. "Don't even think about it."

"I can't help thinking about it," I told him. "What's more, you're thinking about it too, admit it. In the circumstances it's something that comes to mind naturally, wouldn't you say?"

"I would. I'm sorry, I misspoke. What I meant was, we're not going to look for a buyer."

"But we don't need to," I said. "There's a buyer waiting, a buyer that will be only to happy to pay for everything we took. We'll get a fraction of the value but what the hell, Armand wasn't going to pay us full value either. How much was he willing to pay? You never told us."

"For fuck's sake, Mike, just tell us who is that buyer you're talking about," Roch said.

"There are actually two," I said. "Yep, there are two parties very interested in buying what we stole."

I stopped speaking to get maximum mileage out of them staring at me as if I were the biblical bush burning in the desert. When I sensed that Roch was about to give me a clout on the head, I said:

"The insurance company and the museum, gentlemen. Those are the two buyers I'm talking about. Both will be very glad to buy everything back. Of course the price has to be right. Definitely not more than half the insurance money."

"Fuck!" said Roch, in an awed voice. Michel shook his head and said 'fuck' too, under his breath. Then he said:

"The museum. We talk to the museum. They have an emotional investment in this. Let them work on chiseling the money out of the insurance guys, they'll do it better than we can. And then they'll be willing to put a little extra on top out of their pockets. Brilliant idea, Mike. I salute you."

"Fucking amazing," said Roch, and I felt myself glow with pleasure.

We spent the rest of the day and most of the evening discussing the details. Michel had the museum director's phone number, so obviously that was the way to make contact. Of course we had to take precautions. The call had to be made from a public payphone, preferably in a busy place. It would have to be very brief so that it couldn't be traced, and it had to be very convincing. It wasn't easy, thinking of what needed to be said.

It was Michel's turn to come up with something. He said:

"We agree that we have to show them right away we mean business. So we do this: we give them back one of the things we've taken. One of those gold trinkets. We follow up by mailing Polaroids of everything, with a price on the back of every photo. Next phone call, all they have to say is yes or no."

"What if they say no?" asked Roch. Michel shrugged.

"We'll cut the price until they say yes. We don't have any other choice."

"What about the phone call?" I asked. "You said none of us should call, that it's too risky. You think bringing someone in to make that call isn't risky?"

"I'll get Denis to make the call for us. He knows about the job already, and he's due for a checkup at the hospital. A hospital payphone next to the visitors' entrance! It's perfect."

"Denis?"

"Shit, don't tell me you don't remember Denis. He was our third guy before he dropped his fucking bike on his leg. He is beyond suspicion. He has a fucking cast on his leg!"

"Sounds good," said Roch. "But what do we want him to say?"

"He'll tell them where to find a token of our goodwill to get the negotiations going. We'll hide it in, in another public spot. Maybe a library?"

We kicked ideas around for a while before settling on a phone booth. Michel would tape something suitably small and flat under the small shelf under the phone. It was intended for people writing down phone numbers or consulting the phone directory, and it was set low: at hip height or less. It would be fucking impossible to spot anything under that shelf without going into major contortions in the cramped booth.

We also agreed that we wouldn't see or call each other for a week. Roch and Michel were to bump into each other by accident in a chosen bar next Friday night, and Roch would invite Michel to visit the next day in the presence of witnesses. Then the three of us would get together for drinks Saturday night, a perfectly natural thing to do.

By the time Michel went home, we had pretty much ironed out everything that had to be done. Michel told us he'd take the Polaroids. He also said a previous tenant at his house had left behind a couple of big Port of Montreal envelopes. He would mail the photos in one of those.

"The cops will get all excited that they got a lead," he said. "They'll swarm to the port like flies to horseshit. It's the perfect touch."

We agreed. Once Michel left, we drank most of the booze in the house and smoked plenty of pot. It was simply the thing to do, in the circumstances.

Sunday brought me a fresh problem. I knew my parents would be sitting around the house, waiting for me to call. I didn't want to call. I knew my mother would not pass up the perfect chance to act out one of her dramas, radio-play style. I also had no desire at all to get a dose of my old man's relentless, remorseless logic. That phone call was bound to end badly, so I didn't make it. But I still felt guilty like hell.

It was quite nice outside, and I ended up going for a very long walk. When I got to what they called Vieux Montreal—Old Montreal—I bought the nicest postcard I could find, and a stamp. Then I carefully selected a bar with an early happy hour, and treated myself to a beer. When I was feeling sufficiently relaxed, I wrote my parents.

I thanked them both for the letter I'd received. I told them everything was fine, and that I'd found an inexpensive place to stay. What made it inexpensive was the lack of a phone. I expressed the fervent hope they were fine, and everything else was fine, too.

I even included greetings for Josh, the Asshole of the Universe. The photo on the front of the card showed a view of one of the better-looking streets in Vieux Montreal, and featured a very nice young couple in the foreground. There were also a few kids around in that photo, nice kids, the kind of kids that exist in fairy tales. I hoped that this would nudge my parents towards the thought that kids weren't all that bad, even when they were your own and causing constant worry and grief, starting off with wails at night and salvoes of liquid shit into diapers you were subsequently obliged to change with loving care.

I put the postcard into a mailbox that was to be emptied early Monday morning. With any luck, they'd get it Wednesday. Then I walked all the way back home. I must have walked nearly ten miles that day, all in all.

It did me good.. That night, I slept like an innocent baby.