The Homeless Millionaire

When I returned home around half past eight the next morning, Roch was waiting for me in the kitchen. We exchanged good mornings and right away he said:

"Michel's been in touch."

"Oh great," I said. "Good news?"

"No. The museum guys want rock-solid proof that we got their stuff. So Michel is going to give them a painting. A Brueghel."

"Brueghel? Is he fucking insane? Can't he give them something less valuable?"

"No, that's the whole point. It has to have real impact."

I didn't have the strength to argue with him. I'd been up all night and I was falling off my feet. I turned my back on Roch and started getting myself a coffee.

"Hey, Mike. What's wrong with you?"

I didn't look at him. I said:

"Nothing. I'm fine. I've just come home from a night shift at a fucking whorehouse. How about you let me have a coffee and some food first. Be nice to me, and I'll tell you all."

"Working in a whorehouse? That sounds like fun."

"Yeah, great fun. Well, it isn't really a whorehouse. The great Montrose Hotel is a place that rents beds to people who want to fuck."

"You're kidding!"

"I shit you not."

"I've got to visit you at work sometime in the near future."

"Over my dead body."

"Well, at least tell me about it."

"There's not much to tell so far," I said. "It was a Monday night. I spent six hours reading old magazines and checked out a couple that had come in earlier. The guy that works the afternoon shift told me Monday nights are very slow."

"Hmm," Roch said. "I'll make a point of not visiting you on a Monday."

He left and I made myself breakfast and ate it, thinking about that couple I'd checked out: the salesman in the brown suit and the sad secretary. They were both really downcast when they were leaving. They were so sad that I'd nearly asked them if I could help them with something. They didn't give me a tip.

As instructed by Larry, I went up to their room right after they'd left. There was a pile of butts in the ashtray and some soggy tissues in the wastepaper basket. They hadn't even sat on the bed.

I spent the rest of the shift reading magazines. Newsweek and Time were full of the war in Vietnam: they agreed that Nixon's famous Vietnamization program was working out. Vietnamization was a fancy name that meant henceforth all the killing would involve only the Vietnamese; the Americans were getting out.

Macleans, the Canadian weekly magazine, had a story speculating on whether Margaret Trudeau—the prime minister's wife—got laid by one or more of the Rolling Stones during their recent visit. Fortunately there was also an old copy of Esquire—the Houghton-Briggs touch, I suppose—and there were a couple of good stories in that.

HB himself showed up at a quarter to six, as advertised earlier. This time, he was wearing a blazer with metal buttons and an open–necked shirt with a foulard bulging out: he looked like a pompous turkey. He was disappointed to learn no one at all checked in during my shift.

He shot me a look that told me it had crossed his mind I could have rented out a room without registering it, and pocketed the money. I could hear him checking out the rooms for quite a while; he wasn't done until it was twenty past six, and I was raring to go home. But at least I was rewarded by a sunny smile that informed me HB no longer suspected me of funny business.

I was late that day for my shift at the Montrose. I made the mistake of screwing around with pots and pans instead of eating out again. I'd wanted to save money, and ended up scrubbing the stove for a fucking long time. The rice had boiled over and the frying pan spat hot fat over the whole mess while I was enjoying a cigarette in the backyard.

My late arrival made Larry angry. He said:

"Hey, guy, you have to be on the ball here, know what I mean? I got a family to go home to. Let me tell you the deal: you'll pay me a dollar for every fifteen minutes you're late. You don't agree, I squeal to mister HB, and you're out on your ass. Got it?"

"Sure. I'm sorry, Larry. Won't happen again."

"Hope not." He glared some more, then added:

"Couple just came in, they're in number four, and they look like they might be trouble. Guy was so drunk he had difficulty signing the register. You better keep an eye and a ear out for them, but remember: no fucking cops. Rooms one and three are occupied as well, no problems there. Number two is out of commission: a couple of idiots came around for a lunchtime fuck and did it on the windowsill and broke the window pane. Lucky they didn't end on their asses in the backyard. Numbers five, six and seven are free. Got it?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'll come in half past five tomorrow so you can knock off early."

"Forget it. Old HB doesn't like that. But appreciate the thought."

He fucked off and before long Houghton-Briggs danced in, all blazered up, cigarette holder loaded and smoking. He walked up to me and gave me a stern look and said:

"Michael. I need to speak to you about something, dear boy. You must make an effort to be punctual. Punctuality is very important. It's—"

He was interrupted by a loud crash from upstairs, followed by a shout.

"Please excuse me," he said. "Stay here."

He went up the stairs like a jackrabbit, and I became all ears. The guy shouting upstairs sounded like a big guy. This was going to be interesting. Then I became worried I might be called on to help.

I needn't have worried. I heard His Excellency knock on the door and say something so softly I couldn't make out a single word. The cursing stopped instantly. A minute or two ticked by on the clock behind my back; then I heard the door upstairs opening, followed by what sounded like muffled apologies.

A moment later, a small procession filed down the stairs. It was led by a petite woman decked out in black leather: black leather jacket, black leather jeans, black boots that ended just below the knee. She was carrying a sports bag and was followed by a huge fat guy in a business suit. He was at least twice as big as HB.

HB stopped halfway down the staircase, and called out:

"Michael, the gentleman and the lady are leaving." He put the end of his cigarette holder in his mouth and began puffing dangerously.

The guy approached the reception with his eyes on the floor, as if he was too ashamed to meet my eyes. He raised a ham-sized fist and let the key clatter down on the counter.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled, and shuffled off to join his lady near the front door. HB watched them leave, sucking on his cigarette holder. They went so meekly I was blown away. That guy could have swatted down old HB as if he were a fly.

"That was amazing," I said, the moment the front door slammed shut.

Houghton-Briggs raised his chin at me and blew out a cloud of smoke and said:

"It just takes a bit of practice, old boy. Right choice of words and all that."

I spent the rest of my shift wondering about Henry Houghton-Briggs. There was much more to him than met the eye.

I was to see proof of that quite soon.