The Homeless Millionaire

Wednesday's shift started on a calm note. I was in at ten to six, which made Larry happy. He was really tired; his little daughter had just started teething, and had kept him up most of the night with her crying. He briefed me on the latest developments at the Montrose: two couples came in for lunchtime sex, but no window panes were broken this time. The glazier had been in, the window in number two was fixed, all the rooms were empty and waiting for people eager to satisfy their carnal appetites.

I was almost as tired as Larry, because once again I had difficulty getting to sleep in the afternoon. When I'd arrived home from work in the morning, Roch informed me that Michel had been in touch. He'd called from a payphone, just like the previous day, and told Roch he'd left Brueghel's Landscape with Buildings and Wagon in a locker at the railway station. He'd managed to lose the plainclothes cop that was following him around before he got there, and Montreal's Central Station was such a busy place that it was very unlikely anyone would remember him renting the locker. But just in case, he would wait a few days before calling the museum and telling them where to find the painting. No new money negotiations had taken place, everything was still up in the air; we had to wait.

I started to wonder if we'd ever manage to see any money for the stuff we'd stolen, and worked myself into a real funk. I reminded myself that I was the owner of a genuine Rembrandt, but that didn't work: it just got me thinking that I'd eventually get caught with it in my possession, and end up in prison. I was so engrossed in all this unhappy shit that I forgot to switch faces when Henry Houghton-Briggs pranced in at a few minutes to seven.

He was wearing a different blazer this time, dark plum in colour, and fawn trousers. He had his cigarette holder in one hand and what appeared to be an antique telephone in the other.

"Michael, my dear boy!" he exclaimed upon seeing me. "You look absolutely shattered. What happened? Please tell me."

I hurriedly rearranged my features, and said:

"No, nothing bad has happened, I'm sorry. I got a piece of bad news from home earlier today."

"Oh! Not a death in the family, I hope."

"No, no. Just some, uh, personal stuff between me and my brother."

"Well I won't pry," HB said gravely, "But I do know for a fact brothers can be real pests. Cheer up, my boy, and look at this: isn't it magnificent?"

He lifted the phone for my inspection, then put it on the counter. It was a vintage telephone, at least forty years old: it had a spindly receiver with the earpiece and microphone encased in some sort of metal imitating gold. The receiver's grip and the phone box were made of dark red wood.

"Does it work?" I asked. Houghton-Briggs looked hurt.

"Of course it works, my dear boy. Otherwise, why would I bring it here? Now take out that ugly black plastic thing from under the counter and connect this little beauty instead, there's a good chap. I want it to stay on the counter, no need to hide it away. Isn't it simply marvellous?"

"It's very elegant."

"Exactly! Exactly. A touch of class. I shall go back home and ring you presently, within a couple of minutes at the outside. It has the most melodious ring. What's the matter? Are you thinking about your brother again?"

"I—no, I just didn't realize you lived close by."

"I did not tell you? My apologies, old horse. Just a couple of houses down the street. But surely I told you that when I was instructing you to call me if there was something you couldn't handle?"

"Of course. I must have forgotten," I said, unplugging the old phone and plugging in the new old phone instead. I wound the cable around the old phone and put it on the counter. Standing next to the antique phone HB had brought, it was as ugly as a turd.

HB waggled a playful finger in front of my face and said:

"That won't do. That definitely won't do. Forgetting things at your age? Pull your socks up, my boy, pull them up at once. Is the phone connected?"

"Yes," I said. HB lifted the receiver, put it to his ear, and beamed at me.

"What a beautiful sound," he said. "It's purring like a contented cat."

He picked up the old phone with a grimace of distaste. He pranced off, stopped at the front door, turned to look at me, and said:

"Might be a little more than a couple of minutes, actually. Let's say five, shall we? Expect me to call in around five minutes. One must plan for the unexpected."

He took off, and I examined the new old phone for a while. The faux gold dial twinkled invitingly; I was tempted to call Roch at his aunt's house just because I wanted to dial a number. There seemed to be something wrong with the numeral 4; I peered at it and saw there was a dark smudge below the crossbar. I was attempting to rub it off with the tip of my pinkie when the front door bell chimed. Guests!

They were the first guests I checked in all by myself. I looked them over while they signed the register: they were the sort of couple you might encounter in a discount store. The guy looked around thirty, but had already managed to go almost completely bald: a short fringe of mousy brown hair ran around the back of his head. He had a button nose and small blue eyes and wore a dark blue nylon windbreaker that rustled while he wrote. He registered himself and his lady as a Mr. and Mrs. McLeod. McLeod was a safe, anonymous name, the Canadian equivalent of the British Smith: there were pages and pages of McLeods in every phone directory.

His belle was older than him: I put her at forty. She was very thin, and slightly taller. She had a long horsey face and black shoulder–length hair that she wore with a parting in the middle. She was dressed in a faded jean jacket over a black top and a jean miniskirt.

She wouldn't look at me, but I could see anyway that she was really high on something other than alcohol. But I didn't expect any trouble: the guy put down ten bucks on the counter the moment he'd registered and smiled pleasantly and nodded when I said I'd give them room number one.

"It's at the end of the hall," I said, shepherding them onto the stairs. "You'll have extra privacy." The woman finally looked at me when I said that and I saw her eyes: their pupils were like pinheads.

We went upstairs and I showed them into the room and asked them if they liked it. They did, it was fine, everything was A-okay. So I left them, shutting the door behind me, and barely reached the bottom of the stairs when there was a bloodcurdling scream from the room.

I rushed back and opened the door in time to get hit full force by another scream. I quickly stepped inside and saw that the guy was standing pressed against the wall with his pants down and his hands raised in surrender. The woman was standing right in front of him. She had his testicles in one hand and a nasty-looking switchblade in the other. As I looked, the guy let out yet another scream.

"Stop that right now!" I shouted. I was panicked, and I shouted very loudly.

They both flinched, and looked at me. The woman actually smiled at me over her shoulder. The guy said:

"We're only playing a little game."

"What?"

"It's a little game we like to play. I'm sorry if it got too loud. Can you stop looking at my, uh, at me? And leave?"

"You can't scream like that."

"I said I was sorry. Can you please leave?" The woman leaned forward and kissed his forehead and looked at me again with that slimy smile.

"If you do that again, I'll have to call the cops," I said.

The woman released the guy's gear and walked up to me so quickly I didn't have the time to step back. She pressed the tip of the knife in the skin under my chin and hissed:

"Don't even think about it, little boy."

I lifted my chin and spun around and left without a word, half-expecting her to stab me in the back. She didn't. I went downstairs and heard another scream even before I reached the last step. Simultaneously I heard a melodious tinkle that I couldn't place, and I froze. It sounded again and I realized it was that fucking telephone. I ran to it and lifted the receiver and said hello.

There was a short, frigid silence. Then HB's voice said:

"Michael, when you answer the phone you must say: Montrose Hotel, good evening. Or good morning, after three am. Am I clear? Also, you must answer all calls promptly. I've been waiting—"

There was another scream from upstairs, so loud that HB heard it over the phone. He instantly changed tack and said:

"What's going on there, for heaven's sake? I think I just heard someone screaming."

"You did," I told him. "Soon after you left, this couple checked into number one. And right now she's holding his dick in one hand and a knife in the other. I tried to get it under control, but she threatened me with the knife."

"Stay where you are. I shall be right over."

When I opened the front door he was already trotting up the front path, looking totally ridiculous in that dark plum blazer. He went past me and when I tried to follow him up the stairs he snapped at me to stay back. He went up two stairs at a time, hopping like a rabbit, and half-ran to the room, disappearing from sight. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs, ears flapping, and got them blasted by yet another scream. I heard HB stop and open the door and then his voice: soft, calm, and so quiet that once again, I couldn't make out a single word.

There were sounds of people moving around and then many footsteps and everyone filed out onto the top landing. The guy led the procession, his hands busy fastening the belt on his pants; the woman followed, walking with a peculiar stiff gait. When she fully came into view I saw it was caused by a small shiny gun Henry Houghton-Briggs was pressing into the small of her back.

"Stand aside, Michael," he said when he saw me. "Please go back to the reception. The gentleman and the lady are leaving."

I picked my jaw up from the floor and obediently went to stand behind the counter. The small procession filed down the stairs and crossed the hall to the front door. HB dropped his gun hand to his side: his pistol was a flat, toy-sized automatic. It didn't look lethal at all.

The guy stopped at the front door and turned around and began to whine:

"I want my money back. I paid ten bucks for that room. I—"

"Shut up," HB said calmly. He raised the gun and pointed it at the woman's face. He said:

"And what do you say, dear?"

She was silent. HB smiled, and said:

"I do not make house calls free of charge. If you feel you're being robbed, perhaps you should call the police. Now please leave before things get ugly. And don't think of coming back. Ever."

His voice was dripping with menace, and I remembered what Larry had told me when he was showing me around: that HB could get really nasty. I now had an idea of what he'd meant.

The two crazies left without further protests. HB stood in the doorway watching them walk away, his gun hand hanging by his side. After a while he put the pistol in the breast pocket of his blazer and shut the door. He walked up to me and said:

"I'm sorry I gave you a rough time over the phone, old boy. This clearly was an emergency. Are you all right? Think you can carry on?"

"Of course."

"Should either of those two creatures show up and ask for a room, turn them away. No ifs or buts."

"I will."

He beamed at me.

"That's my boy," he said, and I swear he began to raise his hand to stroke my cheek. But he stopped himself in time and beamed at me some more and added:

"This was most irregular, I assure you. First time something like this has happened in, oh, years and years. A spot of bad luck for you, but all's well that ends well, isn't it? Cheerio."

I shook my head as I watched him go, and kept shaking it at intervals until the end of my shift.