The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 104 November 20 21st 1972

Monday began with the wind howling and m.o.a.ning and rain hammering on my window so hard it sounded like hail.

I’d dreamt that the cops got me. When I woke up, I could still see the face of a fat cop telling me I wasn’t going to go fishing anytime soon. This was very likely true, because I didn’t fish – the half-assed attempt I’d made at Roch’s cottage was the third or maybe fourth time I’d handled a fishing rod in my entire life. I got up and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes, freaking out silently while the Noyces went through their morning routines downstairs.

When they’d all left, I hit the bathroom. I could still see that cop’s face when I was shaving. I was sure I’d never met anyone who looked like that. I was equally sure it just wasn’t possible to dream up new faces, faces never seen before. I remembered reading somewhere that the brain stored every single memory, every single moment in a life, in an order dictated by emotions. The stronger the emotion attached to a particular memory, the easier it was to recall later. Memories without any emotional significance faded into obscurity, becoming irretrievable. Most likely, I had come across someone who looked like that cop in my dream. I just couldn’t remember it.

While I was walking to work a gust of wind turned my umbrella inside out, totally wrecking it. The hood of my outdoor jacket was too thin to deal with heavy rain and I arrived at the office with my head as wet as if I’d just dived into a swimming pool. Klein tut-tutted sympathetically and instructed me to dry my head with paper towels.

“You’ll catch a hell of a cold otherwise,” he warned me, puffing cigar smoke. He wasn’t on the phone that morning: he was reading a color magazine. This time, he didn’t hide it in his desk when I came in. However, he held it open in such a way that I’d have to go over and stand right over him to see what that magazine was about.

I wiped and patted my hair semi-dry and quickly made Klein a coffee and brought it over to his desk, but I was too late: the magazine wasn’t in evidence any more. He was leafing through a notebook and frowning; I guessed he was choosing people to call. I was right. By the time I’d made myself a coffee, he was on the phone, discussing the awful weather with a prospective victim.

There were no letters for me to type, so I did what I could to create the impression I was working. I arranged and rearranged the contents of the cupboards in the annex, giving Robinson’s Worcester china a rub in preparation for his tea. But he didn’t show up at all that day. Klein must have talked with him at some point, because around one he got up and and joined me in the annex. After congratulating me on making everything spic and span he said:

“Jack and I would like to know about Thanksgiving. Are you planning to spend it in Toronto with your family?”

He was very relieved to hear that I did not.

“Most offices are closed on Friday too, making it a very long weekend,” he said, “But we aren’t. And we anticipate a busy Saturday. It will be good to have you around.”

I asked him if there was another luncheon party being planned.

“I wish,” he sighed. “No, we just have a hell of a lot of appointments, Jack and I. You’ll be on your own most of the day. But don’t you worry, there’ll be another party soon!”

He said it as if he thought I was looking forward to being run off my feet for several hours. I smiled and told him I was glad to hear it and went back to pretending I was busy.

By three o’clock, I was really racking my brains for something to do. Fortunately Klein had to leave for an appointment, cursing the rain as he did so. I waited a bit and had a go at his desk and the top drawer was locked. What the hell was he hiding in there?

I sat there, wondering about the contents of the locked drawer and smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and gradually getting so bored and hungry I was ready to scream by the time Klein returned. He told me to go home at ten to six and I went to the A&W and ate two burger-and-fries combos. The pimply teenage girl who was my cashier recognized me from my previous visits and smiled at me when I was getting the second combo and said she was glad I was enjoying the food. I said I was glad, too. I said the food was great.

It had stopped raining even before I’d left the office, so after the A&W I went to a supermarket and stocked up on bread and corned beef and apples. I seriously considered replacing the corned beef with Spam to save money, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I also bought a carton of cigarettes and the paper and that left me with around forty bucks. I really wanted to buy some booze too, but knew I couldn’t afford it and I returned home in a very bad mood.

The Noyce gang was watching TV: it seemed that was what they did most evenings. I snuck up to my studio undetected and instantly rolled and smoked a joint. If I rolled them thin, I could count on a joint a day until I got paid. I spent the rest of the evening reading the paper, thoroughly stoned. There was nothing about Schmidt and nothing about the museum robbery.

However, there had been a juicy double murder in Halifax, Nova Scotia: a gun-carrying security guard returned early from work to find his best friend humping his wife. He understandably became very upset and shot both of them several times. Then he tried to shoot himself, but the last bullet in his revolver turned out to be a dud – clearly, he was having one of those days. By the time he’d recovered from the shock and reloaded his gun, the cops arrived, alarmed by neighbors who’d heard gunshots.

Reading about all that consoled me: there were people in worse shit than I was. I wondered about that security guard before falling asleep: he was bound to get a stiff sentence. Would he make it? I suspected that if I were in his shoes, I would have hanged myself first chance I got. My paranoid friend was eager to start a discussion, but luckily I was so tired I fell asleep before he could get going on me.

The next day, Tuesday, began with the discovery I really needed to visit a laundromat, ideally that very day: I was down to my last change of socks and underwear. That meant spending extra money, hardly a lot, but I’d already started counting pennies. I didn’t want to ask the Noyces about using their washer and dryer. They’d already given me a break with the rent.

It wasn’t raining that morning, which was great because my umbrella was f.u.c.k.i.e.d up beyond repair. A surprise awaited me at the office. Robinson was there instead of Klein. I noted that he had managed to take off and hang up his coat unassisted. He was seated at Klein’s desk, doing Klein’s thing: talking on phone. He raised a hand in greeting as I came in and I noticed he’d already made himself tea.

He had also left a small pile of pages covered in his crabby handwriting on my desk: it looked as if he’d spent all of the previous day composing letters. There were over a dozen, and it took me over an hour to type them up without making a mistake. Robinson was still on the phone: I left the letters on the desk for his review, and went to the annex for a coffee and a smoke. I was on my second cigarette and rubbing at an imaginary spot on the tabletop with a duster when Robinson called me over.

“I need you to redo one of the letters, my boy,” he said, handing it to me. “Not your fault. Bad choice of words on my part. I shall be leaving now for an appointment. Abel should be back around three, you can pop around to the post office then. Oh, and one of our clients will be dropping off some doc.u.ments. His name is Moore, John Moore. Tall chap, with one of those bent beaks acquired by coming into close contact with a fist. Grumpy fellow, suffers from ulcers I believe. Ask him if he’d like a cup of tea, will you? Hopefully he won’t want any.”

I helped Robinson with his coat, all of a tizzy because of the incoming Moore. It was a popular name, and most likely John and Jane Moore of 4 Myrtle Street were totally unrelated. I smoked a cigarette, trying to calculate the chance: one in a hundred?

Robinson had changed a single word in the letter he wanted me to type anew: he replaced ‘satisfactory’ with ‘reasonable’. He really was a guy for getting the meaning just right. The letter concerned an offer for a house, and requested a meeting without revealing any sums. I was beginning to get a line on how Robinson and Klein conducted business: they played their cards close to their chests, and left themselves plenty of maneuvering room.

I was wondering how I could apply those tactics to my own affairs when I saw a cop car pull up right in front of the office.

I was smoking a cigarette at my desk and choked on the smoke and started coughing. When I stopped, a guy was already coming into the office. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a porkpie hat and a sports jacket, no overcoat, and he had ‘cop’ written all over him. I stood up and said good morning and how can I help you sounding like a frightened kid.

“I’m dropping off something for Jack Robinson,” he said, in a voice like a cement mixer. He put his hand inside his jacket, bending his head, and it was only then that I noticed his nose. It was bent sideways and lumpy: this had to be John Moore. I got a glimpse of a shoulder holster as he tugged an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Here,” he said, taking a couple of steps forward and reaching to drop the envelope on my desk. He looked at my face and froze.

“Thank you,” I said, leaning over and taking the envelope from his hand. “I’ll make sure he gets this today. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“We’ve met before,” he said, with total certainty.

“You name is John Moore?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, thrown off balance.

“Do you have a daughter called Jane?”

“Yes,” he said again, and that threw me much more badly than it threw him.

“Amazing,” I said. “It seems I know your daughter. Possibly you’ve seen me around.”

“I’ve definitely seen you around,” he said, scowling at me. “But I don’t think you’re friends with my daughter. She’s six years old.”

“Oh. Well, obviously it’s another Jane.”

“Obviously.” He kept staring at me and it was f.u.c.k.i.n.g unpleasant, he’d probably honed it to perfection conducting interrogations. Luckily for me, there was an impatient parp from the horn of the cop car outside.

“You work here?” Moore said, a little stupidly I thought.

“Obviously.”

“Tell Jack Robinson I want to talk to him,” he snapped, and went out. I remained standing until the cop car drove away and then I collapsed onto my seat and buried my face in my hands.

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