The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 106 November 24 25th 1972

Friday began well: it wasn’t raining – the sun was actually peeking out from between the clouds now and then – and the little witches below had suspended the running fight which Charles was the better Charles.

I looked at the drawings I had done the previous day while the Noyces prepared to vacate the premises. I found a few more flaws, but overall both portraits were good. Finding those flaws made me happy. It meant I was developing as an artist.

I dug out the tube I used for carrying pictures and rolled up the two portraits and put them inside. The Noyces left, and I did my morning routine. I was getting really sick of bread and corn beef and apples. But I shuddered when I thought about getting a carton of eggs and going down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I didn’t want to get too chummy with the Noyces. Something in my subconscious told me it wouldn’t be a good idea. I questioned my pal about that, but he wouldn’t tell me why.

I enjoyed my walk to the office – the sun was out – and was surprised to find both Klein and Robinson were in. They seemed to be in a tizzy, too. When I entered, they were looking through some doc.u.ments they’d spread on Klein’s desk. They raised their heads to look at me and both gave me acknowledging nods and went back to scrutinizing the papers.

“There you are,” I heard Robinson say as I was hanging up my jacket. “In black and white. Balance to be paid within thirty days of completing the transaction.”

“Are we going to court with this?”

“Of course not. I’ll pay the old fool a visit after I’d seen Sissy, and try a little friendly persuasion. If he balks, I’ll try a little unfriendly persuasion. Don’t worry about it, Abel. Are you seeing Schenker today?”

“Yes. We have a lunch date.”

“Good. Word of warning: if he orders oysters or anything else that’s going to give his ulcer a hard time, wrap up everything before he’s finished eating.”

“I didn’t realize oysters are bad for ulcers.”

“They are when one drenches them in Tabasco, and he does.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

They both departed soon after that, Robinson giving me four letters to type up before he left.

“I should be back by three at the latest,” he told me. “Oh, by the way. Moore might pop in to drop something off for me. You know, the fellow that got all suspicious about you being here. Don’t take any guff from him, my boy. If he gets difficult, refer him to me. Politely, of course. One doesn’t want to antagonize police officers, even when they’re being silly asses.”

“I understand.”

He buzzed off, and so did Klein. I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to present them with their portraits. They’d both given my tube curious glances – I had hung it at the back of the coat rack, and Klein had actually stopped to examine it on his way out. But he made no remark, and neither did Robinson.

I celebrated my solitary, independent office status with a couple of coffees and cigarettes. Then I typed up Robinson’s letters, keeping an eye on the front door and expecting the dreaded Moore to show up at any moment. But he didn’t, and after I’d finished with the letters I found myself thinking about the other Moore – the Jane of unit 31, 4 Myrtle Street.

I had the slip of paper G. Papadopoulos had given me neatly tucked away in my wallet. I got it out and looked at the address and then the phone number. Four three one, flanked by a bunch of primary numbers. I smoked two cigarettes walking around the office, throwing glances at that piece of paper and the phone.

When Klein got back I went to the post office determined to call Jane Moore and to put that business to bed once and for all. I also wanted to talk to Roch. The hot dog guy was there as usual and I bought a couple and almost sobbed when I saw how little money I had left, with payday still a week away. I changed my mind about the phone calls: I wasn’t going to spend a goddamn nickel on anything that wasn’t a necessity.

I did buy a newspaper on my way home, and rolled an extra thin joint when I got there and spent the evening in my room, reading everything and retaining nothing because even a tiny joint of Cambodian killer weed was enough to get me completely stoned. I spent a long time looking at the cartoons and thought about drawing a comic strip that I could sell somewhere. But the idea didn’t have the kind of pull that would inspire me to do my best, and anyway I had exactly one leaf left in my sketchbook. I wanted to keep it blank in case I thought of something really good and needed to put it down on paper right away.

I brought the portraits with me again the next day, even though Klein had presaged a busy Saturday. It did turn out that way, though not for me. Both Klein and Robinson were present when I came in, and they had just three letters between them. They left a moment after I arrived, after a low-voiced exchange by the door. I typed the letters up and smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until my ears were buzzing. The top drawer of Klein’s desk was locked.

John Moore barged in just as I was coming close to screaming with boredom. This time, the cop car must have parked around the corner. I saw Moore and instantly stopped being bored and almost instantly wished that I was bored again.

I put on my receptionist’s face and stood up and wished him a good morning. He didn’t return it. He walked up to my desk in a manner that reminded me of a charging rhino and slapped down a large buff envelope hard enough to make it sound like a pistol shot.

“That’s for Jack Robinson,” he said, giving me the hostile eye. “Tell him I’m sorry I didn’t manage to drop it off yesterday.”

“I will.”

“Tell him I was too busy,” he said. “Tell him I had a murder and two assaults with a deadly weapon and a runaway kid that tried to commit suicide. Make sure to tell him about that kid.”

He gave me a look that clearly communicated he hoped I’d attempt suicide too, and succeed where others had failed.

“Of course,” I told him. “Whatever you say.”

He gave me a sneer and left and I cursed him and his family and all the Moores of this world for a few minutes. Then I spent an hour smoking and looking at the rain come down – it had started right after Moore had appeared.

Klein showed up around around half past three and checked and signed the letters and I went off on my post office run. It had stopped raining just before I left but it was cold and windy and the damp air cut to the bone. I walked fast, so fast that I bumped into a couple of people. The second of those people, right in front of the post office, turned out to be D.i.c.ky of the leaking sailboat. He was wearing his peacoat and a hat exactly like Moore’s and he said:

“Watch where you’re going, asshole. Hey! You! Stop. We’ve met before.”

“F.u.c.k you,” I said, and dived into the post office. He didn’t follow me in there. After posting the letters, I called Harry’s mother and found out he hadn’t showed up yet. He was definitely coming though, and would be there most of Sunday.

I checked out the street before leaving the post office to make sure D.i.c.ky wasn’t lurking anywhere, preparing to pounce on me the moment I walked out.

He wasn’t, maybe because it was raining again. I half-ran all the way back to work, taking extra care not to bump into anyone. About halfway to the office, I saw someone that looked like my Jane – D.i.c.ky’s sister – getting out of a car on the other side of the street. I did not stop to check.

Klein and Robinson were both at the office when I got back, and they had strange looks on their faces. Klein was seated at his desk, his hooves on the floor for once, blowing cigar smoke at the ceiling, watching it change shape and dissolve like a shaman looking for answers. Robinson was drinking tea at his/my desk, and looking at a big architectural drawing spread on the desktop. The buff envelope Moore had brought was lying on the floor by the desk: it had been opened. The atmosphere was so tense and thick you could cut it with a knife, and it wasn’t because of the smoke.

I hung up my jacket and approached Robinson and passed on Moore’s message. He looked up from what appeared to be a floor plan of a house and his eyes seemed vacant as he listened. Then he nodded twice, and said:

“You know, nothing much is going to be happening here today. So why don’t you take off home early this time, my boy, we’ve kept you longer than we should have done last week. By the way, what is this mysterious tube you’ve started bringing in recently?”

I reminded him he’d asked me to show him and Klein some of my pictures. He had completely forgotten about it.

“Ah,” he said. “Of course. Not today, I fear. Abel and I have a bit on our minds. Tell you what, why don’t you just leave it here and we’ll look at them Monday?”

“I might need it tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll bring it Monday, if you like.”

“Yes, I would. Till then, my boy, enjoy your weekend.”

I went to the A&W and dragged out my meal as much as I could, eating the fries one by one. On the way out I called Harry’s mother again. I’d promised myself I’d do it Sunday, but I just couldn’t stop myself when I saw the payphone.

He was in, he actually answered the phone.

“Harry!” I said.

“Hey, Mike. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Good,” I said. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’ve been fine,” he said, in a tone that implied otherwise.

“Want to get together for a beer?”

“Yeah, sure… But you know what? I can’t do it this weekend. Got too much stuff happening. Sometime next week would be fine, though.”

“You’re not going back to the cottage?”

“I am, but I’ll be back Wednesday. Let’s talk Wednesday evening. You got a phone?”

“Not yet. I’ll call you after six.”

“Make it after eight, just to be sure. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you then.”

“Bye.”

I hung up, feeling deflated. My paranoid pal was hovering in the background, preparing to pounce: in my mind’s eye, he’d started to resemble D.i.c.ky. I walked home as fast as I could to shake him off, buying a newspaper on the day – my evening entertainment. But when I got home I found that the Noyces were having a party. They had music on, and Neil Young was looking for a heart of gold.

I was hoping the din would let me make an undetected entry, but Birgit popped out of the kitchen and intercepted me just as I was about to ascend the stairs.

“Our phantom lodger!” she shrieked with alcoholic enthusiasm. I attempted a grin.

“We’re having a small party tonight,” she informed me unnecessarily. “One of my friends here is an artist. And I never knew that! She only told me when I’d told her about you. You two should talk. Want to come down for a drink later?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean I’d like to, but I don’t feel well. Stomach upset.”

“Oh you poor thing. Well do come down if you feel better.”

“I will,” I lied, and escaped.

I went up to my room and spent the next hour trying to read the newspaper and failing because the voices from downstairs kept getting louder along with the music. The little witches were active too, taking full advantage of the covering noise to talk at the top of their voices and squeal repeatedly. It was hell. I really didn’t want to go downstairs and mingle. I disliked that idea so much that even the promised drink couldn’t tempt me. So I stayed upstairs, smoking up a storm and suffering silently and wondering what the f.u.c.k was wrong with me.

My pal had plenty of ideas about that, and when the party finally broke up just past midnight I was totally exhausted.

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