The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 108 November 27th 1972

My big week began with a grey sky and a rain that couldn’t make up its mind: it would piss for a couple of minutes, stop, piss again. Rain didn’t feel like working that Monday, and neither did I.

I reminded myself that my work at Robinson & Klein consisted mostly of drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. It didn’t help. I had to force myself to get ready to leave, then I had to force myself to actually leave. I tried to figure out what was wrong and this brought my paranoid pal out of the shadows, all smiling and eager to provide me with one of his lists; he had several on hand for me to choose from.

After a short hesitation, I took the tube with the portraits with me. I was going to ask for time off on Saturday, and presenting Robinson and Klein with their portraits seemed like a good way to get that particular conversation going. It would be a difficult conversation if the general mood resembled last Saturday’s. I guessed that what had happened was that a major deal of some sort had fallen through.

Klein was alone in the office when I came in. His hooves were on John Macdonald’s desk and he was leafing through a color magazine. As usual, he put it away in the drawer almost as soon as I entered. He seemed to be in a normal, neutral mood when he gave me the day’s batch of letters: seven, including two by Robinson. I wanted to give Klein his portrait but by the time I finished making coffees for both of us he was on the phone.

One of Robinson’s letters was addressed to John Moore. It thanked him for delivering the house plans, and asked him about a suitable date for organizing an open house. John Moore was selling his house! Hopefully, he was also getting divorced and his wife was ripping his last shirt off his back as part of the settlement, and his little Jane refused to talk to him and started crying whenever he touched her.

“Is mister Robinson coming in today?” I asked Klein, putting the typed letters on his desk. He had finished with the phone and was fooling around with a cigar: sniffing at it, then rolling it round in his fingers next to his ear, as if listening for secret messages.

“Yes, he should be here soon. Why?”

“He’ll want to sign these.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“And there’s something I’d like to ask him. There’s something I’d like to ask you, too.”

“Ask away,” Klein said suspiciously.

“There’s this thing I need to attend on Saturday, at noon. It will probably stretch well into the afternoon, and -”

“You want time off?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Saturday is our busiest day. You know that. What is this thing that you have to attend?”

“The opening of a show at the gallery that’s taken me on. My stuff is going on display, and they want me to be there.”

“Oh really? That’s good. Very nice,” Klein said, looking at his cigar. He sniffed it again and said:

“Let’s wait for Jack. We have to work out whether one of us can stay at the office when you’re gone. He should be here any time.”

It didn’t feel like the right moment to give Klein his portrait. I retreated to the annex and ran a rag over everything, taking a prolonged cigarette break. The phone rang once, but Klein answered it before I could make a move. He said ‘yes’ a couple of times and hung up.

I was about to smoke a final cigarette before returning to my desk when Robinson breezed in. I wanted to help him with his overcoat, but he waved me off.

“Abel,” he said, “We must leave at once. It’s now or never.”

“Okay,” Klein said heavily. He got up and pointed at the letters on his desk.

“Want to sign those?” he said.

“I’ll do it when we get back. Michael,” Robinson said, turning to look at me, “I need you to be extremely diligent about answering the phone. If anyone leaves a message, take down exactly what was said. No shortcuts. Everything word for word.”

I stifled an impulse to ask him if he also wanted a musical score with that, and nodded meekly.

“We’ll be back in two hours or so,” Robinson told me, and they left.

I lit a cigarette and wondered what the f.u.c.k was going on. Whatever it was, I hoped that Robinson and Klein would emerge victorious, return in good moods, and give me time off on Saturday. If they didn’t, I’d have to quit my job. There was no way I’d miss the opening of a show that featured my stuff the first time ever.

Midway through another cigarette, I realized that I hadn’t run my customary check on Klein’s drawer. I didn’t have any high hopes there: most likely, it was locked or empty.

It was neither. It slid open to reveal a glossy magazine cover. It depicted a young couple all dolled up for a wedding. I took it out, and leafed through it. I had difficulty believing my eyes. It was a f.u.c.k.i.n.g bridal magazine! There was page after page of wedding dresses and jewelry and hairstyles. Klein, planning a wedding? He had mentioned more than once that he was married! Did he have an a.d.u.l.t daughter?

I put the magazine back and shut the drawer, and smoked up a storm, going through the possibilities in my mind. I remembered that I’d heard before of a guy who got off on women wearing wedding dresses: there had been this rumor going round the school that I’d attended in England. The guy in question was said to prefer bridal magazines to Playboy and Penthouse and so on. The other adolescent wankers had found it very amusing. Maybe Klein was one of those guys.

But Klein couldn’t be a wanker, could he? He was around forty and married. His being married kind of ruled out bridal magazines as a source of e.r.o.t.i.c excitement, even if he was a wanker after all. But maybe it didn’t. Who knew? After all, I was closely acquainted with a talented art student from a so-called good family who had quit his course and robbed a museum and killed a truck driver. Anything was possible in this world.

Robinson returned as it was nearing three, and I was very punctilious, springing out of my chair the moment he entered and helping him with his coat and making him an extra nice cup of tea. He seemed tense and signed his letters and instructed me to go to the post office right away. My heart sunk when I heard that: I was preparing to spring his portrait on him and given a favorable reaction, ask him about time off on Saturday. Luckily, I was reprieved by Klein.

He burst into the office just as I was preparing to leave. Robinson had been f.u.c.k.i.n.g around with his tea at Klein’s desk and he put the cup back on the saucer with a sharp clink. They looked at each other for a while, and then Klein began to grin.

“No,” said Robinson incredulously.

“Yes,” said Klein. He raised his arms over his head and executed a clumsy pirouette.

“Abel!” said Robinson, sounding as if Klein had just saved him from certain death.

“That’s me,” said Klein. “The one and only Abel Klein.”

“My dear boy!”

The dear boy fished out a half-smoked cigar out of the top pocket of his coat and put it in his mouth. He took the coat off and hung it up and looked at me and said:

“You about to go to the post office? Wait. I’ll have another one for you. Won’t be five minutes.”

Robinson had gotten up from Klein’s chair and was circling the floor with his hands behind his back and a contented smile. I decided to strike.

I picked up the tube and opened it and slid out portraits. I took Robinson’s and walked up to him and held it out, saying:

“I’ve brought this for you.”

He frowned and took it from me. I didn’t wait for his reaction: I got Klein’s and walked up to his desk.

“Almost finished,” he said without looking up. “Give me another minute.”

I stood at his desk and waited, with Robinson behind my back. I could hear the paper crackle as he stretched it. My paranoid pal was watching the situation closely, pencil poised over a notepad.

I heard Robinson’s heel squeak as he turned round. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. He stayed silent.

“There,” said Klein, pushing half a page of scribbles across the desk. I waited until he’d capped his pen, then picked up his letter and said:

“This is for you.”

I put his rolled-up portrait on his desk and walked back to mine, not daring to look at Robinson. I snatched a glance when I got my seat.

He was looking at Klein, and Klein was looking at his portrait: he’d spread it on his desk. He’d bent over it and seemed to be studying it with extraordinary intensity. Robinson’s head was half-turned away from me and I couldn’t tell how he felt.

I sat down and put a fresh sheet into the typewriter and started reading Klein’s draft. It happily confirmed receiving the deposit of $10,000.00 on the purchase of the property at 14 Myrtle Street, and a meeting this coming Friday, December 1st.

“Show me yours,” said Klein, in a strangled voice. I looked up from my desk and saw Robinson turn his portrait around and show it to Klein.

Klein let out out a bark of laughter. He spun the drawing on his desk so that Robinson could view it the right way up. Then they looked at each other and started laughing.

I stared at them. My ears were beginning to burn. Klein said:

“Well, whaddya know. And, Jack? He wants time off Saturday. They’re opening a show at a gallery and he’s in it.”

They both looked at me and I could have cried with relief, because they were smiling and there was a new respect in their smiles.

“Well one of us will have to sacrifice himself for the sake of art, I suppose,” Robinson said. “Can you come in at all, Michael? Or do you want the whole day off?”

“I’ll be here at nine,” I said quickly. “They want me over there at noon, so I guess I’ll catch a cab at half past eleven. If it’s all right with you, of course.”

“It is,” Robinson said. “And thank you very much for this. And congratulations.”

“An artist,” said Klein. “Who would’ve known? Listen, guy, it’s really high time you got yourself a car.”

I had the feeling that for Klein, a change in status automatically mandated a new automobile. I said:

“I might. Who knows.”

“Thank you for the drawing,” said Klein. “It’s great.”

“You’re welcome,” I said and smiled and got going on his letter.

It really required an effort to focus, and get it done without making a mistake. It took me a hell of a long time. Robinson and Klein were conversing in low voices, standing side by side at the front window. They sounded like two cats purring.

I spent the rest of that day in a daze. I floated on air all the way to the post office and back despite the fact that it was cold and wet and dark. Klein shooed me out of the office almost the moment I returned, over an hour early. He thanked me again for his portrait as I was leaving.

I went to the A&W, and ate the usual two combos plus an extra order of fries. I got the newspaper and went home, thinking this would be the one evening when I wouldn’t need a joint to relax.

I was wrong. Birgit opened the front door before I’d climbed the first step to the house. We exchanged greetings and she let me inside as if I was an important guest and beamed at me and said:

“Michael, are you going to be around Friday evening? We’ve invited a few people and it would be nice if you came, too.”

There was no wriggle room, I could tell that from the way she looked at me. So I said:

“Sure. Yeah, thank you. That will be nice.”

It was too much; Mr. Chance was hardly bothering to shake the dice at all. I kept thinking about that when I read the paper. I almost hoped to come across an item about Schmidt or the robbery, just to restore some balance. But there was nothing in the paper about that.

I became increasingly apprehensive about all this good fortune and goodwill. It just had to be followed by a real stinker of some kind. I had the thought that it might happen at the show opening and got so f.u.c.k.i.e.d up I had to smoke an ultra-thin joint after all.

It did nothing for me, and I went to bed feeling some kind of bad news was already on the way.

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