The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 115 December 3rd 1972

I slept in very late the next day. I woke up feeling something was very wrong. I checked the time and it was past eleven o’clock and I panicked that I would be late for work. Then I realized that it was Sunday.

But I still felt something was wrong. Things felt strange. The house was deathly quiet: the Noyce gang was out. I quickly did the bathroom thing, I wanted all that to be over and done with before they returned. I was hungry as hell, and since the weather wasn’t bad – there was a bit of sun every now and then – I got dressed very quickly and left to have a proper hot meal at the Park Pub.

It was half-full and a few people glanced at me when I entered and I just wanted to disappear. I got a pint of Toby and ordered a burger with fries and got another pint when my food was ready. It really helped: after I’d eaten and drank half of that second pint I stopped feeling as if something bad was going to happen any moment. I had just had my first show and all my pictures had been sold right away and instead of being happy I felt haunted, and hunted by an invisible, malignant force. Maybe it was time to check into a lunatic asylum.

I reviewed all that happened the previous day and really couldn’t find a reason why I was feeling so paranoid. Of course I asked my pal about that, and he wouldn’t say – he never did, when asked. He’d only open his mouth when it suited him.

I remembered that I had gotten home about half past six. The Noyces were out, and I’d gone straight up to my room and smoked a couple of joints rolled with the pot Harry had given me. It was good, not as good as the Cambodian stuff but still potent, and it made me feel so tired I went straight to bed. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night to hit the can, and falling asleep again the moment I got back into bed.

I’d often feel very apprehensive when I was feeling guilty. But I really hadn’t done anything to feel guilty about, the previous day. And nothing bad had happened to me either, apart from some sneers at my Canadian Tire jacket. On the contrary, in many respects the previous day had been the best day of my life, so far.

Then I remembered something the artist who’d visited my school had said, the guy who’d announced working artists didn’t experience recessions and economic downturns because for them, it was always a recession. He’d also said an artist wasn’t really a creator at all. An artist was a lightning rod for all the shit currently going on, a sort of a medium between collective consciousness and the collective subconscious. I’d thought he was talking out of his ass, but maybe there was something there.

I was on my third beer when my paranoid pal struck. It was a shock, because he liked booze even more than I did. My pal reminded me that I was a killer and a thief. He said that wouldn’t change no matter how many pictures I sold. It would be that way forever.

I finished my pint and paid up and hit the can and spent a very long time washing my hands without looking at the mirror. On the way out of the pub, I called Roch. He wasn’t there. His mother told me he’d gone away for a few days with a friend of his – yes, with Michel. He would be back Tuesday or Wednesday.

I thanked and walked home wondering what Roch and Michel were up to. I was convinced it had something to do with the stuff we’d stolen from the museum and by the time I got home, I was also almost convinced they’d been caught, and were being grilled by the cops. I had somehow caught wind of that, being a psychic lightning rod, and that was what caused all that fear and anxiety. And I was supposed to feel happy! A dream of mine came true, I should be jumping with joy! I felt so sorry for myself that I was close to sobbing as I went up the front steps.

The door opened before I could get my key and Birgit said:

“Michael! Where have you been? We missed you yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.” I didn’t. I was 100% sure I hadn’t made any arrangements to meet with the Noyces. My paranoid pal whispered this was exactly what going mad felt like.

“We went round to the gallery to see your show,” Birgit said. “But wait, get in, what am I doing keeping you outside. Come in, and please join us downstairs for a drink. Jane’s here.”

“Who?”

“My friend Jane. Didn’t David tell you about her? He told me he did.”

I remembered then that David did indeed tell me about a Jane when we drank beer together in his kitchen, in a previous life.

“He did tell me about her,” I said, “But I’m sure he didn’t say anything about her being here today.”

“Will you come down for a drink?” Brigit said, and there was a dangerous metallic tone in her voice.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Of course. Just let me get upstairs and change.”

“We’ll see you in a bit, then,” she said, fixing me with a piercing eye.

“You will.”

She finally let me go and I went upstairs and took off my jacket and smoked a cigarette, so angry I was close to frothing at the mouth. I was sick and tired of Janes and Fionas and Birgits. I wanted to get stoned and fool around with pencil. I knew drawing something would calm me down and make me focus and generally improve things for me.

But there was no way I could wriggle out of the visit downstairs, not without making the Noyces enemies for life. I really wanted to smoke that joint though, so I compromised by rolling a couple and taking them with me.

“He’s coming!” I heard Dave shout as soon as I started descending the stairs. He popped out of the kitchen at a strategic moment, erasing any last chance of an escape.

“Getting more ice,” he said, and grinned and added in a stage whisper:

“Jane’s here. You know, Birgit’s friend. She’s hot.” He mouthed the ‘hot’ soundlessly, as if the mysterious Jane’s looks struck men dumb.

“David! Are you coming?” called Birgit.

“I am, I am,” sang out Dave, and I followed him into the living room pretty sure he was at least partly drunk.

Birgit was standing in the center of the room, and so was the famous Jane. They both looked at me when I came in. Jane was tall and slim and dressed like a cowgirl: flannel shirt, a knee-length jeans skirt, and long brown boots. She had frizzy brown hair gathered at the back and pale skin and freckles. She also had huge green eyes and cheekbones that could crack coconuts and lips that were almost obscenely full. Like Dave had told me, she was hot.

Birgit did the official introduction and we shook hands and I saw that Jane had vamp nails – long scarlet almonds with sharp tips. I didn’t know what to say to her and was saved by Dave, who pressed a triple scotch on the rocks into my hand, and Birgit, who began prattling about what had happened the previous day.

“We went round to the gallery to see your pictures,” she told me. “We were there around one and it was so crowded we had difficulty getting in. And then we found out you aren’t there! So we left and had lunch and when we went back later, you’d been and gone!”

“I looked at every single picture of yours,” chimed in Dave, “They were all great. Not just good, great.”

“And they all had stickers saying they’ve been sold! Is that true?” That was Birgit.

“Yes,” I said, squirming with embarrassment. “I’m sorry I missed you. I just felt really tired, and had to leave early.”

“Someone told us you left with a gorgeous girl,” Birgit said.

“BY coincidence, yes. We took separate cabs shortly afterwards,” I said.

“But you weren’t home when we got in last night. Were you home?”

“I was asleep. I went to bed right away.” I took a swig from my glass. It was Johnnie Walker and my mood instantly improved a little.

“Give him a break,” said Dave.

“Yeah, give the guy a break, Birgit,” said Jane, pleasantly surprising me. “If it was your show yesterday, you’d be still having hysterics.”

David and I laughed and Birgit had no choice but to join in. I decided this was the right moment to introduce drugs to the party.

It was. I was rewarded with applause and appreciation and a second, meatier scotch the moment I finished my first. Jane made a show of sucking on the joint and and looked me in the eyes when she did that and the message was, think what it would be like if I were sucking on your d.i.c.k. She had lots of practice, throwing that look, and it was deadly.

Dave put on some music, Alvin Lee and Ten Years After, and who knows how things might have developed from there. But the doorbell started ringing and Dave turned down the music and went to answer the door while Birgit and Jane rushed to open the windows and I made as much smoke as I possibly could with my cigarette.

Dave came back, and said I had a visitor.

“It’s your friend Harry,” he said. His tone indicated that he wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to ask Harry to join the merrymaking.

I quickly saw why. Harry’s face was pinched with nervous tension. He didn’t want to come in at all. He asked me to walk him back to his car. He waited until we were safely out of earshot of anyone in the house. Then he said:

“A friend of my Dad’s from work dropped in on Mum today. To see how she was doing and stuff. I know him well, I used to call him Uncle Don when I was a kid. So we shared a few beers and talked and he told me they had a small breakthrough in the Schmidt murder case.”

I stopped and fumbled for my cigarettes and had to ask Harry for one: I’d left my inside the house. Harry waited until I’d lit it, and added:

“A security guy in a store in some shitty little town told the local cops he’d seen someone answering your description. You know, the one they put out after talking to the two kids at the gas station. You remember, you were still at the cottage when it appeared.”

“I remember,” I said. I was glad to hear my voice wasn’t shaking.

“Well, apparently that security guy said you’d told him you were headed west. So they’re looking for you in Vancouver.”

“Jesus,” I said. “But they’ve just finished looking for me as a missing person. They already know my face. They’ve had it on the wall in every f.u.c.k.i.n.g police station only last month.”

“I know,” Harry said. “Uncle Don failed to mention that angle. But then he’s too high up to waste time looking at the Wanted posters. Anyway, what I want to tell you is this: if worst comes to worst, I’ll say you were at my cottage when Schmidt was killed. Twenty fifth is a good date, it was a Monday and I remember I drove back to the cottage that day. I’ll say I stopped to eat at the A&W near the train station and got to talking with you and hired you to help with the roof renovation. It’s been freshly done, we’ve got that to back us up. And then we became friends and you stayed for a few weeks drawing and painting, and we’ve got stuff to back that up, too.”

“Twenty fifth is not so good,” I said. “I was still in Montreal on the twenty fifth, and some people know that. Can we make it the twenty seventh?”

“I wasn’t in town on the twenty seventh,” said Harry. “But okay. I’ll think of something. Important thing is, we met where we really met, same circ.u.mstances, different day. Get it?”

“What about those girls? Those Americans that were with you?”

“They’re gone. They aren’t a problem. They weren’t there. It was just you and me.”

“In the good old A&W.”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Late afternoon.”

“Okay. I’ll have to think of a story, too.”

“You hitchhiked,” said Harry. “Just like you really did. Only you were sitting with me in my cabin drinking Kokanee True Ale when Schmidt deservedly got killed.”

“I can’t say that,” I said. “It would take a hell of a lot longer than two days, hitchhiking from Montreal to Vancouver. I’ll have to come up with a better story. Can we get together this week and work it out?”

“Sure. Call me at my Mum’s… tomorrow afternoon. I have to do her shopping in the morning. We can meet tomorrow evening, if you like.”

“I do.”

“Okay. Later.”

I went back home and of course I couldn’t run and hide, I had to face the Noyces and Jane and they instantly knew something was wrong. So I said Harry and I had this plan I’d really been looking forward to, and that I’d just learned it fell through. They bought it or at least pretended to, and were polite enough not to press for details.

Dave forced me to drink an enormous scotch to improve my mood but it didn’t work. I pulled out the second joint and they all got so stoned they didn’t mind when I excused myself a little later. Jane seemed a little disappointed, but I winked at her when I was saying goodbye and made a point of asking if I could call her sometime. I said I would get her number from Birgit and Jane said it was a very good idea, and did some fancy work with her cigarette. It had no effect on me this time because I was so f.u.c.k.i.n.g scared I felt like screaming.

I should have stayed with them. I spent the rest of the evening going out my f.u.c.k.i.n.g mind with fear.

NOTICE

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