The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 118 December 6th 1972

I woke up the next day totally ghosted out because all night I’d been dreaming about my family.

I could remember a series of absurd scenes that had absolutely no connection with anything that had really happened. The four of us were sitting at an outdoor table in a cafe somewhere in Europe, all silent and looking everywhere but at each other. My father was trying to unplug a toilet (I’d never seen him do that in real life) while wearing a smoking jacket; my mother was watching him operate the plunger with her arms crossed over her chest. The three of them – father, mother, Josh – were walking barefoot along a deserted sandy beach. I was walking a few steps behind them. They never turned around to look at me although I wanted them to. I glanced at my feet and saw that I was wearing cowboy boots. It felt as if I’d committed a crime.

That was the last scene I remembered from my dreams. It was still in my head when I woke up, and it f.u.c.k.i.e.d up my day even before it began. Yeah, I’d committed a crime, several in fact. It was a mystery why Moore hadn’t already shown up at the office with a couple of uniformed cops in case I resisted arrest.

It was on my mind all morning and it was one of those situations that turn people into perfect nutjobs declaring they can shape reality with their thoughts. Because when I got to the office and was just about to go in I saw Moore was inside, engaged in a conversation with Robinson.

Moore’s cop radar must have been on full alert because he turned and glanced at me the moment I made up my mind to quietly slither away, and hide somewhere for half an hour. I had no choice but to go in as if everything was fine.

So I went in and wished everyone good morning and hung up my jacket feeling Moore’s eyes drill a hole right between my shoulder blades.

“Michael, my boy,” said Robinson the moment I turned around. “Detective Moore here would like to talk to you. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” I said, walking up to them: they were standing by Klein’s desk. I stopped and looked Moore straight in the eye and said:

“Ask away.”

He seemed slightly off balance and I realized that I was wearing my most ferocious scowl. I had been very careful about keeping it off my face at the office, and when I permitted myself a glance at Robinson I saw he was taken aback, too. Most likely I looked the way killers look when they are caught.

“You’re from Toronto, aren’t you? When did you arrive in Vancouver?” Moore asked.

“Back in September,” I said.

“When in September?”

“End of the month.”

He liked that a lot, a glint appeared in his eye. He said:

“On the thirtieth?”

“No,” I said. “Earlier than that. The twenty seventh, I think.”

“You think?”

“I can check.”

“How did you get here?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you travel? Plane, car, bus?”

“By train.”

“What?”

“Train. I still have the ticket lying around somewhere. It has the exact date.”

“You took the train all the way from Toronto?”

“No, from Montreal. I was traveling on the Canadian.”

That threw him, and he took instant revenge by saying:

“I need to talk to you down at the station. With a stenographer present. It’s best we do it right away.”

He was turning to Robinson to ask his permission to take me away when I said:

“I’ll be glad to help you, but right away just isn’t possible.”

He whirled round as if I’d stuck a pin in his backside.

“Oh really? And why?”

“Because I’m waiting for an important call from a collector who wants to commission a painting from me. I can come over right after I’d had that talk – if Mr. Robinson lets me. It’s just the two of us in the office, lately, and he might need me here.”

Robinson took the hint instantly.

“It really would be most inconvenient,” he drawled. “My partner is in hospital, as a matter of fact I was planning to see him today. I need Michael here while I’m away.”

Moore had smoke starting to come out of his ears when he said:

“What’s all this crap about being commissioned to do a painting? You expect me to believe that?”

“As a matter of fact, you should,” said Robinson. He sounded as if he was reproaching a cat for spilling the milk.

“Michael here is an accomplished artist,” he said. “He has a show running at a gallery. I hear it’s quite a success.”

“Really,” sneered Moore. He gave me a glare and said:

“What’s the name of that collector? The person you say has commissioned your painting?”

“Fiona McKay.”

It hit him right between the eyebrows, went through his head, then turned around and bonked him once more on the cranium. He blinked and looked completely retarded for a brief moment. It was very obvious Moore knew the name McKay very well. I had the thought that likely he was one of the people sitting in Fiona’s father’s pocket.

I said:

“You can call and check, if you like. I have her phone number.”

That finished him off. He was silent for a few seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Robinson stifle an evil smile before turning away to face the window.

“You can give it to me at the station,” Moore said finally. “And I’d like to see that train ticket.”

“Of course,” I said. “When would you like me to come?”

He was close to grinding his teeth.

“I suppose you need him at the office during the day?” he said to Robinson.

“Absolutely,” said Robinson, without deigning to turn around and look at Moore.

“My partner’s gravely ill,” he added. “I have to handle all his appointments as well as mine. I’m usually out all day once Michael comes in.”

This time, Moore did grind his teeth. I heard it.

He gave me the most nasty glare he was capable of, and said:

“We’ll have to do it in the evening. I have to check my schedule. I’ll call to give you the time and the address.”

“It would be best if it were between six and seven,” Robinson said to the window. “That way, I could drop Michael off at the station in my car.”

“I’m going to call later today or tomorrow,” Moore said to his back and turned to me and added:

“You’d better be here.”

“I’ll be here,” I assured him, and gave him the kind of smile you give a needy child.

He stormed out without saying goodbye, slamming the door hard. Robinson broke his contemplation of the view outside, and frowned at the door and Moore’s retreating back.

“What an unpleasant man,” he said. “I expect it’s the nature of his work. Michael?”

“Yes?”

“You really took the train all the way from Montreal?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“It’s one of the things I’ve always wanted to do,” he said. “Ride the train all across Canada, from west to east. Never found the time, something was always popping up.”

It was my turn to take the hint.

“It was a spur of the moment decision,” I said. “I’d just decided not to go to college – I told you about that – and this guy was trying to sell his ticket outside the train station. He was desperate, he couldn’t get a refund because he’d changed his mind too late. I guess I felt that since I was throwing my life away, I might as well go all the way.”

“What really made you change your mind about college?” asked Robinson. “I must admit I’m curious.”

I took a deep breath and said:

“It was the general atmosphere. I went there to attend my first class and got there early and sat on a bench for a while. And it dawned on me that I didn’t want to attend classes for the next few years while other people told me how I should paint. And the people there, everyone I saw seemed to have this air of smug superiority. I just couldn’t imagine staying in this environment year after year. It was too depressing for words. In the end I just got up from that bench and walked away and kept walking without thinking where I’m going and found myself in front of the train station with a guy begging me to buy his ticket at a huge discount. So that’s what I did.”

“So that’s how this whole missing person business came around.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Robinson left soon after that and the moment he did I grabbed the phone, and called Harry.

“Harry,” I told him,” I’ve just got to see you and tell you about something. Won’t take long, ten minutes tops. But we have to get together today.”

He had already planned an evening with Gina, his girlfriend. But he could stop by Robinson & Klein’s for a few minutes later that afternoon. He was taking the car to the supermarket to do some shopping for his mother, and could make a detour and see me on his way there.

I waited, walking in circles around the office and drinking coffee and smoking like a maniac. I had forgotten to bring a spare pack, and had to close the office and run to the closest store to buy cigarettes. They’d run out of Rothmans and I bought a pack of Craven A and ran back to the office reflecting that Mr. Chance was throwing me one lousy roll after another. I hoped he would change his act soon.

Harry showed up around an hour later. I told him what happened earlier, and concluded:

“So I arrived here late on the twenty seventh, aboard the Canadian. That’s why we met at the fast food joint next to the railway station. But it wasn’t our first meeting. We’d met before when you were visiting Toronto and we became friends. So when you saw me again and I told you I had no place to stay you invited me to the cottage. Make sense?”

Harry nodded thoughtfully a few times.

“It does,” he said. “I was in Toronto this summer. In July, I saw the Stones at Maple Leaf Gardens.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No. Why?”

“Because I saw that show too.”

“Great. So that’s how we met. At the show, and later went for drinks at a series of bars. With hazy memories as a result, please don’t ask for details.”

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah. So this Moore guy wants you to make a formal statement at the station, eh?”

“A formal statement?”

“You told me he mentioned a stenographer. That means a formal statement that you’ll have to sign afterwards.”

“I see.”

“Okay, I gotta run. It all sounds good, if that Moore asshole gets difficult you can tell him you have a witness you were already in Vancouver a couple of days before, before you know what.”

“Great. Thanks so much.”

“See you.”

“Hey, Harry.”

“What?”

“How did you like the show? I mean the Stones.”

“I thought they sucked.”

I laughed.

“Oh man,” I said. “You’re the first person who agrees with me on that.”

“Great minds think alike,” he said, and f.u.c.k.i.e.d off.

I spent another couple of hours smoking cigarettes and waiting for Moore to call and tell me when I was supposed to report at the station. I was also waiting for Robinson to return. I hoped he would let me go home early, and that I would be able to sneak upstairs undetected and spend the evening smoking pot and drawing stuff. I needed to shelter in my own world. Mr. Chance was coming up with one poor roll after another and it was best to wait it out hidden in my room.

Moore didn’t call and Robinson was actually a few minutes late, apologizing profusely for keeping me past office hours.

“Did Moore call?” he asked.

“No.”

“Very good. Maybe he won’t bother you again. Why does he want to talk to you? Is it about that missing person business?”

“I assume so. I can’t think of any other reason.”

I left the office cursing myself for that unnecessary lie I tacked onto my answer. Life was full of lies, most of which were absolutely necessary to keep people from murdering each other and committing suicide. But I still felt bad every time I lied. It made me feel bad a lot of the time.

Mr. Chance relented, and I was able to enter the house and hide in my room without being challenged along the way. I got so stoned I spent a quarter of an hour admiring my hand and the pencil before I got down to drawing something.

I drew Moore. I gave him horns and added a discreet forked tail. Then I drew Robinson hovering above him with a pair of angel wings attached and a wicked-looking spear that he was about to bury in Moore’s back. Then I drew Harry and myself, to the side of the other two, watching them with beers in our hands and stupid grins on our faces, grins of the my-brain-is-completely-pickled-in-alcohol variety.

I put a lot of work into that drawing, it was very finely done and it was completely stupid. It was quite late before I was done – I kept taking breaks to let my hand rest, it was really out of shape. Then I looked at the drawing for two cigarettes and tore it up and threw the bits out before going to bed.

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