The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 27 September 3rd 1972

Next day, breakfast was a very subdued affair. No one spoke much, and when someone did say something, they did so in a soft voice. There was a short dialogue about the unavailability of Alka Seltzer and Tylenol, and the sad condition of the aspirins left in the bathroom cabinet. The pimply Heloise did not put in an appearance at all. When I was sharing a post-meal cigarette with Roch, he told me that she’d claimed menstrual pains.

I really wanted to pay one final visit to the house across the lake. However, Roch insisted that we get an early start. He reminded me that Sunday night was the night we were going to rob the museum. It would be a good idea to get a couple of hours of sleep in the afternoon. Michel was scheduled to show up at Roch’s house by early evening. We’d go over the plan a couple of times, clear up whatever needed clearing up, and move into action close to midnight.

We didn’t talk much during the drive back to Montreal. Each of us was sunk deeply into private thoughts. I tried to work out how the f.u.c.k I managed to get involved in all this. I guess at first I just didn’t take it seriously. Guys liked to boast when in male company. This could take many forms, and one of those was making plans. Making audacious plans together was a safe way to boast, because by being all-inclusive it removed the danger of ridicule. Everyone participating is hot shit, capable of heroic feats. Usually after a few hours it’s over, and the next day everyone laughs about it.

So yeah, sure, rob the Museum of Fine Arts – why not? We could pull it off, no problem. The transition from’could’ to ‘would’ had caught me by surprise. I had stolen stuff before, but it was strictly for fun. This wasn’t fun, this was f.u.c.k.i.n.g serious.

We got home around one in the afternoon. A couple of surprises awaited me: the staircase had been fixed. It had been strengthened by several two-by-fours nailed onto its sides, and a couple of steps had been replaced. When I went up to my old room, I found it had been repainted. The walls and ceiling were a dazzling white; the smell of paint hung heavily in the air.

Roch enjoyed my surprise a lot, he was grinning from ear to ear while I thanked him. Then he gave me the really good news: he’d fixed things up with his old man and I could stay at his house. The rent would be symbolic, just thirty bucks a month, a dollar a day. In exchange, I would help him from time to time with various tasks, when my schedule would allow it.

I wasn’t sure my schedule would allow me to help out with anything apart from taking out the garbage, what with the full-time night job at the Montrose and my full-time, daytime studies. But I didn’t say anything. Sometimes, it’s best to keep quiet.

We unpacked the car and tried to get some sleep. I couldn’t. The smell of paint would have prevented me from falling asleep anyway, and I was far from relaxed. The more I thought about what was going to happen , the more worried I became. I tossed and turned until Michel’s arrival.

He showed up around five in the afternoon. He brought two huge pizzas, but they were slathered with cheese. I don’t eat cheese, whenever I call for a pizza I have to make the guy on the other end of the phone line promise me twice they won’t put any on. I fried myself a couple of eggs and opened a can of beans. Michel ribbed me, saying I was a typical Anglo. Fried eggs and beans, roast beef, pudding, cuc.u.mber sandwiches. I reminded him that I’d told him I don’t like cuc.u.mber sandwiches, and the way I said it made him shut up.

When we’d finished eating and cleared the table and lit cigarettes, Michel said, very solemnly:

“Okay, I know that there’s been some very bad news. But it’s actually very good news for us. It -”

“Hold on,” Roch and I said simultaneously. We looked at each other without smiling. Roch turned to Michel and said:

“What bad news? What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know? F.u.c.k. Yeah, right, you were cut off at the cottage. But I thought you parents would have told you,” he added, looking at Roch.

“They didn’t say a thing.”

“They didn’t tell you about the fire?”

“What fire?”

“At the Blue Bird Cafe. Late Friday night some assholes set it on fire. It was packed with people. Over thirty dead. What, you really don’t know about that?”

I shook my head, looking at the table. Roch said:

“They left very early. They didn’t read the morning paper, I guess. Shit! What happened? You’re saying someone set it on fire? Why? Who did it?”

“Some assholes that weren’t let inside because they were drunk. They set fire to the front steps in revenge, and the whole place went up in flames.”

“F.u.c.k! The cops must be going crazy.”

“They are. They’ve already got one guy, and are looking for his friends. They’re totally focused on that. They’ve hardly any people to spare on the drunks, and there are plenty of those this weekend. I’m telling you gentlemen, this is a lucky break. Tragic for most people, but lucky for us.”

It just didn’t feel right to go and rob a museum when there’d just been a tragedy in the city. But neither Roch or I said that. Instead, we pestered Michel with questions and petty objections. The omniscient, omnipotent Michel shrugged everything off. He’d confirmed there would be only three guards in the museum, and that the guys working on the roof left the ladder there without fail when they were finished for the day. He kept repeating that the nightclub fire was the best thing that could have happened to us, and when I got over my initial outrage I concluded that he was probably right. But somehow, it still felt as if were planning to cash in on the deaths of all those people. I said so, and Michel gave us a small speech about feelings being often totally incompatible with logic. Then he pulled out the plan he’d drawn.

It was quite detailed, in many cases very specific – this painting on that wall in this room, and that one over there. He’d clearly put in a lot of work. We went over everything twice, every single f.u.c.k.i.n.g detail, and then Michel hit us with the most important detail of them all. He said:

“When we run into any of the guards, we fire a couple of shots into the ceiling just to show we’re not carrying toys. That will bring the other guards running. We tie them up and gag them and most importantly, take the storeroom keys. There’s some stuff in the storeroom we need to take. Compact, very valuable, and most importantly someone already wants to own it, badly. Matter of fact, my contact says he’ll be able to sell most things within a week at the outside. We’re going to be very rich a week from now, gentlemen.”

“You’ve told him we’re going to rob the museum?”

“You kidding? There was no need. He already knew. He’s a guy who knows how to put two and two together. When people come to talk to him about disposing of some stuff, they’re not talking about scrap metal and dirty diapers. He doesn’t deal in scrap iron and dirty diapers. He deals in stolen art. He has been dealing in stolen art for over thirty years now, and he’s never even come under suspicion.”

“How come you know a guy like that?” I asked. Michel waved my question away, throwing me a reproachful glance. He said:

“All right. Are we all set? It’s close to eight now. You have two hours to vacate your bowels and your bladders, gentlemen. If you want to drink something, do it now. But no booze.”

I snorted at that, and Michel threw me a sharp glance before continuing:

“We leave at ten, taking my car. We drive by the museum to check on things, and leave the car at least five blocks away. Then we split up and walk to the museum separately, taking slightly different routes and taking in the scene. We meet up by the tree that grows between the museum and the church. We compare notes, and make one last check everything and everyone is okay.”

He broke off and looked at Roch and me, in turn. We both nodded silently. Michel nodded too, and smiled.

“And then,” he said, grinning at Roch, “You get to climb a tree.”