The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 37 September 18th 1972

Monday started badly. I stubbed my little toe on the door jamb when entering the bathroom and it hurt like hell, almost as if I’d knocked it out of joint. A moment later, when I was shaving, some devil took hold of my hand with the shaving tackle and made it move sideways instead of up and down. It wasn’t a deep cut, but I bled like a stuck pig and eventually emerged from the bathroom with sticking plaster on my cheekbone. This made Roch ask me if I was planning to do any drawing or painting in the near future, because if so, he had the perfect subject and title for my next picture: The Cunt That Bit Me. I bit him back when he asked me later if I’d put in a few hours at the house before going off to the Montrose: I told him no. He looked so hurt that I relented, and told him I might be able to help for a few hours the next day.

Roch left the house around ten still looking hurt, and I had lots of time left for myself. I planned to leave around six – although my shift started at ten that night, Henry Houghton-Briggs had asked me to come in early on my first day. I was to become acquainted with the guy working afternoons, who would help me settle into my new job. I didn’t anticipate any problems with the reception: get the guests to sign in, collect the money, give them a key – I mean, how difficult could that get? However, I wasn’t so sure about my skill at serving an English breakfast. The eggs I’d fried for my own breakfast had been partly burnt and partly runny. So I decided to sacrifice the four eggs still left in the fridge, frying a couple for lunch and then another couple for dinner. Hopefully I’d learn to get it right.

In the meantime, I wanted to do some drawing: I needed practice, and didn’t feel like messing around with water and a wet brush and paint. I’d had my fill with paint, working on those houses. I got my sketching pad and charcoal and pencils from upstairs and had a go at drawing the kettle. I put it on the kitchen table and moved it around until it caught the light in an interesting way. I chose to use a pencil although I really liked to draw with charcoal, simply because it was much less work. Using a pencil meant I’d have to draw plenty of fine, intricate lines to show shadow. What was more, the kettle had a small dent where the metal curved near the top, and I knew I’d have a hard time getting it right: if I overdid it, it would become the central feature of the whole picture, and that would mean my picture would be false. It wouldn’t be true to life any more, and art is art only when it’s true.

My first two attempts were disastrous: I didn’t even get the shape and proportions right. I got them almost right on the third attempt, but not well enough to sacrifice another hour on the play of shadow and light. So I took a break and smoked a cigarette by the window, looking out at the backyard and trying to work out what the f.u.c.k was wrong with me that day. It wasn’t a matter of being out of practice, I had had longer breaks from drawing and it would all come back within a few minutes. I just couldn’t focus, there was something in my subconscious clamoring for attention, and it wasn’t fear of cops and getting arrested. It took me another cigarette to figure out that what bothered me was that recurring number: 431.

I spent a long time looking through the window and smoking and administering self-therapy. Coincidences were just that: coincidences. When I saw those three digits written on the wall, it made such a strong impact that I looked for them to reappear in any shape or form, and noticed them every time they did. All superstitions were self-fulfilling prophecies: if you believed something strongly enough, sooner or later you’d get proof it was true. It could have been any other number, and had I looked closely enough that day, I’d have seen it everywhere. The Rembrandt I had upstairs was the exception, though. Its catalog number and the number on the wall were exceptions. That was the only real coincidence, the rest was bullshit. And that meant the number wasn’t some f.u.c.k.i.n.g omen, just a standard coincidence, something occurring twice.

The fried eggs I made for lunch were perfect, and I realized what mistake I’d made earlier: the pan had been too hot, and the eggs started to burn before the white on top was cooked. Awed by the power of that discovery, I went upstairs to take a nap: it seemed a good idea, I’d be on my feet all night. I had difficulty falling asleep, though. This was funny, because I could usually fall asleep any time I wanted to: the secret was to have some food in my stomach, and to clear my head of any thoughts. Before long, the off-duty synapses in my brain would start throwing forth a series of surrealistic situations, dream images, and I would fall asleep.

It didn’t work this time: I kept seeing the tiny column of three digits written on the wall: 4-3-1. I tried hard to think of something else before letting go of any thoughts again, and suddenly I thought about Tracy. With a shock, I realized that was the first time I thought about her in many days. And quite recently, I had been thinking about her most of my waking time! The museum heist and everything connected with it had taken over. It dawned on me that I was very much afraid of getting caught, and ending up in jail. So afraid that I’d been scared to think about it.

There was no way I could sleep. I got up and went downstairs and had another go at the kettle, but the light had changed in the meantime and it didn’t look as interesting as it had earlier. I couldn’t stand the thought of having more eggs for dinner; I decided that I’d go out and treat myself to some Chinese food before going to work. There was a good Chinese restaurant not too far, and on the way, too.

I took a long bath and washed my hair and put a fresh plaster on my cut. I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror when I was doing that: it wouldn’t look too good wearing that on my face on my first day at work. Too bad; besides, a guest might take pity on me, and give me a tip for remaining on duty in spite of a grievous wound, ha ha.

I ironed my best white shirt and put on a tie and jacket and the elegant dark-grey flannels that I usually reserved for official functions. I dug out my dress shoes and polished them and put them on and then spent fifteen minutes in front of the hall mirror, making faces at myself. It was doubly stupid because it made the cut on my face bleed again, and I had to put on yet another fresh plaster.

I left around six; Roch still hadn’t come home by then, which caused a small flurry of paranoid thoughts about him and cops and getting arrested. But no cops waited for me outside, and no one followed me. The Chinese restaurant was called Fortune Garden; the fortune cookie I got with my meal warned me of hidden enemies. So when I finished eating, I drank a pot of green tea and smoked a couple of cigarettes and checked out the environment for hidden enemies. Everyone ignored me, occasionally someone would cast a curious glance at my tie. It wasn’t one of those restaurants where the male patrons wear ties. It was a T-shirt and jeans kind of place and it made me feel compelled to leave a large tip, just because I was wearing a jacket and a f.u.c.k.i.n.g tie.

I was at the Montrose at a quarter to eight. The front door was locked as usual and I pressed the bell push and waited and as I did so, I realized that the hotel’s street number was 134. I was cursing myself for being a superstitious moron when the door opened and I found myself looking at a face of a fish.

The guy that answered the door was about my height, but that was where any resemblance ended. He had a pale skin and greenish, protuberant eyes and no chin. He had lanky, dirty blond hair that sn.a.k.e.d down his forehead in greasy curves. He had thin, bloodless lips and resembled a a halibut peeking out at the world from under a clump of seaweed. His grey suit had seen better times, most likely when it was still worn by his grandfather. He said:

“You must be Michael. Michael Ryman?” He had an unexpectedly deep, low voice, quite a nice voice actually.

“Yeah,” I said, flinching a little at the sound of my last name: it reminded me of my family.

He noticed that. There was an amused glint in those bulging eyes when he held the door open and stepped to the side and said:

“I’m Larry. Come in. I’ll show you around.” He didn’t offer me his hand.

I went in and followed him to the reception counter and he laid out the procedure for booking guests. They were to write down their names in the register and pay ten bucks up front for a room – no doc.u.ments needed and I should never ask for any, even when I was sure the name they’d given was false. Larry grinned when he told me that, revealing long yellow teeth. He added:

“After they’ve signed in, you take their key and go upstairs and show them to their room. Remember, when they leave you instantly go to the room they’d rented and change the sheets and put in fresh towels. You know how to make a bed? Great. Spare sheets and towels are in that big closet to the left of the stairs, you saw it on the way up. I nearly forgot, make sure the ashtrays are clean too.”

“No maid?”

“Nights you’re the maid, pal. She comes in at eight and goes home at four. You’re responsible for the rooms while you’re here. When there’s stuff lying around like empty cigarette packs or bottles or whatever you clean that up, too. Occasionally you might have to pick up a used condom off the floor, use a tissue when you do. You make sure the room looks good, okay? Now, when you show new people in, always smile and say enjoy your stay like you mean it before you give them the room key. Sometimes they’ll tip you a quarter, occasionally you’ll see a half dollar or even a dollar when they’re drunk and in a good mood. You might get another tip when they check out if they’ve enjoyed the f.u.c.k.i.n.g.”

“The what?”

“The f.u.c.k.i.n.g. The thing people mean when they talk about making love. But people don’t come here to make love. They come to f.u.c.k. Hey. Something wrong?”

I looked at him and the room and at him again and I must have looked really stupid, because he grinned from ear to ear and said:

“I get it. You thought this was a regular guesthouse. It’s not. Well, you might get a regular guest once in a while. But nine out of ten you get people who need a bed to f.u.c.k. Get it? They come here, rent a room, stay for anything between half an hour and half the night, and leave. You’re gonna change a lot of bed sheets, pal, and sometimes they’ll be really sc.u.mmy. Just last week I had to deal with a bed on which a chick started to menstruate after a screw. It looked as if there’d been a f.u.c.k.i.n.g murder, blood everywhere, even on the pillow case. If you’re squeamish about stuff like that, you’d better quit right now.”

“Blood doesn’t scare me,” I said, doing my best to sound confident. I wasn’t. What Larry was telling me had shocked me. I was sure he’d noticed that, he was doing a lot of grinning. He said:

“Good. Get the gloves from the kitchen if things are really nasty. And that reminds me: you have to cook breakfast for people who want some in the morning. It costs extra, prices are on the menus on the tables, check them out and make sure you collect the money when you serve the food. Otherwise some will leave without paying, especially if they’re drunk. But you don’t have to worry too much about all that, few people want breakfast, happens once in a blue moon. I started out here by working nights for five months, you can trust me on that.”

“Mister Houghton-Briggs told me about the breakfast.”

“Yeah. Houghton-Briggs. Isn’t that a scream, old boy? That guy just kills me. But he’s okay. He’s actually nice. You have to be nice to other people in this job. Hey. Do you know how to smile?”

“What? Yes. Sure I do.”

“Show me.”

I realized that I’d assumed by habitual scowl while Larry was explaining the mysteries of Montrose Hotel to me. I smiled at him, putting a lot of heart in it. It made his eyes bulge even more.

“Wow,” he said. “You look like a different guy. You actually look like you’re a nice guy. Keep smiling while you’re here, bud, it’ll make you a lot of tips. Okay. I guess that’s it, we’re done. One more thing: mister HB will relieve you at six. He’ll go and check on the empty rooms so make sure you’ve tidied them up. Like I told you, best thing is go and do that right after people leave. Last week HB was an inch away from kissing my hands because if I hadn’t changed those bloody sheets right away the mattress would’ve been ruined.”

We went back downstairs and Larry gave me some extra info while we waited for his shift to end and mine to begin. Mondays were always very quiet, he said. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were marginally better, the traffic really started on Thursday and got really intense on Friday. Saturdays were like Thursdays, but most people came in at least mildly drunk.

“Mister HB handles Sundays exclusively by himself,” Larry told me. “My take is, there a little gambling being done. I came in one Sunday morning last winter ’cause I’d forgotten my scarf the previous day. They were all watching the game on the TV in the dining room and some were playing cards and there was cash on the tables. HB didn’t like my coming round, he practically pushed me outta door. So make sure you got everything when you split Sunday morning, clear? Hey. Don’t look so sad, pal. It’s actually a good job, I’ve seen far worse. HB is basically a nice guy who wants people to be happy while he’s taking their money. Some of the people that show up are nice, too. Especially some of the dames. Be nice to them and who knows, you might score a blowjob, you never know. I’m not in the market, I’m married with a kid and I got morals. But you’re a single guy, right? You could find you really enjoy working here, you know? Even though you’ll have to deal with sc.u.mmy bed sheets. You only have to remember to always grab them by the corners when you’re folding them up, the corners are always clean. It ain’t so bad.”

This guy had a wife and a kid! It was mindblowing. I tried to imagine what they could look like, and couldn’t. I didn’t get the chance to find out more from Larry because the front door bell chimed.

“Watch me,” Larry said. So I obediently followed him to the door and he let in a couple of guests. The guy looked like salesmen do, he had the bulging briefcase and a brown suit that could be worn for months without showing any dirt, because it looked dirty all the time anyway. The woman with him wasn’t pretty. If I’d met her on the street, I would have thought she was a secretary or a filing clerk or something along those lines: a lowly office worker that gets pushed around a lot. Larry took them to the counter and watched them sign their names in the register and collected the money for the room. Then he got the room key – the keys were kept in a box on a shelf behind the counter, a shelf that had been used for keeping glasses in times past. He went upstairs with the couple, telling me to stay in the reception.

He came back a while later and pulled a wry face when he saw me.

“Those two aren’t here to f.u.c.k,” he told me. “There’s gonna be some serious talking done, maybe there’ll be a row. We get people like that time to time. By the way, anyone gets rowdy – it happens sometimes – you just go up and knock and tell them to pipe down, or you’ll call the cops. You don’t ever call the cops, you understand? You just say you will. It always works, they go quiet right away.”

“What if they don’t? What if things get worse? What do I do then?” Larry shrugged.

“They won’t,” he told me. “But if they do, call old HB and tell him what’s going on and ask for instructions. I’ve been here for a while and haven’t had to do it once but hey, you never know. The number’s on the inside cover of the register, here, let me show you.”

Henry Houghton-Briggs showed up soon after that. He was wearing a three-piece pinstripe suit, rather like a banker’s: delicate white piping on dark navy blue. He had a white display hankie tucked into the front pocket and was smoking a cigarette in a black holder almost a foot long. He said:

“Michael! So nice to see you, my dear fellow. How is he?” The question was directed at Larry. Larry grinned and said:

“Pretty good. I think he’ll do just fine.”

“Jolly good! Jolly good. Michael, I’ll come in a little early tomorrow morning, let’s say quarter to six, so you can tell me how everything went and ask anything you want to ask. Larry has told you everything, I’m sure. Chaps?”

We looked at him. He beamed at us and inserted the holder in his mouth and pulled on his cigarette. Then, blowing little puffs of smoke, he said:

“Toodle-oo.”

He turned and practically danced to the front door, throwing one last beaming glance our way before he left. Larry sniggered.

“What a clown,” he said. “He’s a nice clown though. But don’t upset him. He can be nasty when he’s upset.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“I’m sure you will. So, you all set? It’s quarter to, but I’ll knock off now, okay? Be on time for the family dinner for a change.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

He left and then I was on my own, in the empty Montrose Hotel.