The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 38 September 19th 1972

I didn’t make it home until half past eight the next day. Roch was waiting for me in the kitchen, visibly tense, and I was sure he’d ask me to help out with the renovation work. I wasn’t going to – I was dead beat – but before I had a chance to open my mouth, Roch said:

“Michel’s been in touch.”

“Oh great,” I said. “Did he bring a cop along, too?”

“I said he got in touch, not that I saw him,” Roch snapped. “He called me at the house yesterday. From a payphone, and we didn’t talk for more than a minute. So please, don’t shit yourself yet. At least not in the kitchen.”

I let that one go. I took off my tie and lit a cigarette and looked at him.

“And?” I said.

“And not in my bedroom.”

“F.u.c.k off. You’re gonna tell me what he said, or are we playing stupid word games?”

Roch had the grace to blush, even if slightly. He said:

“I’m sorry. It’s not good news and I’m pissed off. You will be, too. The museum guys demanded more solid proof that we got their paintings. So he’s going to give them one. A Brueghel.”

“Brueghel? Is he f.u.c.k.i.n.g insane? Can’t he give them something less valuable?”

“No, that’s the whole point.”

“I can’t see any.”

“If you’re generous towards someone,” Roch said, sounding like someone explaining something to a retarded child, “Then that person is more likely to be generous with you.”

“Horseshit. If you’re generous with someone, you’re making it likely they’ll f.u.c.k your ass first chance they get.”

“Hey, Mike. What’s wrong with you?”

I blew smoke at him and said:

“Nothing. I’m just great. I’ve just come home from a night shift at the reception in a f.u.c.k.i.n.g whorehouse. How about you let me have a coffee and some food first. I’ll turn into a sweet blue-eyed baby and tickle your ankles.”

“Now you’re threatening me,” Roch said, and I couldn’t help grinning. We used to wisecrack a lot during our forbidden cigarette breaks when we were at school together. If it weren’t for those sessions, we would have gone mad, for sure. We were forced to wear white shirts and ties and ghastly dark green jackets with the school’s coat of arms on the top pocket. They didn’t allow guys to have long hair, either. You had hair covering the top of your ears, they gave you a dollar and sent you out for a haircut. Girls had it easier, when they were caught with any makeup on they were just sent to the toilet to wash their faces.

“You’d threaten people too if you were forced to wear a tie and jacket all night,” I said to Roch.

“Not if I was working in a whorehouse. That sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, great fun. Well, it isn’t really a whore house. Just a rooming house that rents beds.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I shit you not.”

“I’ve got to visit you at work sometime in the near future.”

“Over my dead body. You show up there, and I’ll tell people you’re an undercover cop. They’ll tear you to shreds,” I lied, and smiled because I had a vision of Henry Houghton-Briggs attempting to tear Roch to shreds. He’d have to begin by bringing a ladder, Roch was half a head taller than me.

“Well, at least tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said, pouring myself a coffee. “I just checked out a couple that had come in a few hours earlier. That was all the traffic there was all night. The guy that works the afternoon shift told me Monday nights are very slow.”

“Hmm,” Roch said. “I’ll make a point of not visiting you on a Monday.”

I sneered at him and he left, mercifully. I made myself breakfast and ate it thinking about that couple I’d checked out just before midnight, the salesman type in the brown suit and the sad secretary. They were both really downcast when they were checking out, so much that I’d nearly asked them if something was wrong. I wondered about that a lot over the next six hours while nothing happened at all and the only sound was the ticking of the large clock that hung on the wall behind me. Those two had had a long, sad talk in their rented room, they definitely hadn’t had any s.e.x. I went up to their room directly they’d left and the only change was a pile of butts in the ashtray and a couple of tissues in the wastepaper basket: they hadn’t even sat on the bed.

What had they talked about? She was pregnant and he told her to abort it? He told her he’d never leave his wife? She told him her husband was wising up, and this was their last meeting? I ran out of ideas around two in the morning and spent the next two hours looking through the magazines in the so-called lobby. Newsweek and Time were full of the war in Vietnam and how evil the Communists were. Macleans, the Canadian weekly magazine, had yet another story speculating on whether Margaret Trudeau – the prime minister’s wife – got laid by one or more of the Rolling Stones during their recent visit. Fortunately there was also an old copy of the Esquire – the Houghton-Briggs touch, I suppose – and there were a couple of good stories in that.

After that I just smoked cigarettes and yawned a lot until HB himself showed up just before six. This time, he was wearing a blazer with metal buttons and an open-necked shirt with a foulard bulging out – he looked like a pompous little turkey. He was disappointed to learn no one at all checked in during the night. He shot me a look that told me it had passed his mind I could have rented out a room without a register entry, and pocketed the money. I could hear him checking out the rooms for quite a while afterwards, he wasn’t done until it was ten past six and I was raring to go home. But at least I was rewarded by a sunny smile that informed me old Henry didn’t suspect me of stealing his money any more.

I was late for work that day. I had difficulty sleeping during the afternoon, and made the mistake of screwing around with pots and pans instead of eating at the Chinese place again. I was motivated by the desire to save money and ended up scrubbing the stove for a long, long time: the rice boiled over, and the frying pan spat hot fat over the mess while I was enjoying a cigarette in the backyard.

My late arrival made Larry angry. He said:

“Hey, guy, you have to be on the ball here, know what I mean? I got a family to go home to. Let me tell you the deal: you’ll pay me a dollar for every fifteen minutes you’re late. You don’t agree, I squeal to mister HB, and you’re out on your ass. Got it?”

“Sure. I’m sorry, Larry. Won’t happen again.”

“Hope not.” He glared some more, then added:

“Couple just came in, they’re in number four, they look like they might be trouble. Guy was so drunk he had problems signing the register. You better keep an eye and a ear out for them, but remember: no f.u.c.k.i.n.g cops. Rooms one and three are occupied too, number two is out of commission: a couple of idiots came round for a lunchtime f.u.c.k and did it on the windowsill and broke a pane in the window. Five, six and seven are free. Got it?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ll come in half past five tomorrow so you can knock off early.”

“Forget it. Old HB doesn’t like that. But appreciate the thought.”

He f.u.c.k.i.e.d off and a while later Houghton-Briggs danced in, all blazered up, cigarette holder loaded and smoking. He walked up to me and gave me a stern look and said:

“Michael. I need to speak to you about something, dear boy. You must make an effort to be punctual. Punctuality is very important. It’s -”

He was interrupted by a loud crash from upstairs, followed by shouted curses.

“Please excuse me,” he said. “Stay here.”

He went up the stairs like a jackrabbit, and I became all ears. The guy cursing upstairs sounded like a big guy. This was going to be interesting. At the same time, I didn’t exactly fancy being called to help subdue him.

I needn’t have worried. I heard Henry HB knocking on a door and saying something so softly I couldn’t make out a single word. The cursing stopped instantly. A minute or two ticked by on the clock behind my back; then there was the sound of a door opening, muffled apologies, and a small procession filed down the stairs. It was led by a petite woman decked out in black leather: black leather jacket, black leather jeans, black boots that ended just under the knee. She was carrying a sports bag and was followed by a huge fat guy in a business suit, at least twice as big as HB, who descended last. He stopped on the last step and called out:

“Michael, the gentleman and the lady are leaving.” Then he corked his mouth with the holder and got going on his cigarette.

The fat giant approached the reception with his eyes on the floor, like a schoolboy about to get spanked. It crossed my mind that this was exactly what had been going on up there: maybe the leather chick got slightly carried away, and that caused a problem. He raised a ham-sized fist and let the key fall on the counter with a clatter.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled and shuffled off to the front door. They were both gone in an instant while Henry Houghton-Briggs watched from his perch on the stairs, puffing away like nobody’s business. I was blown away. My mouth actually dropped open for a moment.

“That was amazing,” I said, the moment the front door slammed shut.

Houghton-Briggs raised his chin at me and blew out a cloud of smoke and said:

“It just takes a bit of practice, old boy. Right choice of words and all that.”

I spent the rest of my shift wondering about Henry Houghton-Briggs. Maybe he could tear Roch to shreds if he wanted to, just by batting an eyelid. There was much, much more to him than met the eye.

I was to see some of that within the next twenty-four hours.