The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 89 November 5th 1972 Morning

We were in the boat and carving a course through the water by the time the sun came over the mountain tops to the east.

The morning sky was neatly divided into two parts. It was mostly clear over land, and cloudy over the sea to the west. It took me a while, with the boat moving, to figure out that the wind was blowing from the east. It promised to be a fine day, and I said so to Harry.

He shook his head.

“It’s going to switch around in the next couple of hours,” he said. “You’ll see.”

The bay was empty: there wasn’t a single vessel in view. I had expected to see a few, because it was Sunday and the weather was okay. It wasn’t that cold, either, and I wasn’t as hungover as I should have been after consorting with Captain Morgan the previous day. And my wallet was so fat it actually made sitting on the boat’s bench a little uncomfortable.

I’d vigorously insisted that Harry pay me just four hundred dollars instead of the five he wanted to give me before we left. I reminded him that the original agreement, amended after two of Harry’s fields had been ransacked by thieves, was for five hundred; I’d later been awarded a hundred dollar bonus for stopping Joey and his pals from stealing the Cambodian killer weed. Harry had already paid me a hundred, and my pot recovery effort was kind of cancelled out after the Vipers took all the smoke I’d heroically saved earlier. I also pointed out that my upkeep costs had stayed constant, and most likely were higher than what Harry had expected due to the amount of alcohol consumed.

“You bought a lot of booze, too,” Harry had said to that. “And I also got a couple of pictures from you that I confidently expect to be worth hundreds of dollars. But okay, cash is a little tight at present. So how about I pay you four hundred like you say, but you have a hundred dollars’ credit with this world-famous dealer of quality weed. Once I get myself organized in that department, I’ll give you an ounce of choice, hand-selected product. Okay?”

I said that it was more than okay, it was great.

The marina was deserted when we moored, and the shop was closed. Harry left the empty gas tank by the entrance: he said that the guys who ran the store would probably look in for a couple of hours in the early afternoon. We got into Harry’s car, and by half past ten we were in Vancouver.

Harry dropped me off at the first major intersection we came to, next to a large McDonald’s. It seemed to be the only place open for business that Sunday morning. I got the Sunday Sun from a vendor box on the pavement, and went inside the McDonald’s and got myself two burgers and fries and a Coke. I was about to do some serious pavement pounding, looking for a place to rent. I needed plenty of calories.

The place was almost empty and I took my time, eating a mouthful a minute while looking through the newspaper. The article about Peter Schmidt was on Page Four. It was three columns across, entitled ‘No Clues in Schmidt Murder’, and featured a picture of a somewhat bewildered-looking cop holding a press conference instead of the usual mugshot of Schmidt. It mentioned that Schmidt was the prime suspect in the chain of unsolved r.a.p.es and murders along the Trans-Canada highway.

It also mentioned that the police had failed to locate the mysterious hitchhiker who was seen getting into Schmidt’s truck just a few hours before his death. Thankfully, it did not describe what that hitchhiker looked like. It seemed the whole thing was slowly getting buried under other news. I caught myself beginning to wish there had been a couple of other juicy murders in the meantime.

Harry had given me an old map of Vancouver that he could spare, and I kept that open while looking through the Classifieds. There were lots of rentals advertised, but most were out of my price range. By the time I’d eaten the last fry, I’d marked five ads with my ballpoint pen. One of these really caught my fancy.

It definitely wasn’t the least expensive: it was sixty a week. It was called a ‘studio’, but basically it was a big room on the top floor of a family house: I suspected someone had converted an attic. There was a communal bathroom and kitchen, but there was also a backyard that was supposedly just great for barbecues. And it was located on a quiet street right next to a park.

I’d made up my mind that I would call that place first even before I’d finished smoking my post-meal cigarette. The McDonald’s had a payphone by the entrance. I cleared my table like a good boy, making sure not even a speck of salt remained on the tabletop. I guess I was trying to show Fate I had nothing but the best intentions.

The old bitch reciprocated. My call was answered right away by a brisk-sounding woman. Yes, the room was still available, actually I was the first person to have called about it: the ad had only just appeared in the paper. I could come round to see it right away. The address was 134 Yale Street. I checked my map and lo and behold, it was maybe half a mile away from Richard’s guesthouse, and the Bella Notte. I could go for walks in f.u.c.k.i.n.g Montrose Park.

It was also barely more than a mile away from the McDonald’s, and I was there in twenty minutes. The house was right at the end of the street and neighbored a sh.i.p.s’ oil terminal. The huge round tanks made it seem like a space station of some sort. But Montrose Park began right in front of the house, and anyway the whole thing felt fated. I was fully committed to renting that room even before I saw it.

The woman that answered the door and showed me the room could have been the twin sister of the Viking maiden at the Bella Notte. Her name was Birgit and she was as tall as me and had shoulders wider than mine. She had no tits that I could see under the thick green sweater she was wearing. She wore her blond hair in a tight plait halfway down her back and her blue-jeaned ass was wide enough to completely block the view when I followed her up the stairs to the room. It was as flat as her chest, when she stood sideways I could hardly make out the curve of her buttocks.

I had been right: the room had been converted from an attic. It was big, but space to move around was limited by the gable roof. There were two windows, front and back, facing north and south. The north window looked out onto the park and the bay; the terminal’s oil tanks were in view only when I stood to the left of the window.

But it was the southern window that really clinched the deal for me. The sun had just come out for a moment, and the light was magnificent. It would be easy for me to get into a painting and drawing frenzy with that light. The room had basic furniture: a rather narrow bed wedged against the sloping ceiling across from the door, a table, two chairs, an ancient chest of drawers, and a bean bag seat that looked as if it might be very comfortable.

There was a catch: in addition to four weeks’ rent up front (two weeks deposit, two weeks in advance), I had to provide references. I gave Richard and Nancy of the Montrose Bed & Breakfast, and mentioned I might become employed at the Bella Notte guesthouse as a night receptionist. Birgit lit up instantly and said:

“Ulla, that’s my cousin, runs the Bella Notte! If you behave yourself while you’re here, I can put in a word for you.”

She proceeded to give me the rules and regulations. She and her husband Dave and their two kids occupied the lower two floors of the house; I was the only lodger. It was a quiet house, no blaring music and no late night guests because my room was directly over the kids’ bedrooms. Bathroom left as clean as it was before I used it, a shelf of my own in the fridge, and use of the backyard unless Birgit and Dave were entertaining people there. Birgit liked it a lot when I told her I didn’t even have a radio.

She showed me the bathroom and the kitchen and then we went into her living room to formalize everything. I signed a rental agreement for a whole year, and agreed to give two months’ notice on moving out. Birgit was only required to give me a single month.

“Sorry,” she said, “But if things don’t work out and we want you gone, we’ll want you gone in a hurry.”

I said I understood and I did, but it still rankled a little.

I deposited more than half of the contents of my wallet on top of the signed papers. I received a key ring with three keys: two for the front door, one for mine. My paranoid pal was doing an impersonation of the Jung guy, walking around with hands clasped behind his back and muttering, ‘two to one, two to one’.

I was glad he was so occupied, because I had just given him plenty of material. It was as if I’d been caught in a net: Montrose Park, the Bella Notte job suddenly looming large, 134 Yale Avenue… It would have been interesting what Jung would have made out of all that.

It was all done and dusted by ten to twelve. I told Birgit that me and my traveling bag would be likely moving in Monday. Then I was out on the street again, looking at the oil tanks, and the sky overhead had turned grey and I thought I could hear thunder rumbling a long way off.

I was to call Harry around nightfall to find out whether he’d be sleeping sat his Mom’s place; chances were that he would be, in which case he’d promised to call Richard, and make sure I got a room for the night at the guesthouse. I was well prepared for that, I had my new flashlight in my pocket.

I had five-six hours to kill and over two hundred bucks in my wallet: a dangerous combination. So I firmly resisted the idea of going round to the pub by the park for a couple of Toby ales. I knew for sure it would end in disaster. Fate had been smiling at me so far and giving me pats on the back, and I didn’t want those pats turning into thumps. So I turned in almost exactly the opposite direction to the pub, and kept walking south until I came to a big four-lane street with shops and bars and buses. One of these rumbled past just as I stood on the corner wondering which way to go, and belched black exhaust gas into my face as the driver changed down gears for the bus stop ahead.

The bus stop was to my right, so I turned left and passed an A&W hamburger joint and a couple of restaurants or bars, throwing longing glances at the lucky assholes inside pouring booze down their throats. I lit a cigarette, but the smoke screen didn’t fool my paranoid pal. He was smiling and rubbing his hands and telling me to go inside the next bar I came to. I guess he was hungry for entertainment.

So that’s what I did. But first, I decided I’d fool my pal a little. I crossed the street to the other side and reversed direction, and passed by a couple of enticing doorways. One of these was flanked by a sandwich board advertising Sunday’s extended Happy Hour and it really took an effort not to go inside.

But my friend wasn’t fooled. He rolled his eyes, and affected an air of boredom. Those kids, he seemed to be saying silently. Those kids and their half-assed resolutions that never amount to a row of beans, and all that f.u.c.k.i.n.g playacting that goes with it.

He got me raw with that kids comment, and I told him to go f.u.c.k himself and went inside the very next bar I came to, additionally motivated by a sign that promised imported beer on tap.

I couldn’t have chosen worse. Jane of the leaking sailboat was seated at a table right next to the entrance, alone in her black leather coat and priest’s stole scarf. She looked up when I came in and our eyes met and she recognized me instantly, this time. Her face froze for an instant, and then she smiled and raised her cigarette hand in a discreet greeting.

The only natural thing to do was to smile back and go to the bar to get a beer, and then sit down at her table. They had Toby ale. I ordered one and as I was waiting to collect it, I could feel Jane’s eyes on my back. My paranoid pal was on the phone, handling a long-distance call to Fate. The old bitch had plenty to say to him, and he was smiling.

I paid for my beer leaving a tip to tip the odds a little more in my favor. Then I grabbed my mug and went to join Jane.

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