The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 93 November 8th 1972

I was woken up by the front door: someone slammed it shut really hard. My watch told me it was already half past nine. In my rush to get out of bed I slammed my head against the ceiling for the second time, in exactly the same spot as before. It hurt like hell but had the advantage of making me fully awake in an instant.

Rubbing my head, I looked out of the front window and saw that it wasn’t raining for a change and that there were promising white patches here and there in the grey sky. There was absolutely no traffic on the street, no cars or pedestrians. I wondered who had slammed the front door, and whether they’d been coming or going.

I could hear movement down on the ground floor when I went to the bathroom: someone had come inside. I’d dressed in my jeans and a T-shirt, so I went down intending to ask whether it was okay to occupy the bathroom for a while. It was very lucky that I did.

There was a loud crash and a tinkle just as I was descending the final flight of stairs. I f.u.c.k.i.n.g froze and thought, for the first time, that it might be a burglar. But burglars didn’t advertise their arrival by slamming doors, so I called out, ready to run back up the stairs if required:

“Hello? Anyone there?”

“F.u.c.k,” said a hoarse male voice. Footsteps thumped and a guy appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was a big guy that looked to be in his forties, with longish side-parted black hair and dark, pouchy eyes. He had one of those faces that have a beer mug semi-permanently attached each evening, and wore a very hairy black sweater and dirty jeans and construction boots.

“Excuse my French,” he said. “You the lodger?”

“Yeah.”

“John. David’s brother. I’m here to fix a couple of things. Starting with the kitchen taps, so I’ll be turning the water off at the mains. You wash yet?”

“No.”

“You’d better do it right away.”

“Can you give me twenty minutes?”

“Twenty! What are you going to do in there, shave your legs?”

I put on my best scowl and gave him a look meant to communicate my bathroom business was none of his. He got it all right. He said:

“Okay, go ahead and have a party in there. But I can’t wait for longer than half an hour, max.”

“Thank you,” I said, with what I hoped was heavy irony. I turned my back on him and went to the bathroom. I could have been done in twenty, but I dragged things out to emerge exactly thirty minutes after I’d gone in.

“I’m done!” I shouted down the stairs. There was no answer. I shrugged and went up to my room.

I hadn’t unpacked my things properly yet and when I pulled out my dress pants, I found that they were so badly wrinkled there was no way I could wear them to the interview. All my shirts were wrinkled too, but I could hide that under my sports jacket. I put on the cleaner pair of my jeans and then the rest and after I’d done my tie it didn’t look too bad. I had to go to the bathroom to check myself out, I didn’t even have a f.u.c.k.i.n.g mirror in my room. I was really regretting that I’d rented that place.

It was still much too early for my interview, but I decided I’d leave early and get there before it began raining, as it was sure to do sooner or later. I had forgotten to buy an umbrella and thought that was what I would do before the interview. After I’d assembled all the needed doc.u.ments including the map, I ate an apple and put another in my pocket and left.

I got to the real estate office fifteen minutes later; I hadn’t even finished my second cigarette. It was the second entrance down from the corner, and it had been there for a while. The big gold capital letters that spelled out ROBINSON & KLEIN on the plate glass window next to the door were faded, and the door definitely could use a fresh coat of paint. There wasn’t a single real estate ad on display, it looked like a solicitor’s office. I had the impression a job there wouldn’t pay well. I told myself not to worry about it, that I would find out in just an hour and that anyway the job wasn’t mine yet. But of course I did worry, and agonized over paying a couple of bucks for one of those tiny folding umbrellas, all plastic and cheap stamped steel, that usually begin coming apart after being used a few times.

All that walking made aware that I wasn’t fully healthy yet, so I went into as place on Willingdon and had a double espresso and then a standard coffee – that set me back another couple of bucks. I lingered over the coffee, smoking cigarettes and wondering what to tell my prospective employers. I had no office experience: another factor forecasting a shitty salary. I got myself into a state where I decided that if I didn’t get that job or it didn’t pay well enough, I’d move to a cheaper place that wasn’t infested by Johns turning off the water in the morning. My pal took this opportunity to remind me that I’d agreed to a two-month notice. I told him I didn’t give a f.u.c.k: what could Birgit do if I refused to pay an extra month’s rent? Get me exmitted?

At precisely five minutes past eleven – I’d been told to show up between eleven and noon – I knocked perfunctorily on the peeling brown door and opened it and walked in without waiting for an invitation.

There was a single guy inside, with a mop of black wiry hair and huge metal-rimmed spectacles. He was seated at a beautiful mahogany desk that would fetch a very good price from an antiques dealer. He was wearing a checked sports jacket of the kind worn by shady bookmakers on racing tracks, and a broad tie that had been designed in a dark room by someone who was color-blind. He was leafing through a glossy magazine as I came in, and the speed with which he put it into a drawer suggested X-rated content.

He looked at me and grinned, revealing teeth so white they had to be artificial. He had a Lenin-style beard and mustache that was so black and shiny it must have been brushed that morning with black shoe polish. He said:

“Well, whaddya know. Lemme guess. You’re here about the job, am I right or am I right? We spoke on the phone?”

“Yes, we did,” I said, a little startled by his prescience, and by the quality of the furnishings. That desk wasn’t the only antique inside. I spotted what could only be a Chippendale cabinet against the wall, and the huge Tabriz rug in the center of the room shouted big money. I was almost afraid to step on it.

“Whassyo name?”

“Michael Ryman.”

“Sounds good, yeah real good. Abel Klein.” He got up as he said that, revealing charcoal slacks, and when he got out from behind the desk to walk up to me I saw he was wearing black moccasin shoes with fake gold buckles big enough to stab people. He stretched out his hand and I took it and found that it was moist and warm.

“Jack Robinson – that’s my pardner – ain’t here yet,” he told me. “But I know he’ll like you. You’re presentable. So why doncha tell me about yourself.”

I told him about the Ecole and that sudden changes in the family had compelled me to move to Vancouver, and look for a job. It made Klein very happy and after a while I realized he suspected I’d made someone pregnant, and was now stepping into the family breadwinner shoes. I didn’t say a thing about the gallery or my painting in general. I told him that I’d always been interested in real estate, it was a gentlemanly career, and that nothing could make me happier than being able to work in a real estate office and learn from the masters.

Klein seemed to like what I said a whole lot, and asked me for my papers. Luckily I’d brought the letters of reference that had originally been written for the Ecole, all glowing with praise. At that point I added that I’d rented a place not far from the office, next to Montrose Park. Klein dug out a cigar and lit it, puffing contentedly while examining my paperwork. Then he said:

“Can you work Saturdays?”

“Yes.”

“No problem?”

“None.”

“Okay then. We wait for Jack, and see what he says.”

“Could I step outside for a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

He seemed happy that I went outside to smoke; when I took a peek inside, he was busy with that magazine again.

I stood a couple of steps away from the entrance and smoked and wondered why Robinson & Klein couldn’t be bothered to get their storefront and door painted: judging by the interior, money wasn’t a problem. That impression of mine was strengthened when the advertised Jack Robinson finally showed up.

He arrived in a pearl-grey Rolls-Royce, an aged model but still worth a shitload of money. I actually watched it park – the last time I’d seen a Rolls-Royce was in England, a number of years back. The guy that got out reminded me of the sprightly Battle of Britain type that rode the bus with me when I was traveling to Vancouver. He had the white RAF mustache and the haughty chin, but he wore a bowler instead of a straw hat, and a three-piece dark blue pinstriped banker’s suit. He carried a cane, a slender piece of dark wood topped by a round knob that looked as if it might be gold.

He had parked a few steps down the street and he walked up to the entrance swinging that cane as if he had a good mind to hit someone with it. He gave me an icy blue glare as he passed me, mustache bristling. Then he went inside and I thought I’d give him and Klein a couple of moments before going in myself.

I finished my cigarette watching them out of the corner of my eye: when Robinson turned to give me another glare, I took it as my signal to join them. I stopped a respectful distance away and they both looked at me for a moment in silence. Then Robinson said:

“You’ve got an Irish name. You’re from Toronto?”

“Originally, yes.”

“Where did you live in Toronto?”

“In Rosedale.”

“Ah,” he said, in a deeply satisfied way. I’d actually expected him to react like that: Rosedale was supposed to be posh.

“Rosedale,” he repeated. “Humph. What does your father do?”

“He’s a civil servant.”

“Ah. Can you spell? I mean, really spell?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

“Spell. S-P-E-double L.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Any vices or personal problems we should know about?” he said, giving me the penetrating eye.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmmm.” He turned to Klein and said:

“I must be going, Abel. Henderson – never mind. Can you handle everything here?”

“No sweat,” said Klein, sounding as American as he possibly could.

“Fine,” said Robinson, and left. He touched my leg with his cane as he passed me and said:

“Good show, old boy.”

Then he was gone and Klein was grinning and telling me I was hired. I was blown away. I was blown away even more when I found out I’d be getting three bucks per hour, four fifty on Saturdays. It translated into around a hundred in hand, after deductions, and meant I could now afford my ‘studio’ on Yale Avenue.

I was to start on Monday the 13th; Klein wanted me to come in a couple of hours earlier that first day so that he could show me around. When I walked out of the office, I felt dazed. I’d never expected things to go that fast. On top of that, I really had been all set to look for a new place before the interview. Getting this job changed things. Or did it? I decided I would review the situation at my leisure, as the saying goes.

All this success motivated me to spend an hour locating and getting to the nearest liquor store, where I purchased one of those big, tough Johnnie Walkers. I took the long way home and stopped in the Park pub and and ate bangers and mash and drank two Toby ales. I was in no hurry to get back home, it still wasn’t raining.

I went for a walk in the park with the intention of wandering around a little while taking nips from my newly purchased bottle, but almost the moment I got there I felt dead tired. So I ended up going home, walking through the park most of the way, and got in a couple of good belts of scotch before I arrived at the front door.

John of the water mains was still active: there was an open toolbox on the kitchen floor, and some dirty smudges on the floor. He was nowhere to be seen or heard, though. I went up to my room and after I’d filled up my kettle, I locked myself in and rolled a couple of joints from the pot I’d brought from the island. I smoked them by the open back window, sipping scotch and generally feeling good about things. In fact, I felt so good that I completely forgot about Harry and corporal Evans and all the related shit.

When it started to get dark I switched the light on and closed the window and set about unpacking my stuff. It felt odd because I really hadn’t decided I would stay – it was an ongoing battle in my mind. But I told myself it made sense to unpack even if I was only going to stay the month.

There was a small, narrow closet built into the inside wall, the one with the door to the staircase, and it came complete with a few wire hangers. When I was hanging up my clothes in there, I noticed a small paper pellet in the corner of the floor. It was scrunched up real tight, and it took me a while to unravel a thin strip of notebook paper on which someone had written:

Jane 4 Myrtle St # 31

I threw my head back and started laughing.

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