The Homeless Millionaire

Saturday started with a downpour. Big, fat raindrops were hammering on my window when I woke up; the world was grey and wet. Roch and I ate breakfast together: two guys with faces like old dishrags, silently shoveling food into their mouths. When we'd finished, we lit cigarettes and smoked trying not to look at each other: it was too depressing. Eventually, Roch voiced the thought that maybe we should take a break from working that day.

"That's probably a good idea," I said. I sounded as if I were announcing an impending death. Roch got up, and took himself off upstairs; I cleared the table and washed up after breakfast. By the time I'd finished, Roch returned bearing two fat joints. He didn't bring his bag of pot down, because he knew that if he'd done so we'd have just stayed at the kitchen table for most of the day, smoking consecutive joints in order to feel better.

"I think we've been flying on adrenalin the last few days," he said. He blew out a huge plume of smoke and stared into it like a shaman seeking a vision.

"You mean we're finally relaxed?"

"Yeah."

"F.u.c.k," I said. "So this is what being relaxed feels like. It's supposed to feel nice, isn't it?"

We finished smoking in silence and then sat in more silence for a while. We both heard a car on the street outside, approaching and then stopping right in front of Roch's house. Roch said wearily:

"F.u.c.k. I hope that isn't the old man. He'll smell the pot. I can't stand anyone shouting at me today. If he does, I'll talk back and there'll be a hell of a shitstorm."

"Let's hide," I suggested.

"He's got the key."

"Let's hide anyway."

Someone banged on the front door with a fist and we looked at each other and smiled for the first time that day.

"I bet it's Michel," Roch said, getting up.

It was Michel. He greeted Roch in the undertone of an undertaker inviting the bereaved to the ceremony. When they entered the kitchen, I saw that he looked even more depressed than we did. He said:

"Armand is dead. He died last night in the hospital. We don't have a buyer any more, gentlemen."

I gaped at Michel like a shell-shocked retard. Roch said:

"You mean the guy that was to buy the paintings and stuff?"

"Yes," said Michel. He drew out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. In an office, important business is concluded in a boardroom, at a boardroom table. In most private households, important business is conducted in the kitchen, at the kitchen table.

We sat around that table and smoked and didn't say anything for a while, if you didn't count Roch who whispered 'f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k' a couple of times. Finally I said:

"I understand looking for a buyer is out."

"Absolutely and totally," Michel said. "Don't even think about it."

"I can't help thinking about it," I told him. "What's more, you're thinking about it too, admit it. In the circ.u.mstances it's something that comes to mind naturally, wouldn't you say?"

"I would. I'm sorry, I misspoke. What I meant was, we're not going to look for a buyer."

"But we don't need to," I said. "There's a buyer waiting, a buyer that will be only to happy to pay for everything we took. We won't get more than a quarter of the value, but what the hell, Armand wasn't going to pay us full value either. How much was he willing to pay? You never told us."

"For f.u.c.k's sake, Mike, just tell us who is that buyer you're talking about," Roch said.

"There are actually two," I said slowly, thinking fast. "Yep, there are two parties very interested in buying what we stole." I broke off on purpose, I guessed my vanity got the better of me then. I enjoyed Michel staring at me like Moses at the burning bush. When I sensed that Roch was about to start cursing me, I said:

"The insurance company and the museum, gentlemen. Those are the two buyers I'm talking about. Both will be very, very glad to buy the stuff back, provided we don't ask for more than, I don't know, half the insurance money.

It was a p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e to watch them glow. They literally did, their faces glowed for a moment just like the faces of saints in some religious paintings. Maybe the painters responsible weren't exaggerating.

"F.u.c.k!" said Roch, in an awed voice. Michel shook his head and said 'f.u.c.k' too, under his breath. Then he looked at me sharply and said:

"The museum. We talk to the museum. They have an emotional investment in this. Let them work on chiseling the money out of the insurance guys, they'll do it better than we can. And then they'll be willing to put a little extra on top out of their pockets. Brilliant idea, Mike. I salute you."

It was my turn to glow, I guess.

We spent the rest of the day and most of the evening discussing details. Michel had the museum director's phone number, so that obviously was the simplest way to get in touch. Of course neither Michel nor any of us could call the guy. It would have to be done from a public payphone in a busy place. The call would have to be very brief, and convince the museum to start negotiations. We spent quite a while wondering what would need to be said.

It was Michel's turn to come up with a good idea. He said:

"We have to show them right away we mean business. So we do this - we give them back something that was taken. A small trinket. And we also mail Polaroids of all the stuff, together with a price tag. Next phone call, they just say yes or no."

"What if they say no?" asked Roch. Michel shrugged.

"We cut the price until they say yes. We don't have any other choice. We'll work out how to pick up the money safely another time."

"What about the phone call?" I asked. "You said it's too risky for one of us."

"Correct. It will have to be done from a public phone, and that means someone else can notice, someone can remember... I know. I'll get Denis to make the call for us."

"Denis?"

"Shit, don't tell me you don't remember Denis. He was our original third guy before he dropped his f.u.c.k.i.n.g bike on his leg. He is the only other person who knows about everything, and he's beyond suspicion. He has a f.u.c.k.i.n.g cast on his leg. I know! He's due in hospital next week for a checkup. He can call from a hospital payphone. They always make you wait before they see you for a f.u.c.k.i.n.g eternity."

"Sounds perfect," said Roch. "He's had that cast for a while. No way he was capable of climbing ropes and robbing museums. But what does he say?"

"He'll just tell them where to find a token of our goodwill to get the negotiations going. We'll hide it in another public place of some kind. Maybe a library?"

We kicked ideas around for a while before settling on a phone booth. Michel would tape something small and flat under the small shelf intended for people consulting the phone directory. It would be impossible to spot without going into major contortions in the cramped booth. It would be next to impossible to find by anyone who didn't know it was there.

We also agreed that we wouldn't see or even call each other for a week. Roch and Michel would bump into each other purely by accident in a chosen bar next Friday night, and Roch would invite him to visit the next day. The three of us would get together for drinks Saturday night, a perfectly natural thing to do. Roch even mooted the idea of throwing a party. By the time Michel split to hit a bar or two before going home, we had pretty much ironed out everything that had to be done over the next six days. Denis would handle the call, and Michel would take care of the rest, including the Polaroids. He told us a previous tenant had left a couple of big Port of Montreal envelopes in a drawer. He would use one of those to make one little extra feint.

Both Roch and I felt we'd done a really good day's work, sitting around that kitchen table.

Sunday brought me a fresh problem. I knew my parents would be sitting around the house, waiting for me to call. I didn't want to call them. I knew my mother would not refuse the chance to act out one of her little dramas. I knew that when she did that, I'd lose control. I also had no d.e.s.i.r.e to get a dose of my old man's remorseless logic. I was sure a phone call would end very badly, and I didn't want to make it. But I felt guilty as hell.

I rattled around the house for a while, all alone - Roch had gone for his Sunday family ritual. The weather had improved, and I ended up going for a very long walk. When I got to what they call Vieux Montreal - Old Montreal - I bought the nicest postcard I could find, and a stamp. Then I found a cafe with reasonable prices and sat down at one of the pavement tables and ordered a beer. The sun had come out in the meantime and it was very nice, sitting out in the not-so-fresh air and feeling the sun on my face. When I was feeling sufficiently relaxed, I wrote to my parents.

I thanked them both for the letter my father wrote. I told them everything was fine with me. I had found a very inexpensive place to stay. What made it very inexpensive was the lack of a phone. I also expressed the fervent hope they were fine and everything was A-okay. I even sent a hi to Josh, The Asshole of the Universe. The photo on the front of the card showed a view of one of the better-looking streets in Vieux Montreal, and featured a thoroughly sympathetic young couple walking on the pavement in the foreground. There also a few kids around, nice kids, the kind of kids you'd give candy to, if you happened to have some in your pocket. I hoped that this would nudge my parents towards the thought that kids weren't all that bad, even when they were your own and causing constant worry and grief, starting off with wails at night and salvos of liquid shit into diapers you were subsequently obliged to change with loving care.

I put the postcard into a mailbox that was to be emptied early Monday morning. With any luck, they'd get it Wednesday. Then I walked all the way back home. I must have walked nearly ten miles that day, all in all.

It was good. I slept like a baby, my parents' nice baby.