The Homeless Millionaire

The very next day, Harry confirmed his status as the guy who knows where it's at.

I woke up feeling like shit: I had a bad cold. Harry cl.u.s.tered round. He actually made and brought me my third coffee, and followed it up with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon - eight strips of bacon, serious food. Then he forced me to drink two aspirins dissolved in hot water.

While I was gagging on the taste, he made a pot of tea and put a forty-ouncer of dark Captain Morgan rum on the coffee table. We drank tea with rum and after three cupfuls I was full of sparkle and ready to move mountains, if required.

It wasn't raining for a change, there actually were moments of brief sunshine; Harry predicted confidently that it would be beautiful, sunny afternoon. We set out walking along the shore of the island, skirting the huge hill that stopped just short of being a mountain. I was feeling better than I had felt in a long, long, while. Harry was golden, there was no way I'd ask him for a raise, the guy was generosity personified.

There's this saying that there is one thing nice about having paranoia: you are never alone. It's true. My paranoia is always around; it might be asleep, but it only takes short naps. It was wide awake before we'd covered a half a mile. I realized that it was in Harry's best interest to keep me powered: I was his helper, after all. A happy, energetic helper was much better than bitching, sick helper. That was all.

We rounded the hill that rose right behind Harry's house and I saw that there was a genuine mountain hidden behind it, with cliff precipices and all. Life was really full of surprises: a mountain could hide behind a hill. There was a heavily overgrown little valley squeezed between the mountain and the hill, and Harry led me right into the thick of it.

He was walking in front, which made it easier for me. But the branches he pushed aside kept trying to slap my face, and I was boiling with rage by the time we'd reached the first pot field a few minutes later. Total mood swing, one extreme to another.

Harry stopped and looked around and saw my face and said:

"Hey. You okay, man? Something wrong?"

"I feel funny," I said diplomatically. There was a short silence and then Harry said guiltily:

"I'm sorry, man. I mixed a little speed in with your aspirins and I guess it might be wearing off. You want a little snort? I'm going to have one. We got a lot of walking to do yet." He pulled a small plastic bag out of his front pocket and waved it invitingly.

So we had a snort each, and followed this by a drink from Harry's metal water bottle. It contained a quart of tea and rum in equal proportions. While we did that, I got a good look at the pot field.

It wasn't much. It was maybe twenty paces long and ten across and there couldn't have been more than twenty plants growing there. They were just about my height and the flower cl.u.s.ters weren't much bigger than my hand. Harry didn't seem disappointed at all. He walked around the field, stroking the plants fondly and smiling. I half-expected him to start talking to them.

"They'll be ready in a couple of weeks," he said when he concluded his inspection. He threw me a glance and added:

"This is prime Cambodian bud, man. Grows a little slowly over here, but packs a real punch. It's almost like smoking hash. The second plot's got skunk. Good, but tastes and smells like mud and dog piss. The third plot - I got something special there. You'll see."

It was afternoon by the time I did. We had to cross almost the entire island, east to west, to get there. We were walking through v.i.r.g.i.nal, untouched forest, and had to watch every step. V.i.r.g.i.nal forests don't like to be touched, and can retaliate in a passive way. Harry warned me about hidden pits and dips in the ground, but I still twisted my ankle painfully a couple of times, and nearly had an eye taken out by a branch.

The third plot was spectacular. It was twice the size of the others, and the plants were so high I could barely touch their tops with my fingertips, and that was while standing on tiptoe. The colas were as thick and long as my forearms. We both stared at the plants for a while, Harry grinning from ear to ear.

"Nice, eh?" he said finally. "My own strain, man. Cross of the Cambodian bud with good old BC skunk. Grows fast like the skunk, but gets extra potency from the Cambodian stuff. You can still taste and smell the skunk, unfortunately. I'm working on that. Next crop will be better."

"Wow," I said, "I had no idea you were such an accomplished, uh, horticulturist."

"Me? I wasn't the one who crossed the plants. I just had the idea to cross those two strains. I got a bud with a legit business, grows melons and tomatoes and stuff like that. He raised the seedlings and did the grafts."

"What, you brought those plants over from the mainland?"

"Sure. Along with a bunch of tomato seedlings. Had a big tomato patch near the house. Must have gotten over a hundred pounds of tomatoes beginning of September. My mom made like twenty big jars of kickass spaghetti sauce. She's Italian. She knows how to make kickass spaghetti sauce."

"Your Dad Italian too?"

"Nah. Scottish. His folks settled here before the f.u.c.k.i.n.g Boer war. You know, South Africa. They came over end of the previous century. My old man enlisted the moment he was eighteen to fight in the last war. Ended up in Italy, and met my mom."

I think he was expecting me to talk about my own parents. I didn't want to talk about my parents. I didn't want to think about my parents. I said:

"You got any siblings? Sisters, brothers?"

"Three sisters. Three, you dig? All older than me. Life was hell when I was a little kid, let me tell you. What about you? You got any?"

"Just an older brother. Real asshole."

He nodded sagely.

"Yeah," he said. "Hard to say what's worse. Older brother or three older sisters. Okay, now this fine crop here will be ready for harvest as early as next week. Keep yourself in shape, man. When we get back, I'll show you how to build a proper fire."

It took us over an hour to get back home. We went by a different route, along the western coast of the island and round the big hill next to the house. As Harry had predicted, the sun was out in full force by the middle of the afternoon. He told me he could tell the weather ahead of time just by the smell in the air.

What he didn't predict was the cops that were waiting for us at the house.

We saw their boat docked at the pier, but they had come in a private craft - no lettering, lights, markings, any of that stuff. So it was a shock when we came around the house and saw the two uniforms smoking cigarettes on the front steps. They looked grim and I was sure we were in deep shit.

But Harry went 'hey there, guys' - he knew them, they were working for his father. The three of them huddled together and held a short, soft-spoken conference by the front steps. I stood some distance away, smoking a cigarette and pretending to enjoy the sun while I strained to hear what the conversation was about.

A breeze was blowing the wrong way and I couldn't understand a thing. But the cops didn't sound like they were about to arrest anybody. Eventually Harry said 'okay' - I caught that - and came over to where I was standing. I knew he was bringing bad news from the way he walked.

"I got to go, Mike," he said. "My old man's had a heart attack. He's in intensive care. I'm gonna go with those guys and leave you the boat, okay? You might need it. Now listen: the gas in the house is almost gone. I was to get the tanks filled up. You might need to get that done yourself if I'm not back within a couple of days. You okay with that?"

"Shit," I said. "I'm sorry. That's bad news. Yeah, I'll manage. It's propane, right? Separate bottles for the kitchen and the bathroom?"

"Yeah. You've got to go down to Lion's Bay for a refill. Just hit the other shore and continue south. You can't miss the marina, it will be in your face. They'll fix you up there."

"Thanks. And, I guess, I really hope everything turns out all right with your old man. He sounds like a fine guy."

"He is. Okay. I should be back by the weekend. You all right for cash? Here."

He got his wallet out before I could protest and pushed a couple of twenties into my hand. Okay, so my hand wasn't exactly unwilling. But I felt bad, taking that money.

I watched them go down to the boat feeling like a marooned sailor. I stood there for a long time, watching them until their boat disappeared from sight. They weren't going straight east to the other shore, they went southeast, and I guessed they were steering for Lion's Bay.

I went down to Harry's boat and checked the mooring ropes, front and back. Harry had tied highly professional knots; I wasn't sure I'd be able to untie them, to say nothing about tying them again. Well, I could always cut the rope in an emergency.

My heart seemed to have sunk down into my stomach when I walked back to the house with a very weary step. The speed I'd taken with Harry had completely worn off. I felt very tired, but too tense to attempt a nap. I went inside and took off my jacket and sat down on the sofa.

The bottle of rum was still standing on the coffee table, and it was around two-thirds full. It was a big bottle featuring a jolly pirate wearing elegant seventeenth-century togs. I guessed it was meant to be a portrait of Captain Morgan. I say 'I guessed' because I'd seen a portrait of the real Henry Morgan and he looked like the nasty son of a bitch that he'd been.

I knew that in reality, Henry Morgan had been a heavy-duty asshole, cruel even by the standards of his times. He ended up being governor of Jamaica, and subsequently got busy capturing his old pals and getting them executed. You wouldn't have thought a guy like that would get to advertise a product two centuries later.

But he was famous, that was all that mattered. He'd marched his men through the jungle and sacked Panama on the Pacific coast. He'd defeated the Spanish garrison with men that were so weak and sick they were practically falling over. They'd nearly starved to death on that march through the jungle.

But their greed gave them superhuman strength and they prevailed. They became heroes in the public's mind, and their leader helped sell rum two centuries later.

And never mind the weeks they spent torturing people to death to make them reveal their hidden riches. Never mind the men killed, the women r.a.p.ed and killed, the children left to starve to death in the ashes of the city.

Never mind Peter Schmidt.

I looked at Captain Morgan grinning at me from the label on the bottle.

"Brother," I said. "You and me both."

Then I went to the kitchen to get myself a glass.