Left-handed Luck
Page 1
Left-handed Luck
Rod Michalchuk
Copyright 2012 by Rod Michalchuk
Copyright 2012 © Rod Michalchuk
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any way, shape or form, or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, places and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design and illustration by Rod Michalchuk
Sections:
I WAS AT THE NUGGET
I DIDN’T BLACK OUT
LIGHT—A SUSTAINED FLASH
BY DEGREES
“KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT”
MY ANKLE WAS BETTER
GARY’S CAR WAS OFF LIMITS
MY TOOTH ACTUALLY
I WAS AT THE NUGGET, working the slots, playing Monopoly and moving tai chi slow, hoping that my complementary beverage would arrive soon, before I lost more than it would cost to just buy one at the bar. I dropped a nickel in, touched the screen and—lo and behold—three pinks: Virginia, States and St. Charles. As jackpots go, it was mid-range. Still, the machine lit up, deedled victory music and spat coin, loudly, one after another, for a good, long while—giving me enough metal to half fill a standard-sized loot cup.
And, as I was feeding the next coin in—as it fell, tinkling, falling inside—I sensed something, a presence right behind me: a woman, standing way too close. She’d snuck up on me somehow without me sensing her, but, from out of nowhere, there she was, inside the danger zone. I flinched so hard I almost fell out of my chair.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m invading your personal space.”
“No shit.” I said, backing away, putting the chair between us.
She was sleek with cinnamon skin and raven hair—almost naked, save for a collar-to-cuffs, all-over body tattoo. Besides ink, all she was wearing was a skimpy little skirt and top, made out of something shiny, and an honest-to-God, bona fide fortune in gold. As much wealth as a normally fit and healthy woman could carry without straining herself: bangles, bracelets and rings—every possible permutation of jewelry, all piled on.
She gave me a forthright stare—eyes jet-black and eyelinered with tail ends, like someone out of ancient Egypt, and said: “Listen. I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor...” She stepped back and smiled, giving me enough room to feel comfortable in and a glimpse of extra-white teeth.
I made a noise. Normally, when strangers ask me for something it’s an automatic no. She, however, had nice legs, and her tattoo was genuinely interesting. Normally, they’re no more than tasteless doodles. This, however, was altogether different, an intricate, precision clockwork: gears, cogs, springs and wheels, all locked together in a fully functioning mechanism. It ended at collar, ankles and wrists, and, under the flickering lights, it produced an optical illusion. It looked as if it were actually ticking.
“See that guy at the bar?” She pointed. “Jeans—leather jacket?”
He was standing up on the foot rail, head and shoulders above everyone else, peering out over the crowd. Along with the jacket and jeans, he had an achy-breaky haircut and his own, lesser, mass of gold chain. His beard was precision-trimmed: hot-rod flames, rendered in facial hair.
“He’s been following me.” she gnawed a metallic gold thumbnail. “And, quite frankly, I’m scared. I’ve been trying to ditch him—this is like the fourth casino, but every time, he’s still there.”
He was big, but he was also sloppy: an ex-linebacker gone to seed, packing a gut. As long as he didn’t pull a gun, I figured he was no worse a threat than Code Blue. It was, however, a moot point. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was get involved in somebody else’s business.
He stepped down and hunkered into his chair, elbows on the bar; big, bear-like, shoulders hunched, facing the other way.
She turned a chair around and sat opposite me, on the other side of the aisle. “Could we just talk—please? Pretend you know me, just until he goes away.”
“We don’t have to pretend anything,” I said. “He’s not even looking this way.”
“That’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is: if things got rough, you’d be able to handle him—right? I mean, like, if you had to.” She lowered her eyes for a moment, winsome as a kitten, and then looked up again, sly and sidelong, meeting my gaze, her lips twitching into the hint of a smile. “What say we perform a little thought experiment—you and me?” She gestured back and forth. “If I asked you to be my bodyguard for a couple of minutes, what would you say? How about that? Just till he loses interest and fucks off to go stalk someone else.”
I made another noise—not even remotely agreeing. I didn’t want to be anybody’s knight-in-shining. No way. Not for any reason.
“Attaboy!” She laughed. “Now we’re talking.”
Except we weren’t: I said nothing because I wanted her to get the hint and get lost. She said nothing because, presumably, she was playing coy—acting like she was unaccustomed to making polite conversation with un-introduced gentlemen. She eyed the tips of her golden toenails, peeking out of her open-toed sandals, and, together, we sat, awkward, saying nothing.
After a while, she cleared her throat. “You don’t sound local. If I had to guess, I’d say Montana. Is that right?”
“Close,” I said. “Alberta.”
“Is that Canada?”
I nodded.
“Is it really all cold and snowy?”
I shook my head. It wasn’t a serious question.
“Okay.” She smiled. “So, what’s it like then?”
I shrugged. “It’s like Montana. There’s mountains and prairie and wind.”
“Too bad,” she said.
“What—that it’s windy?”
“No. That it’s anything like Montana—that’s the Backwater State.”
I smiled, being polite, but, really, I just wanted her to go away.
She looked over, checking the bar for Leather Jacket. He was still there, sitting one barstool away from the end.
“And ... uh ...” Her elegant brow furrowed. “How about work up there in the frozen north? What do you do?”
I actually felt a little sorry for her. I couldn’t help myself. She must’ve been really scared, I thought, to want to chat up some total stranger like this, just to keep them around.
“If you wanted to be kind,” I said, “you’d call what I’m on a mid-life sabbatical. I’m kind of between careers at the moment.”
That reminded me. If I wanted to drink on the house, I had to gamble. “Hang on a sec.” I hit the button and won again—total surprise: four railroads—this time, a major jackpot. The machine lit up—brighter. Music played—louder, and for a longer time. It dispensed lots and lots of nickels: enough to fill my current loot cup and most of another. I placed the filled containers, side by each, on the ledge in front of me.
“You know what they say,” she said. “Lucky at cards....”
“Unlucky at certain other things?” I looked her in the eye.
She smiled, inclining her head, assessing me. “Hey ... Let me show you something. It’s a magic trick. You know what psychometry is?”
I waited for it.
“Nothing dramatic. You touch something and you know its history.”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” I hadn’t felt a woman’s touch in quite some time, and here was one: interesting, in a circus sideshow fortune-teller sort of way, and even attractive, if you could get past the ornamentation.
“Relax,” she said, schooling her expressio
n and mumbo-jumboing her hands in the air. She reached out and pressed the first three fingers of her right hand against my forehead. “Hmm,” she said. “An emotional setback. I am so sorry.”
Honestly, it was the worst bullshit.
“Your wife left you. She took you for everything she could and turned everyone you knew together, as a couple, against you. You liquidated what was left, bought a camper van and fled the scene—for good, maybe.”
She knew! I was stunned, speechless.
“You sleep in your vehicle and live off your savings. Nobody knows you’re here, and no one would care if they did. You’re all alone.”
“Holy shit!” I laughed. “Are you a magician or something?”
She dropped her hand. “Something like that.”
“How’d you do that?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“That is so cool! Can I try?”
She blinked, taken aback. “What? You’re ... That’s not right. You don’t do that.”
“Says who? Is it against the rules? Are the psychic police going to revoke your license?”
“No...” She laughed, uneasy. “I just didn’t see this coming.”
I raised my hand, signaling my intention; she blinked and her expression changed. It was like, for the first time, I’d managed to capture her full and complete attention. She closed her eyes and let me.
Just barely—the lightest touch imaginable—my fingertip met the center of her forehead, and something happened. The C Major din of the casino fell away and a flood of images blasted into my head. People: one after another, scared, begging and bargaining—struggling against ropes, boxes and bags. Violence and horror: stabbings, shootings, bludgeonings and stranglings—cruel, bloody, brutal and ugly, murder after murder, again and again.