Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  “Exactly,” Chris said, gesturing with both hands to form an expansive circle. “Now expand the scope. Suppose he handed out various sheets to a hundred people—or emailed a hundred thousand—using multiple races with seemingly impossible odds.”

  “I get it. Someone gets a series of winners and gets his mind blown like me.”

  “Yeah, that’s my first theory.” He looked up and to the right. I’d learned what that meant in graduate school, but I could never remember what. Recalling something? Having a feeling? “They could’ve interviewed such a shitload of people,” Chris continued, “that statistically they were bound to be dead-on with someone. And it was you. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. It does explain some of it.” I liked the theory because it was so normal—so much a product of human nature. We were a greedy, selfish species, weren’t we? I was rooting for Chris to clear the whole thing up with something along these lines.

  “Con men are convincing,” Chris said. “That’s why cons work. Well, that and general idiocy on the part of the patsies. In this case, all Paul’s people had to do was compile a list of iconic dreams and ask about different ones in their interviews. Statistically, there are only so many.”

  “I don’t have a lot of money or anything else they’d want,” I pointed out. “You know about my parents’ estate, right?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know why the hell they gave away all those millions instead of leaving it to you. Frankly, I’d like you better if you were richer. But back to the RGP people. Maybe they don’t know what happened to the money. Or they might be signing up whoever matched their tout sheet to be a pawn in a bigger game—with bigger fish. I picture a marlin or one of those giant tunas that sell for a fortune in Japan.”

  “How would that work?” I asked, resisting the temptation to vote for the marlin. My mind couldn’t jump around like Chris’s and still get the job done. “I can’t imagine how anyone could use an ordinary guy like me in some grand scheme,” I added.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re the Judas goat that could lead wealthy fat cats into their scheme. And Paul could be honest. He could be a puppet of the women—they could be the scammers,” he said. “That way, you’d believe him because he believes him.”

  “Okay. We’re starting to verge on paranoia here. What’s theory number two?”

  “Psychics.” He stared at me, knowing I would find his answer unsatisfying.

  “That’s it? It’s a one-word theory?”

  “Well, they’re real. They exist. One reason the deal might seem bizarre to you is you’re not used to dealing with psychics.”

  “And you are?” It was my turn to stare. Chris could be so full of himself, so self-satisfied.

  “There was Carla,” he said. “And I’m more open-minded than you, anyway.”

  “Carla was the worst girlfriend ever.”

  “True. But she always knew when I was thinking about Anne.” He smiled ruefully. “It was uncanny.”

  “The second worst girlfriend ever.” I’d kind of liked Anne, but I wouldn’t have dated her if you’d paid me. She liked to yell, then cry, then curl into a ball and not say anything. She’d do this in a restaurant with other people around.

  “Don’t make me play the Susan card, bro.”

  “Okay, I won’t.” She’d been my most recent and possibly my most tumultuous ex, which was saying something. Between the two of us, Chris and I had put in our time in Crazyville. “So what would you do if you were me?” I asked. “I feel like the ball is in their court. Do I need to do anything on my end?”

  “I don’t think so.” He shook his big, round head.

  “So if they contact me, I guess I’ll just have to play it by ear, huh?” I felt like a kid asking his dad what to do. It was uncomfortable, but I felt I needed direction.

  “Yeah. Just stay in the moment, and do whatever seems sensible. Isn’t that what you do all day long as a therapist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t therapy supposed to be a microcosm of life?”

  “Yes.”

  “And aren’t you good at both?”

  “Mostly,” I conceded.

  “You just got knocked off balance by the weirdness, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “It’ll all work out, bro. Everything does,” Chris said.

  He hopped up to get another beer, and I sat with that.

  ****

  I slept well that night. It helped that I no longer shared my small condo with a partner. Susan had left me nine months earlier for a woman. I’d really thought she was the one for the first few months. After that, I was just too chickenshit to pull the plug from my end. Susan could be vengeful.

  My workday was slated to begin early, so I hustled through my morning routine and hopped on my bike. The mostly uphill ride to my office from my not-so-great neighborhood required me to keep a change of clothes in the office for when I worked up a sweat on the way in, but I didn’t need them that day. The fog saw to that; it was probably forty-six degrees.

  My key wouldn’t turn in the front door of my building—a two-story white Victorian home at one time—and I was momentarily confused until I discovered it was already unlocked. Only rarely did one of my suitemates start her day before me, and never this early.

  My heart raced as I carried my bike in on my shoulder and entered the waiting room from the street side. What if I catch a burglar rifling through our stuff? Worse yet, will the Samoan ambush me in there? Then I took charge of my mind and told myself it was probably just Janet seeing someone new. My paranoid first patient didn’t need a comrade in arms.

  I discovered one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She sat in the waiting room with the posture of a dancer or a yoga instructor. I guessed she was my age or a bit older. Her simple white top and brown pants accentuated her slim build, and her porcelain skin gleamed as if lit from within. She’d tied her blond hair in a long ponytail.

  She also had a presence—a weight to her—which took my breath away. I just stood there staring. The New Age movie that would feature this woman would also star a curvaceous redhead who would look way hot until this angelic being showed up to do some altruistic thing, at which point the entire audience would wonder why they’d ever thought the first woman had been attractive at all.

  “Sid?” she asked. Her voice was lower than I would’ve expected.

  I regained my composure. “You’re from RGP, aren’t you?” I asked. I felt relieved and curious.

  “Yes. Can we meet for a few minutes before your first client?” She rose and towered over me. Surprisingly, my short-guy syndrome didn’t kick in. It tended to show up at very inconvenient moments.

  “Sure. Give me a minute.” I released my bike from my shoulder, and it landed awkwardly, threatening to roll away and mow down an end table. I felt like a flustered teen as I wrestled it into submission and then wheeled it into the closet. “Come on into my office,” I said as I emerged. I didn’t make eye contact. I’d always been intimidated by magnificent women. Whatever happened with them mattered more; they were a litmus test of my desirability. Throughout all this, it never occurred to me to wonder how she’d gained entry into the building.

  “I’m Sid Menk,” I told her as we began walking. “You are?”

  “Call me Sam.” She strode beside me, as though walking behind me would’ve fulfilled an unpalatable gender role. I knew this was probably more projection, but as usual I bought into it anyway. My mind took comfort in pretending to know things about people.

  “How much time do we have?” Sam asked, her voice lilting up at the end of the sentence. It charmed me. I had a strong urge to do whatever she wanted—to influence the litmus test in my favor.

  “About fifteen minutes,” I said. “I like to have space between things.”

  “Me too,” she agreed. Clearly, we were a great match.

  She chose the same chair as Paul, reminding me of something important. “Listen, when Paul left yes
terday, somebody followed him,” I told her. It came out faster than I’d intended. And my voice was higher pitched than usual.

  Sam’s face tightened. “What did he look like?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “A giant Samoan.”

  She nodded. “He’s a Maori—from New Zealand. Did you see his partner? He looks like a—”

  “Rat?” I finished.

  “That’s him.”

  I waited while Sam gazed directly into my eyes and thought about this new development. Her blue eyes held mine for what would have been an uncomfortable duration with someone else. They were remarkably clear and present, like Paul’s on steroids.

  She finally spoke. “We don’t have time to do much more than meet and arrange to talk later,” she said. “But you may be in danger. I’ll wait in your lobby today while you work.”

  “And do what? Stare at bad guys with those beautiful eyes of yours?” My compliment produced a brief smile, but I could see that she took it as an insult.

  “I’m a martial artist. I can pretty much kick anyone’s ass.” She said this matter-of-factly with no trace of ego.

  I flinched and then felt embarrassed that mere words had triggered such a response. “You’ll get bored,” I tried, mostly just to have something to say.

  She shook her head, which stayed perfectly level throughout the maneuver. “I don’t get bored.”

  “Ever?”

  She shook her head again. I was developing a strong crush on Sam, partly because I was becoming aware there was something uncannily familiar about her. I knew I’d never met her before—I could scarcely forget someone who looked like her—yet I felt a kinship that was independent of her striking appearance. At least it seemed that way. I’d learned to mistrust my early take on the attractive women I met.

  “Well, let’s get you set up, then,” I said. “Unless this is something we should bring to the police?”

  “No, there’s no crime here. Yet.”

  I didn’t like that “yet.” What did she know that I didn’t? “I’ll show you around,” I said, leading the way back into the waiting room while she scrambled to keep up. “We can meet for lunch. You definitely owe me some explanations.”

  The Maori stood in the middle of the room, his dark eyes gleaming in the fluorescent light. “Hello, Samavati,” he said in a New Zealand accent. “I was hoping we’d meet again.”

  Chapter Three

  He moved onto the balls of his feet, pivoted slightly to one side, and curled his huge hands into fists. Sam shoved me to the side and slid forward. Were they planning to brawl right there?

  “Why don’t we let the council settle this, Jason?” she said. “There’s no need for conflict.”

  Jason? His name is Jason?

  “Frank’s here too,” he said. “And he’s armed. Just let us have the shrink, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Frank. Now that name fit the other guy. I was aware I wasn’t focusing on the matter at hand, but I couldn’t seem to. Would Sam kick Jason’s ass? That seemed very unlikely despite what she’d said. The guy was not only gigantic, he moved like an athlete. Even cocking his head demonstrated a fluid grace. He wore the same outfit as the day before, and this time I saw a long, black braid snaking down his back.

  All of a sudden, Jason came at her. God, he was quick. I scrambled farther out of the way as Sam swept a lithe leg out and caught him on the side of his knee. It didn’t slow him down. She slid to the other side of him and leapt into the air. I’d never seen anything like the acrobatic kick she aimed at his head, but he dodged it and came back punching. He was like a mixed martial arts fighter, and she was some sort of kung fu goddess.

  Sam blocked the big man’s strikes blow by blow as she backpedaled smoothly. Then, as suddenly as he’d come at her, she attacked. Her initial side kick caught Jason in the solar plexus, and he bent forward momentarily. Almost in the same motion, Sam knifed the edge of her hand at his neck, but he ducked to the side and then blocked her follow-up straight left with his forearm.

  It was all happening faster than anything I’d ever seen, even in a movie. The moment one of them moved, the other one was countering and launching something else back. It was like an intense dance with no music, just a staccato series of grunts and thuds.

  Sam landed far more strikes, but when Jason caught her off-guard, he rocked her. Once, she fell to her knees following a kick to her ribs. Twice more, his punches seemed to stagger her.

  I pressed my back against a built-in bookcase and simply watched. Perhaps I could’ve helped—hit Jason over the head with a book or called the cops—but it didn’t occur to me.

  Sam began to wear him down. Gradually, his balance suffered, aided by her peppering him with compact, quick punches to his hips. Then he failed to recover from a complex series of kicks that seemed to be choreographed. Sam moved in and backfisted his temple from close range. A nanosecond later, she swept his legs out from under him, and he went down hard. The floor shook, and the bookcase rattled. He didn’t get up. At first I thought he was dead, but he shook his head and moaned. His ass had definitely been kicked.

  Before I had a chance to ask Sam if she was okay—she could’ve broken a few ribs at the least—a gravelly voice rang out from across the waiting room.

  “I have a gun,” Rat-Face said from the doorway. “And I like shooting it. Especially at people.” His posture was cocky, and the revolver looked alarmingly comfortable in his hand.

  All of this was very hard to absorb. Has my life turned into an action movie? And the next thought was about as useless. Where is my client? She should be here by now. A moment later, panic replaced all that. Adrenaline pumped through me, and I was ready for fight or flight, neither of which made much sense, given the circumstances. My heart raced, and my legs shook. I focused on breathing deeply and tried to return my attention to the very moment I was embedded in. No one was currently hurting me. The present was an antidote to anticipatory fear.

  Once Jason managed to get to his feet, Frank herded us from the waiting room into the back seat of an old car. I didn’t even notice what model. My mindfulness practice had failed me again.

  Jason had gathered himself well enough to drive, apparently, which worried me. He could have a brain injury from the fight. I think I seized on this to keep from freaking out about all the rest. Frank sat up front with Jason and trained his old-fashioned revolver on us. It was huge.

  Sam seemed very calm for someone who’d just weathered an all-out battle and was now being kidnapped at gunpoint. She was breathing deeply, though—playing catch-up, I guess—and sweat had soaked through the front of her white cotton top.

  I tried to calm down, continuing to concentrate on my own breath. “What’s going on?” I asked Frank. The breathing was no longer helping. Panic welled up again.

  “You’re a special guy,” he told me. Everything he said was a growl.

  “In what way?” I struggled to keep my tone normal. I didn’t want these guys to know how scared I was. For that matter, I didn’t want to know how scared I was, either. I focused on the surreal quality of the situation, avoiding facing what might come next. Will they kill me when they’re through? I shivered, wriggling like a fish in shallow water.

  “That remains to be seen.” Frank wouldn’t answer any more questions, and he told Sam that he’d shoot me if she spoke at all.

  In a few minutes, we were on Highway One heading south. Traffic was light; we mingled with reverse commuters, most of whom seemed to be illegally talking on cell phones instead of noticing the guy aiming a gun at us. In fairness, he held his weapon low between the front seats.

  It was clear that forces beyond me were in charge—more explicitly than usual, I mean—and that my internal reactions were irrelevant to the outcome. I told myself this, and it helped me settle down a bit. A bit was better than nothing.

  As the car continued south toward Monterey, I wondered what in God’s name was going on. Was I an heir of some sort as Paul had suggested?
Were Jason and Frank hired thugs or members of some gang or organization? Was Sam—Samavati—a spiritual person or some sort of hired hand herself? That name sounded Sanskrit, but why would spiritual people be mixed up in something like this? Nothing that Paul had asked or shown me back in my cozy office helped me decipher things.

  The weather stayed gloomy, but Frank turned on the radio, and it blared cheery Mexican polkas. Jason sang along to several in heavily accented Spanish. You haven’t really been kidnapped until you’ve been serenaded in fractured Spanish by a giant Maori, while another guy with a rat face laughs and waves a revolver around.

  They were having fun. For some reason, this struck me as the most absurd aspect of the entire situation. Fun? Now?

  Then another thought occurred to me. I’d seen Sam in action; she could move incredibly fast. Surely she could have kicked the gun out of Frank’s hand while he carried on. So why didn’t she? She seemed to be on standby or something. Maybe she wanted to go wherever they were taking us.

  We ended up on a runway at the Monterey airport, where a good-sized charter jet waited. There was no ticketing, no security, no baggage, and no opportunity to escape. I tried speaking up.

  “Hey, what’s the deal here? Where are you taking me? What the hell is going on?”

  Frank told me to shut up, and I gathered myself to push back. Then I remembered the last time someone had barked at me like that. It had been a court-ordered client with antisocial personality disorder who’d fired me after two sessions. The guy had raped and killed the woman therapist he’d seen next.

  I shut up. What were these maniacs capable of?

  They separated Sam and me on the empty plane. I sat on an aisle near Jason while she sat with Frank and Frank’s gun. The window curtains stayed closed, and I never saw a pilot or a flight attendant. The cabin sported wide, black leather seats—two per side—and dark wood trim on the walls. It looked like something a bond trader in a Wall Street movie would own.

  Our flight consisted of eight hours of boring, noisy isolation with one break for handmade peanut-butter sandwiches from a plastic cooler that had been stashed under one of the seats. My mood gradually morphed from terrified to apprehensive to outraged to curious to bored to numb. I liked numb the best.