Lucky Bastard

by S. G. Browne

  “My condolences,” says the barfly, raising his drink to me. “Here’s hoping you fall back off.”

  The bartender gives me my Coke, which I pay for and then drink half of before making my way toward the currently occupied men’s room. While I wait, trying to keep my mind off the pressure building in my bladder, Slayer gives way to “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, which everyone in the bar starts singing. Moments later, the bathroom door opens and a middle-aged drunk stumbles out, zipping up his pants and belting out a horrible impersonation of Steve Perry.

  I close the door and lock it, then unzip and release a mixture of high-quality good luck into my half-finished Coke. I take no pleasure urinating into a Coke. If it were a Pepsi, then we’d be talking.

  The draining of Donna’s and Doug’s good luck leaves me momentarily weakened and vulnerable, so as soon as I’ve shaken out the last drop, I steel myself and chug down the mixture of Coke and urine, which, in spite of the sugar, coca, lime, vanilla, and other flavorings, tastes more like urine than it does Coca-Cola. Once I’m done, I rinse the glass and ice with water and drink that down to get the last remnants of good luck, then I set the glass down on the sink and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  I’m not a bad-looking guy. Easy on the eyes, or so I’ve been told. And although I’m on the plus side of thirty, I still get carded more often than not or asked what school I go to. One of the benefits of being a luck poacher. We maintain our youthful glow.

  But staring at myself, I don’t notice my smooth skin or my full head of hair or the color of my eyes. All I see is a thirty-three-year-old luck poacher who has no friends, no family, and who just drank a glass full of Coke and urine.

  There’s nothing like consuming your own bodily fluids to remind you that it might be a good idea to make some lifestyle changes.

  When I come out of the bathroom, “Don’t Stop Believin’” has given way to “The Man Comes Around” by Johnny Cash.

  I think that’s my cue to leave.

  On my way out of the bar, the attractive Asian who was at the jukebox bumps into me, spilling her drink on herself.

  “Hey!” she says, her voice high-pitched and loud. “What the fuck?!”

  “Sorry about that,” I say, even though it wasn’t my fault. “How about I buy you another drink?”

  “How about you watch where the fuck you’re going?!”

  “Yeah,” says the hipster, who has turned around on his stool to watch the show and egg her on. “Watch where you’re going, Jack.”

  Since she walked into me, she should be the one to apologize. But beginning a discourse on common courtesy and basic etiquette in this place probably isn’t a good idea. I need to defuse the situation before it escalates. The last thing I want is to be the center of attention. And right now, everyone in the bar is looking at me.

  “Here,” I say, pulling a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and handing it to her. “That should cover your dry cleaning and your drinks for the rest of the night, plus a little something extra.”

  She looks at the Franklin in her hand, then wads it up and throws it at me. “What do I look like? A fucking prostitute?”

  I look her up and down in her spaghetti-strap top and her micro-miniskirt and her stiletto heels. She’s not wearing a bra and she has more eye shadow than Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.

  “Now that you mention it . . .”

  The rest of her drink is suddenly in my face and dripping onto my suit and shirt. I lick my lips and taste rum and mint, so I’m guessing she was drinking a mojito.

  “Asshole,” she says.

  I wipe the drink out of my eyes as Biff and Skip, the two fraternity types playing pool, walk over and join the party.

  “What’s your problem, dude?” says Biff, getting up in my face, while Skip stands behind him, posturing in a show of solidarity.

  I should have just peed in an alley.

  “No problem,” I say. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Then how about you start explaining,” says Biff.

  I bend down and pick up the crumpled hundred-dollar bill and hand it to Biff. “Maybe this will help to clear things up.”

  Biff looks at the C-note, then glances over his shoulder at Skip, who nods.

  “Works for me,” says Biff, who turns around and high-fives Skip. I walk out of the Nite Cap with the hot Asian prostitute following me out onto the sidewalk, yelling at me, causing a scene. The two drunks are still out there, but one of them is puking by the garbage can while the other one impersonating the Cat in the Hat pees against the wall.

  No sooner am I outside when a car pulls up, a red Mercedes-Benz S-Class, out of which emerge Thug One and Thug Two in their matching suits. While they came out of a red Mercedes rather than a red wooden box, and while they’re not wearing blue wigs or flying kites, I’m suddenly having a Dr. Seuss moment.

  I’m trying to think of something to do that would help me to get rid of Thug One and Thug Two.

  That’s when I realize a little too late that the hot Asian prostitute works for Tommy, who she probably called on her cell phone when she went into the bathroom. The whole scene with the drink and the yelling was just to keep me occupied until Tommy’s thugs showed up.

  “That’s him,” she yells, pointing at me. “That’s the one!”

  “It’s not polite to point, you know,” I say.

  Thug Two smiles at me and nods. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Monday.”

  I’m not thinking it’s nice, as the Asian prostitute spits. No, it’s not nice at all. Not one little bit.

  Then Thug One grabs me by the arm and escorts me toward the back passenger door as Thug Two walks over to the hot Asian prostitute and hands her what looks like a wad of cash.

  “You still look like a cheap whore,” I say.

  She flips me the bird, then turns and walks back into the Nite Cap.

  I get into the backseat with Thug One while Thug Two gets behind the wheel and we drive off down O’Farrell toward Union Square.

  How many times does this make that I’ve been kidnapped today? Three times? Four? Jesus, I’ve lost count. And I’m wondering if I should call Guinness.

  “Hands on top of your head,” says Thug One.

  “You didn’t say Simon says,” I reply, but I do it anyway.

  He searches my pockets, removing my Ray-Bans, phone, keys, and wallet, along with another roll of Mentos I picked up after going to Peet’s. I’m worried he’ll find the card from Barry Manilow with the address for 636 O’Farrell, but then I remember the Albino took it from me and didn’t give it back.

  After he finishes searching me, he returns the Ray-Bans, keys, and wallet, but he keeps the phone and the roll of Mentos.

  What is it with these guys and taking my Mentos?

  At least I left my poaching phone in my office desk. Not a good idea to carry it with me all the time, especially when I’m getting drugged and frisked and knocked unconscious by the Mafia and the Feds and vengeful sisters from Tucson.

  “What’s in the backpack?” he asks.

  “A bag of coffee and an empty coffee cup. I think my self-respect is in there, too, but I can’t seem to find it.”

  “I need to check the bag.”

  “Be my guest.” I hand him the backpack. “If you come across my self-respect, there’s a hundred-dollar reward if it’s returned in its original condition.”

  I try to play nonchalant as he opens up the backpack and pulls out the empty coffee cup, opens it, then sets it aside and removes the bag of coffee. Pretending I don’t care isn’t easy, but I put on my best bored-husband-listening-to-his-wife-talk-about-her-friends face as he opens the bag of coffee and takes a whiff, then looks up at me with suspicion.

  “What?” I say, trying not to look guilty.

  He shakes his head with a look of disappointment, and I figure he somehow knows I’ve smuggled bad luck in the coffee. I don’t know how he knows. Maybe he’s psychic. Maybe I’m that trans
parent. Maybe he’s like a drug-sniffing dog, only he’s trained to sniff out bad luck. And he doesn’t shed on the carpet.

  He closes up the bag. “House Blend? No wonder you can’t find your self-respect.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Instead I just shrug as he checks the rest of the compartments and pockets, then he puts the bag of coffee and the empty cup back into the backpack and hands it to me without another word.

  I’m thinking maybe my luck has finally turned. No more bad news. No more unpleasant surprises. No more unexpected turns of events.

  Then we’re stopping and I’m getting out and walking into the Sir Francis Drake.

  On September 26, 1803, Joseph Samuel, an Englishman convicted of killing a policeman in Sydney, Australia, was sentenced to be executed by hanging. Samuel maintained his innocence in the murder but to no avail. The noose was fastened securely around his neck and the cart upon which he stood was driven away.

  On the first attempt, the rope broke and Samuel dropped to his feet. On the second attempt, the noose slipped off his neck and his feet safely touched the ground. On the third attempt, the rope snapped once again.

  The governor was summoned to the scene and, after inspecting the ropes, which showed no evidence of having been tampered with, decreed it was a sign from God that Samuel’s crime did not merit execution and granted him a full reprieve.

  Right now, I’m hoping I’ll be as fortunate as Joseph Samuel.

  I’m in a hotel suite on the twentieth floor of the Sir Francis Drake, looking out a window at Union Square and the lights of San Francisco glowing beneath the dark August night.

  I’ve been waiting here for half an hour, ever since Tommy’s thugs dumped me off and told me their boss would be with me soon. Whatever that means. Apparently in Mafia-speak, soon means “whenever we get around to it.”

  Another of Tommy’s thugs is guarding the door out in the hallway, and from my initial inspection there’s no other way out, not unless I want to throw a chair through a window and play Superman. I tried the phone, but it went directly to the Mafia operator, so I wasn’t able to get an outside line. Or talk to anyone who could get me some room service.

  The last thing I had to eat was an apple fritter, and that was more than five hours ago.

  At least the accommodations are an improvement over a windowless room in a condemned hovel or an alley next to a homeless guy who smells like urine. And I’m conscious, which is always a plus.

  I don’t know how long Tommy has lived here, but I have to admit he’s added a lot of personal touches to the place. Paintings of birds and blossoms. Prints of goldfish and Chinese calligraphy. Potted bamboo and sculptures of double dragons and vases with white cranes. All symbols of wealth and good fortune.

  Apparently, Tommy’s not taking any chances.

  Speaking of taking chances, I still have no idea how I’m going to get the bad luck into a deliverable form and infect Tommy, but I’m used to solving problems the same way Indiana Jones deals with Nazis and religious artifacts.

  I’m making it up as I go.

  Though my options are pretty limited. I don’t have a needle and a syringe and, unlike good luck, bad luck can’t be mixed into any kind of food or beverage without causing it to smell or curdle or burn. Besides, I doubt I’m going to get close enough to Tommy to spike his drink or stick a needle in his arm. Which leaves me with only one alternative.

  While poached luck can be consumed by either eating it, drinking it, or injecting it, it can also be absorbed through the skin. Kind of like a salve or an ointment. Typically it’s not as fast-acting as ingestion or injection, and it takes more product to get the same results, but it’s still effective.

  At least that’s the way good luck works. I have no idea what happens when you get bad luck on your skin.

  It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot I have.

  The problem is, to get the two ounces of low-grade hard out of the glass vial and onto Tommy, I’ll still have to get close to him. And he’s not the type to let me get buddy-buddy. Plus he always seems to have a thug or some hot double agent hovering nearby.

  Unless I can transfer the bad luck into something larger that I can throw at Tommy.

  I think about filling a glass with tap water and dumping in the bad luck, then tossing it in Tommy’s face when he shows up, but the only container I have is an empty cup from Peet’s. If bad luck can eat through plastic, then I don’t think a postconsumer-recycled-paper coffee cup is going to do the trick.

  I think about using the coffee grounds to absorb the bad luck, act as insulation, but I don’t know how much time that would buy. Plus there’s the chance I could get some of the bad luck on me. Even though I’ve got two strains of top-grade soft in my system, that’s not enough to keep me from getting infected. If I were Tooter Turtle, I’d be calling for help right about now.

  Drizzle, drazzle, druzzle, drome . . .

  I’m still waiting for Mr. Wizard to get me out of here when the door to the suite opens behind me.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I turn around to find Tommy standing in the open doorway, wearing black pants, a red smoking jacket, and a smug expression—the kind you see on the faces of villains in James Bond films who have manipulated the situation to their advantage and think they’ve got you right where they want you.

  Which he pretty much does.

  In the hallway behind Tommy lurks a second thug, some generic goon with short hair and an expression like he has a pickle up his ass.

  “What am I doing here?” I say, hoping I sound more self-assured than I feel.

  “This is my home,” says Tommy, spreading his arms wide like a magnanimous host. “You like it?”

  “You live in a suite in the Drake? I guess I expected something a little more extravagant.”

  “Not just this suite. I have the entire floor. Every room. My own personal staff. No one has access to this floor unless I say so.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Extravagant enough?”

  I hate it when I get put in my place. My father did that to me all the time. Which is another reason for me to resent Tommy.

  “So why am I here?” I ask again.

  “Let’s just say I felt the situation called for a more comfortable working environment.”

  “And what situation is that?”

  “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  Again with the mystery. Can’t anyone just give me a straight answer?

  Tommy stands just inside the doorway waiting for me. Since it doesn’t look like I’m getting a shot at revenge anytime soon, I collect my backpack and follow Tommy out of the suite and into the hallway, which is decorated with paintings and sculptures like the ones in the suite. It makes me wonder how someone who knows that luck is a tangible commodity can continue to believe in symbols and tokens of good luck in the hopes of attracting it. That would be like someone who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus continuing to write him letters. Or someone who doesn’t believe in God going into church to pray.

  It doesn’t make any sense.

  Or maybe I’m missing something.

  “I see from the bottles you left in the safe-deposit box that you managed to get halfway through the list I gave you,” says Tommy from in front of me while his goon plays caboose. “Though I noticed the deposit didn’t include the luck you poached from Donna Baker.”

  At least he bought that I actually poached from the other marks on the list. Alex must have told him about Donna, the douche bag. I hope he chokes on a tofu dog.

  “I decided to hold on to that for a while,” I say, leaving out that Donna Baker’s luck is currently flowing through me. “In case of an emergency.”

  “I respect a man who hedges his bets,” says Tommy. “Though if you’re betting against me, you should know that the house always wins.”

  The three of us walk down the hallway past doors to other rooms and more paintings of images meant to attract good luck. Tommy
has done his best to surround himself with as many symbols of good fortune as he can find. But it’s not enough. Tommy wants more. As much as he can get his hands on and at whatever cost.

  “I have another job for you,” says Tommy.

  “What kind of a job?”

  “The kind that will wipe your debt clean.”

  “Funny. I didn’t realize I owed you anything.”

  “You owe me whatever I say you owe me,” he says. “And you should know by now that I don’t find you all that amusing.”

  “I guess I’ll have to come up with some new material.”

  Tommy leads me to a door at the end of the hallway, which has yet another goon standing guard outside. That this is a dead end isn’t lost on me.

  “One last poaching job for you,” says Tommy, stepping past the goon and swiping a card in the magnetic key lock.

  The way he says it makes me wonder if I’ll be leaving here in the back of a Mercedes or in the back of a garbage truck.

  Tommy and his goon and I walk into the room, which is another suite decorated with lucky symbols, most of them of the Asian variety. One of them in particular, a large ceramic lucky cat with its left paw raised, sits in the center of the room on a glass coffee table next to another bamboo plant. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear the cat was winking at me.

  Tommy walks to the closed door at the back of the suite and produces a key, which he inserts into the lock. I don’t know what I expect to find in the room when he opens that door.

  Tuesday Knight. Barry Manilow. A couple of Playboy Playmates, a jar of baby oil, and a giant Twister mat.

  I’m hoping for option number three.

  But when Tommy opens the door, I see a small boy in a windowless bedroom sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed wearing headphones and watching one of the Harry Potter films on a flat-screen television. A couple of empty cans of root beer and a bag of potato chips sit on the floor next to him. When he turns to look at us, his eyes go wide and the moment hits me like a car accident.