by S. G. Browne
Kind of like a sponge.
Or maybe it’s not the charm at all. Maybe it’s the person carrying the charm. Maybe it’s the quality of the individual rather than the quality of the luck.
After all, if a luck poacher can spend his life dealing in good luck and still end up addicted or broke or friendless, maybe someone who isn’t born with good luck or someone who has had his luck poached can still have good things happen to him because of the quality of person he is and the positive actions he takes.
Maybe it’s not just who you are or the way that you’re born, but also the things you do that determine your luck.
Nothing like an unexplained occurrence of good luck to challenge your entire belief system.
Doug puts his fingers to the bullet and removes it, holds it up, and checks it out for a few moments, then he puts the bullet in his pocket before removing the two halves of the brass ring and slipping them in after it.
“Looks like Bow Wow’s got a new lucky charm,” he says.
Who am I to disagree?
“I’m glad you’re okay, Bow Wow.”
He smiles at me. “Thanks, Holmes.”
I help him to his feet, and as we start to walk toward the door, Bow Wow looks around and says, “What happened to the dude who capped me?”
“He had to go.”
“What about the kid?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s see if we can find out.”
We leave the roof and walk down the stairs and out of the Starlight Room, which is still on fire but apparently everyone’s okay. I hope the same can be said for Jimmy and Mandy. And that I have the opportunity to fix things before it’s too late.
As we continue down the stairs to the lobby, I can’t help but feel like I’m the reluctant hero in a Hollywood movie, trying to remember my lines or what I’m supposed to do next. Problem is, there’s no one to give me a cue. I have to improvise. Make up my own script.
I just hope it has a happy ending.
When we get downstairs, the lobby and reception area are swarming with emergency personnel and police. I walk up to one of the police officers and ask him about Jimmy Saltzman.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“We’re the ones who called in the kidnapping,” I say, gesturing to Doug and me.
Doug nods and says, “Word.”
“Hold on,” says the cop.
I look around and notice a dozen or more people being tended to by paramedics for injuries and smoke inhalation, including the drunk guy who threw the chair through the window. I don’t see any sign of Thug One or Thug Two, but I catch sight of Mandy sitting in a chair in my coat and a pair of pajama bottoms that I’m guessing she got from the female hotel employee who is sitting with her, holding her hand.
In spite of Mandy’s proclamation, I start to head over to her, but then her husband, Ted, shows up and they embrace. Mandy starts sobbing so I decide it would probably be a bad idea to see how she’s doing. Instead, I watch her and Ted as they walk toward the hotel exit, holding each other. Then the uniformed police officer steps in front of me and all I can see is his face.
“Come with me,” he says.
As Doug and I start to follow, the officer points to Doug and says, “Not you. Just him.”
“But I’m the one who made the call,” says Doug.
“Just wait here, Bow Wow,” I say. “It’ll be all right.”
“Okay, Holmes.”
I leave him pouting and follow the police officer out the front entrance, where a guy in a suit says, “I’ll take it from here.”
It’s Elwood.
“You still have my Mentos?” I say.
He reaches inside his coat pocket, brings out the roll, and hands it to me. I peel back the wrapping and take one, then hand the roll back to him.
“Thanks,” I say.
We walk across Powell, where a black sedan is parked in front of Sears Fine Food. Elwood opens up the back door and I climb inside and sit down across from Barry while Elwood closes the door and waits outside.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite luck poacher,” says Barry.
“I can’t say the feeling’s mutual. What do you want?”
“Apparently Tommy Wong’s luck ran out on him when he fell eighteen stories to his death, so I wanted to thank you for a job well done. Though I don’t know what you were thinking getting a kid involved.”
“Jimmy?” I say. “Do you know where he is?”
“Relax, he’s fine. The police grabbed Tommy’s men as they were trying to leave the hotel. The kid’s on his way home safe and sound with his mom and dad.”
“Did his parents ask what happened?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” says Barry. “But I’m guessing you’ll come up in the conversation at some point.”
I’m not exactly thrilled about being the topic of conversation in the Saltzman household, but at least I know Jimmy’s okay. And he still has his good luck. And Doug’s still alive. Which should count for something.
“So we’re square, then,” I say.
“Not quite,” says Barry.
“What now?”
He pulls out another business card and writes something down on the back of it, then hands the card to me. It’s an address, a place in Japantown, with a date and time, tomorrow at noon.
“Meet me there,” he says, “so we can discuss the arrangements of your employment.”
“My employment?”
“You’ll be working for us now. Poaching luck. Just like you promised.”
Note to self: Never make promises to federal agents when you’re under the influence of top-grade soft. It’s like postcoital honesty. You can’t be held accountable for what you say.
“Any questions you have will be answered tomorrow,” he says, and leans back in his seat, looking smug and satisfied. I want to punch him or steal his luck, but I meant what I said about trying to change my ways. Plus I’m more of a pacifist.
The door opens, I get out and Elwood gets in, like musical chairs only without the sound track, and I’m the one left standing.
Barry leans forward in his seat and says, “Don’t be late.”
The door closes and the sedan drives off. I watch it turn the corner on Post before I walk back to the Drake to find Doug, who’s still standing by himself looking forlorn and lost.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I think they want us to answer some questions.”
“I’ve answered enough. Are you coming?”
He looks around like he’s trying to ditch a bad date, then he nods and follows me out the entrance. No one yells at us. No one stops us. Either Doug’s good-luck charm is working overtime or the SFPD is just incompetent.
We walk down Sutter toward my office, coming to Doug’s car on the way. I don’t know if it’s the bright-yellow paint job or the thought that if I wanted to borrow his car all I’d have to do is ask, but for the first time in a while, I actually have a plan.
“Why don’t you go home, Bow Wow.”
“You need a ride, Holmes?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m going to take care of a few things at the office, first.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Just paperwork,” I say. “Boring stuff. No guns or roofs or fires.”
He nods several times, like he’s listening to a song with a really good beat. After a few more beats, he says, “Thanks, Holmes.”
“For what?”
“For letting me help.”
“Sure thing, Bow Wow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gets into his car and drives off as I walk to my office, where I climb the stairs and open the door and sit down in the glow of the desk lamp and fire up my laptop.
The first thing I do is a search for deaths in Tucson, Arizona, three years ago, looking for anything spectacular or unusual that took place shortly after I poached that bad luck. Eventually I come across a story about a man by the name of Garland King,
who died in a freak acetylene torch accident less than a week after I left town.
I’m remembering how Tuesday told me that drowning wouldn’t be as bad as an acetylene torch.
The story doesn’t mention anything about family or children, but I do a search for Garland King and find an obituary that mentions how Garland was survived by two daughters named Tracy and Deanne. Tracy and Dee.
I write down all of the information, then I grab a flathead screwdriver out of my desk, go over to my filing cabinet, slide it to one side, and crouch down. With the screwdriver, I loosen a piece of floor molding, behind which a chunk of wall has been removed. From inside the wall, I pull out a small metal box, which contains ten grand in hundreds. I pocket the money, then put everything back the way it was, lock up the office, and make my way back through Union Square and down to O’Farrell.
When I knock on the door at 636, the same empty silence echoes within. I wait for nearly a minute and am about to knock again when the door swings open and the Albino is standing there in the doorway.
“You forget something?” he says. “Or you still looking for date?”
“Neither. I’m here on business.”
He looks at me a moment, then stands aside. “Come.”
He closes the door behind me and we walk back to the kitchen, where he opens up the refrigerator and says, “What grade you like?”
“I wasn’t actually looking to buy product. I was more interested in your services.”
He closes the door and turns to look at me with his pale blue eyes. There’s not a hint of emotion on his face. His expression is as blank as a corpse.
“You want me poach from someone?”
I nod and pull out the ten thousand dollars and set it down on the kitchen counter. He gives the money a single glance, then returns his gaze to me.
“Who?”
I pull out my wallet and dig through it until I find the photo of Mandy and me, which I hand to him. “From her. Her name is Amanda Hennings. She goes by Mandy.”
He studies the photo with that same, unnerving intensity, then looks up at me. “Who is Amanda Hennings?”
“She’s my sister.”
I then proceed to tell him how she got infected, how it was my fault, and how I’m trying to do what I can to make things right. I leave out the part about how she told me she never wanted to see me again.
He looks back down at the photo and continues to stare at it for nearly a minute as I stand there in the silence of his cold, empty kitchen, waiting for him to respond.
He hands the photo back to me. “Is no charge. Will do for free.”
“What? Why? I mean, not that I’m complaining but . . .”
“Because is your sister.”
A luck poacher doing a job for free? He’s going to give the rest of us a bad name.
“Thanks,” I say. “But let me help with something. Office supplies, travel expenses, meals and entertainment . . .”
“No money. Just address, please.”
So I give him Mandy’s address and thank him again for his generosity, then I pick up the ten grand and am about to put it away when another thought occurs to me. I reach into my wallet and pull out the business card Barry Manilow gave me with the address and tomorrow’s meeting time and I hand it to the Albino. Then I show him the cash again.
“Any chance you’d be willing to make a delivery?”
The next morning I wake up early and give Doug a call and ask him to meet me at my office at ten o’clock. Then I pack up a suitcase of personal items, a duffel bag full of clothes, several fake IDs with old aliases, an ice chest with some food, and any money I have hidden. It doesn’t come to much. Just a little more than twenty-five grand. But it’s enough to settle things up.
On my way out, I see the old homeless guy again with the cat wearing a clean sweatshirt and a new pair of Reeboks. The homeless guy, not the cat. The cat’s sleeping and content while the homeless guy digs into a to-go container of Thai food.
“You were right,” he says, through a mouthful of pad thai. “Tequila made that lemonade go down real smooth. And then I found this sweatshirt and shoes in a bag by the bus stop.”
“Try some rum with this one,” I say, handing him my last bottle of lemonade, which he takes without any complaints this time. “It’ll taste like a mojito.”
“A mojito? Nice!”
I reach the Drake just after nine o’clock and find Gigantor stationed out in front, watching me approach like he’s expecting me.
“Miss Knight doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he says, opening the front door.
“Did we have an appointment?”
“No, but she wants to see you.”
At least it’s good to know my instincts haven’t completely abandoned me.
We ride up in the elevator to the twenty-first floor in silence for most of the way, until I finally turn to him after the sixteenth floor and say, “Come on. Say, ‘It is your destiny,’ just once.”
He takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead.
“I know you went home and practiced it in front of the bathroom mirror,” I say. “Admit it.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch or the hint of a smile.
“Party pooper,” I say, as the elevator doors open and I step out into the blackened and smoke-stained interior of Harry Denton’s.
Firemen and guys in suits whom I presume to be either insurance agents or hotel brass are walking around, pointing and gesturing and shaking their heads or nodding. I find Tuesday Knight in the bar, which managed to escape relatively free from fire damage.
Tuesday has traded in the skintight, leopard-print skirt and matching high heels for a more conservative pair of Lucky Brand jeans and Doc Martens. Unfortunately, she’s also wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and a bra.
“Mr. Monday,” she says, putting out a hand to shake mine.
Any other time, this would be an awkward moment with me trying to come up with an excuse for not shaking her hand or just poaching her luck for shits and giggles. But I’m wearing gloves, which allows me to reciprocate without any concerns. Plus they help to cut down on any questions about why my right hand is covered with a film of wax and postconsumer-recycled paper.
“What happened here?” I say, playing innocent, hoping some of it sticks.
“Apparently some woman stumbled into the remains of a buffet line late last night and ended up setting the place on fire.” She leads me away from the others to a more private spot at the other end of the bar.
“Anyone get hurt?”
“Nothing serious,” she says. “Except for an old Asian man who panicked and apparently jumped out of one of the windows.”
It’s nice to see the spin doctors already handing out prescriptions.
“So I heard you were expecting me,” I say.
“I was. According to some witnesses, the woman who set the club on fire was a brunette in a red dress, and I thought it might have been our mutual friend.”
“Doubtful. I’m pretty sure she checked out last night.”
“Of her hotel?”
“Sure,” I say. Honesty might be the best policy, but manipulating the truth requires a lot more skill.
“Did you find out anything about her?”
I hand Tuesday the information I wrote down. “Her name is Tracy King. She’s from Tucson, Arizona.”
Tuesday reads over my notes, then looks up. “Why was she impersonating me?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Her own father died, so maybe she was trying to pretend to have your father for a while. Or maybe she just wanted to get some free hotel rooms and club passes.”
Again, the whole honesty-is-the-best-policy thing? Sometimes it’s really more of a theory.
Tuesday looks over my notes again, then folds them up and puts them in her purse. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Monday. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you found it so quickly.”
“It’s nice to know I exceeded your expectations.”
&n
bsp; “Well, I appreciate your efforts.” She reaches back into her purse. “And I make good on my promises.” She removes her billfold and flips it open to her checkbook and starts to write out a check to me for twenty thousand dollars.
“If you wouldn’t mind, could I get that in cash?”
On my way out of the Drake, I stop off in Starbucks and order a grande cappuccino from a twentysomething barista with fuchsia-colored hair and the glasses of a high school librarian. I don’t ask for her phone number and she doesn’t offer up anything other than a polite smile and a “Have a nice day.”
I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, but it’s definitely different.
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in my office and draining the last of my coffee when Doug shows up.
“Yo, Holmes,” he says, walking in the door. “How’s it hangin’?”
“Big and low,” I say, enjoying the smile on his face, fighting to keep the smile on mine, knowing it’s the last time I’ll ever say that to him.
This growing attached to people really sucks.
Doug sits down in the chair with his hands in his pockets and immediately slides down into a slump that’s a perfected art form. “So what’s on tap for today?”
I consider telling Doug the truth, but that would just disappoint him, so instead I opt for telling him an edited version. “I’m leaving town for a while, Bow Wow.”
“Like a vacation?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Swizzle,” he says. “You must have had itchy feet. So where you gonna be chillin’?”
“I’m playing it by ear. Making it up as I go.”
“That’s cool,” he says, nodding in approval. “When you comin’ back?”
“It’s open-ended. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Doug remains slouched but takes his hands out of his pockets and clasps them behind his head. “Lay it on me, Holmes.”
“How would you like to run the business while I’m gone?”
