Lucky Bastard (35 page)

With more than a dozen casinos and saloons in downtown Reno, plus another two dozen casinos in the outskirts and in Sparks, I can walk away with more than thirty grand a day without arousing anyone’s suspicion. But it’s just a short-term solution. A quick payday to help build up some cash flow. I can’t stick around for much longer than a few days. Places like Reno and Vegas are ripe for luck poachers, so it’s only a matter of time before someone decides to come looking for me here.

But that’s not the only problem with sticking around. I can’t keep winning and expect to get away with it. Success makes people suspicious, especially when your success means walking away with something that belongs to them. You can spread your winnings out among the casinos, but you can only leave with the house’s money so often before someone takes notice.

Plus, with an ability like mine, it’s hard to forget what you’re capable of doing. It’s like breathing or sleeping or getting an erection. It just happens. It’s a natural part of who I am. I don’t know how Mandy manages to avoid the temptation. Though it would probably be easier if I weren’t in a town that attracts luck the way a singles bar attracts desperation.

Every day I see people hitting progressive jackpots and having winning streaks at the craps table or roulette,
dozens of marks with medium-grade good luck and top-grade soft, and I struggle with my desire to poach their luck. It’s like being in Disneyland and not being able to go on any of the rides.

So three days after stopping in Reno and with just over a hundred grand in my pockets, I pack up everything and head east on Interstate 80 toward Utah. I’m not sure where I’m going. Maybe Colorado Springs or Santa Fe or Austin. Or maybe New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to live there. Chances are it’s already claimed by another poacher, but I’m thinking I can start up my private investigator services again, try to go straight.

I know it’s a long shot, but after everything I helped to ruin in San Francisco, I’d like to think I could manage to create something good somewhere else. Balance out the cosmos. The karma. Whatever. I owe it to Mandy and Jimmy and Doug to give it a try. Hell, I owe it to myself.

All poachers are adept at changing who we are. At adapting and letting go. Every new identity is just a suit you wear, a persona to exist in for a couple of years, maybe five if you’re lucky, until it’s time to move on to the next one.

Abandon your life. Become someone else. Repeat.

I’m hoping this time I can put on a new suit that fits the new me. Stop living from city to city and identity to identity and find something that matters. Find
someone
who matters. Build a life that actually has some meaning beyond what’s-in-it-for-me? Shed the skin of my former
self and discover that there’s more to life than just being a luck poacher.

My father would probably laugh in my face. Go all Popeye on me and tell me that I am what I am and that’s all that I am. That I’ll never be anything more than a waste of carbon. A disappointment. Maybe not so common, but still a thief.

If nothing else, I want to prove my father wrong. Show that I can change. That I can live up to my potential without the benefit of my genetic disposition. But when you’re a luck poacher, your old life has a way of finding you and tempting you and reminding you that starting over isn’t as simple as it sounds.

The truth is, you can’t give up who you are that easily.

The tires hum on the asphalt, the past falls away in the rearview mirror, I speed down the highway toward a new future, and my phone starts to ring.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Over the past several years I’ve been fortunate to cross paths with numerous people to whom I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude.

Writers and editors. Reviewers and booksellers. Community relations managers and event coordinators and owners at dozens of bookstores. And last, but certainly not least, all of my readers. You’re the reason I’m able to keep doing this.

While it would be impossible to list everyone here who has influenced and inspired and supported me, just know that my life is richer for having you in it. I hope you know who you are.

Now, on to the usual suspects . . .

Michelle Brower, who likes what I write and helps me to navigate the waters and who gave this book the second half of its title. I’m lucky to have you in my world.

Kara Cesare and Ed Schlesinger, who believed in me
and who helped to fine-tune the manuscript and brought out the best in it. Drinks are on me.

Everyone at Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster who provided their creativity and their talents and who let me share my thoughts. Thank you for listening.

Cliff Brooks, Ian Dudley, Heather Liston, Shannon Page, and Keith White, who beat me up over the first drafts and never pulled any punches. I still have the bruises.

And finally to my friends and my family, who have always been my biggest fans and have been there for me whenever I needed you. Thanks for the love.

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