Lucky Bastard (4 page)

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to have to pass.”

“You don’t understand,” says Thug One. “This isn’t an offer you refuse.”

“I do understand. But I like things the way they are.”

Which isn’t exactly the truth. I’d like to be making more money and living in Kauai with a view of Hanalei Bay and a private masseuse. But just because someone makes you an offer that you shouldn’t refuse doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to take it.

“Last chance to change your mind,” says Thug One.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping he doesn’t pull out a gun and shoot me. Which would really put a damper on my day. “But my mind’s made up.”

Instead of shooting me, he gives me one final menacing look, then turns and walks out of the office. Thug Two follows suit, minus the glower, and smiles at me as he leaves.

“See you around, Mr. Monday,” he says, then closes the door behind him.

T
he last thing I want is to see the Chinese Mafia Welcome Wagon again. Not that I’m worried they’ll actually shoot me, but I’m guessing the next time I run into them it might not be so pleasant.

So much for my boring life as a private investigator.

It’s moments like this that make you appreciate that you don’t have anything tying you down and you can just pack up and go at a moment’s notice. Even though we’re able to settle down more than we used to, the nature of luck poaching still requires a nomadic lifestyle. After all, you can’t steal from your neighbors and expect to develop a real sense of community. That’s why most poachers rent instead of own. And why we embrace a solitary existence.

When everyone you meet is just potential income, making friends becomes a problem.

While luck poachers don’t generally form long-lasting relationships, we do marry and reproduce with nonpoachers.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. But people who aren’t born with this ability can’t understand what makes us tick. They don’t know how to deal with our genetic anomaly. It’s the ultimate in irreconcilable differences.

Even though my mother refused to poach, my father couldn’t accept that she passed her abilities along to his progeny. My grandmother cut out on my grandfather when my mom was just a little girl. And my great-grandfather abandoned my great-grandmother before Grandpa was even born.

You can see the pattern here. When you can’t relate to your partner, chances are things won’t work out.

Poaching luck isn’t for the sentimental. You need a strong sense of resolve and the ability to sever any relationship without a second thought. Or better yet, avoid developing relationships altogether. They just get in the way.

No one ever mistook me for a hopeless romantic.

While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, I’m thinking it might be time for me to find a new place to call home. Three years in one place is like ten in poacher years, especially after a not-so-social call from the Chinese Mafia. So I’m considering my options, running through potential territories, wondering if I could get enough work in Kauai to make setting up shop feasible, when my office door opens and in walks a woman who looks like she just stepped off a 1950s Hollywood film set.

My office is suddenly the popular place to be.

With long, dark hair, dark eyes, and ruby-red lips, the woman has a face that could make a happily married man forget all about his wife and kids at home. Since I’m not married and I don’t have any kids, I’m already two steps ahead. Although I can’t see all of her curves inside her red circle skirt and her clinging, black, V-neck wool sweater, I can see enough to make me wonder if she’s the type to wear French-cut underwear or a thong.

And suddenly Kauai is on the back burner.

“Can I help you?” I say, wishing I’d worn a green T-shirt. I look good in green.

She doesn’t answer right away but looks around my office, which isn’t much to look at. I’m a bit of a minimalist when it comes to interior decorating. It’s just a desk, two chairs, a lamp, a filing cabinet, a small refrigerator, my laptop computer, and me.

“I’m looking for Nick Monday,” she says, saying my name with such disdain that I’m wondering if we’ve met.

“It’s your lucky day,” I say, flashing my most charming smile. “Because you’ve found him.”

She gives me a forced smile that lets me know she’s not charmed.

I have that kind of effect on women. Unless they’re corporate-coffeehouse baristas. It’s complicated.

“Have a seat,” I say, pointing to the chair across from my desk.

She walks toward me, not smiling, her shoes clicking loud and hollow on the hardwood floor. When she reaches
the chair, she checks to make sure it’s clean, then sits down, smoothing out her red skirt. I catch a glimpse of one white, creamy thigh as she crosses her legs, and she catches me glimpsing.

I look back up and smile. She doesn’t seem impressed.

“So how can I help you, Miss . . .”

“Knight,” she says. “Tuesday Knight.”

“Really?” I say, with a smile.

“Do you find something amusing, Mr. Monday?”

I lean back in my chair. “Have you been following me?”

She gets this offended look on her face like I just flashed her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, I was only . . . the whole day of the week thing? Tuesday follows Monday?”

She just stares at me like I’m an idiot.

“Never mind,” I say. “Why don’t we start over?”

“I hadn’t realized we’d started at all.”

There’s no trace of humor in her voice or on her face. Either she’s bluffing, or she needs to do more recreational drugs.

“Then why don’t we start with why you wandered into my office.”

The majority of my potential cases are messages left on my voice mail. I don’t get a lot of walk-ins. Especially good-looking ones with ample amounts of cleavage.

“I didn’t wander in,” she says. “I knew where I was going.”

“And how, may I ask, did you hear about my services?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“Would this friend of a friend have a name?”

She just looks at me, not saying a word. For a few seconds I think she’s trying to remember, until I realize she has no intention of sharing a name with me.

I’ve got a name. A good one. It starts with a
b
and rhymes with
itch
.

But that still doesn’t mean I’m not interested in seeing what she looks like under her cool, humorless veneer. I am, after all, a man. A woman’s personality has nothing to do with whether I’d actually sleep with her.

“So what did this friend of a friend tell you I could do for you?” I ask.

“Help me find something that’s been misplaced,” she says, blinking once, slow and deliberate. It’s almost like she’s taking a miniature nap.

I notice that her eyebrows are lighter than her hair. Almost blond. I wonder if she dyes her hair. And if the carpet matches the drapes.

“And what, exactly, have you misplaced?” I ask.

Your virginity? Your warmth? Your sense of humor?

She continues to just sit there, staring at me, as if she read my thoughts and is not amused.

Finally she says, “I need you to help me find some luck.”

I’m not sure if she’s asking me to help her find some stolen luck or if she’s looking to hire me because of my
unique talents. If it’s the former, then I’m wondering how I could have forgotten stealing luck from this woman. If it’s the latter, then I’m thinking it’s
definitely
time for me to pack up and find a new place to live, because as of today, it’s become pretty obvious that my cover is completely blown.

She must take my hesitation in answering as incredulity rather than uncertainty because before I can find my voice and stammer out a reply, she says, “It’s not
my
luck,” as if to admit otherwise would be an embarrassment. “It’s for someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“My father,” she says. “Someone stole his luck and I would like you to help me get it back.”

It’s always kind of awkward when I’m put in this situation. After all, if her father’s luck was stolen, then chances are I’m the one responsible. And the last thing I want to do is attempt to retrieve something that either never existed in the first place or is impossible to reclaim.

I lean forward. “Tuesday . . .”

“Miss Knight.”

Did it get frosty in here, or is it just me?

“Miss Knight, whatever it is that has caused your father to fall on difficult times, I’m sure that luck has nothing . . .”

And perception finally dawns on me like the proverbial sunlight on a distant shore. “Wait a minute. Are we talking about Gordon Knight?”

Gordon Knight is the mayor of San Francisco, the latest golden boy of local politics, whose popularity shot up the charts like a happy song with a catchy chorus. Everyone has been singing his praises, with his name being tossed around by political pundits for offices ranging from senator to the governor of California.

Or should I say, it was.

I poached Gordon Knight’s luck a couple of months ago and sold it on the black market for fifteen grand.

Since then, he’s managed to lose public support for several of his programs and to get caught up in a sex scandal with a local stripper. In the last eight weeks, his popularity has taken more hits than a joint at a reggae concert.

People who are in the public eye are the easiest targets for luck poachers.

Moguls and movie stars. CEOs and celebrities. Politicians and professional athletes.

While they’re not always easily accessible, they’re good for a solid payday. And they’ve been the target of poachers for decades. My grandfather used to tell me stories about all sorts of famous people who had their luck stolen.

Amelia Earhart. Harry Houdini. James Dean.

Buddy Holly. John Belushi. Marilyn Monroe.

Just to name a few.

And today’s headlines are filled with examples of celebrities melting down, politicians falling from grace, and professional athletes losing the luster of their previously untarnished fame.

Charlie Sheen. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tiger Woods.

They didn’t implode all on their own, you know.

“I’d like you to find the person responsible for stealing my father’s luck and return the luck to me,” says Tuesday.

Finding the person isn’t the issue. But returning the luck?

“Miss Knight, as much as I’d like—”

“I’m willing to pay you one hundred thousand dollars.”

I’ve suddenly forgotten what I was going to say. And the idea of skipping town just got buried beneath a bunch of zeros.

The problem is, even if I could find the person who purchased Gordon Knight’s luck, at this point it’s most likely been used. And even if it hasn’t, the luck’s been removed from Gordon Knight’s DNA. He can’t put it back. Not permanently. It’s been extracted from his genetic structure and is now a commodity. A consumer good. It can’t be owned. It can only be borrowed. Even by him.

But I don’t have to tell that to Tuesday Knight. If she’s willing to pay me a hundred grand to get her father’s luck back, the least I can do is try to accommodate her. Providing that the buyer hasn’t used it all up yet. Which is possible. You don’t have to consume all of the luck at once for it to be effective. Depending on the quality, just half an ounce a day can keep a steady flow of luck in your system until it runs out. And it’s healthier, too. Gorging yourself on good luck can wreak havoc on your system. Better to
be sensible about your consumption. Kind of like eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s over several nights rather than all in one sitting.

So I’m thinking if I am
really
lucky, maybe there’s a chance I can make this work.

“I’d also like the identity of the person who did this to my father,” says Tuesday.

Or maybe not.

“That might be a problem.”

“Isn’t finding people what you do?” she asks.

Well, not exactly. But I don’t want to tell her that my last case dealt with serving a summons to a deadbeat dad.

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“I don’t care about simple.” Tuesday stands up and reaches into her purse and sets an envelope on my desk. “I just care about getting my father’s luck restored.”

“What’s that?” I say, indicating the envelope.

“Consider it a retainer.”

I open the envelope, which contains in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars. Which is a pretty nice neighborhood.

“I haven’t said I’d take the case.”

“Find my father’s luck.” Tuesday drops a business card on my desk and leans forward, providing me with a purposeful glimpse of her soft, creamy breasts pressing against her sweater, obeying Newton’s law of gravity, half spilling out of the neckline.

I love gravity.

“And if you find the person responsible,” says Tuesday from somewhere above her breasts, “I’ll make sure to make it worth your while.”

With that, she stands up, puts on a pair of red sunglasses, then turns around and glides out of my office, taking her breasts with her.