Lucky Bastard (14 page)

It makes you wonder if the first handshake was initiated by a luck poacher.

Once my order is up, I say, “Thank you,” then I grab my cappuccino, take a couple of sips to calibrate my nerves, and walk up to the table where Ralph is still chatting away on his phone while his girlfriend sits bored and annoyed across from him.

She’s prettier up close. Not in a pretentious kind of way but more natural, with just enough makeup to accent her eyes and lips. And she has a lot of patience. She’s obviously too good for someone who chooses a phone conversation over the company of a flesh-and-blood woman. Which is another reason to poach whatever luck Ralph has running through his system.

He’s an idiot.

“I just wanted to say that it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, reaching my hand out toward him.

Before Ralph can figure out how to react or tell me that I must have him mistaken for someone else, which he probably wouldn’t do anyway because he’s an arrogant
bastard, I’m clasping his hand in mine, shaking it once, then walking out the front door with my double cappuccino.

A simple hit-and-run.

I step outside into the sunshine and I feel the warmth envelop me like a cocoon. I walk out of Union Square and I hear laughter and arguments, conversations from half a block away, buses and cable cars and all the noises of the city emanating from unseen speakers like a THX surround-sound system. I head up Stockton Street and I see faces and flowers, clouds and trees, everything crystal clear in high-definition, digital-quality reception.

And that’s just three of my senses.

I take a sip of my double cappuccino, and the flavor and the warmth course through me, filling my mouth and my stomach with Colombian coffee fields. A woman walks past, a blonde in a sundress, the scent of her shampoo lingering in my nostrils, and I can see her in the shower, her head wet and lathered, suds and water cascading down her bare shoulders and breasts.

You can see why it’s easy to get addicted to the lifestyle.

When poaching low-grade good luck, the experience isn’t nearly as intense, but it’s still better than sex. And top-grade soft has been compared to an out-of-body experience. Like taking mushrooms or LSD or mescaline.

Ralph was apparently born with some good-quality medium-grade. Of course, I don’t know what he does for a living or if he has any emotional hang-ups or addictions,
but I should be able to sell his luck for between ten and fifteen grand. Presuming I can get a buyer, which has been about as easy to find as an all-you-can-eat buffet in Ethiopia.

At least my headache is gone.

Plus with some good-quality luck pumping through me, all of those decisions I had to make don’t seem as daunting. I feel lighter. More relaxed. Able to handle whatever challenges come my way. Even the temptation of poaching Pure has lost its grip on me.

Although good luck won’t always solve your problems, it gives you the confidence things will work out.

Tourists and suits walk past, homeowners and homeless fill the sidewalks, mortal men and women surround me, and I stand on the corner, feeling invincible.

But I know this feeling won’t last. Eventually the rush will subside and I’ll need to process the luck into a consumable form. The sooner, the better. The last thing I want is to end up addicted to luck like one of the poachers in Grandpa’s cautionary tales. And after the large mocha from Peet’s and the two cappuccinos from Starbucks, my bladder is lobbying for some stage time. So I catch a cab home to transfer Ralph’s luck out of my system and into an empty Odwalla bottle, which I put into my refrigerator with the two other bottles of Super Protein and the four remaining bottles of Lemonade.

At least my stash is still there.

The rush of poaching good luck is offset by the complete
feeling of abandonment when you process it from your body. It’s as if all of the hope and confidence and strength you obtained suddenly drains away, leaving you feeling empty and useless. Add to that the discomfort of having a catheter inserted into your urethra and you might understand why so many poachers end up committing suicide.

Transferring luck from your system isn’t the most pleasant part of being a luck poacher, but it’s part of the job. I could collect my urine in a jar and boil out the impurities, but you just can’t compete in today’s economy with outdated methods. No one wants to buy partially urinated good luck. Unless you live in Arkansas. I hear it’s a delicacy there.

The homeless guy who was camped out in front of my building a few hours ago is gone, but on the corner is a woman who looks as if she hasn’t seen a bar of soap in a few months. To balance out the karma for the luck I just stole, I give her one of the Lemonades and tell her it’s spiked with vodka, then I grab a cab back to my office to do a little research on my Gordon Knight poaching, see if I can find the client who purchased his luck and get that ball rolling. I know it’s a shot in the dark, but at least I have some direction and purpose, so that should count for something.

My dad would be so proud.

As I step out of the cab on the corner of Sutter and Kearny, I get a smile from a leggy redhead with abundant
cleavage, who glances back at me over her shoulder, and I’m thinking maybe, in spite of all that’s happened today, things will work themselves out.

I’m still thinking that when I walk into my office and find a dead body.

T
here aren’t a whole lot of places to hide a dead body in a room that’s barely a hundred square feet and decorated in Early American austere. Other than behind the door, under the desk, or camouflaged as white stucco walls or faded cherry hardwood floors, your options are pretty limited. But I’m guessing that whoever put the dead body in the corner behind my desk wasn’t going for subtlety.

This isn’t what I would exactly call things working themselves out.

I’m not used to dealing with a dead body. Let’s try never. The only other time I saw a dead person was my mother, and that was twenty-four years ago. To be honest, I think I was more traumatized by my father blaming me for my mother’s death than I was by the accident.

So when I see the body slumped against the wall, legs splayed out from the red dress, head tilted to one side,
dark hair spilled across the face, mouth open and eyes staring vacantly at the floor, the first thing I do is scream.

At least it’s an honest reaction.

It’s not a long or loud scream. More like a yelp. I doubt anyone heard it, but it’s still not one of my defining moments. Despite that no one else is in the office, I look around self-consciously and try to play it off, like I was walking down the street and tripped over my own feet and I’m hoping to pawn the blame off on the sidewalk.

Once I get over the initial shock, I walk over to the body and crouch down to get a closer look to make sure she’s really dead. I don’t touch her but I snap my fingers, clap my hands, and lean in close enough to whistle in her ear. Nothing. Not a peep or a flinch or a smile. She’s just sitting there, eyes wide-open and not breathing, waiting for rigor mortis to set in. So she’s not faking. Which would explain why she doesn’t smell so much like sugar or spice or everything nice anymore.

I back up to give her some space, more for me than for her, and notice that her dress is riding up on her thighs. I wasn’t lying to Tommy when I said I don’t look good in red. Not my color. Put me in greens and blues and I’m good to go. But I look better in red than Tommy’s dead eye candy.

I check around S’iu Lei for blood, marks on her throat, signs of a struggle, anything to let me know what might have happened. But there’s nothing. It’s as if she just dropped into the corner of my office and died.

I know this is a setup. My father’s assessment notwithstanding, I’m not an idiot. The problem is, do I call this in? Do I wait for whoever killed her to report it? Or do I try to dispose of the evidence without getting caught?

I could stuff her in a garbage bag and dump her down the trash chute, except I don’t have any garbage bags and we’re not supposed to put oversize garbage in the chute that might clog it up. I could cut her up into smaller pieces so she’d fit, just like on
The Sopranos,
but that would make a mess, and besides, I got a B- in woodshop. And walking out the front door of my building with a dead woman over my shoulder and hailing a cab is bound to draw attention.

So disposing of her body is out.

If I wait around for whoever killed her to call it in, I’ll look suspicious. The last thing I need is to have the police digging around in my life, doing a background check, and discovering that I’m not who I say I am.

Which doesn’t leave me with many other options.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m taking out my phone to dial 911.

Because I poach luck for a living, I often find myself in compromising or awkward situations, but I’m not used to dealing with dead Asian double agents and rich femmes fatales and getting kidnapped and drugged by Chinese Mafia overlords. Things were a lot less complicated when I lived in the suburbs. So it takes a few seconds before my synapses start firing and I realize how much trouble I’ll be
in if a dead body is found in my office, no matter who calls it in.

I hang up the phone without dialing and look down at S’iu Lei, at her body growing cold and stiff on my floor, and I wonder who killed her and put her here and why. I wonder if Tommy killed her as some kind of warning. I wonder if Barry found out she was double-crossing him and wanted to use my office to store her for safekeeping.

But mostly, I wonder how the hell I’m going to get her dead body out of here without getting arrested.

I’m still wondering this when my phone rings.

“Nick Monday,” I say, as if nothing is wrong. As if this is business as usual. As if I’m not trying to ignore the hot, dead Asian double agent slumped in the corner of my office.

“Did you find the surprise I left for you?” says Tommy.

“I’m not real big on surprises.”

And from the expression on S’iu Lei’s face, I’m guessing neither is she.

“Consider it a going-away present,” says Tommy.

“I didn’t know I was going anywhere.”

“That depends on how smart you are.”

I suddenly feel like I’m having another conversation with my father.

“You know, if you wanted to get me something, a bottle of wine would have been just fine,” I say. “Or maybe a nice spinach dip.”

“You joke a lot for a man who doesn’t have too many options.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of options. The fact that I don’t like any of them is the problem.”

There’s laughter on the other end of the line. Soft. Chuckling. Kind of creepy. “I like you, Nick Monday.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a strange way of showing it.”

I glance over again at S’iu Lei, at her splayed legs and her half-hidden face and her slightly parted lips, and I wonder what she did to get here.

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Let’s just say anyone who plays too many sides eventually ends up forgetting which one they’re on.”

“That’s why I prefer circles. There’s just an inside and an outside. Less confusing.”

“Yes, but if you walk in circles, you never get anywhere.”

Definitely like talking to my father.

“From where I’m standing, you seem to be on the outside,” says Tommy. “And that’s the wrong side.”

I never was good at geometry. “Is that what this is all about? Choosing sides?”

“More like a friendly reminder,” he says.

“Well, for future reference, you might want to try some positive reinforcement. Movie passes are always good. Or a box of chocolates. Nuts and chews. I’m not a big fan of liqueur-filled truffles.”

“You want to continue being a smart-ass or you want to be smart?”

“Have you ever met my father?” I ask. “Tall, heavyset, prematurely balding? Lots of control issues?”

“I can make your problem go away. In return, all I ask is one favor.”

“I told you. I don’t look good in red.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Apparently Tommy isn’t in much of a joking mood.

“Okay. What’s the favor?” I ask.

“Can I trust you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. But you have to choose a side. Inside or outside?”

I consider saying something about triangles and parallelograms, but I decide that probably won’t help matters.

“I’m on the inside.”

“Good,” says Tommy. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

An awkward silence follows. I’m not sure if it’s because of Tommy, me, or that I’m staring at a dead body.

“So about this gift you left me?” I ask, looking at S’iu Lei. “It doesn’t really go with my office. Is there any way I can return it?”

“I’ll send someone over to take you out to lunch.”

“Lunch? Is that code for something?”

“It’s code for someone taking you out to lunch,” he says. “When you get back, your visitor will be gone. You’re welcome.”

“Great. Can we get Italian?”

“I don’t care. Just make sure you don’t ask any stupid questions. And don’t disappoint me. Or else the next time you get dumped in an alley, you won’t wake up.”