Lucky Bastard (15 page)

“Good to know,” I say. “By the way, you didn’t happen to find ten thousand dollars in the backpack that you took from me, did you?”

“No.”

I didn’t think so.

Then he’s gone, leaving me with a dead connection in my hand and a dead body in my office.

Just because I’m curious, I walk over to S’iu Lei, bend down, then reach out a single index finger and poke her in the calf.

Less than a minute later, there’s a knock on my office door.

I have to hand it to Tommy. He’s drugged me. Kidnapped me. Drugged me again. Threatened me. And extorted me into working for him. But I have to give him props for following through and getting someone over here so quickly to remove the dead body from my office. It’s hard to find good customer service these days.

When I open the door, I expect to find a couple of Mafia thugs with a laundry bag or a crate, maybe a skill saw and wall-to-wall disposable plastic tarps. I know it’s just my imagination running away with me, and not in a Rolling Stones kind of way, but right now, my imagination, not time, is the only thing on my side.

Instead of one of Tommy’s men standing in the hallway, I find Scooter Girl.

“Hey,” she says.

She stands there, wearing her precocious smile framed by her soft lips, staring at me with her big, innocent eyes beneath her cute little bangs. She’s like an anime cartoon. My heart’s suddenly pounding and my palms are sweating.

Either she’s carrying Pure or I’m falling in love.

“Are you here to take me out to lunch?”

“Yes.” She nods once as if I’ve asked the right question. “That’s why I’m here.”

I stand there for a moment, just looking at her, which she responds to by smiling and cocking her head in a way that makes me wish I had a breath mint.

The longer I look at her, the more I realize that she reminds me of Tuesday a little around the eyes and mouth. But as opposed to Tuesday’s adorned, movie-star voluptuousness, Scooter Girl is attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. Cute, pleasant face. No makeup. The kind of woman I could definitely fall for rather than lust after, even if she did encroach on my poaching territory and get me beat up by a bunch of skater dudes and is apparently working for Tommy Wong. But then, I guess I’m technically working for him now, too. So I can’t exactly throw any stones without shattering my own house. Or hitting an adulteress. Whatever.

I never was good with proverbs and metaphors.

“Just a second,” I say, stepping into my office and closing the door and removing my bloodstained shirt, then grabbing my navy-blue Gap sweatshirt off the coatrack. I look once more at S’iu Lei collapsed in the corner like an abandoned erotic marionette, then I step back out into the hallway and lock the door behind me.

“So,” I say, “what’s for lunch?”

W
e’re sitting at a window table at Scala’s Bistro, an upscale Italian restaurant next to the Sir Francis Drake Hotel on Powell Street. Scooter Girl is having the spinach-and-goat-cheese tortellini while I chow down on the linguine and clams. It’s the most expensive pasta item on the menu. Throw in half a dozen oysters for an appetizer and a couple of Bellinis and this is the priciest meal I’ve had in months. I figure if Tommy’s picking up the tab, I might as well make the most of it.

“How’s your tortellini?” I ask.

“It’s good. How’s the linguine?”

“Great.”

This is what our conversation has been like. Me asking banal questions and Scooter Girl responding in kind. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk to a woman. And most of my attempts at humor have either fallen flat or elicited a cold stare. I’d talk about Tommy and our common genetics,
but when you’re luck poachers, you can’t really discuss business in public.

Of course, there’s the whole dead-body-in-my-office thing, which could have something to do with the stilted conversation.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. No meaningful glances. No awkward smiles. Any connection I thought I’d felt earlier today seems to have been severed.

“So,” I say, slurping a strand of linguine between my lips, hoping to lighten things up, “if I can get you to tell me what you’re doing in San Francisco, does that initial offer of yours still stand?”

Just call me Mr. Smooth.

“I told you, I don’t have sex with men who poach bad luck.”

“You want to keep your voice down?” I say. “This isn’t exactly information I want to share with my adoring public.”

“Sorry.” She goes back to her tortellini.

I look around to see if anyone heard. One, because I don’t want to get outed as a luck poacher. And two, saying you poached bad luck is like announcing to the world you’re a premature ejaculator.

“So how could you tell?” I ask, leaning forward, lowering my voice. “I mean, that, well, you know?”

She stares at me a moment, not answering, giving me a look that once more reminds me of Tuesday, until she finally says, “It was in your aura.”

Whatever that means. Auras, energy, astrology. Psychics, crystals, Reiki candles. All that New Age crap and I get along about as well as an alien abductee and an anal probe.

“But I don’t poach bad luck,” I whisper. “At least, not anymore. And I only did it once.”

She shrugs and takes another bite of her tortellini. “It’s like herpes. Once is all it takes.”

It’s bad enough to get turned down for sex by a cute little luck poacher who screwed you over once already. But when you’ve been compared to herpes, that’s when you know you should have stayed in bed.

The emasculation of my ego and the introduction of sexually transmitted diseases puts a damper on the conversation, so we continue to eat in more silence. I watch her watching me, neither of us looking away. It’s a battle of wills. And it’s not easy to eat linguine and clams without looking down at your plate.

Scooter Girl finally breaks down. “So, Nick Monday. Is that your real name?”

I return her question with a quizzical smile.

“What?” she asks.

“You’re the second person today to ask me that question.”

“Who was the first one?”

“Barry Manilow.”

She stares at me across the table with a single arched eyebrow.

“He’s a big fan,” I say.

The waiter comes by to check on our satisfaction and to ask if we need anything. I could use a do-over on today, maybe get a nice Thai massage or a lap dance, but I don’t think he can help me with either, so I just ask for another Bellini. Scooter Girl asks for the check, which I suppose means she’s had enough of my company.

“Do private detectives always drink on duty?” she asks.

“Depends on the day. And I suppose on the detective.”

“How long have you been a detective?”

“Long enough,” I say, finishing my second Bellini before the third one has arrived. I’d drink some water in the interim to keep myself hydrated, but there’s no booze in water, so what would be the point?

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?” I say. “I’ve lost track.”

“The one about your name.”

The waiter comes back with my Bellini, which I use to wash down the last of my linguine. That my drink and my main course rhyme doesn’t help to improve my mood.

“My name’s real enough,” I say, trying to sound suave and mysterious, but it comes off more like annoyed and petulant. Which I suppose is more honest. “How about you? Do you have a name, real or otherwise?”

“Sorry. Top secret.”

“Like your reason for being here?”

She just gives me an innocent smile.

This is how I live. In a world of professional anonymity. A world of people with fake names and false identities.
Or people with no names at all. Faceless people who solicit my services with a phone call or a text message. Customers who meet me in dark alleys or corporate coffeehouses. Strangers who pick me up in unmarked government sedans or who take me out to lunch.

Ciphers. Spooks. Frauds.

My life has so much meaning.

“So, where do you live when you’re not trespassing on someone else’s territory?” I ask. “Or is that top secret, too?”

“Tucson.”

“No kidding. I used to live in Tucson.”

“Small world,” she says.

Yet another bond we have in common. Poaching and Tucson. What are the odds?

“So what made you leave?” she asks.

“Let’s just say I needed a change of scenery.”

“Or maybe you got in over your head,” she says, giving me another one of her smiles with a cock of her head.

Maybe it’s the two and a half Bellinis. Or maybe it’s the way she cocked her head. Or maybe it’s because I have a dead body in my office while I eat a nice lunch and flirt with another luck poacher. But I decide it’s time to let her know what I suspect.

“So,” I say, taking a swig of my Bellini and sitting back in my chair. “What’s a nice girl from Tucson doing in California working for Tommy Wong?”

“I don’t work for anyone.”

“Then who sent you to take me to lunch?”

“I wasn’t sent by anyone.”

“Then why were you at my office?”

She finishes chewing and swallows. No sign of a smile. No twinkling of the eyes.

“I think you need to understand exactly what type of man you’ve managed to get involved with,” I say.

I’m not sure if she thinks I’m referring to me or Tommy Wong. Either way works, I suppose.

“Can I get the check?” she asks the waiter a second time.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “My apologies.”

He hurries off, leaving Scooter Girl and me with our awkward silence.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I say.

“Which one? I’ve lost track.”

“The one about why you’re here,” I say, leaning forward. “Why you showed up at my office door.”

“That’s two questions.”

“There’s a dead woman in my office,” I say, leaning closer, speaking only loud enough for her to hear. This is probably a mistake, but I’m used to making them by now. Or maybe I’ve had one too many Bellinis.

She stares at me with no expression, her eyes betraying the calm of her nonreaction as the waiter arrives with the check.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” she says, flashing him a smile as if
nothing were wrong. When she turns back to me, the smile is gone like a magic trick.

And I’m thinking I’ve managed to kill any chance I had with her. Oh well.

“The dead woman,” I say. “Do you know who put her there?”

“Aren’t
you
supposed to be the detective?” she says, pulling out a wad of cash and throwing down more than a hundred dollars on top of the check.

“Tommy Wong put her there. The man who told you to take me out to lunch. The man you came to San Francisco to contract for.”

“I told you. I don’t work for anyone.”

She gets up and walks away from the table and out the front door. Like an obedient dog I follow her. Or maybe it’s out of desperation. At this point, I don’t care.

Out on Powell Street, the cable car clanks past us heading toward Union Square. Scooter Girl walks in the opposite direction, head down, arms swinging, short hair bouncing as she walks past the Beefeater standing out in front of the Sir Francis Drake.

“Hey!” I yell out, trying to get her attention. It would be easier if I had a name, since I doubt she’ll respond to Scooter Girl. But I don’t think she’d turn around even if I told her she’d just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Tahiti with Johnny Depp. So I just run after her.

She reaches the intersection of Sutter and Powell and is turning the corner just as I pass the entrance to the Drake.

“Hold on,” I shout. “Wait a second!”

Suddenly, a large, white-gloved hand attached to a large, red-clad arm is lowered in front of me like a crossing gate, blocking my way.

“Nice of you to drop by,” says the large owner of the large arm.

I look into the Beefeater’s face, which is round and friendly and black with a thin, well-groomed mustache. His head is shaved. His arm is as big as my leg. Come to think of it, so is his neck. He looks like he could have played middle linebacker in the NFL. And he looks like he’s eaten more than his share of beef.

“Do you know me?” I ask.

“Let’s just say that I know enough.”

His voice is deep and eloquent and commanding, like that of a practiced actor. Someone who is comfortable onstage or in front of the camera. He doesn’t look famous, or like anyone I know, but his voice is definitely familiar.

When I glance back up the street, Scooter Girl is gone. I don’t know what I thought I would accomplish by hounding her about working for Tommy Wong, but the thought of her getting away strikes me as a missed opportunity on multiple levels.

I look back at the Beefeater, who is staring at me so hard I’m afraid I might crack.

“You’re not going to hit me or drug me are you?” I ask.

“Not unless I have to.”

“Have we met?”

He gives a slight shake of his head. “Not in so many words.”

Now I can add
cryptic
to the assortment of adjectives to describe what is turning out to be one of my more interesting days.

Another Beefeater, this one white and bald, sans the mustache and the NFL career, steps out of the Drake and nods at us. Rather, he nods at Gigantor, here. I just happen to be in proximity. But even though the second Beefeater doesn’t seem to give me a second glance, I recognize him. It’s Baldy from Union Square. The guy at Rulli’s who was checking out Tuesday and followed her to the bus stop.