Lucky Bastard (17 page)

But at least I have some spending money, which I should really put someplace safe this time so I don’t lose it or get it stolen. The bank would probably be a good call, but the last thing I want is to have to report it on my tax return. So instead I file half of it in my filing cabinet under
T
for “Tuesday” and put the other thousand in my wallet. As an afterthought, I take out a hundred and slip it inside my left shoe. Just in case.

My phone rings.

“Nick Monday,” I say.

“Why didn’t you wait in your office like I told you?” It’s Tommy. And he sounds annoyed. What a surprise.

“I did. Then I went out to lunch with the cute little poacher from Tucson you sent over.”

“What cute little poacher?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t give up her name.”

“I didn’t send any girl to take you out to lunch,” says Tommy.

“You didn’t?”

“No. I sent one of my men. He said you weren’t there.”

“Then who was she?”

“How the hell should I know?” says Tommy. He pauses. “What did you tell her?”

Just that you’re a murderer and an extortionist and a generally unpleasant employer.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You better be telling the truth. Or else . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The whole dead-in-the-alley thing. I got it.”

Silence on the other end of the line. I can feel Tommy’s irritation pouring out of my phone.

“You need to learn your place,” says Tommy.

“Funny, my father used to tell me the same thing.”

More silence. My guess is I won’t be getting Employee of the Month.

“Call me if you don’t understand your instructions,” he says.

And then he hangs up.

Instructions? What instructions? Why does everyone have to talk to me in ambiguities? Can’t anyone just talk straight and be who they say they are and not threaten to kill me? And what the hell was Scooter Girl doing at my office if she wasn’t here to take me out to lunch at Tommy’s request? Though I do have to admit, that was a pretty good meal.

I sit down at my desk without turning on the light and pop two more Advil, then I wash them down with two sips of a cold double cappuccino from Starbucks. Although I don’t have a headache anymore, I’m expecting it to come back, so I figure I may as well get a head start.

When I lean forward on my elbows with my head in my hands, I notice an envelope propped up against my laptop with my name written on the front in bold, black print. From the masculine shape of the letters, my guess is it’s from Tommy. But the way things have been going today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was from Barry Manilow. Or Genghis Khan.

There’s a knock at my office door.

If I were Humphrey Bogart, I’d pull my .38 out of my desk drawer and hold it low, pointed at the door, a cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth. But all I’ve got is a plastic letter opener and a staple remover, neither of which shoots bullets. And I keep forgetting to take up smoking.

“Come in.”

The door opens and Doug walks in, a big grin on his
face as he shuffles over to the chair and parks his multicolored ass. “What up, Holmes?”

“My blood pressure.”

While he doesn’t show up as often as he used to, Doug still likes to drop by every now and then unannounced. Usually at inconvenient moments, like when I’m in the middle of dealing with the Chinese Mafia. Or surfing porn.

“You need to watch that, Holmes. My dad had high blood pressure.”

Doug’s father died of a heart attack when Doug was ten, and he was raised by his mom. I think that’s part of the reason why he comes around. I have this feeling I’m playing the role of a surrogate father, which is serious miscasting. I’m more like the slacker hedonist with patricidal urges.

“Thanks for caring,” I say. “But it’ll pass.”

“Tough day, Holmes?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, scratching an itch in the palm of my right hand.

“Looks like you’ve got some people to meet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just got an itch on your right palm. That means you’re gonna meet someone new. If it’s your left palm, money is on the way.”

Figures. Not that I believe him, but like I need to meet anyone else today. And I could have used the money.

“Itching means all sorts of things,” says Doug.

“No kidding,” I say, eyeing the envelope, wondering what’s in it, but I can’t open it in front of Doug. He’ll want me to play show-and-tell.

“Word. If your feet itch, it means you’ll take a trip. If your nose itches, it means you’re going to get into a fight.”

Yeah, well, that already happened.

“And if your head itches, it means good luck.”

I figure it means you probably have lice or psoriasis or seborrheic dermatitis and need a prescription shampoo. But what do I know?

“So what’s on your mind, Bow Wow?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging. Looking nonchalant in a guilty kind of way. “I just saw you cruising back from the Drake and thought I’d check in, see if you needed a hand with your case.”

“Were you following me again, Bow Wow?” Every now and then, I catch Doug following me, trying to bone up on his PI skills.

“I was just in the hood, Holmes. You know, checking out the action.”

Doug lies about as well as Pinocchio. “You can’t keep following me around, Bow Wow.”

He doesn’t respond but just sits there wearing an expression like a scolded puppy.

I have to admit that in spite of his annoying propensity to insinuate himself into my routine, I’ve grown fond of Doug. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing.

Growing fond of people and developing emotional intimacy is a good way for poachers to end up making mistakes. Or getting someone hurt.

“It’s a matter of client confidentiality,” I say. “I need you to respect that.”

“Yeah. I know. I didn’t mean no harm.”

“I know you didn’t. And I appreciate the enthusiasm. But right now, I’ve got some things I have to take care of.”

We sit there and look at each other, me waiting for him to get the hint, and him nodding his head to some distant drummer. Finally he slaps both of his knees and stands up.

“Well, Bow Wow’s got to bounce.” He turns around and shuffles toward the door. He raises one hand in the air without looking back. “Later, Holmes.”

Then he’s gone.

I get up and walk over to the door, open it to make sure he’s gone, then I close the door and lock it, smiling as I shake my head. Sure, Bow Wow can be a little exasperating and he needs an extreme makeover from the wardrobe fairy, but his heart is in the right place.

Maybe that’s why I don’t mind his coming around. He reminds me of what I’d like to be when I grow up.

I walk back to my desk and pick up the envelope, turning it over in my hands, wondering what’s inside, not really sure I want to find out. But I don’t really have a choice, so I tear it open and dump the contents onto my desk.

There’s a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds; a business card for a limousine company with a note that says
Ask for Alex
; and a key for a safe-deposit box under an account for Nick Monday at the Wells Fargo on Market Street.

I put the key on my key ring, which might not be the best idea, since the bad luck I poached has a way of making me lose things of value or have them just disappear, and the last thing I need to lose are the keys to my office and to my apartment. But at least this way I know where the key is. Much less likely to slip through a hole in my pocket or fall out when I’m being held upside down over a bridge by my ankles.

You never know.

When I unfold the paper, I find a list of a dozen names and addresses in San Francisco, most of them in Pacific Heights and the Marina, though a couple are in Telegraph Hill and North Beach. At first I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with the list, until I notice the letters that correspond to each of the names.

H
for “high,”
M
for “medium,” and
L
for “low.”

It’s a list of marks for me to poach from, and all but three of them are medium-grade good luck. One of them in Telegraph Hill and one in North Beach are low-grade, and the other, the one in Pacific Heights, is top-grade soft.

I stare at the list, wondering where Tommy got the names or how he knows what the grades are. Maybe he has some kind of a service working for him. Or maybe he stole the information from his hired luck poachers. But I guess it doesn’t matter as long as the list is legitimate.

I look over the list, my gaze constantly drawn back to the name next to the letter
H,
excitement building inside me. This is the closest I’ve been to top-grade soft in more than three years, and my right hand is tingling with anticipation, like that of an adolescent boy staring at a
Playboy
centerfold. Only
my
soft-core pornography is names and letters rather than tits and ass.

I’m almost salivating.

For someone trying to give up the lifestyle, I’m not having much luck conquering my demons. It would be a lot easier if people wouldn’t put a list of marks in front of me and extort me with dead bodies and threats against my sister.

I pocket the list and pick up the business card for the limousine service and dial the number.

“AAA Limousine,” says a male voice. Unthreatening. Masculine. No accent.

“I’m calling for Alex. I was given—”

“One second, Mr. Monday.”

That they know who I am doesn’t bother me as much as the thought that all of this has been orchestrated without my involvement. I’m just playing along, following instructions, doing what I’m told.

I’m Renfield doing the bidding of Count Dracula.

I’m Igor assisting Dr. Frankenstein.

I’m an obedient dog complying with my master’s commands.

Sit. Stay. Come.

Roll over. Speak. Fetch.

Just so long as no one asks me to play dead.

Still, I hate this lack of control. This having to bow down to someone else because he holds some kind of power over me. Ever since my mother died I’ve been in charge of myself. I had the ability and the confidence to manage my world without having to answer to anyone. Not my teachers. Not my counselors. Not my father.

In spite of his attempts to exert his influence on me, my father eventually realized that you can’t have power over someone who has the ability to steal someone’s good fortune with a simple, friendly shake of the hand.

Up until the day I moved out, my father refused to be in the room with me unless he was wearing gloves. And he never, ever touched me. Even when my mother died, he didn’t offer any physical comfort. To me or to Mandy. When it came to emotional intimacy, my father was about as warm as frostbite.

I’m wondering if I’m more like my father than I want to admit.

“Mr. Monday?” a male voice says in my ear.

“Yes?” I say, trying to remember what I was calling about.

“This is Alex.”

“Alex?” I say, still confused.

“I’m your driver.”

“Right. My driver. When are you available?”

“As soon as you need me. Are you ready to go?”

“It looks that way. How soon can you get here?”

F
ifteen minutes later I’m sitting in the backseat of a Lincoln Executive luxury town car, sinking into soft leather and surrounded with air-conditioning while being chauffeured up California Street by a twentysomething dude in a black suit and tie.

We’re on our way to my apartment, where I need to clean up, change my clothes, and set up the luck-transference equipment before starting on the list of names Tommy gave me. In spite of my preference for casual-Friday attire, knocking on the front doors of multimillion-dollar homes wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with blood splattered on them isn’t the best way to make a good impression.

Having a chauffeur drive me around town seems a little over-the-top, but I guess Tommy didn’t want to trust the San Francisco public transit system to get me from mark to mark. I’m not exactly complaining. I haven’t enjoyed this kind of luxury since before I left Tucson.

However, I’m a little disappointed. I was expecting a limo, with a minibar and a privacy window and enough room for me and a couple of strippers from the Hustler Club. Or maybe both Tuesdays, if things worked out.

“Is there something wrong, sir?” asks Alex, looking at me in the rearview mirror. Why he’s looking at me and not the road I don’t know, but apparently my disappointment is showing.

“I was kind of hoping for a minibar.”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Monday. I’m happy to swing by a liquor store if you need anything.”

“Actually, I need to stop at a Starbucks or a Peet’s. Preferably one near a doughnut store. You like doughnuts?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’m buying,” I say, feeling generous. “Whatever you want.”

“No thanks. I’m vegan.”

“That must make it difficult to find a good doughnut.”

“As a matter of fact, I just so happen to have plenty of recipes for good vegan desserts,” he says. “And they’re much better for you than doughnuts.”

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”