Lucky Bastard (30 page)

“I’m here to help you,” I whisper.

“Why? I thought you were one of the bad guys.”

“It depends on your definition of
bad
.”

From the expression on his face, I can tell this doesn’t provide Jimmy with any sense of relief.

“It’s complicated,” I say. “For the sake of argument and time, let’s just pretend I’m one of the good guys. Okay?”

“But I saw you with him.”

“You mean the old Asian guy?”

Jimmy nods.

“Trust me,” I say. “It wasn’t by choice.”

Jimmy seems to mull this over. I wish he’d hurry up because we’re down to four minutes.

“So you’re really here to help me?”

“Theoretically,” I say, as I set the half-empty Starbucks cup on the desk, then remove the bag of Starbucks House Blend and the empty Peet’s cup from my backpack.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s all part of the plan. Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“No,” he says, looking embarrassed.

“Not even a little bit?”

He just shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.”

That’s when I notice that the crotch and one leg of his pants are wet.

Well, that’s just perfect. Without additional liquid, my idea isn’t going to work. And the last thing I want to do is release all of my own good luck and end up defenseless.

“Okay,” I say. “There’s only one way we’re going to get out of this, and even that’s a long shot. So if this is going to work, then you’re going to have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Jimmy shakes his head.

“Wrong answer,” I say. “Honest, but wrong.”

I open the bag of coffee and pour some grounds into my unfinished cappuccino until the mixture is thick and goopy, then I fill the empty Peet’s cup about half-full with coffee grounds. With my back to Jimmy I unzip my pants and empty my bladder into the cup, my eyes tearing up as
Donna’s and Doug’s top-grade soft leaves me. Although I do get a certain pleasure out of peeing on Starbucks coffee grounds inside a Peet’s coffee cup.

After I’ve filled the cup about two-thirds of the way with my urine and Starbucks House Blend, I set the cup down on the desk, zip up, and remove the two-ounce vial of low-grade hard from the bag of coffee. Just touching the vial causes my skin to break out in gooseflesh and sends a tiny earthquake shuddering through my bones, so I try to tell myself that it’s only used motor oil.

I also tell myself that this is going to work, that the coffee grounds will act like a sponge to soak up the bad luck and keep it from eating through the postconsumer-recycled-paper cup. At least right away. But right now, I’m about as confident as a Chicago Cubs fan in September.

“What’s that?” asks Jimmy, pointing toward the vial.

“You don’t want to know,” I say, starting to unscrew the cap.

“Why?”

“Just make sure to stay clear and don’t make any sudden movements or sounds.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

My hands are shaking and my nerves are screaming. I’m not sure if it’s because of the vial of bad luck or the incessant questions from Jimmy or that I’m doing this without any protection, but I realize I can’t do this. I can’t risk spilling any of this bad luck and getting it on me. If I do, neither of us is going to get out of here.

I screw the cap on tight and set the vial down next to the cup, walk over to Jimmy, and crouch down in front of him. “Put out your hands.”

“Why?” he asks, putting his hands behind him.

I don’t have time to make up a story that he’ll believe enough to trust me, so I’m just going to have to go against type and tell him the truth.

“Because I need to borrow something from you that will help us to get out of here.”

“What do you need to borrow?”

“Your luck.”

“My luck? How can you borrow my luck?”

“I’m special,” I say. “It’s the way I was born. It’s just a talent that comes naturally.”

“Like magic tricks?”

“Yeah. Kind of like that.”

He stares at me, his hands still hidden. “I know a magic trick.”

“That’s great,” I say. “But we don’t have time for games.”

He stares at me and makes a poopie face.

“Look,” I say. “I know we got off to a bad start, but if
we’re going to get out of here, we’re going to have to work together. You’re going to have to trust me.”

Nothing. Just the same poopie face. I’m beginning to think I might have to choke down the concoction of Starbucks and urine to give myself some measure of protection. Except with only one cup of bad luck, I don’t think my plan has a chance of working.

“You promise when you’re done with it, you’ll give it back?” says Jimmy.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I say, which is probably a mistake, considering that I’m about to break my promise and then pick up a vial of thermonuclear bad luck. But at this point, I’m willing to promise anything.

With a nod, Jimmy draws his hands out from behind his back and holds them out in front of him, palms up, vulnerable and innocent and trusting.

I take a deep breath and reach out to take his hands in mine, images of my grandfather and my mother and my sister swirling through my head. I see my mother dead and bleeding in the car. I see my sister, angry and pointing for me to leave. I see my grandfather, his eyes filled with a combination of longing and disgust.

And I can’t do it.

“Good job,” I say, standing up and walking away. “You passed the test. Now we can get out of here.”

“Really?”

“Really. Just do as I say and stay behind me.”

Though to be honest, I should stay behind him. If he
gets splattered with bad luck, he’ll be fine. Me? That’s a different story with a not-so-happy ending. But really, how much worse could things get?

I take another deep breath, then I pick up the vial and unscrew the cap. I want to save most of the bad luck for Tommy, plus I don’t know for sure if this will work, so I pour a quarter of the vial’s contents into the Peet’s cup filled with the goopy concoction of coffee and urine. I manage to do it without spilling any on me or passing out, which is always a good sign, then I cap the vial and slip it into my left pants pocket and hope no one kicks me in the nuts.

“So can you really borrow someone’s good luck?” asks Jimmy.

“No. That was just part of the test.”

“That’s too bad. It would be pretty cool if you could.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That it would.”

I put the bag of coffee into my backpack and sling it over my shoulders, then I pick up the harmless, half-empty cup of cappuccino and coffee grounds and hand it to Jimmy.

“I’m going to have to leave you here for a few minutes,” I say, “but I’ll be back with the key. Your job is to hold on to this and not let it spill. Okay?”

“You promise you’ll come back to get me?”

“I promise.”

I grab the Peet’s cup with the urine and the bad-luck-soaked coffee grounds and knock on the door. “All done.”

The door opens and Gabby is standing right in front of me. I don’t expect him to notice that I went in with a
Starbucks cup and came out with a Peet’s cup without the sippy top, and he doesn’t. So far so good.

“Take me to your leader,” I say.

I can feel the cup growing warm in my hands. This isn’t a cuddle-by-the-fireplace type of warm. This is more like a door-waiting-to-be-opened-to-feed-the-angry-fire-growing-behind-it kind of warm.

Gabby closes and locks the bedroom door, putting the key in his left pants pocket. With him this close and with my nerve starting to break, I almost throw the contents of the cup in his face. But I need both goons within range for my plan to work.

He points me to the front door and I obey. The cup is growing warmer in my hand. I can feel it starting to melt, to conform to the shape of my fingers and palm, and I’m thinking, if bad luck can eat its way through plastic, what will it do to my hand?

I open the front door and step out into the hallway past the other goon. As soon as Gabby steps out into the hallway, I sling my cup of bad-luck-urine-coffee-sludge into both of their faces.

Sludge and liquid splatters across their cheeks and foreheads, across their necks and shirts. A glob hits Gabby in the left eye, while another glob lands on the second goon’s lips. For a moment neither of them reacts other than to wipe away the mess, and I think this was another major judgment in error. Then Gabby staggers back into the doorway and they both start to scream. That’s when I
notice that the splatters of goop are spreading out, growing something that looks like tendrils, and absorbing into their flesh.

I guess it works.

Before I have a chance to lose my nerve or worry about getting any of the bad luck on me, I step forward into the doorway and kick Gabby in the nuts. Not very sporting, but then I’m a luck poacher. When he falls down, I shove him over with my foot, then fish inside his pants pocket and retrieve the key to Jimmy’s bedroom, leaving the two goons writhing on the floor and screaming.

Grandpa always told me that all luck, good and bad, was a living organism that maintained a symbiotic relationship with its original host. But taken out of that relationship and introduced to a new host, there was no telling how the luck was going to behave. Chances are good luck wouldn’t have much of an adverse reaction, since good luck is more benign; a friendly stray just looking for a home. But bad luck, he told me, is more like a virus or a cancer, attacking its new host and spreading from cell to cell; a rabid animal with an insatiable hunger.

And when bad luck gets hungry, it wants to feed.

I never believed him until now. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about grabbing Jimmy’s hands as soon as I had the chance so I wouldn’t end up on the menu. But the look on Jimmy’s face when I open the door, one of pure relief and trust, makes me realize that I’m going to have to get out of this situation on my charm and good looks.

Which have worked wonders for me, so far.

“Come on,” I say.

Out in the hall, the two goons have fallen silent. I stop at the corner and look toward the front door, where they’re both on the floor, unconscious. Or at least that’s what I’m guessing. With the way this day has gone, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d turned into zombies.

“Remember to stay behind me,” I say, turning back to Jimmy. “But stay close. Okay?”

Jimmy nods, then he takes one of his hands off the Starbucks cup and points at me. “What happened to your hand?”

I look down and realize I’m no longer holding the Peet’s cup. I don’t remember dropping it. At some point I must have. Or flung it aside. Or maybe it just disintegrated. But now my right hand, my poaching hand, is coated with melted postconsumer-recycled, wax-lined paper that looks like it’s fused with my flesh.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I say, even though I’m more than a little concerned. Freaked-out would probably cover my emotional state, but right now, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it. Except learn how to poach left-handed.

I take the Starbucks cup from Jimmy and pat my pocket to make sure the vial is still there, safe and secure, though I can feel its warmth against my thigh and I wonder if having it this close to my testicles is a good idea.

“You ready?” I say.

Jimmy nods. Being with him like this, without the attitude and looking at me with complete trust, almost makes me understand why parents would go through the trouble of dealing with all of the bullshit of having kids.

Then I remember how he told me I smelled like cat pee, and the moment passes.

“Okay then,” I say. “Let’s go.”

W
e make it past the unconscious goons and down the hallway to the elevator without running into any trouble. Which makes me uneasy. I don’t know how many other people Tommy has working for him, but I figure the screams from the goons would have drawn some attention.

Or maybe anyone who works for Tommy is just used to the sounds of people screaming.

I press the button to call the elevator and stand with my back to the door, scanning the hallway in each direction, the Starbucks cup in my damaged right hand. I consider arming myself, but after seeing how fast a quarter of the vial ate through the other cup, I’m reluctant to dump the remaining bad luck into this one. The last thing I want is a handful of bad luck and wet Starbucks coffee grounds. Plus, I want to make sure I have Tommy in my sights before I do anything.

We stand there, waiting for the elevator. Or rather, I
stand there. Jimmy keeps moving back and forth on his feet.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“I have to pee.”

I just stare at him. “You really need to work on your timing.”

I listen for the sound of approaching footsteps and then glance back at the elevator, willing it to hurry.

“But I really have to go,” says Jimmy.

“Then go.”

“Here?”

“It’s not like it’ll be the first time.”

The hallways remain silent, the elevator still hasn’t arrived, my heart pounds inside my chest, and Jimmy takes a leak against the wall.