Lucky Bastard (33 page)

Tommy reaches up and touches his face, his hands shaking, and he lets out a strangled sob. Then his eyes
grow wide again and for a moment I think he’s going to rush me. Instead he turns around and stumbles past the door toward the back of the hotel. At first I’m thinking he’s trying to pull some kind of trick, but then he just steps off the edge of the roof, like he didn’t know it was there, and he’s gone, without so much as a scream or a
good-bye
.

I run over to the edge of the roof and look down. In the wash of light from the hotel room windows about twenty stories down, I see Tommy’s body sprawled out on an adjacent roof of the Drake. And he’s not moving.

I’ve never killed anyone before. Not on purpose, anyway. But if the bad luck I poached three years ago was responsible for one death in Tucson, then Tommy is number two. Four, if you count the two goons downstairs.

I’m a busy guy.

Still, I’m not sure how I feel about Tommy’s death.
Relieved
is probably a good place to start. And I guess you could say it’s taking me a moment to adjust to the reality of what just happened. Remorse doesn’t really factor into the situation, though I’m not planning to make a career out of this. Being a professional hit man isn’t my thing. Let’s just say I’m not shedding any tears.

At least this should get Barry Manilow off my back.

I give Tommy one last look to make sure he’s still dead, then I go to check on Doug.

He’s flat on his back, his eyes closed, his arms out to the side and his legs splayed out as if in some ritual sacrifice.
The only thing missing is blood. I don’t see any. Not on his chest, not on the roof, not anywhere. So I bend down and check his pulse and realize he’s still alive.

I’m thinking maybe he didn’t get shot at all. Maybe Tommy missed or Doug just fainted out of fear. Then I notice the half-inch-thick gold medallion emblazoned with
BW
hanging around his neck, and I see the hole right in the center of it.

“Doug,” I say, shaking him gently. “Doug, wake up. Doug.”

His eyes flutter open and he takes a deep breath, then he blinks his eyes a couple of times, smiles, and looks up at me and says, “It’s Bow Wow, Holmes.”

I help him sit up and he lets out another deep breath, followed by an “Ouch.” He runs his hands over his torso, then he looks up at me.

“Was I shot?”

I nod. “I think your bling saved you.”

He looks down and holds up the medallion and pokes his finger through the hole, then he looks down at his New York Jets jersey and does the same to the hole there before he lifts up his shirt. A big bruise is in the center of his chest. In the middle of the bruise is the bullet, partially embedded in his flesh, a small trickle of blood running down to his navel. On either side of the bullet, now in two pieces, hangs the brass ring Doug’s father gave him.

Doug looks up at me. “I told you it was a good-luck charm, Holmes.”

I have to admit, I don’t have any explanation as to how this happened. After I poached Doug’s luck, he shouldn’t have been able to survive a car accident, let alone getting shot. Good-luck charm or not, he should have been dead. But like I said, there’s no such thing as coincidence.

I think about Doug’s superstitions and how he holds them so close. How he believes in them. How he attributes all of his good fortune to his good-luck charms and the actions he takes to avoid or counteract bad luck. Maybe there’s more to good-luck charms than I’ve always believed. Maybe they do offer some kind of protection or draw in good luck. Maybe when someone who was born with good luck carries around a charm or a talisman, it gets imbued with that same quality of luck.

Kind of like a sponge.

Or maybe it’s not the charm at all. Maybe it’s the person carrying the charm. Maybe it’s the quality of the individual rather than the quality of the luck.

After all, if a luck poacher can spend his life dealing in good luck and still end up addicted or broke or friendless, maybe someone who isn’t born with good luck or someone who has had his luck poached can still have good things happen to him because of the quality of person he is and the positive actions he takes.

Maybe it’s not just who you are or the way that you’re born, but also the things you do that determine your luck.

Nothing like an unexplained occurrence of good luck to challenge your entire belief system.

Doug puts his fingers to the bullet and removes it, holds it up, and checks it out for a few moments, then he puts the bullet in his pocket before removing the two halves of the brass ring and slipping them in after it.

“Looks like Bow Wow’s got a new lucky charm,” he says.

Who am I to disagree?

“I’m glad you’re okay, Bow Wow.”

He smiles at me. “Thanks, Holmes.”

I help him to his feet, and as we start to walk toward the door, Bow Wow looks around and says, “What happened to the dude who capped me?”

“He had to go.”

“What about the kid?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s see if we can find out.”

We leave the roof and walk down the stairs and out of the Starlight Room, which is still on fire but apparently everyone’s okay. I hope the same can be said for Jimmy and Mandy. And that I have the opportunity to fix things before it’s too late.

As we continue down the stairs to the lobby, I can’t help but feel like I’m the reluctant hero in a Hollywood movie, trying to remember my lines or what I’m supposed to do next. Problem is, there’s no one to give me a cue. I have to improvise. Make up my own script.

I just hope it has a happy ending.

W
hen we get downstairs, the lobby and reception area are swarming with emergency personnel and police. I walk up to one of the police officers and ask him about Jimmy Saltzman.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“We’re the ones who called in the kidnapping,” I say, gesturing to Doug and me.

Doug nods and says, “Word.”

“Hold on,” says the cop.

I look around and notice a dozen or more people being tended to by paramedics for injuries and smoke inhalation, including the drunk guy who threw the chair through the window. I don’t see any sign of Thug One or Thug Two, but I catch sight of Mandy sitting in a chair in my coat and a pair of pajama bottoms that I’m guessing she got from the female hotel employee who is sitting with her, holding her hand.

In spite of Mandy’s proclamation, I start to head over to her, but then her husband, Ted, shows up and they embrace. Mandy starts sobbing so I decide it would probably be a bad idea to see how she’s doing. Instead, I watch her and Ted as they walk toward the hotel exit, holding each other. Then the uniformed police officer steps in front of me and all I can see is his face.

“Come with me,” he says.

As Doug and I start to follow, the officer points to Doug and says, “Not you. Just him.”

“But I’m the one who made the call,” says Doug.

“Just wait here, Bow Wow,” I say. “It’ll be all right.”

“Okay, Holmes.”

I leave him pouting and follow the police officer out the front entrance, where a guy in a suit says, “I’ll take it from here.”

It’s Elwood.

“You still have my Mentos?” I say.

He reaches inside his coat pocket, brings out the roll, and hands it to me. I peel back the wrapping and take one, then hand the roll back to him.

“Thanks,” I say.

We walk across Powell, where a black sedan is parked in front of Sears Fine Food. Elwood opens up the back door and I climb inside and sit down across from Barry while Elwood closes the door and waits outside.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite luck poacher,” says Barry.

“I can’t say the feeling’s mutual. What do you want?”

“Apparently Tommy Wong’s luck ran out on him when he fell eighteen stories to his death, so I wanted to thank you for a job well done. Though I don’t know what you were thinking getting a kid involved.”

“Jimmy?” I say. “Do you know where he is?”

“Relax, he’s fine. The police grabbed Tommy’s men as they were trying to leave the hotel. The kid’s on his way home safe and sound with his mom and dad.”

“Did his parents ask what happened?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” says Barry. “But I’m guessing you’ll come up in the conversation at some point.”

I’m not exactly thrilled about being the topic of conversation in the Saltzman household, but at least I know Jimmy’s okay. And he still has his good luck. And Doug’s still alive. Which should count for something.

“So we’re square, then,” I say.

“Not quite,” says Barry.

“What now?”

He pulls out another business card and writes something down on the back of it, then hands the card to me. It’s an address, a place in Japantown, with a date and time, tomorrow at noon.

“Meet me there,” he says, “so we can discuss the arrangements of your employment.”

“My employment?”

“You’ll be working for us now. Poaching luck. Just like you promised.”

Note to self: Never make promises to federal agents when you’re under the influence of top-grade soft. It’s like postcoital honesty. You can’t be held accountable for what you say.

“Any questions you have will be answered tomorrow,” he says, and leans back in his seat, looking smug and satisfied. I want to punch him or steal his luck, but I meant what I said about trying to change my ways. Plus I’m more of a pacifist.

The door opens, I get out and Elwood gets in, like musical chairs only without the sound track, and I’m the one left standing.

Barry leans forward in his seat and says, “Don’t be late.”

The door closes and the sedan drives off. I watch it turn the corner on Post before I walk back to the Drake to find Doug, who’s still standing by himself looking forlorn and lost.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I think they want us to answer some questions.”

“I’ve answered enough. Are you coming?”

He looks around like he’s trying to ditch a bad date, then he nods and follows me out the entrance. No one yells at us. No one stops us. Either Doug’s good-luck charm is working overtime or the SFPD is just incompetent.

We walk down Sutter toward my office, coming to Doug’s car on the way. I don’t know if it’s the bright-yellow paint job or the thought that if I wanted to borrow
his car all I’d have to do is ask, but for the first time in a while, I actually have a plan.

“Why don’t you go home, Bow Wow.”

“You need a ride, Holmes?”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m going to take care of a few things at the office, first.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Just paperwork,” I say. “Boring stuff. No guns or roofs or fires.”

He nods several times, like he’s listening to a song with a really good beat. After a few more beats, he says, “Thanks, Holmes.”

“For what?”

“For letting me help.”

“Sure thing, Bow Wow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gets into his car and drives off as I walk to my office, where I climb the stairs and open the door and sit down in the glow of the desk lamp and fire up my laptop.

The first thing I do is a search for deaths in Tucson, Arizona, three years ago, looking for anything spectacular or unusual that took place shortly after I poached that bad luck. Eventually I come across a story about a man by the name of Garland King, who died in a freak acetylene torch accident less than a week after I left town.

I’m remembering how Tuesday told me that drowning wouldn’t be as bad as an acetylene torch.

The story doesn’t mention anything about family or children, but I do a search for Garland King and find an
obituary that mentions how Garland was survived by two daughters named Tracy and Deanne. Tracy and Dee.

I write down all of the information, then I grab a flathead screwdriver out of my desk, go over to my filing cabinet, slide it to one side, and crouch down. With the screwdriver, I loosen a piece of floor molding, behind which a chunk of wall has been removed. From inside the wall, I pull out a small metal box, which contains ten grand in hundreds. I pocket the money, then put everything back the way it was, lock up the office, and make my way back through Union Square and down to O’Farrell.

When I knock on the door at 636, the same empty silence echoes within. I wait for nearly a minute and am about to knock again when the door swings open and the Albino is standing there in the doorway.

“You forget something?” he says. “Or you still looking for date?”

“Neither. I’m here on business.”

He looks at me a moment, then stands aside. “Come.”

He closes the door behind me and we walk back to the kitchen, where he opens up the refrigerator and says, “What grade you like?”

“I wasn’t actually looking to buy product. I was more interested in your services.”

He closes the door and turns to look at me with his pale blue eyes. There’s not a hint of emotion on his face. His expression is as blank as a corpse.

“You want me poach from someone?”

I nod and pull out the ten thousand dollars and set it down on the kitchen counter. He gives the money a single glance, then returns his gaze to me.