Lucky Bastard (5 page)

I
give Tuesday a head start, waiting until I’m sure she’s not coming back, then I toss the ten grand in my backpack, lock up my office, and head down the back stairs and out past the garbage chute to Sutter Street. At first I don’t see Tuesday and figure she grabbed a cab right out the front door. Then I catch a glimpse of her red skirt moving away down Kearny, so I cross the street to the opposite side, keeping myself shielded by tourists who have no idea where they’re going and who are speaking in some language that requires a lot of phlegm, until Tuesday turns the corner.

I race down Sutter in the same direction, stopping behind a light post at the corner of Grant in front of Banana Republic. I wait in front of the politically unstable clothing store for less than sixty seconds before Tuesday appears a block down, crossing the street and continuing toward Union Square. I watch her disappear behind the
Shreve and Company building, then I cross Grant and race ahead of her toward Stockton.

Halfway there, my poaching phone rings again, playing “Luck Be a Lady.” I answer, hoping it’s a job but figuring it’s just a wrong number. Or the same crank caller from before.

“Lucky Dragon.”

“Do you have any specials today?” asks a male voice on the other end.

An actual customer. Imagine that. The last time I had one of those was more than two months ago. And considering my phone has only rung a dozen times in the past three years, then this must be my lucky day.

“No specials today,” I say. “Just the regular menu. But we’re out of the seafood delight.”

That’s code for high-grade good luck.

Most people think luck is just luck. That would be like saying ice cream is just ice cream or that a steak is just a steak. But you can’t compare gelato to soft serve or a filet mignon to brisket. It’s a question of quality.

Good luck comes in grades.

People with high-grade good luck win the lottery, get discovered by a talent agent, and always escape serious injury.

Medium-grade good luck helps people win progressive jackpots, marry the right person, and frequently be in the right place at the right time.

Those who possess low-grade good luck win money
and prizes on game shows, become friends with a celebrity, and get an occasional hole in one.

Bad luck comes in grades, too. But there aren’t as many options with bad luck. Just bad and worse.

I reach Stockton, where I do a quick check before running across the street and staking out a spot in front of the Grand Hyatt, waiting for Tuesday to show.

“Hello?” I say, thinking I’ve lost a potential sale, which wouldn’t be the first time. “Anyone there?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, followed by the clearing of a throat. “What do you have that’s good today?”

“I’d recommend going with the mandarin beef,” I say.

Medium-grade good luck. That can often fetch an asking price of twenty grand or more, depending on supply and demand, but in the current economic climate, your run-of-the-mill medium-grade has been going for ten grand, tops. The market price right now for high-grade good luck is twenty-five thousand.

While prices aren’t as low as those Grandpa complained about during the stock market crash of 1987, it’s almost like giving it away, though you do have to adjust for inflation. Conversely, during the boom time leading up to the dot-com crash, it wasn’t uncommon to find buyers willing to shell out forty grand for medium-grade luck poached from someone who won the progressive jackpot at Harrah’s.

“Do you have any egg foo young?” he asks.

I can’t get more than two to three grand for the egg foo young, but it’s better than nothing.

“Yes. We have egg foo young. Would you like to place an order?”

More silence on the other end of the line. He’s either a first-time customer or trying to figure out how much he can afford. After all, this is a cash-only transaction. We don’t accept credit cards or personal checks. And you can’t make a payment plan.

Buying luck isn’t any different from buying any other drug. And make no mistake about it—luck is a drug. And like any narcotic, it has its drawbacks. It’s illegal and addictive and it can drain your savings account dry. But luck also provides a rush that rivals the high of an eight-ball or the euphoria of an ecstasy tablet. Usually without the hangover, though I’ve known my share of addicts who got the lucky shakes. And although the current market prices make it more accessible, luck has become the drug of choice for the wealthy and the privileged.

You’d think those who were already rich wouldn’t need to add to their good fortune, but the market dictates that only those with excess disposable income can afford to buy good luck. Especially the medium- and high-grade stuff. So the rich get richer while the rest of us fall behind. Or settle for the egg foo young.

I’ve only had a handful of customers since I moved to San Francisco, and most of them are luck junkies. Addicts who are strung out on luck and who jones for the rush and who
can only afford the lowest quality available. I haven’t sold any mandarin beef in a couple of months. And I’ve been out of seafood delight ever since I moved here.

“I’ll take an order of mandarin beef,” says the buyer. “How soon can you deliver?”

After the social call from Tommy Wong’s men, I can’t help but wonder if this is some kind of a setup. But that’s why I pick public places for drop-offs. It cuts down on the surprise factor. And right now, turning down ten thousand dollars isn’t something I have the luxury of doing.

Besides, after the visit from Tuesday Knight and the envelope full of money she dropped on my desk, I’m feeling lucky.

I arrange for delivery of the medium-grade good luck at ten o’clock, which gives me just under an hour to pick up the product from my apartment and meet my customer at the designated drop location. That should leave plenty of time to see if I can find out where Tuesday’s going. And I’d like to find out who this friend of a friend of hers is who originally sent her to me.

Call it a hunch, but my poacher’s intuition tells me she’s hiding something.

I
end the phone call and continue to look down the street, waiting for Tuesday. A Starbucks sits across from me, calling to me like the sirens to Odysseus, and I’m wondering if I have time for a quick cappuccino without dashing myself on the rocks, when Tuesday appears, crosses Stockton, and starts up the steps into Union Square. I walk past the Levi Strauss flagship store, cross against the light, and follow Tuesday, making sure to keep myself concealed behind some palm trees and a group of French tourists before I settle in behind a shrub-lined wall.

I watch as Tuesday walks over to one of the tables at Café Rulli, sits down, and places her order. When the server walks away, Tuesday pulls out her cell phone and presses a single button and starts talking to someone.

From my vantage point, I can watch her without being seen. Unfortunately, I can’t hear any part of her conversation and I’m not a lip-reader. I didn’t bother to wear a disguise.
I don’t even have a camera to take any photos. I’m thinking I make a piss-poor private investigator.

You’d think that someone who poaches luck for a living would lead a more glamorous life than this. Hiding behind tourists. Working as a part-time PI to pay the bills. Eating Lucky Charms for breakfast. I can almost hear my father laughing and telling me he knew this would happen to me.

I’m the first to admit that this isn’t exactly the life I envisioned. Though not all poachers are like me. Some are better off, some are worse. Some don’t even make it this far. A lot of poachers succumb to the solitary nature of the lifestyle and end up taking their own lives. Although there’s not any official data, the life span of your average luck poacher is around forty years. Which means I’ve got seven more to go before I exceed expectations.

Maybe that’s why Mom never poached luck. Because she knew the consequences of going down this path. Though things didn’t exactly come up roses for her, either. Not unless you include the ones next to her headstone.

That’s one of the reasons I sell the luck I poach instead of keeping it and using it for myself. Out of respect for Mom. If I truly wanted to respect her ideals, I wouldn’t use my gift at all. But I can’t ignore what I am. It’s in my blood.

But if I’m going to be honest, the main reason I sell the luck I steal is because using it to try to improve your own good fortune can create problems. The addictive properties
of good luck aside, you win the lottery or become a celebrity or make the national news and suddenly you’re drawing attention to yourself, doing interviews and having to report your income on a tax return. The last thing I want is to have the IRS or the general public involved in my life. Poachers have to live under the radar to avoid complications. But just because you take precautions doesn’t mean you can avoid the consequences.

Every decision you make has risks and repercussions. Some more so than others. It just so happens, most of my decisions tend to be of the more-so variety. That’s the reality of being born the way I am. Even though I wouldn’t trade the thrill of poaching for anything, I still understand the risks. And while stealing luck from others isn’t the most honorable way to make a living, you do what you have to do to pretend that your actions are justified.

The problem with poaching luck is that sooner or later, karma is bound to catch up with you. After all, you can’t take something from someone without paying a price.

While Tuesday continues her phone conversation and her drink arrives, something clear and cold in a tall glass, I notice a big, bald white guy reading the newspaper and watching her from two tables away. His head is shaved, he’s wearing sunglasses, and he’s dressed in a black, short-sleeve shirt and jeans. Whoever he is, he’s watching Tuesday with as much interest as I am.

I watch Tuesday and Baldy for about ten minutes, hiding behind my camouflage of shrubs and palm trees and tourists.
Whatever the topic of Tuesday’s conversation, it seems to end abruptly. With a single push back in her chair and a final tip of her glass, Tuesday stands up and walks off, leaving half her drink behind, and starts walking right toward where I’m hiding.

Before I can manage to duck behind my shrubs or hide behind a family of four from Holland, Tuesday walks past and crosses the street, then heads toward the Stockton Tunnel, apparently oblivious to my presence. I watch her from the corner of my eye and let her get halfway to Starbucks before I start after her, staying on the opposite side of the street. I’m almost to the Grand Hyatt when I notice Baldy directly across from me, following Tuesday.

And now I’m wondering if I’m the only private investigator with an interest in Tuesday Knight.

She crosses Sutter to the parking garage, then stops and turns around, looking back down the street, so I blend in with a group of Chinese tourists, which isn’t easy to do when you’re taller than most of them and about as Chinese as bacon. When I look up, Tuesday is flagging down a cab near the bus stop and climbing inside.

I pull out the business card she gave me, which just has her name and a local phone number on it. No address. I can find out where she lives by doing an Internet search, but that won’t tell me where she’s going. Or what she plans to do when she gets there.

I watch the cab take off through the Stockton Tunnel toward Chinatown, then I see Baldy cross the street up
ahead of me and disappear around the corner of the Hyatt. I pocket Tuesday’s card and follow him down Sutter to Powell, where he turns the corner and walks into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I continue past the entrance and a couple of doormen in Beefeater costumes who are jawing with each other and opening doors, then I double back on the other side of the street.

Baldy doesn’t reappear. I think about waiting him out or going inside, but it’s pushing half past time-to-go and I can’t risk missing my ten o’clock appointment and losing a sale. So I grab a cab and ask the driver to take me to my crappy little apartment in the Marina.

“I didn’t know they had crappy apartments in the Marina,” he says.

“I’m lucky,” I say. “I got the last one.”

“What’s the address?”

I live in a studio on the third floor of a four-story building on Lombard Street, next to a dry cleaner’s, across from a transient motel, and just this side of dilapidated. Not my first choice for living accommodations, but sometimes you take what you can get. Or go where your mistakes take you.

I remind myself that it’s only temporary. That someday I’ll get back into a top-floor apartment or a flat in a well-maintained building with quiet neighbors and double-paned windows and an entryway that doesn’t smell like urine. Until then, I’ll just have to deal with the consequences of my hubris.

The cab drops me off in front of my apartment building, where a homeless guy sits camped out in front with a mostly empty donation cup and a black cat.

Black cats were historically associated with witches and thus imbued with the evil of the underworld, which is why today you have people who think it’s bad luck to have a black cat cross your path. Nothing creates luck, good or bad. It just exists. Yet most people go around believing they can somehow manipulate it to their advantage.