Lucky Bastard by S G Browne Read Free Book Online

her.
    “How are the girls?” I finally ask.
    “They have names, you know.”
    “Right.” I never was good with names. “So how are they?”
    “Fine. You missed their birthdays again.”
    I never was good with birthdays, either. Or anniversaries. Or holidays. I even forgot it was Christmas one year.
    We stand and stare some more without making eye contact. It’s not easy to do, but we’ve had lots of time to practice.
    “And your husband,” I say. “What’s his name?”
    “Ted. His name is Ted. And he’s fine. We’re all fine.”
    I just nod, trying to ignore the rising color in Mandy’s cheeks, wondering if she’s going to ask how I’m doing. If I’m still poaching. Though it’s more likely she’d rather not know.
    “You still up to your old tricks?” she asks.
    “A little here and there.”
    Mandy nods, her lips pursed. I can tell by her expression that she wants to ask me if I’m ever going to grow up, but she won’t. Not here. Not in public.
    Mandy never did like to make a scene.
    Several customers come and go, squeezing past us as we continue to half block the entrance.
    “I should be going,” she says.
    “Sure. It was good to see you.”
    She doesn’t reciprocate and we don’t hug. Instead, I just step to the side and let her walk past me into Starbucks. Unlike the barista, she doesn’t look back as the door closes shut behind her.

W ith a container of medium-grade good luck and ten thousand dollars in my backpack, I figure it’s a good idea for me to leave the money someplace safe before I head back downtown to my office. While my apartment isn’t necessarily the safest place, considering I live across from a motel for ex-cons and drug addicts, it’s closer than my office and more practical than the bank.
    Before heading straight to my place, I walk up Laguna to the Green Street Market to pick up a roll of Mentos. There are other markets and corner stores that I could hit up on my way home, but I’ve been going to the Green Street Market ever since I happened upon it more than two years ago. And like my Lucky Charms and my Starbucks cappuccinos, I’m a creature of habit.
    When I walk into the store, an older guy in a suit is down at the end of the counter, talking on his cell phone. Sam, the proprietor, is standing behind the counter wearing a black, short-sleeve silk shirt and an unfamiliar expression.His smile seems strained, his eyes unnaturally fixed on me, like he’s trying not to look anywhere else. Even though the weather is typical San Francisco summer foggy, Sam’s suntanned chrome dome is shiny with perspiration.
    “’Morning, Sam,” I say.
    At first Sam doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring at me with that odd expression, like he knows me but he’s pretending not to. Then he says, with too much formality, “Good morning.”
    Behind me, the same attractive Asian woman in a red coat from Starbucks steps through the front door, talking on her cell, saying that she just walked into the store.
    I’m the first to admit I’m not much of a detective. It’s more of a day job than a calling. But I don’t have to channel my inner Columbo to know that something’s up.
    I glance around, thinking maybe I walked into the middle of a robbery, but other than the guy in the suit, who walks past me and out the door past the Asian woman, who is now picking out a jar of Kalamata olives, no one else is in the store. I don’t know what’s up and part of me doesn’t want to know. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake coming in here, but I’m out of Mentos.
    As I throw a couple of rolls on the counter and pull a five spot from my wallet, a black sedan with tinted windows pulls up in front of the store. Before I can get my change, the Asian woman walks up and puts a gun in my ribs.
    “Hello, Mr. Monday,” she purrs in my ear like a promise. “Care to go for a ride?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “Not really,” she says, nudging me toward the door. “After