Lucky Bastard by S G Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    I’m guessing this is the setup that I thought didn’t happen. Silly me.
    “Sorry, Nick,” says Sam.
    “No worries,” I say as I’m escorted out the door and into the sedan. It’s the luxurious type, with the two back bench seats facing each other. I’m facing backward, sitting next to the Asian woman. I’m expecting Tommy Wong but instead, sitting across from me with a laptop next to him is a white man in a Brooks Brothers suit with swooping light-brown hair and a nose the size of the Transamerica Pyramid.
    “This is nice,” I say, as the sedan pulls away from the curb. “Are we going to prom? Or is this a bachelorette party?”
    “Nick Monday?” says the suit, looking up from the laptop. “Is that your real name?”
    “Who wants to know?” I ask.
    “Does it matter?”
    “Does it matter that you’re a dead ringer for Barry Manilow?”
    He laughs. It’s not a friendly laugh. More condescending, with a hint of malice. I never really liked Barry Manilow.
    I glance over at the Asian woman, who gives me a professionalsmile, no teeth, and I wonder if she had a collagen injection or if her lips are natural.
    We’re two blocks away when I realize I left my Mentos sitting on the counter.
    “What’s in the bag?” Barry asks, indicating my leather backpack.
    “Schoolbooks,” I say. “I’m going to night school.”
    Barry glances at his watch. “At half past ten in the morning?”
    “I like to make sure I get a seat in the front row.”
    “Open the bag.”
    He knows what’s in it. And I know he knows. So I open up my backpack and remove the bottle of Odwalla Super Protein, which the Asian woman takes from me and hands to Barry.
    “What’s the grade?” asks Barry, holding up the bottle.
    “Medium,” I say.
    Even without the tinted windows and the black sedan, I figure the two of them work for the government. Considering the sedan is nicer than my apartment, I’m wondering if I should look into getting a job in the public sector.
    “So what do you want?” I ask.
    Barry looks at me with half-lidded eyes. I almost expect him to break into the opening lines of “Weekend in New England.”
    “We could have you arrested,” he says.
    I don’t know which branch of the government they work for: the IRS, seeking its cut of unreported income; the FBI, attempting to regulate luck poachers; or the FTC, looking to make luck a tradable commodity. Just because the government denies any knowledge of luck poachers doesn’t mean they aren’t aware of our existence. Whoever they are, I’m guessing they didn’t go through all of this trouble to audit my taxes.
    “What. Do. You. Want?” I repeat.
    He smiles. “Your assistance.”
    “What kind of assistance?”
    “Are you familiar with a man by the name of Tommy Wong?”
    “I’ve heard of him,” I say, playing nonchalant. “Old Chinese guy. Well connected. Some kind of Lord of Chinatown.”
    “That’s one way to put it,” says Barry.
    “According to our sources,” says the Asian woman, “Tommy’s been buying up as much good luck as he can and using it for himself, which has made it virtually impossible for us to catch him doing anything illegal or come up with any evidence to convict him of racketeering or extortion.”
    “Or murder,” says Barry. “And since we can’t seem to manipulate any of Tommy’s employees, we decided our best chance to get to him was to find a luck poacher. So we got ourselves a luck junkie and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
    “My ten o’clock Starbucks appointment.”
    “Bingo,” says Barry. “Though we’ve been looking for you for the past couple of months, ever since Gordon Knight’s fortunes took a dive.”
    I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, though I’m suddenly wondering if Tuesday Knight knows more about the circumstances of her father’s luck poaching than she’s letting on.
    “We figured there was a good chance of finding a poacher in San Francisco when the