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

mayor’s popularity plummeted,” says Barry, who spreads his arms out like a game show host. “And now, here you are.”
    “Lucky me.”
    “That depends,” says Barry.
    “On what?”
    “The way we figure it,” he says, “the only way to catch Tommy is to counteract the good luck he’s accumulated. And the only way to do that is to give him a healthy dose of bad luck.”
    When it comes to bad luck, everything that can go wrong, will—sickness, bankruptcy, divorce, hair loss, impotency, sterility, car accidents, shark attacks, canceled flights, termites, flood damage, herpes.
    And that’s just your garden-variety bad luck. When it comes to low-grade hard, imagine the worst thing that can happen to you short of death, then dip it in oil and set it on fire. Just a trace amount of the stuff can stick around like a bad infection—making you sick for two months,sending your business into the tank, and elevating Lucky Charms to a gourmet breakfast.
    “So why do you need me?”
    “To deliver the bad luck to Tommy Wong,” says Barry.
    I shake my head. “I won’t poach bad luck. That’s not my game.”
    “The game has changed, Mr. Monday. You’re playing by our rules now.”
    “Maybe so. But there’s nothing you can do to me that would convince me to poach bad luck.”
    “No,” says Barry, turning the laptop screen toward me so I can see it. “But we can do something to her .”
    On the laptop screen is a photo of a woman walking out of the Starbucks on Union, the only other person living in San Francisco who can poach luck.
    Amanda Hennings. Mandy. My sister.
    Fuck.
    “Fortunately for you,” says Barry, “the dirty work has already been done.”
    Next to me, the Asian woman produces a metal case the size of a mass-market paperback. Something by Elmore Leonard or Sue Grafton rather than James Michener. She opens it to display a stainless steel vial encased in foam.
    “Two ounces of low-grade hard,” she says, then closes the case and hands it to me.
    I take it and hold it out in front of me like a used diaper filled to capacity. “What am I supposed to do? Just walk up to him and say, ‘Happy birthday’?”
    “Tommy’s recently started contracting luck poachers from out of state to expand his search for good luck,” says Barry. “Paying top dollar for luck poached and delivered to him. We figure it’s only a matter of time before he contacts you.”
    Barry needs to learn how to tell time better.
    “When he does,” says Barry, “that’s when you deliver the package.”
    “Deliver how?” I say, as the Asian woman pulls out her phone. “You can’t disguise bad luck as good luck. It’s not possible.”
    Good luck, no matter the grade, comes in varying degrees of white. The highest grade is the color of alabaster, while the lowest grade looks like diluted lemonade. Bad luck, conversely, is as black as the shadows in the barrel of a gun. Low-grade hard absorbs light like a black hole.
    The sedan comes to a stop in front of Grace Cathedral.
    “How you deliver it is your problem,” says Barry. “My problem is Tommy Wong. If you don’t take care of my problem, then you become my problem. Do we have an understanding?”
    I look at the Asian woman, who is either texting or playing Angry Birds, I can’t tell. All I know is that it’s bad form to use your cell phone when you’re in the company of others. Some people have no manners.
    “Can I have my luck back?” I ask.
    Barry picks up the Odwalla bottle. “I think I’ll hold on to this for good luck.”
    “You’re a funny guy.” I get out of the sedan and thank Barry and his partner for the lovely time. “We should get together for lunch. I know this really great Thai restaurant.”
    Barry gives me a condescending smile and says, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Monday.”
    Then the door closes and I watch as the sedan turns right and vanishes around the corner.

T he first thought that comes into my head is that it’s definitely time for me