Lucky Bastard

by S. G. Browne

  They haven’t had their luck stolen. If they had, I would have known about it.

  Because I would have been the one who’d stolen it.

  On January 26, 1972, JAT Yugoslav Airlines Flight 367 was en route from Stockholm to Belgrade when it exploded and broke into two pieces, spun out of control, and crashed in what is now the Czech Republic. Twenty-seven of the twenty-eight people aboard the plane were killed, most of them on impact.

  At the time of the explosion, Vesna Vulovic, a crew member, was at the rear of the plane, which tore away from the main fuselage and fell thirty-three thousand feet before hitting the ground. A food cart pinned Vesna to the back of the plane, acting as a seat belt and preventing her from being sucked out. Although she suffered a fractured skull, three broken vertebrae, two broken legs, and was temporarily paralyzed from the waist down, Vesna Vulovic survived the explosion and the fall. She holds the official world record for the highest survived fall without a parachute.

  Most would say Vesna Vulovic was lucky. Others might say she was born lucky. And they’d all be right. But the chances that Vesna Vulovic held on to her luck for any length of time after her record-breaking fall are about as likely as finding a human-rights activist on an 1860 Georgia slave plantation.

  You don’t publicize that quality of luck without attracting attention. I’m not talking about people who want to tell your life story or sign you to a contract or put you on talk shows. I’m talking about people who want to literally take what you were born with and turn it into personal profit by selling it to others.

  Luck thieves. Poachers.

  Like me.

  Not long after Vesna’s story hit the papers and she was out of her coma and meeting her curious and loving public, someone walked up to her, someone nondescript and armed with nothing but his or her unique physiology, shook Vesna’s hand, and stole her luck.

  Ta-dah. Just like that.

  I wasn’t there. I didn’t poach Vesna Vulovic’s luck. I wasn’t even alive in 1972. But I guarantee that whoever did poach it was able to sell it on the black market for fifty grand. Even back in the 1970s, celebrity good luck like Vesna’s came at a premium.

  Not just anyone can steal luck. It’s not a skill you can pick up by reading a how-to book or learn in a weekend seminar. You can’t clone the ability in a lab or re-create it in a chemical reaction. It’s something you’re born with. Great-grandma passed it on to Grandpa, who passed it on to Mom, who passed it on to me—though Mom refused to use it. Said it wasn’t right, stealing someone’s luck.

  Had Mom used her gift once in a while, she probably wouldn’t have pulled out of the parking lot an instant before that bus ran a red light.

  I can still see her sometimes, broken and bleeding in the driver’s seat, safety glass in her hair, her head twisted to one side. Nothing happened to me. Not a scratch. Even at the age of nine, I’d already learned the fine art of poaching.

  Physically, my skin looks and feels like anyone else’s. I sweat, I get sunburned, and I’ve had my share of paper cuts, road rashes, and rug burns. But my skin heals faster than most others’. Maybe I have more keratin. Or collagen. Or a greater abundance of cells that are involved in immune defenses. But whatever helps my skin heal also allows it to absorb another person’s luck simply by grasping his or her hand.

  You can’t just touch someone on an arm or a leg or any exposed flesh and steal their good luck. But shaking hands, at least in the United States, is common courtesy. A display of friendship and goodwill. Most people will shake a stranger’s hand without giving it a second thought, so you don’t even have to think twice about what you’re doing and poof! Your good luck is gone.

  And you won’t feel a thing.

  Of course, good luck isn’t something your average person knows how to measure or define, so no one can prove that anyone is actually stealing someone else’s good fortune. A lot of people don’t even believe good luck exists. That it’s just a concept made up as an excuse for why some people live charmed lives while others stumble from one disaster to another. It’s not because they did anything right or wrong. It’s not karma or fate or some ancient curse.

  It’s just because they were born that way.

  Those who aren’t genetically endowed with good luck or who want to acquire more can purchase some on the black market. But even though people pay good money to acquire it, for those who aren’t born with it, good luck can be unpredictable. Fickle. Which I suppose is why it’s frequently personified as a lady. And like the song says, sometimes it has a way of running out.

  For those fortunate enough to be born with it, good luck will never run out. Unless, of course, someone like me comes along and takes it.

  People are born unlucky, too, though it’s not a good idea to poach bad luck. It’s like inviting an unwanted guest into your home and discovering that he’s planning to spend the rest of his life with you.

  Of course, just because it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean someone hasn’t tried it. Look at the Edsel. Or Battlefield Earth. History is full of bad decisions.

  Trust me. I know.

  I’m not a private investigator because I want to be. But after I left Tucson I had to figure out a way to pay my bills. And being a PI seemed like a good fit, considering I had twenty-five years of experience watching people. I just didn’t realize how boring it would be.

  My current case deals with a suspicious claim against an insurance company, which is about as exciting as oatmeal, so instead of doing Internet research on my case, I find myself surfing websites looking for stories about people cheating death or coming into money or winning a contest.

  Looking for marks, in other words.

  Twenty years ago, finding marks was more research-intensive. You went to the library to read the national papers. You waited for the local news to come on at six o’clock. You listened to the radio. You had to work at it and spend a lot of time on the road and hope another poacher didn’t beat you to the score.

  Now, with the Internet and twenty-four-hour news channels and an almost endless supply of information, you don’t even have to leave your apartment to find a recent lottery winner or a surfer who survived a shark attack or a nineteen handicap golfer who got a hole in one. And today, instead of racing from one location to another to poach a potential mark, we have territories that are off-limits to other poachers. It’s an unwritten code that most of us live by. But considering we’re modern-day pirates, it’s really more of a guideline than a code.

  Like the saying goes, there’s not a lot of honor among thieves.

  Unfortunately, I’m not finding much of anything on the Internet within my territory, which is the San Francisco Bay Area, so I have to resort to traditional means to find potential marks.

  Today’s San Francisco Examiner is filled with articles about local politics, the state budget problems, and the threat of a Muni strike. The only story of interest is about a local man named James Saltzman, who apparently caught the final home runs hit by both Ken Griffey Jr. and Sammy Sosa. It’s not exactly Vesna Vulovic, but at least it’s something.

  Other than James Saltzman, there’s nothing useful, so I file his name away in my head and throw the paper aside. I’m thinking I may have to start digging through the celebrity rags, maybe even see if I can find something in the Weekly World News, when one of my smartphones rings.

  I have two phones. One for my personal use and detective business, and the other under an alias that’s used strictly for poaching.

  The other is the one that’s ringing.

  It hasn’t rung much in the past three years. Hence the need to earn my living as a PI. If you can’t move product, you have to find some other way to earn a living, and the last thing I want is a desk job in a cubicle and some socially defective, middle-management douche bag hovering over me and telling me what to do.

  I never was good at following directions.

  I answer: “Lucky Dragon Restaurant.”

  Silence on the other end of th
e line, though I can hear breathing and the sound of traffic and a fire engine off in the distance. I hear the same thing out my office window. Minus the breathing.

  I wait another thirty seconds, listening to whoever is on the other end continue to breathe, then the connection is lost.

  They probably have AT&T.

  I set my phone aside and return to my pursuit of finding a mark, glancing occasionally at the phone, waiting to see if it rings again, hoping it was just a customer who had second thoughts. But the phone remains silent on my desk.

  A few seconds later, there’s a knock at my door.

  I’m not expecting company. Or a client. Or the Spanish Inquisition. But before I can choose between inviting my company in or climbing out my window onto the fire escape, the door opens and in walk two well-groomed Asian thugs in matching designer suits.

  How do I know they’re thugs? It’s just a look they have. Either that or they’re constipated.

  They close the door behind them and approach my desk.

  “Nick Monday?” says the one on my left.

  I nod. “Last I checked. Who wants to know?”

  “Tommy Wong would like to speak with you.”

  Tommy Wong is a local figure in San Francisco. I’ve never met the man, but he’s apparently the head of the Chinese Mafia. The so-called Lord of Chinatown, Tommy takes a cut on just about everything from bars to dim-sum restaurants to massage parlors.

  Why Tommy Wong would want to speak with me, I have no idea.

  “What does he want to talk about?” I ask.

  “A business proposition,” says Thug One.

  I wait for more information, but apparently I’m not getting it.

  “What kind of a business proposition?”

  “One that involves your unique abilities,” says Thug One.

  “Juggling? Cat whispering? Or the fact that I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue?”

  Thug Two just stares at me, unimpressed.

  “Let’s not play games,” says Thug One, the chattier of the two. “There’s only one man in San Francisco who can steal luck.”

  It’s true that there aren’t a lot of us around. There’s a mother and daughter in Seattle, a family of four in Los Angeles, and two brothers and a grandfather in the San Joaquin Valley. Those are just the ones I know of on the West Coast. I’ve also heard about poachers in Chicago, Miami, Las Vegas, Phoenix, St. Louis, Denver, Memphis, Boston, and New York, as well as up in Canada and scattered throughout Europe. While we’re not taking over the world anytime soon, there are more of us than you’d think.

  And Tommy’s thug is wrong. I’m not the only one in San Francisco who can poach luck.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m just a private investigator.”

  “I understand your desire to maintain this facade,” says Thug One. “But the fact remains Mr. Wong would like to acquire your services on a regular basis.”

  “You mean like an independent contractor?”

  “More like an employee,” he says, as Thug Two opens my office door and waits expectantly. “But you can discuss the details of the arrangement with Mr. Wong.”

  That the Chinese Mafia knows who I am isn’t surprising, though it’s a bit disconcerting. Not quite like Clark Kent getting outed, but the last thing I need is to have my cover blown. Still, the idea of working for anyone is about as appealing as a used diaper.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to have to pass.”

  “You don’t understand,” says Thug One. “This isn’t an offer you refuse.”

  “I do understand. But I like things the way they are.”

  Which isn’t exactly the truth. I’d like to be making more money and living in Kauai with a view of Hanalei Bay and a private masseuse. But just because someone makes you an offer that you shouldn’t refuse doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to take it.

  “Last chance to change your mind,” says Thug One.

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping he doesn’t pull out a gun and shoot me. Which would really put a damper on my day. “But my mind’s made up.”

  Instead of shooting me, he gives me one final menacing look, then turns and walks out of the office. Thug Two follows suit, minus the glower, and smiles at me as he leaves.

  “See you around, Mr. Monday,” he says, then closes the door behind him.

  The last thing I want is to see the Chinese Mafia Welcome Wagon again. Not that I’m worried they’ll actually shoot me, but I’m guessing the next time I run into them it might not be so pleasant.

  So much for my boring life as a private investigator.

  It’s moments like this that make you appreciate that you don’t have anything tying you down and you can just pack up and go at a moment’s notice. Even though we’re able to settle down more than we used to, the nature of luck poaching still requires a nomadic lifestyle. After all, you can’t steal from your neighbors and expect to develop a real sense of community. That’s why most poachers rent instead of own. And why we embrace a solitary existence.

  When everyone you meet is just potential income, making friends becomes a problem.

  While luck poachers don’t generally form long-lasting relationships, we do marry and reproduce with nonpoachers. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. But people who aren’t born with this ability can’t understand what makes us tick. They don’t know how to deal with our genetic anomaly. It’s the ultimate in irreconcilable differences.

  Even though my mother refused to poach, my father couldn’t accept that she passed her abilities along to his progeny. My grandmother cut out on my grandfather when my mom was just a little girl. And my great-grandfather abandoned my great-grandmother before Grandpa was even born.

  You can see the pattern here. When you can’t relate to your partner, chances are things won’t work out.

  Poaching luck isn’t for the sentimental. You need a strong sense of resolve and the ability to sever any relationship without a second thought. Or better yet, avoid developing relationships altogether. They just get in the way.

  No one ever mistook me for a hopeless romantic.

  While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, I’m thinking it might be time for me to find a new place to call home. Three years in one place is like ten in poacher years, especially after a not-so-social call from the Chinese Mafia. So I’m considering my options, running through potential territories, wondering if I could get enough work in Kauai to make setting up shop feasible, when my office door opens and in walks a woman who looks like she just stepped off a 1950s Hollywood film set.

  My office is suddenly the popular place to be.

  With long, dark hair, dark eyes, and ruby-red lips, the woman has a face that could make a happily married man forget all about his wife and kids at home. Since I’m not married and I don’t have any kids, I’m already two steps ahead. Although I can’t see all of her curves inside her red circle skirt and her clinging, black, V-neck wool sweater, I can see enough to make me wonder if she’s the type to wear French-cut underwear or a thong.

  And suddenly Kauai is on the back burner.

  “Can I help you?” I say, wishing I’d worn a green T-shirt. I look good in green.

  She doesn’t answer right away but looks around my office, which isn’t much to look at. I’m a bit of a minimalist when it comes to interior decorating. It’s just a desk, two chairs, a lamp, a filing cabinet, a small refrigerator, my laptop computer, and me.

  “I’m looking for Nick Monday,” she says, saying my name with such disdain that I’m wondering if we’ve met.

  “It’s your lucky day,” I say, flashing my most charming smile. “Because you’ve found him.”

  She gives me a forced smile that lets me know she’s not charmed.

  I have that kind of effect on women. Unless they’re corporate-coffeehouse baristas. It’s complicated.

  “Have a seat,” I say, pointing to the chair across from my desk.

  She w
alks toward me, not smiling, her shoes clicking loud and hollow on the hardwood floor. When she reaches the chair, she checks to make sure it’s clean, then sits down, smoothing out her red skirt. I catch a glimpse of one white, creamy thigh as she crosses her legs, and she catches me glimpsing.

  I look back up and smile. She doesn’t seem impressed.

  “So how can I help you, Miss . . .”

  “Knight,” she says. “Tuesday Knight.”

  “Really?” I say, with a smile.

  “Do you find something amusing, Mr. Monday?”

  I lean back in my chair. “Have you been following me?”

  She gets this offended look on her face like I just flashed her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry, I was only . . . the whole day of the week thing? Tuesday follows Monday?”

  She just stares at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Why don’t we start over?”

  “I hadn’t realized we’d started at all.”

  There’s no trace of humor in her voice or on her face. Either she’s bluffing, or she needs to do more recreational drugs.

  “Then why don’t we start with why you wandered into my office.”

  The majority of my potential cases are messages left on my voice mail. I don’t get a lot of walk-ins. Especially good-looking ones with ample amounts of cleavage.

  “I didn’t wander in,” she says. “I knew where I was going.”

  “And how, may I ask, did you hear about my services?”

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “Would this friend of a friend have a name?”

  She just looks at me, not saying a word. For a few seconds I think she’s trying to remember, until I realize she has no intention of sharing a name with me.

  I’ve got a name. A good one. It starts with a b and rhymes with itch.

  But that still doesn’t mean I’m not interested in seeing what she looks like under her cool, humorless veneer. I am, after all, a man. A woman’s personality has nothing to do with whether I’d actually sleep with her.