by S. G. Browne
As we turn north on Franklin and head toward the Marina, I find myself thinking about what I’m doing here. Not in the backseat of a Lincoln town car, though I suppose that’s relevant to the situation, but in this particular city. When things went wrong, I found myself drawn to California.
Maybe I need my sister more than I’m willing to admit. Maybe I want to reconcile but I don’t know how. Maybe I’ve been too consumed with my own path to realize that I’ve lost something important along the way.
In general, poachers aren’t predisposed to a lot of self-reflection. It’s bad for business. When you take the time to stop and think about the impacts you’re having on the lives of those you poach from, about the path you’ve chosen for yourself, you start to realize what it is you’re doing. The choices you’ve made and the questionable ethics behind them. And despite that I was born with this ability, I have a choice. Like Mom and Mandy, it’s a matter of self-restraint.
Just because you have the power to do something doesn’t mean you have to use it.
As we drive down Franklin Street toward the San Francisco Bay reflecting the warmth of the midafternoon sun, the sky opening up above us, clear and blue, I think about Mandy and I wonder if my moving here was about finding my way back to the life I’d built for myself, or if it was about trying to find my way back to something else.
After grabbing my cappuccino and apple fritter on Chestnut and changing into my charcoal-gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie, I decide to work the list by hitting up the two low-grade marks first, since you don’t really want to go backward when you’re serial poaching. Start with the lowest grades of luck and then work your way to the top. Otherwise, you end up with a bad taste in your mouth. Like drinking Guinness all night and then finishing off with a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
But before I start poaching, I tell Alex to take me to another address. One that’s not on the list and one that I’ve only been to once before.
I ring the doorbell and stand on the front porch, hoping this time turns out better than the last. Then the front door opens.
“What are you doing here?” asks Mandy. No smile. No warmth. No enthusiasm. Just a suspicious look and a cold stare.
So much for the happy reunion.
“Is that any way to greet your little brother?”
She stands there in the doorway arms folded, lips pursed, not inviting me inside. It’s about what I expected.
“Can I come in for a second?”
Mandy stares at me long enough that I wonder if she heard me. Or if she’s thinking it over. Or if she’s gone catatonic. Then she shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head and turns and walks away without a word.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me before walking down the hallway, the walls of which are lined with framed photos of Mandy and Ted and their daughters—smiling and happy and on vacation. Living normal lives. Doing normal things. There aren’t any photos on the walls of my apartment. If there were, they’d be of me, alone, poaching luck or selling luck or with a catheter in my penis.
Not exactly Kodak moments.
I stop in front of one family photo at Disneyland where they’re all wearing smiles so big they look like a paid advertisement, and I get a twinge of regret at the memories I’ve missed out on, then I follow Mandy into the kitchen, where I find her leaning back against the kitchen counter by the sink with her arms once again folded, giving me a stare so severe that I’m beginning to chafe.
“What are you doing here?” She doesn’t even say anything about how good I look in my suit.
“Can’t a little brother swing by to check in on his big sister without being accused of having an ulterior motive?”
“I didn’t mention any ulterior motive.”
“No. But it’s implied in the tone of your voice.”
“That’s probably just your guilty conscience filling in the blanks.”
“Or maybe it’s just you jumping to conclusions.”
“If I’m jumping to conclusions,” she says, “it’s only because I know where this is headed and I don’t feel like wasting my time trying to get there.”
My dad used to say that to me all the time.
“You know,” I say, “I think this is probably the longest conversation we’ve had in the past ten years.”
“Maybe that’s because we haven’t had anything to discuss.”
“So let’s discuss.” I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit down, waiting for her to join me. I even nudge another chair out with my foot, but Mandy stays standing by the sink.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“Where are the girls? Stephanie and . . .” And I can’t remember.
“Stella,” she says. “Stella and Stacy. Wow.”
Well, at least I was close on the first one.
“They’re at the movies with some friends,” she says. “What do you care?”
“Have you always been this hostile? Or do you just reserve it for me?”
“What do you want, Aaron?”
My real name. Or at least the one I was born with. I haven’t used it since I dropped out of college. As far as I’m concerned, Aaron died more than ten years ago. Which, I guess, is why I’m here. To see if there might be any chance of resurrecting him.
“I just wanted to see how my nieces are. Make sure they’re okay.”
“They’re fine, considering you don’t even remember their names. You asked about them earlier this morning. Or don’t you remember that, either?”
“I remember. I was just—”
“Get to the point, Aaron.”
This is the tricky part. Letting Mandy know what’s going on without having her throw something at me. Like a cast-iron skillet. Or a hive of Africanized honeybees.
“Well, there’s this little problem . . .”
“What a surprise,” she says with a short laugh. “There’s always a little problem with you. Only it’s never so little.”
“I know. But this time it’s different.”
“How is it different? Ever since high school it’s been the same story, over and over and over. It’s all about the money. All the time. Nothing else. The thrill of the score. The freedom. But where has that led you? What do you have to show for it? When are you ever going to grow up and learn that poaching isn’t going to make you happy?”
“I know. That’s why I’m going to quit.”
“You’re going to quit?” she says, sarcasm dripping and pooling on the floor at her feet.
“Yes. As soon as I take care of a few things.”
“Oh, bullshit. I’ve heard that before.”
“When?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. After every important event in my life that you missed because you were poaching. My college graduation. My wedding. The birth of my daughters . . .”
“I’m sorry, Mandy.”
“You’re sorry?”
I nod vigorously.
“For what?”
I realize I’m sorry for so many things that I don’t know where to start.
“For not being there for you,” I say. “For not being part of your life. For everything I didn’t do that I should have done.”
She continues to stare at me, only with less exasperation. “Well, that’s a new one,” she says, her arms unfolding, her palms dropping to rest on the edge of the counter. “You’re never sorry.”
We just look at each other, neither of us saying anything, but at least when I try on a smile to see if it works, she smiles back. It’s just a little one, not much more than a twitch of the lips, but it’s a start.
“Are you really going to quit?”
I nod. “Just as soon as I clear up a little problem.”
She rolls her eyes. “What now?”
“Well, that’s what I came here to talk to you about.”
“And why did you come to talk to me?” She folds her arms again, the twitch of a smile waving good-bye.
“Because the little problem involves you.”
“Me? How, exactly, does it involve me?”
Alex is outside waiting and my poaching clock is ticking, so I give Mandy the abridged version of Barry Manilow and Tommy Wong and the cylinder of bad luck. I don’t tell her about Tuesday Knight, either of them, because, I figure, why upset her?
“Shit,” she says, running her hands through her hair, her voice choked. She holds on to her head, staring at the floor, then she looks up and turns her frustration and glare toward me. “How could you do this to me?”
“It’s not my fault.”
“No, it’s never your fault.”
“I didn’t do anything to bring you into this. Not on purpose.”
“It doesn’t matter if you did it on purpose,” she says, her voice rising. “The fact that I’m involved, that my family is involved, is because you’re here.”
“But I’m trying to help.”
“You can help by leaving.”
“Mandy, listen—”
“Leave. Get out.”
“But I—”
“Go. Now!” She raises her right hand and points past me to the front door. “And I’m not just talking about my house.”
I know it’s pointless to argue. It was pointless to come here. It was pointless to think that I could help. I don’t know what I expected to accomplish by telling Mandy she might be in danger. I’d hoped to somehow make things better. Instead, I made them worse.
Which seems to be the flavor of the day.
“I’m sorry,” I say, then I get up and walk down the hallway and out the front door, closing it softly behind me. But not before I hear Mandy start to cry.
After my failed attempt to reconcile with my sister, I’m not in much of a mood to poach. It’s like pretending to enjoy sex when all you really want to do is go to sleep or watch The Daily Show. But I don’t have a choice. Not if I want my life back. So I figure if I just suck it up and fulfill my debt to Tommy, maybe things will work out. Maybe I can disappear. Maybe I’ll be able to find a way to keep Mandy out of this.
Or maybe there’s another way.
“Take me to 1331 Greenwich,” I tell Alex.
I don’t know if this is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had or just a really bad one, but I need to find out if young Jimmy Saltzman is carrying Pure. Not that I intend to steal his luck, but I just want to know in case of an emergency. In case I run out of options. In case I discover that I have less character than even my father thought.
Except I wouldn’t be poaching Jimmy’s luck for personal gain. I’d be poaching it for Mandy and for her family, to keep them out of harm’s way. I’d be justified in my actions. Poaching with honorable intentions.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
When the car pulls up to the corner of Greenwich and Polk, I take a swig of my cappuccino, then I get out and adjust my tie. Even without good luck in my system, I’ve been poaching long enough that I approach every mark with confidence. But as I walk up to the Saltzmans’ front door, I feel like a nervous teenager going to pick up my date for dinner. Only my date is a ten-year-old boy with an attitude and a vein of pure luck running through him.
Or so I believe.
I realize that the superfluous sweating I experienced the first time I saw Jimmy could have been attributed to any number of factors. The weather. The walk from the Tenderloin. Getting drugged by Tommy. But my hunch tells me Jimmy’s the real deal. Which is causing me to perspire just thinking about it.
Imagine that you’ve known about the existence of a magic elixir, a forbidden fountain of youth, and you’re about to get a glimpse of it. To discover if you have the courage to deny yourself the temptation of taking it.
That’s how I feel right now.
And, I have to admit, the thought of having another conversation with Jimmy has me a little freaked-out.
So I knock on the door and settle myself down and remind myself that I’m the adult here. I’m the one in charge. Plus this time, I’m more impressively attired.
When the door opens, Jimmy is standing a few feet from the doorway, staring up at me, a look of exasperation on his face.
“Remember me?” I say, all smiles and charm.
“I’m not a moron.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”
“Then why did you ask if I remembered you?”
I notice I’m already sweating. I don’t know if that’s because of the suit or if I’m just having an allergic reaction to Jimmy.
“I just thought maybe you wouldn’t recognize me because I’m wearing a suit this time,” I say, gesturing toward my threads for emphasis.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to forget someone with a fake name who smells like cat pee.”
I give him a fake smile to go with my fake name and I wonder if there’s any way I can give him a fake kick in the ass.
“Well, it’s good to know that I made an impression.”
He just stares at me. “What do you want?”
It’s only been a few hours, but I’ve forgotten how adorable he is.
“Is your father home yet?”
“No. He’s at work. He has a real job. Unlike some people.”
For no good reason I can discern, I let out a nervous laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing. I was just remembering something that happened earlier.”
“What was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You’re kind of a freak,” he says.
He has no idea how close to true that statement is.
First sweating, then laughter. Those are two of the symptoms of being in the presence of Pure. But even if I experience a nervous twitch or an unexplained body spasm, I’m going to want something more definitive to prove that he’s carrying Pure. A sense of the quality of luck flowing through him. The only way I can get that is to shorten the distance between us, which is currently about six feet.
“When will your father get home?” I ask, taking a small step forward. Jimmy responds by closing the door halfway and watching me from behind its protection.
“It’s none of your business.”
I sense something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It could be him or it could just be all of the weirdness of the day coalescing into this moment. But I don’t need to be psychic to know that Jimmy Saltzman is seconds away from calling out for his mother or closing the door.
So I decide to see if I can get a better reading and see what happens.
“How about your mom?” I say, taking another step toward the front door until I’m inches from the threshold. “Is she home?”
“She’s busy,” he says, and slams the door in my face. But not before I pick up on something that nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. A grade of luck more powerful than anything I’ve ever sensed before in a mark. An intensity and purity that surpasses anything I’ve ever poached.
The Holy Grail of good luck.
On February 25, 1999, Virginia Rivero from Misiones, Argentina, went into labor at her home and walked out to a nearby road to hitchhike to the hospital. Two men offered her a lift in their car, though Rivero was so far along in her pregnancy that she ended up giving birth to a baby daughter in the backseat. But she wasn’t finished.
When Rivero told the two men she was about to have a second baby, the driver sped up, overtook the car in front of him, and collided with another vehicle. Rivero and her newborn daughter were ejected through the back door of the car, suffering minor injuries. Rivero flagged down another car and finally made it to the hospital, where she gave birth to a baby boy.
Virginia Rivero’s daughter holds the record as the youngest survivor of a car accident.
Chances are, both Rivero’s daughter and son were tracked down by luck poachers and relieved of their good fortune at some point before they reached the age of ten. I can only imagine what it would have felt like to have such
virginal good luck flowing through me. The euphoria and the sense of power. The wonder of absolute purity.
I’m thinking about my grandfather and the look he would get when he told me his stories about Pure. How his cheeks would flush with color and the corners of his mouth would turn up into a soft, wistful smile. How his eyes would grow distant and misty, as if staring off at some fond memory.
Even though I don’t have a mirror in the backseat of the Lincoln town car for me to see my reflection, I know now what it means to own that look.
Problem is, right now, the look is all I have. While poaching Jimmy’s luck could conceivably help me find a way to keep Mandy and her family safe, there’s no guarantee things would work out the way I hoped. Even if they did, I’d have to live with the shame of what I’d done. Plus there’s the problem of actually getting close enough to grab his hand. So it’s not like I have a valid dilemma. Still, it’s tempting to think that if I could find a way to poach the Pure from Jimmy, I could solve all of my problems, get the half million from Tommy, and then live happily ever after in personal disgrace.
At least I’d have my health.
Instead, I’m poaching luck from people on a list given to me by a power-hungry Mafia sociopath while being chauffeured around by a militant vegan douche bag with a superiority complex.
“Hey, you know that factory-farmed pigs are confined in narrow cages and become crazy with boredom?” says Alex. “They’re very social, affectionate, and intelligent, and they spend their lives in a space so small they can’t even turn around.”
“Why don’t we play the quiet game?” I say. “You stop talking, and that way I won’t have to scream at you to shut up. How’s that sound?”
He gives me a quick glance in the rearview mirror, then stares straight ahead, sulking.
I’d give anything right now for a pulled-pork sandwich and a side of bacon.
Yummy.
We drive through Pacific Heights, past Lafayette Park and the Spreckels Mansion, home to romance novelist Danielle Steel. I tried to poach her luck once, but you seldom see her out in public without a pair of gloves.