by S. G. Browne
It’s Jimmy Saltzman Jr.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask, after we’ve stepped back out of the room and closed the door.
“I think the answer to that is fairly obvious,” says Tommy.
“I mean, how did he get here? How did you know about him?”
“Let’s just say your so-called douche bag driver was very helpful in recounting your exploits.”
It didn’t even occur to me to think that Alex would rat me out to Tommy. And I’m suddenly thinking about my visit to Mandy and hoping she’s not in one of the other rooms on this floor.
“It was nice of his mother and father to go out to dinner and leave him home without a babysitter,” says Tommy. “Today’s parents are so responsible.”
I don’t even want to know how these guys lured Jimmy out of his house. You’d think a neighbor would have noticed something, but people don’t pay attention to things like that. Especially when the person doing the kidnapping has accumulated a surplus of good luck.
“Any other surprises?” I ask.
“I don’t really think of this as a surprise. You were obviously thinking about poaching his luck before. Now you get your chance.”
I hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to do about Jimmy. But even if I did decide to poach his luck, I definitely didn’t want it to happen like this. It just doesn’t seem sporting.
“Does that mean I get the reward?” I ask.
Tommy laughs. A big, throaty, head-thrown-back laugh that makes me feel like the kid in high school who gets his gym clothes stolen by the campus bully.
Once Tommy stops laughing, which comes to an abrupt end as if severed with a knife, he looks at me without any humor and says, “Your reward, Mr. Monday, is that you’re still alive.”
Yeah, and I’m wondering how much longer I have to spend my bounty.
“I like this better,” says Tommy. “This way, I get what I want and I don’t have to pay the five hundred thousand dollars.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll just get someone else to do it. You. Her. Him. It’s all the same to me.”
“So it’s that easy?” I say. “You’ll let me leave? I can just walk out of here?”
“Not exactly.”
He sits down on one of the couches and, from somewhere inside his smoking jacket, pulls out a gun. He doesn’t aim it at me but just holds it on his lap to make his point. His goon lurks about while the other one presumably stands guard outside the front door.
I don’t really need Tommy to elaborate on his intentions to know that my choices are limited, but I’m hoping I can stall until I come up with another option.
“I don’t have my transference equipment,” I say. “It’s at my apartment.”
“We have the proper equipment here. I’ll have it delivered to your room.”
“I need a cappuccino and an apple fritter in order to process the luck.”
“There’s a Starbucks downstairs on the corner,” says Tommy. “But you’ll have to make do with a cinnamon roll.”
I could make a case for the apple fritter, but that wouldn’t buy me much time. Besides, I have a feeling Tommy isn’t in much of a giving mood.
“Any more excuses?” asks Tommy. “Or are you ready to settle your debt?”
I try to come up with something to keep stalling. Anything at all. But my reserve of excuses is as empty as a bulimic’s stomach.
“What’s going to happen to Jimmy after I poach his luck?”
“That’s none of your concern. Besides, what does it matter to you what happens to him? He’s just another mark.”
“Call me curious.”
Tommy looks at me and smiles. “The same thing that’s going to happen to him whether you poach his luck or someone else does.”
Knowing that Tommy’s thought this out makes me feel like I’m two steps behind. I’m still trying to figure out my next move and he already has an exit strategy.
“So what’s it going to be, Mr. Monday?” he asks, picking up the gun for emphasis. “Poach his luck and get on with your life? Or play the conflicted hero and get on with your death?”
I never was good with ultimatums.
“Make it a grande cappuccino,” I say. “And if you can find a bear claw or something with raisins or fruit, that would be great.”
“Good decision.” Tommy stands up and puts the gun away and hands the key to Jimmy’s room to his goon. “I’ll have your coffee and pastry sent up. As soon as you’ve finished with your snack, you’ll have five minutes to get me my luck. Any questions?”
“Yeah, are you a vegan?”
Tommy just laughs and heads toward the front door.
I’m thinking maybe I can somehow avoid poaching Jimmy’s luck while finding a way to infect Tommy with the bad luck. Or let the police know that Tommy is holding a kidnapped kid hostage. Or discover a way to travel back in time so I can start this day all over.
“And in case you get any ideas about trying something clever,” says Tommy, standing in the doorway, “I have your sister locked up in another room on this floor.”
Then the door closes and he’s gone, leaving one goon with a pickle up his ass and one poacher still looking for his self-respect.
I sit and wait for my coffee and doughnut like a cop who’s been on the wagon for three months and can’t wait to fall off. Except my anxiety has nothing to do with my addiction to Starbucks and deep-fried pastries and everything to do with how this day has, to use the words of Barry Manilow, turned into a complete clusterfuck.
I suppose Tommy could be lying about Mandy, but considering Alex told Tommy about Jimmy Saltzman, I don’t really have any reason to doubt that he gave up my sister, too. And if Tommy could get a ten-year-old kid up to the twentieth floor of the Sir Francis Drake without raising any questions, I don’t have any doubts that my sister is somewhere on this floor with me. And probably pissed off. Most likely at me.
So to take my mind off of my sister and Jimmy and the general mess this day has become, I strike up a conversation with Tommy’s goon.
“So what’s your name?” I ask.
He just stares at me and stands with his hands folded in front of him like a constipated statue.
“How long you been working for Tommy?”
More of the same.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you have excellent social skills?”
Nothing. Not even a yawn or a dirty look.
So much for making small talk.
A few minutes later, my cappuccino and bear claw arrive from Starbucks. The goon from outside brings them in and sets them down on the coffee table next to the ceramic lucky cat, then he nods at the other goon in a show of goon solidarity before he resumes his post outside the door.
I break out the bear claw and start eating it, washing down each bite with some cappuccino, taking my time, trying to think of a way out of this.
If I can get the bad luck out of my backpack and into the cappuccino, I can douse the goon and get out of here, saving my ass and hopefully Jimmy’s and Mandy’s, too. But the goon is watching me like an obsessed stalker, making it difficult for me to scratch my ass without making him suspicious.
Had I thought about it earlier, I would have gone into the restroom and removed the vial of bad luck and palmed it or put it in my pocket so I’d be prepared to use it. But since I’m channeling my inner Indiana Jones, planning ahead didn’t occur to me. Plus the idea of having a fragile vial of bad luck cupped in my hand or stashed in my pocket isn’t exactly appealing. It’s creepy enough carrying it around in a bag of Starbucks House Blend.
That gets me to thinking again about using the coffee grounds. Which gives me an idea. I don’t know if it’s any good, but at least it’s a plan, and right now it’s the only thing I have going for me.
I just hope I can pull this off in less than five minutes.
I pretend to finish my cappuccino, leaving the cup a little less than half-full, then I stand up and grab
my backpack off the table, accidentally knocking over the ceramic lucky cat and causing the raised left paw to break off.
Good thing I’m not superstitious, otherwise I’m guessing I’d be pretty much screwed right about now.
I look up at the goon with a smile and shrug. “Oops.”
He just shakes his head. But at least it was some kind of a reaction.
“Ready when you are, Gabby,” I say.
Gabby opens the front door and tells the other goon what we’re doing, then he leads me to the room where Jimmy’s being held.
“I’ve got five minutes, right?” I say.
He nods once, then unlocks the door.
“I like a man of few words,” I say, stepping inside. “Makes it easier to win an argument.”
Then the door closes and locks behind me, leaving me standing there holding my backpack and my half-empty Starbucks cup. Some might look at the situation and think of the cup as half-full, but I’m not exactly brimming with optimism.
Jimmy is no longer watching Harry Potter but is standing in the middle of the bedroom, watching me with suspicion as the movie plays silently on the flat-screen behind him.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
The attitude and sense of bravado are gone. Now he just looks like a scared little kid. I guess getting kidnapped and locked inside a hotel bedroom will do that to you.
Aware that Gabby might be listening outside the door, I unplug the headphones from the flat-screen so the sound of the movie helps to drown out any conversation.
“I’m here to help you,” I whisper.
“Why? I thought you were one of the bad guys.”
“It depends on your definition of bad.”
From the expression on his face, I can tell this doesn’t provide Jimmy with any sense of relief.
“It’s complicated,” I say. “For the sake of argument and time, let’s just pretend I’m one of the good guys. Okay?”
“But I saw you with him.”
“You mean the old Asian guy?”
Jimmy nods.
“Trust me,” I say. “It wasn’t by choice.”
Jimmy seems to mull this over. I wish he’d hurry up because we’re down to four minutes.
“So you’re really here to help me?”
“Theoretically,” I say, as I set the half-empty Starbucks cup on the desk, then remove the bag of Starbucks House Blend and the empty Peet’s cup from my backpack.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s all part of the plan. Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“No,” he says, looking embarrassed.
“Not even a little bit?”
He just shakes his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.”
That’s when I notice that the crotch and one leg of his pants are wet.
Well, that’s just perfect. Without additional liquid, my idea isn’t going to work. And the last thing I want to do is release all of my own good luck and end up defenseless.
“Okay,” I say. “There’s only one way we’re going to get out of this, and even that’s a long shot. So if this is going to work, then you’re going to have to trust me. Do you trust me?”
Jimmy shakes his head.
“Wrong answer,” I say. “Honest, but wrong.”
I open the bag of coffee and pour some grounds into my unfinished cappuccino until the mixture is thick and goopy, then I fill the empty Peet’s cup about half-full with coffee grounds. With my back to Jimmy I unzip my pants and empty my bladder into the cup, my eyes tearing up as Donna’s and Doug’s top-grade soft leaves me. Although I do get a certain pleasure out of peeing on Starbucks coffee grounds inside a Peet’s coffee cup.
After I’ve filled the cup about two-thirds of the way with my urine and Starbucks House Blend, I set the cup down on the desk, zip up, and remove the two-ounce vial of low-grade hard from the bag of coffee. Just touching the vial causes my skin to break out in gooseflesh and sends a tiny earthquake shuddering through my bones, so I try to tell myself that it’s only used motor oil.
I also tell myself that this is going to work, that the coffee grounds will act like a sponge to soak up the bad luck and keep it from eating through the postconsumer-recycled-paper cup. At least right away. But right now, I’m about as confident as a Chicago Cubs fan in September.
“What’s that?” asks Jimmy, pointing toward the vial.
“You don’t want to know,” I say, starting to unscrew the cap.
“Why?”
“Just make sure to stay clear and don’t make any sudden movements or sounds.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Why?”
My hands are shaking and my nerves are screaming. I’m not sure if it’s because of the vial of bad luck or the incessant questions from Jimmy or that I’m doing this without any protection, but I realize I can’t do this. I can’t risk spilling any of this bad luck and getting it on me. If I do, neither of us is going to get out of here.
I screw the cap on tight and set the vial down next to the cup, walk over to Jimmy, and crouch down in front of him. “Put out your hands.”
“Why?” he asks, putting his hands behind him.
I don’t have time to make up a story that he’ll believe enough to trust me, so I’m just going to have to go against type and tell him the truth.
“Because I need to borrow something from you that will help us to get out of here.”
“What do you need to borrow?”
“Your luck.”
“My luck? How can you borrow my luck?”
“I’m special,” I say. “It’s the way I was born. It’s just a talent that comes naturally.”
“Like magic tricks?”
“Yeah. Kind of like that.”
He stares at me, his hands still hidden. “I know a magic trick.”
“That’s great,” I say. “But we don’t have time for games.”
He stares at me and makes a poopie face.
“Look,” I say. “I know we got off to a bad start, but if we’re going to get out of here, we’re going to have to work together. You’re going to have to trust me.”
Nothing. Just the same poopie face. I’m beginning to think I might have to choke down the concoction of Starbucks and urine to give myself some measure of protection. Except with only one cup of bad luck, I don’t think my plan has a chance of working.
“You promise when you’re done with it, you’ll give it back?” says Jimmy.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I say, which is probably a mistake, considering that I’m about to break my promise and then pick up a vial of thermonuclear bad luck. But at this point, I’m willing to promise anything.
With a nod, Jimmy draws his hands out from behind his back and holds them out in front of him, palms up, vulnerable and innocent and trusting.
I take a deep breath and reach out to take his hands in mine, images of my grandfather and my mother and my sister swirling through my head. I see my mother dead and bleeding in the car. I see my sister, angry and pointing for me to leave. I see my grandfather, his eyes filled with a combination of longing and disgust.
And I can’t do it.
“Good job,” I say, standing up and walking away. “You passed the test. Now we can get out of here.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just do as I say and stay behind me.”
Though to be honest, I should stay behind him. If he gets splattered with bad luck, he’ll be fine. Me? That’s a different story with a not-so-happy ending. But really, how much worse could things get?
I take another deep breath, then I pick up the vial and unscrew the cap. I want to save most of the bad luck for Tommy, plus I don’t know for sure if this will work
, so I pour a quarter of the vial’s contents into the Peet’s cup filled with the goopy concoction of coffee and urine. I manage to do it without spilling any on me or passing out, which is always a good sign, then I cap the vial and slip it into my left pants pocket and hope no one kicks me in the nuts.
“So can you really borrow someone’s good luck?” asks Jimmy.
“No. That was just part of the test.”
“That’s too bad. It would be pretty cool if you could.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That it would.”
I put the bag of coffee into my backpack and sling it over my shoulders, then I pick up the harmless, half-empty cup of cappuccino and coffee grounds and hand it to Jimmy.
“I’m going to have to leave you here for a few minutes,” I say, “but I’ll be back with the key. Your job is to hold on to this and not let it spill. Okay?”
“You promise you’ll come back to get me?”
“I promise.”
I grab the Peet’s cup with the urine and the bad-luck-soaked coffee grounds and knock on the door. “All done.”
The door opens and Gabby is standing right in front of me. I don’t expect him to notice that I went in with a Starbucks cup and came out with a Peet’s cup without the sippy top, and he doesn’t. So far so good.
“Take me to your leader,” I say.
I can feel the cup growing warm in my hands. This isn’t a cuddle-by-the-fireplace type of warm. This is more like a door-waiting-to-be-opened-to-feed-the-angry-fire-growing-behind-it kind of warm.
Gabby closes and locks the bedroom door, putting the key in his left pants pocket. With him this close and with my nerve starting to break, I almost throw the contents of the cup in his face. But I need both goons within range for my plan to work.
He points me to the front door and I obey. The cup is growing warmer in my hand. I can feel it starting to melt, to conform to the shape of my fingers and palm, and I’m thinking, if bad luck can eat its way through plastic, what will it do to my hand?
I open the front door and step out into the hallway past the other goon. As soon as Gabby steps out into the hallway, I sling my cup of bad-luck-urine-coffee-sludge into both of their faces.
Sludge and liquid splatters across their cheeks and foreheads, across their necks and shirts. A glob hits Gabby in the left eye, while another glob lands on the second goon’s lips. For a moment neither of them reacts other than to wipe away the mess, and I think this was another major judgment in error. Then Gabby staggers back into the doorway and they both start to scream. That’s when I notice that the splatters of goop are spreading out, growing something that looks like tendrils, and absorbing into their flesh.