Ride the Lucky

by Kendric Neal

  He spotted a patio table half-hidden around the side, meant for employees on breaks. He sat down, removed his shoes and rubbed his feet—he wasn't accustomed to hiking in what had until recently been very expensive work shoes.

  “I think you need this more than me,” a voice said, and Neely turned to look into the face of an old Native-American man about to sit down with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, that would be— that would help a lot.”

  The man smiled and sat down. He was skinny and hunched with gray skin and jet black hair that looked sort of dusty, but with a smile that seemed happy and genuine. He seemed familiar somehow, and Neely thought it must have been from the B&W photos in the casino—the man's relatives must have been among the elders. “Bad night?” he asked.

  Neely knew he meant at the casino. “No. Well yes, a very bad night.”

  The man smiled and Neely realized he must have been around her age.

  “Hey, do you know a woman, Lomasi Buchanan-Angel?”

  “Yes, of course, Lomasi.”

  “I killed her.” The man's grin spread from ear to ear, the last reaction Neely expected. “Why do you laugh?”

  “It's a funny thing to say.”

  “It's not funny if it's true.”

  “Why would you want to kill her?”

  “She cursed me.”

  The man smiled again and nodded. For some reason, he seemed delighted. “Because of Jack?”

  “Yes. You know about that?”

  “Yes. They're looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Tribal police.”

  “The Feds were at the gate yesterday.”

  “Not back yet. Must like to sleep in, the Feds.”

  “They must.”

  “You like the bells, huh?” he said, motioning toward the casino.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Good. Give me a headache.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Who?”

  “Lomasi.”

  “She's crazy.”

  “I mean— what is she, some kind of medicine woman?”

  The man began to grin again, something that was beginning to unsettle Neely. “You like movies?”

  “You think I'm joking?”

  “You did something bad, huh?”

  “I did.”

  “Lomasi crazy. She likes movies too. She thinks she's Hahnee Power.”

  “She cursed me with a lucky streak. Her boy died because of me, I think she is Hahnee Power.”

  “You believe Indian legend, huh?”

  “What? You don't believe it's true?”

  “You think if she have that kind of power, she'd live in a hut with a dirt floor?”

  “There haven't been other incidents? Times when her curses came true.”

  The man grinned at him and shook his head. “She cursed me once. I was in school with her. She cursed me for beating her at tetherball.”

  “What about other people? Has she cursed them?”

  “She curses everyone. She's crazy.”

  “What about her son, what about Jack?”

  “Troubled boy.”

  “No, I mean— she cursed me because of what happened to him.”

  “Tree hit him.”

  “One of your trees. A tree that was meant for me.”

  The man grinned again. “You find your name on it?”

  “I jerked the wheel, I spun Jack into its path.”

  “You kill him too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You bad man,” he said, his whole body shaking with laughter.

  “How do you know I'm not?”

  “You wipe out families. The spirits, they come for you…”

  “What, you don't even believe in the spirits?”

  “Spirits, yes. Stories, no.”

  “She said Jack went to school, but couldn't get a job. They came after him for the loans.”

  “Jack didn't understand the numbers. Computers. He was studying. Computers.”

  “Smart kid.”

  “Not really. Good boy, not smart. Probably wrong choice for him. He fell behind.”

  “Anybody can learn computers.”

  “That's what they tell him.”

  “They promised him a job?”

  “Yes. All promises. Don't have to do nothing, they take care of it.”

  “A lot of schools are like that.”

  “Got four in town. Give you loan, take your check.”

  “He should have stuck with it.”

  “Why? No jobs here anyway. He leave, he lose check.”

  “You talking about the dividend?” The old man nodded. “Casino revenue?”

  “Just enough to stay poor on. Why leave if you can't do better? So they stay and do nothing.”

  “Desperate Warrior.”

  The man nodded. “Drunk that night. That's why he crashed.”

  “That doesn't explain it.”

  “What?”

  “The lucky streak.”

  “That the curse?”

  “Yes.”

  “She made you lucky?”

  “Yes.

  “Tell you what. You give me $100, I'll lift it.”

  “Deal,” Neely said, taking cash out of his wallet.

  The old man grinned and winked. “That's why we tell you stories.” He checked his watch and got up.

  “The streak was real.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don't believe it.”

  “No.”

  “I know it was. There's no way it wasn't real.”

  “You ever have luck so bad you made it worse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe opposite true too.” He walked to the back door. “Good luck, ha em qe ha.”

  “Wait a minute, where are you going?”

  “Work.”

  “What do you do here?”

  “Janitor.”

  “Don't you get a dividend.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why would you want to work as a janitor?”

  “You want to ruin someone's life, give them free money.”

  Neely watched the door close behind him and heard a short burst of a siren.

  He turned to see a car pulled over to the curb. A fit young Native American woman in uniform and aviator shades leaned out the window and said, “Neely Thomas? You are Neely Thomas, aren't you?” It was a Tribal Police car, Neely noted, though it was too late to do anything about it.

  “Yes.”

  “They're looking for you.”

  He got up and resignedly walked toward the car. “Alright.” She unlocked the door for him, but didn't get out. “Do I get a phone call or something?”

  “For what?”

  “A lawyer.”

  “You'll have to talk to them.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “What was?”

  “The fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “The fire at Lomasi's cabin.”

  “I'm sure it was.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “They're taking her in for observation. Why are you asking about that?”

  “Isn't that why you're here?”

  “No.”

  “I was there. I was at Lomasi's last night.”

  “She said it was an accident.”

  “What?”

  “She knocked over a lamp. When the Fire Department got there, she wouldn't let them put out the flames, she said let it burn. She danced around the house and singed her hair off. She's crazy, that one.”

  “Crazy?”

  “She said she's going to put up a new house with a wraparound porch and a hot tub. Satellite TV so she can sit in her jacuzzi and watch her stories.”

  “Maybe she will.”

  “With what? She's got nothing.”

  “Maybe she got lucky.”

  “Maybe she did.”

  Neely saw a couple of familiar faces waiting for him at the entrance. Detectives L
eidt and Wisniewski leaned against an unmarked car, Leidt sipping coffee, Wisniewski standing with his arms crossed.

  “I don't suppose it would do any good to apologize for my behavior earlier?” Neely asked as he got out.

  Neither spoke as Det. Leidt cuffed his wrists together, and Wisniewski cuffed him securely in the back of the cruiser.

  “I still have a cell phone on me,” Neely said. “I guess there's a signal now, I don't know if it's still got any charge…” Neither said anything, so he continued. “Okay to call my lawyer?”

  “Sure. Call the Pope too,” said Leidt.

  “It's Sunday,” said Wisniewski.

  “Leave a message,” Leidt said.

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Neely.

  “Am I under arrest?” Wisniewski repeated.

  “I think your roof's leaking, bub.”

  “Where are we going?” Neely said.

  “Guess you'll know when we get there,” said Leidt.

  “Look, I'm sorry, guys. I was out of line before,” Neely said.

  Neither man responded.

  They drove in silence as they headed out of the reservation and onto the highway. Neely settled in, resigned to whatever punishment fate had in store for him.

  He watched the businesses opening their doors, people arriving for work, realizing it had been a long time since he'd really noticed anything like that. It didn't look like such a harsh world to him now. In fact, he was feeling a bit of nostalgia for it.

  The car turned down a side road and Neely realized they were driving onto an unpaved portion now. “Where are we headed?”

  “We're off to see the Wizard,” said Wisniewski.

  “Ought to be right up your alley,” said Leidt.

  “You're taking me to kill me?” Neely asked.

  “'You're taking me to kill me?'” repeated Wisniewski.

  “We thought we'd have a picnic,” Leidt said.

  “Hope you brought the muffins,” Wisniewski said.

  “You were going to bring the muffins,” Leidt said.

  “I got hungry,” said Wisniewski.

  “No, Neely, this is what we call the OSLD.”

  “What's that mean?” Neely asked.

  They pulled up as they reached a dead end, and both men got out. “It means Old School Lie Detector,” answered Leidt.

  “What does that mean?” asked Neely.

  “You know how roast beef smells when it goes bad? That tangy smell?” said Leidt.

  “Like when the cleaning crew misses it, you walk by the trash can the next day, you go, whew!”

  “When roast beef's so bad, your dog won't even touch it.”

  “He eats it, he just throws it up again.”

  “Then eats it again.”

  “Waste not, want not.”

  “Then throws it up again. That's what a lie smells like.”

  “Double-vomited roast beef.”

  “Double-vomited bad roast beef.”

  “See, we're just curious, that's all.”

  “Yeah, we gots to know.”

  “Gots to know what?” said Neely.

  “If you're insane, full of shit, or just a run-of-the-mill iceweasel,” Wisniewski said.

  “Couldn't sleep last night pondering that one,” Liedt said.

  “Me neither.”

  “But you can't say insane anymore. It's not PC.”

  “Reality-challenged, then.”

  “Oh, I like that. Reality-challenged.”

  “Alright, okay. I see where this is going,” Neely said.

  “Really? Cause we don't,” Leidt said.

  “No, we really don't. We've turned it over a half dozen times and you break the mold, Neely old buddy,” said Wisniewski.

  “Yeah, you got so many people scratching their heads, they're gonna spray us for lice.”

  “You're a riddle wrapped in a mystery rolled inside an enigma.”

  “Stuffed inside a taco shell.”

  “Stop, you're making me hungry.”

  “You shoulda had the muffin.”

  “You said you ate 'em all.”

  “You shoulda grabbed one first.”

  They walked him between two bushes and Neely saw they stood above a quarry, a drop off of at least 200 feet at his feet.

  “That's where the quarter comes in,” Liedt said.

  “We heard about this here lucky streak, see.”

  “And we want to know how deep it goes.”

  “Right. So this here's a little test. I flip, you call it.”

  “You're wrong, you dive.”

  “Or if you so choose, tell us the truth and we'll take you straight to the loony bin.”

  “You spend the rest of your days dribblin' fruit salad down your shirt.”

  “Playing Parcheesi.”

  “Maybe a little 'lectric shock.”

  “I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

  “Ha ha. Oldie but a goodie.”

  “Your call.”

  “You're going to push me in if I guess wrong?” asked Neely, incredulous.

  “See, simple rules,” Wisniewski said.

  “He got it on the first try,” Liedt said.

  “Yes, Neely. Like my partner said, we're old school.”

  “Now call it, butt munch.”

  “Tails,” Neely said.

  Wisniewski flipped it, caught it, and slapped it on his wrist. All three looked down at it. Neely broke into a grin as he looked up at their faces. The detectives looked at each other as Neely started laughing. “Did you think we were bluffing?” asked Wisniewski.

  “No! Why would I think that?” Neely asked.

  “I think he thought we were,” Leidt said to his partner.

  “Hell no, I did not. You guys know this spot well, you've been here before. Why would I think I was the first?” Neely said.

  “You thought we wouldn't push you then?” said Wisniewski.

  “No, hell, I told you I was going to use a toilet plunger on your mother, for chrissakes. Let's go,” Neely said.

  “You realize you lost,” Leidt said.

  “No, you're wrong on that one, I won. Goddamnit, I won. I finally won.” Detective Leidt looked down at the quarter again, still sitting on Heads. “It's over, don't you see? It's broken. I won,” Neely said, giddy with victory now.

  “You gonna laugh all the way down, then?” asked Wisniewski.

  “You know, I think I will. I was right. It was real…” Neely said, laughing. “The goddamn thing was real.”

  “You're a loon, Neely Thomas,” said Leidt.

  “It was real and now it's over. It's finally over, holy shit,” Neely said.

  Wisniewski picked up his radio and called it in. “Had to make a stop. On our way now.”

  He turned back to Neely as Leidt began strapping him in back of the car.

  “You're not lying” Leidt said. “Which leaves crazy, unfortunately.”

  “Well, maybe not, he's not at the bottom of the quarry,” said Wisniewski.

  “You spend a night in Broughton lately? I'd take the quarry,” said Leidt.

  Wisniewski looked back at Neely. “Tell them your story. I'm sure they'll enjoy it.”

  “They'll have you on a Lithium drip before lunch.”

  “If you're good, maybe they'll let you sit in on gin rummy night.”

  “Yeah, I hear they got a Genghis Khan now, so don't cheat.”

  “Nah, he sticks to Uno. It's the Napoleon you gotta watch out for.”

  “It's always the short guys.”

  “You two should have your own show or something,” Neely said.

  “People tell us that,” Wisniewski said.

  “Yeah, we're busting their heads, they say, 'They oughta put you on HBO.'” Leidt said.

  “We say 'Shut up and bleed, zipperhead,'” Wisniewski said as they both chuckled.

  CHAPTER 29

  Neely lay on a hospital bed, arms and body strapped down, his wounds cleaned and dre
ssed and hooked up to monitors. The shadow moved across the dividers… she wasn't gone. She was still with him…

  The silhouette emerged, only it wasn't her. The man in the suit surprised him, stepping around a privacy curtain, briefcase and laptop in hand. It took Neely a moment…

  “Mr. Thomas? Ah, finally… no one seemed to know where you were. Hope you remember me,” Kurt Friedlander said.

  “What was it? Three days ago? Yeah, I remember you, Kurt.”

  “Good, good. How are you feeling today?”

  “Peachy.”

  “'Peachy.' I like that, I like your spirit. You've been through a lot, haven't you?”

  “I have. I sure have.”

  “They asked me to talk to you. I know we only had one session, but I'm your therapist of record—”

  “Anal rapist.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Analyst. Therapist. Put them together. Anal rapist.”

  Kurt looked at him, not sure how to proceed after that.

  “Sorry, I interrupted,” Neely said.

  “Right. Well…”

  “I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that.”

  “It's alright. Maybe you're still under stress.”

  Neely breathed out and looked at him, “Stress. Yeah, maybe you're right.”

  “Okay. I just had some quick questions for you. Okay to sit?”

  “Sure.”

  “6723 Pellingham Court? That's your house?”

  “What's left of it.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear about that. They've assessed the damage, I have the adjuster's report. I've also got the police report, I just need to ask you a few supplemental questions about the break-in.”

  “Break-in?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the tree?”

  “What tree?”

  It took Neely a few moments for this all to soak in. He'd been so sure he was going to— well, he was sure whatever was coming down the pike was going to trump this sort of inquiry, he was having trouble catching up. “Sorry. Go ahead and ask your questions.”

  “These guys, they broke in the back door while you were there, correct?”

  “Yeah…” said Neely.

  “Were they looking for valuables? Did you surprise them?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Do you have any idea why they trashed your house?”

  “They're a motorcycle gang. Isn't that what they do?”

  “Well, I can't really say that, I'm sure there are many motorcycle clubs that are peace-loving, law-abiding citizens. It's just that daytime home invasions are fairly rare, so—”