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

problem.
    “I respect a man who stays true to his nature,” says Tommy, handing me my fresh cup of tea. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I can let you just walk out of here.”
    Crap. I hadn’t considered that. I never did plan well for the future. So the thought of actually dying here in this dilapidated room didn’t occur to me. Until now.
    I can almost hear my father’s voice, telling me that one way or another, I’d end up paying for my lifestyle in the end.
    Tommy seems to read my mind. “No need to worry,” he says, picking up his cup of tea but not taking a drink. “I have no plans to dispose of you. It’s not good business to kill a luck poacher. Besides, I have a feeling you’ll end up changing your mind.”
    “Don’t hold your breath. But thanks for not killing me.”
    Tommy just smiles at me over the top of his teacup.
    “I suppose you’re going to have to blindfold me,” I say, then take a sip of my tea. “Or put a bag over my head.”
    “Not exactly,” says Tommy, setting his cup down.
    I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is “Blllbb.”
    I slide off the chair and onto the floor, turning into a puddle of Nick Monday. Tommy steps up to the puddle and leans over.
    “Don’t take too long changing your mind, Mr. Monday,” he says, his voice growing muddled and distant. “Otherwise next time, I won’t be such a good host.”

I n September 1960, during a speed trial at Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, Donald Campbell crashed his car while traveling at 360 miles per hour. The vehicle tumbled multiple times and was destroyed, yet Donald Campbell survived with only a fractured skull. Seven years later, he wasn’t so fortunate, dying while attempting to set the water speed record.
    When I wake up, I feel like Donald Campbell. The 1960 version. Not because I feel lucky to be alive, but because I feel like my skull is in several pieces.
    I’m in an alley. I don’t know where. Next to me is a guy who smells like desperation and hopelessness and who is passed out in his own urine, so I’m guessing I’m in the Tenderloin. On the wall across from me is written:
    TEMPTATION WEIGHTS
    Someone needs a spelling lesson. I need some coffee.
    Actually what I need is to poach some good luck, any grade, even if it’s diluted. Something to help me get rid of this headache and figure out how I’m going to get out of this mess with Barry Manilow and Tommy Wong. Though I have no idea how I’m supposed to retrieve the stolen bad luck from Tommy so I can make Barry happy, not unless I accept Tommy’s offer to work for him. Which was really more of a threat than an offer.
    You say potato . . .
    Semantics aside, whatever I’m going to do I better do it soon. But first I need some caffeine and some good luck.
    I could grab one of the bottles of medium-grade from my apartment, provided neither the Feds nor Tommy Wong’s thugs have ransacked it and taken my stash. Which wouldn’t surprise me considering the way this day is turning out. But consuming good luck and poaching it are two different experiences. It’s like the difference between drinking a beer and dropping acid. Or masturbating and having tantric sex. One just gives you some personal satisfaction while the other is transcendent.
    And I’m realizing that giving up this lifestyle might be more of a challenge than I thought.
    I walk out of the alley onto Polk Street and hoof it a couple of blocks to Peet’s by Max’s Opera Café, where I order a large mocha and get another phone number from a blond barista with a pageboy haircut and a nose ring who tells me she loves guys who have that rumpled look. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I woke up drugged in an alley, so I pocket her digits and head back to Polk Street to grab an apple fritter from Bob’s Doughnuts.
    It’s not so much out of hunger, but the combination of sugar and caffeine helps with the processing of good luck into a marketable form. For others, sugar and alcohol