Lucky Bastard Read Online Free PDF Page A

medium-grade luck poached from someone who won the progressive jackpot at Harrah’s.
    “Do you have any egg foo young?” he asks.
    I can’t get more than two to three grand for the egg foo young, but it’s better than nothing.
    “Yes. We have egg foo young. Would you like to place an order?”
    More silence on the other end of the line. He’s either a first-time customer or trying to figure out how much he can afford. After all, this is a cash-only transaction. We don’t accept credit cards or personal checks. And you can’t make a payment plan.
    Buying luck isn’t any different from buying any other drug. And make no mistake about it—luck is a drug. And like any narcotic, it has its drawbacks. It’s illegal and addictive and it can drain your savings account dry. But luck also provides a rush that rivals the high of an eight-ball or the euphoria of an ecstasy tablet. Usually without the hangover, though I’ve known my share of addicts who got the lucky shakes. And although the current market prices make it more accessible, luck has become the drug of choice for the wealthy and the privileged.
    You’d think those who were already rich wouldn’t need to add to their good fortune, but the market dictates that only those with excess disposable income can afford to buy good luck. Especially the medium- and high-grade stuff. So the rich get richer while the rest of us fall behind. Or settle for the egg foo young.
    I’ve only had a handful of customers since I moved to San Francisco, and most of them are luck junkies. Addicts who are strung out on luck and who jones for the rush and whocan only afford the lowest quality available. I haven’t sold any mandarin beef in a couple of months. And I’ve been out of seafood delight ever since I moved here.
    “I’ll take an order of mandarin beef,” says the buyer. “How soon can you deliver?”
    After the social call from Tommy Wong’s men, I can’t help but wonder if this is some kind of a setup. But that’s why I pick public places for drop-offs. It cuts down on the surprise factor. And right now, turning down ten thousand dollars isn’t something I have the luxury of doing.
    Besides, after the visit from Tuesday Knight and the envelope full of money she dropped on my desk, I’m feeling lucky.
    I arrange for delivery of the medium-grade good luck at ten o’clock, which gives me just under an hour to pick up the product from my apartment and meet my customer at the designated drop location. That should leave plenty of time to see if I can find out where Tuesday’s going. And I’d like to find out who this friend of a friend of hers is who originally sent her to me.
    Call it a hunch, but my poacher’s intuition tells me she’s hiding something.

I end the phone call and continue to look down the street, waiting for Tuesday. A Starbucks sits across from me, calling to me like the sirens to Odysseus, and I’m wondering if I have time for a quick cappuccino without dashing myself on the rocks, when Tuesday appears, crosses Stockton, and starts up the steps into Union Square. I walk past the Levi Strauss flagship store, cross against the light, and follow Tuesday, making sure to keep myself concealed behind some palm trees and a group of French tourists before I settle in behind a shrub-lined wall.
    I watch as Tuesday walks over to one of the tables at Café Rulli, sits down, and places her order. When the server walks away, Tuesday pulls out her cell phone and presses a single button and starts talking to someone.
    From my vantage point, I can watch her without being seen. Unfortunately, I can’t hear any part of her conversation and I’m not a lip-reader. I didn’t bother to wear a disguise.I don’t even have a camera to take any photos. I’m thinking I make a piss-poor private investigator.
    You’d think that someone who poaches luck for a living would lead a more glamorous life than this. Hiding behind tourists. Working as a part-time PI to pay the