Lucky Bastard Read Free

It’s not karma or fate or some ancient curse.
    It’s just because they were born that way.
    Those who aren’t genetically endowed with good luck or who want to acquire more can purchase some on the black market. But even though people pay good money to acquire it, for those who aren’t born with it, good luck can be unpredictable. Fickle. Which I suppose is why it’s frequently personified as a lady. And like the song says, sometimes it has a way of running out.
    For those fortunate enough to be born with it, good luck will never run out. Unless, of course, someone like me comes along and takes it.
    People are born unlucky, too, though it’s not a good idea to poach bad luck. It’s like inviting an unwanted guest into your home and discovering that he’s planning to spend the rest of his life with you.
    Of course, just because it’s a bad idea doesn’t mean someone hasn’t tried it. Look at the Edsel. Or Battlefield Earth . History is full of bad decisions.
    Trust me. I know.
    I’m not a private investigator because I want to be. But after I left Tucson I had to figure out a way to pay my bills. And being a PI seemed like a good fit, considering I had twenty-five years of experience watching people. I just didn’t realize how boring it would be.
    My current case deals with a suspicious claim against an insurance company, which is about as exciting as oatmeal, so instead of doing Internet research on my case, I find myself surfing websites looking for stories about people cheating death or coming into money or winning a contest.
    Looking for marks, in other words.
    Twenty years ago, finding marks was more research-intensive. You went to the library to read the national papers. You waited for the local news to come on at six o’clock. You listened to the radio. You had to work at it and spend a lot of time on the road and hope another poacher didn’t beat you to the score.
    Now, with the Internet and twenty-four-hour news channels and an almost endless supply of information, you don’t even have to leave your apartment to find a recent lottery winner or a surfer who survived a shark attack or a nineteen handicap golfer who got a hole in one. And today, instead of racing from one location to another to poach a potential mark, we have territories that are off-limits to other poachers. It’s an unwritten code that most of us live by. But considering we’re modern-day pirates, it’s really more of a guideline than a code.
    Like the saying goes, there’s not a lot of honor among thieves.
    Unfortunately, I’m not finding much of anything on the Internet within my territory, which is the San Francisco Bay Area, so I have to resort to traditional means to find potential marks.
    Today’s San Francisco Examiner is filled with articles about local politics, the state budget problems, and the threat of a Muni strike. The only story of interest is about a local man named James Saltzman, who apparently caught the final home runs hit by both Ken Griffey Jr. and Sammy Sosa. It’s not exactly Vesna Vulovic, but at least it’s something.
    Other than James Saltzman, there’s nothing useful, so I file his name away in my head and throw the paper aside. I’m thinking I may have to start digging through the celebrity rags, maybe even see if I can find something in the Weekly World News, when one of my smartphones rings.
    I have two phones. One for my personal use and detective business, and the other under an alias that’s used strictly for poaching.
    The other is the one that’s ringing.
    It hasn’t rung much in the past three years. Hence the need to earn my living as a PI. If you can’t move product, you have to find some other way to earn a living, and the last thing I want is a desk job in a cubicle and some socially defective, middle-management douche bag hovering over me and telling me what to do.
    I never was good at following directions.
    I answer: “Lucky Dragon Restaurant.”
    Silence on the other end of the