Lucky Bastard Read Free Page A

line, though I can hear breathing and the sound of traffic and a fire engine off in the distance. I hear the same thing out my office window. Minus the breathing.
    I wait another thirty seconds, listening to whoever is on the other end continue to breathe, then the connection is lost.
    They probably have AT&T.
    I set my phone aside and return to my pursuit of finding a mark, glancing occasionally at the phone, waiting to see if it rings again, hoping it was just a customer who had second thoughts. But the phone remains silent on my desk.
    A few seconds later, there’s a knock at my door.
    I’m not expecting company. Or a client. Or the Spanish Inquisition. But before I can choose between inviting my company in or climbing out my window onto the fire escape, the door opens and in walk two well-groomed Asian thugs in matching designer suits.
    How do I know they’re thugs? It’s just a look they have. Either that or they’re constipated.
    They close the door behind them and approach my desk.
    “Nick Monday?” says the one on my left.
    I nod. “Last I checked. Who wants to know?”
    “Tommy Wong would like to speak with you.”
    Tommy Wong is a local figure in San Francisco. I’ve never met the man, but he’s apparently the head of the Chinese Mafia. The so-called Lord of Chinatown, Tommy takes a cut on just about everything from bars to dim-sum restaurants to massage parlors.
    Why Tommy Wong would want to speak with me, I have no idea.
    “What does he want to talk about?” I ask.
    “A business proposition,” says Thug One.
    I wait for more information, but apparently I’m not getting it.
    “What kind of a business proposition?”
    “One that involves your unique abilities,” says Thug One.
    “Juggling? Cat whispering? Or the fact that I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue?”
    Thug Two just stares at me, unimpressed.
    “Let’s not play games,” says Thug One, the chattier of the two. “There’s only one man in San Francisco who can steal luck.”
    It’s true that there aren’t a lot of us around. There’s a mother and daughter in Seattle, a family of four in Los Angeles, and two brothers and a grandfather in the San Joaquin Valley. Those are just the ones I know of on the West Coast. I’ve also heard about poachers in Chicago, Miami, Las Vegas, Phoenix, St. Louis, Denver, Memphis, Boston, and New York, as well as up in Canada and scattered throughout Europe. While we’re not taking overthe world anytime soon, there are more of us than you’d think.
    And Tommy’s thug is wrong. I’m not the only one in San Francisco who can poach luck.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m just a private investigator.”
    “I understand your desire to maintain this facade,” says Thug One. “But the fact remains Mr. Wong would like to acquire your services on a regular basis.”
    “You mean like an independent contractor?”
    “More like an employee,” he says, as Thug Two opens my office door and waits expectantly. “But you can discuss the details of the arrangement with Mr. Wong.”
    That the Chinese Mafia knows who I am isn’t surprising, though it’s a bit disconcerting. Not quite like Clark Kent getting outed, but the last thing I need is to have my cover blown. Still, the idea of working for anyone is about as appealing as a used diaper.
    “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to have to pass.”
    “You don’t understand,” says Thug One. “This isn’t an offer you refuse.”
    “I do understand. But I like things the way they are.”
    Which isn’t exactly the truth. I’d like to be making more money and living in Kauai with a view of Hanalei Bay and a private masseuse. But just because someone makes you an offer that you shouldn’t refuse doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to take it.
    “Last chance to change your mind,” says Thug One.
    “Thanks,” I say, hoping he doesn’t pull out a gun and shoot me. Which would really put a damper on my day.