Left-handed Luck

By Rod Michalchuk

Leo’s scamming free drinks at The Nugget, one of the old-school casinos off Freemont Street in Las Vegas, when the Tattooed Woman cuts him out of the herd. She plays him—like Hendrix played the guitar—chatting him up and touching his forehead, doing a mind reading act that looks like a trick, but isn’t. It’s a true thing wherein she learns everything she needs to know: he has enough ready cash to make him worthwhile prey and he’s all alone. No one, anywhere in the world, will care if he just ups and disappears. He’s soured every relationship—burned every bridge.
Leo surprises her. He wants to do it back—read her mind in return—and it’s something the Tattooed Woman doesn’t see coming: a blind spot in her future-sense. Generally, she sees everything coming—everything that’s going to happen in the next few minutes—and this is not on her radar. This is an alarming anomaly.
And, to make matters worse, Leo’s mind reading actually works. It’s the first bona fide paranormal thing that’s ever happened to him. He has a vision of something so unspeakably horrible it blacks him out, leaving him confused and weak—easy to manage.
It’s a tooth-and-nail contest that can only end badly, one way or another.
Leo doesn’t even suspect, but he can change things—what’s supposed to have happened, the set future, to something else, something it wouldn’t normally be. In his general vicinity, probability does not behave as it should. Chains of events rearrange themselves for his benefit. It’s something he does unknowingly, without any degree of skill, an alternate universe in the making beyond conscious control.
That’s the difference between them. She knows what she’s doing. She’s as accomplished a sorceress as there has ever been. Compared to her, Leo is easy meat. Unless something really unreasonable happens, something beyond cause and effect, her and her goon, Gary, will kneel him down in the desert, in a lonely place somewhere, and shoot him in the back of the head, execution-style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rod Michalchuk
• Release date: Jun 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311215772

Book preview

Left-handed Luck

Rod Michalchuk

Copyright 2012 by Rod Michalchuk

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 © Rod Michalchuk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any way, shape or form, or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design and illustration by Rod Michalchuk

Sections:

I WAS AT THE NUGGET

I DIDN’T BLACK OUT

LIGHT—A SUSTAINED FLASH

BY DEGREES

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT

MY ANKLE WAS BETTER

GARY’S CAR WAS OFF LIMITS

MY TOOTH ACTUALLY

I WAS AT THE NUGGET, working the slots, playing Monopoly and moving tai chi slow, hoping that my complementary beverage would arrive soon, before I lost more than it would cost to just buy one at the bar. I dropped a nickel in, touched the screen and—lo and behold—three pinks: Virginia, States and St. Charles. As jackpots go, it was mid-range. Still, the machine lit up, deedled victory music and spat coin, loudly, one after another, for a good, long while—giving me enough metal to half fill a standard-sized loot cup.

And, as I was feeding the next coin in—as it fell, tinkling, falling inside—I sensed something, a presence right behind me: a woman, standing way too close. She’d snuck up on me somehow without me sensing her, but, from out of nowhere, there she was, inside the danger zone. I flinched so hard I almost fell out of my chair.

Sorry, she said. I guess I’m invading your personal space.

No shit. I said, backing away, putting the chair between us.

She was sleek with cinnamon skin and raven hair—almost naked, save for a collar-to-cuffs, all-over body tattoo. Besides ink, all she was wearing was a skimpy little skirt and top, made out of something shiny, and an honest-to-God, bona fide fortune in gold. As much wealth as a normally fit and healthy woman could carry without straining herself: bangles, bracelets and rings—every possible permutation of jewelry, all piled on.

She gave me a forthright stare—eyes jet-black and eyelinered with tail ends, like someone out of ancient Egypt, and said: Listen. I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor... She stepped back and smiled, giving me enough room to feel comfortable in and a glimpse of extra-white teeth.

I made a noise. Normally, when strangers ask me for something it’s an automatic no. She, however, had nice legs, and her tattoo was genuinely interesting. Normally, they’re no more than tasteless doodles. This, however, was altogether different, an intricate, precision clockwork: gears, cogs, springs and wheels, all locked together in a fully functioning mechanism. It ended at collar, ankles and wrists, and, under the flickering lights, it produced an optical illusion. It looked as if it were actually ticking.

See that guy at the bar? She pointed. Jeans—leather jacket?

He was standing up on the foot rail, head and shoulders above everyone else, peering out over the crowd. Along with the jacket and jeans, he had an achy-breaky haircut and his own, lesser, mass of gold chain. His beard was precision-trimmed: hot-rod flames, rendered in facial hair.

He’s been following me. she gnawed a metallic gold thumbnail. And, quite frankly, I’m scared. I’ve been trying to ditch him—this is like the fourth casino, but every time, he’s still there.

He was big, but he was also sloppy: an ex-linebacker gone to seed, packing a gut. As long as he didn’t pull a gun, I figured he was no worse a threat than Code Blue. It was, however, a moot point. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was get involved in somebody else’s business.

He stepped down and hunkered into his chair, elbows on the bar; big, bear-like, shoulders hunched, facing the other way.

She turned a chair around and sat opposite me, on the other side of the aisle. Could we just talk—please? Pretend you know me, just until he goes away.

We don’t have to pretend anything, I said. He’s not even looking this way.

That’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is: if things got rough, you’d be able to handle him—right? I mean, like, if you had to. She lowered her eyes for a moment, winsome as a kitten, and then looked up again, sly and sidelong, meeting my gaze, her lips twitching into the hint of a smile. What say we perform a little thought experiment—you and me? She gestured back and forth. "If I asked you to be my bodyguard for a