Blind Luck (27 page)

Sincerely,

Terrence James Richter

Dave read the letter again to be sure of every word:
My love, my soul, my passion; embrace the spirit; start your own legacy; live the dream.
Ten million dollars. He didn’t know where to begin. Just as the moment the truck crashed through the front of Richter Accounting had, and the moment Grayson had approached him, reading the letter changed everything forever.

He hailed a cab back to his place and went straight to the landlord’s apartment. The man answered the door without a shirt on, and Dave could see a hockey game playing on the television in the background.

“What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble. I just want to give you notice.”

The man sighed as his fingers picked at thick chest hair. “Are you buying a home?”

Dave thought about the question. He could buy twenty homes. “I am.”

“Fucking interest rates. They don’t think about the landlords when the banks do this, you know.”

“No, I guess they don’t.”

Dave went up to his apartment and bee-lined to his desk. He’d kept every photo he had in a shoebox, and there was one burning a spot on his mind. He sifted past photos of his dad, a few women he’d dated and one from a bachelor party, then he found a picture of him with all of his colleagues the day Mr. Richter had the sign outside the office replaced. He sealed the picture in a zip-lock bag and headed for a collectables store three blocks away. The owner looked like a giant. He had to be at least six-eight and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, with black hair that looked like he’d put his finger in a light socket and a long beard he twisted into a point. He would have stood out in any crowd.

“I need a plastic case that would protect my cards outside in the winter if I wanted to leave them there.”

The owner smiled and revealed a large gap between his two front teeth. “Then you want the tomb,” he said in a Russian accent.

“That’s the best you have?”

The man’s eyebrows rose, and it was clear he took it more as a challenge than a question. His back cracked as he bent over, then his knees, but he resurfaced from under the counter with a plastic container the size of his forearm in one hand and a hammer in the other. He placed the container on the counter for Dave to inspect.

“This is the tomb. My Mickey Mantle is in a tomb. My Babe Ruth is in a tomb. My Gordie Howe is in a tomb. And my Johnny Unitis is in a tomb. Here’s how much I trust the tomb.” He raised the hammer over his head with two hands and brought it crashing down onto the top of the tomb. The table shook hard enough that a stapler fell to the floor, and the impact caused Dave to step back, but the tomb looked the same as it had before the blow. The owner wiped a drop of sweat from his brow.

“You see, not a scratch.”

Dave bought the tomb and hailed another cab back to what remained of his old office. A hot dog vendor had positioned himself in front of the store, so Dave had to work around him, but he took two pieces of concrete and a shard of broken tile and placed them in the tomb. He then added the picture of the office looking pristine and sealed it shut. He decided that would be his last visit to his old workplace. He didn’t want to see it turned into a video store or a dry cleaners, he didn’t want to see the faces of people walking by in droves, none of them aware of the tragedy, and he didn’t want to remind himself of a time when he hadn’t appreciated what passed him every day. He hailed another cab.

“Deer Park cemetery, please.”

He tipped the driver a twenty and walked up the path to the north end, where, despite all his money, Mr. Richter had insisted on a modest gravestone. Two bouquets of flowers rested at the base of his plot.

The flower proved people remembered the man, and that made Dave smile. He set the tomb, with its picture of the business and the concrete and tile that formed it, beside the flowers and crouched down.
Thank you.
He tapped the tomb.
Thank you.

Thirty-Four

A drop of rain hit Dave’s nose, spilling over each side equally.

It occurred to him that he needed to see Otto and be around someone that understood him the way only a life-long friend could.

Dave stepped into the crowded internet café, walked to the back and approached Otto’s office like he was the owner. Otto was squinting at a computer screen when Dave tapped on the door. “Do you have time for a beer?”

An hour and three pints later, Dave sat back in his living room, where he surfed the Net for the city’s most desirable homes. It felt good to imagine another life. He’d saved a housing site in his favourites when the phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“Are you ready to change your life?” Grayson’s tone was more excited than usual.

“I am.”

“Good. Because Thorrin just got a proposition from a kindred spirit, a proposition that will earn you half a million dollars.”

Dave did the math. His cut was twenty per cent, which meant Thorrin stood to make ten million dollars.

“Can Thorrin afford that kind of a bet?”

“He won’t have to.”

“What’s the challenge?”

“You’ll see when we get there. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“You don’t even need a pep talk this time?”

“The mention of five hundred thousand did that for you.”

Dave decided the word “odds” had lost its weight. With all the outrageous stories people are exposed to on television, the movies and the internet, he acknowledged it felt like anything was possible. Going from a one-bedroom apartment in government housing to a mansion with an indoor pool felt as feasible as falling in love in a foreign country or starting a company that earns a billion dollars. These stories are so common, the extraordinary doesn’t just seem possible, it feels probable. But Dave knew better. Years of watching odds toy with his father had forced him to respect them, to appreciate the variables that contribute to success and failure, and to fear the power of risk. The last month had made him embrace the wonder of odds. To calculate the odds of conception, you need to multiply the fact that a man releases millions of sperm with every ejaculation by the number of orgasms prior to conception and multiply that by the chances of finding your partner in a world with billions of people, and multiply that by the possibility of your partner releasing an egg at the time of sex, then multiply the total by the odds of a miscarriage. From that perspective, odds are everything. From that perspective, beating the odds
is
life.

He stepped outside to a dark sky and pulled his collar up over the sides of his face. He’d started to bounce on his toes when Thorrin’s limo appeared in the distance. For the first time, he noticed the headlights were oversized and centred on a shiny grill. The vehicle looked like something from the future.

Dave opened the side door expecting to see Thorrin, but only Grayson was there to greet him. “I hope you’re well rested, because this is a whole new level of money,” he said, swirling a fresh scotch so the ice cubes tinkled against the side of the glass.

“I’m ready.”

“So you believe in luck now?”

“I’m agnostic and I’m stubborn, but even I can see a pattern.”

Grayson finished his drink and looked at Dave for a moment with a furrowed brow before reaching for the scotch bottle and raising it to eye level. “Good man.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Grayson watched a business show on a screen so beautiful that it didn’t belong in a car, and Dave stared out the window as drops of rain splattered against the pane, leaving streaks that blurred his vision.

The vehicle turned into Thorrin’s driveway, and Dave snapped into the moment.

“It’s going down here?”

Grayson raised his eyebrows with a wry smile that made Dave wonder how it was possible for the man to be Amy’s brother.

They stepped out of the car, and Grayson led the way to a garage adjacent to the house. With Italian tiles, restored brick and an eighteen-foot arched ceiling, the structure was better than most homes. The inside, however, was eerily sparse. Other than exercise mats hanging from a rack on the south wall and a metal trunk in the corner below them, the cement floor and white walls dominated the space.

“Do you want me to take off my shoes?” Dave asked.

Grayson shook his head as the door opened. A gust of cold air sent a chill through the room as Thorrin entered the garage, followed by Otto and a muscular man Dave had never seen before. The man had orange stubble on his shaved head and a thick goatee on his pale face. Otto carried a metal briefcase.

Neither Otto nor Dave acknowledged each other. After setting the briefcase down beside Grayson, Thorrin headed for Dave and massaged his shoulders.

“Today’s our day,” he said in a whisper. “This is the biggest day of our lives.”

The man with the shaved head looked at Dave, and Dave dropped his eyes to the floor.

Grayson walked to the metal trunk under the exercise mats, and the sway at the bottom of his overcoat gave him the swagger of a sheriff from the Wild West. He removed a small key from his breast pocket, put it in the thick silver lock and opened the lid. The room watched as he put his hands in the trunk and removed a python as thick as his head.

Dave was imagining the snake constricting his waist when Thorrin raised a hand. He removed a quarter from his pocket and extended it to Otto.

“Is it okay with you if we leave it to chance?”

Otto looked at Dave, whose eyes told him to proceed, before offering Thorrin a nod. Thorrin lived for chance, and the addition of an hors d’oeuvre made his bottom lip quiver.

“The honour is yours,” he said, passing Otto the quarter.

“What are we flipping for?”

“Heads we go with the snake, tails we go with another thought.”

The coin looked small between Otto’s fingers, and he held it a moment before flipping it into the air and taking a step back. The metal echoed through the garage when it hit the floor, bounced twice and landed tails up.

Thorrin clapped his hands as he hovered above the coin. “Another thought it is. Grayson, can you give our participants their tools?” He bent down and tapped a metal case at his feet.

The python’s tongue flicked incessantly as Grayson lowered it back into the trunk. He took the case from Thorrin, opened it and removed two silver revolvers from their casings. He passed one gun to the man with the shaved head, who looked at it as if he had never seen a weapon before. Dave stepped forward and reached for his gun. The metal felt heavier than he expected, and it smelled like silver polish.

Grayson moved to the centre of the room, measured five feet on each side and marked the measurement with strips of duct tape. Everything about his movement was efficient. He was enjoying being a step ahead of their guests.

Dave took his position at the tape closest to him and looked at Otto, who rubbed the nape of his neck. Dave let the gun’s weight stretch his arm to his knee and straightened his back.

“Real simple, gentlemen,” Grayson said. “Spin your cylinders, raise your weapons and pull the trigger on three.”

Dave looked at the open cylinder to see one bullet and five empty slots. He flicked the cylinder, let it spin for a few seconds and pushed it into the gun’s centre. He tightened his grip on the handle and pointed it at the man with the shaved head.

From his perspective, the gun pointing at him appeared fake, and for a moment he thought about the time Grayson had pointed a starter’s pistol at him in Thorrin’s office.

“One.” Grayson held up a finger, but Dave stared straight ahead. “Two.”

Dave could see Otto out of the corner of his eye, the look of disbelief, and the worry in his eyes. Otto hadn’t expected Dave to be in danger when Dave told him about inheriting ten million dollars. And he hadn’t expected to see a gun pointed at Dave when Dave had given him Thorrin’s number and asked him to arrange an extreme bet. But Dave didn’t worry, because he knew something Otto didn’t know. He knew luck was on his side.

“Three.”

The word wasn’t fully pronounced when both men pulled their triggers. Dave’s released the impotent click of an empty chamber, while the gun pointing at him fired. The sound that only a gun can make filled the garage, and Dave didn’t blink before the bullet tore through his left shoulder, just a fingerprint away from the clavicle. The bullet’s power took him off his feet, and he landed on the floor hard. The back of his head bounced off the cement before he looked up groggily to see blood seeping through his shirt.

Shock washed over Thorrin’s face. He’d lost millions of dollars in a second, and everything about his reality changed. He felt his momentum grind to a halt, witnessed chance making its rounds, and it crushed his faith in an instant.

Otto looked at Dave, nodded. Otto whispered to Thorrin. “I’ll wait outside for my money.”

Otto left the garage, and the man with the shaved head followed him.

The pain in Dave’s shoulder numbed his left side, but a smile still filled his face. He made his way to his feet and stumbled toward Thorrin.

“You lost,” Thorrin said, as if this was a dream or something that could not possibly be real. And then his face contorted into disgust.

He looked at Dave the way an agent looks at leading actresses when their faces begin to age. The fondness he’d developed for Dave over the course of his victories blurred into contempt for being yet another false hope in search of someone immune to life’s inevitability. “Get the man his money,” he said to Grayson with a gesture to the door. He turned from Dave, promised himself he would never look at the man again and left the room determined to forget they ever met.

Dave pivoted to look at Grayson, and for a moment he was convinced the man offered a smile of approval. He left the garage just behind Grayson with blood running down his arm. Otto helped him into the car, where he watched his friend wince before passing him a towel.

With his head back, Dave arched his neck on the headrest. If the man Otto brought had experience with guns, Dave would have died. If the man’s wrist had been stronger, Dave would have died. But it wasn’t, and instead, the bullet went clean through his flesh from one side of his shoulder to the other as if a minor annoyance on its way to somewhere more important.