Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) (5 page)

Jane shook her head, trying to formulate the first of approximately a hundred questions lining up in her head.

“You knew my great-aunt Ruthie, didn’t you?” asked Sam, still speaking low.

Jane nodded.

“So the milk shake’s on the house,” said Sam. When he said that, the young man smiled and Jane could see the familiar grin of old Mack, handing her extra pennies for the gumball machine.

“What the hell is going on here?” said Jane, then realized she sounded exactly like Nellie and corrected herself. “I just got into town to visit my parents and I’m a little confused.”

“Who are your parents?”

“Don and Nellie. They run the EZ Way Inn about six blocks west of here.”

“Sure, I know it. Home of the Lucky Duck.”

“Home of the frosted mug,” corrected Jane.

“Not anymore,” said Sam. “Look, they’ll explain it to you. I got to clean up in back from the grease fire. Actors don’t know squat about being grill cooks.”

A few years ago, a couple of con men came to Kankakee and offered to turn the town into some kind of theme park. Jane thought it unlikely that they would come back and try the same con. Then again, things were looking suspiciously bright and cheery and wholesome around town. Passing the gas station just before she turned into the EZ Way Inn, Jane almost drove on to the sidewalk when she saw a gas station employee actually pumping gas.

What the hell was going on? Jane knew what it was to be haunted. When she shopped an estate sale, she was overcome with a feeling that the former owners of the stuff she was handling were smiling at her, explaining what drink they had poured into that highball glass, what flowers they had placed in the cream-colored, two-handled McCoy vase. But this haunting was different—much more like a Hollywood feature film possession. Shortly after hitting town, Jane was overcome with the feeling that she was being held hostage inside of a movie. At Tim’s shop, it was that movie about identity theft with Sandra Bullock—or maybe that one where somebody wakes up from a coma and his life has been erased. That’s what losing track of all her possessions felt like. At Mack’s she had walked into a scene from
Groundhog Day,
where her life would be played out over and over until she got it right. And now, watching that gas station guy with a big grin on his face wash the car windshield? Jane was smack dab in the middle of
Back to the Future.

The EZ Way Inn looked unusually crowded. The parking lot was almost full. Jane checked her oversized man’s watch. Even though Nick told her that no one wore a watch anymore since every man, woman, and child was always checking his or her phone, Jane preferred a glance at her wrist to a dig into her tote bag or even a dip into her pocket. And the giant numbers on this watch didn’t lie. It read 5:15
P.M.
Shouldn’t everyone be home eating dinner?

“Janie!” said her dad, coming out from behind the bar to give her a giant hug. “Your mother told me the good news. Congratulations, honey.”

Don’s words were kind and celebratory, but he looked his daughter over carefully and said in a softer voice, just for her, “Are you okay with selling the house? That’s a big change for you and Nick.”

When Nellie hit certain trigger points in conversation with her daughter, Jane could feel her hair stand on end. When Don, a kind old bear on the outside, an equally kind and somewhat shrewder bear on the inside, hit those same trigger points—filled with concern about Jane’s welfare—Jane could feel herself go all soft inside. Tears came quickly and right now, in front of a full barroom where Nellie was having a tug-of-war with Vince over a beer bottle that she claimed was empty and he said had a little left in it, Jane did not want to cry on her father’s shoulder.

Jane tried to focus on something, anything other than Don’s face with those eyes that looked right into her heart and demanded nothing but the truth. Just over her dad’s right shoulder, she spotted a banner.
HOME OF THE LUCKY DUCK!

“What the hell is a Lucky Duck?” asked Jane, curiosity canceling out tears.

“It’s a drink I invented for Lucky Days,” said Don.

“Okay, maybe we have to go a little further back on this one,” said Jane. “I need a little fill-in on Lucky Days, too.”

“Who invented the Lucky Duck?” asked Nellie. Despite the beer bottle throwdown with Vince halfway across the bar, Nellie’s batlike radar picked up on Don’s remark.

“Well, Nellie, you helped with the recipe,” said Don, “but I—”

“Helped with the recipe? You wanted to use vodka in it, for God’s sake,” said Nellie, grabbing the beer bottle from Vince once and for all when he got distracted, anticipating the storm that was about to rain down on all patrons of the EZ Way Inn. “He said vodka was what the young people drank and we had to have a vodka drink.”

“Jane drinks vodka, Nellie,” said Don.

“So?” said Nellie. “Look at her shoes. She’s a smart girl, but she’s no trendsetter.”

Jane felt a little giddy as she looked down at her Birkenstocks. Okay, clunky shoes, but Nellie thought she was smart and Jane needed a little boost after her day. And, let’s face it, when a girl is hovering around forty—either side of it—a girl likes to be called a girl.

“I wanted it spicy,” said Don. “Worcestershire sauce and—”

“He made a Bloody Mary, that’s all,” said Nellie.

“No, I had a secret ingredient,” said Don.

“It was tasty,” said Francis the bread man. “I tried out the recipes.”

“I bet you did,” said Vince.

Nellie poured a brown opaque liquid into a glass, picked up a cocktail shaker, and gave it two no-nonsense shakes, and added a small amount of red liquid to the brown. She placed a wooden stick that had what looked like it might have been a baby carrot stuck to one end in the glass, tossed a few ice cubes in, and handed it to Jane.

“Try it,” said Nellie. “This is my recipe.”

“What’s this?” asked Jane taking the carrot-on-a-stick out of the drink.

“When I got time, I carve those things to a point so they look like a duck’s beak,” said Nellie, with what Jane could only assume was pride. “Your dad’s drink didn’t even have a garnish.”

Don poured Jane what looked like a glass of orange juice, perhaps a little paler, and threw in a shake or two of grapefruit bitters.

Jane sat down at the bar next to Francis and stared at the two glasses. Nellie came over and placed a napkin next to her concoction. It was white with black block printing:
TRY NELLIE’S LUCKY DUCK.
Don came over and slipped a paper coaster under the diluted orange juice. Printed around the edge of the circle was:
TRY DON’S LUCKY DUCK.

“They’re both real good,” said Francis.

“You haven’t ordered either one since we stopped giving free samples,” said Nellie, picking up his beer bottle and pouring out the last few drops into his glass, before whisking it away.

“You let him finish his beer,” whined Vince.

Jane had had the kind of day that called for a drink at the end of it. She wouldn’t have chosen either her father’s screwdriver—even though Nellie kept insisting it was a Bloody Mary—or her mother’s swamp water, but what the hell? How often do you sell your house and divest yourself of almost all worldly goods?

Jane sipped Don’s Lucky Duck.

“See, Nellie, I don’t need a garnish because mine’s the color of a duck,” said Don.

“Where the hell you ever seen an orange duck?”

“Not bad,” said Jane. It was actually refreshing. The mixer with the vodka was orange juice and grapefruit juice with some fresh lemon. Something was a little sparkly in there, too. Club soda? And Jane noticed only when she sipped, that Don had rimmed the glass with Margarita salt so it had a tart and savory taste with just the slightest sweetness from the orange juice.

“It’s kind of like a mimosa, Dad,” said Jane.

Don shook his head. “Nope, no champagne.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. Don had been reading his bartender’s guide.

Nellie handed her a glass of water.

“That’s enough of that breakfast drink. Mine’s the real Lucky Duck,” said Nellie.

The song on the jukebox ended and the sound was muted on the television. The barroom had grown so quiet, Jane expected to hear the scraping of a chair on the floor as one of the cowpokes fled the scene before the shootout.

Jane sipped Nellie’s thick brown goop. Salty, savory, and hearty with a kick. Jane took a small bite of carrot and another sip.

“Delicious,” said Jane, completely surprised. “It looks vile, but it’s delicious. Like spiked vegetable soup or something.”

“So whose drink is better?” asked Vince.

Jane scanned the room. All of the regulars and many of the strangers—more baseball caps and sunglasses, Jane noted—waited for her to make the pronouncement. Nellie, all steely springs and coils, and Don, all smiles and hope, watched their daughter’s face.

Jane pointed at Don’s drink. “Daytime Lucky Duck … serve before five
P.M.
and”—she added, pointing to Nellie’s recipe—“Lucky Duck After Dark … serve at dinnertime and beyond.”

Jane felt like Solomon the Wise, but Nellie wasn’t having it.

“You got to pick one or—”

The front door to the EZ Way Inn opened and a tall man in jeans, boots, and a linen shirt walked in. He gave a one-fingered salute to Don, who nodded, and two more strangers came in behind him, one with a camera and one holding lights and portable stands for setting them up.

“I give up,” said Jane. “What is going on in this town? What’s with all the Lucky stuff?”

“Lucky Miller, hon,” said Don, as if he were explaining two plus two equaling four.

“He’s shooting a television special here in Kankakee, a comedy special on HBO, and he decided to do it from his hometown,” said Barney, another EZ way regular, over his shoulder as he began feeding coins into the jukebox.

“They’re shooting little bits for the opening all over town and tonight, Lucky’s coming in for a Lucky Duck,” said Don.

“My Lucky Duck,” said Nellie.

The men who had come in to set up the cameras started laughing and one or two of the folks at the bar, whom Jane now realized were part of Lucky’s crew and staff, laughed with them.

“Not HBO,” said the cameraman.

“Yeah, it’s Comedy Central that does them roasts,” said Vince.

“Not Comedy Central, either,” said a thirty-something-year-old with thick glasses, wearing the ubiquitous baseball cap, which Jane now saw had a four-leaf clover logo on the front. “In fact, you see that bin you got with all those aluminum beer cans in it for recycling?” Some of the regulars at the bar—the ones who could understand the man’s thick British accent—nodded, thinking they were getting some new information about the exciting event taking place in their very own town.

“You put those cans out with some pieces of string and you see if you can pick up any stations, because that’s the only place that’s going to air this special.”

A few people facing the front of the bar snickered, but all of those sitting on the other side, facing the back door kept their faces completely neutral.

Jane supposed their completely humorless faces had something to do with the fact that a man in a bright red shirt and a leather blazer was standing in the kitchen doorway facing into the barroom. Although he didn’t look exactly like the caricatures on the banners, Lucky Miller was recognizable. He did have a mop of black hair—although it didn’t actually appear to be his hair—and he also had a cigar, unlit, sticking out of the side of his mouth. It must have been a permanent fixture because Lucky could talk perfectly well with the cigar glued into place.

“Malcolm, that you made that wise-ass remark?”

“Shit,” muttered Malcolm. “Yes, sir, testing it out for the show, Lucky, just like you told us to do with the new material.”

“Good boy,” said Lucky, “good boy.”

The jukebox roared back on with some country song that Jane was surprised Don allowed on the machine. He was a music lover, but couldn’t stand country.
Love songs to trucks,
he always said, although he admitted to a soft spot for Willie Nelson’s voice.

Lucky pointed to the jukebox and the cameraman pulled the plug, shrugging his shoulders at Barney, who protested that he had just played that song.

“Got to do a sound check. Drinks are on us while we’re here, though,” he said, patting Barney on the shoulder.

Everybody relaxed when they heard that. Jane realized that’s why everyone was here. Lucky came in to shoot a little B roll for the special and when he stopped into a place, everything was on the house. Free drinks would keep a lot of Don and Nellie’s customers in the bar past their dinnertime.

“Free drinks, huh?” said Nellie. She had been staring at Lucky Miller since he walked in. “You going to pay that bill tonight or run up a tab?”

A pretty blonde in a short denim skirt and a red T-shirt came over to Nellie with a clipboard and began to explain the system they were using around town.

“We ask that you invoice us at the end of the evening for everything used or consumed during the filming; we’ll sign a copy, and your reimbursement check will arrive before the end of the month. My name is Brenda and I will be personally responsible for—”

“I’d like Lucky to pay us tonight,” said Nellie, her arms folded.

Lucky had been consulting with another baseball cap, who seemed to be feeding him lines and suggesting the best place for him to sit, but when Nellie made her pronouncement, he looked at her.

“You’ve got to be the famous Nellie,” said Lucky. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Yeah? You’ve heard of me but you don’t remember me, huh?”

“Nellie, let it go,” said Don.

Lucky shook Don’s hand, but never took his eyes off of Nellie.

“We know each other?”

“You lived just off of Fifth Avenue when you were a kid, right?”

“For a couple of years, but then the family moved to—”

“Remember a little guy who lisped? Everybody called him Boing Boing?”

“Sure,” said Lucky, “I mean, who could forget a kid named Boing Boing, right?”

“You stole his lunch money and I kicked your ass and got the money back,” said Nellie.