Killing time in a stolen Geo Metro, Roach wonders if anybody will even miss it. The front seat is as comfortable as a root canal. Heater’s busted too, and that relentless January air cuts right through the tin foil cage without sympathy.
Hell, he and Denny did whoever owns this rattletrap a favor. Poor bastard can probably collect some insurance on it now.
“Christ, look at her.” Denny taps on the window at a woman coming out of Lincoln Liquors. He’s all elbows and knees, a praying mantis of a man folded up in the passenger seat. Probably one of the few times in his life when being tall sucked.
But the lady—she is a stunner. Blonde hair, smooth skin, and a figure that can’t hide under a winter coat. The neon yellow sign warms her face up, like the sun decided to check in on Youngstown for once.
It won’t stick around for too long. Never does.
The gentleman who pops out after her leaves a lot more to be desired. He’s short, stubby, and left most of his chin at home. When he takes the blonde’s arm it’s like a biblical betrayal. Roach watches them slip into the only other car in the parking lot—a sparkling red, ‘93 Audi Q6.
“Lucky bastard,” Roach says.
“Handsome devil, too.”
Their beer-tinged laughs fog the windows. Denny laughs a little harder than Roach—easy to see why. With the right suit he’d be right at home having breakfast with Faye Dunaway after a bank job. Not here.
The thought cuts the joke short. “Nah. You can’t be both,” Roach says. “Wouldn’t be fair.”
“Fair? If life were fair, we wouldn’t have been born in Youngstown.”
Roach shrugs. “Someone’s got to.”
Denny runs his hands through his hair. Son of a bitch still has a full head of it, with no greys either. “Thing is though, you can be both. Good-looking people make their own luck.”
“How you figure?”
Denny stretches his arms out with a bored groan. “If somebody’s got the hots for you, you can get them to do almost anything. That’s better than luck.”
Roach wouldn’t know. You don’t get tagged with that kind of nickname by having to turn down prom dates. He wasn’t even old enough to go to the prom when the guys on Warren Avenue came up with it.
It started as an insult. He was a skinny kid with eyes too big for his face and a shock of shit brown hair that stood up poker straight. Like antennas. After he proved to be the only fourth grader who could slip in and out of the teacher’s lounge to steal answer keys undetected, the slight became more of an endorsement.
At least he had a sharper jaw than the Audi guy. That was something.
“I gotta go with luck,” Roach says. “Looks don’t last forever.
“They don’t. That’s why you gotta strike while the iron’s hot.”
Speaking of which—Roach looks back at the liquor store. The inside’s as still as a cemetery, with ten minutes to closing time.
“I think those were the last two.”
“Finally.” Denny grabs the sawed-off from the back seat.
***
The inside of Lincoln’s Liquors smells like stale cigs and neglected ceiling leaks. Dusty vodka sits on rusty shelves that are one popped screw away from meeting the salt-crusted floor. Damn place probably hasn’t had a handyman come by since Ford was in office.
The cashier clocks the guys right as they round a shelf of cheap whisky. He’s old, Roach thinks. Too old to be working a job like this in a neighborhood like this at 1:50 in the morning. From the way his back and shoulders make a letter C over the counter, it looks like he’s been working at Lincoln’s since ol’ Abe himself was running around.
“Hands in the air,” Denny says. He aims at the cashier.
The prune lifts his arms up to his chest. He’s framed by a garden of condoms, mini liquor bottles and scratch-off tickets that promise Cash Explosions or Piggy Bank Breaks.
Roach approaches the counter with a weathered black backpack. “Empty the register.”
“If it’s money you’re after, you’re going to be disappointed.” The prune is calm. Like he’s scolding a child.
It throws Roach, but not all the way off-kilter. “Pop that drawer and we’ll see.”
The prune clicks his tongue and does what he’s told. Cash spills out the counter—ones, fives, and quarters that altogether probably won’t crack $100.
Roach swipes it all into the backpack. Won’t be enough to buy an Audi, but it’ll do.
“I have something more valuable than money, if you’re interested,” the prune says.
On cue, the overhead fluorescents puff and hum like a pack of hornets. Roach’s eyes dart to Denny, but he’s a statue. Unmoved.
“Coke,” Denny says. “You’re slinging dust back here, huh?”
“Coke is in the front of the store with the other mixers.”
“Don’t play stupid.”
“I have nothing to offer you beyond the truth.”
“I’m getting tired of these riddles, my man.” Denny clicks the safety off.
Roach wilts. The thought of watching the prune’s blood and brains slide down the plastic cigarette case behind the counter makes his stomach twist. This is why he prefers boosting cars.
“What kind of truth?” The words tumble out of Roach’s mouth with no other purpose than buying time for Denny to fizzle out.
The prune smiles and palms a greasy pack of Camels next to the register. His dried up fingers remind Roach of worms that got stranded on the sidewalk after a storm. They slip past Joe Camel and pull out a small deck of purple-skinned cards.
“The only truth,” he says.
Denny’s temperature could cook the whole store. It should be time to go but Roach can’t take his eyes off the cards. Somehow, they look alive under that sickly green light.
“Both of you may pick one card each.”
Roach can’t find a reason not to.
He extends a hand and draws a purple jewel from the middle of the deck.
The card shows a hand-drawn sun character with a face that’s neither smiling nor frowning. It looks more like an illustration from a kid’s storybook than any grand truth.
Roach wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Not a picture of an Audi or something, but definitely not this.
Denny groans. “See, waste of time let’s—”
“No, no, no,” the prune says. “The pictures aren’t to be taken literally. The sun signifies good fortune.”
“Like fifty bucks in change good fortune? Christ.”
But Roach and the prune both tune Denny’s bitching out. They lock eyes.
“Today will be the luckiest day of your life.”
A guy raised on government cheese and eviction notices learns not to expect much from the world. But there’s a quiet part of Roach, hidden under his skin like a splinter, that still wants to believe in luck. Even if it’s never called his name before.
“Yeah, right. Let me see this.” Denny keeps the shotgun at his hip and snatches his car.
He pulls a man riding a horse. The man holds a gold chalice in the air, but doesn’t appear to feel any sort of way about it. Neutral, just like Roach’s sun.
The prune smiles. “Another prosperous card. You, my friend, will be blessed with good looks for the rest of your life.”
“Didn’t need any freaky-ass cards to tell me that.” Denny looks at Roach and nods toward the door. He takes off.
At least cooling Denny off was a success. That would make it the prune’s lucky day, not Roach’s. Still, there’s a twinge in his chest, tugging at the parts of him that crave having something to believe in.
Is a pocket change score really going to be the best it gets?
Roach lingers at the register. His feet want to move. His heart’s telling him to stay put.
“Gimmie one of them scratch-offs,” he says, finally.
The prune smiles and tears a pink and gold card from the plastic display case.
“I’d wish you luck. But it’s already on your side.”
***
Roach parks the Geo Metro in a patch of tall weeds close to the river, a few yards down from where Sheet and Tube used to be. The score from the liquor store is a whopping $37.
“Worthless goddamn town,” Denny spits. He slaps the dashboard, shaking the whole lousy rust bucket.
“Maybe next time we should hit somewhere in Boardman.” Roach scratches his lotto ticket with a sticky penny he found in the side pocket of the Metro. He’s not expecting much, though.
The uncanny feeling from the prune, the cards, and his fortunes wore off the minute Roach got back outside and smelled the cold Youngstown air.
The luck in this town dried up thirty years ago. All that’s left is pocket change.
Still, the scratch-off is a good distraction. Roach needs to get four 26s to win $26,000. So far, he has two. But like every bad joke, the punchline is going to reveal itself too soon.
Denny keeps ranting. “Problem with that is that all them stores got cameras now. The only places you can knock off anymore are the places that aren’t even worth it.”
A final scratch reveals the last two numbers. Roach freezes.
“Denny.”
“Do we just drive this thing down to Florida?”
“Den.”
“We wouldn’t even make it to Pittsburgh with $37 in gas.”
“Dennis!” Roach holds the ticket up for him to see.
There are four 26s. Two at the top, two at the bottom. It’s a grand prize winner.
Denny snatches the ticket. “Where’d you get this?”
“I swiped it from the store. Right when we were leaving.”
“Are you kidding me?” Denny bangs on the car door with his fist,
“What? They guy said it was—”
“You can’t cash it in, genius. They’ll know exactly where it came from and who stole it.”
Roach didn’t consider that. He only wanted to try his luck and see if there were any chance a liquor store prophecy could come true. Then maybe he’d get his turn rolling around in a brand-new Audi with a blonde in the passenger seat.
Maybe $37 is as good as it’ll ever get, though.
Denny stares out the windshield and rubs his up his face, then through his hair. When he gets to the back of his neck he perks back up.
“We’ll get someone else to cash it for us.”
Roach huffs. “Who?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We’ll find someone and offer them a cut. Or pretend to, at least.”
“Won’t they still know the ticket was stolen?”
“We’ll tell her to say she found it on the ground or something.”
Roach pauses. “Her?”
***
The Red Dog Tavern reeks of skunked beer and desperation. The bar top’s so sticky Roach has to peel his longneck off to take a sip. George Strait wails on the jukebox, and Roach wishes he would’ve checked no on this part of the caper.
Denny’s already found a mark. Some middle-aged woman sitting at the end of the bar. She’s sitting alone. Quiet. And hideously ugly.
All Denny had to do was slide in and flash a grin. Roach watches him from the other side of the bar, catching the few sweet nothings he can in between the bad country music and other rowdy patrons.
“Anyone ever tell you you look like Robert Redford?”
“Never,” Denny says, smooth as velvet. “But you remind me of Jane Fonda.”
She slaps his shoulder, blushing. Denny leans in and whispers in her ear, which deepens the pink on her cheeks.
That’s handsome at work, Roach supposes. Maybe Denny is right about making your own luck.
To hell with those rotten cards, though. And this putrid dump.
Roach gets up to take a leak. He taps his pocket to make sure the lottery ticket is still there.
The bathroom’s its own hell. A single-room pisser that smells like puke and the faintest hint of pine cleaner. Faint as in, the last anybody used some was before Christmas. The walls are so thin that Roach can hear the bartender popping beer tabs on the other side of the door. Colder than a well-digger’s ass, too.
Roach does his business and doesn’t wash his hands. Who cares. But when he pulls on the door to get back outside, the knob falls clean off.
“Shit.” He tries to turn what’s left of the handle.
Nothing budges.
You’re kidding me,” he groans. “Piece of shit, lying old prune.” Roach slams his shoulder into the door. All that does is send a jolt of pain up his back.
He’s going to have to wait for somebody to come take a piss. Just like he needs to wait for everything else in this miserable vermin life.
A shout outside the door catches his ear.
“Hey asshole!”
“You talking to me?” Denny says.
“Get your filthy hands off my wife!”
Roach freezes. Not because it’s cold in there.
“Hey, I didn’t know she was your wife.” Denny’s playing it cool, inflecting his words with calm and cool laughter. Roach has seen it work a thousand times.
“Paul, he was just being polite!” the woman says.
Roach chuffs at that.
“His hands were politely halfway down your jeans!”
“Look,” Denny says.
Whatever he’s going to say is cut off by the sound of a shotgun. The blast shakes the walls of the whole tavern. Roach feels the vibrations in his teeth.
A woman screams. Feet scatter across the bar.
“Paul, you killed him!”
Roach gasps and yanks at what’s left of the door knob. The thought of his best friend, his only friend, bleeding out on some grimy floor—
He can’t say it doesn’t feel appropriate, actually. But that doesn’t mean that’s how he wants it to be.
“He came in with somebody,” someone at the bar shouts.
Roach stops yanking. His heart’s pounding so loud he can’t hear George Strait anymore.
The prune cursed them both, Roach decides. All for $37.
Denny did indeed die handsome, though.
Roach shivers. The bathroom somehow got colder. Almost feels like there’s a breeze coming in.
He looks up toward it. There’s an open window above the toilet. It’s small, but just wide enough to invite him through. The winter air cuts sharp—
But it’s a lucky break all the same.
[Image Credit : Photo by CLAR. S___UE_N on Unsplash]
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