Illusion of Luck Read online

  Maybe that was the attraction.

  **********

  Larry walked out of the convenience store, lit his pipe and stood there puffing on it as he watched the cars go by. He had not played the Texas Lottery in a long time. He knew he could win any time he wanted. But that wouldn’t fair to everyone else. So, he used his powers of luck sparingly.

  But now that his funds were dwindling, he figured it was his turn to win again. By correctly selecting all six numbers, he could walk away with as much as $45 million. Then he wouldn’t need to play again for a few years. But he didn’t plan to sit nervously in front of the TV at 10:12 PM to witness the drawing. He knewhe would win.

  Money had never been an issue for Lucky Larry. Let everyone else work at a crummy job for low pay. All he needed was his luck.

  And now his luck in publishing was finally turning around. He knew it would happen. Two agents and a small publisher had already contacted him about his new book, Illusion of Luck. It would be a New York Times Best Seller—he could just feel it.

  They would need a good portrait for the back cover. He would go to an expensive hairdresser for a precise trim of his beard and shaggy hair. In his picture he would, no doubt, appear to be in deep thought, holding his beloved pipe to his lips.

  He got into his Jaguar and drove away. He laughed when he pictured the pastor of First Baptist Church, Coreyville looking for Johnny Jones at the wedding reception. What a doofus, he thought.

  Larry had not attended the wedding. He had never planned to. But he wouldattend the honeymoon.

  Chapter13

  Sandy jumped into fourth position of the reception line. And when it came his turn, he took Cynthia in his arms and kissed her on the lips for a long second. Then he gave Greg a huge bear hug. Leave it to Sandy to act inappropriately, thought Greg. But they wouldn’t hold it against him. It was just Sandy being Sandy. Besides, nothing was going to spoil Greg and Cynthia’s perfect day.

  Sandy made a quick pass through the food line and then joined Rebecca at her table with a full plate of sandwiches.

  “You’ve got some red lipstick on your face,” said Rebecca.

  “Where?”

  Rebecca picked up a napkin and wiped it off. She was surprised when she noticed Sandy blushing. He likes me, she thought.

  He wasn’t really embarrassed by the lipstick was on his face. But when Rebecca touchedhim—it was like turning on a red light bulb. Sandy hated it when he spontaneously broadcasted his feelings. He wasn’t ready for her to know he was attracted to her. But it was too late now. He could see it in her eyes—she knew. He wanted to grab her. But then he remembered what she had said earlier and held back. He wasn’t quite ready to take a chance on losing appendages. “So, what do you do for living?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “That’s interesting. Most lawyers refer to themselves as attorneys.”

  “Same thing.”

  “But don’t attorneys think of themselves more highly than lawyers do?”

  “Probably. But, to me, it’s like ‘the lady’s room.’ I’d just as soon call it ‘the bathroom’ or ‘the can.’”

  “So, instead of regurgitate, for example, you’d say vomit.”

  “Or hurl…or barf.”

  “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Divorce.”

  “Hope you’re not like my ex-wife’s lawyer. She’ll drag a poor guy into court, strip him naked, cut off his balls and hand them to the wife.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes the poor guyhas it coming.”

  “Really? What kind of man deserves that?”

  “The kind who’s drilling his hot young secretary until he gets caught. And when the wife files for divorce, he tries to leave her penniless.”

  “And that’s where you step in and save the day?”

  “I do my best.”

  “How do you prove the husband cheated?”

  “You do a little private eye work.”

  “You do it yourself or you hire somebody?”

  “I don’t trust anybody else to do it. Besides, most of the women I represent can’t pay much, so I really can’t afford any extra expenses.”

  “Wow. A real-life private eye—anda divorce lawyer. So, you live here in Coreyville?”

  “Oh, no. I live in Sherman.”

  “Hey, that’s just up the road from where I live—in Dallas. And just for the record: I never cheated on mywife. I was just a big pain in the butt, according to her and her lawyer. But she knew thatwhen she married me. Actually, I think shemight have been cheating. But none of that matters now. It’s history.”

  “What kind of work do youdo?”

  “I’m a music professor at a junior college in Dallas—technically, an associatemusic professor.”

  “Your students must love you.”

  “Yeah, they do. But what made you say that?”

  “You’re sort of outrageous, bigger than life—a little crazy. I would think college students like that.”

  “But that’s just who I am. I’m not gonna try to be what anybody think a college professor shouldbe.”

  “Good for you.”

  “On the other hand, I’ve nearly been fired a few times.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, for example, one time I was talking to my class about various musical instruments, and I said that almost anything could be made into an instrument. When one of my students challenged me, I decided to do a little experiment. I told the class to go out to any room in the building, and for each one of them to bring back an item. Then I would prove it could be used as a musical instrument. So, they did.”

  “Doesn’t seem so crazy. How did that get you into trouble?”

  “The music dean was showing off our brand new building to a couple of board members. Then he took them into his office and invited them to sit for a while and chat. But his brand new plush executive chair was missing.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. One of my students had slipped into his office while his secretary was in the bathroom.”

  Rebecca snickered. “Were you able to make music with the dean’s chair?”

  “I didn’t even try. I ran through the hall, rolling the chair in front of me, praying I would get there before the dean discovered it was gone.”

  “Obviously, you didn’t make it.”

  “Nope. So, the student won the argument. I could have played it as a percussion instrument, using drumsticks on the metal chair legs. But he knew I wouldn’t dare beat on the dean’s new chair.”

  “Smart kid.”

  “Yeah. Too bad I had to flunk him.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “No. But I wanted to.”

  Rebecca started laughing. Then Sandy joined her.

  Sandy couldn’t believe he’d meet an eligible woman he liked at Greg’s wedding.

  Rebecca had given up all hope of finding a man she could stand to be in the room with. She was enjoying herself so much she could have almost forgotten why she was there.

  **********

  As Greg and Cynthia hurried through the crowd toward the car, the well-wishers released bright colored balloons into the sky. Greg had requested the balloons, fearful of driving away with tiny rice or birdseed scratches all over his beautiful 1965 Pontiac Bonneville convertible.

  Sandy’s string of Just Married cans clanged loudly as they drove away. As soon as they had cleared the Coreyville city limits, Greg pulled over at a gas station, put the top up, and cut off the string of cans and threw them in the trunk. He would have tossed them in the trash. But Cynthia wanted them as a keepsake, thinking it was a sweet, if goofy, gesture by Greg’s knuckleheaded friend.

  “You look nervous, Honey,” said Cynthia.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. You’re shaking.”

  “I don’t think I’m nervous. Maybe overwhelmed.”

  “You’re still worried about making love to me? Don’t be. I mean, you’ve had sex plenty of times. You know whe
re everything goes and how it works.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never done it with you. You’re different. Your body is pure, —“

  “—I hope you weren’t going to say sacred.”

  “Well…”

  “I’m not a virgin.”

  “Yes, you are. To me, you are.”

  “Okay. But you don’t have to get all stressed out about it. We’ll just be a husband and a wife having sex—like God intended.”

  He agreed in principle with everything she was saying. But Cynthia was theperfect woman. In every way. And she didn’t even know it.

  “I can’t wait to get naked with you,” she said.

  “But we can turn the lights down real low.”

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  “Or turn off the lights altogether.”

  “Hey, I’ve seen you without your shirt.”

  “And yet you still married me.”

  “But you’ve never seen menaked. What if my body repulses you?”

  Greg giggled at the thought of it. Then he chuckled. Finally, he roared with laughter.

  Cynthia laughed along. “Well, at least I’ve loosened you up.”

  “Oh, Baby, I love you. We’re gonna have so much fun together.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  **********

  Larry was enjoying a comfortable chair in the lobby of the DFW Airport Marriott Hotel. The free wireless internet access allowed him to work on his book while waiting for the arrival of the newlyweds. Right now he was just making notes. He wouldn’t actually write and post the chapter until he had executed the plan.

  After Greg and Cynthia had gone into the room, he would stand near their door, listening. If anyone walked by, he would whisper that he was playing a joke on his buddy inside.

  He figured that soon after entering their room, Cynthia would go into the bathroom to change and maybe take a shower. While Greg was waiting for her, Larry would call the room phone, disguise his voice, and tell him he had accidentally backed into Greg’s car and damaged it. He would ask Greg to come to the lobby so they could exchange insurance information and go out to the parking lot and look at the car.

  Greg would tell Cynthia through the bathroom door that he’d be right back. While Greg was in the lobby waiting for the caller to show up, Cynthia would come out of the bathroom. Then Larry would knock on the door. Cynthia would think her silly husband had gone off without his room key and open the door without even asking who was there.

  She would be surprised to see Larry instead of her husband. He would tell her who he was, and that they went to high school together. Then he would offer her a watch as a wedding present. She would think it looked bulky and ugly, but would be kind and accept it anyway. Larry would insist that she try it on, which she would do, just to get rid of him.

  But as soon as Cynthia had the watch on her wrist, Larry would inform her that it contained a small amount of explosive material capable of blowing her hand off. He would show her the wireless detonator, invite himself into the room, and close the door. Then he would make her throw on some clothes, grab her bag, and leave the hotel with him.

  Greg would wait in the lobby for a few minutes, give up on the caller, and walk out to his car and find no damage. Relieved, but confused, he would go back to his room only to find his wife and her bag missing. There would be no note—no indication as to why his wife had deserted him.

  It was an ingenious plan. Larry just wished he could be there to see Greg’s reaction. But that was okay—he didn’t need to seeit. He was a writer, after all. The world of imagination was his playground.

  He could picture the pitiful look on Greg’s face.

  Chapter14

  Rebecca had been following Greg and Cynthia on Interstate 20 since they left Coreyville, maintaining enough separation so she wouldn’t be noticed. It was easy to keep track of Greg’s 1965 Bonneville. You don’t see many of those on the road these days, thought Rebecca. She was a little envious, although she loved her 1979 Lincoln Continental.

  Fifty miles out of Dallas, the rattle she had been ignoring got much louder. Not now, she thought. She wanted to stay close to Greg and Cynthia, in hopes that she could intervene if Larry Luzor showed up.

  From what little she knew of the couple, she liked them, and would hate to see them harmed. But her primary motivation was the burning desire to take revenge on her partner’s killer. Saving the newlyweds in the process would just be a nice fringe benefit.

  The racket got even louder.

  Rebecca knew a little something about cars. She had spent many hours out under the old oak tree, handing tools to her dad.

  “Sweetie, could you give me the 9/16 inch socket?”

  “Is it this one, Daddy?”

  “No, Honey, that’s a 9/16 inch box-end wrench. It’s the right size. But what I need is a socket—you know, it’s round and—“

  “—like this?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”

  He would always explain in great detail what he was doing and why. That time he rebuilt the carburetor on the old Buick and ended up with parts left over, she thought he’d go nuts trying to figure it out. But he finally got it all back together and working.

  She was 95% certain she was hearing the rear universal joint break down. And she knew if it completely fell apart, the back end of the drive shaft could hit the road and that might pull it out of the transmission. Then the drive shaft might roll across the highway and cause other cars to wreck.

  She pulled over to the side of the highway and watched the taillights of the red convertible get smaller and fade away. Now she would have to call for a tow truck. She was disgusted with herself. The noise had started weeks ago. Why hadn’t she taken the time to get it fixed then?

  No sooner than she had called for a tow, she saw headlights coming up behind her. Maybe it was state trooper. But she couldn’t see any lights on top. A man got out of the car and walked to her door.

  “Hey, Lady, got trouble?”

  He leaned down to look in the driver’s window and saw a pistol pointed at his face.

  “Whoa, take it easy, Rebecca. It’s me—Sandy.”

  She lowered the gun. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was driving home—like you. And I saw what I thought was your car on the side of the road and figured you were in trouble. I just wanted to help. But I nearly got my head blown off. You’re dangerous, Woman.”

  “I’m sorry, Sandy. Have you been following me all the way from Coreyville?”

  “No, like I said, I wasn’t even sure this was your car. I drove through McDonalds on the way out of town, so you had some lead time.”

  “You were hungry again? After all those sandwiches you ate at the reception?”

  “Yep. So, what’s wrong with your car?”

  “Rear U-joint.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not a car guy, are you?”

  “I just drive ‘em. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I can ride in on the tow truck. I just called them.”

  “Well, then I’ll just hang around until they get here.”

  “Oh, I hate for you to have to wait. I’m sure you’d like to get on home.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, okay. Thanks.”

  **********

  Chaucey checked the site for the fourth time in five minutes. What was taking him so long? She needed to read the next chapter.

  She searched for another online book to read. Most were not as good as his, but she needed something to occupy her time while she waited. She was a voracious reader. And she had plenty of time to read. At 27, she lived alone in her apartment in Katy, Texas, just west of Houston.

  Chaucey Reed was the product of an English literature professor and a psychiatrist. They had agreed to have but one child, which would be a boy. But, she had disappointed them by being a girl. It had been her mother’s plan to name her son Geoffrey Chaucer, after her idol, the En
glish author, poet, philosopher, and diplomat.

  After a brief disagreement, the Drs. Reed decided to use the name anyway. Geoffrey Chaucer Reed. They would call her Chaucey. Yes, that was perfectly acceptable. To them. She hated her name. But she did, begrudgingly, admire Chaucer. And she had read his works numerous times.

  She was a strikingly beautiful woman with long, dark brown hair. Upon entering a room, men would flock to her. But one by one they would walk away disappointed—not because they were rejected, but because of her snobbishness. She was always the smartest person in the room—and she’d let you know it. Not that she’d been in many rooms with other people recently.

  She made a good living as a free-lance graphic artist. And her work rarely required her to leave her apartment. She had become a hermit—only venturing out when absolutely necessary. She didn’t even go out to shop. She had groceries and other items delivered to her door. Anything she needed could be ordered online.

  There was not one television in her home. She didn’t care for the medium. Why let actors attempt to tell her a story that would play out much more vividly in her own imagination. The only way to get the full impact of a story was to read it. She didn’t understand why everybody didn’t feel that way. Ignorant peasants were they.

  Few of the walls in her apartment could still be seen. She had neatly stacked her thousands of books from floor to ceiling along nearly every wall.

  She couldn’t bear to part with any of her precious tomes, yet there was no room to add more. Her solution was to begin reading electronic books. She scoured the internet for books she could read online or download. Some were free, others were not. It didn’t matter. Money was not an issue. She just needed a constant supply of new reading material.

  She found a huge volume of older literature, which she did enjoy. But she preferred modern mysteries and thrillers. And, at a rate of two books per day, it soon became clear she would eventually run out.

  Some unpublished authors were posting their novels online. She liked perusing their books, but found most lacking in quality.

  Then she came across a new mystery being written by Barry Undermine. She had never heard of him, but thought his style sounded familiar. She found herself strangely fascinated by his writing. Unlike the work of many would-be novelists, his characters and story rang true. And she had become hooked.