Lucky 14 and Other Stories

By David Rowlett

• The year: 1967. The place: Hollywood. The script: impossible.
• A blizzard hits America in July. Why?
• She hates him. Can she get away with poisoning his coffee?
• Why did the world's greatest theater director vanish?
• Two small-town lawyers fake a murder. Are they equally guilty?

You will find these tales and more inside this funny and moving collection of new short stories by David Rowlett.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Rowlett
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988270768

Book preview

LUCKY 14

AND OTHER STORIES

by David Rowlett

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July Snow copyright © 1981, The First Landowner copyright © 1982, Partners in Law and Pawns copyright © 1985, Brothers copyright © 1988, The Living Museum copyright © 1994, Fakes copyright © 1999, Lost Time copyright © 2000, The House Wins copyright © 2002, Death Coffee copyright © 2005, Best Fan copyright © 2009, The Temptation copyright © 2014, Lucky 14 and Sammy and the Commies copyright © 2020, An Honest Man © 2021

by David Rowlett. All rights reserved.

Lucky 14 and Other Stories. Copyright © 2021 by David Rowlett. All rights reserved. Reg. no. TX 9-332-506

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address David Rowlett, [e-mail].

Second Printing: 2024

ISBN: 979-8-9882707-6-8

United States of America, La Vergne, Tennessee

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1. Lucky 14

THE man with the broad-brimmed hat sat alone at a table and watched the street. The street still shone from yesterday’s storm. Ciudad del Carmen flooded every time it rained. The man’s tattered and rather old Italian shoes never got soaked because he went out rarely.

He had started the habit of patronizing this sidewalk cafe only last week. He was expecting to see her—the woman who was stalking him.

He ran his eyes over the open-air carnicero, where sleeveless men used axes on the meat. He scanned the intersection, where rickshaws’ wheels and buses’ tires splashed the last puddles. He eyed the entrance of the laundromat, where this neighborhood’s professionals brought their washing.

She always wore a white skirt and a black hat. He first saw her two weeks ago, half-hiding behind a newsstand. But she grew bolder. Once, he saw her standing in the open, just staring at him in the rain. That’s when he noticed her long red hair.

Just a crazy person—he thought. Couldn’t be an agent. Not careful enough.

Yet he wondered. His passport gave his name as J. Livingston Papp. It was an alias, but could an agent know that?

No, he couldn’t believe that this stalker, whom he had nicknamed Red in his mind, was dangerous. It was to ask her for her real name that he decided to watch for her next appearance.

Excuse me, sir.

The clear, feminine voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw her. It was Red.

I’m Vicky. I’m an American, too, she said. May I sit down?

He nodded and she took the other chair.

Haven’t I seen you somewhere? he asked her, his eyes narrowed.

Maybe.

Working for Pemex?

She shook her head no. Just a tourist.

Carmen doesn’t get many tourists.

The waitress arrived and Vicky ordered ice cream in a bowl.

He looked fixedly at her and said, his voice a little harder, "You haven’t asked me a question."

She glanced at him swiftly. But she recovered her composure and asked him, Do you like ice cream?

Where are you from in the States?

From somewhere, she chirped unhelpfully. I made my own ice cream there.

Really.

Homemade, yes. All flavors! Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, pistachio—

So you’re here to eat Mexican ice cream?

She only smiled in response.

It occurred to him that she offered the company of a fellow American and that her not touching on their backgrounds was tactful. The recent break-up of the United States had sent American refugees, like him, to every country. Was she simply avoiding any topic that would bring up the unpleasant subject of The Disunion?

Well, maybe you could open an ice cream business here? he suggested.

That’s a good idea, but I have my sights on something bigger.

Like what?

You, Mister Powell.

He stared at her.

My name is Papp, he said.

She shook her head as slowly as the pendulum of a grandfather clock swings. That’s what your passport says, but I know you’re really Jim Powell.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. At last he asked, What do you want?

I don’t want to assassinate you. I’m no Red Warrior. I don’t believe in ‘historical guilt’ or any of the other charges hanging over you. I only believe that you want to avoid being captured and imprisoned, am I right?

Powell was a rich man. Don’t you think the most recent government confiscated his fortune? They would never let him leave with it.

She smiled. Maybe I only want the reward.

He was staring at her, thinking.

But I’m not after the reward, she added.

Don’t be so sure I’m not broke.

"But I am sure of it.... Want to know how I found you? She spoke breathlessly now, pleased with her own cleverness. I knew all about you and decided to seduce you, marry you, and divorce you for your fortune."

He grimaced. You’re frank.

But then, the government ‘disappeared’ you, and I thought it must have looted every penny you had.

"Unlucky for you, having that competitor."

She frowned, troubled. But the frown vanished like a passing cloud. And now I’ll tell you how I found you. I play the lotto, the Lucky 14. Just like you do. I study it in-depth. I even make numerical anagrams of all the winners. And I noticed a funny thing: when I converted the letters in ‘J. Livingston Papp’ to their corresponding place numbers in the alphabet, and then subtracted the winning number, the result was ‘12-12-5-23-15-16-13-9-10,’ which spells—

—which spells Jim Powell backward.

You shouldn’t have been so careless, Jim.

The waitress brought the ice cream. Half-triumphant and half-nervous, Vicki ate half a scoop in one bite.

He studied her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Will you take a check?

I’ll marry you.

"But J. Livingston Papp has health problems that require the Mexican climate and disqualify him from getting life insurance."

She put down her spoon. I’m not a murderer!

You’re a blackmailer.

I thought you were going to say that I’m an attractive nut from the States with a larcenous mind and a craving for homemade ice cream.

He sighed in exasperation. If I am who you say, then what would stop me from having you killed?

Jim, think it over. Neither of us has a place to go.

You’re lying. You probably still have relatives.

Just a sister. That reminds me, I need to send her this. She took a photo of him with her phone.

His hand grabbed her wrist, and he took her phone away before she could press Send.

Hey! Give it back! she shouted. He didn’t respond. "At least this proves you’re Powell, she huffed. Now give it back!" She banged on the table furiously.

"The owners of this cafe won’t like it if a guera raises a fuss in here. I know them. Now here’s my deal," he said.

She stopped banging and listened.

Come to the fuerta Saturday night, he continued, very seriously. Come alone, unarmed. Don’t bring another phone. Meet me on the southwest corner of Calle 22 and Calle 29-B and I’ll give your phone back. Then we’ll elope.

She slowly smoothed back her hair. Is this a test? How do I know you’ll be there?

"How do I know you will?"

She thought it over. What’s stopping me from getting a cop and taking my phone back right now?

He chuckled. Try proving I took it.

What do you mean? You would bribe a cop?

I’m supposed to be the one with the fortune. Right?

She sighed. Calle 22 and Calle 29-B?

He didn’t answer. He got up and left. She didn’t follow him.

*

The fuerta took place every Saturday night. It was like a small Rio Carnival, a street festival with fireworks and a parade of floats bearing drunken revelers and papier mâché menageries.

She peered over the heads of the crowd, trying to find the cross street—Calle 22. The pounding sound of a Milongueros remix seemed to follow her around.

She got jostled and pushed a little, when she reached the thick of the celebration. The Christmas lights hanging from every tree and the smell of alcohol on the breath of so many people disoriented her.

The tune changed to a rockabilly anthem and receded as she left the crowd and edged toward Calle 29-B. She wondered if Powell would be there.

Was he reliable? Although she didn’t know everything about him, she knew a good deal about his background. Years ago, before The Disunion, they called him the busiest man alive. He had run or bankrolled at least a hundred businesses. Every news story she ever read about him claimed he had the wealth of a Croesus, emphasis on the past tense because when he became a Historically Guilty Person overnight, confiscation swallowed his fortune and she assumed he lost it all.

Then she made the happy discovery that he’d won the Lucky 14 Lottery under a new name and had forty million dollars now.

Calle 29-B was a short side street, almost an alleyway. No one was here. She heard only the baffled sounds of the fuerta. Then she saw her phone.

It lay in the middle of the street.

She ran to it and picked it up. She paged through her photos: he had deleted his photo. She looked around. He must have put the phone down only minutes ago but was gone now.

She had too much self-possession to look for him. She slipped her phone into her purse and left.

*

The next morning, she had coffee at the same sidewalk cafe. She had packed her bags and called for a car to take her to the airport at noon. She felt sure he had escaped her for good: once the hound loses the scent, the hunt is over, and she knew that. She believed she would never see him again.

Excuse me, ma’am.

She raised her sad eyes. It was Powell.

I’m glad you found your phone. I worried that some reveler would take it before you got it.

She didn’t reply. He noticed that she was trying not to look at him. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and sat down. He said, I came here to tell you it’s really no use, your scheme.

I know.

Do you?

She took a sip of coffee and nodded yes. But it’s not too late, she said, to turn you in.

Don’t play the jilted woman. I’ll tell you the truth. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you wouldn’t hear me. I have no money. I’m broke. So there’s no reason you should want to marry me.

You got rid of forty million dollars last night? She shook her head. I don’t believe it.

"You never wondered why they would confiscate my fortune and let me escape?"

She looked at him.

No, he answered her unspoken guess, "I didn’t buy my escape with my fortune. They never confiscated it, because I had no fortune. Only debts totaling..."

...forty million...?

He nodded. Leveraged up to my earlobes. Had to continue borrowing just to—what’s a phrase you would understand?—just to make the payments.

She was laughing. You paid it off with J. Livingston Papp’s lottery winnings!

I kept enough to move here.

They said nothing for a long time. Her eyes were on the laundromat across the street. He ordered a coffee. After he finished it, he stood up and put his hat on. She stood up, too.

Ready to turn me in for the reward? he asked.

She resumed her seat. How did you plan to live without money?

Oh, I had a lot of business ideas. It might surprise you how much better the business climate is in a country that isn’t fighting a civil war.

She was staring across the street again. I wonder if many of them make ice cream.

Who?

People like your friends here and...well, people here in general.

He took off his hat and sat down again. Why wouldn’t they?

"I bet you don’t like homemade ice cream."

I like it very much, Vicky, he said.

_____________________________________________________

2. Death Coffee

LINDA sipped her Long Island Iced Tea on the patio of Fernandina Beach’s Old Cap’n Bar and Grill.

She did this every Tuesday afternoon with friends. Jane had daiquiris, Camilla had mojitos, and Samantha drank anything. Sam had a problem, but since she never embarrassed her friends, they never mentioned it. It was their ritual—for years—to meet and drink.

The weather was beautiful. Palm trees, newly planted, glistened in the sunlight falling from a perfect blue sky without clouds to stop its fall. The air wasn’t so humid that it flattened Linda’s hair or put semicircular beads of sweat on Jane’s upper lip, as sometimes happened on muggy days when no breeze came from the St. John’s River, no, instead everything seemed blessed—the twerpy birds, the quiet traffic in the road, the rustle of insects in the banks of bushes, the slap-slap of borzois’ paws as they proudly paraded past with belled leashes jang-jingling. Linda felt beautiful herself. She had had two already, and sipped this, the third, with a satisfied snap of uncollagened lips, lips not in need of procedures in fact, and tightly glossed as usual. She laughed because her friends were laughing. Sam laughed so hard, she conked the table with her fist, and that was funny and somehow beautiful, too.

Just then, a ROARRR shattered all that.

Everyone recognized who had made the sound. It was Demarcus, a homeless male who frequented the area. Shopkeepers, wearing worried frowns, often saw Demarcus hounding pedestrians: he followed them, shouted at them, even tossed trash at them. But no one ever called the police. The police themselves, on those rare occasions when they happened to catch sight of Demarcus’s behavior, did nothing. About two years ago somebody claimed to have seen a bicycle cop having a long talk with Demarcus. But nothing resulted from it; Demarcus still acted out often. And rumor had it that bicycle cop was fired from the force for confronting him.

Linda felt discomfort and anger. What if Demarcus injured someone? She looked at her friends’ faces. They were blank—they were trying to ignore his ROARRRing. They said and did nothing, and Linda could tell that they were trying to think nothing.

Demarcus walked up to their table in an off-balanced way and addressed an angry question to Sam. They couldn’t understand what he asked. It was half-shout, half-mumble. A flutter of embarrassment—even of dislike?—ran through the ladies, their tense faces frowning.

Sam didn’t respond. Jane’s eyes were pleading for help from the people at the other tables. But they didn’t help. Their faces were closed, they remained at their tables, seemingly more angry at anyone who would ask them to do anything than at the aggressor.

For that’s what Demarcus was—he was an aggressor! That’s what made Linda’s eyes burn with anger, that’s what made her feel one second away from losing control of her temper.

Then Demarcus grabbed Sam’s shoulder.

Sam stood up. The other ladies stood up. Demarcus was screaming at them all. The manager was there, he was leading Demarcus slowly away, holding his shoulders. No one at the other tables stood up. Demarcus’s shouts echoed in the street. Linda and her friends found themselves inside Old Cap’n, in the dark-light just behind the glass front door. The manager was back in, he was saying something dismissive to them; then he was gone, back to business as usual.

Through the door, they could see Demarcus on the other side of the street. He was making broad gestures and still shouting, but he was retreating. He left at last.

Someone should get him some help, Camilla said tonelessly.

Linda started to say "Or put him in jail" but stopped herself. She wasn’t afraid to say it, she was just too furious to trust her voice.

Then she made a decision. Demarcus had to go. His behavior made him unfit to be around people.

Now when Linda made a decision, it was decided. Nothing could change her mind, nothing could sway her. Things would be as she thought they should be.

She reviewed all the ways criminals like Demarcus normally got removed from places where they could do harm. The police might arrest him for vagrancy or harassment. But she knew they wouldn’t do that. The local business owners might demand police protection for their customers or hire private security. But she knew they wouldn’t do that. Their customers, including her friends, might complain.