Run of Luck

She had a suitcase in each hand as he entered. His bloodshot blue eyes gave her the once-over.

"Where're you off to?" he said irritably.

"Where've you been?" she replied, the muscles in her neck defying an attempt at restraint.

"A.C."

"Of course."

"I couldn't help it, babe. I was hot. I hit the last two doubles at the track. I had to go."

"What about your job? It's already past seven-thirty."

"I'll call in sick."

"The school year's not even two months old and you've already used up most of your days. If I did that I'd be out on the street in a minute."

"How many times've I told you to leave the private sector?"

"None of your jokes."

"You're right," he said, approaching.

She avoided his embrace. "And none of your Irish charm, either."

"C'mon, you know you love it."

"Grow up, will you! You're thirty years old."

"I was up ten grand, Sher'. I couldn't leave."

"No doubt you lost it all."

"But it was so much fun."

"Don't give me that. You hate to lose even at strip poker. Too bad there isn't a time limit in gambling like there is in sports so you'd know when to stop, so you'd come out ahead once in a while."

"God, I was stupid. I had the odds beat and I let 'em catch up to me."

"Just like the young turks at the Exchange who try to get rich quick and wind up losing their shirts."

"It won't happen again, I'll tell you that. That was the first time I ever won that much. I didn't know how to handle it. Next time I'll be smarter."

"Famous last words. I'm leaving. I can live with your silly sports leagues - the worst you could do there is break a leg - but gambling is one game I won't tolerate."

"Trading commodities is better?"

"You know it is. I'll get you in. I guarantee you'll be a broker in two years, without my help. You have the ideal personality for it."

"I don't wanna work for anybody but myself."

"With your smarts you'd be on your own in five years."

"I don't have five years to waste."

"Typical. There's no point in staying here. Going back and forth is taking a toll on me. I'm moving back to my place full time. I want a normal life. You don't even care about sex any more."

"Is that the problem?" he said softly, gazing into her dark eyes, sensing her melt.

She pulled away from him and stormed out. He was surprised. He would have given odds that she would have given him another chance. He was sure she would be back after a few nights alone. How many times had his mother taken his father back? And he wasn't half as bad as that. Women seemed desperate even for bad relationships. They would tolerate almost anything, especially from a man as handsome as himself.

He was awakened by the phone, its ring burning through his head like a saw. Never again, he vowed, swearing off alcohol and cocaine. He seized the receiver for relief. The caller's tone was no less strident.

"Jimmy? Where've you been? I've been tryin' to get you all day. Jack's really pissed that you didn't call in. I gave him a cock and bull story, but I don't think he bought it."

"Damn. I meant to call, but I had a fight with Sherry and forgot about it. I've been dead to the world. I was up all night playin' blackjack. I was up ten grand and gave it all back."

"Idiot!"

"I can make a livin' at it, Bob, I know I can. If I had a little more cash tucked away I'd quit school and go for it."

"Save until the summer, then go at it full blast for a couple of months and see how it goes."

"But I feel it now. The time's right to make the move."

"Don't be crazy. How're you gonna pay off the condo? Nobody has it better than us. We throw out the balls and collect 'em at the end of the period, and once in a while we get a little bonus from one of these hot little nymphs."

"I'm sick of it. It's a dead end."

"You gamble because you're frustrated you never made pro. Come back to the team if you want a challenge. We need a quarterback. We dropped a hundred each to chumps yesterday."

"Small stakes. I got nothin' to prove out there any more."

The bell rang in the background. Bob left for class. Jim donned a robe, opened the door of the apartment a crack, and reached into the mailbox, which was at eye level. He found a plain white envelope without return address, postmarked in the area, Brooklyn. Inside was a card on which "You can't lose today" was typed in the center. He smiled, wondering who'd sent it.

Munching at a large slice of chocolate cake, he reached for the phone. "Sal? Jimmy. Do I owe you anything? Even - that's what I thought. Gimme Seattle ten times. Thanks."

Wanting to be fresh for his confrontation with the Assistant Principal, he stayed home and watched Monday Night Football. The Seahawks won easily.

I woulda bet 'em anyway, he thought, gazing at the unsigned note, appalled at the wandering of his imagination; next you'll be believin' in leprechauns.

Unable to sleep, he watched television all night. By the time the alarm rang at seven he'd decided to tender his resignation. Chicken feed, he told himself regarding the seven years he'd contributed to the pension plan, which he would be forfeiting.

As he stepped outside he noted that the leaves were beginning to turn. He believed it heralded a change of fortune.

At midday he was summoned to the office.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" said the Assistant Principal, stunned, letter of resignation in hand.

"I always thought you wanted to get rid of me, Jack," said Jim. "Are you shocked that somebody'd throw all this away?"

He found another unsigned note in his mailbox: "The odds are in your favor."

"Put it all on Resignation to show in the sixth. I know he's forty-to-one. I know I'm a sucker. It's just a hunch, that's all."

The horse finished first. No guts, no glory, said Jim to himself, regretting that he hadn't bet to win. He numbered and dated the cards and affixed a paper clip to them.

He approached Bob the next day. "You sendin' me those notes?"

Bob's brow wrinkled. "What notes?"

"You yankin' my chain?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

He phoned Sherry.

"Couldn't you come up with a better excuse to call me than that?" she said.

"So you miss me?" The ensuing silence verified it, and he hung up. It didn't seem likely that she was the author of the notes, as the arrival of the first and her departure had been almost simultaneous. He was dumbfounded, realizing she'd been gone only two days. It seemed weeks.

"Go with your instincts," the third card read.

He picked seven of ten winners at the track, earning more than $2000. He rued his conservatism, although he was unable to shake the feeling that he was being taken for a ride.

He called in sick the next day and paced the apartment all morning, chain-smoking, gazing repeatedly out the window for a sign of the mailman.

"Cool it today," read the note.

Was it telling him to bet lightly or to refrain altogether? He studied the newspaper's racing charts, circling the names of the horses he thought would win. He went to an OTB parlor and placed a minimum bet on the first race. The horse, the favorite, finished out of the money. None he selected made it to the winner's circle that day. He was smiling as he left, having lost only two dollars.

"It's gotta be coincidence," he said aloud, running a hand through his blond mane, oblivious of the stares he'd attracted.

He tried to determine who among the faculty was sending the notes, and was baffled. He doubted any of the friends of his youth knew his current address. Was a former student seeking revenge for a failing grade? Or was someone to whom he owed money playing a mind game? He was certain his debts were all paid, however. And he failed only truants. Besides, in gambling he challenged institutions, not individuals.

He considered the women with whom he'd been involved, thinking jealousy might be the motivation. He found no suspects, as the unions had been brief and emotionless, the last having occurred months ago, before he'd met Sherry. How'd I get involved with her? he wondered, aghast that he'd asked a woman to spend more than a night with him. He recalled his initial fascination with commodity trading. He did not understand the satisfaction derived in beating a system where the odds were 50-50.

Friday's note read: "No change." He frowned, having hoped to spend the weekend in Atlantic City. Instead, he hopped from bar to bar in the neighborhood, relishing the hunt, his rap finally succeeding after several misses and expenditures for coke and drinks, as a dark-haired, big-breasted woman gave in to him. He'd forgotten what a challenge the singles game was and was glad Sherry had left him free to pursue it. He did not enjoy sex that was easily attained.

He left the woman's apartment the next morning and waited outside his own for the mailman, who arrived before noon.

"I've been gettin' letters without a return address," he said. "Is there any way to find out where they're comin' from?"

The mailman shrugged. "We wouldn't know any more about it than you, pal. If they're dirty, throw 'em away; if they're threats, call the cops."

The note read: "Back on the beam."

"Michigan, Penn, Army, Indiana and Temple. I know I'm hot. I'm gonna own you soon, Sal."

He had the television tuned to the Michigan game and he dialed a sports hotline every 15 minutes for scoring updates. He exulted or kicked at the sofa according to the vagaries, indifferent to what the neighbors would think. At the end of the day all five picks proved correct.

He exceeded the speed limit considerably and was in Atlantic City by eight. He won an average of three of five hands at the blackjack table, building his bankroll to more than $5000, staying sharp by snorting a line of cocaine every half hour. After midnight he lost three consecutive hands and decided to cash in, unsuure whether the card's information were pertinent only to the day it was received or up until the arrival of the next.

As he neared the hotel desk, he realized he wouldn't be receiving a letter tomorrow, Sunday, and thus deemed it pointless to remain overnight. He'd planned to send his sister to the apartment and have her read the note over the phone.

He stopped in his tracks, thinking aloud. "Stupid superstition," he muttered, doing an about face, then pausing once more, uncertain, berating himself. Finally he left.

Was the winning streak his own doing? he wondered as he drove. Was it worthwhile, considering the method? Although he was now doing exactly what he wanted with his life, he was troubled, as his success seemed programmed by a higher force, although that force had no idea which games or horses he would select. Guaranteed success was tainted. He wanted sole credit for his accomplishments. Oddly, everything seemed as always - the excitement, tension, pleasure - everything, that is, but the consistency of result, a consistency for which he'd long yearned and was now not sure was attributable to his own skills. Although his heart pounded as always, although he, in effect, worked as hard as ever, something was missing. Now that he had his bankroll, he wished the letters would cease.

His mother called Sunday after mass, as was her custom. Was she sending the notes? He scoffed at himself. She didn't even know of his gambling.

"Is Terry there, Ma?"

"What's up?" his sister asked.

"Is it you?"

"Is it me what?"

"If it is, cut it out."

At work he taped a note to the punch-clock: "It's not funny any more. Stop it." The Assistant Principal approached him for an explanation and, perplexed, left without a word.

He despaired at the sight of the familiar envelope in his mailbox. The note read: "Bad luck."

That night the lights went out while he was watching television. He thrashed about in the dark for a flashlight, cried out as he stubbed a toe against the kitchen table, tears and stars before his eyes.

He rummaged fruitlessly for a fuse. Irked, he left the apartment. The car wobbled as he pulled away from the curb. He had a flat. He slammed the door and searched the tire for signs of vandalism, surmising that the author of the notes was responsible. He found no evidence to support the suspicion.

He walked many blocks before he found a store that carried fuses. The streets were unusually quiet, the restaurants nearly vacant this cool night. As he passed a bar he was approached by a red-faced, staggering man who reeked of booze. He was reminded of his father and ignored the pleas for change. He was followed, the pleas becoming obscenities. He quickened his pace but failed to shake the souse, who lashed out, striking him, then scurrying away.

What're you doin'? he said to himself, slowing to a walk, breathless. He could have finished the bum with a single punch. It was the first time he'd ever run from a fight. "What's happenin' to you?" he mumbled aloud.

As he approached the complex he realized there were no fuse boxes in the apartment, unlike the house in which he'd grown up. He realigned the circuits as if entranced, amazed he hadn't realized the problem immediately. He'd been living here a year. Fearful he was following in his father's footsteps, he vowed to stop drinking.

His note was still taped to the punch-clock. He was glad, certain his nemesis was a member of the faculty. He hoped the person would comply or, better yet, make an error, reveal himself, invite revenge.

He decided to leave the next letter unopened until the following morning. It lay on the kitchen table, in view as he paced the apartment. He was unable to enjoy the Monday night game, on which he'd wagered heavily. He was so preoccupied that victory failed to elicit his usual animation. As midnight approached his eyes were following the secondhand's progress toward the hour. He would not touch the letter until the new day had arrived.

The note read: "Don't leave the house today."

He scoffed, as he'd had dinner at a nearby diner and suffered no consequences. He tore up all the cards and dumped them into the trash. His winning bet proved he didn't need any help.

He was up early, singing in the shower, his teaching career just three days from its end. He planned to call in sick Friday and drive to Atlantic City.

He was whistling as he opened the door a crack and reached for the newspaper, which had been left on the welcome mat. He heard a growl but was unable to move quickly enough to avoid danger. His hand was seized by the jaws of a large dog. He cried out and drew his arm back, but the animal would not release its hold. He was horrified by its maniacal gaze, its widespread, jaundiced eye, which stared up at him, head atilt. For several seconds he was involved in a tug of war. Finally, he closed the door on the dog's head and squeezed until it relented. Free, he collapsed, back to the door, which shut. His eyelids closed tightly as he fought the throbbing in his hand, which had punctures of a bluish tint. He was not appeased by the yelps that faded into the distance. He would have liked to have decapitated the mutt.

He cleaned the wound, dressed, and hurried out, leery of another attack, bat in hand. The hospital was only minutes away. His engine, however, which had never failed him before, would not turn over. He slapped at the steering wheel in frustration, whimpering. Suddenly he was diving for cover at the sound of a sharp smack. A passing bus had kicked up a stone. Realizing he was safe, he raised his head and noted a crack in the window on the passenger side.

Inside, he flopped onto the sofa, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Think it out, he thought; be logical.

Had he been targetted by government agents, mistaken as an extremist? How? He cared nothing about politics. He hadn't voted in years. Was that his crime?

Had the CIA singled him out for one of its experiments? Fort Hamilton was just down the road. Yet what were the odds of being randomly selected amongst such a huge populace?

He wondered if - dare he even think it? Despite a parochial education, despite his father's demons, despite the diabolical nature of the results of the notes, he refused to believe the devil was responsible. Was God, then, punishing him? Were his sins so bad? His gambling affected no one but himself. His one-night stands were of harm to no one. The high school girls he'd enjoyed had been looking for it. Had he hurt Sherry? Only temporarily, he believed. Clearly, she was better off without him. He knew he wasn't a good person, but he wasn't evil, certainly no candidate for the wrath of God.

Had he developed a psychic gift he'd yet to fully realize? Was the supernatural at work? Was he going mad? Whatever - the circumstances no longer seemed coincidence. Someone or something was after him. But why? he wondered. And how had he/she/they come to know him so well?

He took his temperature every half hour. He felt feverish as he paced, waiting for the mailman. He didn't even know the symptoms of rabies. He was tempted to call a doctor. He hadn't seen one in years, since his last serious sports injury. His only illnesses stemmed from drinking. He decided to wait, certain he'd seen the mutt on the leash of another tenant, whose neck he would ring.

The mailman was late. Jim grew more furious with each passing moment. He became nauseated and wondered if it were a symptom. He had a fever of 101. He took aspirin, applied cold compresses to his head, and drank fluids repeatedly.

"Where you been?" he snapped at the substitute mailman, whose eyes spread with alarm.

The note read: "Seek help."

He raced to the car. Again, the engine would not turn over. As he was about to exit, he noted that the gear shift was in "Drive." He was stunned, having never done this, even when drunk, in all his years of driving. He recalled tales of banshees his great grandfather had told him.

The emergency room was packed. He quickly lost patience, caused a scene, berating staff. It was an hour before he was treated and released.

The next morning he burst into the office of the Physical Education staff and confronted Bob. "You better cut it out," he said, finger in Bob's face.

"Cut what out?" said Bob, perplexed, appalled at Jim's appearance.

"It's gotta be you."

"You better stop doin' coke, Jimmy."

Jim leaped at him. They tumbled across desks and onto the floor, scattering paper, utensils and knicknacs. Three colleagues intervened. "Are you crazy?" said one to Jim, helping pull the pair apart.

Jim burned the next letter at the stove and put a steak in the oven to celebrate. Exhausted, he fell asleep. When he awoke the odor of burning meat pervaded the apartment. He held his head in hands and wept, convinced the supernatural was at work.

He saw two options: to play this game over which he had no control, or to fight it and lose, perhaps die. Compliance would make him miserable, he knew. The only thing he'd ever truly enjoyed was competition, and it'd been taken away from him by an invisible, omniscient opponent. He had no idea what flaw to exploit, what psychological tactic to employ. His only response was reaction - but to what? In the past, through persistence, bravado, he'd defeated athletes who were his equal or superior, motivated by fear of humiliation. He was now experiencing a fear he'd never known - a fear of being not only beaten but broken, and no one had ever done that to him before.

He decided to gamble everything he had, surmising that financial annihilation was his opponent's aim, hoping that the persecution would cease upon the loss of his assets. Bankruptcy seemed a reasonable exchange for his freedom.

"You know what you're doin', Jimmy?" said Sal. "Don't get crazy 'cause you had a little hot streak. These guys don't play games. You gotta come up with the cash if you crap out."

"They can have my condo."

"I'll call you back. Meanwhile, change your mind. I gotta take the bet if they say so. They'd break my legs if they found out I turned it down on my own."

The wager was accepted: $60,000 to win on Risk, at ten-to-one, in the third.

He did not leave the apartment. He sat within reach of the phone, almost indifferent, feeling he couldn't win whatever the result. Sal was jubilant. Risk won in a walk.

What did it mean - that he would grow rich, not be tormented, as long as he obeyed the notes? Was it as simple as that - no catch? Would he ever be free again?

"Make that trip," the next note read.

He won more than $100,000 in Atlantic City, gaming without emotion. He bought drinks for everyone around the table and imbibed heavily himself. He tipped the croupier and cocktail waitress $1000 each, and gave the same sum to a prostitute who hung about him. "Leave me alone," he told her, kissing her forehead.

He left the casino carrying his winnings openly, inviting foul play. No one came near him. He drove 100mph, defying death, and did not come close to crashing. He wasn't even stopped for speeding, which was no surprise to him. His life had lost all spontaneity.

He parked in midtown Manhattan and began handing money to the homeless. Soon he was being followed at a distance. He strolled along 42nd Street between 7th and 8th Avenue, past lowlifes and their seedy roosts, dropping $100 bills and not even turning to watch the intense scramble that ensued. By the time he reached the Port Authority Bus Terminal, there was a large crowd at his heels, observing an eerie silence, as if entrapment was suspected. Even the most predatory of the riffraff dared not attack.

"It's real," he said, turning briefly. "It's not counterfeit."

He gave a c-note to a dishevelled man repenting aloud, weeping pathetically, foolishly, an arm before his eyes. "Thank you, Jesus," he sobbed. "The Messiah has come. Praise be."

Jim chuckled defeatedly. Was God then the author of the letters? Was he to be a guardian of the wretched? Wouldn't it have been simpler for God to have given them jobs, riches, himself?

He gave money to transients huddled in the nooks and crannies of the terminal. The crowd followed him inside. Jim spotted a policeman and sought the nearest exit, audience at his heels. Suddenly his wrist was seized. The officer had pushed his was through the mass of humanity.

"What d'you think you're doin', pal?"

"A bit of philanthropy for my fellow man," said Jim emotionlessly.

"Where'd you get the money?"

"It was a gift from God - or the devil, I can't figure which."

"You been drinkin'? I'm takin' you in before you start a riot."

Jim turned to the crowd. "Sorry, folks, show's over."

Suddenly there was a pregnant silence.

"No!" a man cried, driving a wine bottle into the skull of the officer, who crumpled to the sidewalk, blood spewing from his head.

The crowd swarmed Jim. At first he laughed. Soon he was seized by terror as he was pushed to the ground beneath the force of the pack, which tore at him like wolves. In a moment his clothing was in tatters. Fights broke out; money changed hands. Those who'd been denied lashed out at the benefactor, kicking him repeatedly. They were dispersed by a siren. Those few unable to resist the temptation of the money that remained on the ground were pounced upon by the police, who were merciless with their nightsticks, avenging their fallen comrade.

It was days before authorities determined the identity of the philanthropist. Terry opened the door of her brother's condo with a spare key. His bankbook was on the kitchen table. He was in the hospital, comatose.

"Look, Ma," said Terry, aghast at the enormity of the most recent deposit.

"What happened?" her mother choked, jaw quivering.

Amongst the mail was an envelope without return address. Terry opened it, hoping it would shed light on the baffling events. The enclosed note read: "Last letter."

"What's it mean?" said Terry, pained.