Catching Some Luck

It was, Murphy reflected, one of those days. One of those days inside one of those weeks inside one of those years inside of his whole life. The week had actually started well. He won ten thousand dollars in a poker game, when his seven-four off-suit draw paired at the river, and the ace-queen suited he was bucking failed to improve. Once in awhile fortune did favor the bold, though not often enough. Fortune, are you listening? You still owe me!

Ten grand was a large enough brick to begin building a castle, even an empire. He had invested it wisely, not putting all of his eggs in one basket. A few races here, some college basketball there, and it being fall, we can’t neglect the NFL, now can we? The eggs may have been in different baskets, but most of them cracked. Not only was his wallet ten thousand dollars emptier than it was a few days ago, but he owed sixty-six hundred to Conrad the Claw. Murphy wasn’t sure why Conrad was called “the Claw.” He was sure he wasn’t going to ask. Other than Conrad the only people Murphy knew who might know the answer were Conrad’s collectors, Ray Carpenter and Sebastian Wu. Some wag had dubbed them “Hammer and Tongs.” They hated being called Hammer and Tongs. They also hated being called Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Wu. They hated hearing anything except for two things: “Here is all of the money I owe,” or “ow!”

Murphy saw only one way to get the money back. Which is why he was trudging around the Fred Enke Golf Course, one of the City of Tucson’s finest, on a Sunday afternoon, when he could be watching the games with a cold beer and warm nachos at a sports bar like the Depot. Instead, he was across town, carrying his own clubs because he couldn’t afford a caddy, trying to win some money off his buddy Harvey.

Harvey was a lousy golfer. That was an advantage. Murphy was a worse golfer. That was a disadvantage. They were playing five-thousand-dollar Nassau, and Murphy was ahead as they played the final hole. Harvey had won the front nine, sixty-two to sixty-three. But on the back nine his game fell apart. He had just made a miracle shot which travelled one hundred and ninety yards and went into the hole, to give him a final score of one forty-nine. Murphy, meanwhile, had a one forty-five. So far. He could tie if he sank the ball in four more shots, and win five grand if he managed it in three or fewer. Since he had approximately no money, and exactly no money if you wanted to get technical, he needed to at least tie. Harvey was no Conrad the Claw, but he was bigger than Murphy, and he was excitable.

Concentrate, he told himself. One hundred and thirty yards isn’t so far! You’ve been in sand traps before. You can do it! He hit the ball solidly, and it flew. It flew at a forty-five-degree angle to the green, but at least it was flying. It hit a tree, changed direction, and to Murphy’s shock, he was on the green! In the distance he heard “shit!” from Harvey.

When he staggered to the green – someday he’d have a caddy, even a golf cart – he was astounded. There sat his ball, hovering on the edge of the cup. A one forty-seven, the back nine, and the game, were his!

“No tap ins!” Said Harvey.

“Damn it, Harvey, are you fucking kidding me?”

Harvey was not fucking kidding him. Murphy grabbed his putter, and, muttering about friends who weren’t real friends, lined up the gentlest putt of his life. All he needed was a stern look and that ball was going in. Slow and easy, that’s all he needed. 

What he didn’t need was a bee to choose that moment to sting the back of his neck. An instant later the ball was forty feet away, and off the green.

Murphy stomped after it, putter still clutched in his hand. His thoughts were a jumble. The round was lost, the game lost. His plan at this point was to see if he could drive the ball right through that bastard, Harvey’s, eye socket. I’ll give him not a tap in!

As he approached the ball, still stomping, he tripped. He lurched forward, his right hand gripping the putter windmilled up, and then as he tried to regain his balance it karate chopped backwards, striking the ball. The ball hopped once, hopped twice, and hopped in the hole like a good little bunny rabbit. Which gave him a one forty-eight to win the game, and an eighty-five to eighty-seven to win the round.

He had just finished counting the five thousand (three times, just to piss off Harvey), putting it in his wallet, and putting the wallet in his back pocket, when he felt a series of strange sensations. His left elbow froze as a huge hand wrapped around it. His right elbow also froze, as it likewise was grabbed. He levitated off the ground as the pair holding his arms lifted him. And he felt someone reach into his back pocket, and he heard Conrad’s voice say: “Let’s see how much money he just put away.”

He looked to his left, and there was Hammer. He looked to his right, and there was Tongs. He looked straight ahead, and there was Harvey who’d decided he didn’t want to stick around for conversation with any of the parties present, trotting away.

Conrad the Claw came around front, wallet in one hand, cash in the other. Which he riffled one-handed, counting it as fast as the machines the banks used. The man had practice. Murphy wondered if complaining to Fred Enke management about Conrad using more than one caddy would gain him anything. This was golf. There are rules!

“Five thousand,” said Conrad, stuffing the cash in his pocket and dropping the wallet on the ground. “You owe me another sixteen hundred. Plus interest, so two grand next week. Don’t be late!” He nodded at Hammer and Tongs, and they dropped Murphy next to his wallet. 

Murphy sat there, too dignified to get up until Conrad and his merry men were out of sight. Then he noticed his wallet, picked it up, and peered inside to see if there was still a stray dollar or two. No such luck, but there was a lottery ticket for Powerball.

He dug out his phone, and checked the Arizona Lottery web site. Hmm, the winning powerball was 23, and he had 23! He had money coming. The numbers were 5, 11, 17, 39, and 55, and he had 5 … 11 … 17 … He began reading slowly so as not to jinx himself. 39 …. And …. 55!!!! Oh my fucking god!! He checked the date, and yes, of course, the numbers were for last night. He checked the date on the ticket, and yes, yesterday. He’d bought it at Circle K on Friday. But he needed to check it again, and a third time. He checked the numbers again, and a third time. Yes, it was real. He felt dizzy, spots appearing before his eyes as he double- and triple-checked the most important number of them all: Four hundred and eighty-three million dollars!

He'd take it all at once, and when you did that, they gave you a reduced figure. Only if you took it in instalments over decades did you get the whole thing. They’d take taxes out before handing it over. He’d probably get around one hundred and forty-five million. Not four eighty-three, but a man could live on one hundred and forty-five million, if he budgeted wisely. He took a deep and grateful breath.

When last seen, Murphy was running across the fairway of the 18th hole, chasing a small slip of paper, windborne and gaining on him.