Got Luck

by Michael Darling

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; Private Investigators

Synopsis

“Got Luck checks off all my ‘must haves’ for a gritty detective story. If I ever ran into a problem the local cops couldn’t solve, I’d be lucky to have Got on my side—and so would you.” 
—Ali Cross, author of the Desolation series

Police-officer-turned-private-investigator Goethe “Got” Luck is known for rolling with the punches and never taking anything too seriously. When he picks up a seemingly dead-end murder case, his life begins to take a crazy turn. Shot at, chased by people he has never met, and attacked by an invisible liondog, Got quickly learns that there is more to this world than meets the eye. 

He discovers the Fae. The Eternals. They who dwell in the Behindbeyond. Once, they ruled over ancient realms, but over the centuries, their power dwindled. Now someone wants to restore their rule and subjugate humankind. All it will cost is thousands of human lives.

The clock is ticking. Getting the world out of this one will take a couple friends, more than a few well-placed insults, and a whole lot of Luck.

“Got Luck is the private detective Harry Dresden would hire to solve a murder. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.” 
—Paul Genesse, author of the bestselling Iron Dragon series

“Witty and charming, Got Luck is an enchanting nod to a detective noir.” 
—Candance Thomas, author of the Vivatera series

Release date: April 16, 2016

Publisher: Future House Publishing

Print pages: 332

Sample

The woman outside the door was Stained. She stood outside, reading my name on the door and walking back and forth. If she realized I could see her through the glass, she didn’t seem to care. The Stain shrouded her like a torn mantle of dark, writhing ribbons, and nobody could see them except me. I’d seen Stain like hers before, but I couldn’t remember where.

I sat on the edge of my desk and watched her check the door again. Maybe she was trying to figure out how to pronounce my name, which was painted in silver lettering on the door. Goethe Luck. People always had trouble with the last name. Kidding.

Finally, she opened the door and leaned in. Somewhere outside, someone was playing Gloria Estefan. She looked at me and then backed out. The door closed itself. She read the door again. I wanted to go ask, “May I help you?” but hesitated. I could use the work, but I didn’t want to scare her off.

She opened the door again and stepped inside. I watched her check my second floor office, placing the closet, back room, and bathroom. She was pretty in a debutante kind of way: confident and likely spoiled. Her looping ash-blonde hair was underwire length, and she wore too much makeup for my taste. I guessed she was trying to look older than she was. A light strawberry scent drifted in with her, delighting my nose. The Mama would call her a harlot, but she looked like most twenty year-old girls walking around on your average summer day in Miami. Her clothes were expensive but looked like they came from unrelated shops, as if she had strolled through Bal Harbour and purchased one item from each store with no consideration for color or texture.

“Welcome to the Pizza Shack,” I said. “Table for one?”

“Someone killed my husband. The police can’t help me.” She said it flatly, like she’d been practicing until she’d wrung all the emotion out of it.

No wonder she hadn’t caught my joke. She’d walked in with a script.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Won’t you have a seat?” I turned the single chair in front of my desk partway around. Like her clothes, the chair didn’t match anything else, so at least the office coordinated with the client. The chair was one of those plastic office creatures that had been ergonomically designed to death. She sat and looked at me with dry eyes.

“Did you say this was the Pizza Shack?” she asked.

Ah, there we go. Just took a minute. “It used to be. We still find pepperoni under the rugs.” I sat back on the edge of my desk and clasped my hands. “Tell me about your husband.”

She took a deep breath, sat down, and launched into her speech. Her voice was husky yet soulful. “They found Barry in his hotel room. He was wearing the shirt and tie I gave him for his birthday. And the pants. And the shoes. He’d been stabbed once in the heart. They said that’s what killed him. He died quickly. But he was also cut open. His belly. They cut open his belly after he was already dead.” She moved her hand in front of her own abdomen with her fingers splayed apart like she was feeling his pain. “His insides were still there and all. But they can’t tell me why he was cut open like that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Sounds like you’ve told that story a few times.”

“About a million. Don’t worry. I’ve already cried it out.”

“You’re fine,” I smiled warmly. “When did this happen?”

“Six months ago.”

“How long had you been married?”

“Less than a year. Our first anniversary would have been two weeks after he was killed.”

“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She shifted in her seat.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“Are you going to take notes?” she replied. “If you’re going to help me, you should take notes.”

“All right.”

I stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk. So far, the girl was sincere. Her tone told me that she was accustomed to having people do what she asked, but she wasn’t a brat about it. She paid attention to detail and expected other people to do the same. Her husband had been gone for several months but, for some reason, she wasn’t happy with the answers she’d been given. Maybe there was something in her subconscious that didn’t agree with what she’d been told. Maybe she just wanted a second opinion.

My chair was one of those great wooden office monarchs made of oak with dark green real-leather upholstery that weighed about two hundred pounds. It reclined so you could lean back and put your feet up on the desk—also oak—and take a nap. I sat in it and opened the desk drawer. No pepperoni. Just a few notepads and pens that I’d gotten from the nearby office supply. Been here six months and this was the first time I’d used them.

“Milly,” she said. “Milly MacPherson Mallondyke.”

While I tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent my left eyebrow from rising, I made notes including all the information she had given me so far. I asked, “So, your husband was Barry Mallondyke?”

Milly nodded. “The fourth.”

The fourth? I guess men with a name that sounds like it was made up for the sole purpose of sounding pretentious have no problems attracting mates.

“I want to know more about you,” Milly said. “I want to know who I’m hiring.”

“I haven’t agreed to work for you yet,” I replied. Her request was a smart one though. Not expected. Milly might turn out to be even deeper than she appeared. I answered, “I’m twenty-seven years old. When I was eight, I died from a fever. I don’t remember what happened, but the doctors told me I was clinically dead for almost three hours. Apparently, they cooled my body in ice and revived me. From that moment, I found a desire to live every day as if it were my last. I also found out that when I touch somebody I can see their future.”

“Is that true?” The wry wrinkle in the corner of her mouth told me she didn’t believe all of it, but she was willing to play along.

“Most of it. It’s true that I have a better appreciation for life than most people because it’s also true that I died when I was eight. The part where I can see a person’s future by touching them is from a Stephen King novel. The Dead Zone. Ever read it?”

“No. But if you could see the future like that, you could touch me and then we’d know if you find out who killed my husband. Right?”

Point for her.

I suddenly remembered where I had seen a twisting mantle of black ribbons like hers. The Stain she wore had also been on a child. A little boy whose parents had both been shot in the head, but no bullets, no bullet casings, no gun, and no residue were found. The case was never solved. If the Stains matched, could the same perpetrator be involved? I’d probably never know, but I made a mental note.

“You’re right. I can’t see into the future, but I’d be glad to help you with your problem. Just so you know, I’m ex-military and ex-police. I have a private investigator’s license, which gives me access to records that are not available to the general public.”

“That will help.” She pressed her lips together in a half smile.

I went on. “I can also interview people who don’t want to talk to me and make a general nuisance of myself with local law enforcement. I also have a gun permit, so I can shoot anybody who tries to kill me before I find out what I want to know. I have a library card too, so if you need a good book to read while you wait for me to figure things out, just say the word.”

“I have my own library card, thank you.” Her smile ratcheted up a bit. She was warming to me. Not always the easiest thing.

I nodded. “Milly, there’s a very good chance that I won’t find anything new about your husband’s murder. Most of the time, the police do a good job of finding whatever there is to find. There may be nothing new, and it will cost you the same amount of money to find out. If you’re willing to take that chance, I’ll give it my best shot.”

The widow Mallondyke looked at me for all of three seconds and then stood up. She’d come to my office to meet me face-to-face, and she seemed to like making her own decisions. She pulled out a cashier’s check from her mismatched purse and handed it to me. It had her business card clipped to it and was made out in my name with a lot of zeroes.

“If you run out of money, let me know.” She turned and walked to the door that had my name on it. She looked over her shoulder and said, “My father is friends with your former chief. He’s the one who recommended you. He said if anyone could find out who killed my husband, it was you.”

Milly MacPherson Mallondyke opened the door and walked out. The swirling black ribbons of her Stain trailed after her like a sentient shroud.

About five minutes later, while I was pacing behind my desk and pondering the unpredictability of financial fortune—and the unpredictable nature of a certain police chief who, I knew, hated my guts and everything they stood for—my front window exploded.

Whatever chunks of my brain that would be dropped into a jar someday and labeled “instinct” quite capably liquefied my knees and sent me to the floor. Be small! Be still! Be alive!

The sound of shattered glass scattering in shards across the floor seemed unnaturally loud but didn’t last long. I waited for about ten seconds and then peered out from the side of my desk. The window next to the door had been a floor-to-ceiling piece of glass about six feet wide. Now it was effectively distributed across the tile floor all the way from the front of the office to the back. Glass had been thrown to either side of the desk and across the top.

There were a few drops of blood on the floor. Since I was the only person in the office, I expertly deduced that the blood must be mine. I privately investigated my hands and face and found a few small cuts on my cheek and forehead. Thankfully, my hair was okay.

I thought about getting my gun, but my gun was hanging in my holster, which was hanging in the closet about fifteen feet away. Another ten seconds went by as I looked around behind the desk. There was a new hole in the wall, about eight feet up, just below the ceiling.

“Son of a poodle,” I said.

At great personal risk, I finally stood up. I stepped out through the door onto the open balcony that ran around the outside of the building. I saw no one fleeing the scene. No manic scrambling. No ninjas in the daylight. I didn’t see Milly and there were no cars moving in the parking lot. I had to assume my client was gone. There were a couple of bystanders going to their cars, but they were looking up at me instead of looking around. If the shooter had used a suppressor, the breaking window had made a bigger noise and that’s what had drawn their attention.

The ancient shop-owner from downstairs, who ran the Korean cafe on the ground floor, hobbled out into the lot and turned to look up at the damage. He shielded his eyes from the sun and shouted, “You okay?!”

“I’m good, Qui-Gon!” I replied. His name was Quy Nguyen and he was about eight hundred years old, but he only looked five hundred fifty. Five hundred sixty max. I called him Qui-Gon because I’m such a kidder, and George Lucas isn’t really using the name anymore.

“You want lunch?” That Qui-Gon. Always making a sale.

“Yeah, all right.”

Qui-Gon nodded and hobbled back into his shop to fix me some bulgogi and kimchi.

Adrenaline pooled now in my stomach, making it ache, and my muscles everywhere felt jittery and unsettled. I went back to my desk and picked up the phone. The Mama had always called the police “them popo-pigs” even after I’d become one. But I was going to need them popo-pigs to file an incident report. I called and informed them of the attempted homicide and coincidental murder of my window and gave my name and location.

In the next room I had some exercise equipment. Since I couldn’t go anywhere until the cops arrived, I went in and started working off the adrenaline. It was surreal spinning on the stationary bike while looking at the hole in the wall. The hole with the bullet that had almost killed me just a few minutes ago. The thought made me pedal faster. I hoped Qui-Gon would get here with lunch ahead of the police.

Although I was not yet aware of it, in twenty-four hours my life would change forever.


Qui-Gon brought a couple bags of food. I paid him and started unpacking about a pound of lean, steaming, marinated beef and four kinds of spicy kimchi, along with a small mountain of steamed white rice.

I had made quick work of most of it by the time local PD rolled up with flashing lights but no sirens. I found myself heaving a sigh and shaking my head in disappointment. Sirens are cool. I’d used the siren every chance I got when I’d been on the force. On the other hand, nobody was dead or wounded and that was a good thing. The two uniforms had already given the place the once over when Sergeant Kapok from homicide popped in.

Kapok was a frumpy, grumpy Puerto Rican I’d run into from time to time when I’d been a uniform myself. I didn’t have a great name for him because he was no fun and didn’t deserve one. If he ever became Commander though, I was all ready to go with Commander Commandant “The Commandman” Kapok. If Shakespeare could use alliteration for comic effect, so could I. It’s all about the timing.

Kapok observed the scene like he was lost.

“You hoping to see a body, Sergeant?” I asked.

Kapok nodded, “Yours.” He shrugged and indicated the floor with a sweep of his hand. “No luck. Ha ha.”

I think he was serious. “You’re all heart.”

“I heard the word ‘gunfire’ and your address on the radio. Thought I’d come check it out for myself. Hope springs eternal.” He shrugged again. “So whatta we got here?”

I’d already had a lengthy conversation with the uniforms and I was annoyed at Kapok, but I might need a favor from him someday so I went along. Cooperation comes easier with feathers unruffled. I pointed at the hole in the wall. Then I pointed at a bullet bagged for evidence on my desk.

“One of the boys there dug it out. My guess is a 7.62 mm from an SR-25. Military sniper rifle with a suppressor. But the shooter is an amateur.”

Kapok kept looking up at the hole in the wall. “How do you figure?”

“Professional wouldn’t try to shoot through a plate glass window. He’d wait for a clearer shot. And he pulled it high. Had to come from ground level, but even if he’d been aiming at my head it shouldn’t have gone two feet over even with an upward angle. Nervous shooter.”

“Got it all figured out,” Kapok said.

“Just a guess,” I replied.

“So who did it?” This time, Kapok seemed almost interested in the answer.

“No idea.”

“Who’d you tick off most recently?”

I scratched my chin. “I could go a couple of ways on that one. The self-deprecating ‘so many, I’ll make a list,’ or the patently untrue ‘everybody loves me, who’d want to kill me?’ What do you recommend, Sergeant?”

“Make a list. Get me a copy. My paper shredder is lonely.”

“Hey, Sarge,” I ignored his comments, “You work the Barry Mallondyke case?”

“Not my case. Old news anyway. Why?”

“His widow wants me to take a look.”

“I see. You want to waste her money, it’s up to you Luck. Come down to the station. I’ll see if the Chief will let you look at the book.”

“Appreciate it, Sergeant.” I didn’t mention the fact that the Chief had already recommended me for the job to Milly’s dad. Of course he’d let me look at the book.

Kapok looked around, nodded to the uniforms and left. I saw him snatch a piece of kimchi on his way out. He almost made it to the stairs before I heard a whole lot of coughing and swearing. Kapok coughing on cucumber kimchi. Take that Bill, you ol’ spear shaker.

Tomorrow, I’d get a look at the murder book. All the important details of the homicide would be in that book, from photos to witness statements to police reports. Everything that could be put on a sheet of paper and three-hole punched.

Other than the desk and chair and my exercise equipment, there wasn’t much else in my office. I had a drawer partially full of case files, my gun and holster and a jacket, and a few other office supplies that fit into a couple of boxes. I packed everything downstairs and put it in the trunk of my car. The uniforms told me they’d continue to patrol the area in case the shooter came back. I called the landlord’s office and let them know the window had been shot out. They said somebody would be over to replace it.

I got into my car and drove. I owned a 1965 Mustang that I’d spent the last two years fixing. She had a great paint job, but it was all I could do to keep her running. Parts were hard to find, and Craigslist and eBay had become my favorite haunts. I figured by the time I replaced the last part that was worn out, I’d just have to start back around at the beginning again. She was definitely a problem child, but the car was my baby and I loved her.

She had a kick-butt sound system. The original radio had been trashed when I’d bought her from the wrecker so I’d replaced it, which let me blast music while driving around with the top down. I punched up the volume and Geddy Lee wailed about racing his uncle’s red barchetta.

I had a choice of getting on the I-95, but I wasn’t in a hurry so I got on Biscayne Boulevard and headed south toward Coral Gables.

While I drove, I phoned my partner, Nat. Nat was born with the burdensome name of Tiziano Neckersteinach. He emerged from the womb as a U.S. citizen, but only just. His parents emigrated from Germany the week before his birth. He and I served together in the Marines. When we came back, I joined the police force in Miami and he ran with some mercenaries in North Africa for about the same amount of time. Nobody ever dared call him Tiziano except his parents, and almost nobody could pronounce his last name properly, so everyone called him Nat.

Nat ran a local gym and health spa called the Iron Foundry. He gave classes on yoga and Pilates and provided personal training services. This meant he regularly had his hands on some of the best-toned female bodies in Miami. I didn’t ask, and he would consider it dishonorable to share. Nat had no Stain, but I suspect if he had, it would be all kinds of pure. When you get to know Nat, you understand. Nat was also my best friend.

The phone rang and one of the aforementioned bodies answered the phone. “Iron Foundry Health Club,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Mr. Neck-uh-stone-sack please,” I replied.

“Um. You mean Nat?”

“Yeah. This is Counselor Smallwater’s law office. May I speak with Nat?”

“Well, he’s in a class right now. Can I take a message?”

“Hmm. I suppose it’s all right. You can just tell him that his annulment is official now. He and his sister are no longer married.”

“Oh. Oh-uh. Ok.”

“Crazy to go all the way to Vegas and the girl you meet is the sister you haven’t seen for years. Right?”

“Uh. Right.”

“Anyway, have him call this number as soon as possible.”

“Yes. I’ll have him—uh, he—he’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.”

Some fine Florida scenery rolled by. I cruised down Biscayne until it turned into SE 2nd and turned again into Brickell. The CD changed. ZZ Top. “Just Got Paid.” The cell phone rang.

“Yo,” I said.

“What the hell, Luck?” It was Nat.

“Hey! Pretty good news about you and your sister, right?” I said.

“Got, I keep telling you not to mess with my people. They don’t know you’re kidding.”

“I cannot be contained,” I replied. “But I can be shot at.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, “What happened?”

I told Nat about the window and the hole in the wall at the office.

When I was finished, he asked, “You all right?”

“Sure.”

“’Kay.” Nat. Not just a man of few words. A man of few syllables.

“Also got a new client.”

“Good.”

“You heard about the Barry Mallondyke murder a few months ago?”

“On the news.”

“His widow wants to know who killed him.”

Nat didn’t say anything. Waiting.

I forged ahead. “I’m going to go down to the station and take a look at the murder book tomorrow. Maybe have Erin take a look at the ballistics report.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nat hung up. Guess he needed to go tone more bodies.

Brickell ran southwest and passed near a bunch of parks. Simpson Park—D’oh!—was a block off and was a quiet spot surrounded by a dense screen of trees and low stone walls and fences. Down a little further was Alice Wainwright Park. I don’t know who Alice Wainwright was, but she apparently didn’t like trees. Her park had a few palms but was mostly grass running down to the beach. Had a beautiful view though. There, Brickell turned into the South Dixie Highway, which was a block east of the Vizcaya Museum & Gardens. The gardens there included Italian-style landscapes to explore and a sprawling mansion built in 1914. Also, the world’s largest collection of Vizcayas. That’s what I was told.

Miami-Dade County boasted two hundred sixty parks. I appreciated the patches of green interspersed with the concrete and glass. Each green space was a welcome hunk of refreshment. Passing every single one was like passing a friend. I wanted to wave.

I got off the highway and drove into my neighborhood: a well-heeled section of Coral Gables where the houses were large and had a street in front and a river behind.

Everybody calls the place where they live “my house,” but the house where I lived wasn’t really mine. It was a big, airy French Colonial, but I didn’t own it. I didn’t pay rent for it. I didn’t lease it.

I can’t remember anything about my life before my death and resuscitation. I was told that I had no parents or relatives, and I was sent to live with The Mama in a foster home. She’s a story all her own. I graduated high school at age seventeen, and I was told when I reached the age of twenty-one I would be able to move into a house that was waiting for me in Miami. I have never known who owns the house or why I am allowed to reside in it. Once a year, an attorney comes over to check things out and I sign some papers. Then he leaves and that’s it.

So, the house is where I live. The house comes with two other built-in perks: Maximilian and Sandretta. Max is a culinary genius in addition to being groundskeeper and handyman. When I need help fixing my car, Max is my mechanic. If I had a boat, like all the neighbors, I bet Max would know how to take care of that as well. Sandretta cleans and washes and basically covers all the housekeeping duties. She’s also my relentless piano teacher and that’s another story as well.

The house is nice but you can’t eat it, so all other expenses have to be covered by me, and that’s why I work.

I pulled through the archway into the carport next to the house and took the stuff from the trunk of the car. It would all be going back to the office in a day or two, so I put it in the entryway for the time being. I called out but the house was empty. Not unusual. Max and Sandretta often ran errands before I got home. I headed toward the kitchen for a snack.

Something felt wrong.

I walked into the great room en route to the kitchen, and the air around me suddenly felt different. I held my breath. There was other breathing I could feel that wasn’t my own. It was larger and deeper. Lungs with enormous capacity were working the air around me. I felt something watching me. The small hairs on the back of my neck were at attention and caught movement. I felt the displacement of air and heard something scratching the tile floor.

I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, which really got me scared. I told myself to calm down as goose bumps erupted all over me.

The great room had couches on one end, arranged facing the wall and the fireplace I almost never used and the television screen that I used a lot. They were all in their places with bright shiny faces so no clues there. Over by the door near the middle of the room was a full-size grand piano that I played every day. On the nearest wall was a long set of shelves with a sound system and tons of books that I often bought from the sale table at the library, including graphic novels; copies of National Geographic; old hardback editions of detective novels; and books on literature (including Shakespeare), philosophy and history, and nature. There were also about two thousand music CDs. Those were all where they belonged. There was a table behind the couches that had fresh tropical flowers on it, courtesy of Sandretta.

The flowers were swaying.

Something was moving. My brain chunks screamed at me.

I turned to scan the room behind me. I felt the press of air before I felt anything else. Instinctively, I dodged to the side and started to roll between the table and the piano. Something caught my foot hard and threw me off my roll. My leg slammed into the table and I heard a crack. Instead of gracefully rolling toward the window, I fell sideways and hit the floor on my side. The air came out of me with a “whoof” and pain shot up my ribs. Tile was not a great material for cushioning a fall.

I heard a snarl. Deep and big. Really big. I still couldn’t see anything, anywhere in the room. What the . . . ?

I got to my feet. The crack must have been the leg of the table instead of my leg. Still hurt.

I moved around the piano, trying to put something large and solid between me and my invisible adversary. I tried to catch my wind while my heart pounded out of my chest.

Another snarl. The sound was moving toward me. Something landed on the piano with a thud. Gouges appeared in parallel tracks on the lid as if a giant cat had put a paw there to use my Steinway for a scratching post.

If that was supposed to be intimidating, it worked. I skirted around the side of the piano, hoping another avenue of escape would present itself.

I felt the thing coming around and instinctively dashed the other way. Those claws skittered on the tile, and whatever-it-was slammed into the bookcase. Dozens of CDs and copies of National Geographic went flying. There was a flickering in the air and I saw an outline. Bits of colored light, like lens flares in a J. J. Abrams movie, shattered and cascaded around the edges of an enormous beast. It was roughly the shape of a lion, but blockier and twice as big. It turned toward me as it gathered its uneven legs, and I looked into a face that was more like a big dog. Rottweiler maybe. It snarled again.

“I can see you now, Toto!” I yelled. “You’re not in Kansas anymore!”

I had a sudden flashback. For a moment, I was a ten-year-old kid again in the bayou by The Mama’s house. I’d snuck out of bed in time to witness a knight-in-armor riding a giant lizard through the cypress trees.

This was not a good time for nostalgia.

I kept circling the piano going the other way, and the beast leapt at me again. My dodge-and-roll was successful this time. Cue the Olympic theme.

The beast skittered some more, off-balance. It was learning how not to slide on the tile though and hardly slowed.

The lights filled the outline now, and the thing was becoming less ephemeral by the moment.

Where was my gun? Oh yeah. In my shoulder harness, which was now in a box. In the entryway.

While I calculated the length of time I’d need to run down the hall, open the box, find my gun, unlock the gun, load the gun, and defend myself, the beast moved closer.

It was going to take me.

We were both breathing heavily now. The pain in my side was starting to overshadow the pain in my leg.

“Play dead!” I yelled. Toto kept coming. It was worth a try.

It continued coming at me, walking now—with me in reverse, keeping its iridescent outline in view.

I bumped into something solid behind me. I’d misjudged the exit to the hallway and now I was backed up against the wall. The beast gathered its legs under itself again, preparing to pounce. It was almost completely solid now. Sparkles flickered in b. . .