Bravado's House of Blues Page 8

  Her kisses woke him with the rising of the sun. For a moment he thought he remembered something. Some music that had carried him through his dreams. But she lay next to him, her naked form warm and inviting, her breath on his chest as she lay her head on him. He sighed once more and slept again, pleasantly tangled in the skein of beginnings.

  LUCK MUSCLE

  Uly stood in his mostly rumple free suit, holding one end of the large bronze casket. It was the heaviest model Bloocher and Bates funeral home carried, and with the body inside, he was barely able to manage his end of things.

  The morning had been rough. Janie, the gal who worked at the Nguyen’s florist shop, had laughed at him when he asked her out to coffee. Patricia, the funeral home’s secretary, had rolled her eyes at him and explained in loud terms how Janie was definitely out of his league.

  “You know,” Sam Bloocher said as he hefted his end of the casket off the hand-truck.

  Uly staggered, almost pulled off balance. Get your head in the game, he chided himself.

  Mr. Bloocher gave him a minute to reset his feet before going on. “You are the unluckiest boy I’ve ever known.”

  Both men heaved a grunt as they hefted the casket over onto the wrought-iron stand.

  Uly yelped as the casket settled in place. Unfortunately for him, his right hand was between the bottom of the casket and the railing.

  “Holy jumping Jesus fish,” Uly wailed, trying to lift his end with only one hand. Sam hurried around to the other end and together they lifted the casket.

  Uly moaned as he stuck the first two fingers into his mouth.

  “See what I mean?” Sam said, guiding the younger man out of the showing room and back down the hall. “How many caskets have we placed on this stand?”

  “I don’t know,” Uly mumbled around his fingers.

  “A whole helluva lot, boy. You’ve been here two years and you’ve nearly maimed yourself a dozen times—not to mention the minor scrapes and tussles.”

  Uly paused and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily through his nose and whimpering.

  Bloocher opened the door to the kitchen and flipped on the light. “I’d say you were most definitely the unluckiest fellow I’ve ever known.” He paused for effect. “Except, maybe for me.”

  “Wha . . .” Uly asked.

  “Here, let me see this time,” Sam said, pulling Uly’s hand from his mouth. The fingers were red and creased, but didn’t appear to be broken.

  “Go on into the kitchen and grab one of the ice packs out of the fridge. Then meet me in the embalming room. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  Uly retrieved the ice pack and wrapped it around his aching fingers. He walked down the hall, juggling the ice pack as he opened the door to the embalming room. Sam had already begun to prep the indigent brought in by the police from last night’s park sweep.

  “You just stand over there and watch,” Sam said without looking up.

  Uly leaned against the back wall, careful to avoid any catastrophe.

  “Are you watching?” Sam asked as his hands worked over the dead man.

  “Yes sir, you have my undivided attention.”

  Sam embalmed the body. Blood, chemicals, and sweat tainted the air, forming a palpable aura of death. Death has many smells, Uly thought. This was neither the first stench of death where the body’s muscles relaxed and the held fluids released, nor the corporeal transition after rigor mortis when the decay is at its first stages. This odiferous mixture marked the air of factory death. The biting trace provided by the cleaning chemicals, blood’s metallic whiff as it oxidizes while being pumped out onto the work table, and the sharp tang of embalming fluids, combined to create the smell of scientific closure that both men recognized as the final death. The procedure took all of thirty-five minutes.

  “There,” Sam said, straightening up from his work. “Did you see what I just did?”

  “What?” Uly asked. “You tied off the main artery in his thigh after filling the body with the embalming solution.”

  “After that.”

  “I didn’t notice anything odd.”

  “Think back carefully,” Sam said as he stripped off his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the little foot-peddled sink. “Tell me everything I did, exactly.”

  “Okay, you removed the hose from the main artery in the left thigh, tying off the end to keep the embalming mixture from leaking. Then you filled the wound with gypsum to soak up any additional fluids and sewed the wound closed.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s standard stuff, but did you notice what I did with my hands just as I closed the wound?”

  “Well obviously not,” Uly said with agitation.

  “You need to learn to pay closer attention,” Sam said. “Here.” He handed a small object to Uly.

  “Damnit all,” Uly said as he took the thing with his injured hand. “What is this?”

  “That, my boy, is the answer to all your problems.”

  Uly turned the object over, examining all sides. It appeared to be a cross made of some small animal bones and twined together with fine silver wire.

  The silence stretched on for several minutes. Uly examined the item as if it were a bug he’d found in his soup. Bloocher looked on with obvious amusement before finally breaking the silence.

  “You’re gonna have to forgive me,” Bloocher said, a sympathetic grin on his face. “You’ve never been with a woman, have you?”

  “I . . . I don’t see how that’s any of your . . . What the hell does that have to do with the price of butter?”

  “Yeah, what I thought,” Bloocher said with a straight face. “Uly, you have a deficiency. You can’t help it. I’d say it had something to do with your history and all, what with your mother dying so young and your grandmother raising you. Of course, those incidents could be a result of your deficiency.”

  “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” Uly said as he eyed the intricate object. “What is this . . . thing?”

  “It’s a luck fetish.”

  “A what?”

  “Voodoo,” Sam said, holding both hands palm up in a shrug.

  Uly looked at him for several seconds, waiting for the old man to crack a smile, poke fun at him or something.

  “Seriously,” Sam said. “I used to be just like you. Oh, I wasn’t as prissy as you are . . .”

  “I beg your pardon!” Uly said, stamping his foot for emphasis.

  “No, definitely not as prissy.”

  Uly glared at the old man, holding his anger by sheer will. “And what sort of deficiency do you think I’ve got?” Uly asked, turning the fetish over to examine the back.

  “Why, hell boy. I told you earlier. You got a luck deficiency. I’d say you’re damn lucky to be alive. Tell me. How many jobs have you had?”

  “I don’t see what that has . . .” Uly began.

  Sam held up his hand as if to catch the protest. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of son. I’m not poking fun at you, just trying to get you to see my point.”

  “Fine, if it will get this over with.” He paused, looking skyward and counting off in his head. “I’ve had about forty or so jobs . . . Just a bit south of that, most likely.”

  “And what age did you actually start working?”

  Uly looked around the room, attempting to avoid the old man’s stare.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “S’what I thought,” Sam said with a whistle. “Now here you are thirty-three and you’ve spent the last two years apprenticing with me. I’d say you busted my record by the time you turned thirty.”

  “Your point?” Uly asked, frustrated and becoming a little sick at his stomach.

  “I know you got beat up a lot at school.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “And there was the time you walked in on your Grandma diddling with the mailman.

  “Jeus,” Uly said, cringing. “That’s an image I was working really hard to forget.”

  Sam laugh
ed and Uly grinned, shaking his head. “Yuck!”

  “And what about that time at your cousin Susan’s wedding when you fell out of the balcony and landed smack in the middle of her and Bob cutting the cake.”

  Uly absently stroked the scar across his left forearm as he thought of the terrible day. “Okay, so I’m unlucky. What’s your point?”

  “The point, my dear boy, is I’m here to turn your life around. I’m going to do something for you what a very dear friend did for me over forty years ago. I’m going to teach you to exercise your luck muscle.”

  Uly squinted at him. Was the old man pulling his leg?

  *

  Over the next several weeks, Uly’s life took an astonishing turn for the better. At first, Mr. Bloocher only allowed Uly to siphon small amounts of luck from the newly deceased. It was in that last moment, as you tied off the artery and sealed off the wound, that you could use the fetish, say a few simple words over the body, and touch the dead in just the right place.

  “Don’t want to move too far, too fast,” Sam told him. “Never know when you might strain something.”

  Uly just grinned.

  Nothing changed right away. Hell for the first few days, Uly was convinced that Mr. Bloocher was making fun of him. But after a week or so it seemed that an ample amount of luck had been stored up. That’s when Uly began to see changes. It was the little things those who suffer from bad luck notice in a second.

  First he noticed the waitress didn’t spill coffee on him, or that he didn’t sit down in gum. Little things like how he was given a full ketchup bottle when his food arrived, and the lid started out firmly secured.

  Then, after about a couple more weeks, the signs were even more noticeable. The cheapskate dry cleaner, who often over starched his shirts, went away for the day and left his wife to mind the shop. For the first time in two years, Uly got all his shirts at the same time, and she even gave him a coupon for a free suit cleaning on his next visit.

  After that he plunged into his sessions with his mentor like a starving man into an all-you-can-eat salad bar.

  *

  Uly practically danced into work each day. Even Patricia stopped hassling him so much. Then, when he didn’t think it could get any better, it got downright serious. His grandmother had this sister in Florida who she hadn’t spoken to in years. Suddenly, right out of the blue, great-aunt Gertie called, crying over their lost childhood, and begged Granny to come to Florida and mend old, broken fences. She decided to stay for three weeks. Uly hadn’t had three weeks alone since he moved in with Granny as a baby. He loved the old woman, but three weeks of freedom was something he’d only dreamed of. Never mind he was a grown man. That was just beside the point.

  He dropped her off at the airport three full hours early. “Never can be too sure about airlines these days,” she reminded him about three thousand times on the way to Bluegrass Field.

  “Now you park in short-term parking and help me carry my bags in,” she said as they pulled in off Man-O-War.

  She just shushed him when he attempted to protest. “Why should I pay any of those wretched sky-caps anything when I’ve got you around to carry my things. After all I’ve done for you in my life. The food, clothing, shelter . . .”

  He quit listening. Her one great regret in life was that she hadn’t actually carried him in her womb so she could lord hours of backbreaking labor over him. He grinned to himself. She was full of bluster, but he loved the old woman. Hell, half the reason he stayed with her was because she didn’t want to be alone. Course, she’d never say it out loud.

  He pulled the ticket out of the machine and blindly waited for the little wooden bar to rise—concentrating on the three glorious weeks of freedom that lay ahead of him.

  Once he saw her safely on the plane, he stepped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. He’d have to pay the same for four hours of parking as three, so he might as well sit and savor the moment.

  He sauntered up to the counter and ordered a six-dollar coffee, enjoying his little victory. He stood, waiting for the waif with the green hair and nose ring to prepare his order, when in walked the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She wore the pilot’s uniform of one of the major carriers. She leaned over the counter and said something to the guy with blue hair. He pointed to the back of the shop and she moved in that direction, waving at him and laughing.

  Uly stared hard at her chest, reading her nametag: Capt. Heather Gray. Quite a lovely name, he thought to himself.

  She must have finished her shift, because when she emerged from the restroom, she wore a very snug pair of jeans and a loose fitting top unbuttoned enough to reveal an ample amount of cleavage.

  Gosh, Uly thought. Bet that doesn’t meet with the company dress code. He stared at her, wondering what his chances would be to leave with a lovely woman like that? He’d never had any luck with women. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had played around with Camille Johnson when they were both freshmen, but her brother, Stuart, caught them and beat the crap out of him—literally. Camille never spoke to him again. And Stuart had terrorized him ever since. So he had luck with women—bad luck.

  Not this time, he told himself. He was a changed man, a bachelor for the first time, and he was anxious. The pilot stepped up to the counter and slipped a Seattle Mariners cap on, pulling her blonde ponytail through the hole in the back. Uly watched her. Watched the way she stood on her toes to dig her hand in the tight front pocket of her jeans to retrieve her loose cash. He especially admired the way her jeans accentuated her firm round rear end. He was enraptured. She flirted with the guy behind the counter while that green-haired girl prepared her order and smiled with a mouth full of perfect teeth when she tipped them two bucks.

  Uly concentrated on his luck, whispering the words and gripping the fetish under his shirt. He stared at Heather Gray, wishing her to sit with him, even though there were several tables open. She turned away from the counter and surveyed the room. He stared at her, catching the pale blue of her eyes as she scanned the room. Her gaze passed over him with a tingle, like when the sky is full of lightning on hot, muggy August nights.

  He held his breath when she walked past and sat at a table right behind him. He let his breath out slowly, attempting to stay cheerful.

  He sat quietly for several seconds, kicking himself for not actually asking her to sit with him, when he heard an angelic voice.

  “Excuse me,” Heather Gray said.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder, her touch like the quick feathery beat of a dove’s wing.

  “Could you hand me some sweetener?”

  He reached across the table and chose a blue packet from among the choices. He half-turned in his seat and offered the small packet.

  “Thanks,” she said, turning back towards her coffee.

  Uly turned back around and sighed. He wrapped both hands around his steaming coffee cup and brought it to his lips. He inhaled deeply before taking a tentative sip. The rich mocha taste surprised him. He’d definitely ordered a tall-thin cappuccino. The mistake jolted him. Even though it had only been a few weeks since his transformation, he’d grown accustomed to having things go right. Now, with this obvious blunder, he felt a stab of doubt pierce the shroud that delicately surrounded his new view of the world. Maybe he was pushing himself too hard.

  He toyed with his coffee for several more moments and decided to finish it, despite its obvious inexplicable wrongness.

  As he stood to go, he glanced down at Heather Gray and her wondrous display of milky white cleavage. What a sight, he thought to himself.

  “Excuse me?” Heather had obviously noticed his gaze.

  He shook his head slightly, focusing his mind back to the moment at hand. Heather looked up from her magazine and stared directly into Uly’s face.

  “See anything you like?” she asked with a grin.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, miss,” he stammered. He felt the hot rush of blood flood his cheeks.

  “Oh, it�
�s okay,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Uly considered that question very carefully. If he were going to make a significant change in his life, he would have to take extraordinary chances. Push the boundaries of his sad little existence. “I was just wondering if you’d like to get a bite to eat or something.”

  She looked up at him, seemed to be studying him, for several seconds.

  “Why not?” she said with a shrug. “I don’t fly out for a few days. It might be nice to talk to one of the locals.” With that she closed her magazine and stood, holding out her hand.

  “Heather Gray.”

  Uly accepted her hand into his own. “Ulysses J. Lambert,” he said. She had a very strong grip.

  “Well, Mr. Lambert. It’s nice to meet you.” She began to gather her things.

  “Here, let me get that for you,” he said when she reached for her luggage carrier.

  “Oh, yes. Nice to be around a real southern gentleman,” Heather said with a grin. “Okay, Mr. Lambert. You may carry my bags. Where to?”

  “Um . . . well, do you like Italian?”

  “Sure, sounds fine to me.”

  “Great,” Uly said, offering his arm to her. She accepted his arm with a laugh and they walked out of the coffee shop.

  “I can drive,” Uly began.

  “Fine with me. They just flew to Denver in what I drove here,” she said with a laugh.

  Uly found her warm laugh contagious and joined in her mirth. Her laughter reminded him of the sweet sound of water dancing over sun-dappled stones.

  *

  The concierge eyed them balefully when they staggered into the hotel around midnight. The fact that she had reservations didn’t change the sour look they received as they stumbled to the elevator.

  Once they entered Heather’s room, Uly sat in one plush armchair, which occupied the living portion of her suite. Heather excused herself to “freshen up.” He lay back in the chair, staring at the patterns the stucco formed in the ceiling. He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, Heather was tugging at his zipper. Large quantities of alcohol most definitely caused a disconnect between thought and action. He knew he told his body to react with shock at her brazen behavior, but by the time his mind accepted the order, it was overwhelmed by other conflicting input.