A Matter of Luck, by Susan Mattinson

Dean Krantz had refused the limousine tonight in favour of the Lincoln.
     The clear night had begun to darken, heavy clouds blotting the sky above the harbour and stretching like smoke toward the city vista. That was good; the moon’s illumination might have been an inconvenience, but inconveniences always seemed to work themselves out for Dean - he supposed he was lucky that way. The Lincoln curved around Connector Road 21 and veered into the short driveway leading to the harbour. Dean leaned forward in his seat. He could see the anchored freight barge, and made out the silhouettes of crew men in the dim evening light.
     “Pier six, my man.”
     The car swung around and slowed to a stop beside a pillar of weathered metal crates and ship containers. Dean was out of the car in an instant, and in that same instant, Pete Wyoming was already half-way to the car to meet him. “Pretty” Pete Wyoming was Dean’s right hand man and co-ordinator of stock collection and transportation. Of course, no one would ever call him “Pretty” Pete to his face; and if you tried to tell him that his hair was sandy brown, not blonde, or that his freckles were really blackheads, he would carve you a new smile in the vicinity of your neck.
     As Dean reached him, Pete turned and fell into pace.
     “Is she okay?”
     “She’ll be fine, the trip was a little choppy but she was well situated and didn’t end up throwing anything up.” Pete smoothed the breast of his blazer and shouted into the darkness. “Turn on some lights but don’t any of you touch that fucking crate! He has to find it, ‘kay?”
     Two flood lights illuminated the night with an electric hum, causing Dean to squint until his eyes adjusted. The barge crew backed away from the metal ship container as Dean approached. It wasn’t massive, but there were a lot of things you could fit in a box that size. Beside him, “Pretty” Pete licked his hands and slicked his hair back. Dean only allowed a second for the anticipation to plague his stomach before pushing the lid off the crate, the metal slab crashing to the pavement. He peered inside. It was filled three-quarters of the way full with standard American pennies. Some of the coins shone in bright copper hues, most were a dull dark brown, and a few had even degenerated into small green disks, but they were all pennies - and there must have been thousands.
     Dean smiled. “Excellent work, guys. Mr. Wyoming will handle your payment. Pete -”
     “Don’t worry,” Pete interrupted. “It’s all arranged. The pennies will be transported to your treasury, as usual.”
     “Great! Have a pleasant evening, fellas.”
     Dean turned and walked back towards the Lincoln, reduced to one shiny black streak against the flood lights on the pier.

     By the time he returned, Geneva Marlboro had already let herself into his executive suite at the Diamond Cystalis Hotel. She wore the red cocktail dress tonight, her white-blonde hair flowing over her shoulders in gentle waves. She was already lounging on the king sized bed, her bright red lips wrapped around a Camel Light, which she smoked religiously.
     “Good evening, Dean.” She greeted in her husky voice, attributed to either her sexual desire or her smoking, Dean had never been quite sure which.
     “Geneva.” He greeted, with all the enthusiasm of pointing out a criminal in a police line up. “Still denying your brand are you?” He referred to the cigarette.
     “That’s an old joke, and you know it.” She blew smoke into the room; a bitch of a dragon, inviting the knight in so she can eat him - or worse. “Tell me, why do you live in a hotel anyway?”
     “Because I can.” Dean threw his jacket over the back of the desk chair and sat down on the edge of the bed to unlace his shoes.
     There was a moment of silence as Geneva took another drag from her Camel Light. “So did your shipment come in?”
     “What shipment?”
     Geneva flashed a mischievous smile. “You were at the pier tonight for a shipment, weren’t you?”
     Dean kicked his shoes under the edge of the bed and turned to face her. “And how would you know that?”
     “Your vehicle manager was nice enough to tell me.”
     “Good Lord!” He flapped his arms once in resignation. “Was he nice enough to help you relieve your sexual tension too? Because then maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with it!”
     There was an angry whoosh of air and smoke as Geneva exhaled and snuffed out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. Dean chanced a look at her and was caught; her blue-grey eyes sparkled as she slid across the bed toward him. He turned away and busied himself with taking off his socks.
     “I’m the most wanted woman in the whole city, don’t you know that, Dean?” She sat behind him and wrapped her long legs around his waist.
     “It depends on what you mean by ‘wanted.’” Dean couldn’t help but notice those creamy legs and soft feet.
     Geneva reached around and started to undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing the shining penny he wore around his neck. Maybe he would take it upon himself to relieve her sexual tension tonight after all. Who could resist when the most desirable woman in the city was set on having her way with you?

     Dean’s office, “Krantz Enterprises”, was located in a converted warehouse consisting of three offices and a treasury. The treasury, where he stored all his pennies, was guarded only by security cameras. In the security office, the video input was recorded for entertainment purposes.
     Dean had long ago stopped bothering to hire security guards for his treasury. He found that even left to themselves, criminals never seemed to make it in. Their tools would break at the most inopportune moment, or they would get in arguments and fist fights with each other, or the police just happened to be cruising by at the time. The attempted break-ins made for rather amusing video footage, some of which had been featured on the television show “Robberies Gone Rotten”.
     The second office, closest to the main door of the building, was the secretary’s office. Dean kept one official secretary and “Pretty” Pete to help him keep his affairs in order. While Pete ran his shipment, gambling, and underground money lending operations, Andrea Wells ran the operations pertaining to stocks, investments and organizing “Investment Conferences”.
     The third office was Dean’s personal office, in which he sat now, thinking of his secretary who was not only organized by talented as well. In addition to all that, the beautiful Asian woman was also absolutely smitten with him. Dean, who had never been one to let affections go to waste, decided that after today’s “Investment Conferences” he would call a private business meeting. It would be good to get a feel for how his secretary was managing his affairs.
     Dean held “Investment Conferences” every Wednesday from noon until five. Associates would be allowed into his office during this time to pitch him their ideas about why he should lend them money. He had once been asked, “Why Wednesday?” to which he replied, “Wednesday is “Hump Day”, the perfect day to meet with people who want to screw me over.”
     “…And I’m sure you will benefit greatly from your support of our company.” The vacation time-share representative finished. Dean had forgotten the man was there. He smiled to himself. If the public knew how many companies sent representatives in secret to seek the support of a gambling money-lender, no matter how classy Dean may be, they would be shocked.
     The time-share guy must have thought Dean’s smile was for him, for he forced a nervous smile in return.
     Dean assumed his well-practiced, joyous visage. “That was very informative, Good Sir, very informative indeed! I will take into careful consideration all you have told me and get back to you shortly.”
     The man looked relieved. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Krantz.”
     “Not a problem. You have a great day now.” As the representative whisked out of the room, Pete Wyoming stepped in.
     “Ah, Pete! M’ man! You’re a yacht full of porn stars in a lake full of piranhas!”
     Pete, however, closed the door behind him and took a seat opposite Dean without even cracking a smile.
     Dean’s own smile faded, “What’s up?”
     “We might have a problem.” Pete gave his hands a good spit and slicked his hair back. “I’ve been talking with the boys, and there’s a bit of... ambiguity... about how you’re doing business.”
     “What do you mean?”
     Pete glanced down at the floor. “You’re basing your business on the old adage ‘find a penny, pick it up, and it will surely bring good luck’.”
     “It seems to be working well for me so far.”
     “Well, I’ve heard from the boys that just finding a penny doesn’t bring luck - finding a penny heads up does.”
     Dean’s frown deepened, spawning a small ‘V’ on his forehead. “I don’t follow you.”
     Pete inspected his fingernails, and then dropped his hands into his lap. “If you find a penny facing heads up, it means good luck, if you find it heads down, it means bad luck.”
     There was a moment of silence. Someone out in the hall coughed; a door slammed shut.
     Dean began to laugh. He leaned his chair back and gripped the arms with his hands. He hooted and hollered, filling the room with the sound. When his laughter had begun to die down, he turned back to Pete.
     “That’s a good one; I’ve never heard that one before!”
     It was Pete’s turn to deepen his frown, “I’m only looking out for your best interests.”
     “I know you are, and that’s why you’re my right-hand man, but I must be doing something right to have all this luck, y’know what I mean? Thanks for looking out for me, but I think things are cool the way they are.” Dean dropped a wink but Pete was already up and heading out the door. “Hey! Thanks for dropping by, we’ll be in touch, ‘kay?”
     Dean heaved a sigh that drifted through the empty office. He wondered who Pete had got that “tid-bit” of information from. There was no grain of truth to it at all, right? He ran a review of the last couple days; it seemed as though his luck was still in check. No trouble there.
     Dean smiled and rapped the intercom button on his phone. “Miss Wells, could you come here for a moment please?”
     The intercom bleeped and her voice drifted back from the phone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Krantz?”
     Dean’s smile widened, what can’t you do for me? “Cancel my last appointment and come see me, wouldn’t you sweetie?” He clicked off the intercom and a few minutes later Andrea appeared in the doorway of his office. She wore a white blouse and a pleated skirt that came to mid thigh. Her dark hair hung straight over her shoulders.
     “I just got a call from your vehicle manager, he says that the chauffeur will be late to pick you up; the limo broke down so he has to exchange it for the Lincoln.”
     Dean smiled and nodded. “The limo will be here to pick me up at five as usual.”
     Andrea’s jaw opened and closed. “No, your vehicle manager said—”
     “Yes I heard what you said; you said the limo broke down. I say that you either got the information wrong, or the vehicle manager did.” Dean’s eyes turned cold. “Because chauffeurs are never late. Limos don’t break down. I could ride a bicycle held together with a silk scarf and my grandmother’s false teeth from here to Antarctica and it wouldn’t break. I wouldn’t get lost, I wouldn’t freeze, and my hair would stay perfect the entire time.”
     Andrea said nothing. Dean sat back in his chair and flicked his hand, dismissive. “Everything will be fine, don’t worry about it.”
     “I’m not—“
     “—the limo will show up promptly at five. I know it will.” Dean smiled, relaxing again. “However, I do think it would be beneficial for us to have a quick, private business meeting, so I can update you on the... regulation of my policies.” He dropped a sly grin and waited for her to step inside, close the door, and start unbuttoning her blouse. However, this time she just stayed in the doorway.
     “It just so happens that my schedule doesn’t always mesh with your schedule, Mr. Krantz. I actually don’t have time for a meeting today.”
     Dean sat stunned. Had she just denied him? First the limo, and then this. But there wasn’t really anything wrong with the limo, right? It was a miscommunication, it was... He felt humiliated and vulnerable.
     Andrea crossed her arms in front of her chest. “If there’s nothing else I can help you with right now, I’ll be at my desk.” She turned and disappeared down the hall.
     Dean leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and cradled his fore-head in his hands. No. There was something really wrong. His luck was at stake, and for someone who dealt in luck, it meant that serious decisions had to be made.
     Dean didn’t so much turn on the intercom as beat it into submission. “Get me Pete Wyoming on the phone.”

     They stood in the treasury, their gazes drifting over crates among boxes among pails of pennies. They were piled on top of one-another in stacks, rows, mounds, towers, filling the space in the warehouse with their magnitude.
     Dean turned to Pretty Pete, fiddling with his penny necklace. “I need them heads up, all of them. I can’t afford any mistakes.”
     Pete nodded.
     Dean sighed, resting a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “And I know you’re the only one skilled enough to get this done right.
     “If I don’t keep you out of trouble, who will?” Pete smiled.
     Dean let out a hoot. “I don’t know!” But despite the humour, they both knew; it was luck that kept him out of trouble.
     Pete turned away and began to shout. “Come on, men! We have lots of work ahead of us so stop standing here gawking. By the end of this you’ll never want to see another penny in your entire life!”
     Pete started toward the wall. “We’ll start on the far left and work our way over to the other side.” Behind him twenty-five hired men fanned out, opening crates and dumping out pails and boxes. There was a shower of clinks as the coins hit the concrete floor. Then, one by one, each man turned the pennies heads side up, and gently placed them back into the containers.

     The sun had just begun to set a pink-red hue over the city by the time Dean got home. He fumbled with the key card before getting it through the scanner and trekking into his room. No Miss Marlboro with her Camel Lights tonight; hadn’t he expected that? But Dean didn’t plan to be down on his luck for long; there were men fixing it presently, it should be up and running momentarily, sorry for the inconvenience, thanks, management. Dean snickered. He sat down on the edge of the bed and violently tugged his shoes off.
     His chauffeur hadn’t shown up to get him until seven, and Dean’s heart sank when he saw that it was the Lincoln instead of the limo, just as Andrea had told him. The chauffeur got out to open his door for him, apologising profusely. He was sorry about the delay and would have come sooner but the limo had broken down in the middle of the city and they had to wait for a tow-truck to become available before they could move it and then the traffic was horrible downtown and the cars were really lined up and he hadn’t seen traffic that bad since he started working for Dean and by the way Dean wasn’t looking so hot, was he feeling okay?
     Dean looked at his reflection in the car window. His dark wavy hair, requiring one run-through with his hand in the morning, was now hanging limp, an ugly part splitting down the center.
     The chauffeur asked Dean again if he was feeling okay.
     Dean, exasperated, turned from his reflection. “I’m just temporarily out-of-order, sorry for the inconvenience.”
     The serious note in his voice caused the chauffeur to recoil. Dean slid into the back-seat of the Lincoln and let his driver shut the door.

     The next morning Dean woke up with an active appetite and felt much better. He called room service to ask for four large pancakes to be added to his regular breakfast. As he dialled the number, the phone made a strange crunching sound, followed by a high pitched squealing. Dean yanked the ear-piece away from his head and glared at it. Great, now his phone was shot. He banged it back down onto the receiver and tucked himself under the bed sheets. He felt sick. No, not just sick, ill - perhaps he was coming down with the flu, or pneumonia, or leprosy. If he died he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap anymore. The thought had begun to feel comforting when someone started knocking on his door. Dean slid his covers down a bit. It was room service, bringing him his usual breakfast; perhaps the world hadn’t gone to hell after all. He would just tell them that his phone was broken and he needed some extra pancakes. Dean got up, threw on a robe, and ran a hand through his hair. As he passed the large wall mirror, he noticed that his hair was co-operating again. That was good - very good.
     The knocking came again as he unlocked and opened the door.
     Geneva Marlboro stood in the hall, her sleek body clothed in a white terry-cloth robe. She held a large silver tray filled with breakfast foods - pancakes included. Dean stood for a moment in shock.
     “You may be able to eat with your eyes, but I can’t. May I come in?”
     Dean moved aside, closing the door behind her. She set the tray of food on the desk and undid the belt on her robe. It melted to the floor in a pool of white terry-cloth, revealing her creamy, naked skin. That was excellent - very excellent indeed.

     Pete Wyoming was at the door of “Krantz Enterprises” that morning when Dean arrived.
     “It’s ready.”
     Pete had brought in back-up three hours into the task, tripling the number of hired men. They worked all through the night and now every last penny in the warehouse had been turned heads side up. There was only one thing left - Dean had to “find” them.
     Dean followed Pete into the building, heading for the door to the treasury. His stomach churned and he absently tugged at the penny around his neck.
     Pete opened the door a crack, and then turned to Dean.
     “Ready?”
     Dean nodded.
     Pete opened the door and the two men stepped into the treasury. The crates of pennies were neatly packed and stacked throughout the warehouse, and at first Dean thought, with a pang of fear, that nothing had changed at all. But wasn’t there a new energy in here? Yes, he believed there was. Dean strode between the isles and rows of boxes, stopping to inspect his pennies; every one he saw was heads up. When he finished looking, he came back to where Pete was standing.
     “Pete, this is amazing!”
     Pete said nothing, but flashed a small smile.
     Dean’s eyes grew serious, “Thank-you so much... I -” He wanted to tell Pete the nightmare that had been the last twenty-four hours, that he had saved Dean’s life.
     “Don’t worry about it.” Pete interrupted. “Your luck is my luck.”

     As soon as Dean had seated himself in his office, his secretary ran into the room.
     “Mr. Krantz, Mr. Krantz!”
     Dean’s brow furrowed. “Andrea, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
     Andrea stopped, her breasts heaving under her blue blouse. She was wearing a longer skirt today, but it hugged her hips and behind in delightful curves. She held a piece of paper in front of her. “Nothing’s wrong! Your stocks sky-rocketed this morning - every one of them! At this rate it’s predicted that you will be the richest man in the city by nightfall!”
     “Let me see that!”
     Andrea hurried over and passed him the paper she was holding. He grabbed it from her, eyes flicking over the page. Yes, she was right, but then hadn’t she been right about the limo too? He pushed the thought out of his mind. His luck was back now, and this paper proved it.
     “Mr. Krantz?”
     Dean looked up. “Yes?”
     Andrea dropped her gaze. “Didn’t you want to see me for a private business meeting?” Her soft dark eyes captured his.
     “Is your schedule free?” Dean spoke with his lets-talk-official-business voice, and then smiled.
     He only had time to realize the door was still open, and that he didn’t care one bit.

     That afternoon Pete Wyoming arrived into Dean’s office again.
     “Pete!” Dean called, “Your bonus was just forwarded to your account, so it should be available to you now.”
     “Thanks, but there’s another reason I stopped by.”
     There was a moment of silence. Dean raised his eyebrows, urging him to continue.
     Pete took a small bottle of mouth-wash out of his blazer pocket and unscrewed the lid. “How’s your luck?”
     Dean relaxed. “Fabulous, thanks to you, my friend! My stocks have sky rocketed - in case you haven’t heard - and I just may be the richest man in the city come five o’ the clock.”
     Pete nodded and took a swig of the mouth-wash. After swishing it around, he spat it back into the bottle. The bottle disappeared back into his pocket.
     “I was talking to the boys this morning - discussing current events and all - and they said that in order to get good luck from pennies, you have to wear them in your shoe.”
     “You’re kidding me; you’re joking. You have to be joking...”
      ‘Pretty’ Pete shook his head. “Find a penny, wear it in your shoe, and it will bring good luck to you.”
      Andrea popped her head into his office. “Mr. Krantz? I just got word that your stocks are crash - I mean, dropping at a rapid rate.” She bit her lower lip. “Just thought you’d like to know.” She forced a small smile, and then disappeared from the doorway.
     Dean did a face plant into the palms of his hands. “I just fixed all this! Don’t talk to me about alternate sayings now... not after everything I’ve been through in the last couple days.”
     Pete narrowed his eyes. “Everything you’ve been through in the past couple days? I just spent hours fixing your problem while you just sat around like a teenage girl without a prom date. So your car broke down, and your secretary didn’t want to fuck you - welcome to the real world!”
     Dean’s jaw fell open. Pete had no idea what it was like for Dean, no one did - to live a certain way for so long and then have everything come crashing down around you. No, Pete was the one that had it good right now. His life was constant; his life was stable.
     “Okay.” Dean’s voice came out as a whisper. “We can fix this. We fixed it before, and we can fix it again.”
     Pete stood from his chair. “No, Dean. You can fix it.” He turned his back to the desk and stalked out of the office. Dean heard his footsteps echo along the tiled hallway, Andrea’s voice drifting out of her office, have a good day Mr. Wyoming, the front door opening and closing. Silence.
     That was great. Absolutely perfect. Now Pete had walked out on him and left him all alone in his darkest hour. What a friend. Dean felt a rage building in the center of his body and hurried to compose himself. Screw Pete, there were more pressing matters - his luck was in jeopardy again, and he was the only one that could fix it.
     He pressed the button for the intercom. “Miss Wells, I need you to get some phone numbers for me.”

     His chauffeur didn’t show up to get him from work. There was no call, so Dean waited for an hour. He called his vehicle manager and got no answer, so he waited another hour before calling a cab. Dean had forgotten the taxi-smell of mingled perfumes and cigarette smoke. His eyes kept darting back to the cheap, tree-shaped air freshener and the pink plastic rosary swinging from the rear view mirror. The woman driving talked.
     “—traffic. But this city isn’t as bad as the last one I drove in. Oh man! You should have been there! The idiots! There was an accident everyday - everyday! Car pile ups, ten, forty cars long! One day I was driving this woman and...”
     He noticed a small symbol tattooed on the back of her right hand between her thumb and index-finger. As he paid her, he asked what it meant.
     “It says ‘bitch’ in Japanese”.
     He thanked her and got out.

     “Okay! So everyone knows their groups; line up please and we’ll get ready to begin!” Dean lowered the megaphone. Students from Craigstown Elementary, David Turner Memorial Elementary, and Heightsville Elementary gathered on the soccer field outside DTM. Teachers herded them into ten lines of fifty students and made sure they were behind the chalk dust starting line.
     Dean massaged his temples; there were dark circles under his eyes. He had arranged the whole thing yesterday, paying faculty members and bus fees to get the students here for the morning, but he was tired. When he finally got to sleep, his alarm clock didn’t go off. As a result, he had to rush over to the school without catching breakfast first.
     He had assistants place large buckets on the field - four per team. Two of the four buckets were white and filled to the brim with pennies; the other two were blue and empty. The assistants placed one bucket of pennies and one empty at the starting line in front of each group; they then placed one bucket of pennies and one empty at the chalked finish line, several feet across the field. Dean had gone through his closet the night before and managed to dig out a meagre ten pairs of shoes. The assistants set one pair of shoes in front of each line of children - loafer style dress shoes, lace-up dress shoes, and sports sneakers. Seeing that the preparations were made, he raised the megaphone back up to his mouth.
     “First of all, welcome to the ‘Ultimate Penny Relay Race!’ I will be your host, Dean Krantz. This race is only for the very brave, so if you don’t think you can step up to the challenge, you can step down now.” It was a tacky thing to say, and he realized it as soon as the words drifted out of his mouth. But this was a serious matter.
     “Now let me explain the rules. Each group will see a pair of size eleven men’s shoes sitting at the start line. Please be assured that no one pair is larger than the other, regardless of make or style.” Dean paused and ran a hand through his hair. The kids were staring with blank expressions. This wasn’t going to work.
     He cleared his throat. “What you will have to do is put as many pennies as you dare to into the shoes, and then put the shoes on. You will walk to the finish line and take off the shoes, dumping the pennies into the empty blue bucket. You will then fill the shoes back up from the full whitebucket at the finish line, walk back to the start line, and empty the shoes in that empty blue bucket. You will then hand the shoes to the next person in line and proceed to the back of your line. The next person in line will do the same thing, and so on. The first group to get all the pennies into the empty blue buckets wins. Think you guys can do that?”
     There were a few resounding yes’s and many nods of agreement.
     “Now here’s the tricky part.” Dean paused for a dramatic effect that was lost. “If you spill any of the pennies, you lose. If you dump the pennies into the wrong bucket, then you have to leave them there for the next person to do all over again. The group who finishes first gets one hundred dollars - per kid.”
     There were murmurs of excitement through the crowd.
     “The group that finishes second gets seventy-five dollars per kid, and the group that finishes third gets fifty dollars per kid. After that, each group gets prizes depending what number they finish. But every single group must finish. Okay? At the whistle blow, we start, so get ready!”
     The kids looked from the shoes, to the bucket of pennies, back to the shoes - intense concentration shading their faces. One little boy bent forward and started scooping pennies into the shoes, but a teacher darted over, spoke to him, and dumped the pennies back into the bucket.
     It seemed like a wonderful idea - ingenious, proficient, and fun - but now Dean wondered how well it would really work. There was so much room for error, but it was too late to turn back now.
     He blew the whistle.
     The kids started scooping pennies out of the bucket and into the shoes. The field was filled with shouting as other members of the group urged them on. A couple children found out that if you filled the shoes up too much, then there was no room left to get your feet in - they must devise a perfect balance between penny room and foot room. Most of them had started off across the field, shuffling along in the shoes far too large for their feet. One little girl tripped and fell out of the shoes, but no pennies were spilled. She got back in them and continued on her way.
     Dean watched the children scuttle back and forth between the chalk lines and the buckets. His eyelids were heavy and the megaphone felt like it was made of iron. He wished he was having as much fun as the kids were. But he had a feeling that it was going to be a very long morning.

     A firm knock on his office door jolted Dean from a deep sleep. Groggy, he laboured to raise his head off his desk and open his eyes. The knocking came again. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair.
     “Nobody home.” His voice was deep and rough.
     The door opened and Pete slipped in. Dean watched him close the door behind him, stride across to the desk, and seat himself in the chair opposite Dean’s.
     “I heard what you did - the relay race - that was brilliant.”
     Dean said nothing.
     Pete cleared his throat. “So I bet your luck’s back in full force.”
     Silence.
     “Look,” Pete’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry I spoke to you like that. I know it’s been hard for you and, to be honest, since I left my luck hasn’t been all that hot either. So we should keep working together, don’t you think? And we might have quite a task ahead of us, because the boys have said that a penny’s only lucky when you give it to someone else...”
     “Get out.”
     Pete’s jaw quivered, his brow furrowed.
     “I mean it; get the fuck out of my office. Now.”
     He watched as Pete rose to his feet and turned toward the door. He exited the office without looking back.
     Dean sighed and raised a hand to his fore-head. He no longer felt sleepy, but his head ached. He pressed the intercom.
     “Miss Wells, take messages; I’m going out for a walk.”

     The late afternoon sun bore down on the flecked pavement of the sidewalk, sending waves of dry heat bouncing between the buildings. Dean walked with his head down, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Everything had turned into a disaster, but from what cause? It was when Pete had told him that only pennies found heads up were good luck, after that his luck had started to fail. So it was Pete’s fault. But was Dean’s luck so fickle that it could change with a suggestion? Because that’s all Pete had really done - suggested that the way Dean collected his pennies was wrong. No one can say if one way is more valid than the others, so it had been the power of suggestion. The power of suggestion destroyed his luck.
     He avoided a crowd of tourists in front of a café and continued on, reaching up to play with his necklace.
     The power of suggestion. You can hypnotise people using the power of suggestion; you can build incredible self confidence with it, you can also destroy a person’s achievements and confidence.
     Dean froze, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
     His luck was never real.
     The statement he had heard about pennies and their power of luck was only suggestive, and it must have been enough to convince Dean’s young and troubled mind those seven long years ago. But the luck itself was never real.
     People had begun to stare at him; he dropped his gaze and continued on. He had only moved a few steps when he stopped again. Someone ran into his back but he hardly noticed; there was a penny lying on the sidewalk. Dean bent down and picked it up.
     Wait. Had it been heads up or heads down? What should he do with it now? Put it in his shoe? Give it to Pete or someone else?
     He laughed aloud. None of those things mattered. He had been living a dream, living under his own, self-induced hypnosis, and this was his wake-up call.
     Dean started walking again, the buildings becoming shorter and more residential - old houses converted into small apartment buildings, battered green dumpsters and crooked antique lamp posts. The penny in his hand was dented and dull, a worthless piece of metal - so worthless that millions of people throw them away. Sayonara to worthless crap. Dean threw the penny over his shoulder.
     There was a scuffing noise and a thud, followed by a colourful string of profanity. Dean whirled around to see a heavy-set man on his knees, struggling to lift himself off the pavement. A broken, unlit cigarette dangled from his lips and he rubbed his right eye with a great calloused fist.
     “Son of a bitch! Watch where you’re throwing your garbage, you nitwit!” The man made it onto his feet and started brushing off his navy blue work pants.
     Dean took a couple steps forward. “I’m really sorry, what happened?”
     “Well that’s the ‘hundred dollar question’, now isn’t it?” The man grumbled, taking the broken cigarette and holding it in front of his face for inspection. Dean noticed that his lack of hair made his facial features more exaggerated. “Whatever the hell you just tossed got me in the eye, and the temporary loss of vision blinded me enough to trip over that God-forsaken sidewalk brick and damn-near smash my skull in.”
     He threw the broken cigarette aside and reached into the breast pocket of his stained T-shirt, producing his now crumpled pack of smokes. He rolled his eyes and wiggled the package back and forth in the air, as if to accent the calibre of the disaster.
     “Well you said ‘one-hundred dollar question’,” Dean pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “So would it help if I gave you compensation for this mishap?”
     The man pinched a new cigarette between his lips and slipped the package back into his pocket. He shook his head. “I don’t need your stinkin’ money; you let me walk away with my life and I think that’s good enough. Though, if you had a light, that would be good.” He frisked the pockets of his pants. “I must have dropped mine when I fell.”
     Dean patted his own pockets and glanced around. “I don’t think I...” His voice trailed off. Fire licked up over the edge of the dumpster less than ten feet from where they stood. Its metal bulk was snug against the side of a converted house-apartment building. The flames tasted the house’s siding, wavering to and fro like a live thing. Dean just stood, eyes wide and darting over the scene before him.
     “Well I guess we found out where my lighter went to.” The man spoke with an uncanny calmness. “It’ll burn itself out; garbage bags and other crap like that don’t burn too well.”
     Dean realized he was still holding his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket.
     “Are you insane?” Inside the building smoke detectors started going off.
     People were stopping along the sidewalk now, some yelling and screaming for help. A woman whipped out her cell phone but it slipped out of her hands and smashed on the pavement. Someone else’s voice cut through the crowd, “Come on! Doesn’t somebody else have a phone?”
     Dean’s head snapped back toward the house. The flames had grown into ravenous rage and were well on their way to consuming half the building. The door to apartment one burst open and a young couple stumbled down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. A family of five escaped out of apartment two, the little boy covering his mouth and nose with his hands.
     Smoke billowed into the sky. Part of the frame near the dumpster cracked and threatened to buckle. Then the window in the upstairs apartment opened and a little girl poked her head out, tears streaming down her face. She opened her mouth in a soundless yell, and then disappeared.
     Dean looked around him in a panic; no one else seemed to notice the little girl. Someone had finally located a cell phone that worked and called for help, but there was no time.
     He bolted around the side of the house and saw that there was an entrance still untouched by the flames. He burst through the door and took the stairs two at a time to the upstairs apartment. An approaching siren cut through the street noise and the sound of the consuming fire, but smoke was already curling out from under the apartment door. Dean threw open the door and looked in upon a world where that which was not burning was wavering in a mirage-like sheen of heat. He retracted his arm in his shirt and held the excess sleeve fabric in front of his mouth and nose.
     Dean had entered into the kitchen area. To his immediate right was a long hallway leading to the bedrooms and the bathrooms. The hallway was an inferno of fire, spewing rolling smoke along the ceiling. The doorways were reduced to shambles of burning wood, and charred and pealing carpet. He moved through the kitchen and took two steps into the living room. The right side of the room was fiercely ablaze, the couch and corner chair reduced to smouldering lumps of melted upholstery and ash. The heat was unbearable and the fire was spreading fast.
     Dean adjusted his sleeve over his face and squinted. The smoke stung his eyes, which watered in protest, but he managed to see a shimmering silhouette blinking and moving along the far wall. He ran across the room and scooped the little girl into his arms. She drifted in and out of consciousness but gripped at his shoulder. As he turned back toward the entrance to the living room, part of the floor under the devoured couch and chair collapsed. The flames had spread and ate away at the door frame Dean had come through. If he bent over and went quickly, he thought he could fit. He leaned forward, the girl keeping her hold on him, and scuttled through the doorframe.
     And then he was stuck. He tried to ease forward but could not. Looking around with wild eyes, he saw that part of the doorframe had splintered.
     And his penny necklace was looped around a thick shard of wood.
     He removed his shirt sleeve mask and used that hand to try and free the necklace chain. The wood was rough and askew; his fingers trembled and his vision grew steadily darker. If he didn’t get out of there soon he would pass out, and the little girl would die. Dean looked at the penny, shining with the reflection of the fire - the penny that had started it all.
     He bolted forward, there was a snap, and he was free - careening through the kitchen toward the front door of the apartment. The door opened in front of him and was filled with a hideous shape – what appeared to be an alien monster with dark glassy eyes. He reached out and pushed the little girl into the firefighter’s arms and then he was falling. There was no impact, only darkness.

     There has never been light purer than what comes after a time of complete darkness; this was Dean’s first thought as he tried to open his eyes. He felt very much like a miner coming out of the depths into the blazing light of day. It was excruciating and exalting at the same time. He squinted, and blinked, and filtered the light through his fingers until he could handle its full capacity. And then he could see.
     Dean was lying in a private hospital room, tucked into sterile white sheets. A large bottle of oxygen stood nearby with its clear plastic mask.
     The door opened and a nurse shuffled into the room. She was a large woman, with wiry black hair and a pasty complexion. She was not the least bit attractive, but Dean realized that he didn’t care one bit - he was just happy to be alive.
     “Ah! Good to see you awake, Mr. Krantz.”
     “Please, call me Dean, my charming lady.”
     She flushed.
     Dean grinned and put his hands behind his head. “So, what’s the verdict? Will I be able to play piano?”
     “I’ve heard that one before.” But her eyes still laughed as she looked at his chart. “You suffered from smoke inhalation, but you’ll be fine.”
     Dean’s face grew serious. “And the little girl?”
     The nurse hung his chart back up. “She’s doing great. That was quite the problem though.” She jerked her head toward Dean.
     “What was?”
     “Your necklace.”
     Dean looked down. The penny was still hanging on the chain around his neck, shiny as the day he found it.
     The nurse had moved over to adjust the window curtains. “They tried to take it off you when then brought you in, in case it was obstructing your breathing, but they couldn’t. The heat from the fire must have melted the latch or something, because they couldn’t find one.”
     Dean started inspecting the chain. Each link looked the same and the next, with no hint of a latch or clasp.
     “So it looks like the only way you’re getting that sucker off is with a pair of pliers.” She finished with the curtains. “But it looks like your lucky penny worked, that’s for sure. I might have to get one.”
     Dean didn’t have the heart to tell her that it probably wouldn’t work, that there was something about this particular penny. But the power of suggestion can do wonders, so he smiled and said nothing. She returned his smile and slipped out of the room.
     He was alone for mere minutes when there was a knock on his door.
     “Mr. Krantz?”
     “The one and only.” Dean folded his hands and rested them in his lap.
     Andrea Wells came in and took a seat beside his bed. “I heard what happened and came to make sure you were alright. It was a really brave thing you did.”
     “I wish I could tell you that I did it out of the goodness of my heart, but I don’t know why I did it. I just did.”
     But he did know why. He had started that fire, through a bizarre chain of events. No one would ever know that, though. They would always see him as the hero, regardless of how he saw himself. Maybe that was lucky, maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t feel like he was in any place to judge anymore.
     But that was just fine with him.

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©2006 Susan Mattinson