Illusion of Luck (3 page)

Larry could only imagine. “No, I don’t.”

“
Fun, fishin’ and fryin.’”
He laughed. “Yeah, I made that up. Pretty good, ain’t it? The fun
and the fishing go without saying. But you gotta have the frying,
‘cause that’s what we do, Guy. It’s a family tradition. We don’t
broil ‘em like
you
do.” He glanced at the
barbecue pit. “But there nothing wrong with broiling, I guess—if
that’s what you like.”

Larry had nodded along with everything,
hoping the big redneck would soon run out of things to say and
leave him alone.

“
But that ain’t fish, is it,
Guy? I’m sorry—I don’t believe I got your name. That’s just rude of
me to keep calling you ‘Guy’.”

“
Larry. And no, it’s not
fish. It’s…uh…”

“
That’s okay. No need to be
embarrassed. You must be one of them fellas that likes to fish, but
doesn’t like to eat ‘em. You’d rather have a big juicy steak,
right?”

“
Uh…yeah, that’s
right.”

“
Probably one of them
expensive cuts. Mind if I have a look-see?”

“
Uh, no. I mean, yes,
I
do
mind.
The uh, particular way I cook my steak…you have to keep the lid
closed until right when it’s done. Yeah, because if you don’t,
it’ll get tough.”

“
I see. Never heard of that.
But you might oughta take a look at that thing soon, Larry. Smells
like it’s starting to burn.”

“
Yeah. Well, I was just
about to check it. Thanks for dropping by. See you around,
Jim.”

“
Yep. We’ll probably see you
out on the lake tomorrow.” Jim started walking away, then stopped
and looked back and said, “But if you catch some you don’t want, no
need to throw ‘em back. I’ll take ‘em.” He chuckled.

“
Okay, Jim.
Thanks.”

Jim started whistling as he
walked back toward his cabin. Larry recognized it as the theme to
the
Andy Griffith
Show
. He wondered how Jim could see his
way back to his cabin. He half expected to hear him yell when he
tripped over some stump or armadillo.

Larry watched in satisfaction as the smoke
drifted upward, beyond the soft glow of the lamp, into the night.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he thought. This was one steak that
would never cheat on him again.

He had never felt so alive. Putting that
sleazy tramp in her place and taking control of his life had
cranked up the engine of his dark soul. And now, thanks to the
close call with Jim, he was drenched in sweaty fear, pedal to the
metal, fuel-injectors kicking in hard. What a rush!

**********

Greg, Cynthia and Beverly had decided to
catch a ride with Sandy from the church to the rehearsal dinner at
Coreyville Pasta House.

As Greg was getting into the front seat with
Sandy, he said, “By the way, Baby, that’s a beautiful necklace
you’re wearing tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it
before.”

“
Thanks, Honey. Mom gave me
this necklace.”

“
I did?” said
Beverly.

“
Yeah. Remember, it was Aunt
Judy’s.”

“
Really?”

“
Yeah. You gave it to me
three or four years ago.”

“
Oh. That’s right. Now I
remember.”

Greg wondered if Cynthia had winked at her
mom to get her to go along with the story.

“
I could eat a cow,” said
Sandy.

“
Would you settle for
spaghetti?” said Beverly.

“
Sure, that’ll work. As long
as they have plenty of that good bread.”

Cynthia was sitting behind Sandy. “So, Greg
told you all about the bread, huh? I’m not surprised. The man loves
a great loaf of bread.” She put her hand on Greg’s left shoulder.
“That reminds me, Sweetie. You told them you’d call when we were on
our way.”

“
Oh, that’s right.” Greg
took out his phone, flipped it open and noticed that he had missed
a call. He keyed in the number for the restaurant. “Hi. This is
Greg Tenorly and I have reservations…that’s right—the wedding
party…we’ll be there in five minutes…okay. Thanks.”

Just before Greg closed his phone, he saw
that he had a message, so he hit the voicemail button.

You’re not gonna take my
advice, are you? You’re gonna marry her anyway. But you’ll be
sorry, Man. So sorry
.

“
Who was the message from?”
said Cynthia.

“
Nobody. I mean, it was a
wrong number.”

“
I hate that,” said Sandy.
“A couple of weeks ago I had this message from some guy saying his
flight had not been delayed after all, and could I please be at the
airport by midnight.”

“
So, you had to call him
back and tell he had the wrong number?” said Beverly.

“
I couldn’t—it was an
anonymous call.”

“
Serves him right for
blocking his number,” said Cynthia.

“
Yeah,” said Greg. “I want
to
know
who’s
calling
me
.”

“
When they do that, I just
want to ignore the call,” said Sandy.

I wish I had, thought Greg.

“
But then sometimes it’s
important,” said Sandy. “So, what can you do? You really can’t take
the chance.”

“
Just let it go to voicemail
every time,” said Cynthia. “That’s what
I
do.”

“
But then you still end up
listening to what they have to say,” said Greg. “You’re not likely
to just delete the message without
listening
to the doggone
thing.”

“
Are you okay, Sweetie?”
said Cynthia. “You seem kind of upset.”

Greg changed his tone. “No, uh, I just hope
they have the tables set up right.”

“
You worry too much, Man,”
said Sandy. “Chill.”

Greg wished he could chill. He wished he
could enjoy what should have been one of the best nights of his
life.

He wished he could rewind the evening and
start over.

Without
his cell
phone.

Chapter
4

Larry sat down at his laptop
and logged in as Barry Undermine to complete another chapter of
his serial novel,
Illusion of
Luck
. He jittered with excitement at
the realization of what he had just done. His clothing reeked of
smoke from Erin’s incineration. Hopefully by morning her remains
would fit in an urn. But she didn’t deserve one. So instead, he
would dump her ashes into the rusty 55-gallon garbage drum on the
other side of the dirt road.

His brain articulated the scene at
hyper-speed, overloading his sixty-words-per-minute hands. It was
so easy—just like the murder.

Wait. Not
that
easy, he
thought. It wasn’t as though he was simply taking dictation. No,
not at all. He was a craftsman, an artist. He had six novels worth
of experience under his belt. This time his writing was much
better—but only because he had a better story idea. It was still
fiction.

He was taking a different approach to his
writing—making it up as he went along instead of preparing a
detailed story outline and following it to the letter. For this
book, lucky number seven, he only had a rough sketch of the
plot.

His original plot had called for his main
character to confront his girlfriend about her affairs, and get
into a nasty court battle over money. Then he would murder her and
somehow get away with it and live happily ever after in Tahiti.
Until the girlfriend’s father, an ex-Navy Seal, tracked him down
and killed him in the final scene.

But now the original plot would never make
it into the book. Real life had given him better ideas.

He typed the last word of the chapter and
clicked ‘Publish.’ Let’s see how they like this one, he thought.
Some of his readers had already signed up for instant email
notification. So, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be reading
about the girlfriend’s terrible demise.

He minimized the web page and went back to
the Marshall News Messenger site. He stared at the picture,
ignoring the man standing next to her. The beautiful redhead had
been the unknowing object of his nightly pleasures throughout his
junior and senior high school years.

He’d been much too shy to approach her—even
after being crowned the big football hero of the game against their
archrival, Longview. His incredible last-second catch in the end
zone had won the game. And his Marshall Mavericks had gone on to be
Bi-District Champions that year.

But Larry was no longer shy. He was a man of
considerable wisdom, charm, and wealth. Actually, not so much
wealth currently. He had $35,000 in an account his girlfriend was
never aware of. She had spent all the rest.

But he was not overly concerned about his
dwindling fortune. The inheritance and his lottery winnings had
kept him afloat so far. Maybe he would start playing the lottery
again, he thought. Larry had been kind enough to refrain from
buying tickets so other people could win. But he didn’t care about
being rich anyway. A million or two was all he needed.

Erin was gone, but the
$65,000 convertible was not. And it could
not
be sitting in front of his
cabin the next morning for Jim to gawk at.

Cool car. Belong to the Mrs.? When can we
meet her? Why don’t y’all come join us for dinner tonight?

Larry clicked back over to see if any
readers had commented on his latest chapter posting. Yes—there
were already three comments praising his work. The one from the guy
in Sidney, Australia was his favorite.

Your characters practically leap off the
page. I’m an avid mystery reader, but have never before read
anything sounding so real, so genuine. The killer is creepy, brutal
and sick. I love it! Hurry up and post the next chapter—please!

He read it aloud, over and
over. Yes! Soon agents would be
begging
to represent
him.

**********

Sandy slid his chair back and stood up.
“Could I have your attention, everyone?” After polishing off
several baskets of bread and a couple of huge plates of spaghetti,
Sandy was ready to make his speech.

Greg and Cynthia were sitting directly
across from him.

Beverly, the pastor and his wife, the
organist, the flower girl and her mother stopped talking and looked
at Sandy.

“
In my capacity as Best Man,
I feel I need to say a few words about the groom.”

Uh-oh, thought Greg.

Cynthia was interested in learning more
about her future husband. And she knew Sandy probably had some
funny stories from their college days.

“
As most of you know, Greg
and I were roommates in college. We were both music majors. And I
remember the day we met as freshman. I was thrilled to meet him
because I thinking, ‘this guy is even nerdier than me.’”

Everyone laughed.

“
Gee, thanks, Sandy,” said
Greg, grinning.

“
And one of the most
memorable conversations we had that first year was about
sex.”

The mother of the flower girl suddenly
jumped up and took her young daughter to the restroom.

“
But I don’t need to go,
Mommy.”

“
Yes, you do.”

Sandy went on. “So, Greg was telling me
about when he was 13 and started having feelings for girls…”

Cynthia smiled at Greg—imagining how cute he
must have looked as a 13 year-old.

Greg blushed. Not because of what Sandy had
just said, but because of what might be coming.

“
He had very special
feelings for one particular classmate named Cindy. And back then he
didn’t know
squat
about sex. But he spent a lot of time
thinking
about her—especially at
night. He’d think about touching her and holding her and kissing
her and then—he’d sneeze. He explained how the excitement would
build, poco a poco, to a grand fortissimo. Oops, sorry. There I
go—talking in music notation. Let me translate. In English it
means—well, in English it means he had a big ole—”

“—
Sandy!” Greg couldn’t even
bring himself to look down at the end of the table where Dr. Huff
was sitting.

“
And when Greg told me that,
it made me think. A really good sneeze
is
a lot like…” he saw the look
on Greg’s face, “…you know. It starts off with a little tickle in
your nose. Then it gets stronger and stronger, and everything
inside your head starts to buzz and finally, when you can’t stand
it any longer—Bam! And then you go ‘Aah.’”

“
That’s
more
than enough, Sandy,” said
Greg.

But Sandy was not quite finished. “So, you
see, Cynthia. The teenage Greg was a pure young man. He wasn’t
having any sex.”

“
Okay,” said Cynthia, hoping
Sandy would stop.

“
No, he wasn’t having any
sex. He was just
sneezing his brains
out
.”

“
Thank you
so
much, Sandy,”
said Greg. “Now, be a good best man and know when to shut
up.”