Chapter 1

“Shit! Oh, Fuck! So much for my family believing that I’m lucky,” was the first thought that screamed through my brain as I simultaneously slammed on the brakes, and concentrated on controlling the car and not pissing myself. The next couple of seconds gave me enough time for memories to flash though my mind as I relived the high and low points of the first eighteen years of my life. Memories of Bitsy and my sister each made tears well up in my eyes, tears that I had to blink away so I could concentrate on the road.

Standing in the rain-soaked street in front of me was a white guy in his mid-twenties with a dark, scruffy beard. He wore ratty blue jeans and a black hoodie. He was also pointing a .45 pistol right at me. “I never realized the barrel was so big,” I thought to myself, having fired a .45 hundreds of times. Somehow, from this end, the barrel of the gun looked more like the business end of a bazooka.

Hoping that this was merely a carjacking, I stopped the car and shut it off before starting to get out.

“Give me the keys and stay there,” the guy demanded angrily, waving the gun at me to punctuate his order with a .45 caliber exclamation point. When he took the keys, I saw blood on the left hand that he had been holding tightly against his right side.

Out of my line of sight, he opened the trunk and tossed something heavy inside before slamming the lid shut. Opening the rear passenger’s door, he tossed a duffel bag into the back seat.

I saw the interior light of my car glisten off a large bloodstain on his right side as he opened the front passenger door and got into the car. “Drive,” he ordered after he climbed into the front seat and gave me back my now bloody keys. Using the pistol, he motioned me forward.

“Where?” I asked nervously as I started the car.

“Shut the fuck up and drive,” he shouted angrily, waving the pistol towards the windshield to indicate that I should drive forward, which was west.

Despite my nervousness, I almost laughed as he fumbled to put the seat belt on with one hand. It just seemed so ironic that he worried about his safety NOW. I drove west, straight down the residential street I’d been on. I kept my eyes on the road while trying to watch the guy in my peripheral vision.

Two blocks later, his head slumped slightly forward. The hand holding the gun had been resting in his lap. It relaxed and the gun slipped from his grip and into his lap.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I hoped he wasn’t, but felt that was the safest question I could ask. When he didn’t reply, I asked again, louder.

When that didn’t get a response, I decided to gamble. At the next corner, I made a sharp left turn. The centrifugal force from the turn caused both his body and mine to lean to the right, and his hand to slide a few inches away from the gun. Once I completed the turn, and while still purposely leaning to my right, I quickly reached in and grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerking it out of his reach. I hadn’t been able to grab it so I could fire it, but I was ready to use it to club him if he fought me.

He didn’t fight; he didn’t even react. In fact, the only movement he made was his head rolling back and forth from the car turning. Since I now had the gun, I pulled over and stopped, still ready to conk him with the pistol. When he still didn’t move, I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. Recognizing the pistol as a Glock, I knew there was no safety. Before opening the door, I made sure that it wouldn’t hit me if he suddenly slammed it open. After making sure there was a round in the chamber, I covered him with the pistol and opened the door, watching for him to try something.

When he didn’t, I reached over and shoved his shoulder. Getting no reaction, I checked for a carotid pulse ... and found nothing. In the dim interior light of the car, wearing a hoodie, and slumped over, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

Fortunately, I knew where the hospital was. One of the things my parents had insisted that I do immediately upon arriving in town was to locate the emergency room closest to my dorms. Getting back in the car and tucking the gun under my left thigh where only I could reach it, I settled back into the driver’s seat and started the car again.

“Call 9-1-1,” I instructed as I put the car in gear and started driving. I was grateful for the hands-free Bluetooth feature my car had so I had both shaking hands to steer with while I talked.

“9-1-1 operator, what’s your emergency?” a pleasant female voice asked.

“I need the Raleigh police to meet me at the Community Hospital emergency room,” I replied.

“One moment, please, while I connect you.”

It was a fast moment, for which I was grateful.

“Raleigh Police Department,” a male voice answered the phone.

“I need officers to meet me at the Community Hospital emergency room,” I replied, and then filled him in on the details.

“Are you injured?” he asked.

“No, but I may need to change my underwear,” I riposted, getting a slight chuckle in return. He stayed on the line with me until I got there, telling me that he was impressed that I knew where the hospital was on only my second day in town.

“Amazing how smart parents can be,” he laughed with me when I told him about the promise they had extracted. I agreed with him.

The dispatcher directed me to use the ambulance parking and four officers met me with their guns drawn. I heard someone from their dispatch telling the officers over their portable radios that the driver was the one who had called in. Still, they weren’t taking any chances and had me hold onto the steering wheel while they opened the door and retrieved the pistol. While two officers covered the non-responsive gunman, two covered me as I climbed gingerly out of the car, my legs now shaking as bad as my hands. While one continued to cover me, the second officer frisked me and taped paper bags over my hands, explaining that he wanted to preserve evidence since I had handled the bloody gun.

Once the cops announced that it was safe, the doctors who were waiting inside rushed to my passenger and quickly declared him DOA. The whole episode had left me both shaken and shaking. The officer who had frisked me questioned me while we waited for the coroner to arrive. As best I could, I answered his questions. Once they removed the body from the car, I shuddered in revulsion at all the blood now on the seat, as well as the seatbelt and door of my car.

Someone asked me about the blood-covered bag in the back seat and I replied that the gunman had thrown it in there. I remember giving them my keys and permission to search the car, and them taking my fingerprints to compare to any they found on the gun or the bag. They swabbed my palms, and then the back of my hands, and then each arm looking for gunpowder residue. Only the palms and the fingers on both hands had residue, showing that I had handled the gun, but hadn’t fired it. There was also blood from the gunman on my hands that had transferred from both the keys and the gun.

The whole thing began taking on a surreal appearance, and I felt slightly disoriented, almost as if I was looking through a wide-angle telescope.

I remember directing them to the flyer still on my dashboard telling the location of the party that I had been on my way home from. It had several names and phone numbers scribbled on it of people that I had met at the party. They took samples of the blood on my hand, sure that it belonged to the dead man. The gunman had gunpowder on his hand, arm, and the front of his hoodie. They also took samples of my blood to check my blood alcohol content. I knew they wouldn’t find any alcohol in my blood. I was shaking so badly that they finally gave me a mild sedative and let me sleep in the hospital overnight.

In the morning, the lead detective introduced himself and questioned me again. Afterwards, he told me that the guy had been involved in a drug deal gone bad. Other officers responding to a report of gunshots near where I had picked the man up found a body in an empty house. The bullets that killed the man in the house had been fired by the gun I had. The bullet that killed my carjacker came from the gun they found still clutched in the hand of the other dead man. The duffel bag in the back seat of my car held ten million dollars’ worth of very pure heroin. I started laughing when the detective told me I was lucky to be alive.

As he was leaving, the detective recommended a company that the department used, one that could clean the blood out of my car, and my insurance should cover it. After the doctor checked me one final time and released me, I drove to the address on the card--after covering the blood-soaked seat with newspaper. When they finished cleaning the blood, I had to admit that the seat looked new again.

Still, I wanted to sell the car, even though it was barely two months old. Unfortunately, that would take a major chunk out of my savings. When I got back to my dorm, I started cleaning my things out of the car and found two forgotten bags in the trunk. Wearing a pair of leather work gloves I kept in the trunk, I opened each carefully, gasping when I saw all the money. I called the detective and explained that I’d forgotten to tell them about the bags the dead man had thrown in the trunk. Twenty minutes later, the detective met me in the dorm parking lot. After looking briefly into the bags, he thanked me for calling, dumped the money out into the trunk, took the bags as evidence, and closed my trunk.

“What about the money?” I asked.

“Since both men died, we have no idea if that money is from a drug sale, or if it was legally obtained. He left it with you, so it’s yours now. The fact that you called and reported it rather than just taking it tells me you’re a law-abiding citizen, so enjoy yourself. I understand college can be expensive. We found the money when we processed your car last night. We left it, thinking that you might have been involved after all, and had someone follow you to see if you led us to the others. Consider it an out-of-court settlement for exposing you to potential danger without letting you know,” he chuckled as he shook my hand and left, leaving me standing there, stunned.

When I deposited all ten million dollars in my bank account, I had the bank call the detective so he could assure them that I had come by the money legally--sort of. The bank still had to report the deposit to the federal government because of the anti-money laundering laws.

That afternoon, I reviewed an online list of local money managers, looking for someone to invest the money for me. Some of the names gave me a bad feeling, so I eliminated them as possibilities. I called the remaining ten names, asking about their services. I got an odd feeling about the seventh one I called. His voice gave me a feeling that I can only poorly describe as harmonious, as if he was on the same frequency that I was--if that makes any sense.

There was nothing special about his voice or about what he was telling me. Somehow, after hearing him speak for a few seconds, I knew he was the person I needed to invest with. I didn’t understand most of what he explained to me about his investment strategy, but I felt that he was the right person and arranged to meet him the next afternoon at 4:00.

Like the promise I made my parents, I also kept the promise I made to my sister. I owed her at least that much. My high school girlfriend (and long before that), was Bitsy. She and her family had gone to Germany during spring break five months ago. She thought they were just visiting Germany for spring break, but they moved there. Her parents hadn’t told her until after they got there. For a few weeks, we talked or sent e-mails daily, knowing that we’d see each other again in late August since we were both scheduled to attend the same college.

I was devastated when she stopped calling, blocked my calls to her cell phone (I didn’t know their family’s new phone number), and didn’t answer my e-mails. At first, I worried that something had happened to her, but realized that her parents would have called us. They still knew our phone number and address, even if we didn’t know how to contact them now.

That was five months ago, and I hadn’t dated anyone since. My sister Janie made me promise to ask a pretty girl out on a date before classes started. Having arrived a week early, I asked a gorgeous young woman named Becky that I had met at the party last night.

As much as I wanted to believe that Bitsy would still show up, and that everything would be fine, she should have been here two days ago. I sat for six hours in front of the library where we were supposed to meet that day. That was where I had seen the flyer for the party. If Bitsy had intended to get back together with me, she would at least call. My cell phone number was still the same, and I still remembered what hers had been.

It was a busy day because I also traded in my two-month old car and bought a brand new one. I didn’t buy anything outrageous, settling for another new Camry. Sure, I could afford a Jaguar, but I’m a farmer’s son, and intend to be a farmer myself. What good would a Jaguar be to a farmer? Heck, I almost bought a pickup truck, instead.

Becky was definitely dressed to impress when I arrived to pick her up. The form-fitting blue dress she wore accented her long legs and ample endowment without looking slutty. She was impressed when I held doors for her and opened the car door for her. We talked during dinner and I learned that she was smart and had a wicked sense of humor, both attributes that I like in a woman. Still, by the time dinner was over and we left to go dancing, I sensed that there was no spark between us. I’m not saying that I’d kick her out of bed, but I was pretty sure this would be our only date.

Despite that, we had a good time dancing together. While the band took a break, we got something to drink. When the band came back, another guy stopped by our table to ask if he could dance with Becky. I could tell by the look on her face that she was interested, and that she felt bad about it. I told her to go ahead, so she did.

When she came back, alone, I surprised her and pulled her into my lap so we could talk quietly. “How do you deal with brutal honesty?” I asked.

“How brutal?” she asked in return, sounding worried.

“You’re a beautiful, smart woman with a great sense of humor,” I complimented. “Despite that, I don’t feel any spark between us, and I get the impression that you don’t, either,” I explained.

“I noticed that your face lit up when that guy asked you to dance. If you really like him, go find him. I’ll understand. I’ll wait here until you come back to let me know if you found him,” I told her.

“That’s not fair to you,” she protested.

“I got to enjoy the pleasure of your company all evening, not that you owe me anything for taking you out tonight. Go find him, and let me know,” I insisted.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and then disappeared into the crowd of dozens of other teens milling around or dancing.

Three minutes later, she returned, sitting on my lap again. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“I’m sure.”

“We might not have hit it off tonight, but I can’t imagine why. You’re good-looking, courteous, and I’m going to regret not getting a closer look at that rock-hard chest,” she said as she rubbed her hand across my chest. “I’m also probably going to regret not getting a closer look at the crowbar I’m sitting on.”

“I’m going to push girls at you until one of them catches you or you tell me to quit,” she warned. “Who knows, I might even spend a night myself to see what I missed,” she chuckled. She kissed me before getting off my lap, then gave me one final kiss and disappeared back into the crowd.

I sat there, wondering if my mother could have been any more wrong about me being lucky. Just because Lucky Jim was my ancestor, it didn’t mean I was going to be lucky, too; neither did naming me after him, or the fact that I have his red hair. My mother continues to hope because I’m the third son. They named me Jim in hopes that I’d inherit the luck. Usually, up to now, in families descended from Lucky Jim, they had named the first son Jim or else there had been one or more sisters born before the third son ... or no third son.

As far as Mom could tell, this was the first time that the third son had been named Jim, where no sisters were born before him, and one sister was born after him, just like Lucky Jim. Personally, I think it’s too much ado (or is that doo-doo?) about nothing.

When my sister Janie was born a year after me, Mom started a scrapbook/journal of everything lucky that happened in my life from that point on. I’m sure she could have filled a similar journal by documenting the good luck of anyone else in the family.

Several single girls asked me to dance after Becky left, and I danced with each of them. One of them intrigued me and she accepted my offer of a date tomorrow night. She seemed feisty, flirty, self-assured, and there was an undeniable intelligence in her eyes, even if she was a blonde.