The Devil's Luck

The Devil’s Luck

The trick is to not panic. Cold, naked and treading water for dear life makes the idea seem all the more improbable, but panicking means death. Dead like the lumps of cold, deteriorating flesh bumping up against me as I struggle to hold my head in the inch-high gap of air that exists between the water and the wooden boards above me. Slippery fingers clawing at the stone walls damp and slick from the mildew growing there. Still, I refuse to panic.

My ray of hope in this Pandora’s box is the light through the cracks in the wood, light between stone and mortar where the boards are weighted to cover the top of the well. My belief is that if I can just keep my cool and last long enough, that I’ll live through this and be on with my life. I tell myself that my cold, dead cellmates are just a trick. Most of these were probably dead before they ever entered the well. If my captors wanted me dead, I would’ve been shot, stabbed or hung, something less cliché of a bad action movie. I believe all this because, while I owed them money and was late on my payments, I came to them to confess my sin. Had I run away from my responsibility, I’d already be decomposing with the rest of these has-beens and never-weres.

The water wasn’t freezing, but it certainly wasn’t helping my circulation at all. I was kicking my legs vigorously not only to keep my face pressed against the splintery wooden boards above me, but also to try and keep warm. My heart was already pounding and skipping beats from the cold. Not panic, I tell myself, merely from the cold water surrounding it.

So why am I kicking cold, wet and naked as the day I was born in some underground water chamber hidden beneath a warehouse converted into a drug lords villa? Well I’m afraid the answer isn’t as simple as me owing money to some asshole and falling short on my payments a few months in a row.

My childhood friend and confidant, Britney, would describe me as having the Devil’s Luck. According to Brit, the Devil’s Luck is the bad fortune to find yourself in extraordinarily undesirable situations and always being able to find a way out. She always managed to have faith in things outside of her vision. As for myself, I think all of this is a load of horse shit. I’m here freezing and gasping for breath because my entire life is an avalanche of bad decisions. Luck has little to do with it; I prefer to think of myself as a tenacious survivor.

I would prefer to be remembered as somebody who meant well all along, but often found himself with an American mindset of instant gratification and dealing with the consequences later. It’s a classic textbook case of subscribing to impulse and instinct instead of careful planning. I can only hope that I’m learning from my mistakes now.
My instincts are screaming at me to yell out for help, to use what energy I have attacking the wooden planks above me in hopes of clearing at least a handhold and at best a clear path out of my predicament.

My planning tells me that this would only exhaust me with no real benefits and that conserving my energy is the only way to make it through to the end. It tells me that I need to take breaks from my kicking, to take long breaths of air and move away from the top long enough to keep my neck and fingers from cramping in their awkward, stressed states. It tells me that I should conserve urine for when I need a rush of warmth around my body, not to let it all go at once. It gives me a good harsh lesson of reason and I’m hating every second of it.

There is no concept of time down here. It feels like an hour already, but I know this isn’t the case. I close my eyes, inhale two full lungs of wood, rot and salty water before letting my fingers release their grip and relaxing my body.
It’s time to piss.

- - -

I felt pressure rather than fingers when two large hands came from the light ahead of me and grabbed me under the shoulders. I had at first suspected that all was lost and I had passed on before my eyes adjusted from the light to the fuzzy scene before me and I realized I had been dropped onto a dusty concrete floor, curled to fetal and shaking. I realize now that my already pale skin has turned a rather unhealthy shade of blue over the span of God only knows how long. A few short gasps and I’m fighting a silly grin of triumph at rediscovering warmth and a chance to live. This moment is quickly taken away by the voice echoing in the warehouse.

“Well at least you can take your medicine. You’re a stubborn little fuck, aren’t you?” I know the voice. It belongs to a man I consider a savior, although that feeling is wavering a bit at the moment.

“Stubborn fuck,” I repeat. It’s just about all I can get out of my mouth at the moment. I want to ask for a blanket, some clothes, a space heater. I want to stop shaking. I want his goons to stop smirking at my shriveled naked body. I keep my damned trap shut.

Footsteps grow louder as the man closes the distance between us. Pressure forms at the tip of my head and my face is lifted from the ground to look at him. I assume he has a handful of hair and this is supposed to be uncomfortable, but my body’s numb all over and I only return his gaze with a blank expression. “I thought we had a deal.” His eyes are calm but there’s a deadly harshness in his voice. “I take over your debt and you pay me back. You remember that don’t you?”

I try to nod. It doesn’t work out as well as intended. I offer a weak, “Yup,” instead. He drops my head back to its resting place where my jaw makes a painful thud on the hard surface before turning to walk in the other direction.

He calls back to me as he walks. “The original plan was that you didn’t wish to work for me. You wanted to support yourself and take care of things your way. Not working out so well for ya, is it?” I feel like I know the answer.

“Not so well, no.” There’s a blessed sensation as a towel drops on top of me. My arms quickly scramble to the corners to wrap it around my shoulders and back as best as possible. It’s stained with oil and sawdust, but I don’t mind so much; can’t be clean all the time.

“I have a new proposition for you.” There’s a rustling of papers and I look up to see him grabbing a series of folders from his desk. I had suspected as much. I hated the idea of working for this man, but anything was preferable to being in that damned well.

My legs ache as I attempt to maneuver them underneath me, pushing myself up into a sitting position. I’m greeted with more snickers from the goons as I tuck my junk out of sight. “I’m all ears, boss,” I say, ignoring the taunts from around me.

“I feel like I can trust you.” He turned and began approaching me again. “I feel this way because you have come back here and confessed your sins to me. You must have known that I am not a man to take bad news lightly.”

“I figured.”

He let out a grunt. “Well many people would not want to see me upset. This makes you either truly sorry or ignorant as shit. You’re not a dumb shit, are you?”

I’m beginning to have my doubts. “No sir. Not a dumb shit.”

“Good, because I have no use for idiots.” I can tell by his expression and eye movements that he doubted himself the moment the words left his lips. I don’t follow his gaze, but I have the distinct impression that not a one of the hired muscles around me is a Harvard graduate. I don’t think they’re even community college material. “An accomplice of mine has figured out a way to keep track of those less trustworthy few who are indebted to me. It’s a rather simple device that will allow us to keep track of their movements in the same way that one would use GPS.” He nods to a figure standing behind me. “I believe a demonstration is in order.”

I can feel it this time when the large hand grips my arm and forcefully lifts it up, dropping the towel to the ground around me and exposing my mid-section. In an instant, cold metal is pressed against my side and a pain shoots through my body as flesh is ripped and then stapled back together. I let out a yelp and the man releases my arm.

I’m inspecting his handiwork when the man starts up again. “It’s pretty ingenious, really. The only trick is hunting down the people who have been eluding me and getting them alone so that you can bug them.”

Nothing to it, I think to myself, attempting to pass my annoyed look as one of discomfort at just having some electrical doodad implanted inside of me. At least his new plan for me didn’t involve shooting anybody. Grabbing the towel, I drape it back over my shoulders. “So you want me to track down a few people and plant bugs on them?”

“See? You’re not a dumb shit after all.” His fingers relax and a handful of manila folders drop to the floor in front of me. Instinctively, I scoop them up and align them, returning pages to order by tapping the bottoms of the folders against the ground. “You do this and I’ll forgive the past few payments. Then come back to me and we’ll discuss the future of our arrangement.”

These words sting a bit. Sure I’ve been having trouble coming up with extra funds lately, but I’ve been hopeful. I have no desire to go back to working in the world of crime to pay off debts. “Sounds good, boss. Thanks.” I try to meet his gaze to make the gratitude seem more sincere. I slowly push myself up. My legs are still shaking from the cold and I’m having trouble keeping upright. “Clothes?” I say before I have time to think about it.

“Willis. Get the man some clothes, would you?” With that, the man turns and walks from the large room. Moments later, a pair of boots wrapped in a wad of clothing are tossed at me. Unfortunately, my reflexes are still a bit slow and they bounce off of my chest and spill casually to the ground, reigniting the chorus of taunts and jeers.

It takes longer than I would have wanted to dress myself, but the clothes are blessedly warm around me. I fish around in my jean pockets and pull out my keys, glancing around for the exit before scooping up the file folders from the floor and making my way away from the goons and out into the setting sun. What a shitty way to spend a day off.

It isn’t until I get into my truck that my curiosity gets the better of me and I begin to flip through the files. They appear like standard background checks with photos paper-clipped to each and a series of post-it notes scattered about on the pages listing regular hangouts and people they’ve been known to hover around. I frown, knowing that somewhere in that warehouse there’s a similar file bearing my name. With each new file the knot in my stomach twists a little more. I had hoped to avoid dealing with issues like this, I just wanted to live a normal life and pay off my debts like a regular person.

I toss the folders into the passenger seat and start up my truck, all too thrilled to be pulling away from this place and heading home. If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, at least I’ll be burning with a bunch of people who meant well.