PULP & POPCORN

Page 14
Felix pulled his knife out, tested its weight in his hand. The German soldier kept
yelling at him, frantic now. He took a few steps forward, and he finally got a good look at
that improbable bit of green in the frozen earth: a four-leaf clover.
Smiling now, Felix looked back at the German, then started to run towards him. The
German cried out once and then pulled the trigger. Nothing. A misfire. When Felix hit the
German, he threw the man to the ground on his back, then dropped onto him, knife up.
As the last German bled out behind him, Felix walked back to the four-leaf clover
and carefully picked it. He had that same clover pressed and preserved and laid into a special
custom Zippo lighter, and he kept it in his pocket every day without fail as a reminder of
just how great his luck was.
After the war, Felix decided that David was a part of his good luck, and the two of
them moved West to the promised land of Los Angeles. Felix had spent much of his life
devouring detective stories, and he figured if there was any business where luck would be an
asset, it would be investigation. Together with David, he opened the Lucky Fortune
Investigations agency. His luck extended to the people they hired for the company, including
the preposterously efficient Lillian Wunderlich, their office manager, and the business grew
quickly. They took over most of the fourth floor of the Taft Building, putting them right in
the heart of Hollywood.
When luck changes, as it must, it blows in like the Santa Anas, carrying god-knowswhat,
and for Felix Fortune, his personal turn began late one night as he lay in a hospital
bed, asleep and dreaming. After all, if you’re in a hospital bed, you’re probably not doing
well. Felix had been brought in in the wee small hours of the morning. There weren’t even
enough beds for him to get one at first. It was only after hours of laying on a gurney that
someone finally came to put him into his bed. He had a fairly severe fever and he was
violently sick twice in the lobby.
All around Los Angeles, cards were being shuffled and a new game was beginning.
Near the top of Mt. Lee, the HOLLYWOODLAND sign stood in a state of
disrepair, visible for miles around because of the sky still free of smog. Anyone who
happened to look up would have seen a shooting star somehow make a hard right before
slamming into the third “O” in the sign, taking it out completely and leaving a smoking hole
in the ground.