Lucky Manny

S. R. Gabriels

“Will that be all today, mister?” he asked the man. The man grunted in reply.

“Okie dokie. $1.24 today, sir,” he told him. Five quarters bounced across the counter.

“Whoops,” he laughed, gathering the thrown coins. “Lemme get those for ya.”

“I want my change,” the man grunted.

“Absolutely!” he chimed, a large grin on his face. “Here ya go! Have a fantastic day!” The man only grunted.

Lucky’s was the best gas station in South Carolina to get coffee, beer, and gas—the three things that made people go, Manny’s boss said. His boss also said that Manny put the heart in Hartsville. Later, he would tell him to watch out for the slimeball thief who managed to pickpocket under their noses every day. My name is Lucky, Manny’s boss would say. And nobody tricks The Leprechaun.

“Watch for that thief,” Lucky told Manny as he left for the day.

“Will do!” Manny replied.

“Attaboy,” Lucky said in his grizzly tone.

Another thing about The Leprechaun—excommunicated crime boss from Minneapolis. Manny knew that wasn’t his real name, but he also thought Lucky wasn’t either. But it was. Or, at least, that’s what Lucky said.

A decade ago, Lucky pulled Manny from the drunken streets of Darlington, and ever since, Lucky said that both Manny and the county itself owed him “gratitude and gold.” A true leprechaun indeed.

Manny was not a good-looking young man. With five more years ’til fifty and ten more minutes in the boiling east coast summer ’til his scrawny arms wilted like overdone noodles, he made sure he smiled. It was his worst feature, Lucky told him, because of his crooked teeth. But Manny thought his smile was better than his scowl.

“Findin’ everything today, ma’am?” Manny asked a woman. He liked her hair. It was curly and blonde, and the little boy with her shared the same trait. Manny’s mother had blonde hair.

“Oh,” said the woman, seemingly startled. “Yessir, I’m just a-lookin.’”

Manny smiled and stared down a different aisle.

“Actually,” she sighed, approaching the counter. “I’m lookin’ for some baby powder. I got another little one at home, and my mind’s just so frazzled. I can’t find it.”

Manny chuckled. “Mothers be the very busiest but the very best.”

She shared a warm smile with him, and Manny hopped out from behind the counter.

“I like to keep ‘em by the brewskies,” said Manny. “We used’ta have problems with shifty folk takin’ what they was thirsty for but not contributin.’ So, I moved ’em back where’s I can sees ’em. People get awful grabby with the talc too, so I says to myself, ’Put ‘em by the brewskies and there won’t be no more problems.’” He scooted some beer cans to the side. “I put ’em right here so’s that busy mamas like you can have what y’all need.” He handed her a bottle of baby powder.

“Thank you…” she said, looking for a nametag.

“Joseph,” said Manny.

“…Joseph,” the woman repeated. “Would you mind handin’ me another? I’m afraid my stock is lower than low.”

He grinned and handed her another. “On the house.”

“You sure?” the woman asked. Her hand rested lightly on her boy’s shoulder.

“As sure as Einstein was with that bomb o’ his,” said Manny. Her smile began to fade.

“Uh, well, I appreciate you, Joseph,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Have a nice one now,” Manny called after them as they left.

Hours passed. Preparing to close, Manny beat the dust from shelves and windowsills, swept the gummy floor, and straightened items back how he liked them. Nine o’clock.

“One for my day, one for my way,” said Manny. He slid a single dollar bill from the register into his back right pocket and turned around to reach for the Camels. Unsealing the box, he plucked one out.

“Just a loosie for me today,” he said, grinning. He put the cigarette into his front left pocket and hung the box back up just as he had found it. He unplugged the neon sign, killed the lights, locked the door, and strolled to his nearby apartment.

He immediately latched the door behind him as he entered his home. Sauntering to the kitchen, he got on his hands and knees and slid the single dollar through the slats of the vent which laid underneath the sink cabinet.

Standing, he skillfully maneuvered around the many contraptions made with trinkets from his sticky habit—a long line of matches winding from his bedside to the door, the stacked blue spray paint cans which replaced the trimming round that door, the flat garbage bag full of gumballs hanging underneath his coffee table…

Manny walked to his only window and added the new cigarette to his collection: a shade constructed from the cancer sticks. His apartment was one room with only a curtain covering the bathroom. He didn’t mind.

“Nab him?” Lucky asked Manny as he burst through the station’s door the next morning.

“Nope,” Manny sighed. “I seen nothin.’”

Lucky sighed a gruff breath. “Lemme tell you somethin’ Manny,” he said, pounding on the counter. “You ain’t got nothin’ on this thief. If he’s good, he’s good. Keep your eyes peeled. His luck—” he paused to admire his own joke, “—is gonna run out. I’ll make sure of that.”

Manny smiled. “He best run then.”

“Don’t do that,” said Lucky. “Close your mouth.” Manny obeyed. “Come this time tomorrow, I’ll have me the waste o’ space that’s been wringin’ me dry.” He walked away.

A dark man with a gray beard approached the counter. “Hey there, Peter,” he said.

“Hiya, Mr. Martin! Will that be all today?” Manny asked.

The man laughed. “Yessir.” He watched Manny ring him up. “You oughta start callin’ me Marty,” he said. “We known each other five long years, Peter. Least you can do for an ol’ friend is call him what his friends call him.”

“Okie dokie, Mr. Marty,” said Manny. “Know what? On the house.” Manny slid the root beer and candy bars back his way.

“You’re a good one, Petey,” Marty chuckled, then exited the store.

“One for my day, one for my way,” Manny sang to himself at the end of the night. He slid Washington into his back right pocket, then grabbed a can of boiled peanuts on his way out.

But Manny halted and prayed it wasn’t there. Slowly, he stepped back and glanced to the upper corner behind the counter. In the dark hours of the night, he could barely make out the small blinking red dot. He didn’t stay to ponder it longer. Dropping the store keys to the ground, he ran. He was home in minutes and loudly tumbled through the door.

“Manny, Manny,” he chanted, pounding his forehead. “No…” He began to sob. “He gonna see you, Manny,” he cried, rocking back and forth. “The Leprechaun’s gonna come for you.”

He sat on his sofa and looked at the door.

“He ain’t gonna git you, though,” he whispered, his tears suddenly dry.

It was three o’clock the next morning when there came a quiet click from Manny’s door. Slowly, a gloved hand squeezed its fingers through the new opening and pushed the door wide open. An eerie man dressed in black stood in the doorway, watching Manny sleep on his floor mattress.

The man looked over his shoulder, nodded to two other assailants, and took a step forward.

CRUNCH.

Looking down and lifting his boot, the man looked perplexed. He stepped onto a pile of peanuts. But it was the perfect alarm and distraction Manny needed.

Hearing the noise, Manny slipped the matchbox out from underneath his pillow, ripped one out, and lit it. He threw it at the line of matches, and the trail leading to the door was soon ablaze. He stuck another match between his teeth for later.

The fiery path had only snaked a quarter of its length before the man in black was released from his peanut stupor. Manny ducked as he charged him and reached for the light switch. Flicking it on, a connected mechanism locked the spray paint nozzles down, releasing a thick blue fog round the second assailant as he came through the doorway.

“My eyes!” he shouted.

The other man reached for Manny a second time but missed again. He reached for his knife while Manny squeezed behind the short coffee table.

Lunging at him, Manny slid under the table, and the man’s knife sliced the hanging trash bag instead. Immediately, hundreds of gumballs rolled free in all directions and covered the entire floor. The other man had just cleared his eyes of paint, but not well enough. Stepping forward again, he took a hard slip on the candy and tumbled onto his head. He laid there.

“Outta my way!” shouted Lucky, the third assailant. “Manny!”

Manny grabbed the leftover match from his mouth and ran to the window, stooping down to catch a light from the match trail along the way. Burning match in hand, he ignited a cigarette from the shade. Within seconds, they all fired up, filling the apartment with gray smoke.

“My knife!” shouted the man in black.

“Whaddya mean my knife!” Lucky shouted back.

“He took my—AAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Manny never wanted to hurt anyone. Badly, that is. He put the heart in Hartsville, after all. He swiped the knife through the dense fumes and sliced some twine that traveled up to the ceiling. When the twine gave way, a bucket tipped over, sending a gallon of nail polish remover down into the man’s eyes and mouth. He collapsed on the ground, gasping for air until he slouched over and stayed there.

The smoke had faded, and the doorway was all blue. The matches had almost reached their end point, but not before Lucky spotted their target. Quickly, he stomped a chunk of them out. A large case of fireworks sat tucked into a cubby near the doorway.

“Nice try!” he shouted, drawing his revolver. “Manny, come out, you rat!” he yelled. “You done ticked off this ol’ capo! Lupara Bianca’s gonna be written all over your tombstone!” He flashed the barrel across the room like a madman.

He saw a pink curtain hanging from the wall, concealing a corner of the room. Running at it, Lucky ripped it open, finding Manny huddled on the toilet lid.

Lucky grabbed him by his collar. “You think you’d get outta this?” he shouted. “I treated you like family! Now look what ya made me do, Manny!” He threw him against the blue doorframe and cocked his gun.

“Tell me why, Manny boy,” said Lucky. “Tell me where my stuff’s at!” he hollered. Manny sat with glazed eyes.

Lucky marched over to him with his gun still aimed. “Last chance,” he whispered, kneeling next to him.

“Okay,” Manny mumbled. “Over there,” he said, looking to the sink. Lucky turned to look.

Immediately, Manny yanked one of the spray cans off the doorframe and brought it down hard on Lucky’s forehead, sending him to the ground. Manny grabbed the gun and jumped onto the coffee table. Lucky turned and rested against doorway, his hand on his bleeding head. Manny cocked the gun this time.

“Huh,” Lucky wheezed. “You won’t do it,” he rasped. “Not with that…that kind smile o’ yours—”

BANG.

Flinching, Lucky looked down, expecting a bullet where his left hip was. Instead, he saw a small flame. Then another and another. Then glass—a lot of broken glass.

“Manny! You—”

Whistles and explosions interrupted The Leprechaun’s defeat as the final match lit the fireworks. Manny broke his foot when he jumped from the window, but he clutched the money to his chest and hobbled off under the moonshine moonlight. His smile had never been wider.

He wasn’t scared anymore. And he certainly wasn’t worried he’d be found. Lucky for him, his name wasn’t Manny.