7 “Lucky, that’s what Waddell’s dad used to be called,” said Justin. “Although the way I see it, most people nicknamed Lucky rarely are.” Justin and I were sitting in La Casa de las Playas, not far from the beach. The Giants game was on the television over the bar and we were working our way through a bowl of tortilla chips and eye-watering salsa. “I worked on his family’s ranch growing up and Dick and I were on the high school swim team. He rarely talked to me when he moved here. Putting the past behind him, I guess.” “What kind of past are you talking about?” I asked. “His dad was something else. Always in trouble. Involved with some bad people. Once, he and a buddy stole some guns, held up a convenience store and took a highway patrolman hostage. Not the brightest thing to do. He spent a lot of years in prison after that. Dick told me he would send out Christmas cards saying ‘Wish you were here.’ It didn’t matter what Lucky did, Waddell idolized him. But when he left Nevada for college in Texas, he never looked back.”
