The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories (4 page)

“And I imagine that sewer line continues into the basement of the bank?” I said.

“You see?” Lolo smiled again. “You aren’t that stupid. However, as you seem to have figured out Mr. Louis’ plan, we’ll either have to kill you or hire you. And we can’t hire you, as Mr. Louis only hires ogres. Keeps it in the family, so to speak.”

He stepped forward, a knife appearing in his hand. The thing looked as big as a meat cleaver.

“Hang on!” I backed up. “Can’t we talk about this some more? Like civilized people?”

“Ogres have been called a lot of names, but never civilized. So—no.”

“Stand back,” I said, slipping my hand into my coat.

“What? Another gun?”

“Nope. Something better.” I whipped out the little crucifix I’d stolen from the church.

Lolo burst out laughing. “You think I’m a vampire, Murphy?”

I threw it at him. He caught it with his free hand. “Even vampires these days wouldn’t be bothered by this. Most of ‘em are atheists. Nicely made, though. Hand-carved in the Ukraine, I’d say.”

That’s when I sprayed him with the pepper spray I’d picked up from Maura’s purse. She always keeps a couple bottles in there. I sprayed him right in the eyes. He staggered back, hollering and pawing at his face. I kicked him in the privates, as ogres are reasonably similar to humans in that regard. He hollered some more. Stumbled around and tripped over the crane operator seat. He got a face full of the controls, which didn’t seem to improve his looks. But the impact must have also hit a pretty important button. The crane whirred. Cables grated on flywheels. Maura had just time enough to glare at me before she went tumbling down into the water. I gave Lolo another kick and sent him over the side after her. I looked down at the water. There was no sign of life. Ogres don’t swim well. It’s something to do with the stone content in their bones. The waves slapped against the pilings below. The wheelchair creaked behind me.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble, Mr. Six-Fingers,” I said, turning. “I don’t need any more than I have. It’s a hard thing you’ve done, going after Maura. You’ve done enough, I think.”

An invisible hand grabbed my throat. He stared at me, motionless, from across the room.

“Bygones can be bygones,” I said. Sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down.

“Grind your bones,” he whispered, his voice thin. “Grind ‘em for bread.” His eyes did not blink. Something old and evil moved behind them. Squirmed and licked its lips. The grip on my throat tightened. My vision started to fade on the edge of my sight.

“I wouldn’t do that.” I could barely manage the words.

“No?” His head cocked to one side. The grip on my throat loosened a fraction.

“You wouldn’t want Father Dimitri from Saint Peter’s down here, praying for your soul. I went to mass before I came here. Had a quick chat with him. Gave him five hundred bucks for local outreach. Five nice, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. He’s quite a stubborn man. He’s got a whole load of old biddies at his church ready to knock on your door, just dripping with holy water and eager for your soul. Lots of old biddies. You'll find 'em a tougher proposition than your politicians and union thugs.”

He stared at me, silent, his eyes measuring my words. Then, abruptly, the grip on my throat constricted. I gagged. Choked. And the hand threw me across the room. I landed in a tumble of limbs, but sucking down air, grateful and released. The old thing in the wheelchair glared at me like he wanted to slice me up into prosciutto. I walked away, my scalp crawling. My neck ached, but that was okay. There were worse things.

The taxicab was still parked at the end of the dock. The cabbie sat on the hood, smoking a cigarette.

“Why’d you wait?” I said.

“I have good feeling about you,” he said. “We go church together, we drive together, we American together. We like family.”

“No more fifty-dollar handouts, pal.”

“Ah, well.” He shrugged. “It was good while it last. Where you want go?”

“Lover’s Point. Down by the water.”

It was a quick drive, just a mile or so north from the docks. Maura loved the place. A grassy slope reaching down to the rocks and a beach tucked away below the point.

“Wait here,” I said.

The cabbie nodded and lit another cigarette. I took off my coat, walked down to the beach, and sat on a rock. The waves curled in to the sand. I glanced around. There was no one in sight. A seal popped up its head from the water and regarded me with suspicion. It drifted closer until it surfed a wave into the beach. With a wriggle that flipped spray every which way like a dog, the seal turned into Maura. A naked Maura. A naked, angry Maura.

“You jerk!” she shouted.

“Here,” I said. “You can wear my coat.”

She slapped me, but her heart wasn’t in it. The anger was already going out of her like the water dripping off her skin.

“I could see you trying not to laugh,” she growled. “Playing the fool with those wretched ogres.”

“I could’ve been hurt,” I pointed out mildly. “He had a large knife.”

“Would’ve served you right,” she grumbled.

I didn’t say anything more. There’s a time to talk and there’s a time to hold your tongue. Maura may be a selkie, with teeth on her strong enough to crack an abalone shell and all sorts of odd tricks up her sleeve, but she also works out every morning at the gym, and it’s her strong left hand I’m more in fear of. As for me, I’m just Irish, and that’s good enough for me, whether it be leprechauns or ogres or angry taxicab drivers I’m dealing with.

We walked back up to the parking lot. The cabbie’s eyes popped out of his head when he saw Maura. There was a lot to see, I’m sure.

“Where we go now?” he said. “Is this fifty bucks?”

“Can it, you swindler. Just get in and drive.”

“I am good family man. What will the wife say if she hear I drive naked woman? Fifty bucks would keep mouth shut.”

“She’d say a lot, I’m sure. So why don’t you drive us for free and I won’t tell her.”

And that’s what he did. Grumbling curses in Ukrainian, of course. Maura dripped water onto my shoulder. We had some shoes to pick up. It was the start of a good day.

PERMANENTS AND PEARLS

From the Files of Mike Murphy

I was lying on a beach in Tahiti. Me, Mike Murphy, living the good life. The sea was a beautiful blue. The sand was as gold as gold. Girls in bikinis ambled by. A fern frond umbrella shaded my face from the sun. I yawned. My girlfriend Maura walked up, tanned and stunning in some kind of exciting yellow polka-dotted ensemble. She sat down on the chaise lounge next to me.

“Here,” she said. “Here’s your Iced Coconut Rum Slurp.”

The Iced Coconut Rum Slurp comes in a large coconut shell and consists, oddly enough, of fresh coconut milk, about a gallon of rum, and some crushed ice. She handed the thing over. But instead of shoveling it into my hands, she shoved it against my ear.

“Here,” she said again. “Take it.”

“I’m trying to,” I said. “Stop that.” Coconuts are rough, hairy things and I don’t enjoy them smashed against my ear. What’s more, the damn thing started ringing. Brr-ing! Brr-ing!

“Stop it!” I yelled.

Brr-ing! Brr-ing!

The coconut kept on ringing. It got louder and louder. I tried knocking the coconut out of Maura’s hand, but she’s always been too fast for me. I sat up. Opened my eyes. The beach was gone. The clock on my nightstand read 5:47 a.m. in glowing red malevolence. The phone beside it kept on ringing. I made a grab for it.

“What?” I snarled.

“Murphy?”

“What?! Do you know what time it is?”

“Oh?” said the voice innocently. “Is it late? Have you had breakfast yet?”

Captain Patrick Thaddeus Corrigan ran the 53
^rd
Precinct. He was a red-haired, red-faced slave driver, and ever since I’d quit the force and gone to work for myself as a private detective, he wasn’t my boss. He had a voice that sounded like bricks getting liquefied in a blender at slow speed. I could recognize it anywhere, especially at 5:47 in the morning.

“You’re not my boss. Get it through your thick head. I quit! Two years ago!”

“I shoulda fired you!” he yelled over the phone. The Captain has a pretty short fuse on the best of days. “You’re a whiner!”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m gonna hang up now before I have to charge you with police harassment.”

“Now, now,” he said soothingly. “Just give me a moment. You were always a good cop, Murphy. Best nose I’ve ever known for sniffing out perps. None better. When I lost you, I lost my right hand.”

“What do you want?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing much. Just a little advice, a little assistance. It’ll be like old times.”

“Old times?” I thought about my empty wallet. “Old times plus four hundred bucks a day. Plus expenses.”

“Get down here on the double!” he shouted, obviously having decided that the sentimental approach wasn’t working. “Get down here before I have you arrested for tax evasion or jaywalking or treason or whatever else I can think up!”

“Plus a per diem for meals,” I said, but he had already slammed the phone down.

It was after nine o’clock by the time I strolled down Grove Street toward the police station. I bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee at a corner newsstand and flipped through the pages. Business as usual for the most part. A few more politicians caught with their pants down embezzling tax money. A photo of the politicians with their pants down. The Museum of Natural History throwing a gala next Saturday to celebrate the upcoming donation of local zillionaire Burnham Backus’ famed pearl necklace from the Neflureti Dynasty. The mysterious disappearance of said zillionaire. The mysterious disappearance of an Egyptian mummy queen from the aforementioned museum. An escaped gorilla from the city zoo. All fairly boring stuff.

I tossed the newspaper into a garbage can and trotted up the steps of the 53
^rd
Precinct building. The duty sergeant glanced up as I walked past the front counter. I’d never seen him before.

“Hey,” he said. “You can’t go back there.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m your mother. I can do anything I want.”

I was down the corridor before his overtaxed brain could come up with a response. That’s our city—always hiring the best and brightest.

“Took your time, didn’t you,” growled the Captain.

“It’s my time,” I said mildly.

He was hunched over his desk, glaring at a jelly-filled doughnut as if it was resisting arrest.

“All right, Murphy,” he said. “Pull up a chair and sit down. Let me tell you something.” His voice quieted to a near whisper. “We’ve got a problem. It’s a humdinger and there isn’t a cop in the precinct I can trust to take it on.”

“Why’s that?” I helped myself to a cream-filled.

“They’re scared. They’re acting like a bunch of old grannies at a funeral, gossiping nervously and wondering which of ‘em’ll be the next to go. They’re only happy if they’re sitting behind a desk and filling out expense reports. Look at those rookies out there. They don’t deserve to be wearing blue. I should fire the lot! In my day as a beat cop, we didn’t know the meaning of the word fear! We were men. We didn’t mind getting shot every now and then. Hell, I used to get shot at nearly once a week, and that was just my wife.”

“Well, I do mind,” I said. “Which is why you’re going to pay me four hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”

“Fine,” said the Captain. He said it so quickly that something stirred uncomfortably in the back of my mind. Maybe I should’ve walked out right then. Or maybe I should’ve asked for more money.

“So what’s the case?”

He glanced around somewhat nervously and then leaned closer across his desk.

“There are reports of good, upstanding citizens found sleepwalking on the streets, drooling and frothing at the mouth, staggering around and gnawing on people.”

“Gnawing on people?”

“Well, you know, biting them.”

“Biting them?”

“Uh, well, you know, eating them. Eating their brains, mostly.”

I walked out of there with a copy of the file tucked in one pocket and four hundred bucks in cash in the other. The file made me a bit uneasy, but the four hundred bucks was pretty soothing. Maybe I’d buy a couple boxes of Cuban cigars with it, or maybe a new leather coat with wide lapels. Or maybe I’d pay the rent. I was still musing on this by the time I got to my office. I trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door.

“Hello, handsome.”

I went for my gun with one smooth move, and, with a slightly less smoother move, I tripped on the rug and went down hard.

“What are you doing on the floor?” said Maura.

“Why do you always do that!” I growled.

“Do what?” she asked, her voice innocent.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Maura has a bad habit of breaking into my office. She doesn’t have a key, but locked doors never seem to stop her. She has a couple other interesting talents, such as a killer sense of smell, holding her breath underwater for a good hour plus, and stripping a raw tuna down to the bones with her teeth in thirty seconds flat. You see, Maura is a hundred percent Irish and a hundred percent selkie. She also happens to be my girlfriend.