“Snuggles!” the woman exclaimed in shock.
Snuggles, oblivious to the calamity that almost befell him, licked at Murphy’s face. Murphy reached into his pocket, pulled out a key chain with a blue rabbit’s foot, clipped it to the little dog’s collar, and patted him on the head. He handed the pooch to the woman.
She began to thank Murphy, but he had no time to chat. His murphometer was already tingling again. He returned for his dropped suitcase and hurried off.
Joy observed it all. “Unreal.”
Murphy vanished into the crowd.
Joy turned to check on Brock. He was still a ways behind, but it was clear to her that she had been spotted. When she wheeled back around, Murphy was standing in front of her.
“Why are you following me?” he asked.
“Huh? … No, I, ah… Actually, I’m trying to avoid someone.”
She pointed towards a handsome, athletic-looking man tearing his way through the crowd like a halfback. It was Brock Parker, irate and soiled from his accident with the waiter.
Unnoticed by everyone but Murphy, a skin-headed skateboarder was speeding from the opposite direction. The skateboarder threaded and glided his way through the grove of tourists like a sparrow through an orchard.
Murphy saw both figures like shifting blips on a radar’s tracking screen.
“I think you’ll be okay,” Murphy said.
“Huh…?”
Joy glanced back and saw Brock and the skateboarder collide. The collision turned immediately into a brawl. She wheeled back to Murphy. “How—?”
Murphy was gone.
···
Murphy headed towards an empty stretch of sand, a place where the closest people were a distant string of surfers sitting on their boards waiting for the right wave. Satisfied that the world was out of harm’s way, Murphy sat down on the sand a few yards from the reach of the surf. He stared disconsolately out to sea and regretted that surfing was a hobby that he could never adopt.
Just then, Murphy saw a surfer take a nasty spill and get pummeled by a large wave. He leaped to his feet, ready to charge into the water, but thankfully the man surfaced unharmed. Murphy blew a sigh of relief and sat back down.
Behind him a woman said, “And a lifeguard to boot.”
Murphy turned. “Ma’am?”
“‘Ma’am,’” Joy repeated. “That’s sweet. Your parents brought you up a gentleman.”
“My parents died when I was a baby,” Murphy said matter-of-factly.
“Oh…I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Mind if I join you?” she asked with a smile.
“That’s a bad idea.”
Joy plopped down on the sand beside him. “It wouldn’t be my first.”
Murphy glanced warily about, but the coast was clear. Joy looked around too, wondering what he was looking for.
“It’s nothing personal, ma’am, but please go away. It’s for your own good.”
“We’re just two people talking. What harm is there in that?”
“More than you could—” Murphy pounced on top of Joy, flattening her to the sand.
Joy screamed in fright as a surfboard passed narrowly over their heads.
“What are you doing? Get off of me!”
Murphy rolled promptly away, very embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
Joy sat up and began to brush the sand from her hair. Angry, she said, “What were you think—!” She stopped mid-sentence as a dripping surfer jogged past them.
“Hell’uv a wave!” the surfer exclaimed. He picked up his surfboard and hustled back into the water.
“Well, mister,” Joy said, “that makes twice you’ve saved me. Am I lucky or what?”
Murphy reached for a piece of driftwood and tapped on it with his knuckles. “It’s ‘what’,” he answered. “And I don’t think you should be pressing it.”
“My luck?”
“No,” Murphy said. “Mine.”
Joy said, “There’s something about you.”
Murphy stood and dusted himself off. He grabbed his suitcase and said, “There’s always something about me, ma’am.”
Murphy walked away as Joy looked on, stumped. He continued along the beach in search of another place of refuge.
Joy jogged up alongside of him. “What’s your problem?”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s Joy, okay? Rhymes with boy and annoy. I’m a journalist, and I’d like to treat you to an ice cream. You know, for saving me. And to interview you, if you’re okay with that. What do you say?”
“No, thank you.”
“Come on, everybody likes ice cream.”
“Not me.”
“Lactose intolerant, are you? So is my dad. Okay, lunch then.”
“You’re a nice lady, but I have to be going.”
“I have a car. Where are you headed? I’ll give you a lift. It’s the least I can do.”
Murphy stopped walking and turned to Joy. “Why do you want to interview me?”
“I’ve been watching you.” And then with a knowing nod, like the jig was up and she had unmasked him, she added, “You’re the Good Samaritan.”
Shocked, Murphy said, “What? No, I’m afraid you are very, awfully, terribly mistaken. Now please excuse me. And, please, don’t follow me anymore. It’s for your own good.”
Murphy walked off down the beach.
Joy sighed, turned and headed back towards the boardwalk.
As Murphy strolled away, a line of surfers caught a ride on a big wave. Moments later, the surfers all collided into one another and went tumbling off their boards. Murphy scampered down the beach.
Major, Minor
Brock Parker, broody and forlorn, sat on a low wall near the boardwalk watching the sun descend towards the horizon. He had given up his search for Joy hours ago. Cell phone at his ear, he left his fifth message of the afternoon.
“I’m sorry, Joy. I didn’t mean what I said. Let’s talk about this, okay? Please call me back.”
Brock clicked off and stood. His head hanging and lost in thought, he wandered along the boardwalk retracing his steps. On the way back to his car he passed The Parcae Cafe where his woes all began. He saw that the tarot lady was still in her corner. He paused in deliberation, and then scolded himself for even considering the dumb idea.
As he was about to open the door to his car, an orange glint caught his eye. The final beams of the setting sun had just ricocheted from a small, round object at the edge of the curb. He bent down and picked up a shiny penny. He held up the coin and pondered its significance. For a brief moment he thought that Abraham Lincoln had just winked at him.
A willowy woman of forty heaved a sigh and got up from the tarot reader’s table. The tarot reader shook the woman’s hand, a sympathetic look on her face. She said to the customer, “The cards don’t always tell us what we want to hear, Sally. I’m sorry.”
“In my heart I know you’re right, Freya.” She sighed again, and then put on a brave face. “I know what I have to do. Thank you so much.”
The woman handed the tarot reader a twenty-dollar bill, smiled wanly, and waved goodbye. On her way out she passed Brock Parker on his way in. Brock saw the woman wipe away a tear.
The tarot reader began to tidy up her table. She had Scandinavian good-looks—long, feathery snow-white hair, crystalline blue eyes, and an air of maternal sagacity and gentleness. Neither thin nor heavy, she was sensually soft-featured and pillowy. Her attire was colorful but not gaudy; somewhere between gypsy and bohemian, yet without any dangling jewelry, beads, flowing scarves or woven laurels.
“Another satisfied customer?” Brock said snidely to the tarot reader.
The woman looked up and smiled. “In due time,” she replied. “Can I help you?”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Okay,” the woman said, unruffled. She finished straightening her table and began shuffling the tarot deck she had just used.
“But I am curious about something,” Brock said.
“Yes?”
“How can a stupid deck of cards possibly have anything of value to tell a person?”
“Do you want the long version or the short version?”
“Short.”
“They just do.”
Brock snorted. “I wasn’t expecting much, but something better than that.”
“Sir,” she replied graciously, “no matter what I were to tell you, it wouldn’t matter, as you’ve already made up your mind that such things are silly superstition.” Her tone contained no sarcasm. “True?”
Caught off guard by the woman’s pleasantness, Brock answered, “It doesn’t take a psychic to figure that out.”
“I don’t pretend to be psychic, sir. I read tarot cards. Would you like me to read yours?”
“And waste my hard earned—”
“I don’t charge. Tips only. Have a seat.”
Brock scanned the patio to make certain that there was no one he knew in the vicinity. He sat down.
“Listen,” he said. “The only reason I’m doing this is to prove to my girlfriend that I have an open mind.”
“Whatever you say, sir. So, have you a question?”
“Question?”
“Usually a person is looking for an answer to a specific question.”
“I have thousands of questions I’d like answers to, but hell if I’m going to look to a deck of cards for them.”
“Tell you what then,” the woman replied, “why don’t we just do a general reading? You know, see where you are in the scheme of things?”
“Ah, ‘general’ being the key word, right? That way anything you say can sound true.”
“Well, let’s find out, shall we?” The woman set the classic Rider-Waite tarot deck in front of him. “Shuffle.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Brock picked up the deck and started shuffling. Self-conscious, he took another look around to make sure that no one was watching.
“Now, cut the deck into three piles and put them together. Repeat two more times.”
Brock followed her instructions.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, taking another furtive glance around the premises.
“Seeing is believing,” she said with a smile. “Isn’t that the saying?”
Brock grimaced and finished the shuffling process. He slammed the deck down in front of the woman.
“There you go, lady. Make me a believer.”
“My name is Freya, Mr…?”
“Parker.”
Freya dealt ten cards and arranged them in the classic ten-card Celtic Cross spread: two vertical rows of four cards each, and at midpoint and to the left of each column, one card.
Brock looked at the cards and then checked Freya’s reaction. Freya studied the spread intently, but remained expressionless.
“Well…?” he said.
After a long pause, Freya said, “This is a very powerful reading, Mr. Parker. Seven out of the ten cards are major arcana.”
“That doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.”
“It does to me,” Freya said, steadily studying the cards. After another few moments she lifted her crystal-blue eyes and explained, saying, “There are two groups of cards in a tarot pack, Mr. Parker. The twenty-two trump cards called the major arcana, and the fifty-six suit cards, called the minor arcana.”
“Major and minor arcana,” Parker repeated. “Gibberish.”
“Tell me,” she said, patiently ignoring his slight, “are you involved in the legal system in some way?”
“You tell me.”
“The more you give me the clearer the reading will become.”
“I’m not going to fall for that. No hints.”
Freya smiled unperturbed. “Have it your way, Mr. Parker, but you’re only cheating yourself.”
“Just tell me what they say.”
“Okay…” Freya pointed at the ‘Justice’ card, a picture of a woman holding the balancing scale of justice in one hand and a sword in the other. At the bottom of the card was written: Justice. “It appears that you are involved with law. You have a strong sense of right and wrong.”
Next, she pointed at the ‘Three of Swords,’ a picture of a red heart suspended in a cloudy sky with three swords stabbing through it.
“You have a lot on your mind, professionally and personally. A recent relationship going sour, it seems, and what may be a criminal case.”
Freya then tapped the ‘Seven of Swords,’ a picture of a thief sneaking away with a clutch of stolen swords.
“Something to do with a thief, perhaps?” she asked.
Brock said, “I know you saw me earlier today. My girlfriend and I weren’t exactly whispering. You could have easily overheard our conversation. I’m not impressed. You have to do a lot better than this.”
“It is not I who is on trial here, Mr. Parker. It is you.”
“Trial? I haven’t been accused of anything.”
“We’re all guilty of something, dear friend, and every day is Judgment Day.” Freya focused on the cards. “Your life is about to change in a big way, Mr. Parker.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’m the first person you’ve said that to,” Brock rejoined, making sure his sarcasm didn’t go undetected.
Freya pointed at the ‘Tower’ card. It depicted an exploding bolt of lightning striking a tower. Two persons sailed from its windows. At the bottom of the card read “The Tower.”
“Position six. Your life is about to be turned upside down, Mr. Parker, causing you to reevaluate everything you now believe.”
Next, she indicated the ‘Hermit’ card, a picture of a robed hermit holding up a lantern in the darkness. The bottom of the card said “The Hermit.”
“You are going to do a lot of searching, without and within. To find the answers you seek you will need to deal with thoughts and feelings that you have never addressed before. A person of mystery that you have yet to meet will play a key role.”
“I’m a detective, lady. Searching is my job and I meet mysterious people every day.”
“Not like this one,” Freya said with assurance.
She gave Parker no time for a rejoinder and tapped the next card—a picture of a naked man and woman standing beneath a hovering angel: The Lovers. “…A life-altering moral decision,” Freya said.
“I’ve never cheated on Joy,” Brock retorted. “Flirted, sure; cheated, never.”
“I’m not speaking about infidelity. What I see is something even more consequential than that.”
“And I see nothing in what you’ve told me that I couldn’t get from a stale fortune cookie—a bunch of fuzzy platitudes. When is all this drama and trauma supposed to happen?”
“Soon.”
“Not nearly good enough, lady.”
Freya scooped up the cards, did a quick shuffle, and then spread the deck in a fan across the table. “Pick one,” she ordered.
Brock squinted at Freya, but more curious than suspicious, he slid out a card. Freya turned it over, and smirked. The card was the ‘Ace of Cups,’ a picture of a hand protruding from a cloud holding an overflowing, golden chalice. Above the chalice was a dive-bombing dove poised to enter the goblet.
“Mr. Parker, you’re not going to like this, but this is what I see. The next single woman you hold converse with will be the woman you marry.” Freya smiled and arched a mischievous blond eyebrow, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Is that specific enough for you?”
“Now you’re just mocking me,” he said bitterly.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you think I’m an ass for being so skeptical, that’s why.”
“Not at all,” Freya said. “Compared to many men who have sat where you are, you’ve been a real gentleman. Your skepticism is narrow-minded but quite natural.” Freya fixed him with a stern, penetrating eye. “I don’t lie, and neither do the cards. And I certainly don’t ‘mess’ with people. We all have enough troubles in
this world already.”
“You nuts are even more cracked than I thought!” Brock rose in a huff and jammed his hand into his pocket. “Thanks for a most valuable lesson in chicanery.” He slapped his shiny new penny onto the table.
Unruffled, Freya set a red-painted finger tip onto the penny and slid it into a small, beaded coin purse. She said, “Choose another card, Mr. Parker. As a little memento of our conversation.”
“I’m done with this hoodoo crap.”
“Oh, come now,” Freya said frolicsomely. “Be a sport.”
Brock sneered, but relented. He picked a card at random.
“Don’t show it to me,” she said. “But study it well, as it carries a message of great importance for you. Ignore it at your own folly.”
“What is this, some kind of pathetic attempt at a curse?” Brock made a motion to fling the card at Freya, but Freya put up her hands. On second thought he slipped it into his shirt pocket without looking at it.
“Not at all, Mr. Parker. The Universe works in mysterious ways. The card in your hand will prove it to you.”
“The only thing you and these cards have proven to me is that I was a fool to come here in the first place and waste a perfectly good penny.” He snorted in disgust and strode off.
As soon as Brock turned the corner out of sight from Freya, he withdrew the card and stopped in his tracks.
At the bottom of the card was written: The Fool.
It was the first card of the tarot deck’s major arcana. The card depicted a young man wearing a jester’s cap with a red feather sticking from it. It showed The Fool on a journey, a satchel hanging from a stick over his shoulder. A little white dog gamboled at his side. Heedless of what was before him, The Fool was about to step off of a cliff.
That only seconds before Brock had referred to himself as a “fool” did not escape him, and it caused him a moment’s reflection. He took a step back and peered into the garden towards Freya. Her eyes and a wry smile were already waiting for him. Brock scowled and tromped off.
Collisions
Joy Daley drove along the Pacific Coast Highway in her white Saab convertible, the top down, the sea on one side, the mountains on the other, and her blond hair streaming behind her. She flicked on the radio to an oldies station. The Police were singing their hit song, Synchronicity.
Murphy’s Luck Page 5
