Murphy’s Luck

by Benjamin Laskin

  Joy read police accounts of the many accidents caused by downed trees and power lines, and of flash floods that resulted in numerous stranded automobiles. Police accounts also detailed how the storm had precipitated dozens of bumper-thumpers and other collisions. Despite the slew of accidents, the papers only noted two fatalities. It was then when Joy read the last two references to Lyle and Millie Drummer. Their names and brief histories were tucked within three short paragraphs describing the young couple’s funeral at the local cemetery.

  Her hand over her mouth and her eyes brimming, Joy read each paper’s account of the tragedy and the “miracle” that accompanied it. Joy looked off into the corner of the small room and pondered the revelation. Then she rolled forward to the day of Murphy’s expulsion from school.

  Ms. Lincoln’s memory proved accurate. Joy read of the flooding of the St. Christopher Elementary School’s basement, its $6000 worth of damage, and the irretrievable loss of its school records. She found no mention of Murphy Drummer anywhere in the rolls of microfiche. But she did come across the Drummer household having been cited as defendant in at least three court cases. Different neighbors over the years had accused the Drummers of inflicting property damage and mental anguish, but no intentional wrongdoing was ever proven. Each time the presiding judge determined the evidence to be mere “coincidence or conjecture,” and dismissed the case.

  Marching Orders

  The following afternoon Brock Parker was standing around the precinct station’s coffee maker yucking it up with fellow cops when he saw Joy Daley sweep into the lobby. He hurried over to her.

  “Joy, are you okay? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past twenty-four—”

  “Kansas.”

  “Kansas! What the hell were you—?”

  “I talked to Johnson and he told me all about the man you arrested for those bank jobs.”

  Brock cocked his head. “Johnson? Why were you talking to Johnson?”

  “He called me.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “He felt like talking.”

  “Joy, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that you have the wrong man.”

  “No, we don’t,” Brock said.

  “You do. What’s his name?”

  “We don’t know yet. He won’t tell us. But we’ll find out, count on it.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble. The man in that cell is Murphy Drummer.” Noting Brock’s puzzlement, she added, “Yes, the same.”

  Quickly recovering from his surprise, Brock said, “Well, if it is then he’s a criminal.”

  “Brock, you’ve been after that bank robber for months. Murphy Drummer’s been in town less than a week.”

  “Joy, we caught him red-handed.”

  “No, you didn’t. It’s all circumstantial. It’s all—”

  “Coincidence? Don’t start that with me, Joy. I’ve had it up to here with that crap.” He chopped at his forehead.

  “Think what you like, Brock, but your bank robber is still on the loose and I’m here to bail out Murphy Drummer.”

  “Joy, what is going on, really? Who is this Drummer guy to you?”

  “The question is,” Joy replied cryptically, “who am I to him?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing you could ever get your noodle around.”

  She walked away, leaving Brock shaking his noodle in disbelief.

  ···

  Flummoxed by Joy’s behavior and the collision of events in which he had found himself an unwilling participant, the one thing that Brock Parker felt certain about was that all roads led to the wily gypsy at The Parcae Cafe.

  Before he had set eyes on the Swedish meatball life was great. Okay, he admitted, maybe not great, or even particularly swell, but it was at least recognizable. He had a fiancé that he loved, a sidekick and partner who was trustworthy and dependable, and a universe that played by the rules. Sure, he was minus one bank robber back then, but he was confident that he’d have wrapped up that business in time. Brock Parker always got his man, and this joker would be no different. But then, all too suddenly, everything was on the skids, headed downhill like a mansion in a Malibu mudslide.

  He recalled Freya’s words: “Your life is about to be turned upside down, Mr. Parker.”

  Was it a prediction, a threat, or some sort of fiendish hypnotic trance? Whether all or none of the above, that wasn’t what ticked him off the most. What really irked him was that he was even entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. That was no way for a decorated detective to act or think, for Chrissakes. What would Sherlock Holmes say? Philip Marlowe? Sam Spade? They’d laugh him out of the room.

  Still, there was no denying the absurdities of the past few days. He thought he could just chalk it all up to bad luck, fickle fate, or maybe overwork and the need for a vacation. But he knew that he had only recently returned from a holiday, three relaxing days and nights in Lake Tahoe with Joy. What had gotten into her since then?

  And so he came back around to the two people who weren’t in the equation before all the lunacy began—Freya the Scandinavian schizo, and that damn Drummer dork, Murphy. Did Joy really fall for a guy who made little paper pets? What was up with that?!

  Let’s noodle it, he thought. Noodle? Dammit, now they even got me saying it!

  Brock took a mind-clearing breath.

  Okay, okay, he thought. Rewind. Backtrack. Maybe Freya and Drummer were in cahoots? They both showed up at the same time, after all. They were both fruitcakes. They both knew Joy, sorta. Did they know each other? Hmm. But what the hell for? Motive. What would be their motive? Every criminal has a motive. He didn’t know, and upon second and third thought, considered the entire scenario ludicrous. All he knew was that he had to speak to Freya again.

  ···

  Upon marching into The Parcae Cafe, Brock was surprised to see that Freya’s usual spot had been replaced with a table of customers enjoying a late lunch. He scanned the cafe but Freya was nowhere to be seen. Did she take the day off?

  Brock stopped a rushing waiter on his way to a table with a tray of linguine and fettuccine.

  “Where’s the blond lady?” Brock asked demandingly.

  “Huh? Who?”

  “The tarot lady who always sits over there.” He pointed. “Freya. Is she coming in today?”

  “No, she won’t be coming in anymore.”

  “As in never?” Brock said, confused.

  “As in probably not,” the waiter said.

  “How come? Is she okay? She’s not sick or anything, is she?”

  “I’m not sure of the reason. Something to do with the cops.”

  “The cops?”

  “Telling her to leave or pay some hefty fine or something, I don’t know. Too bad, ‘cuz I thought she always brightened up the place.”

  “Well, do you know where she went?”

  “I heard she mentioned something about maybe moving to New Mexico. Santa Fe, I think.”

  “New Mexico?”

  “That’s what they say. Sorry, dude,” the waiter said, nodding towards his tray of pasta, “I got tables and you’re chillin’ my noodles.” The waiter hurried off to his table of impatient customers.

  “Shit,” Brock muttered.

  The moment the expletive left his mouth he was taken aback by the sense of guilt and remorse that the four-lettered word contained. Oh, no, he thought. Could it be?

  It could, and it was. Brock Parker liked that Swedenborgian meatball. He liked her a lot.

  Noodles? Oh, for God’s sake.

  Cops, huh? There was only one odd-acting cop he knew that might pull such a vindictive and shabby stunt.

  ···

  Brock Parker stormed into the precinct station and spotted Johnson talking and laughing it up with Gomez.

  Seething, Parker strode up to Johnson and slammed him against the wall. “What were you thinking?!”

  “Hey!” Johnson yelped, caugh
t completely off guard.

  “You just couldn’t leave her alone, could you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well,” Brock shot back. “Thanks to you she’s out of a job and moving to New Mexico.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Johnson protested.

  An office worker called out, “Officer Parker!”

  Parker ignored her and continued to rail at Johnson. “Don’t lie to me. I know damn well you told her to pack up and leave or else.”

  Parker bounced Johnson off the wall with another shove, knocking a framed photo of the governor of California to the ground. The glass-covered picture crashed splintering across the floor.

  “Hey, hey,” Gomez said, inserting himself between the two detectives. “Calm down!”

  “Yeah, man,” Johnson said. “Calm down. I’m telling you—”

  “You’ve been acting weird ever since you talked to her. Whatever she told you it pissed you off and you thought you’d get back at her in the most cowardly way you could.”

  “Me? Weird?” Johnson said, stunned. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a complete nutjob. She really did a number on you, Parker, didn’t she?”

  “Officer Parker!” shouted the office worker, louder.

  Parker turned angrily to the woman and snapped, “What is it?”

  “You’ve got a call on line one.”

  Brock kept an icy scowl on Johnson and hollered back to the office worker, “Get a number I’ll call him back.”

  “I think it’s important,” said the woman.

  “All right, all right.” He jabbed his finger into Johnson’s chest. “You stay here. I’m not finished with you.”

  Parker walked over to a desk and punched line one. Johnson and Gomez conferred on what could be eating Parker.

  His blazing eyes still on Johnson, Brock said, “Parker here.”

  His expression changed from anger to surprise. He turned his back to the others. He said into the phone, “Excuse me? … Yes, that’s right. … You’re kidding me. I mean, yes, absolutely. … Okay … Thank you.”

  Dazed and lost in thought, Parker hung up. Unaware of the dozen pairs of eyes that were staring at him, he pulled out his iPhone, checked for messages, and then started to tap at the device. He pocketed the phone and strode back over to Johnson.

  Johnson flinched and raised his hands in appeasement. “Listen, Parker, I don’t know—”

  Parker cupped Johnson’s wincing face between his hands and gave him a big, fat kiss on the forehead.

  The precinct’s Xerox machine began to squawk. Parker kissed Johnson again and said, “That’ll be for me.”

  He hurried over to the big standing multifunction printer, bounced impatiently for it to spit out the pages, and then plucked them from the tray. Parker turned beaming to the others. “Gotta go!” He ran out the door.

  All heads swung towards the Xerox machine.

  Gomez said, “Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything spew out of that beast that was something to smile about.”

  ···

  Officer Locke entered the brig, and froze. His eyes fell upon the floor where dozens of paper aircraft of different shapes and sizes lay scattered about. He looked up just as a Raytheon Tomahawk Block IV cruise missile streamed down the walkway and struck him in the forehead.

  “Oops,” Leroy said contritely. “Sorry about that, officer.”

  Locke shook his head and continued down the short corridor. He opened Murphy’s cell.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” he said to Murphy. “You’re a free man.”

  Morris looked up from a crumbling, third-hand dictionary lent to him by a friendly night guard, and Leroy from his plane-making.

  Murphy said, “But I don’t want to leave. It’s good here. Good for…everyone.”

  “That’s not up to you to decide,” Locke said.

  “It’ll be okay, Murphy,” Morris said.

  “Yeah, Murph,” Leroy said. “You don’t belong in here.”

  Murphy sighed in resignation and said, “I’ll really miss you guys.”

  The guard relocked the cell and together he and Murphy headed for the door.

  Leroy called out, “Murphy!”

  Murphy turned and saw Morris and Leroy doing the invisible juggling fruit dance.

  Morris said, “Vibration!”

  Leroy said, “Oscillation!”

  “Memorization!” said Morris, holding up the dictionary.

  “Aviation!” said Leroy, flinging another paper aircraft. The Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor soared through the cell bars, did a loop-the-loop, flew back into the cell, and struck Morris in the forehead. “Oops. Sorry about that, Morris.”

  Murphy chuckled and waved goodbye.

  ···

  Hoping that Freya had kept to her dog-walking schedule, Brock dashed from the police precinct station to the large park across the street. He ran up to the spot where he had last seen Freya, but she was not there. He spun about, looking in all directions. He saw trees, bushes, picnic tables, and groups of people, but the tall, striking Swede was nowhere in sight.

  Recalling what Freya had mentioned about Loki’s rendezvous with his Poodle friend at the other end of the park, he jogged off in that direction. After ten minutes of searching, he spotted Freya and her big St. Bernard. Freya was talking to another woman who was holding a leash to a black French Poodle with a pink ribbon on its head and a fake diamond collar around its neck. Brock ran over to them.

  Out of breath, Brock said, “You!”

  “I beg your pardon,” Freya said.

  Brock grabbed Freya’s leash and handed it to the other woman. He told her, “Thanks,” and took Freya by the elbow and led her out of the woman’s earshot.

  Brock said, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

  “Known what, Mr. Parker?”

  “Don’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?”

  Brock said, “It’s not just a coincidence, is it?”

  “What isn’t?”

  Brock withdrew the printouts from his back pocket, unfolded the pages, and showed them to Freya. At the top of the front page read: Santa Fe New Mexico Police Department, followed by an official-looking letter and a contract.

  “I got a job offer as chief of a Santa Fe police precinct station. I interviewed for the position almost a year ago.”

  “Congratulations,” Freya said.

  Puzzled, Brock said haltingly, “Well, um, I heard you might be moving to Santa Fe.”

  “I was thinking about it, yes.”

  “You mean you aren’t the—? This wasn’t…?” He looked into Freya’s luminous blue eyes for help, but her enigmatic expression offered none.

  He continued, hesitant and embarrassed. “It’s just that when I heard you were leaving I was really upset, and then I get this phone call from New Mexico; Santa Fe, of all places. I thought this just couldn’t be coincidence, or if it were, I would be an idiot to ignore it, and… But, apparently, I, ah, seem to have made a fool out of myself…again. Sorry.”

  Brock folded the letter, stuffed it back into his pocket, and wounded and woebegone, he turned and walked away.

  Freya called after him. “What does your noodle say?”

  Brock stopped and faced Freya. He answered, “My noodle says I’ve lost my mind.”

  Freya smiled. “And what does your heart say?”

  “It asks why am I listening to a bunch of starch.”

  “So which are you going to believe?”

  Brock gazed at Freya and took her in body and soul. He strode up to her and said, “Neither.” And then he kissed her.

  Lips won.

  Accidentally on Purpose

  Murphy and Joy emerged from the precinct station. Murphy blinked at the bright afternoon sunshine and took a deep whiff of freedom. The scarf Joy wore around her head, however, did not escape his attention.

  “I’m so sorry you were hurt, Joy. I wo
uld never have—”

  “I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was. It always is.”

  “No, Murphy, you’re wrong. I understand everything now.”

  Murphy shook his head. “No, I’m afraid you don’t.”

  Joy said, “I went to Kansas. To your house. I spoke with Mr. Cloverman. I know who you are, Hobby Guy.”

  Shocked, Murphy said, “But he promised that was just between us and the for sale sign!”

  Joy took Murphy’s hand and led him to a small, nearby garden encircled by a brick wall. They sat on the wall.

  “He told me because he loves you and cares about you. Don’t be angry with him.”

  “Oh, I could never be angry with Lucas, it’s just—. You should have let me stay in jail!”

  “Jail is for guilty people, Murphy. You may feel guilty, but you’re not guilty of anything.”

  “I’m jinxed, Joy. You saw. You know.”

  “You are no bummer, Drummer. You are blessed, blessed with a beautiful soul and a wonderful gift. Come on…”

  Joy stood and yanked Murphy to his feet. She tugged him across the street in the direction of an ice cream truck on the side of walkway near the center the park.

  “Where are we going?”

  Joy said, “I’m going to treat you to an ice cream.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you before, I don’t like dairy products.”

  “Why?”

  Murphy shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t and I never have.”

  Joy said, “Murphy, how did your parents die?”

  “My Grandpa told me they died in a car accident when I was a baby.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of course it’s right. Grandpa would never lie to me.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Joy agreed. “But while I was in town I went to the library and did some digging. I found this in The Eureka Herald newspaper archives.”

  Joy handed Murphy a printout of the article. The headline read: Eureka Couple Dies in Freak Auto Accident. Included in the article was a picture of a smashed up car in a ravine.