“I told you they died in a car accident,” Murphy said, upset by both the photo and the subject, and that Joy felt compelled to bring them up.
“Murphy, you were in the car at the time.”
“I was?”
“Yes.” She pointed at the article. “It says here that the accident occurred on the way back from the hospital. You were only a week old at the time, a mere infant, so you couldn’t possibly have remembered, at least not consciously.”
Joy saw Murphy’s gears turning behind his eyes.
“It was dark,” Joy continued. “Dark and stormy. One of the worst storms that Eureka could remember. Lightning and thunder ripped open the heavens. Rain gushed. Gale-force winds wrenched trees from their roots and downed power lines plunged the town into darkness. Fires and floods broke out everywhere, and even the hospital you were born in nearly burned to the ground. A sleepy truck driver lost control of his vehicle and slammed into your parent’s car, knocking it off the road and into a ravine. You were thrown clear and landed in a heap of recently cut hay. See here,” she pointed to the sentence, “you didn’t suffer a scratch! You aren’t a jinx, Murphy. You’re a miracle! Grandpa didn’t tell you that you were in the car because he was afraid you’d blame yourself. And the truck, Murphy, it was a dairy truck.”
“It was my fault!” Murphy insisted. “Look at all these accidents that happen around me.”
“Accidents happen, Murphy. They happen all over the world, everyday, to millions of people. Are those your fault too? And all the accidents that have happened over all the millennium before you were born, were those also your fault?”
Murphy didn’t reply. He just kept staring at the picture of his parents’ mangled car in the ravine.
Joy continued, “Look, I don’t know why they happen, but maybe it’s because each of us has something in common with that dairy truck driver. Maybe much of the time we are all half-asleep at the wheel. We assume we’re awake because we got out of bed and went to work and came home and watched TV, but how many of us actually lived any of that day? We fret. We complain. We cope, and we dream—dream mostly of future days better spent.”
“But, Joy,” Murphy argued, “the accidents happen around me, not to me.”
“They don’t happen to you because you aren’t like the rest of us. You are special. You are the most awake person I’ve ever met.”
“Me?” He shook his head. “No, no…”
“You, Murphy. And that’s why I love you.”
Speechless, Murphy’s eyes ballooned and his jaw yo-yoed.
“What’s the matter? You think that’s an accident too?”
“I-I don’t know how to say this, Joy,” Murphy stammered, “but the truth is—”
“Yes?” Joy prodded.
“I mean, I think you are a wonderful person. Really, really wonderful…”
“Yes, Murphy…?”
He looked bashfully away. “The truth is my heart belongs to another.”
“To Phaedra?”
“How do you—?”
Joy feigned insult. “To a pen pal?”
“You read her letters?” Murphy said, appalled. “Those were private!”
“No, Murphy, you big dope. I didn’t read her letters.” She smiled warmly. “I wrote them.”
Flabbergasted, Murphy exclaimed, “Get out of here!”
Joy laughed and said, “What do you say, Hobby Guy? Three stars?”
···
Officer Pete Sarich entered the station just after Parker had bolted. He saw Johnson and Gomez standing by the big printer machine scratching their heads. Sarich walked over to the coffee maker, poured two cups of coffee into gold-colored paper cups, and headed over to the officers.
“Hey guys,” Sarich greeted, offering the two senior cops the coffee.
Johnson, still distracted by Parker’s mad behavior, absently took the coffee, but Gomez waved his off, saying his wife forced him to switch to decaf.
Sarich shrugged and sipped the coffee. “What’s going on? I just saw Parker fly past me. He seemed like a man on a mission.”
“Where was he headed?” Johnson asked, and then too late, his hand cupped his mouth in a vain attempt to recapture his words. Aw, hell. Screw it.
“The park, I think,” Sarich answered. “What would he be rushing over there for?”
Johnson and Gomez looked at each other and shook their heads, clueless. Then Johnson remembered something. “Freya,” he muttered.
“Say what?” Sarich said.
“A fortune-teller,” Johnson said.
“A what?” Sarich laughed. “Don’t tell me Parker believes in that bunk.”
“My Clarita sure does,” Gomez said. “Hold on. Johnson, did you say, Freya?”
“That’s right, Gomez. That Freya.”
“Damn, Johnson,” Gomez said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have chipped in myself. That’s the same tarot lady Clarita visits! She never makes a major decision without first consulting Freya. Clarita loves that woman. Swears she’s the real deal. She’s always on me to go see her.”
“W-w-wait,” Sarich said. “Freya? Freya the artist, Freya? The lady Parker gave me three thousand bucks to—” He buttoned his lips.
Johnson squinted at Sarich. “Three thousand dollars to do what?”
“Aw, hell,” Sarich said. “Screw it. To buy as much of this Freya chick’s art as I could.”
Gomez turned to Johnson. “Man oh man, that lady really got you two clowns under her spell, didn’t she?” He slapped his leg in laughter. “I can’t wait to tell Clarita.”
Sarich said to Johnson, “What’s going on? Why didn’t Parker want you to know?”
Gomez said, “For the same reason that Johnson told me not to tell Parker after asking me to do the same thing. Neither guy wanted the other to think him a fool! When Johnson learned that McCoy and Lopez had shut her down he felt bad about it. A waiter at the cafe told him that he might find her at the Shooting Star Gallery, that she had an exhibition there and that it was the last day before it came down.”
Sarich said, “So between me and you, Gomez, we cleaned her out.”
Gomez chuckled, “Yep.”
“The paintings are actually pretty good,” Sarich admitted. “Colorful. They really brightened up my place. Civilized it, you know? What did you do with yours, Gomez?”
“Gave ‘em to Johnson.” He turned to Johnson. “Did you hang ‘em up yet?”
“Of course. You think I’m gonna blow three thousand smackers on paintings and just keep ‘em in the closet? Besides, Sarich is right. They’re not bad, and they brightened the place. Civilized it.”
Sarich said, “So Johnson, did you have this Freya babe read your cards or what?”
“Me? Nah.”
“Bullcrap, Johnson,” Gomez laughed. “You saw her, you liar.”
“Okay, so I did. Parker dragged me to her.”
“What the hell for?” Sarich said.
“It’s a long story.”
“C’mon, what did she tell you?” Sarich pressed, more curiosity in his voice than he wanted to expose.
Johnson had already concluded that whatever Brock Parker was up to, it boded ill for their working relationship. Parker’s uncharacteristic behavior told him that something, or someone, was coming.
Johnson pulled out the Two of Cups card that Freya had told him to hold onto. “She gave me this,” he said.
Gomez and Sarich leaned in for a closer look at the tarot card.
Sarich pointed at the picture of the couple: golden chalices in their hands, the caduceus and winged lion’s head between them. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“Let’s just say that she predicted that a new partner was headed my way.”
“Got anyone in mind?” Sarich said, sipping from his gold-colored paper coffee cup.
Johnson looked down at his own cup and said with an air of surrender. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking about, yeah.”
Art of Love
<
br /> Brock and Freya strolled hand in hand in the park. Loki the big St. Bernard walked obediently at Brock’s side.
“So, did you or did you not know that we were both headed to Santa Fe?” Brock asked.
“Mr. Parker, I’m a tarot reader, not a travel agent.”
Brock chuckled. “That’s what I get falling for a fortune-teller. It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?”
“Like what?”
“Me flailing in the wind, wondering what’s coming next while you calmly sit there already knowing how it’s all going to turn out.”
“I think you’re overestimating my powers of intuition, Mr. Parker.”
“Yeah? I don’t.”
Freya smiled. “Well, be that as it may, if we stick to the present then I don’t see anything for you to worry about.”
“Deal,” Brock said. “The future is no place for a guy like me to be hanging out anyway.”
···
Murphy and Joy strolled through the park licking their ice cream cones. Murphy marveled at the taste. “I had no idea!” he said.
“Yummy, huh?”
Murphy smiled and then suddenly stopped in his tracks. His murphometer was going bonkers. He put his ear to the ether and spun like a radar dish to scan the park.
Families, friends, and sweethearts enjoyed the afternoon sunshine. They strolled and jogged, skated and pedaled in every direction. Children swung on swings, slid down slides, and climbed in and out, on and over different playground play-sets. It was all innocuous enough, but not to Murphy. To Murphy Drummer it was a battlefield ready to erupt; a dozen possible calamities aching to burst forth.
Joy said, “Oh, no you don’t.”
Murphy tried to hand Joy his ice cream cone. “Hold this!”
“Nope,” she said, twisting away. “You are going to have to learn that sometimes it is better to let things be. Sometimes people need a wake-up call, and sometimes things just happen for a reason.”
“But—”
“No, Murphy. It’s not your fault. Get used to it.”
Joy dragged Murphy off by the hand, steering him clear of the crowd of people towards an open space where the closest persons were a father and son playing catch with a baseball. Murphy glanced back over his shoulder, and groaned. Joy yanked him onward. Murphy, wanting to rid himself of his cone, and so free his hands in case of an emergency, quickly devoured the rest of his ice cream. He squeezed his head between his hands and said, “Ouch.”
“Murphy?”
“I think I froze my brain.”
Joy laughed and gave him a playful shove with her shoulder. “There’s never going to be a dull moment with you, eh, kiddo?”
They heard a scream in the distance, followed by a tumult of barking dogs, shouts, and the urgent tring-tringing of a bicycle bell.
“Don’t worry,” Joy reassured him. “It’s quite normal.”
Murphy moaned and said, “Trust me, inside every norm is an exception just itching to get out.”
···
On the other side of the park, Brock strolled with Freya, his arm around her shoulder and his mind at peace with the world around him. Then he remembered something.
“What about your father?” he asked. “Will he be going to Santa Fe with you?”
“What do you know about my father?” Freya said, suspicious.
Thinking fast, Brock said, “What? You think you’re the only tarot reader in town? Two can play this game.”
“Hah, hah,” she said, not buying it. “Anyway, thanks to very generous patrons, I will be able to bring him with me.”
Brock played dumb. “Patrons?”
“I also paint, Mr. Parker.”
Brock smiled. “You enjoy calling me, Mr. Parker, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And this will be a permanent feature of our budding relationship?”
“Your new tarot reader didn’t tell you?” Freya sniffed. “She must not be very good.”
“Not as good as you, of course. So, these patrons helped you how?”
“They bought all my paintings at a recent exhibition.”
“They? All of them?”
“That’s right.”
“How much was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“Six thous—? Are you certain?”
“Of course I am.” She patted her shoulder purse in confirmation. “I cashed the check at the bank on my way over here. Why so surprised? Other artists charge far more for their works than I do.”
“I’m sure. It’s just…” Parker stroked his chin, perplexed. “Never mind. I’m thrilled for you. If you’re as good a painter as you are a troublemaker, then I have no doubt that your work is quite inspiring.”
Freya smiled. “You have an odd way of complimenting a woman, Mr. Parker.”
Brock spotted an ice cream truck in the distance. With perfect Pavlovian response he immediately developed a strong craving for ice cream.
“Can I treat you and Loki to an ice cream?”
“Now that’s the kind of sweet talk that will get you somewhere,” Freya joked. “Thank you. Anything with chocolate for me, and vanilla for Loki.”
“You got it. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Freya stepped into the shade of a tree and Brock began to jog in the direction of the ice cream truck.
Out of nowhere, a man dashed up from behind Freya and nabbed her purse with its six thousand dollars, catching her completely by surprise. The thief took off through the park like a gazelle. Freya screamed and Loki woofed.
Brock whirled to see what the matter was and saw Freya pointing frantically in the direction of the purse-snatcher. He spotted the thief and gave chase.
Detective and criminal sped zigzagging through the park. Startled pedestrians jumped, bicycle bells rang out, and dogs barked. The purse-snatcher had a comfortable and increasing lead, but Brock, huffing and puffing, wasn’t about to give up.
The bandit looked back at his pursuer and laughed. He turned, and while backpedaling, stuffed Freya’s purse into his daypack and strapped it tightly behind him. He mocked Brock with a couple of heel-clicking capers and then flipped him the bird.
Brock, now enraged more by the man’s swagger than his crime, became even more determined to catch the smart-ass. He shifted gears and tore after the smirking son-of-a-bitch. His furious determination, however, was no match for the younger, clearly more athletic foe’s lightness of foot. The thief answered Brock’s persistence with frolicsome cartwheels and romping back handsprings, further infuriating Brock, whose steam was giving out.
Having had enough fun toying with his pursuer, the crook broke pattern and beelined it across the park. On his way, he spotted easy pickings in the form of a frail-looking old lady strolling with her great-grandchild. He veered right, and zooming up from behind, tore the old woman’s purse from her hand.
As he ran, the mugger removed his daypack, added the lady’s bag to his booty, refastened the pack tightly behind him, and hightailed it towards the edge of the park. The swift and nimble acrobat vaulted trashcans and statues, hurdled shrubs and park benches, and leaped whooping over the heads of startled picnickers on blankets.
Brock wanted to pull out his gun and shoot the bastard, but protocol and common sense stayed his hand. He chugged on. His breath came in gasps along with his humiliation. All he could hope for now was for the cocky SOB to stumble or make a mistake.
The thief flew past Joy, knocking her shoulder and spinning her like a top, causing her to drop her ice cream. Murphy steadied Joy with one hand, and with the other, caught the cone before it hit the ground. He handed Joy back her ice cream and then dashed towards the father and son playing catch.
Seconds later, Brock rushed past Joy. Neither of them noticed the other. Joy, whose back was to Brock, was observing Murphy, wondering what he was up to. Nor did Brock see Murphy, who was dozens of yards away by the time Brock had charged onto the sce
ne. Brock Parker’s attention was fixed wholly on the streaking criminal. He was single-minded in his determination, oblivious to anything and anyone that stood between him and righteous retribution.
The criminal raced towards the last park bench that stood between him and his clean get-away. As he approached the bench he decided that a final cheeky demonstration of his gymnastic prowess was in order. He launched himself into a round off back handspring with a full-twisting back layout.
Murphy bounded in front of the catch-playing dad. He intercepted the baseball with his right hand and slid to a halt. Then, rearing back his arm like an all-star outfielder, he fired the ball at the fleeing bully.
Midair now, the cocksure crook didn’t see his hunter, but the last thing he did see was a blazing baseball, just before it smacked him in the forehead. Murphy’s major-league arm ended the audacious punk’s Olympics-worthy vault. The man landed stumbling in a clumsy backpedal that sent him colliding with a skateboarder, a bicyclist, and a roller skater. They all went down together in a heap.
Brock ran up panting, pulled out his gun and said, “Freeze!”
Hands flew up all around.
Brock noted the growing lump on the unconscious thief’s forehead. Then, bending down to pick up the baseball, he spotted something even more striking. The man’s left Nike tennis shoe had a big, yellow mustard stain. Brock chuckled. “Well, hotdog.”
Brock picked up the baseball, and tossing it thoughtfully in his hand, he squinted into the distance and the blinding late afternoon sun. He thought he saw…Murphy Drummer? “Yeah, right,” he said, dismissing the apparition. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Zyzzyva!
One year later…
It was the final and most thrilling race of the evening. The crowd went wild as a field of thoroughbreds sprinted down the homestretch towards the finish line.
The dark horse, #3, had charged from the back of the pack all the way to first place and now led by half a length. Horse #1, the other long shot, overtook the other racehorses one after another and was now battling it out with the odds-on favorite, horse #7, for second place.
Murphy’s Luck Page 18
