The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories

by Christopher Bunn

  That sled is a sleek but complicated piece of machinery. My dad’s old head of R&D invented the first prototype several decades ago when the reindeer went on strike. I used to sneak the old sled out for joyrides when I was a kid. It had twin jet engines and could do Mach 3, but it was kind of noisy. The new sled, my sled, had a pint-sized cold-fusion reactor that powered a matter-displacement drive. Real cutting-edge stuff. It could do about double the speed of light. You need that kind of horsepower when you’re in my line of work. Otherwise, you have unhappy kids and you’re still delivering presents by the time New Year’s Day rolls around.

  Thankfully, it looked like Gambini and his goons hadn’t figured out the matter-displacement drive yet and were just flying the thing with its backup engine. That was barely good for zero to one hundred in point oh six seconds, with a cruising speed of two twenty.

  “Stay on ‘em, Snix!” hollered Herk.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” snarled Snix. “Driving in the slow lane? We need to get that sled back. If those yahoos crash it, that means six months’ hard work to build another one, and I, for one, am going on vacation! A long vacation, right, boss? Unless you get thrown in jail again and need rescuing.”

  “Er, right,” I said lamely.

  It was then that they started shooting rocket-propelled grenades at us. Explosions flowered around us in sudden blooms of fire. Our back window blew out in a rain of shattered glass. Snix made some very elf-like comments and whipped the Camaro around in a banking turn. I double-checked my seat belt.

  “I’m hit!” screeched Jerzy. “Blood! I’m hit! Medic! Oh, wait. It’s just my espresso. I guess I spilled some. Sorry.”

  The sled was right on our tail. I peered back over the top of my seat. Gambini Senior was crouched over the controls, grinning like a fiend. The goon next to him reached down into a red sack and pulled out something long and green.

  “My sack!” I said, my jaw dropping. “They’re using my sack for weapons.”

  “That’s a bazooka,” said Herk. “Which, as you might now know, boss, is simply a recoilless rocket antitank weapon. The model he’s got is the M45 Six-Shot Bazooka with retractable sight. Very nice piece of hardware.”

  “What’s nice about it?”

  “Oh, the lovely, hand-polished finish, the optional walnut inlay on the stock, and its heat-seeking capabilities.”

  “Heat-seeking?!”

  Snix immediately took the Camaro through a series of maneuvers that would’ve made any fighter pilot proud. Myself, I was proud I managed to not throw up.

  “They’re still on our tail,” said Herk.

  “I can see that,” snapped Snix.

  “They’re pulling something else out of the sack. Something really big. Ah, yes. It’s a Patriot missile. They’re going for something else. Hang on! It looks dangerous! Oh, it’s a platter of tiramisu. I guess they’re going to snack on tiramisu while they blow us away with that missile. I could really go for some tiramisu.”

  “Jerzy! It’s time for the Prototype! Now!”

  Jerzy grabbed Snix’s backpack with a chortle and pulled out the strange shotgun-looking device. He aimed through the nonexistent back window, one eye shut.

  “I thought your Prototype thing fires reverse bungees,” I said.

  “Not exactly,” said Snix. “Wait for it, Jerzy! Wait for it!”

  Gambini and company certainly weren’t waiting for it. That was when they fired the Patriot missile at us. It launched in a eruption of smoke. The platter of tiramisu went over the side. I thought I could hear some cursing in Italian. But that missile was coming at us fast. It screamed through the air, growing larger and larger until it surely was about to crash into us. Crash into us and blow us all to the proverbial smithereens.

  “Fire!” hollered Snix.

  Jerzy pulled the trigger. An enormous pink wad of I-don’t-know-what went flying through the air and slammed into the missile. It knocked the thing end over end, and the missile tumbled away toward the earth.

  “What was that?” I said, peering out the window. The pink stuff looked like it was stuck all over the missile.

  “One ton of wet, well-chewed bubblegum,” said Jerzy.

  “What?”

  “Are you crazy?” said Snix. “I let you use the Prototype and all you can think of is bubblegum?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Jerzy! They’ve pulling out another missile! They look mad. Probably because of the tiramisu. Quick!”

  Jerzy aimed out the back window again. He took a deep breath and sighted down the barrel. His finger tightened on the trigger. Time seemed to slow. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day. The roofs and skyscrapers of Manhattan gleamed far below us. A Canada goose flew by. He glared at us. Jerzy fired.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but I sure wasn’t expecting a boxing glove. An enormous boxing glove about as big as a family-sized igloo. It punched through the air and biffed my poor sled right on the money. Mafia goons went flying. Gambini Senior went flying. The sled went into a tailspin.

  “The sled!” screeched Snix. “The sled!”

  “I’ll get it!” shouted Herk. “Just get us closer!”

  Snix spun the wheel of the Camaro and went into a steep dive. I hung grimly onto the dashboard. The clouds flew by in a blur. The sled grew closer. It was about a hundred yards below us. Herk climbed out the window and launched himself into the air. He dropped like a stone and, a few seconds later, slammed into the sled. It slid out of its tailspin and zoomed up toward us. Herk waved, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Why does Herk get to have all the fun?” grumbled Jerzy.

  Snix turned to glare over the seat. “A boxing glove? Is that the only thing you could think of? If you cracked the fusion reactor, I’m going to crack your head like an egg and turn you into an omelet for the polar bears.”

  “It was pure genius. I could’ve used a hammer, you know. Or a turtle. I thought about using a turtle from the Galapagos Islands. Can you imagine one of those babies hurtling toward you at five hundred miles an hour?”

  “I wish I had a turtle right now!” said Snix. “I know what I’d do with it.”

  “I hate to interrupt your fascinating conversation,” I said, “but that Gambini fellow and his men will soon hit the ground at a rather high speed.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m Santa Claus. You’re elves. Elves, for crying out loud! We make presents for kids. We don’t murder mafioso.”

  Snix snorted. “Fine. Whatever, Mr. Santa Bleeding-Heart Claus. Your old man would’ve trampled them with the reindeer.”

  He muttered a few more uncomplimentary things about my sanity, my lack of personal hygiene, and my taste in argyle socks. But Snix is a good elf at heart, mostly, and he put the pedal to the metal on the behalf of Gambini and his goons. He proceeded to do some real flying. Jerzy took careful aim out the window with the Prototype and shot a fishing net over each thug as we flew past. We soon had all five of them dangling from the back bumper, cursing and screaming and crying for their mamas. One of the thugs was still clutching the Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0.

  “What exactly is this Prototype of yours?” I said.

  “Oh, well, it’s just this thing,” said Snix, looking a little embarrassed. “Your old pop thought it up when you were still a kid. You sort of were a, uh, fat kid. He thought you’d never fit down chimneys when you took over his job. Never dreamed you’d turn out skinnier than a flamingo. The Prototype works just like your Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0. You can shoot anything you want out of it. You just gotta be thinking what you want when you pull the trigger. Your pop figured you could just stick it down chimneys and bang away presents down into the fireplace.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  We dropped off Gambini Senior and company on the steps of the 52nd Precinct Station. They flopped around inside their nets and did some cursing and threatened us with great bodily harm. But their hearts didn’t really seem to be in i
t. I think they were pretty happy to be back on the ground. I strolled inside the police station. No one seemed to recognize me. I asked for Detective Thurston at the front desk. She appeared after a few minutes and did a double take when she saw me. It was my dashing good looks, no doubt.

  “You!” she said.

  “I have a present for you,” I said.

  She seemed startled to find the thugs trussed up on the sidewalk.

  “For you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

  She pulled out her gun. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but you’re still under arrest.”

  “I do find you arresting,” I said, smiling in a suave manner. “Very arresting.”

  She snorted a bit at that. Rather unladylike, but attractive, nonetheless. Her cheeks got a little red. “Get your hands up, buster.”

  Jerzy hopped out of the Camaro at that moment and held the door open for me.

  “Your car awaits you, Mr. Santa, sir,” he said, bowing low.

  “Thank you, but I—”

  “Get in before I shoot you with the Prototype. Hey, lady. He really is Santa Claus. Get over your narrow-minded worldview.”

  “You’re both under arrest,” she said automatically, her eyes a little wide.

  Snix gunned the Camaro and did a slow vertical takeoff. The last view I had of Detective Thurston was of her staring up at us, her mouth open.

  “You could’ve waited a few more minutes,” I grumbled. “I was about to get her phone number.”

  “You were about to get cuffed, is what you were. Very arresting! I can’t believe you said that. Very nauseating, more like.”

  At any rate, despite the difficulty of elves, spending time in the slammer, and the fact that there’s tiramisu smeared all over my sled, it was a good Christmas. A good Christmas indeed. Herk and Jerzy returned to Hawaii, and Snix finally made it to Tahiti. It’s nice to be back home at the Pole, but it’s a bit quiet with all the elves gone. I think I might just pack up some presents and take the sled out for a jaunt to Manhattan. There’s a certain detective who deserves a nicer Christmas gift than a couple of tied-up Mafia thugs.

  PLANNING PROBLEMS

  From the journal of Martin Jones, Planner, BSc.

  Feb 12. First day at work. Only Planning Department in the country that would hire me with this mail-order degree. Hope I didn’t waste my 50 dollars. Still, girl napping in next cubicle very cute.

  Feb 13. Interview with Mr. Stanley, Head of Department. Seems nice. Not sure what he looks like, though, as he was hiding under desk whole interview. Tomorrow have scheduled first case. A Mr. Wolf. Feels good to be a public servant. I’m ready to meet the public and help them through their problems.

  Feb 14. Productive meeting with Mr. Wolf. Very hairy man. Requesting demolition permit for vagrant structure built on his property. Wanted me to also arrest vagrant, a Mr. Piglet. Told him Planning Department does not arrest people. Referred him to Sheriff’s office.

  Feb 15. My first code enforcement case. How exciting! Eleven people living on Bide Awee Lane have signed complaint letter against Mr. Jack, a local farmer. Letter says he is violating their view. I will visit him tomorrow. Had question for Mr. Stanley about mileage reimbursement. Not sure why he’s still hiding under his desk.

  Feb 16. Drove out Mr. Jack’s farm. Nature of complaint is self-evident. He has planted enormous beanstalk growing several stories tall. Must be some experimental hybrid. Quite an eyesore. Is very proud of the thing and claims it comes from a magic bean. I suppose he is one of those hippies. They are forever talking about things like magic mushrooms, etc. Seems like harmless fellow, though. I shall research agricultural zoning issues. He might have to cut it down or pay fine.

  Feb 19. Interesting case today. A Mr. Billy Gruff requesting access easement over a footbridge. Said bridge is on private property owned by a Mr. Troll. However, Gruff family has been crossing bridge for decades. Is there legal precedent similar to squatter’s rights that establishes access rights? Shall have to research. Mr. Gruff seemed quite moody about it all. When I instructed him to curtail use of bridge until next meeting, he tried to head-butt me. I shall submit written complaint to Mr. Stanley, if I can find him. Not under his desk. Perhaps hiding in closet?

  Feb 20. Mr. Wolf has returned for additional permit. Wants to build barbecue pit and smokehouse on his property. Very detailed plans. Shall submit copies to Fire, Environmental Health, and Building for approval. Girl in next cubicle still very cute. However, seems to spend all her time sleeping. Never seen her awake yet.

  Feb 21. Finished research on agricultural zoning issues. Sent letter to Mr. Jack. He has ten days in which to remove offending beanstalk or pay $1,000 in fines.

  Feb 22. Another code enforcement case. A Ms. Witch has somehow built entire house out of unapproved materials. Will drive out to inspect after lunch.

  Drove out to Ms. Witch’s house. Nice property in middle of forest. House clearly not built to code. Walls are made of gingerbread. Windows seemed to be made out of some sort of sugar. Ms. Witch came outside. Very pleasant lady. Claims was not aware of existence of either building code or Planning Department. Says she will hire architect to remodel. Seems to have lots of children. They crowded at the windows, waving and yelling at me. Very friendly, like their mom.

  Feb 23. More code enforcement. Is that all I do these days? People in town have signed petition to restrict public performance of music. They cite a Mr. Piper of Hamelin who apparently skips through the streets, blowing on his flute at all hours, as well as the so-called Bremen Musicians, a folk quartet. They are particularly incensed at the folk quartet, as their music apparently sounds awful. “Like a bunch of braying donkeys,” states one affidavit. Cannot find telephone number for Mr. Piper or the folk quartet.

  Feb 26. Public nuisance case. Old wall on city property. Children keep climbing onto it, falling off, getting injured. Latest injury some idiot named Humpty Dumpty. Fell off and broke his head. Probably going to sue city for big bucks. I wrote letter to Public Works Department to put caution tape around wall. Schedule for demolition next week.

  Feb 27. Finally! Some real project planning. Apparel design company wants to build studio downtown. Partners were in for a meeting today. Impressive background. They have designed apparel for European nobility, such as Emperor of Denmark. When asked what sorts of material they work with, both partners started giggling. Very unprofessional. Our town needs more jobs, but, unfortunately, they say they will not need to hire employees.

  Feb 28. Mr. Wolf back again. Says yet another vagrant has built an illegal dwelling on his property. A Mr. Pig. Requests new demolition permit. Says he must use dynamite this time and then proceeded to salivate on my desk. Must be glandular disorder.

  March 2. Permit application for eight-foot-high electric fence. The building ordinance only allows six-foot-high, non-electrified fences. Have to refer this to Planning Commission. The applicant, Mr. Bear, was not pleased. Says he has “varmints” sneaking into his house and eating his porridge. Advised him to buy shotgun and not spend thousands on fence. He looked thoughtful at this.

  March 5. Girl in next cubicle still sleeping. Not so cute with all that drool.

  March 6. Mr. Wolf back yet again. Remarkably hairy and smelly. Raving about another illegal squatter on his property. A Mr. Swine. How does he attract these people? Says he will use bulldozer for demolition this time. Was pleased when gave him approved plans for barbecue pit and smokehouse. Was not pleased when informed of $500 fee.

  March 9. Slow day. One walk-in at front counter who wanted advice on environmental impact of killing frogs. Claims they are not endangered red-legged variety. Says frogs are always entering her house and asking her to kiss them. Talking frogs? I suspect she is eating magic beans, like Mr. Jack. However, in spirit of public service, instructed her to buy pesticide and sprinkle liberally around perimeter of house.

  March 10. Interesting application. Woman wants business permit to work at home, spinning straw into gold.
Classic cottage-industry ordinance. Refrained from pointing out impossibility of her business plan, as can still charge her application fee. She’s obviously crazy. Am I unethical? She paid fee in real gold coins.

  March 11. Mr. Jack the farmer in. Asked him if has cut down beanstalk. Hemmed and hawed, then changed subject. Said he grows mulberries. Big problem with monkeys and weasels running all around mulberry bushes. Sometimes weasels go pop and explode. Very messy. Wants to know if he can get depredation permit to shoot monkeys and weasels before they make messes of his mulberry bushes. Referred him to Fish & Game Department. Note: must make site visit to see if beanstalk cut down or not.

  March 13. Strange day. Never seen such short people in my life. Seven short men (all with long beards) applied for mineral extraction permit. Were displeased to hear they needed grading and excavation permits as well. Ka-ching! $1500 at one go! Gorgeous girl waiting in lobby. Turns out she’s with the short men. Why do the freaks get all the awesome ladies?

  March 14. This building needs better security. Being a public servant is a good job, but sometimes the public needs to be kept out. Little boy in stupid blue outfit marched up to my desk and blew his horn. Gave me a heart attack. Informed me he was looking for his sheep. Do I work for the SPCA? Blew his horn again. I called security on him. Submitted memo about building security to Mr. Stanley. His office door was locked.

  March 15. Sleeping drool girl still at it.

  March 18. My first lawsuit. Mr. Troll stomped in and informed me is suing me, entire Department, and the Gruff family for trespassing, aiding trespass, etc. Very ugly man with deep voice. Kept my cool and told him must address concerns to our Legal Department. Clever move on my part, as they require forms to be filled out in triplicate, 7 different languages, and Braille. They will then lose his file for a minimum of 1 year.

  March 19. Yet another code enforcement complaint. Apparently, local juvenile delinquent by name of Wee Willie Winkie has habit of running through town in his nightgown. This happens late at night. Delinquent Winkie raps on windows, yells questions about whether children are in bed. Obviously disturbed. Some kind of adolescent peeping Tom. He is the one who should be in bed. This has nothing to do with Planning Department. Shall refer to Sheriff’s office.