by Mike McCrary
After he finished, Mother paused, took a sip of coffee, then her eyes went cold. “If those bitches fuck with those girls, they better stop worrying about you and start worrying about me.”
Murphy had never been more afraid of his mother.
While Peyton didn’t press him too much on the how or why of what happened, she did have questions about the severed hand that was found in his jacket. The severed hand of Ernesto. The one that unlocked the box Murphy had in his car. Murphy told her he found the box at Ernesto’s place and took it after his run-in with Agent Irving. The hand he was clueless on. There was some borderline truth to those statements as well.
Inside the box was Ernesto’s data and findings from all the work he’d done. Most of it was flawed or matched a lot of what Dr. Peyton already knew, but there was some interesting research around the “crashing” issue. Peyton matched his work with what she already had completed, a path she had already stared down with the temporary solution she gave to Murphy at the diner.
The findings were so simple it pissed her off. She was able to create a prescription cocktail that included the advanced Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor Peyton had been working on, modified to fit Murphy’s special circumstance, along with what amounted to a blend of pseudoephedrine and concentrated ibuprofen.
Dr. Peyton couldn’t believe she let the simplicity of a solution get bullied by the stubborn belief the answers must be something more complex. It happens with the best of analytical minds. A more intense treatment might become necessary for Murphy down the line, but for now, a daily dose of this combination of medications—along with weekly therapy sessions—and Murphy will be considerably more stable. Still a machine built for murder and mayhem, but one far less glitchy or volatile.
Murphy takes his place behind the bar at Johnny Psycho’s.
He breathes in deeply, placing his palms flat on the bar, feeling the nooks and crannies. He loves these private moments before a shift. He presses his fingertips harder and harder, searching for calm in the storm.
“Hey, Harper.”
Murphy snaps out of his trance. Almost forgot what they call him here. He smiles as the waitress passes by the bar.
She moved to New York from Colorado to study design a couple of years ago. Right-handed but can use her left remarkably well. Runner. Smart. Capable of shifting between charming and tough seamlessly when it comes to the customers. Murphy has been cold with her—to be fair, he’s kept everyone at arm’s length since he’s gotten here—but she’s wearing him down. She’s the only one at the bar, other than Johnny, he’s said more than six words to.
“Hey, Zoe.” Makes it eight words, with a more boyish giggle than he’d like.
“Try not to kill anyone tonight.”
Zoe disappears into the back. She was working the night Murphy beat down a few mountains of muscle while working the front door. He’s been trying to downplay the events of that night, but Zoe thinks it is great fun to bust his balls about it.
“She’s cute as hell.”
Murphy turns, finding Margo Darby sitting at the bar.
“Two bourbons, please.” She slides a card toward him. “Keep it open.”
Darby looks pretty good considering what happened to her. There are some wounds that are still healing on her face. Souvenirs of her car being attacked near the safe house. As she slides off her jacket, she reveals a few more scrapes and scratches that run along her ridiculously toned triceps. Murphy knows deep down Darby loves showing off her arms even more now that they have battle scars.
He gets it. Those arms and scars say a ton without uttering a word.
“The good stuff?” Murphy asks. “We have some almost drinkable, moderately priced stuff under the bar. I know you’re a government worker so—”
“The good stuff is fine. Thank you.”
Murphy one-hands two glasses while grabbing a bottle he keeps under the bar for himself.
“What brings you to New York, Special Agent Darby?”
“Been thinking.”
“Sounds awful.”
“When you left Ernesto’s place, how did you know to go to the safe house?”
“No hello?” Murphy pours, then pushes a glass toward Darby. “No how ya been, man?”
“We have the records from the car. How fast you went. How you went straight to the location without a hint of hesitation.”
“Irving.”
“Irving’s face was crushed. The closer was still on when we found what was left of his face. He couldn't tell you a damn thing, unless you put that on him.”
“I did not.”
“Okay, so—”
“He wrote it down. I found an old-ass legal pad and got him to spill what he knew.”
“Of course.” Margo snaps her fingers. “Do you have that piece of paper? For the file. Would be a big help. Ya know, to close things out.”
“I’ll look. Might have lost it during all we’ve been through.”
“Right.” Sips her drink, letting it coat her tongue before swallowing it down. “What do you know about Brubaker’s escape?”
“I know what you know. A ton of nothing.”
She leans in. “What are you hiding, Markus Murphy?”
“I’m an open book, Margo Darby.”
Darby nods. They drink. Neither one giving anything.
“You like working here?” She looks around. “This what you want to do with your life?”
“Very much so.”
“Might get bored. Exciting guy like you.”
“Like to try out bored for a while.”
“Okay. Try this on.” Darby places her elbows on the bar, folding her hands under her chin. “There’s work I can offer you. Projects, if you will. You pick and choose what interests you. Off the books. Autonomous, Murphy-driven gigs. Perhaps, just maybe, start with the person, or persons, you won’t talk—”
“Flattering, but no thank you. Like it here.”
“Think about it? You can only flirt with waitresses for so long.”
“Pretty sure I just told you what I thought.”
“Come on, Murphy.”
“How about fuck no?”
“You have to be a little curious. Right?”
“If you were right, I’d agree. But since you’re not—” Murphy downs his drink.
“One more?” Darby asks.
“Think we’ve had enough.” Murphy pushes her card back. “On the house.”
“Okay.” Darby grins, taking her card back. “Take care of yourself, Murphy.”
Murphy watches Darby disappear, swallowed up by the growing crowd. His shoulders creep up to his ears like earrings. His chest tightens. Fights to find an easy breath. The life he’s tried to suppress, the thoughts he doesn’t want, come flooding into his battered mind. Blurring fragments of moments. Faces of Brubaker and of Cain. The horrible sound of Irving’s bones crushing on the dirty floor at that house. Gunshots ring and rattle inside his head. The two bullets that took the lives of Hiro and Tinker. Two people who didn’t want to live with Murphy’s thoughts either. Rage pumps like poison through his pounding heart. He pours himself another drink. Slams it down immediately.
“Easy there, killer.” Zoe stands across the bar. “It’s early.”
Her playful name—killer—slides into the meat of Murphy’s mind like a switchblade.
“Hey.” Zoe scrunches her nose. “You okay, man?”
“No.” He holds her eyes.
“Okay.” She presses her lips together and nods, not needing to dig for answers.
Reaching under the bar, he pulls out a new, clean glass. Pours a healthy pour of the good stuff, slides it toward her, then treats himself to another. Zoe raises her glass. Murphy raises his.
“Let’s drink to…” Fake struggling to come up with a toast, she works that wonderful smile. “Good booze and simpler lives.”
The tension he drags around drops. Shoulders ease down. Murphy smiles back, genuinely, as if he’s given himself permissio
n to exhale. He thinks of what Emma Cain last said to him.
You’ve done good.
Time to rest. Time to carve out some peace for yourself.
“Absolutely.”
Coming Summer 2021
Coming in the summer of 2021. Book 3 in the Markus Murphy series…. PERFECT MONSTERS.
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Thank you so much,
Mike
Also by Mike McCrary
Markus Murphy Books
The Unstable One
Then the Dark
Stand Alone Books
Relentless
Genuinely Dangerous
The Steady Teddy Series
Steady Trouble
Steady Madness
Remo Cobb Series
Remo Went Rogue (Book 1)
Remo Went Down (Book 2)
Remo Went Wild (Book 3)
Remo Went Off (Book 4)
About the Author
Mike has been a bartender, dishwasher, investment analyst, and an unpaid Hollywood intern. He’s quit corporate America, come back, been fired, promoted, fired, and currently he writes stories about questionable people making questionable decisions. Keep up with Mike at…
www.mikemccrary.com
[email protected]
I say the same thing with each book and will continue saying it until it stops being true… you can’t do a damn thing alone. So, I’d like to thank the people who gave help and hope during this fun and occasionally nutty writing life.
If you’re reading this right now, you deserve the biggest thank you of all. Even if we’ve never met, you’ve been cool and kind enough to grab a copy of my book and give it a read. That there, my dear, friendly, gorgeous reader deserves one big as hell ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.
Thanks, good people.
If you keep reading. I’ll keep writing.
Mike McCrary
