The Unstable One: A Murphy Thriller Book 1 (Markus Murphy)

by Mike McCrary

  Is this becoming normal?

  The violence, the blood, is this what I am now?

  Murphy picks up the note next to the pills. Same style. Same quick, simple sentences. Same shit about being safe.

  Markus Murphy, you are safe. Your medication has been adjusted. Take one of each with food morning and night. Do this then leave to your new job at 8pm. Don’t talk about last night. Not with anyone.

  Below the message are two images. Pictures. Both printed in color. Both are photos of Murphy asleep. The first is of him asleep in a filthy room with faded flowers on the walls. The room from before. Below that is a photo of him asleep in the plush room he’s in right now.

  A part of Murphy peels away.

  He, of course, knew people were watching him. Trying to control him. But something about seeing full-color, glossy photos of it in action is beyond unsettling. The mind can protect itself from the ugly reality of things, but it is hard for even Murphy’s brain to go into safe mode looking at these. He lets the photos drop to the floor as his eyes stare out, as if looking through the walls that hold him captive.

  Who the hell is doing this?

  What do they want?

  Murphy slumps down into the chair, attempting to walk it back. Sifting through the insanity.

  What do I know?

  What facts do I actually have?

  They’re watching. They want him to know they are on him. To know that they are in control. Maybe they want him guessing. Off balance. They want him fully aware they are working the strings and moving him along as they see fit.

  He looks at the devil tattoo on his arm. The one he can now safely assume they gave him. It itches like hell. The spiderlike veins around it have faded. All but disappeared. The redness has become a pinkish hue. A new, fresh coat of cream or ointment has been applied with a clear tape of sorts covering it.

  His mind skips back to last night.

  While he was sleeping, there was the feeling like he was being moved. Handled. He recalls the prick of needles. The warmth of things. Of chemicals entering his flesh and bloodstream. Fear creeps in again, then fades away just as quickly. As if his brain has trained itself to push it all away upon impact.

  He remembers what he saw on his fingertips. The blood that was streaming from his eyes like tears. The idea melts the second it hits his mind, like butter on a hot skillet. He can’t hold on to a single thought for more than a moment. Despite all this, there’s a layer of calm coating those thoughts. He can’t believe he’s waging a war between anxiety and calm. One being fought inside the same person. The same head.

  His hands shake.

  He shakes them back.

  They stop. He pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s amazing.

  He doesn’t have much time before his new job—assuming he can make it out of the room without his head blowing up. He knows this new life of his will start with or without him. Taking in a deep breath, he pulls the room service cart closer.

  Can’t help but feeling like he’s letting them win, but he’s starving.

  A shower would be nice.

  Staring at the breakfast, he lets his thoughts hum through a plan. He can’t believe his acceptance of all this. How easy it is all becoming. The strange sensation of being disgusted with himself, yet okay with it. A part of him wants to run.

  There’s another part of him that wants to see what happens next.

  Murphy picks up a fork.

  The omelet melts as it hits his tongue, just like he hoped it would.

  Chapter 8

  The hotel lobby mirrors the look and feel of his room.

  A place designed to impress.

  High-end people from around the world roll in with high-end luggage speaking a variety of languages, all looking indifferent to be where they are. Designer clothes. Jewelry that sparkles under the lobby’s crystal lighting. Men in burgundy suits with matching ties hold open the doors. Some of the better hotels still staff actual people rather than automate. Studies show that the wealthy enjoy tipping more than originally thought. The ego receives a jolt from seeing gratitude from those with less. Humans serving humans still passes the sniff test for the upper class.

  Murphy takes it all in as he cuts a path through the large open floor.

  He scans over everyone. Checks their eyes first to see if they are looking back at him. Wonders if these unknown fans of his that lurk in the night, moving him from place to place, are still here at the hotel. If they are on him all the time. He also pays close attention, checking everyone’s hands.

  Are they empty?

  What are they holding?

  Are hands holding potential weapons stuffed in pockets out of view?

  He makes a lightning-fast assessment of each person. Never pausing his progress toward the men in burgundy at the door. Pushing hard toward the exit without rushing is difficult. A burst of cool night air blows in as they open the doors up ahead then quickly close. He can feel the freedom out there.

  So close.

  But there will be no freedom until he finds who’s pulling his strings. Hates the idea, but he knows he has to play their game until he finds a way to beat it.

  When that happens, God help them.

  In the middle of the lobby, a four-foot glass vase stuffed with long red roses sits on a massive oak table. Murphy takes note of its size. Takes note because while he might not pick it up easily or push it onto someone, he could put a bullet in the glass to create a helluva diversion if needed. He doesn’t bother questioning why he’s thinking like this.

  “Car?” Murphy hands a short man in burgundy some folded cash.

  “Driver or the other thing?”

  “Other thing.” Murphy has no desire to roll the dice on some chatty-ass driver.

  The short man in burgundy nods, squeezes the cash, then holds open the door. They step outside into the cool, crisp air. The streets are packed tight tonight, as with most evenings. Central Park is alive across from the hotel. Murphy can see a decent-sized crowd has gathered at the park. The yelling can be heard even over the honking cars and roaring trucks. Bodies sway, heads bob and jerk, with signs being waved back and forth. Someone with a bullhorn rants a series of chants.

  “Hey, man.” A bearded man wearing a torn, dirty denim jacket rushes toward Murphy.

  Murphy inches his hand closer to the Glock tucked behind his back. Reading the desperation in the bearded man’s eyes, he pulls his hand away from the gun.

  The much shorter doorman rushes in, holding the bearded man back. “Get out of here,” the doorman snaps. “Not today.”

  “Come on, man,” the bearded man says, pointing back toward his yellow cab parked near the entrance. Looks like it’s barely functioning. “Gotta eat.”

  “Take that one, sir.” The doorman points Murphy to a white Cadillac with blacked-out windows.

  “That’s great.” The bearded man spits his words as the doorman pushes him back. “How we supposed to scratch out a living with this bullshit?”

  “Hey.” Murphy looks into the eyes of the angry cab driver. His feelings are mixed. “What does a ride to West 52nd run me?”

  “For you? Less than ten, friend.”

  “Ten? That a joke?”

  The driver waves his hands wildly, yells something.

  “Fair enough.” Murphy stuffs a twenty down into the driver’s pants then gives him a hard spank on the ass.

  Murphy slides into the backseat of the Cadillac sealing himself off from the rest of the city. He surprised himself back there. Feels an odd, certain sense of accomplishment. Part of him wanted to help while the other would rather shoot the driver than listen to him speak. Finding the midpoint between decent human and complete asshole is something new. A delicate dance no one has bothered to show him the steps.

  A tickle starts at the back of his head.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closes his heavy eyes for a moment of peace. He can still hear the muted aggression outside but feels safe inside this contain
ed cocoon of a car.

  The doors lock.

  The car is empty with a long display that stretches along the bottom of the windshield. No steering wheel on the driver’s side. He recalls hearing the companies tried out steering wheels with people-like things made of latex and plastic bolted into the driver's seat. Thought it would make consumers more comfortable during this technological transition. It didn’t test well. Creepy as hell.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” the car asks in the thickest Brooklyn accent ever. “You a returning customer or what?” The sound of his voice is full-on nails on a chalkboard.

  Murphy winces. “Not sure. Feels like I might be.”

  “Want your saved settings?”

  “Anything but you.”

  A second of silence. Some soft clicks. He sees the small lens on the rearview mirror zero in on him scanning his face. A new voice speaks.

  “Hello. Welcome back, Mr. Murphy.” The woman’s voice is sweet and charming. Like a friendly soul who’s happy to be driving you around. “I’m Amy. Where would you like to go today?”

  Markus Murphy appears at the bottom of the windshield. No surprise he has no memory of riding in one of these but doesn’t doubt that he has. Next to his image is a fake picture of Amy. She’s an algorithmic generation of what the car thinks Murphy wants to see. A pleasant, attractive woman in a dorky librarian kind of way, but looks like she’s confident where she’s going.

  “Johnny Psycho’s on—”

  “West 52nd. Of course. There’s bottled water in the door, and I’ll load your normal presets as well. Should we stop and purchase your favorite bottle of whiskey?”

  Murphy’s eyes flare. This car knows more about him than he does.

  “What else do you know about me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What else can you tell me about me?”

  “Privacy restrictions prohibit the usage of data in this manner. Please review our user privacy policy at our website.”

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “Did you want the whiskey?”

  “No, no thank you.” Murphy looks through the tinted glass, considering the park and the protests. “Can you go around the park first?”

  “Certainly. That will add about thirty-six minutes to the drive. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah.” Checks his phone for the time. “That’s fine.”

  The car pulls out into traffic that moves slightly faster than a spirited stroll. The doorman and the cab driver still go at it outside the hotel. Pushing, fingers pointing, faces red with mouths flapping wide. There’s anger in the air. You can taste it. The car speakers play a news program. Murphy recognizes the British voice from the news show playing in his room.

  “It was only a few days ago,” the British man says. “We don’t know everything, do we? Not yet. Not sure who started it. The how, uncertain. The why, however, is clearer than crystal.”

  As the car crawls past Central Park, Murphy can see the crowds are not only near the hotel. They are spread out all over the park. Hundreds of people gathered. So much anger out there. Much like the cab driver. These are not tourists or wealthy Manhattanites walking spoiled pets. These are the working class. The heart and soul. People that make this city and country run.

  “Markets have fallen forty-eight percent over the last two weeks. The slowing global economy has been tapping the breaks for a while, but this feels like a tipping point. Companies are shutting their doors. Layoffs are stacking up with rumors this is only the beginning. The gap between wealth and poverty…”

  As they turn the corner, the park view opens up. In the distance, deeper into the park, Murphy sees plastic strips of yellow police tape stretched across some areas of the park along with barricades blocking off other sections. Officers hold people back. Faces locked in furious screaming. Fists waving. The tension of the streets is felt, even behind the protective glass and metal of the Cadillac.

  “People lost their lives in that New York park. Police and civilians. This Cash Clash, this Snobs versus Slobs. And there have been similar incidents as well. Los Angeles yesterday, four dead and another ten seriously hurt. Dallas, Chicago more of the same. London, France are seeing…”

  Murphy doesn’t have a solid memory of any of this but feels he heard about it all. He can’t picture anything about the events being described, yet nothing about it seems new to him. As if someone is recapping what he already knew but has forgotten.

  “There’s a war brewing.”

  A screen in the backseat shows a series of clips and footage. Blood pooled on a walkway. A woman holding her head while blood seeps between her fingers. Body bags being zipped up by people in dark blue windbreakers with guns and badges. A crying child held close by her mother and father. Spent shell casings being removed carefully from the grass and bagged. A man is hit in the head with a brick. A college girl placed in a choke hold. A cop shoved to the ground, pummeled with kicks as the sound of gunfire pops in the background.

  An intellectual American voice now joins in. “A lot of people fear this is all far from over. The majority of the futures markets are down across the globe. It’s only Saturday. To be kind, Monday’s open already looks like the Titanic.”

  “Amy.” Murphy clears his throat. “Find me some Guns N’ Roses.”

  “Yes, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Loud, please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Rocket Queen” rattles the windows. Murphy watches the park as he and Amy roll past. He pulls his phone hoping to see some mindless games to avert his brain. There’s not. Bare bones home screen. No distractions available. He tosses the phone next to him, letting it bounce on the leather.

  Can’t help but wonder what special brand of fun awaits in Hell’s Kitchen.

  Chapter 9

  Murphy walks into Johnny Psycho’s.

  It’s the smell of the bar that tugs at Murphy.

  Plays with his head as if turning a crank.

  Bars have a certain thing. There are smells collected from all the previous nights that hang in the air. They take up residence in the walls and floors. Every bar is slightly different too. Maybe it’s the night after night of shepherding men and women in and out, all looking for similar but different things. All in the service of seeking laughs, fun, love or to forget about all of the above.

  There’s a thing people give off from emotions. It’s an animal thing. Subtle, mostly, but if you stuff a pack of those people close together night after night it all starts to accumulate. The constant release of primal human chemicals does something to a space.

  Becomes part of it.

  Digs into the very foundation.

  That and all the booze, vomit and urine over the years have a way of altering the feel of an establishment. Murphy knows bars. Knows them very well. There’s a familiarity to the energy of a place like this.

  As with most things for him, as he’s coming to realize, he feels a sense of knowledge and experience but cannot attach any real memory to that knowledge or experience. Couldn’t tell you a story of how or why. No way to access it. No way to tell someone—or himself—where or when he experienced what he thinks he knows. He’s never been to Johnny Psycho’s, but there’s knowledge of this place all the same.

  The actual bar area is a visual buffet of good times and bad. A massive mirror has stickers plastered across it. Some old, some new, all decorate the long, tall reflective surface that could use a good cleaning. They announce various bands, brands of booze, and other odd items. Everything from New York college soccer to sex lubricants.

  There’s no one behind the bar, actually no employees anywhere, but there are four people looking around as if they want a drink. Murphy moves around behind the bar. First day, make a good impression style of thinking.

  “Sorry about the wait. What can I get you?” he says to the four.

  Scanning them over, he takes in the tats that go up to their necks, and the clothes they wear. This is young money. Tech money he’
s guessing, considering the young masters of the financial universe have gone the way of the dinosaur in this city. Wall Street ain’t what it used to be. Even there, algorithms and tech heads rule the industry.

  Small batch, local bourbons and some imported ciders that give the illusion of innovative tastes. Murphy feels good being behind a bar. He works the bottles with ease, hitting the perfect pour on all four glasses of bourbon. He’s slipping into a skill he did not understand he had, yet possessed all along. He spreads his fingers along the bar getting the feel of it.

  He thinks of his memory. The one that lurks in the back of his jackknifed mind.

  The happy man and woman at the bar.

  Did I work with the two of them at a bar?

  Maybe?

  “You Murphy?” a voice thick like gravy asks.

  “Yeah.” He extends a hand. “Johnny?”

  “I am. Get me one of those.” Points his chin at the bourbon. “Pour one for yourself too.”

  Johnny is tall and wide. Long hair with an even longer beard and glasses that resemble Olympic gold rings.

  “Not going to argue.” Murphy grabs two glasses, giving them both a proper pour.

  He slides a glass over to Johnny. They clink them together with a nod then drain them fast. The burn feels amazing to Murphy. Something he’s been missing. He’s dying to ask Johnny so many questions he doesn’t know where to start. This man is the only living source he’s got.

  “Johnny—”

  Johnny puts up a hand, then places a finger to his own lips signaling Murphy not to speak.

  “One.” Johnny speaks low, looking down trying to hide his lips from whoever might be watching. “I don’t know much. And two, I can’t tell you a damn thing anyway.”

  Murphy nods. Understanding, while understanding nothing. His eyes scan the bar while pouring another round. The place is fairly empty. No one stands out to him.

  “Oh, and three.” Johnny downs his fresh snort. “You’re doing the wrong damn job.”

  “What?”

  “Supposed to be working the door.”