by Alma Boykin
Fledermaus Murphy: Tales from Riverville
Alma T.C. Boykin
© Alma T. C. Boykin 2015 All Rights Reserved
Cover Art: ©IKopylov| Dreamstime – Eye of Halloween Black Cat with Bat Pupil From Photo
Name: Fleder Murphy
The Downwind Hotel had seen better days before Fleder Murphy checked in. Gardens and a horse farm once surrounded the former mansion, making an island of civility and order outside the port city of Riverville. As so often happened, taxes, uninterested heirs, and development conspired against the old house. An airport grew up not far from the back porch as the crow flies and devoured the farm fields and paddocks. By the time Fledermaus Murphy arrived at the Downwind, cheap houses, cheaper cafés, and apartments of questionable quality jostled against the rear entrances of cargo warehouses, loading docks, and hangars on the blue-collar side of Riverville International Airport. Every night cargo jets and their smaller cousins lumbered in and out, shaking the Downwind with the sound of their passage.
Nothing on, around, or above the airport shook the manager of the old hotel, however. Randi Baker operated the Downwind for owner Elisha Washington, keeping order and making sure that the books balanced. Randi kept her motorcycle on the back porch and a shotgun under the front desk counter, “just because.” Like the hotel, the dishwater blond with horn-rim bifocals had seen better days. Her knees creaked almost as much as the loose board on the third floor, the one by the bathroom with the permanently dripping sink. Her shoulder forecast the weather better than any of the local TV weather people, something that the pilots who rented rooms from her appreciated. And when her back flared up, well, you’d best be ready to carry your own sheets and towels down to the laundry room door. But she always had a smile and at least a nod for the regulars as they came in and out.
The first wave of night departures had rumbled by overhead when Randi heard the doorbell chime. She turned down the TV and listened again. “Ching-ring, ching-ring.” Must be a stranger, she thought. The regulars all knew where the spare key was, in the rock beside the sick-looking Christmas cactus next to the attack yucca. Randi heaved herself out of her chair and walked to the desk, unlocking the door using the remote control. “Hi! Can I help you?”
She blinked as a man-sized bat walked in. A very high-pitched voice asked, “Do you have any long-stay rooms for rent? I’m new in town and Bunny recommended that I check here first.”
“Bunny Rabitov, the cargo pilot?”
“Yes, ma’am. He said the Downwind had clean rooms and no late-night parties.” The stranger set down two old-fashioned hard-side, brown leather suitcases.
Randi consulted her computer. “We do if you don’t mind a top-floor room. It can get loud if there’s a storm or when they are using runway Two Seven.”
“Top floor is perfect,” the stranger squeaked.
“How long do you need?”
Randi began typing as the stranger looked around the well-worn lobby. “At least a month, maybe longer, ma’am. I’d like to pay two weeks up-front.”
That suited Randi just fine. “Certainly. If you can sign here,” she pushed the big ledger book towards the newcomer, “and fill out this page, please. House rules are on the bottom and in your room on the back of the door. Initial beside the rules, please, and be aware that most of our guests work nights, so try to be careful when you come and go. Don’t slam doors.” She fished around in the pile of papers that she kept forgetting to organize and pulled out a list. “These are local eateries that have not poisoned anyone recently. These,” she circled two, “deliver here before ten p.m.”
The stranger picked up the pen with long, black fingers and scrawled, “Fleder Murphy” on the name line beside the day’s date. Randi took his credit card, saw that the person’s full name was Fledermaus B. Murphy, and ran the card. It cleared quickly and she handed him the slip to sign. “I go by Murphy,” he squeaked.
“Murphy. Got it. You got a local contact, in case I need to get you at work?” From out of a bandolier slung across his chest Murphy presented Randi with a business card. She read aloud, “Burnt Bean Coffee Shop. 333-555-1212. ‘Zat the new place up the road?”
He nodded. As Randi finished the paperwork, Murphy took a few steps back from the counter and stretched his arms. The webbing between Murphy’s arms and legs dimmed the light, but he looked clean and Randi couldn’t smell him, unlike some of the people who’d wandered in before they put in the night security system. She shrugged. Giant bat, freight dog pilots, as long as they paid on time and followed the rules she didn’t mind. Mr. Washington left the guest decisions to Randi.
“Ok, Mr. Murphy. Here’s your keys. The electronic one is for the door, between four PM and eight AM. The metal one is for your room. You have a toilet and sink in your room, but the shower is down the hall. Please clean up after yourself, especially if you have long hair. The plumbing can get stubborn if you don’t. No incense or air fresheners, no candles,” and she saw him wince and shake his head. “Breakfast is from five AM to nine AM, self serve. Everything else is on here,” and she folded a page and slid it with the keys. “Any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” Murphy squeaked. He folded the paper, took the keys, picked up his bags and waddled towards the stairs. Brad Cummins, one of the medical pilots, trotted down and almost flattened the newcomer.
“Gosh, sorry,” Brad apologized, picking up one of the dropped bags and handing it back to the bat. “My bad. See you, Randi.”
“Night, Brad. Don’t kill anyone.”
He shook his head. “I’ll pass the word to the medics. I just drive, remember?”
Murphy trundled up three flights of stairs to his room. He opened the door and smiled at the large windows. The hot water took a bit to really get flowing, but the toilet worked, and the bed did not have any insects in it. He put his bags down, washed his face, and combed his fur. That done, Murphy climbed out the window onto the fire escape and fluttered off to start his shift at the Burnt Bean.
After Murphy left, the computer in the main office of the Downwind locked up. Randi cursed, entreated it to behave, stomped her feet, and invoked a few deities before giving in and running a full system reboot. Typical, she sighed. Just when you really needed it, the computer went on the fritz. Now she’d be up late working on the bi-weekly bookkeeping.
The Burnt Bean and the Bat
Holly Williams heard two taps on the back door, a pause, then two more taps and a scratch. She set down the bag of coffee beans, threaded her way past the ovens and racks of pastries, and opened the door. “Sorry,” she apologized to the bat standing on the loading porch. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. When the bean grinder gets going I can’t hear anything.”
Fledermaus Murphy waved one of his front-leg claws. “I’d just gotten here,” he squeaked. “I’m not due in until ten.”
“Glad you are early, then, because Andy called in sick.” Holly shook her head and resettled the ball cap covering her short fuzz of black hair. “I think he has the three point two flu again, but maybe he really is sick this time. Since it’s quiet, once you clock in, the front needs sweeping and mopping. Then you can start unloading the next batch of cookies and muffins.”
“Will do.” Murphy hung the apron over his head and after some careful maneuvering got the back fasteners on the waist to close. He clocked in and found the broom and dustpan. As he swept out the front of the all-night coffee shop and bakery, Holly finished pouring the rest of the burlap bag of coffee beans into the roaster and turned it on. She’d filled the mop bucket for him by the time he finished sweeping. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Holly loaded five portafilters with gro
und coffee, three of house blend and two with Sumatran single source. She also started more house blend grinding. Just as the cycle started, three customers walked in and Holly groaned.
“Good evening! What can I get for you?” she called over the roar of the grinder and roaster.
An elderly lady whispered, “An Americano, please,” forcing Holly to lean in and listen very closely.
“What size would you like?”
She barely heard, “Venti.”
“One venti Americano,” Holly typed. “And you, sir?”
The teenager glared at the elderly woman and at Holly before rattling off, “Grandeespressosoymochadoubleshotwithwhip.”
“One grande espresso, two shots of mocha, soy milk, and how much whipped cream would you like?”
“Justalittle.”
Behind her, Holly heard Murphy getting the cups ready and starting two portafilters. She smiled, pleased with the new employee. “And for you, ma’am?”
A frazzled, tired woman who shared the teenager’s round face and lanky build hesitated, rocked back and forth, then decided. “I’d like a venti cappuccino with almond, skim, no cream please.”
“Are these for here?”
The woman looked at her companions, who nodded. “Yes.” Holly rang up the total and set to work filling the order as the bat finished mopping the last bit of floor.
“Dude, that’s a bat!” The teenager lost his carefully cultivated air of I-don’t-give-a-fig for several seconds before recovering.
“Shhh. Mind your manners, Arthur,” his grandmother shushed him, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard the boy.
The bat ignored the comment. Instead, Murphy scooted the heavy bucket out of harm’s way behind the counter for Holly to empty, and retreated to the back of the shop. He put on a hairnet, washed his claws, and rolled the tray rack to the front of the Burnt Bean. Murphy began lifting the cooling cookies and muffins out of their trays and into the display case. He’d almost finished when a timer dinged. Murphy scooted around one of the racks and peered into the oven. Then he returned to the front.
“Thanks. I’ll get this one.” Holly rolled the empty rack over to the oven as Murphy finished loading the last muffins into the case. Holly pulled four trays of bagels and two of bread out of the oven. She lowered the temperature and moved the rack out of traffic until the batch cooled enough to set out. “Can you mind the roaster?”
Murphy nodded. It was almost “rush hour” as the staff of the Burnt Bean called the combination of departure and shift change at the Riverville International Airport. Sure enough, the door opened and four men in white shirts, black pants and black ties came in, followed by two mechanics in blue shirts and pants. Holly began making drinks while Murphy alternated between watching the roaster and bagging food orders. Halfway through the first rush, the third night-shift employee, Wavy, appeared and took over serving the food so that Murphy could unload the roaster.
“Sorry I’m late,” Wavy explained during a lull. “There’s a wreck at the interchange that’s slowing stuff up. Tempers are probably going to be mean later tonight.” He shook his head, making the beads on his dreadlocks rattle a little even under his hairnet.
A few minutes later, as Holly frothed more milk and Wavy and Murphy cleaned up the counters after the rush, they heard a sharp “bang” and the lights went out. The humans and bat looked at eachother. “I’ll start the generator,” Holly groaned.
Wavy pointed to Murphy. “You can see in the dark, can’t you?” When Murphy nodded his agreement, Wavy suggested, “Let Murphy start the generator and I’ll work the breakers.”
“Good point. Thanks Murph,” Holly told him, smiling.
Not long after, they heard an all-too-familiar thumping and half the lights flickered back on. “Good thing we have a gas oven,” Wavy said, rolling the rack of cooled bread.
Murphy stuck his head out of the kitchen and waved the spare fuel can. Wavy took it and shook it. Nothing sloshed, and Wavy groaned, “Awww man. Was this the last one?” Murphy nodded and sighed.
Before Holly could reply, two more customers walked in. “Hey, you going for the romantic atmosphere?” Miranda Jessup called.
Wavy looked around the delivery rack and called back, “yeah. Wanted to get you into the mood,” and he wiggled his eyebrows.
The plump dispatcher rolled her eyes. “How about a grande Americano and a bran muffin?”
“We can do that.” Holly got the order. “And you, Ted?”
“The usual.”
Wavy called, “We got macadamia nut tonight.”
“Oh, then two macadamia instead of the oatmeal.” The semi-retired dispatcher had exact change and he and Miranda bantered with Wavy before taking their orders and going back to work.
Another wave of customers came in, emptying the bakery case. Murphy brought out more coffee and loaded the oven again before returning to work on the roaster. Wavy and Holly tended to the customers. Around two AM Murphy emerged from the back and swept the floor again, then dragged Holly to the back side of the roaster and pointed at the open panel.
“What’s that? The fuse again?” Murphy held up an empty fuse package. Holly put her hands over her eyes. She did not need this.
Wavy wandered in and looked over the problem. “Can we hot-wire it?” Murphy put his forefeet over his flat nostrils and shook his head so hard that his hairnet flew off. “Right. Now I remember hearing what happened the last time someone hot-wired a roaster. Forget I said anything.”
“How many times did the fire department come out? Twice?” Holly dropped her arms and shrugged. “We’re set for this morning, at least. OK, guys, keep working.”
At four the lights outside the Burnt Bean flickered and came back on. Wavy did a victory dance as he made a grande double mocha with hazelnut, whole milk, cream and sprinkles for the boss air traffic controller. Ten minutes later a crew from the power company came in for coffee and snacks. “Good work guys!” Wavy congratulated them.
“Thanks. You folks got any use for a well-done squirrel? That’s what blew the transformer. Again. We got the basics done so the main crew can put a squirrel-guard on after it gets light.” The lead lineman scratched under his helmet brim. “That makes, what, three in a month?”
“Only three?” Holly asked. “Sure feels like more. Really appreciate the work, gents. Cookies are on the house this morning.”
Murphy clocked out at five. Just before six, Holly left to get more diesel fuel for the generator. As she stood on the back loading porch watching the crew with the bucket truck at work, she heard Erasmus, the day manager, curse. “Aw damn! The phone went dead, taking the Internet and the credit card machine with it.”
Holly heard a voice from the bucket truck. “What idiot ties the phone line to the insulator? Jake,” someone called from overhead, “call the phone company, will you?”
The Plot Cat
Archie sipped his coffee and opined, “You need a plot cat.”
Rich gave Archie pained look and wondered if the older writer had been painting without enough ventilation again. “Cats don’t like me. And I’ve got no room for a cat. Not till I get this book finished and the rest of the contract comes through.” And that was the problem. He couldn’t finish the book because he couldn’t see where the story needed to go.
“Doesn’t matter if a cat likes you or not. Hell, Rich, cats don’t like anyone that likes them. And they never show up until you don’t need them. Hang on,” and Archie got up. He walked up to the counter and waved for attention. The large bat refilling the rack of muffins set the tray down. “Murph, I need a second Americano with a drop of Irish Cream. Just a drop,” the black man warned, smiling.
“Yes sir,” Murphy squeaked.
Archie returned to the table with a brimming cup. “Now, you say you can’t see where the story goes next?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the characters and the basic idea, but nothing’s working. The oompf, the action’s just not there.” Rich played with t
he plastic stirrer, tapping a rhythm on the table and the rim of the plate. “I’ve tried adding mystery, tried reversing roles, tried bringing in a minor antagonist, and thud. Hits the same damn brick wall.”
“You need a plot cat.”
As far behind as he was getting, Rich was almost willing to do anything to get the project moving, almost. “Can I borrow one, or rent it?”
“No, you have to get your own by yourself. They come to you if you look hard enough. Then it’s just a matter of working with it and finding what you need.” Archie knocked back the coffee as if it were a shot of whisky. Rich’s throat and gut cringed at the display. “You’ve got good characters, Rich, and if you can get this project whipped together, I bet it will do well. Not best seller well,” he cautioned, wagging a finger, “but solid midlist with a request for a sequel well.” He looked down at his watch. “I’ve got an appointment in half an hour. Get yourself a plot cat and go from there.”
“Thanks for meeting me this early,” Rich replied, also getting up. He started to collect their cups but Archie waved him off.
“That’s for Murph to do,” and he slid a couple bucks under the saucer.
Rich decided that he would rather go back to sacking groceries and doing data entry for an insurance company before he got a cat of any kind. “Plot cat,” he snorted as he climbed the steps to his apartment. “What’s it do, shed ideas all over? Drag dead story lines in and drop them in your sneaker? Cough up characters when you’re trying to eat?” He dropped into the chair at his desk and logged into his computer, then opened the novel file one more time.
He got two thousand words done on a transition scene. “Oh, this is stupid,” he told the apartment as he got up to stretch and get ride of the used coffee. “What happens before he gets into the woman’s car? And what happens after they get to the beach house by the factory?” He loosened his shoulders and drank a glass of water, then returned to do battle with the book. Nothing more came, although he found a few typos and one major oopsie. “No, he has black hair,” Rich grumbled as he corrected the manuscript. He fought the urge to check his e-mail or to go look for inspiration on that website that listed every plot device known to man.