Murphy’s Luck

by Benjamin Laskin

  Neither of Johnson’s horses got an early rail position, but as they rounded the clubhouse turn, the first turn past the grandstand, both were at least hanging onto the cluster near the front of the pack.

  Then, along the backstretch, Star Thrower began to charge, and pulled up neck and neck with the second place horse, Cutting Mustard.

  “‘Atta boy, Star Thrower!” Johnson shouted. “Run buddy, run!”

  Johnson glanced up at the big screen to get a better look at Bucking Thunder, his other pick. Both horses had to place first or second, and Bucking Thunder was on the outside, barely holding onto fifth place.

  “Pick it up Bucking Thunder,” he cried. “Pick it up!”

  Star Thrower pulled half a length ahead of Cutting Mustard, who dropped to third, and began to challenge the leader, Sneaky Sneakers, as they approached the final turn.

  Bucking Thunder started to show some grit and moved into full attack mode. The horse stormed by Greased Lightning in fourth place, and then as the horses finished the turn, Bucking Thunder emerged in third place, having stampeded past Cutting Mustard.

  Johnson hopped up and down and yelled, “Go boys, go!”

  Bucking Thunder was on a rampage, closing the gap between him and the two leaders, Sneaky Sneakers, and just a nose behind, Star Thrower.

  Now down the homestretch, Bucking Thunder, sticking to the outside, sprinted towards the finish, as Sneaky Sneakers, inch by inch, gave way to Star Thrower, who was now in first place.

  But Bucking Thunder wasn’t having any of it. Like a bullet, he shot forward, blasted past Sneaky Sneakers, and was now challenging Star Thrower for the lead.

  With just over a furlong remaining, Johnson could scarcely contain himself as the three horses fought for the top position.

  “Run you sons of bitches! Run…!”

  Bucking Thunder not only pulled into first place, but he was leaving nothing but dust behind for Sneaky Sneakers and Star Thrower. Johnson was leaping up and down, cheering at the top of his lungs. It was now up to Star Thrower.

  “Come on Star Thrower, don’t let me down!”

  Star Thrower and Sneaky Sneakers battled it out for second place—Star Thrower … Sneaky Sneakers … Star Thrower … Sneaky Sneakers… And then before Johnson knew it, the finish line was just yards away. Bucking Thunder blew past the finish, followed by…followed by…?

  “Yes!” Johnson screamed, punching the sky in jubilation. “Yes!”

  It was Star Thrower in second by a head. Johnson hopped, hooped, and hollered, and then he danced a jig. He had not only just won back his losses for the day, but he was going to leave with a small fortune to boot.

  “Yeah, baby!”

  Johnson looked around, wanting desperately to share his victory, but everyone was busy either high-fiving or consoling one another in their own excitement or disappointment, as the case was. Johnson turned to check on the couple. The newbie girl had won something again, and she and her new boyfriend were in the middle of a long, passionate, congratulatory kiss. Johnson observed the couple for a moment, but then, self-conscious and not wanting to be caught gawking, he turned away. He squeezed past the other spectators and headed towards the cashier to cash in his winning ticket.

  Hexed

  The following morning, Brock Parker, his phone to his ear, stood outside police precinct station #31, just out of reach from the pouring rain. He was listening to Joy’s cheerful voice: “…So leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!”

  “Joy,” he spoke into the phone. “I—”

  A flash of lightning lit the sky and he lost his connection. Brock swore at the heavens and swung his fist in frustration. “Dammit!”

  He pocketed the phone and entered the small but busy police precinct station. On one wall hung white boards, bulletin boards, and printouts of the FBI’s most wanted. Another wall displayed large, framed photographs of the president of the United States, the governor of California, the city’s mayor, and the chief of police.

  Brock spotted Johnson at the entrance to a hallway at the end of the room. Johnson was talking to another officer, Officer Sarich, a young cop, new to the precinct. The two of them were laughing it up. Brock headed over towards them.

  As Brock approached he encountered the usual greetings from fellow officers and precinct personnel. Parker replied accordingly, “Krane, how ya doin’, buddy? … What’s up, Bauer? … Duret, how’s it hanging…?”

  Then Brock came to a portly woman of forty with a white skunk streak through her hair. Her name was Lucy, and she worked the phones.

  Lucy smiled up at Parker. “Good morning, Detective Parker,” she greeted. “Some weather, huh?”

  Brock Parker opened his mouth to return the salutation, and then remembered the hex that the damn tarot reader had put on him. And so he nodded, smiled, waved, lowered his head and picked up his pace.

  Lucy frowned.

  Next he saw a woman officer headed right for him. It was Officer Menéndez, a no-nonsense, tough-looking lady with a butch haircut and built like a short stack of car tires. He smiled and waved, hoping to breeze right past her, but she halted in front of him.

  “Hey, Parker,” she said requesting his attention.

  “Mmm?”

  “We might have a lead on the bank robber perp. Johnson’s got the details.”

  Parker gave Menéndez the thumbs up.

  “Oh, and unfortunately the lab came back with a big nada on that ski cap you found. No telling how many people had worn that thing.”

  Parker knit his brow and shook his head in disappointment.

  Menéndez slapped Parker on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. If anyone can find that cabrón, you will.”

  Parker smiled in grim determination, and gave the woman another thumbs up.

  Menéndez squinted at Parker, shook her head, and walked off.

  “What the hell am I doing?” Brock muttered.

  Johnson spotted Parker and raised his chin in acknowledgment. Parker returned the gesture and saw Johnson exchange playful punches with Sarich, slap the young officer on the back, and then stride to meet him.

  “Who’s the rookie?” Parker asked Johnson.

  “Sarich. New arrival. Nice guy. I told him the three of us would grab a beer sometime. Let’s go.”

  “Gladly. Whattaya got?”

  “A call from the bank that was knocked off two weeks ago. The bank manager said that when reviewing the security video one of his employees thought he recognized the guy.”

  “Through his mask?” Parker said, dubious.

  “By his shoes.” Johnson reached into the inner pocket of his duster coat and withdrew a blown-up photo of a tennis shoe.

  “Do you know how many pairs of sneakers are sneaking about the streets of LA?”

  “Sneaky sneakers?” Johnson said, recalling his evening at the races.

  “White Nikes,” Parker clarified. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Right,” Johnson said. “But of those how many have a big mustard stain on the left toe?”

  Parker grabbed the blown-up photo and held it up for closer inspection. Indeed, it did look like there was something smeared across the toe of the shoe.

  Parker said, “It’s a black and white photo, so how do we know it’s mustard? It could be ketchup or a bird turd for all we know.”

  “Right, but according to the bank manager, they are certain it was mustard.”

  “Hmm, well let’s go check it out. It’s our only lead.”

  As they walked towards the precinct exit, Parker waved, smiled, saluted, or gave the thumbs up to each woman employee they passed.

  Johnson said, “What are you doing, running for mayor?”

  “Just trying to be friendly.”

  Parker and Johnson exited the police station and dashed through the rain to their car. Johnson drove.

  Once out of the parking lot and on the street, Parker said, “So, this bank manager, it’s a man, right?”

 
“Yeah, so?”

  “Just curious.”

  Johnson shook his head. “Man, I hope you work this business out with Joy soon ‘cuz you’re teetering on the edge, pal.”

  “Edge?”

  “Cliff’s edge. The abyss, Parker. Get a grip and take my advice for once—women would rather be hated than ignored. Ignore her and she’ll be running back into your arms. In the meantime, treat yourself to a little fun.”

  “I’m cool, stop worrying.” He looked out the window, and in the hopes of changing the subject said, “LA drivers and rain don’t mix. I can hear the squeal of sliding tires already.”

  The police radio crackled and a female dispatcher’s voice said, “We got a three-car collision on Highway 1 North.”

  Johnson arched an eyebrow. He glanced at Parker and saw him smacking his forehead.

  “Parker, Johnson, in the neighborhood?” the dispatcher said.

  Parker grabbed the mike and offered it to Johnson. “It’s for you.”

  Irked, Johnson snatched away the mike. “Sorry, no can do.” He slammed the mike back into its holder and scowled at Parker.

  “Got a frog in my throat, okay?” Brock said, and cleared his throat.

  Johnson glared at the road ahead. “One foot over the edge, pal. One foot over the edge.”

  Parker thought back to The Fool card and the picture of the oblivious Fool about to prance off the cliff. He turned in confession to Johnson, but then he changed his mind. Under his breath he cursed the tarot reader for playing with his head.

  Cutting Mustard

  Detectives Johnson and Parker entered the branch bank of California Trust and shook the rain from their trench coats.

  The branch bank was small with only three teller windows. Near the back was a desk where an elderly couple sat discussing their financial matters with an attractive customer service representative. To the left was the office of the bank manager. They scanned the bank and noted the security cameras.

  Johnson and Parker walked up to an open window and flashed their badges to the smiling teller, a young man in his late-twenties, dressed in suit and tie. His name badge read: Louis Minor. Parker thought he appeared all the banker, except for the telltale sign of revolt that peeked out from beneath his cuffed sleeve; a fragment of a tattoo that Parker figured covered his entire forearm.

  “Good morning, is Lewis Major around?” Johnson asked. “He’s expecting us.”

  “One moment,” said the teller. He locked his drawer and disappeared into a back office, returning promptly. “It’s that door there,” he said pointing. “Just knock and enter.”

  “Thanks,” Johnson said.

  “Get that?” Parker whispered.

  “What?”

  “The kid’s name is Louis Minor.”

  “So?” Johnson said.

  “The manager is Lewis Major.”

  “So?”

  “Louis, Lewis. Same name, different spelling.”

  “So?”

  “Major. Minor.”

  “So?”

  “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “No, but you sure are.”

  Lewis Major, in a blue suit and red tie, was a fifty-nine-year-old, white-haired, mustached man. He rose from his chair and greeted the officers with a handshake. Parker noted the tidy desk, family photos—clearly in need of updating by the look of the color of the banker’s dark hair—and LA Dodger memorabilia, including a signed baseball.

  “Did you fellas have a chance to see the video clip I sent over?” Major said, skipping the small talk.

  “I did,” Johnson said. “My partner here just saw a photo.”

  “I have a few questions if you don’t mind,” Parker said.

  “Of course, but you’d do better talking to the employee who spotted the shoe and knows something about it.”

  Mr. Major stepped out the door and called to the customer service representative.

  “Ms. Tarrow…? Could you come here a moment, please?”

  Wanda Tarrow, a leggy and fetching brunette in a clingy red dress rose from her desk. Having just finished with her consultation, she excused herself from her customers, handing the elderly couple some brochures to examine at home.

  “Tarot?” Parker said.

  Mr. Major noted the awestricken look on Brock Parker’s face. He gave the detective a playful elbow in the side. “Yes, Wanda Tarrow,” he said. “I know. Hard not to notice. And for what it’s worth, she is as single as she is sharp.” He winked.

  “Single?” Parker squeaked.

  Johnson slapped his partner on the back and said, “It’s your lucky day, Parker. I’m going to step aside and let you do that hoodoo I know you can do.”

  “Hoodoo…?” Brock said. But before he had a chance to object, Wanda Tarrow walked up and held her hand out very business-like.

  “Hello, gentlemen. Wanda Tarrow, how can I help you?”

  Johnson and Brock shook her hand. Johnson waited for Parker to say something but Brock just bobbed his head, a stupid grin on his face.

  Finally, Johnson said, “I’m Johnson and this is Detective Parker.”

  Ms. Tarrow said, “Shall we go to my desk?”

  She turned and the men followed. Parker’s jaw dragged along the carpet, his peepers fixed to the woman’s shapely backside.

  Johnson hissed to Parker, “Quit acting like a fool!”

  Wanda Tarrow took her seat and the men pulled up chairs.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Johnson pinched Brock’s leg.

  “So, ah, Ms. Tarrow, would you mind telling Detective Johnson sitting here next to me on my left,” Brock swung his head and looked directly at Johnson, “…if you were working at the time of the robbery.”

  “Um, no, I wasn’t,” she answered, unsure which detective she was addressing. “It was my day off.”

  Parker, his eyes still glued on Johnson said, “So, Detective Johnson, if it was Ms. Tarrow’s day off, how could she know that it was mustard and not ketchup on his shoe?”

  “Ketchup?” she said.

  “Or paint or mud? The videotape, after all, was in black and white.”

  Johnson and Parker stared at each other; Johnson in disbelief at Parker’s cringe-inducing behavior. Johnson pivoted his head to Wanda Tarrow, but Parker’s head didn’t budge.

  “Ma’am?” Johnson said.

  “Yes, well, you wouldn’t know it on a rainy day like today, but usually there is a hot dog vendor across the street. I often grab a dog there on my lunch and sit in the park around the corner.”

  Parker whipped out a notepad and clicked his pen. As he scribbled he said, “Grabs wieners in the park. Yes…?” His eyes remained stuck to his pad.

  “…So,” Ms. Tarrow continued, “after a while, you know who the regulars are, and in the week previous to the robbery I noticed a new face. A man, about six foot, dark hair, medium build—”

  Still staring intently at the pad, Parker said, “What color eyes, Detective Johnson?”

  Johnson shook his head in embarrassment.

  Not sure what to make of these Keystone Cops, Ms. Tarrow said, “He wore sunglasses. I don’t know. … Are you guys okay?”

  Johnson said, “Oh jeez, I’m sorry, ma’am.” He put his arm around Brock. “You see, my partner here recently got his heart broken and, well, he’s feeling a tad intimidated by your beauty—no offense intended—Ms. Tarrow, ma’am.”

  Stunned, but flattered, she looked at Brock and flashed a sympathetic frown. “I know what you are feeling,” she said. “I recently went through that my—”

  “Mustard!” Parker blurted. “Detective Johnson, ask Ms. Tarrow about the mustard, please.”

  Johnson nodded regrettably to the pretty woman in verification of his partner’s disturbed mental state.

  Ms. Tarrow said, “I saw this man the day before the robbery. You see, usually you need to pump the mustard container a number of times before the mustard comes out, but it had obviously just been filled and this man squirted a big glo
b that covered his dog and dropped onto his shoes. I’d have pointed it out to him but he was too busy yelling at Frank, the hot dog vendor. Isn’t that funny, a man named Frank who sells frankfurters? I love that. And get this, Frank’s last name—Bunman. Bun. Man. Frank Bunman, the hotdog vendor! Life cracks me up sometimes.”

  Brock leaped to his feet. “Gotta make a phone call,” he said urgently, and hurried out of the bank.

  “Wow,” Wanda said. “He’s really in bad shape.”

  “Pathetic, isn’t it? I’d better go see if he’s okay.”

  “That’s sweet of you. You’re a good friend, I can see.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” Johnson said. “If you have a card or…?”

  “Sure. Call me anytime. And in case I’m not here…” She flipped the card over and wrote another number. “This is my cellphone.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch real soon.”

  Ms. Tarrow smiled coquettishly. Johnson returned the flirtation with his own debonair smile.

  Back in the car, Brock was shaking and tapping his cell phone. He noted the ugly weather and saw lightning strike a tall building in the distance. He flashed back to The Tower card he drew from the demonic tarot reader the previous day, and the picture of a tower exploding from a bolt of lightning. He recalled the woman’s words: “Your life is about to be turned upside down, Mr. Parker, causing you to reevaluate everything you now believe…”

  “I’m losing it,” he muttered.

  Just then the driver’s door flung open and an irate and wet-headed Johnson jumped into the car. “What’s the matter with you?!”

  “Huh?”

  “That Wanda chick was hot!”

  “Who?”

  “The bank lady, you idiot.” He waved her card in front of Parker’s eyes. “Wanda Tarrow.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know…”

  “All you had to do was act normal.”

  “Do you believe in fate, Johnson?”

  “What? See what I mean? Normal people don’t ask that question! This is what I think of fate.” He flung Ms. Tarrow’s card at Parker. It hit him on the forehead and dropped onto his chest. “If you don’t call her, I will.”