Murphy spotted a policeman among the throng and came to an abrupt halt. He turned and saw two more policemen on motorcycles pull up along the boardwalk. No one thought anything was unusual about the policemen’s presence, but Murphy became anxious.
“What’s the matter?” Joy asked.
“Police.”
“So? They drop by regularly to discourage pickpockets and drug dealers.”
“I don’t want any more trouble with the police.”
Joy chuckled. “Then don’t make any.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
Joy noted Murphy’s growing concern. His murphometer was off the Richter scale. Murphy took off wading alertly through the crowd. Confused but intrigued, Joy trailed behind. “Murphy…?”
The crowd thickened and his progress slowed. A whining seven-year-old boy among a group of children, all holding balloon animals, distracted Murphy. A clown was trying to placate the obnoxious boy.
The pouting little boy said, “That’s a stupid dog like all the others. I want a Velociraptor!”
Frustrated, the clown said, “Give me a break, kid. They’re extinct anyway.”
The boy screamed, “Velociraptor! I want a Velociraptor!”
Murphy’s singled out three potentially dangerous situations. One: Far ahead he saw two men on rollerblades hurtling down the boardwalk, gracefully wending their way through the strolling pedestrians. Two: To his left he noted a crowd drawn to the antics of a couple of comic jugglers tossing juggling clubs back and forth. And three: the clown to the right.
“How about a giraffe, kid?” the clown begged. “Giraffes are cool.”
“Giraffes are pussies. They eat leaves. You suck, clown!”
Murphy scanned the vicinity. He listened and calculated, all his senses grasping for the thread that was about to unravel.
Concern in her voice, Joy said, “Murphy? What’s wrong?”
Murphy ignored her. He was trying to focus, but the bratty kid was interfering with his concentration.
“Velociraptor!” the boy demanded. “Velociraptor!” He stamped his feet, punched the clown in the stomach, and howled, “Velociraptor!”
Frustrated, Murphy said, “Oh, for crying out loud, son.” He grabbed a handful of colorful balloons from the clown’s shirt pocket, and in a flurry of blowing, twisting and shaping, he promptly produced a perfect Velociraptor.
“Here!” he said, stuffing the dinosaur into the hands of the dumbfounded kid.
“Wow,” the clown said, extremely impressed. “You’re good.”
Joy was equally amazed.
Murphy spun towards the jugglers. “Oh no,” he said, and raced off.
Halfway to the jugglers and sensing trouble, Murphy looked back just in time to see all the children’s balloons inexplicably begin to burst.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang…!
The children shrieked and wailed in a mix of fright and disappointment.
The policemen, unaware of where the ‘shots’ were coming from, snapped into action. “Everyone down!” They drew their guns and rushed through the crowd.
Balloons continued busting one after another—Bang! Bang! Bang…!
Screaming mayhem broke out as people hit the dirt or fled for cover.
Murphy saw that the tumult had distracted one of the jugglers, who reflexively turned to see what the commotion was about. Four clubs tumbled through the air, on course to strike the juggler and some equally distracted onlookers behind him in the backs of their heads.
Joy watched in awe as Murphy leaped in front of the juggler and snatched the clubs in midair, staving off another calamity. Without losing a beat, he expertly juggled all four clubs.
Meanwhile, the two rollerbladers continued winding through the panic-stricken crowd. They reached behind and pulled out rubber Halloween masks and put them on.
Murphy cried, “Joy, watch out!”
He stopped juggling and let two of the clubs drop to the ground. Powerless to do anything, he watched in horror as the first rollerblader slammed into Joy, knocking her flat, her head smacking hard onto the sidewalk.
The second rollerblader zipped up to Joy’s motionless body, nabbed her purse, and fled weaving through the crowd.
Appalled, Murphy said, “They did that on purpose!”
Murphy reared back his arm and whipped one of the juggling clubs at the purse-snatching thug. The club streaked tumbling through the air and struck the thief in the head. The man went sprawling, but not before he had pitched the purse to his partner.
The partner caught the purse and sped away. Murphy hurled another club. The club sailed high in the air like a pop fly. Heads craned to observe its flight. As if by laser-guided precision, the club thwacked the rollerblader in the back of the head. The criminal spilled to the ground, rolled over and over, and came to an unconscious halt.
Johnson, who had been wandering despondently along the boardwalk since his conversation with Freya, snapped from his brooding meditations. He hustled to the scene of the ruckus, just in time to witness Joy get bowled over and knocked to the ground by the first rollerblader.
“Joy!” Johnson raced over to Joy and kneeled at her side. “Joy, are you okay?”
Out cold, she did not reply.
Johnson gently lifted her head and discovered blood on his fingers.
Just then a cop ran up with Joy’s retrieved purse in his hand.
Johnson, cradling Joy in his arms, shouted to the cop, “Call an ambulance!”
Frozen with dread, Murphy muttered, “Oh no, what have I done? Not Joy!” He made a start to go check on her, but then noticed two cops pointing at him. Scared, and not knowing what else to do, he fled.
Parker PI
Brock Parker returned to The Parcae Cafe to pick up Johnson. During his absence he had gone to Joy’s apartment to try and talk to her one last time. There was no answer and her car was gone. He sought out the apartment’s superintendent, whom he knew casually. Using his badge, a pair of tickets to a Dodgers’ game, and a lousy excuse, Brock got the jolly, slow-witted man to open Joy’s door for him.
Inside, he saw Murphy’s suitcase and noted its tag. He opened the carry-on and lifted out a folded Lands End dress shirt that was sitting on top. Murphy Drummer was about the same size as Brock Parker and did his shopping online. He refolded the shirt and placed it back inside the luggage. Brock noticed a folded blanket and pillow on the wide arm of the sofa. He put two and two together, and came up with—relative?
But Joy never spoke of a Murphy or a Drummer to him, Brock thought. He’d have remembered a dorky name like that. An old friend visiting for a night or two? Maybe, but he doubted it. He was pretty sure he knew the few male friends that Joy had, and of those, the shirt he examined wouldn’t have fit any of them. Lover…? And then Brock Parker remembered something else the tarot lady had told him: “A person of mystery that you have yet to meet will play a key role.” Brock left heavy-hearted and confused.
···
Brock didn’t find Johnson waiting in front of the cafe, nor was he on the patio. It looked like the fortune-teller had picked up and left too. Brock pulled out his cell phone and saw no message. He gave Johnson a call, but Johnson didn’t pick up.
Did Johnson charm the tarot lady into a date? Johnson was quite capable of that, he knew. Better yet, he grinned snidely, did Johnson suffer the same whammy he had? Was he too now wandering crushed and dejected along the boardwalk or beach?
Before going looking for him, Brock decided to check with the hostess at the front to see if Johnson by any chance had left a message for him. He was about to enter the cafe when he heard Freya’s unmistakable voice trill, “Goodbye everyone. See you tomorrow.”
Brock quickly backed away and hid behind a nearby planter containing a six-foot Little Gem Magnolia tree. He peeked between the leaves and watched Freya stroll off down the sidewalk. Curious, he decided to tail her.
The first thing that became evident was that Freya didn’t own a car, or i
f she did, she didn’t drive to the cafe. She walked with purpose in her steps, but not in a hurry. Maintaining a safe distance, Brock had no trouble keeping an eye on her. Freya was tall, just a few inches shy of Brock himself, who topped six feet. Combined with her mane of long blond hair and colorful gypsy dress, she easily stood out in a crowd.
Ten minutes later, Freya turned left down a narrow side street. Brock spied around the corner and waited. The street was sparsely populated and he’d be spotted if he followed too closely behind. One block down, she turned right. Brock hustled down the street, which resembled more of a back alley than a street, and peered around the corner Freya had turned. The street had narrowed further to a pedestrian lane that led directly towards the back garden of a stately three-story home.
The woman’s loaded! That gypsy routine is just a scam. I knew—! And then he saw an inconspicuous sign on the wall at the entrance of the home. It read: Pacific Rest Nursing Home.
Brock watched as Freya entered the garden through an archway of sculptured shrubbery. She paused, looked left, then right, and then waved hello to someone and turned out of view.
Brock jogged towards the entry and followed an ivy-covered wall that ran the perimeter of the nursing home. On his side of the wall was a three-meter wide strip of recently mowed grass. He listened and picked up Freya’s voice. She had stopped moving. Brock drew up close to the wall, positioning himself tightly within the ivy, out of sight of anyone but an observant passing pedestrian.
Freya was speaking to a man, but Brock couldn’t make out what she was saying. She spoke in Swedish, and by her tone, it was to someone she knew well. Brock assumed it was a relative, father or grandfather most likely. He heard the man grunt once or twice, but nothing more than that.
Wanting a better look, he stepped back and searched for a means to lift his head above the wall. He tested the branches of the vine, but they wouldn’t hold his weight. He saw a wheelbarrow full of clippings from the recent maintenance and was about to fetch it when he heard another voice, this one a woman’s and in English.
“Lars wheeled himself out all by himself today, didn’t you Lars?” said the woman.
“And I see he got a haircut,” Freya said.
“Very handsome,” said the woman. “I’d love to see a picture of him from his strapping youth!”
“I’ll bring you one next time,” Freya said. “Father was quite the ladies’ man, weren’t you papa? I know just the picture. Father posing with his Olympic swim team!”
“Please do,” said the woman.
And then a pregnant paused followed. Brock strained to listen.
“Freya,” the woman continued. “I do hate to bring it up—”
“Today was a good day,” Freya interrupted. “Here…”
“Thank you,” said the woman. “You know such things make me very uncomfortable, but I’m just the messenger. I’ll hand this over to accounts, but I’m afraid you’re still a couple of months behind. We have a long waiting list; people who are willing to pay up front.”
“I understand,” Freya said. “It’s just, well, Father seems very happy here…”
“Yes, I do believe he is, but we are, in the end, a business.”
“Of course,” Freya said. “And take this.”
“A penny?”
“A lucky penny,” Freya chirped. “Look how shiny! Consider it my promise that I’ll have us up to date by the end of the month. I paint too, as you might know. I have some works currently at the Shooting Star Gallery on Vine Street. Do you know it? Very upscale! I have a good feeling about this exhibition.”
“I’ll pass on the word, Freya. But as you know, till the end of the month is all we have, and that’s just a week away.”
“I’m very optimistic,” Freya replied cheerfully.
“Well, that is one of the things I adore about you, Freya. I do hope things will work out. Lars is such a sweetie, and I’d be heartbroken to say goodbye.”
“You’re very kind, Molly. And I truly appreciate all you do, really.”
“Okay,” said the woman. “Thanks for your understanding. I’ll leave you two alone now.”
Brock turned and leaned against the vine-covered wall. He flashed back to his insulting penny and felt a twinge of shame. Yeah, sure, he thought, the woman was a crank. And, sure, she was playing with people’s gullibility. And, yeah, he felt angry that he had allowed himself to fall for her mind games. But recalling her gentle smile and demeanor, he still felt like a cad.
The woman was a human being after all, Brock thought, a person just trying to get by like most of us. Clearly she had her own set of troubles and crosses to bear. She was doing what she could. She demanded nothing from anyone, not even a tip. She was a struggling artist. LA was full of them—aspiring actors, writers, musicians, and artists of every kind. He came across one or more every day. And few, he thought, were as uncomplaining and cheerful as she was.
Brock found such reflections uncomfortable. He had always considered himself a nice guy. Tough on the outside, sure, he thought, but I’m a cop after all. He had known a lot of bullies in his life; assholes, he preferred to call them. He never liked them, and he never wanted to be one. But I was an asshole, he nearly muttered aloud.
He loitered for another few minutes and then decided to head back to the cafe to see if Johnson had shown. When he turned to leave, Freya reemerged. Brock stepped back and hugged the wall. He saw her stroll away. Now more curious than before, he decided to continue to tail her.
Freya walked for another thirty minutes. Brock noticed with disapproval that the neighborhood had grown increasingly run-down. He was tempted to scamper up to her and scold her for being so cavalier about her safety. Brock knew this neighborhood. Before becoming a detective it was one of his beats. It was notoriously criminal.
At the edge of the neighborhood where the worst lay ahead, Freya turned into a shabby, two-story, red-bricked apartment building. Graffiti covered the walls and wear-worn laundry hung from clothesline pulleys. Even from a distance, Brock could hear loud, violent-sounding arguments going on inside, both in English and Spanish. The shrill crying of babies was relentless. He sniffed at the air and detected the unmistakable smell of marijuana and the stench of rotting garbage.
Is this where she lived?
Brock considered following Freya inside, but he feared tenants would recognize him as a stranger, possibly even a cop. He didn’t want that. He had been inside that building more than a few times, usually to break up a drug deal or on a call of domestic violence.
He doubted its layout had changed over the years. If memory served him, on the backside of the building were rows of kitchen windows. He decided he’d have a look-see before returning to the cafe and his car.
Brock jogged the apartments’ perimeter. He noted the litter, abandoned and broken children’s toys, used condoms and junkies’ needles. What little lawn remained from better days was brown, and the lot was mostly dirt and weeds. He grimaced and shook his head. Things had only gotten worse since the days of his beat.
A gust of wind sent a page from a newspaper wrapping around his shin. Brock stopped and peered down. He squinted at the page and then peeled it from his leg. He held it up to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. He looked skywards. “Very funny.” Brock flung away the paper in irritation and muttered, “The guy never did any cool outdoor stuff.” The Greatest Hobby of All hitched a ride on the next gust of wind and fluttered off.
Brock continued his jog to the back of the building. There, he saw the rows of windows—most were minus their screens, many were cracked, and all of them were covered with a film of lacquer-like grime.
One window was suddenly jerked upwards and open. Brock scurried to the side of the window and waited. After a moment, he hazarded a peek into the apartment.
Not wanting to chance being caught peeping by either Freya or someone walking onto the scene, Brock took in a quick ocular gulp, pulled back, and then walked away. The couple se
conds of snapshots his eyes recorded satisfied his curiosity.
As he walked he replayed the pictures, thumbing them across his mind’s screen like one might his smart phone:
Freya lived in a one-room efficiency, windowless except for the one over the kitchen sink. He had noted the single bed, made-up, and with fluffy pillows at the head. No headboard, just a wall. One old, pea-green, probably third-hand stuffed chair, which, by the clothing draped over its arms and back, seemed to be used more as an armoire than a chair.
He saw an artist’s easel in the center of the room, a strait-back wooden chair before it, and alongside the chair a plastic crate upon which the woman’s various painting supplies rested. Against one wall were at least two dozen painted canvases, but in his short glimpse he couldn’t make out the quality of the paintings, only that they were very colorful.
What surprised him the most was the sight of a big, tail-wagging St. Bernard, thrilled to have his master home. In the dog’s mouth was a leash. He growled and gave it a demanding shake in anticipation for what Brock assumed meant an imminent walk.
“Loki!” he heard the woman laugh. “Yes, yes, I’m happy to see you too! Just give mama a minute and we’ll be on our way, okay?”
Brock felt more sorry for the dog than he did Freya. It must have been tough for a big dog like that to be cooped up in such a tiny apartment, he thought.
Brock Parker was two blocks from Freya’s when he felt his phone vibrate. It was Johnson.
“Johnson,” he said angrily, “where the hell have—?”
Brock broke into a sprint.
Moon Tune
Johnson sat in the hospital room, alongside Joy’s bed, holding her hand. He smiled down at the pretty, sleeping face, and with his free hand, he tenderly brushed strands of her hair behind her ear, careful not to touch the bandage that covered her head.
Brock Parker burst into the room. Out of breath, he asked, “How is she?”
Murphy’s Luck Page 11