Murphy’s Luck

by Benjamin Laskin

  Thrilled, Lucas said, “You’ve taken a liking to my Murph!”

  Joy smiled sheepishly, and nodded.

  Lucas clapped his hands, his pleased eyes all a-twinkle. He said, “Then there are a few things you might want to know. Have a seat young lady.”

  Joy sat down on the edge of Murphy’s bed.

  Lucas Cloverman pulled up a chair and said, “Now, this is just between you, me, and the bedpost…”

  For Art’s Sake

  “Yo, Sarich,” Brock Parker called out. He jogged up to the rookie cop and intercepted him just as he was about to enter the precinct station.

  “Hey, Detective. What’s up?”

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure. My shift doesn’t start for an hour. Thought I’d catch up on some paperwork.”

  “Good man. Listen, I got a favor to ask you.”

  “If I can.”

  “It’s…a little weird, and I don’t want you to tell anyone, especially Johnson.”

  “Oh…kay. You got my attention.”

  Parker gave a secretive tug of his head, signaling Sarich to follow him out of sight and earshot from other cops who might be passing by. They walked towards the parking lot and over to Parker’s car. He unlocked the door with a bleep from his keychain and told Sarich to hop in.

  Sarich got in, closed the door, and looked warily about. “We look kinda fishy, don’t you think?”

  “It’ll just take a sec.”

  Brock leaned across to the glove compartment and opened it. He reached in, rummaged about, and then withdrew a thick envelope and closed the compartment with a snap.

  “Here’s the deal,” Parker said. “There’s three thousand bucks in here—”

  “Whoa, whoa, Parker,” Sarich said, his hands raised, fearful to even touch the envelope. “Deal? There’s no fricken’ way that I’m gonna—”

  “Calm down, Sarich. It’s not what you think. Hear me out.”

  Something in Parker’s voice soothed Sarich’s concerns enough to at least lower his hands. “I’ll hear, but that doesn’t mean I’m doin’ a damn thing, got it?”

  “Sure, sure. All I’m asking is that you drive over to Vine Street. It’s not far from here. 31 Vine Street. There’s an art gallery there called Shooting Star Gallery—fake marble storefront with a sculpture of some tangled monstrosity outside. Art I guess. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Sarich confirmed. “Damn ugly.”

  Parker chuckled. “Maybe that’s the point. Who the hell knows anymore? Anyway, that place runs new exhibitions every month. All I’m asking is that sometime today you go in there like you know good art when you see it. Linger a bit, and then take this,” he slapped Sarich’s leg with the envelope, “and buy everything you can from an artist by the name of Freya.”

  “Freya? Who’s that?”

  “An artist, like I said. Clean them out if it covers the job. I have no idea. But buy what you can. Wheel and deal a little if you need to.”

  “Why me? Why don’t you do it?”

  “‘Cuz the place knows me. I worked a robbery case there a year back.”

  “So?”

  “So they know I’m no art aficionado. I caught the thief, but in the process I, ah, let slip some of my, shall we say, boorish tastes in art.”

  “You insulted them, you mean.”

  “A little artistic criticism, that’s all. Those artsy people can be so sensitive.”

  Sarich chuckled. “Right. But who’s this Freya chick to you? That is a chick’s name, right?”

  “Yeah, a woman. She’s…” Parker thought conspicuously long, and so just decided to spew a confession of sorts. “Aw, hell. She’s a struggling artist and I just want to help her out, that’s all.”

  Sarich grinned. “You sly dog. She’s a babe, isn’t she?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Parker insisted.

  “But hold on, Gomez told me you’re engaged. Same lady?”

  “No,” Parker said, and then realizing he was coming off as some sort of rake, he quickly added, “she’s just a friend, an acquaintance, really.”

  “Who? The artist or the fiancé?”

  “The artist, you dumbass.”

  “So why not have your fiancé do it?”

  “Come on, Sarich, you know chicks, right?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “It wouldn’t matter, you know that. It would still look bad.”

  “What about Johnson, then? He’d do it. I hear he likes anything with tail attached.”

  “Johnson is all talk. Don’t buy into his swagger.”

  “He is?”

  “What I mean is, he’s…Johnson. Besides, he worked the case with me. They know him too. Don’t let the fancy duds fool you. Johnson knows as much about art as we do. Squat.”

  “Okay,” Sarich said. “I suppose I can do it.”

  “Atta boy,” Parker said. “And there’s a case of beer in it for you. Just name your poison.”

  “So, what do I do with the paintings once I buy them?”

  “Keep them. Hang them on your wall and civilize your place a little.”

  “Civilize?”

  “You know, a woman’s touch.”

  “Have you been talking to Gomez?” Sarich said, suspicious.

  “Gomez? What the hell does Gomez have to do with this?”

  “Nothin’. Forget it. So, are they…pretty?”

  “What?”

  “The paintings, man. Are they good?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What? You want me to hang a bunch of art on my wall that you’ve never seen? What if they suck?”

  “I don’t care if you hang them or not. I’m pretty sure they’re okay. From what I know of the lady, I’m guessing they are quite…colorful. So will you do it or not?”

  “Yeah, I don’t see a problem. It’s a little weird, but in our line of business, weird is par for the course.”

  “Tell me about it,” Parker said. He tossed the envelope onto Sarich’s lap and slapped him on the knee. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you.”

  “No sweat, but tell me why it’s so important that Johnson doesn’t know about it. You guys are pals. Partners.”

  “Johnson already thinks I’m a sentimental fool. He’d just give me grief and say I was pissing away my money.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “A sentimental fool pissing away your money?”

  Parker exhaled through purse lips and shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, probably.”

  Sarich chuckled. “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself, Parker. The fool looks good on you.”

  “Aw, Christ, Sarich,” Parker groaned. “I wish you hadn’t have said that.”

  Escort Service

  Joy had a few stops to make before catching her flight back to LA later that evening.

  After confessing to Lucas Cloverman her true reasons for traveling halfway across the country, Lucas couldn’t have been happier. He thought Joy a charming gal and pretty as a flower. He didn’t think she knew what she might be getting herself into, but he decided that was not his business. He wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, the love of a caring woman was exactly what Murphy needed to break the spell that had jinxed him. It wasn’t anything the old-timer ever considered before because, frankly, he could never imagine a woman being able to get close enough to the boy. Lucas assumed that Murphy’s luck, being what it was, would have chased away any gal daring enough to even attempt such familiarity. Joy Daley, however, had braved a concussion to come this far. Lucas Cloverman was mightily impressed.

  For her part, Joy was more confused than ever. She felt that her actions were not entirely her own; that she was being escorted along by something much greater than her curiosity.

  Murphy was not her type. Brock Parker was her type, despite his flaws. She had always dated some species of Parker or Johnson. Murphy was childlike. He was timid and inexperienced. But, she admitted to herself, he was also a
gentleman, and reckless in a heroic sort of way. Resourceful, too. She did think him handsome, but she had always been drawn to a more swashbuckling, bad-boy look. Not Forrest Gump, for goodness’ sake! Murphy Drummer was unlike anyone she had ever known. And yet, there was the unmistakable sense that she had known him for years. Had she? Was it possible? Was this escort at her elbow, Fate?

  ···

  Lucas Cloverman gave Joy the names of some places and persons that she might want to visit in Eureka. Her first stop was the hospital that Murphy was born in. Unfortunately, no one there remembered him. The staff who manned the hospital when Murphy was born were all retired, or had moved on, either out of town or out of this world.

  She was, however, able to gather much historical knowledge from the current administrator, Leonard Mapps. Mr. Mapps looked serious-minded and scholarly in his black horn-rimmed glasses, and was just one year from retirement. He had metallic gray hair and wore a starched white shirt with a bolo tie. The bolo tie had braided leather strings and a large silver medallion in the shape of Kansas. Its key cities were depicted with an inlaid chip of polished turquoise. Mr. Mapps took great pride in his hospital and his town. He knew the history of both well, and he was glad to share it with the pretty journalist.

  As the man spoke, Joy nodded along and scribbled onto a pad. She asked few questions until he brought up a fire that had destroyed a wing of the hospital some three decades earlier.

  “What was the cause of the fire, Mr. Mapps?”

  “An electrical surge of some sort, I think. It was a very stormy day. Old-timers still talk about the rain and lightning that tempest brought. ‘Of Biblical proportions’ they like to say. Anyway, the hospital’s wiring was old and shoddy. The circuit breakers didn’t trip, and a fire broke out.”

  “Where did it begin? In the kitchen? In an operation room?”

  “I’d have to look it up, but if memory serves, it began in the maternity ward.”

  “Do you know where in the maternity ward? Was it in the room of a particular baby?”

  Mr. Mapps laughed. “No, Ms. Daley. That’s a scrap of trivia even I wouldn’t know.”

  ···

  From the hospital, Joy next paid a visit to the Eureka Skies Nursing Home. There she found a sunny, white-haired Martha Lincoln, now eighty-five. Ms. Lincoln volunteered mornings at the nursing home.

  Murphy’s long retired homeroom teacher still had a preference for floral Hawaiian muumuus and a heart as big and ample as her hips. Joy came upon the woman in the lunchroom feeding a wheelchair-bound and senile old man.

  Joy introduced herself as a cousin of Murphy Drummer. She told the woman that she was just passing through town and thought she’d look up her relative; that she had gone by his home but he had apparently moved. She said that a neighbor mentioned that the last person to see Murphy in public was Ms. Lincoln.

  “Murphy Drummer?” Ms. Lincoln said, guiding a spoonful of vegetable soup into her patient’s mouth. “Of course I remember Murphy, poor child. A sweet little boy, but sadly very troubled and lonely.”

  “If he was a sweet boy, why then no friends?”

  “Not a friend in the world,” Ms. Lincoln said. “The other children avoided him like the plague. Literally. They called him Drummer the Bummer.”

  “I don’t understand,” Joy said.

  “Yes, well, it’s a little difficult to explain. Impossible to explain, actually. But you see, Murphy was cursed.”

  “Cursed? That’s a horrible thing to say about a little boy.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Ms. Lincoln. “And of course I never believed such a thing, but his classmates did. Yet, even I had to admit how uncanny it was that wherever Murphy went, troubled quickly followed.”

  “But what did the boy do exactly?”

  “That’s just it, nothing! He did absolutely nothing. It was like he was a walking disaster area. Pandemonium followed him like stink on a hog. It was the darnedest thing.”

  “Is it true you were the last person to see him in public?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I was the last teacher Murphy had before the school expelled him.”

  “I dropped by the school and the principal said they had no record of a Murphy Drummer.”

  “Ah, well, the very day Murphy left there was a flood in the basement of the school where all the records were kept. This was before we switched to computer records. Somehow a pipe had burst. By the time anyone noticed, all the boxes of records were waterlogged and unreadable.”

  “And this was blamed on Murphy? It hardly seems fair.”

  “But of course it couldn’t be pinned on Murphy himself, but it was attributed to Murphy’s luck.” Ms. Lincoln noted Joy’s frowning consternation. “As a relative of his, aren’t you aware of any such stories?”

  “Distant relative,” Joy clarified. “The Drummer branch is on the other side of the family tree, you might say.”

  “I see,” Ms. Lincoln said. “But it seems you are going to a lot of effort to learn about someone no one ever spoke of.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious.

  Thinking quickly, Joy said, “Oh, well, you see I’m very interested in genealogy. It’s, um, a hobby of mine. Genealogy is quite the rage these days. Since I was passing through, I thought I might be able to fill in a few blanks on the tree, if you know what I mean.”

  “A hobby, you say?” Ms. Lincoln replied, a new enthusiasm in her voice. “I’m a big believer in hobbies. In fact, since you mention it, I seem to recall that the last conversation I had with little Murphy was suggesting to him that he take up a hobby or two. I thought he might find some solace in such a thing. He was always a good student. Did his homework painstakingly well, I still remember. I detected talent in the boy, just no avenue to express it.”

  “You were a very kind and caring teacher, Ms. Lincoln.”

  “Thank you, dear,” the old woman said, blushing at the praise. “I tried. Like I said, I felt sorry for the boy. I detected no ill will in him, and unlike others, I didn’t blame him personally for the odd happenstances that seemed to swirl around the little fella.” Ms. Lincoln heaved a sigh. “But, I’m afraid my advice and good intentions didn’t likely do him much good.”

  “So you don’t know if Murphy ever took up your advice?”

  “No way of telling, dear. I never saw him again. I knew him to still live in town with his cantankerous grandfather, but no one dared check up on him. I often wondered about what might have become of the boy. I hope he grew out of whatever it was that bedeviled him. I kinda doubt it, but life is full of surprises, so you never know, right?”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Joy agreed. “Speaking of hobbies, have you ever heard of The Hobby Guy?”

  “But of course!” she said. “I looked forward to his column every week. I learned so much from him, and he seemed like such a wise and gentle soul. I was deeply saddened to read that he discontinued his column. Were you a fan of his too, dear?”

  “Perhaps his biggest.”

  “After me!” Ms. Lincoln laughed. “He brought me a lot of joy. I even use some of the things I learned from him here at the home. I have many of the residents involved in one hobby or another to help keep them meaningfully occupied.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Joy said. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know that such good came from his doings.”

  “I was very surprised and saddened that he stopped his column. I hope he is okay. He was a bit of a mystery, wasn’t he? It’s one of the things I liked about him, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Joy said. “Almost as mysterious as our Murphy Drummer.”

  ···

  Joy Daley’s last stop of the day before having to catch her flight back to Los Angeles was to the local Eureka Public Library. There she inquired about the Drummers, but no one knew anything about them but the same urban legends that seemed to be a staple about town. She was, however, allowed to peruse the library’s archives that were kept on microfiche; records that
preceded the library’s switch to computers and digital archiving.

  Joy was led to a closet-sized room with a single, ancient microfiche machine. A library assistant, a young man in wireless glasses, jeans, and a permanent press red plaid shirt, dug up two decade’s worth of microfiche. The material spanned the year prior to Murphy’s birth to some years after he was expelled from school and living the life of a hermit.

  The assistant, a college student doing an internship in library sciences, showed Joy how to use the machine and navigate through the microfiche. It took Joy a little time to get the hang of it, but soon she was gliding her way through pages of Eureka’s history as recorded by The Eureka Herald and two other small, local newspapers, both now defunct.

  It was an hour before she came across any reference to a Drummer: two mentions of Lyle and Millie Drummer, Murphy’s parents. One was a wedding announcement in the social calendar. The other regarded the purchase of their home in the real estate section. The few lines given the events were absent of interest. They disclosed their ages, a couple of dates, an address, the purchase price for the home, and the fact that Lyle was the son of “war hero Hank Drummer.” Apparently, Hank Drummer had yet to have become a town pariah. In a third story he even received a line in the coverage of a 4th of July parade. It said that Hank, dressed as Uncle Sam, waved to the crowd from atop a patriotic float covered with the Stars and Stripes.

  Joy scrolled on through week after week of small-town minutia: ads, farm-related stories and advice, glad and sad tidings, local elections and federal elections, and all the fiery editorials that accompanied them.

  Time running out and with a plane to catch, Joy fast-forwarded to the day of the hospital fire; the day Lyle and Millie Drummer left the hospital with their little bundle of joy.

  Indeed, just as town chronicler Leonard Mapps had said, it was a day for the history books. The local papers were full of accounts of the tempest: record rainfall, devastating damage, multiple car accidents, and a town-wide power outage.

  With deep interest Joy read about the destruction and mayhem caused by the storm; its buckets of rain and “hail the size of baseballs.” The storm was ferocious, but short in duration. It was its suddenness and fury that had caught the town by surprise. Soon after its rampage ended the skies cleared and a brilliant full moon bathed the darkened and ravaged town. With electricity out everywhere, it was the only light the town would know for three days.