“Something’s wrong,” I said. It felt wrong. Wrong like discovering a Russian dance troupe hiding in your closet. Or waking at 3 a.m. and finding the Mayor shaking your hand, asking for a campaign contribution. Or even as wrong as my Great Aunt Marge. It was that wrong and then some.
“Yeah,” said Maura. “Almost feels like finding a Russian dance troupe hiding in your closet.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
I stepped to the door and looked around. Pedestrians hurried by in every direction but no one spared us a glance. I whipped a lock pick out of my pocket—I keep it to clean my fingernails, of course—and jiggered the lock. No dice.
“Troubles?”
I didn’t say anything, just glared and stepped back. Maura did something with her hands. Something too quick for me to see, and the door opened.
“How’d you do that?”
“What did you say?” She smiled at me, showing all her teeth. “Was that a proposal of marriage?”
But she went silent once we were inside. I gotta say that for Maura. She can be a beautiful pain in the neck, but she knows when to shut her trap. The place was a mess. Shoes everywhere. Shelving knocked off the walls. I pulled my gun. The place was as silent as my Uncle Melvin that one Christmas when he fell into a coma after his third helping of pork chops. Maura pointed to the back of the store. A dim light shone underneath a door. I put my ear to it, heard a faint sound of voices. I eased the door open. No one was there with a gun pointed at my head or a crowbar ready to cave in my skull. That was good.
The light came from another door. A door half open revealing stairs going down. I sidled over and peered around the frame. I couldn’t see anything down there other than a basement full of boxes and crates. Whoever was talking was out of sight. But I could hear plenty.
“Spill the beans, little man,” rumbled a voice. “Spill ‘em or I’ll string my fiddle with yer guts.”
“I told you already,” snapped a second voice, “I don’t deal in beans. I’m not a farmer or a chef, and my name isn’t Jack! I’m a poor shoemaker, and I doubt you can play fiddle with those ham hands of yours. Have you ever had any musical education? Bah! I thought not.”
There was a moment of silence while the first voice, who I suspected was a bit short on brains, considered the implications of all this.
“Well, look here,” continued the first voice, “cough it up. Cough it up, see, or I’ll paste you in the kisser, see? Knock you into next week.”
“No, I don’t see. And I’m not sure what I could possibly cough up, unless you’re interested in a lung or a bit of phlegm or some of my lunch. Corned beef with cabbage.”
“Talk, you Irish cockroach, or yer lung’s mine!”
This was followed by a mysterious noise. A sort of damp, gurgling, rattling thg-thg-thg noise.
“What on earth is that?” hissed Maura in my ear.
“I think Person A has Person B by the throat and is shaking him like a hippy with a tambourine.”
“Do something about it! Don’t just stand there like an idiot!”
I sighed. Checked that the safety was off on my gun. And tiptoed down the stairs. A lamp hung from the ceiling. Its light fell on the face of the shoemaker. His legs were windmilling through the air. His face looked a little green, but that was understandable because a huge gorilla had him by the throat. No. Not a gorilla. It was Joe Lugg.
“Where’s yer pot of gold, little man?” growled Lugg. “Spit it out, or I’ll snap yer neck like a wet French fry.”
“Howth gnn eearrghle zorrgl-gl grmma?!”
“You talkin’ slop ‘bout my gramma? I’ll count to three! 1. . . 2. . . ”
Lugg seemed to flounder on the mysterious transition between 2 and 3. The shoemaker’s bulging eyes fell on me and widened.
“All right, Lugg!” I yelled. “Drop the shoemaker and put your hands up!”
He didn’t drop the shoemaker. Instead, he whirled around with one hand coming out of his coat. Lamplight shone on the dull black matte of his Glock. I gotta say, Lugg wasn’t the sharpest toothpick, but he was faster than a politician lunging for a shiny nickel.
I shot him in the chest. Three times. And then three or four times more for good measure, because he was looking kind of stubborn. He toppled over with a crash, squashing the shoemaker beneath him.
“Gemmoff! Gemmoff!”
It took both Maura and myself to roll the dead body off the little man. The shoemaker popped to his feet, spitting and swearing. He kicked Lugg in the side.
“Is that his blood?” said Maura.
We all stared at the floor. The shoemaker stopped kicking Lugg. A thick, green liquid seeped out from under the body.
“An ogre,” mumbled the shoemaker. “A bloody ogre.”
“True enough,” I said. “Hope I put enough bullets in him. Ogres take a lot of killing. Sometimes you gotta kill ‘em twice.”
But the body didn’t twitch, even though the shoemaker kicked him a few more times.
“An ogre,” murmured Maura, looking fascinated. “Are they always so pungent?”
“I suppose you’ll want your shoes for free now,” said the shoemaker, not meeting my eyes.
“Hadn’t even thought of it,” I said. Which was the plain truth.
“No?” he said, his voice sinking lower.
“No. Shoes are just shoes. They wear out.”
“Mine don’t,” he mumbled.
“The way I see it, I saved your life, not just two minutes ago. Me. Mike Murphy. That’s worth something in my book. Worth quite a bit. Maybe even a pot of gold?”
“Pot of gold?” His voice rose to a squeak. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “What, er, are you talking about?”
“1648,” said Maura. “I think your sign says 1648, underneath all that grime. Finnegan and Sons has been around a long time. I bet that pot of gold’s gotten pretty big. Hasn’t it, leprechaun?”
He moaned and whined and wrung his hands until I felt my heart softening from the chunk of calcified road tar that it was. But Maura held firm. She’s not much of a sentimentalist unless there’s a practical reason for it. She did the bargaining and kicked me in the ankle when I tried to put in my two cents. After a while, I limped over to the stairs, sat down, and reloaded my gun.
“I can’t!” groaned Finnegan. “My pot of gold! My poor pot of gold. Why does everyone bother me? The love of money is the root of all evil. Don’t you know that? Save yourself from crass materialism! The consumer lifestyle leads to depression, dyspepsia, and broken marriages. I just read a study proving that. Harvard Psychology Department. They took rats and gave them unlimited cheese. The rats were so unhappy! And ungrateful, too.”
“Spare me your Irish blarney,” said Maura. “Hand over the pot of gold!”
That’s when they got down to serious bargaining. The leprechaun pointed out that the pot of gold was tied up in an IRA, diversified into blue-chip stocks, some excellent long-term municipal bonds, and various commercial real estate holdings. If he liquidated, he’d lose a significant percentage of the value. This tripped Maura up a bit, and I could see her hesitating.
“10%” I said.
“What?” They both turned and glared at me.
“10% of the shop’s take. Paid twice a month.”
“What?” They both said it again, but the leprechaun turned white, and Maura began to smile.
“No!” shouted the leprechaun, hopping up and down in a frenzy. “I won’t have it! You know what the profit margin is in a pair of seven leagues boots? Or a pair of dancing shoes? Pennies! And you want me to split it with you? I’ll be ruined!” He started kicking Lugg’s body again.
They finally settled on 3% paid at the end of every month, with Maura given a look at the books once a year so we’d know whether or not he was cooking the accounts. Apparently 3% was not a bad deal for old Finnegan, because as soon as the negotiations were done, he chortled and handed over some good faith money, a wad of greenbacks thick enough to split my walle
t. I imagine that pot of gold was quite a pot, and he was tickled to hold onto it.
“And my shoes?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” he sniffed. “Like I said.”
That’s where I blew it. I should’ve spent a little more time thinking about Joe Lugg and where I found him. Some more time thinking about dogs and Louis Six-Fingers and old Hong Sho’s corpse. I should’ve searched Joe Lugg’s pockets, but I didn’t. I don’t know if the shoemaker did. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t recognize what he found.
Instead, I took Maura out to dinner. The sun was low and its light gleamed along the telephone wires and power lines like red fire. The sidewalks were still crowded with pedestrians, hurrying with their shoulders hunched and heads down. The taxicab drivers still yelled and cursed at whoever came into their sight, but they seemed to do it in a kindlier fashion.
Fleur de Lis was hopping. The place was packed with the usual rabble. Rich people looking bored, eyeing other rich people and wondering who was richer. The maître d’, Francois, oiled over. He did a bit of coughing in French.
“Got something caught in your throat?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Fighting a cold?”
“No, monsieur. My cough merely meant you might consider patronizing some other dining establishment. Overjoyed as I am to see you, Fleur de Lis is not the place for you. Your clothing is not—how do we say?—not in harmony with the evening. Your shoes—oh, your shoes! I could write several depressing poems in the styling of Monsieur Camus about the existential problems posed by your shoes.”
“Hey.”
“You wish to speak, monsieur?”
“Yeah, get us a table now, or I’ll break your neck.”
“Ah-ha! Monsieur is so jovial. His speech, while crude and provincial, is like a breath of—”
“I’ll crack it like a Chinese fortune cookie.”
“Very good, monsieur. Right this way.”
“Elegantly done,” murmured Maura. “Crude and provincial, but elegant.”
We ordered crab cakes, mussels in garlic, and clam chowder for appetizers. Then we moved on to a rib eye for me and what looked like an entire salmon for Maura. She’s always had a thing for fish and can pack it away like a linebacker, even though she’s as skinny as a runway model. We kept the waiters coming with the platters. For dessert, I had another rib eye and Maura had a slab of halibut smothered in creamed scallops.
The people at the tables near us weren’t impressed, but I wasn’t impressed with them. A fat man camping out under a hairpiece sneered at me. The blonde with him was wearing more square inches of diamonds than clothing. He was shoveling down a side of pork gussied up in something mysterious and French-looking. She picked at a salad in slow motion.
“What’s this place coming to?” he announced to no one in general. The blonde certainly wasn’t listening. She seemed to be having a mystical experience with the arugula. “They’ll let anyone in now.”
“Pig,” I said to him.
“What?”
“Pig. That’s pig you’re eating. Pig. You know, pig.”
He turned red and pointed a stubby finger at me.
“Look here, my man. I’ll have you know that I’m Trevor Smithson-Smythe the Fourth, of the Hampton Smithson-Smythes, and—”
“The fourth?” said Maura, showing all her teeth in a smile. “Don’t you know that nasty things come in fours? The four horsemen of the apocalypse, the four kinds of poisonous Australian octopi, the four stooges—”
“Four?” spluttered the fat man. “There were only three!”
“The fourth one died, penniless and alone, choking on a ham sandwich.”
“Is everything all right, Mesdames, Messieurs?” Francois materialized out of nowhere.
“Tell the cook my steak’s great,” I said. “Now buzz off or I’ll thump your nose.”
“Very good, Monsieur.” He buzzed off.
All in all, it was a good dinner.
I dropped Maura off at her apartment at a respectable hour and beat it home for an early night. I had big plans for the next day. I needed my beauty sleep. But someone else had bigger plans.
I had my usual dream that always followed a big dinner of red meat. You know, the one with the troupe of clowns, the Waffen SS division, and Emily Post. It was getting to the good part, where Ms. Post begins her lecture on table settings. The clowns were getting restless and the SS were asking hard questions about salad forks. Of course, the phone started ringing at that moment. Ms. Post answered the phone.
I woke up. 5:36 a.m. The phone was ringing.
“This better be good,” I snarled. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Oh, it’s good.” The voice chuckled on the other end of the line. “Now be quiet and listen. You’ve been asking questions that bother Mr. Louis. He doesn’t like being bothered. So we need to come to an understanding. This morning. Seven o’clock at the docks, at Mr. Louis’s place.”
“And if I don’t?” I growled. “If I think you’re full of—”
“You’re in no place to argue, Mr. Murphy. We have her.”
“Her?”
But he had already hung up. I dialed Maura. There was no answer. Threw on my clothes, grabbed my gun and an extra clip. Out the door, down the stairs. Started to run down the sidewalk but remembered the wad of money from Finnegan. Whistled loud enough to bring a passing taxicab to a screeching stop.
“Where you want go?” said the cabbie. He had some kind of thick accent. Maybe Egyptian or Peruvian or Finnish.
“7th and Ballantyne, and step on it!”
“Yes, yes. Step on it. I hear this much.”
“I mean it! Step on it, or I’ll knock your block off!”
“Less KGB shtick,” said the cabbie, inching out into traffic. “More glass of vodka, you know I mean?”
“All right, you little squeezer. Fifty bucks if you get there pronto!”
“That’s like it! You are the cool man!” The cabbie stepped on the gas and the car leapt forward. He hollered at some pedestrians. He shook his fist at another cab seeking to overtake us, shot through a yellow light, and leaned on the horn behind a produce delivery truck.
“Your mother’s goat lover is son of big gun!” he screamed out the window. “Hippie scum! Make my day! Vote Ronald Reagan!”
“Where’re you from?” I said, clutching the door handle.
“Odessa, Ukraine,” he said, grinning into the mirror. “I emigrate 1981. I love America. I love supply side economics. You ugly ape son!” This last bit was directed at an elderly lady tottering through the crosswalk. He swerved around her in a squeal of tires and then came to a sudden stop. I dug my face out of the back of the front seat.
“We here,” said the cabbie. “Fifty bucks?”
“Fifty bucks,” I said, slapping the bills in his hand. “And there’s more if you stay.”
I ran up the steps, three at a time, to the third floor. Down the hall. Her door was unlocked. I slid through with my gun drawn. The only positive thing I can say is that she didn’t go without a fight. The place was a mess. Her purse lay in the middle of the floor, contents spilled. I knelt down, rooted around in them. Nothing had been taken. I glanced around the room quickly. Definitely nothing stolen. Except for Maura. I ran downstairs and jumped in the cab.
“Where you want go?” said the cabbie.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Checked my watch. 5:57 a.m. I thought for a moment.
“You a Catholic?”
The cabbie looked at me as if I was a moron. “Russian Orthodox. Saint Peter on Van Buren Avenue.”
“Let’s go! Get going!”
“Look. What the speed limit here? Yes, yes. 15 mile each hour. We go church and you ask me speed? No, no. I am good Orthodox Christian. I fast, I pay tithe, I—”
“Fifty bucks! Step on it!”
The taxi barreled away from the curb like a jet fighter. We careened through town, a threat to life, property, and my nerves. I checked my watch
again. 6:04 a.m. We pulled up to the church. I hurried in. The cabbie followed me, regarding me with the fond gaze a farmer might have for his prize cow. I sat down in a pew toward the back. There weren’t many people there. Mostly a bunch of old women dressed in black. The priest droned on in the front. The cabbie mumbled somewhere behind me in response.
We got out of there fifteen minutes later. The priest blessed people at the door. He blessed me. He then blessed me a second time after I shook his hand. He blessed the cabbie and they conferred for a moment in Ukrainian, both sounding pious. I paced back and forth in the vestibule and stared at the little crucifix hanging on the wall. Jesus stared back at me. 6:33 a.m. I glared at the cabbie and he edged away from the priest, smiling and bowing. I hustled him back to the cab.
“The docks! Step on it!”
“Yes, yes. This I hear before. Everyone say—step on it!—like in the movies. Life, I say, not so—”
“Fifty bucks!”
The taxicab leapt forward. The city whizzed by in a blur of color, honking, and Ukrainian-laced profanity. I gritted my teeth and tried not to think about Maura. Thought about Louis Six-Fingers. Sweat ran down my forehead.
Louis Six-Fingers had been around forever. Mayors weren’t elected unless they had his approval. The city council didn’t wipe their noses without his blessing. He owned the planning commission. He controlled the garbage contracts, the unions, and the building suppliers. He owned the warehouses, the docks, and the second-largest bank in town. He ran most of the organized crime in the city: five gambling joints, three whorehouses, and both political parties.
“Which dock you want?” The cabbie turned to look at me.
“Here’s good.” I threw the fifty bucks over the seat and got out.
I checked my watch. 6:47 a.m. There was no one in sight except a couple of stevedores one dock over. A cold wind blew in off the water. I hunched my shoulders and walked down the dock. A big building stood at the end, ugly, falling apart, a rusty metal roof. Louis Six-Fingers’s place. I had never been there before, but I’d heard stories. A black sedan was parked on one side. I could hear the waves sloshing against the pilings below me. The closer I got, the taller the building looked. The place stank. Rotten fish, seagull crap, and something else.
The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories Page 2