The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories (6 page)

Seventy-nine bucks!

Well, I had to admit that her new hairstyle was pretty smoking hot. I turned around to tell her that—women like compliments—and that’s when I noticed her careening toward me with a knife and fork. She had kind of a glazed look in her eye and she seemed to be drooling. Another man might not have noticed anything wrong, particularly a married man. But I’m a detective and I’m trained to notice the little details.

“Hey!” I said. “You should never run with knives. Or forks, for that matter. You could hurt yourself.”

The fork stabbed down into the upholstery, about an inch from my head. I was afraid she was going to hurt someone with that knife, so I wrestled her into the closet and locked the door. She thumped about and hollered in there, but I’ve learned over the years that you have to be firm with women. They respect that in a man. The closet door shuddered. Something that looked like fork tines rammed through the wood.

I grabbed the Style By Flavia receipt and left. That place was really starting to bug me. I found a cab idling by the curb and jumped in. The cabbie looked a bit surprised. I told him to burn rubber for the Grove Street precinct. He was a little scrawny guy with a scraggly beard and a floppy hat. He seemed confused about the column shift, but he got the hang of it after I yelled some encouraging curse words at him. We tore through town, hitting green light after green light. Even though it was night, the streets were crowded and all the restaurants seemed to be hopping. We pulled up at the police station with a screech of brakes.

“Stay here!” I growled at the cabbie, tossing him a twenty. “I’ll be out in no time.”

The Captain was in the operations room, poring over a pile of case reports. A box of half-eaten cold pepperoni pizza sat on the table next to him. I helped myself to two or three slices. He glared at me.

“I’m not giving you a per diem for dinner if you’re gonna eat my pizza!” he snapped. “Have you got anything for me? Any leads?”

“You ever had a permanent at Style By Flavia?”

“What do you take me for, you idiot!” he yelled. “I don’t even wear deodorant!”

“Any of those crazy women in your reports get their hair done at that place?”

“Every one of ‘em. So what. Who cares. Why?”

“I dunno. I’ve got a bad feeling about Style By Flavia. I think there’s some kind of tie-in between the permanents they do there and all the ladies running around the city snacking on people’s brains. That Flavia lady is something else. She’s got a thug working for her that would make a gorilla in the zoo look pretty. Wait. Wait a second!”

The Captain stared at me.

“Didn’t a gorilla go missing from the city zoo recently?”

“Yeah,” said the Captain, “but what’s that got to do with the case?”

But I was already out the door. It was time to give Style By Flavia another visit. I hopped into the cab and slammed the door.

“Sixteenth and Lincoln, on the double!”

We pulled into traffic, almost sideswiping a flower delivery truck. The truck driver leaned out and yelled some choice words in our direction, accompanied by primitive hand gestures.

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled the cabbie. “My apologies.” He was an unusual cabbie. Any cabbie worth his salt would have merely yelled back or rammed the offending vehicle. Still, I had more important things on my mind than deficient cabbies.

The lights were out at Style By Flavia. The big pink neon sign over the door was dark.

“Drive on by,” I said. The cab slid past down the block and parked under a dead streetlamp. I tossed another twenty on the front seat.

“I’ll be back,” I said. The cabbie sort of slid down in the seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

I sauntered up the street, keeping an eye peeled for suspicious characters. The place was pretty quiet. Lights shone in a few apartment windows, but I was the only pedestrian on the block. I paused in front of the window of Style By Flavia, looking like an innocent passerby who might be interested in getting a permanent. It was dark inside and nothing moved. Moonlight fell on the rows of empty hairdresser chairs. In the back of the room, however, a thin line of light glowed underneath a door.

I whipped out my handy lock-pick and fiddled with the lock. It opened, and I slipped inside. The place smelled of hair care products and something else. Maybe bananas. The smell made my nose twitch. I tiptoed across the room to the door in the back. I could hear a faint murmur of voices. I crept closer and pressed my ear to the door.

“. . . zombies are a waste of time,” said the first voice. The voice sounded familiar, like two pieces of expensive silk rubbing together. It sounded like Flavia. “The process turns them into morons. They couldn’t find a hen in a henhouse.”

A second voice rumbled in response. It was a deep, growling sort of voice. It sounded like it was talking a foreign language through a mouthful of food. I couldn’t understand it at all.

“No,” replied Flavia’s voice. “I don’t think so. I’m tired of these whining women. I refuse to reimburse any of the permanents. Not a single dime. No, we’ll have to do it ourselves. Tomorrow night. It’s our best chance. What? What’s that? Shh!”

I didn’t stay and listen to the rest of the conversation. I was already hightailing it for the front door. That’s the prudent thing to do after you sneeze when you’re eavesdropping. Behind me, I heard a crash and then the thump of very heavy feet. I banged through that front door like an Olympic sprinter. I would’ve taken the gold for the hundred meters, no sweat.

“Start the car!” I yelled. The cabbie stuck his head out the window. “Start the car!” I looked back and saw a huge dark shape bounding down the sidewalk after me. The ground shook. The cab roared to life and lurched out into the street, accelerating away from me. I put on a burst of speed and dove for the door handle. I scrambled inside.

“Hit the gas!” I shouted, looking through the back window.

“What do you think I’m doing?” yelled the cabbie. “Tromping on the brake? Good God in heaven above with all the singing angels! Did you see the size of that guy?! He looked like a gorilla!”

“He is a gorilla! Step on it!”

“What I mean,” said the cabbie, hunched over the steering wheel, “I mean, he looked like a honest-to-goodness gorilla. I’m not merely making some sort of overblown hyperbole. He resembled a genuine Western Lowland Gorilla, the sort commonly found in the forests of the Congo.”

“That’s because he is a gorilla. You talk funny for a cabbie.”

“That’s because I’m not a cabbie,” said the cabbie.

“I knew that,” I said.

“You did?” he asked, peering at me suspiciously in his mirror.

“Easy. I’m a detective. You drive like an old woman, you speak good English, and you don’t try to run over pedestrians. Ergo, you’re not a cabbie.”

“Amazing. You’re very good.”

“I know,” I said. “I was a cop for fifteen years. Private detective for two. I’ve been around the block a few times.”

“A private eye, eh?”

“That’s me.”

He eyed me again in the mirror. “You wouldn’t happen to do any armed guard work, would you?”

“Well,” I said, thinking of my depleted bank account. “I’m pretty expensive. I doubt a cabbie like you—”

“I’m not a cabbie.”

“Ah, that’s right. What’d you have in mind? A little shotgun work while you’re driving around? Sort of a stagecoach thing?”

“Not exactly. Tomorrow night, I must attend a gala at the Museum of Natural History in order to donate an extremely valuable and rare pearl necklace to their Egyptian collection. I would appreciate someone with a gun accompanying me. You do own a gun, don’t you?”

“Lots of ‘em,” I said. “Hey, wait a second! You’re that guy! That missing guy!”

“Yes, it’s true,” he said, nodding. “I am famed zillionaire Burnham Backus. I am hiding out incognito as a cab driver, due to all the zombies who have suddenly started infesting my various mansions and places of business. I am convinced they are after my famed pearl necklace from the Neflureti Dynasty of Ancient Egypt. After my butler was devoured messily by several well-coiffed members of the Ladies’ Gardening Guild, I decided it was time to go undercover. Besides, I have always wanted to be a cab driver. My mother, Belinda Backus of the Hampshire Backuses, forbade it.”

“Wow,” I said. "Unfulfilled dreams bring sorrow. I read that on a fortune cookie once."

“I will pick you up seven o’clock sharp,” he said. “I would advise you to be well-armed. I fear my enemy will attempt to steal the pearl necklace one last time before I donate it to the Museum.”

“Can I bring a date?”

“Yes,” said Burnham Backus. “As long as she’s carrying a gun.”

I went over the following morning and let Maura out of the closet. She was pretty grumpy about the whole thing and, after punching me a few times, went and washed her hair. She claimed she didn’t remember much from the previous day, other than being really hungry. By the time she had blow-dried her hair, she was back to her normal self.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

I looked at her warily, but she only smiled at me sweetly.

“How about The French Noodle?”

“Sure,” I said, wincing inwardly as I thought about my wallet.

The French Noodle was already packed with the early lunch crowd. Maura knew the maître d’, however, and he got us a table overlooking the river. She inspected the menu.

“I’ll have the lobster-stuffed scallops to start with, followed by the blackened swordfish fettuccini and the ahi steak with truffle-dusted calamari fries. Make the ahi extra rare, please.”

“Very good, madam,” said the waiter expressionlessly. I figured he must have waited on her before. “Will that be all?”

“No. A prawn cocktail while I’m waiting.”

“Very good, madam. And you, sir?”

“A rib eye, rare,” I said. “With another one on the side.”

He shimmied off and then shimmed back with a prawn cocktail big enough to drown in.

“Maura, how about a date tonight? The gala at the Museum of Natural History.”

She looked at me, eyes wide, momentarily silenced by a mouthful of prawns. She chewed furiously and swallowed.

“Mike! How sweet! That sounds lovely.”

I waited until she’d taken another mouthful of prawns.

“And bring your .38 with you.”

Burnham Backus picked us up at seven sharp. He was dressed in a black tuxedo but still wore his floppy hat. I was wearing a grey suit with a slightly generous cut in the shoulders to hide my Glock. Maura had something black and slinky on. Backus nodded in approval at Maura.

“You armed?” he said.

She snapped her fingers and a neat little .38 appeared in her hand. His eyes widened.

“Like magic,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. It was magic. There was no way Maura could’ve hidden a .38 in what she was wearing. He looked at her again.

“Say,” said Backus. “You’re missing something with that getup. How about a pearl necklace?”

We pulled up the front of the Museum of Natural History with a triumphant screech of brakes. Backus tossed the keys to a parking attendant. The wide steps leading up to the museum entrance were roped off. Crowds filled the sidewalk. Flashes went off as photographers snapped photo after photo. The anchorperson from Channel 4 was there—you know, the one with all the blonde hair and teeth—talking animatedly for the camera. Celebrity after celebrity sauntered up the steps. The mayor emerged from a limousine, adjusting his toupee. The crowd cheered.

“All right,” muttered Backus. “Showtime. Keep an eye peeled for my enemies.”

“You talking about zombies, right?” I said.

“I’m talking about everyone. And keep the mayor away from me. You flash a buck and that guy sprouts more hands than an octopus.”

“I love octopus,” murmured Maura.

We walked up the steps. Flashbulbs popped. Maura preened for the cameras. The light gleamed on her pearl necklace. The mayor strode by. He glanced at Backus and looked a bit puzzled, but Backus was still wearing his floppy hat pulled low, as well as that scraggly little beard. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.

Inside, the main hall was a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. Waiters roamed the floor with platters of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. A string quartet sawed industriously in one corner. The mayor sidled up to the Bulgarian ambassador and his wife and began chattering away. The Bulgarians looked bored stiff. A movie star oozed by, followed by some yelping journalists. Politicians, media flacks, blasé rich people, and giddy nonentities mixed in close confusion.

The back of the hall was taken up by an enormous aquarium leading to the Aquatic Wing. The left side of the hall led into the Special Exhibit area, which was currently housing the Famous Egyptian Mummies of All Times exhibit. The right side of the hall led into the main wing of the museum, which housed all the typical stuff, such as stuffed tigers, shrunken heads, and the freeze-dried corpses of a tribe of pygmies.

Maura and I drifted behind Backus as he wandered through the crowd. He stopped at one of the refreshment tables and filled his plate with cheese and crackers. He even slipped a few handfuls into his pockets. I took mental notes while I watched him. If you’re going to be a zillionaire, I guess being thrifty helps. He ambled toward the aquarium wall and stood with his back against the glass. Fish darted to and fro behind him. A hammerhead shark cruised by. The thing looked pretty hungry.