The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories Read Free Page B

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 wallet. 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