ArchivedLogs:The Good, the Bad, and the Murphy

The Good, the Bad, and the Murphy
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Tian-shin, Hua Mei-lan	2014-02-03 '
Location <NYC> Tian-shin's apartment - Chinatown
This apartment is cramped but tidy, perpetually redolent of incense. Two small windows look out on the crowded street below, but do not admit much natural light. Chinese calligraphy scrolls, sumi-e paintings, and colorful auspicious prints decorate the peeling walls. The dining table is inside the kitchenette, and the living room is circumscribed by bookshelves packed with Chinese volumes. One corner has been set up as a shrine, a low cabinet supporting a bronze statue of Guan-yin, two red lotus candle holders, and an tripod incense pot. A bamboo bead curtain demarcates the hallway that leads to three tiny bedrooms and a single bathroom. The two-week-long Lunar New Year festival has decorated the streets of Chinatown with banners, streamers, and posters in cheerful red and gold. Up on the rooftop, someone is setting off a string of loud and probably extremely illegal firecrackers. The Hua residence seems pale and cold by contrast, despite the brand new chun-lian posters that surround the door. An older Chinese woman in a red silk brocade Mandarin tunic and matching trousers busies herself in the kitchen with a pot of rice ball soup. She does not appear to take any joy in her work and chatters continuously at her daughter in the living room. The television shows some manner of Chinese period drama with ‘90s CG, and Tian-shin sits cross-legged on a cushion in front of it, a laptop balanced on an ancient calculus textbook in her lap. She wears blue jeans and a lilac cowl-neck sweater, her hair casually twisted up into a bun and held in place with a pencil. Every once in a while, she turns up the volume of the television just a little to drown out her mother’s talk. “Chinatown,” Murphy mutters to himself, as he arrives at the front door of the apartment. “Of course.” There’s a pause, and then -- *whump*, *whump*, *whump* -- a knocking that has all the grace of a hammer swung by a drunken carpenter. Murphy has looked better, in the past; he still has that sunken cheek look -- his eyes dark and glassy -- his hair growing back in splotches, rather than full and heavy. He’s dressed in his all-too-familiar wool black coat and shirt with tie, though; in that respect, he looks exactly like he always does: Formal, professional… and a little sick. Hua Mei-lan turns away from her soup and rises up onto her toes to look through the peephole in the front door. She frowns, stands back, and looks again. “{Tian-shin, do you have a date with a foreigner?}” Tian-shin turns slowly and levels her most incredulous look at her mother. “{I don’t have a date with /anyone/, Ma. Who is it?}” She sets the laptop aside and rises. “{If I knew, would I ask you?}” Mei-lan waves her off. “{I will answer the door to my own house.}” So saying, she undoes both dead bolts and pulls the door open just a few inches, as if she expects that her 100-lb frame could force it shut again if the visitor should wish to force his way in. Tian-shin’s eyes grow wide and her cheeks flush. “You--” “{You know him?}” Mei-lan’s eyes dart from Murphy to Tian-shin, then back. “What are you doing here?” Tian-shin demands, pulling her mother away from the door and opening it wider, which has the effect of putting some small distance between them. “I /have/ a phone, you know?” “Who are you, Sir?” Mei-lan has finally remembered to start speaking English. There is a moment -- however brief -- when that door opens just a few inches, when Murphy peers at that space -- as if analyzing just how much force he’d need to apply to jam it open. Not that he’s /going/ to, but it’s just a habit of the trade. His eyes swing back over to Mei-lan, then back to Tian-shin -- something tugs up at the side of his mouth. /Almost/ a smile. “I like face-to-face better.” Then, his eyes swing back to Mei-lan -- when the door swings open wider, Murphy takes a step back, giving them a little more room. His hands emerge from his pockets, as if to demonstrate he is not armed. “Murphy Law, ma’am,” he replies to Mei-lan’s query. “Your daughter and I met, a while back. Helped me with an investigation. Wanted to fill her in on the details. This a good time, ma’am?” Eyes back to Tian-shin; his gaze is a little harder, now. Watching her for cues as to how he’s going to proceed. “Ah, this is business, then?” Mei-lan relaxes visibly. Something Murphy said must have returned her to familiar footing. She shuffles back to the stove and turns down the heat on her soup before it bubbles over. “I am Tian-shin’s mother, Hua Mei-lan. You have my sincerest apologies that your visit should find our house in such a state. Tian-shin really ought to be renting an office by now, but she is ever so timid--” “Ma!” Tian-shin puts a hand to the side of her face as if prepared to slap herself awake if this should prove a dream. “Mister Law, I appreciate that you took the time to come by. We do absolutely need to talk, but perhaps--” “Nonsense, you can use the study,” Mei-lan says, gesturing with her free hand toward the bamboo bead curtain. “I will make tea, and bring you cakes.” Tian-shin’s mouth opens again, but no words come out this time. She finally sighs and waves Murphy in, her eyes wary but also a little resigned. “Come on.” She seems reluctant to walk ahead of her guest, but forces herself to do it anyway. The last door in the narrow, dim hallway opens onto a narrow, dim room containing only a bookshelves, a desk, and two chairs. Turning on the green glass-shaded lamp, Tian-shin gestures to the ‘visitor’ chair. “Please, have a seat.” She does not sound or look excessively pleased as she sits down behind the desk. Her hands tug at her sweater almost compulsively, and it is with a visible effort that she stills them again and folds them on the empty desk before her. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Murphy responds instantly to Mei-lan, with a slow nod of his head; he seems quite polite -- perhaps even charming! -- in contrast to when Tian-shin saw him last. But the moment Mei-lan is gesturing to that curtain -- and Tian-shin is leading him away -- his posture shifts into something more natural, more brutish. As they slip into the study, Murphy’s rubbing at the back of his head, a faint trace of a crooked grin struggling with the perpetual scowl that holds sway over his expression. He sits. More like /slumps/. Just dropping into the chair like a heap of bad news; once he’s made himself comfortable -- leaning back into it with a creak, scratching at his stubble-coated jaw -- he fixes Tian-shin with a very intent look. And then: “He ain’t dead.” Before: “Pardon for gettin’ back to you so late on this. Had -- medical issues.” He leaves it at that. Tian-shin’s lips press into a thin line. She licks them, eyes tracking down to the desk and then back up to Murphy. “He’s...alive.” Not a question. “I don’t know if I ought to feel relieved or terrified.” She pauses, tilting her head to listen for footsteps. “But he has not returned--no one has seen hide nor hair of him. I do not imagine you politely suggested that he go on a walkabout.” “Mm. Would have been easier to just…” Murphy starts, his left hand making a pantomime of a gun, before relaxing -- and then he shakes his head. “--but I don’t do easy. Besides, you got a good left hook on you, I figured --” He pauses, head ticking to the left, listening for footsteps himself for just an instant -- “--killing your old man would make a bad first impression.” Again, the left side of his mouth twitches. “Kidding. But, yeah. He’s…” Murphy’s posture shifts; his legs cross. His hands slide to fold over his lap. “--you’re probably not gonna see him again. Not unless you really /want/ to, and I figured -- you wouldn’t.” Tian-shin’s eyes narrow at the hand-gun gesture. She waits for him to finish and waits another beat, perhaps collecting her thoughts. Her fingers lace together on the desk. “I would just as soon never see him again, but he has certain...advantages, as I suppose you well know. It is difficult for me to imagine how he could be kept away from us.” Her eyes narrow again, but with something more akin to pain than anger. “My father was not a good man, but he /thought/ he was doing the right thing, for our sake. He will find his way back to us--or, at least, he will try.” At the hint of pain in Tian-shin’s eyes -- and perhaps prompted at the pervasive scent of stale tobacco lingering in the room -- Murphy’s hand drifts into his coat, drawing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, fishing it out and bringing it to his mouth. He ‘pops’ one out, catching it between his lips; as he pulls it free, his other hand is already reaching for his brass lighter -- emblazoned with the Marine Corps logo. “--mmph,” he replies, beginning to flick the lighter -- *flink*, *flink*, *flink* -- until it produces a friendly little flame, licking at the cheap cigarette’s tip. “Everyone thinks they’re doin’ the right thing,” Murphy replies, only when the cigarette starts to burn -- pulling in a bitter, pleasant suck of smoke, letting it slink through his mouth and nostrils. “S’why they do it. Your father’s a megalomaniacal monster who can’t stand the thought of his children not following a lock-step march to his--” A flash of something in Murphy’s eyes: “Sss… pardon,” he grumps, sliding his lighter back into his pocket. “--we gave him an aversion. Reprogrammed him,” Murphy explains. “Like what he did to you, ‘cept -- more subtle. More brutal. Whichever. He’s convinced,” he tells her, sitting up in his chair, “that if he ever contacts /any/ of you -- directly or indirectly -- you will all be killed, immediately. We used his love against him.” Then, as if rethinking this, he quickly adds: “/I/ used his love against him.” Tian-shin nods, once up and once down. Her face remains stoic, though her fingers squeeze down on her hands hard enough to turn knuckles just a little white. She licks her lips again. “I see.” Fingers stretch and unlace to lie flat against the glass top of the desk, polished to a spotless shine. “That is very clever. You have a fondness for poetic justice, then?” Shuffling steps in the hallway outside steal the next words from her mouth, and a moment later Hua Mei-lin knocks on the door twice before entering with a red lacquer tray laden with a black clay tea set and some white pastries printed with reddish seals. “Please enjoy,” she says, setting the tray down on the desk between them and retreating just as quickly with a deep bow. Tian-shin bows to her mother before she disappears, then takes up the tea pot to pour herself a cup. “Do you want any? It’s quite good, if you like tea.” The words come out flat and perfunctory. Once the footfalls have faded again, she fixes Murphy with a piercing gaze. “How certain are you of your.../programmer’s/ abilities?” “Justice…” Murphy begins, but then Mei-lin’s knock interrupts him; his posture shifts to something more cordial, more reserved -- waiting patiently as she sets the tray down. “--thank you,” he rumbles, to Mei-lan; it is only when she is long gone -- and Tian-shin has spoken again -- that he finishes his thought. “Justice would be giving you and your siblings back all your father took from you; it would be finding a way to take away all the hurt he’s done. I don’t deal in justice. I do, however, like poetry.” He reaches, perhaps hesitantly, for the tea pot; his nose wrinkles. “--never tried it.” Then, cigarette twitching in his mouth, he pours himself a cup. He doesn’t look up as Tian-shin fixes him with that piercing gaze; he doesn’t have to -- he can feel it crawling on his skin. “Very. I’ve yet to meet anyone more powerful, in that regard -- even your father wouldn’t stand a chance against him. /I/ wouldn’t be able to stop him -- and there ain’t many nutcrackers who can crack /me/.” Tian-shin holds her teacup with both hands, the tips of two fingers and a thumb on each side. She still watches Murphy across the cup, through the rising steam. “You set a high bar for justice. There isn’t a court in the world that could meet it.” Inhaling the steam in a long, indrawn breath, she sets the cup down without drinking from it. “I always thought Father had a strong mind and a forceful will--all without knowing about the telepathy. And once I knew, I shuddered to think that more powerful telepaths are out there. I can only hope that they are more ethical than he, or that I never get in their way.” She lifts the cup, this time with only one hand. It looks bizarrely casual, almost vulgar, compared to the care she had previously taken. “You have done me, and my family, a tremendous service. I may not feel particularly grateful for what you did, or for your coming here to tell me about it in person, but I know that you aided us at significant risk to your own well-belling.” Swig, not sip. “How can I repay you?” This last does not carry the effusive adoration of a rescued damsel, but some species of determination heretofore absent from her tone. There is a certain awkward thuggish quality with which Murphy holds the teacup in his hand; he clearly has no idea how this is supposed to work, his broad, calloused palm more or less merely /cupping/ it as he lifts it to his mouth. The cigarette is fished from his lips, before -- much like Tian-shin -- he takes a swig. Hard, fast -- like a shotglass. When he swallows, there’s a small grimace -- from the heat against his tongue -- but otherwise, he seems to like it. “Don’t need anything,” he responds, at first -- though something about Tian-shin’s tone, resolute, gives him a moment of pause -- his eyes, clear blue, seem to darken in contemplation. “I’m ugly, lady. I don’t mean physically -- what I do for people. Gratitude ain’t something I’m accustom to; ain’t something I’m looking for, either. People don’t look forward to seeing me at their door, and I don’t mind that. But…” He shifts, becoming strikingly uncomfortable for what might be the first time since arriving here -- struggling to set the teacup down as gingerly as he can. “Maybe, some point in the future, I might ask you for a favor -- nothing nasty or ugly, but just -- something that needs doing. To help somebody else, like this. Something I can’t do myself, on account of…” He shrugs. “Bein’ outside my ‘sphere of influence’.” Then, a little softer: “Tea’s nice.” Tian-shin raises both slender black eyebrows. “Not quite Don Corleone. As for /ugly/ work, I should point out that I spent a few weeks putting blades through walking corpses.” She refills her tea and swirls it around the cup a little, encouraging it to cool faster. Her expression is not quite blank, yet nor is it easy to interpret. She seems conflicted about something. “You have my word--if it is within my power to do what you maybe will ask at some point in the future.” This time she takes her tea at a more civilized pace. “Accustomed or not, looked for or not…you also have my thanks.” At the mention of blades and corpses, Murphy frowns; when Tian-shin gives her word, his posture eases -- the awkwardness flows from his body. His tone is, as always, something of a smoke-choked growl -- but it’s just a hint softer, a hint smoother: “And I give you mine; whatever it is, it will not be cruel.” But then, at the latter comment -- as thanks is given -- Murphy’s face twitches; he seems taken aback, as if the idea of being /thanked/ is something he has no idea how to respond to. Color actually seems to be threatening to rush to his cheeks -- is he /blushing/? Is he even capable of doing so? “--uh, you’re… welcome,” he finally manages, with a slight struggle. Before, finally, beginning to rise to his feet: “Thank you for… the tea.” “I’m a /lawyer/, Mister Law.” Tian-shin shrugs, taking another sip of her tea and contemplating one of the pastries without reaching for it. “If you are looking for my expertise, it may well require cruelty to /someone/, even if only to myself if I have not gained the assistance of a clerk by then.” If this is meant as humor, it does not seem to amuse her much. Murphy’s reaction, however, does. Something almost like a smile flashes across her face as she rises. “You’ll have to thank my mother, but I make a decent cup myself.” She pauses as if intending to continue along that line of thought, but follows it instead with, “I’ll see you out, then.” Opening the door for Murphy, Tian-shin leads him back out into the living room/dining room/kitchen. One would need to /try/ to get lost in this apartment. At the stove, Mei-lan has just turned off the heat and set out a stack of bowls beside the pot. “Ah, Mister Law!” she says brightly. “You have finished your business just in time for some tang yuan--ah, what do you call them…” “Rice dumplings filled with sweet sesame paste,” Tian-shin replies with the efficiency of someone who has spent a lifetime translating Chinese into English and back. “Yes, yes, quite good,” the elder Hua adds. “Traditional dish for Spring Festival.” Murphy’s hand moves up behind his head, scratching away as Tian-shin rises to face him; the color remains steady, for a moment -- at that pause, the color seems to intensify, only to slowly fade when she moves to see him to the door. It’s hard to read his expression -- relief? Disappointment? Both? His hand slips back to his side, reaching into his pocket for something as they approach the multi-purpose room. “Thank you,” he responds to Mei-lan, though he quickly adds: “Your tea was lovely. I would love to stay, but I’ve got several more appointments to keep. I…” His hand flicks out of his pocket; as he steps toward the door, he briefly presses something into Tian-shin’s palm -- his own hand rough, worn, calloused. A small business card; it has a name, a number, an email. MURPHY LAW. “--if something comes up,” he explains, almost meekly, his other hand reaching for the knob. “Perhaps another time, Mister Law.” Mei-lan bows. “If Tian-shin does not have an office by then…” “/Ma!/” Tian-shin’s exasperation borders on sitcom levels. Annoyance is replaced by surprise as Murphy passes her the card. She looks down at it as though she has never seen such an object in her life. Then, blinking away her bewilderment, she darts past their guest and opens the door for him. “I will,” she says, bowing. “I suppose you will know where to find me. Even if I do have an office by then.” A flicker of amusement passes over Murphy’s face at the exchange between Tian-shin and her mother; as the former moves to open the door for him, he steps back -- briefly surprised! -- before slowly nodding his head to her. There’s a slight hint of a smile, before: “I always do.” And then he’s stepping through, into the hallway -- that perpetual scowl of his struggling to re-affix itself.