The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn Read Free Book Online Page A

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