The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn Page A

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.
    “You see anyone suspicious?” he muttered through a mouthful of cheese.
    “Other than the congressman stealing that guy’s wallet? No. They look pretty normal to me.” I looked around the crowd. It was just a lot of rich people gabbing and eating free food. Me, I’d rather be at Plunkey’s Bar knocking back a beer and eating pretzels. I glanced over at Maura. A little shiver went down my spine. Something was definitely wrong. She was standing stock-still. Her eyes darted back and forth. The tip of her nose quivered a bit as if she was sniffing the air.
    “What’s up, babe?” I whispered to her.
    “There’s a real bad vibe in here,” she murmured. “Someone’s running some old magic, and I mean really old magic.”
    “Old like your mother?”
    She kicked me in the ankle. “Centuries old. Nasty stuff.”
    I usually don’t get worried, but she was starting to worry me. The director of the museum stepped up to a podium near the stairs, and things started happening.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Mister Mayor, Ambassador Draganov, and honored guests. Thank you for coming tonight to this most special occasion. The Museum of Natural History welcomes you, one and all, and is made all the brighter, all the richer, by your presence. A great many illustrious items in our collections have come to us through the munificence of our donors. The false teeth of Catherine the Great from the Silas and Agnes P. Moonhead Foundation, Leonardo da Vinci’s cuckoo clock gifted by the heirs of Professor Manolo Schwartz and, of course, the pickled liver of Attila the Hun given to the museum by the very generous estate of Mrs. Ethel Stoltfuz. All wonderful, all marvelous, all enjoyed by countless visitors and schoolchildren. But tonight—tonight brings an even more wondrous gift to our walls. A gift we have been waiting for with bated breath. And, to introduce our donor, I am pleased to bring up our own Mayor Willie Vernor. Mister Mayor, if you will?”
    The mayor bounded up to the podium and seized the microphone.
    “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “Thank you very much! I’m Mayor Willie Vernor, and you’re wonderful people. You’re all beautiful. Beautiful! Like me, you’re wonderful, beautiful people who want nothing but the best for this museum, nothing but the best for our city. That’s why I’ll be running again for mayor next year. I’m beautiful, you’re beautiful. Thank you. Thank you for your votes! Vote for Willie!”
    There was a spattering of uncertain applause. The museum director quivered, as if he were contemplating grabbing back the microphone.
    “You’re all spectacular, that’s what you are,” said the mayor, edging away from the director. “But now I’d like to introduce to you the man of the hour, the bee’s knees, the reason we’re here. He’s a world-famous explorer, a plunderer of ancient Egyptian tombs, inventor of Backus’ Scalp Tonic, and innovative croquet player. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for zillionaire Burnham Backus! Burnham Backus!”
    Thunderous applause. Cheering and whistling. Even the Bulgarian ambassador looked faintly interested. The applause went on and on. The mayor glanced around.
    “Burnham Backus, ladies and gentlemen! Burnham Backus! Is he in the house? Yes? No? Apparently not. Well, ladies and gentlemen, while we’re waiting, let me take this opportunity to say a few words about donating to my—”
    “Excuse me,” said Burnham Backus.
    “Pardon me, my good fellow,” said the mayor, somewhat irritated. “Don’t interrupt your betters