Rooster: A Badge, Gun and Heartache

By D. C. Murphy

CORRUPTION IS EVERYWHERE

Near San Francisco, a small town is riddled with bad cops and cocaine dealers


MILL VALLEY sits nestled in the shadow of the Sleeping Princess Mountain in southern Marin County and, at first glance, appears to be a quiet, tranquil little town populated by rock stars, writers, and artists. But a closer look reveals a dark side: corruption has reached the top levels of the police department, and white powder cocaine is the locals drug of choice.

Sean Patrick Murphy, nicknamed Rooster by his supervising sergeant, Dante John Castigari, is a burnt-out Irish cop on a rampage on San Franciscos skid row. He carries a Badge, Gun, and Heartache, but all he ever wanted was to be a country singer. But so far, that doesnt seem to be in the cards.

The year is 1978. But the story begins in Mill Valley, early in 1973:

Sergeant Castigari hates dope dealers and dirty cops. So does Murphy, but his passion to become a country singer soon starts to interfere with his commitment to protect and serve. When Castigari plunges into the dangerous business of cleaning up the town and eradicating the Colombian Drug Cartel from their stronghold, Rock Star Hell, Murphy has to decide among his music, his job, and his mentor.

The corruption and greed start to take a toll on everybody involved, including Murphys girlfriend, the sultry singer Peggy Sue Barnes. Then Murphy is offered immortality with a record contractbut not without a price. Soon Castigari is asking, Are you pulling pistols or strumming guitars? Its down to the wire, but Murphy has already made up his mind. Now its a waiting game, and both the cops and the Colombians await Roosters next move.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481708739

D. C. Murphy

D. C. "Rooster" Murphy is a retired lawman. He spent forty years protecting and serving communities in the San Francisco Bay Area. Rooster has been shot at, cut with a knife, beat up, and spat upon more times than he would have liked. But that just gave him something to write about. Rooster writes novels, screenplays, and music. He acts, sings, and makes movies. He loves Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard. In his world, suits and ties are out and cowboy boots and blue jeans are in. Rooster lives in Petaluma, California, with his wife, Jennifer, a classical pianist.

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© 2013 D.C. Murphy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/25/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0875-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0874-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0873-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900936

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them..

CONTENTS

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The Shroud, 1978

Chapter One

The Elephant’s Graveyard, 1979

Chapter Two

Mill Valley

Chapter Three

The West Coast Connection

Chapter Four

Pirates of the Medellín Cartel

Chapter Five

Tommy’s Meats and Delicatessen

Chapter Six

The Heart of the Wedding

Chapter Seven

The Married Man

Chapter Eight

A Badge, Gun, and Heartache

Chapter Nine

Cindy Lynn

Chapter Ten

Ring of Fire

Chapter Eleven

The Man and His Music

Chapter Twelve

Blue Dolphin Enterprises

Chapter Thirteen

Romeo and Juliet

Chapter Fourteen

Strummin’ Guitars

Chapter Fifteen

The Loose Cannon

Chapter Sixteen

The Chain of Custody

Chapter Seventeen

The Code of Silence

Chapter Eighteen

She Kissed Me and Mill Valley Goodbye

Chapter Nineteen

Pullin’ Pistols

Chapter Twenty

The New Sergeant

Chapter Twenty-One

End of Watch

Chapter Twenty-Two

Walking Away

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Elephant’s Graveyard

Epilogue

About the Author

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.

Johnny Cash as portrayed in the book is a fable creation. Certain public figures have been referenced by their real names, in this fictional setting, in the real town of Mill Valley.

Original songs: She Kissed Me and Mill Valley Goodbye, Diane Cindy Lynn, Time for Me to Go, are the property of the author, D.C. Murphy, and Dan Hayes.

Song lyrics from Badge, Gun, and Heartache by Dan Hayes used by permission.

Song lyrics from Midnight Special are Public Domain.

Song lyrics from Down by the Riverside are Public Domain.

Song lyrics from Wild Irish Rose are Public Domain.

Every Jack slave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

—William Shakespeare

Acknowledgements

The following folks need to be acknowledged:

Dante John Castellani for my nickname: Rooster. R.I.P. John.

Mary Rudy, the best editor in the country.

Craig Chaquico, the best damn guitar player in the universe.

Sammy Hagar, for dropping that pistol.

Gregg Rolie, for being a Rock Star.

Patrick Burke and Larry Cragg, for letting me hang out at Prune Music.

Jerry’s Meats and Delicatessen, for the dollar lunches.

Victor Phan, Clark Jones, and crew at TCP Comics

Huey Lewis, for the cold one at the 2AM club.

And to the rest of the Rock ‘n Rollers mentioned in the book—thank you for being part of the scene—in Marvelous Marin County—land of hot tubs and peacock feathers.

This book was inspired by the man who walked with a slightly hunched rolling gate, somewhat like a well-fed lion, and peered intensely through olive-pit eyeballs, and sported a big black moustache.

Rooster, A Badge, Gun and Heartache is just a fable—but a damn fine one indeed. Somebody once said: When legend becomes fact, print the legend—so I did.

D.C. Murphy, the Rooster

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Prologue

The Shroud, 1978

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It was one o’clock in the morning, and most of Marin County was asleep. But in the backseat of a midnight-black stretch limousine, twenty-three-year-old Peggy Sue Barnes sat flanked by a pair of oversized Colombians. She had tried to talk sense to them. The men had responded with a barrage of angry Spanish. Now the talking was done. It was just as well. Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t have made any real words come out. They emerged from the Waldo tunnel in the southbound lane of the Old Redwood Highway. Ahead of them, the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge rose through a thick blanket of fog, its span stretching across the bay to San Francisco. It was only 4200 feet long, less than a mile of smooth road and spectacular vistas. Peggy Sue knew she’d never reach the other side.

Her whole world had disappeared into the fog: the Marin Headlands, the Sleeping Princess Mountain, the lights of the City, the Bay, the Farallon Islands, everything. Peggy Sue bowed her head, and long blonde hair fell into her lap along with her tears.

The driver punched the gas pedal. The engine roared, and the limo climbed onto the ribbon of asphalt. Peggy Sue’s stomach did a somersault. Mid-span they skidded to a stop and she was thrown forward. The Colombian on her right grabbed her, as if trying to keep her from falling out of her seat. As if trying to help her—to protect her from harm. She knew better. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she looked around wildly. But where is there to hide in the backseat of a limousine?

Ven aquí, puta. The Colombian who was holding her opened the door.

No, Peggy Sue screamed.

The large man pulled her from the backseat by her upper arms and jerked her around like a rag doll.

She peered through the tinted glass into the front seat. I didn’t do anything, Lance. she struggled to free herself. I didn’t do anything. I swear to God. Please, Lance.

The other Colombian came around the back of the limousine and joined his partner.

Peggy Sue’s shoes scuffed along the fog-dampened deck of the bridge. She dug in her heels, tried to keep the men from dragging her to the ocean-side railing. Stop, she screamed. You don’t have to do this. Lance, please, tell ’em it’s okay. She searched the fog for someone to save her, but there was no one. She was all alone with her murderers.

Peggy Sue grabbed the cold metal guard rail and tried to hold on, but it was too wet and slippery. The two men plucked her from the bridge like a daisy and tossed her over the side. The wind roared in her ears and tore at her hair. The fog was so thick that even her last piercing scream could not penetrate its white shroud, so blessedly thick she could not see the icy waters of the Pacific Ocean racing up to crush her.

Chapter One

The Elephant’s Graveyard, 1979

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The Elephant’s Graveyard is like an epitaph without a tombstone.

— Officer Kevin Martin, SFPD

Robert Powlauski stepped out the front door of the Red Rooster Lounge to set the world right. There wasn’t much out of the ordinary in San Francisco’s Tenderloin that midnight. Half a block away, in the fog-diffused light of the street lamps, three middle-aged black guys laughed and passed around a brown paper bag. A junkie rattled the fire escape of a flea bag hotel and settled in to take his ease. And the working girls were out in force. All of which was fine. But right by the big front window of the Red Rooster Lounge, bathed in the glow of its red neon sign and harmonizing with the country blues bleeding through its walls, two crack whores were haggling over the price of pussy with a couple of drunks who’d wandered over from the Sunset, the city’s Irish district.

Hey, Jackie, said Powlauski. You know the rules.

Whoring was so common in the Tenderloin, it was practically legal. But the one spot where it was definitely not allowed was on the sidewalk in front of the Red Rooster.

Jackie put her hands on her ample hips. It ain’t us, Bob. These Irish boys always wanna start some shit. Latisha and me just trying to get paid.

Get paid in the alley, Jackie.

Paul O’Leary staggered as he turned to face Powlauski. "Tell you what, Bob, you mind your business, and we’ll mind ours."

Stupid Mick. Jackie grabbed Latisha by the arm and led her away.

Yeah, go ahead, Paul. Get your ass kicked, Latisha called over her shoulder. You do what you gotta do, and when you’re done, if ya can still get it up, meet us down in Jessie Alley.

O’Leary stared at Powlauski. Man, who do you think ya are, the pride of the Tenderloin or something?

Be careful, Paul, warned the other drunk. "I heard he’s real bad."

At 6’6 and 225 pounds, Powlauski wasn’t a man most people would consider messing with. See, that’s the problem with you Irish boys. Ya turn into mental midgets when ya drink."

O’Leary stepped back and began to dance like a fighter—a drunk-ass fighter—giving the air in front of him a few quick shadow punches.

Powlauski watched the exhibition and smirked. You look a little out of shape, Paul. Why don’t ya just go play with your girlfriend.

Come on, ya big dumb Polack; let’s see how bad you really are.

O’Leary’s partner moved in closer.

Powlauski watched and waited for the men to reach him. Then his jabs and right crosses exploded like thunder, leaving both Irishmen face down in wino piss.

Powlauski shook his head and chuckled. You guys must be the pride of the Sunset.

The Elephant’s Graveyard, as the area was also known, was the venue of choice for junkies and winos to give up the ghost, and these two seemed intent on it. The down and out picked the place because they could die in secret, hidden in a jungle thicket of human debauchery, the way dying elephants find private places where they can lie down—places where no one will ever find their bones.

Powlauski jerked open the door to the Red Rooster and stepped into the full blare of the band playing She Kissed Me and Mill Valley Goodbye. But it was just the music—a drummer, a couple of pickers, and Ruby Smith on the piano. There was nobody at the center microphone, next to which a Martin-28 guitar rested mute on a stand, the name Rooster inlaid in ivory down its rosewood neck.

Bob moved behind the bar and sized up the place. Nothing much had changed since he’d gone on break. A few tables were occupied, and several stools at the bar were taken by the usual Tenderloin lowlifes.

Ruby Smith began to work her way through a solo at the piano. She caught Bob’s eye, shook her head of jet black hair, and tilted it toward the guy at the end of the bar.

Bob threw up his hands as if to say, what do you want me to do about it?

Ruby rolled her green eyes. C’mon, Rooster. Help us out.

Sean Murphy half turned but still seemed more interested in the Jack Daniels in front of him than the guitar on the stage.

You’re not gonna sing? said Bob.

I own this damn bar, don’t I? Murphy scowled. Maybe I don’t feel like diggin’ up bones.

Bob smirked and wandered down the bar to wait on a customer.

With his blue jeans and black T-shirt, his long brown hair and scruffy mustache, his tired face and bleary eyes, Murphy looked like a burned-out hippie. But then there was the gold chain around his neck, and hanging from it the two talismans of his life—the silver SFPD star and a six-inch carved ivory elephant’s tusk with the initials R. J. etched into its side. And under his left armpit was the ever present cowboy pistol—a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum like the one carried by San Francisco’s own Dirty Harry, except that Murphy’s had ivory grips.

Ruby tried again. C’mon, Rooster, help us out. It’s your song.

This time Murphy turned all the way around. He held up his left hand, and with the right, he threw back the rest of the Jack. Okay, Ruby, okay.

He slid off the stool and lumbered across the floor like a man carrying a burden much heavier than a twenty-six-year-old should have to. Mounting the stage, he picked up the guitar and slung the strap over his shoulder. He played a few chords, falling into sync with the rest of the band, and then started to sing.

I didn’t have many startin’ overs left.

And I didn’t feel like trying to forget.

But she said I would.

That I’d get over her for good

If I tried.

She kissed me and Mill Valley goodbye.

I’d thought that we’d been doing pretty good.

She got the itch to go to Hollywood.

It’s just LA.

Might as well be worlds away

From my heart.

She kissed me and Mill Valley goodbye.

It’s been awhile since I have seen her last.

And now and then I think about the past.

Did she find the part.

Besides the role that broke my heart

And made me cry.

She kissed me and Mill Valley goodbye.

She kissed me and Mill Valley goodbye.

Murphy stopped and ducked out of the guitar strap. A few people applauded. One drunk pounded his empty glass on a table in the corner.

Murphy set his guitar back on the stand and stepped off the stage. That was nice, Ruby, thanks.

She watched him aim for the bar. Rooster, let it go. It’s yesterday’s business. You’re safe now. I don’t wanna see ya in a pine box.

Pine box, whispered Murphy. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with six white horses and a pine box.

Rooster, yelled Ruby.

Murphy turned and smiled. Anybody ever tell you to mind your own business, Ruby? He thought about the pine box for a moment then sang a couple lines of impromptu lyrics:

So you think I’ll get hurt or worse

That I’ll take a ride in a hearse

Being married to a cop

Is a curse that she can’t shake

I got a Badge, a Gun, and a Heartache…

He turned and continued to the bar, strutting and dancing around, repeating some of the lyrics.

I’m not kidding around here, said Ruby. "I’m dead serious."

Murphy reclaimed his barstool. Jack and Coke, Bob.

Ruby Smith shook her head and continued playing the piano.

The San Francisco Chronicle lay on the bar. The headline caught Murphy’s attention:

One year later, police seek suspect in Marin County homicide

He didn’t want to read the article, but he couldn’t help it.

One year ago, the body of Peggy Sue Barnes, twenty-two, was found on the jetty rocks beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Barnes, a Nebraska native, had moved to the San Francisco Bay Area to pursue an acting and singing career, but those who knew her say she got mixed up with the wrong people. At the time of her death, she had been under subpoena to testify in a RICO trial linking the Sweetwater Bar in Mill Valley to the Colombian Drug Cartel. Lance Larkin, owner of the Sweetwater, is wanted by the FBI for the murder of Miss Barnes. His whereabouts are unknown, but it is suspected that he is hiding out in Colombia.

Murphy finished his drink and slammed the glass down so hard the ice jumped the lip and skittered away.

Ruby’s piano playing stopped. I’m tellin’ you, you gotta let it go, Rooster. You’re safe now. They won’t find your bones, baby. Not down here in the Elephant’s Graveyard.

Don’t worry, Ruby, said Murphy. It ain’t my bones they’ll be looking for. And besides, it ain’t over till Larkin’s dead. Or I am. He picked up his empty glass then put it back down. No, it ain’t over till the Rooster crows. Now hit them ivories. I wanna hear some Johnny Cash.

He half fell off the barstool then planted his feet and stood tall. He slapped the bar and looked at Powlauski. It’s Miller time, Bob.

While Murphy retrieved his guitar from the stand on stage, Powlauski grabbed a six-pack of Coors longnecks out of the cooler and set it on the bar.

With the guitar in his right hand, Murphy took the six-pack with his left and tucked it under his right arm. Then he walked out of the bar without another word.

"Sounds more like Frank Miller time to me," said Ruby, and she started to play the theme from High Noon.

Ruby, said Bob. He said Johnny Cash, not Tex Ritter.

Ruby changed her tune to Cash’s Ring of Fire, Sean Patrick Murphy’s favorite song.

Murphy staggered to his undercover cop car and opened the door. He tossed the six-pack onto the middle of the front seat. Then, tenderly, he placed the guitar in the backseat. He was closing the back door when a black and white SFPD car skidded to a stop right behind him.

Hey, Rooster. A patrolman leaned out the window. Dispatch has been calling you. What should I tell them?

Murphy reached in and pulled out a Coors. He twisted off the cap and chugged the whole thing while the cop waited for an answer. Then he belched. Under the circumstances, that seemed an articulate enough way to tell his fellow officer that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about who was calling him. Then the music spilling out of the Red Rooster Lounge caught his attention. Ruby was playing his request, Ring of Fire, and he started singing along.

The cop in the black-and-white slapped the outside of his car door. C’mon, Rooster. Man, it’s time to get over it, brother. I’m tired of covering for you.

Murphy stopped singing. You’re what?

You heard me, Rooster.

Murphy tossed the empty bottle into the air and drew his cowboy pistol. The cop in the black-and-white flinched. Murphy took careless aim at the flying bottle and laughed when it shattered in the street. Come on, Joe, he said. I’m just fucking with you. I mean, I’m not that crazy. Then he took a shooting stance and fired at the street light on the power pole in front of the bar. The light exploded, and sparks and glass rained down onto the street. Murphy turned to the cop. Now go fuck yourself, Joe.

Murphy threw himself in behind the steering wheel and fired up the engine. The smoke from burning rubber drifted up behind him like a ghost. He peeled away from the curb and headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge, pulled onto Deadly Doyle Drive northbound with a longneck Coors between his legs. The toll booth at the entrance to the bridge was unattended. He punched the gas and threaded the car between the booths at seventy miles per hour. At mid-span, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. Activating the rear amber flashing lights, he popped the door and staggered out of the car and over to the railing with his beer. He leaned against the cold iron and looked down at the water. Then he tilted his head back, chugged the beer down, and tossed the empty out into thin air. He watched it fall, heard it whistle as it tumbled end over end over end. Little by little, the whistling grew faint then fell silent altogether.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to imagine the sound Peggy Sue had made when she hit the water.

He stumbled and winced. Peggy Sue was gone. She was really gone. But it was not over. Not by a long shot. And he, Sean Patrick Murphy, would not rest until Lance Larkin was dead.

A CHP unit pulled up behind Murphy’s unmarked car and the PA speaker shattered his reverie. Rooster, you code four?

Murphy leaned on the rail, staring out toward Alcatraz Island.

Hey, Rooster. The patrolman asked again. Are you okay?

Murphy managed to raise his head and nod. Then he held up four fingers. Everything was code four—under control.

The patrolman pulled around Murphy’s car, returned the four-finger high sign as he passed, then accelerated down the north half of the bridge into Marin County.

Back in his own car, Murphy twisted the cap off another Coors, took a healthy pull, then punched his way down the incline toward the town of Mill Valley and the Fireside Bar, owned by his grandfather, Mickey Quinn.

He was doing sixty-five, maybe seventy, through the Waldo Tunnel. He couldn’t be sure. The speedometer was blurry. He chugged the beer fast and tossed the empty out the window, reveling in the chime of shattering glass in the tunnel.

Murphy turned up the AM radio. The DJ broke in over the last few guitar notes of a Waylon Jennings tune. Thank you, Waylon. And now, just like I promised, and I know all my listeners love this one, because not only is it Johnny Cash’s latest single, but it was written by one of San Francisco’s finest. Here’s ‘She Kissed Me and Mill Valley Goodbye.’ Hang in there, Rooster; we’re all feeling your pain.

The Man in Black began to sing, but it was too much for Murphy to handle. He had written that song for Peggy Sue, and she hadn’t even lived long enough to hear it. He had only himself to blame. And now, hearing Cash sing the words that he had written for her, well, it just didn’t matter anymore. At the north end of the tunnel, the blurry speedometer read 80 MPH. Murphy dropped into a daydream. He found himself back on the Sleeping Princess Mountain with Peggy Sue. Follow your dreams, Sean, because I’m gonna follow mine—all the way to Hollywood. Cash sang:

…Did she find the part

Besides the role that broke my heart

She made me cry

She Kissed Me And Mill Valley Goodbye…

The horn on a purple, 1962 VW bus snapped Murphy out of his daydream. He had drifted into the hippie’s lane. He hit the brakes hard and just missed hitting the guy. Goddamn hippie! Murphy pulled down the visor and turned on the red lights and siren.

The startled hippie jerked the minibus right then left then regained some semblance of composure and pulled the vehicle over to the right.

Murphy punched it. That’s right, you dumb ass, get the fuck out of the way. He looked to the right and toasted the guy with his beer bottle and a sneering laugh.

It was almost 2:00 a.m. when he pulled into the parking lot of the Fireside. He polished off his last beer, retrieved his guitar from the backseat, and entered through the rear door.

Mickey Quinn watched from behind the bar. Murphy stumbled in, nearly tripping over a chair. In one hand he carried his guitar. In the other he clutched the elephant tusk that hung from his neck.

Leaning on the blackthorn shillelagh he used as a cane, the white-bearded Quinn turned to O’Malley, a two-foot wooden leprechaun on the back bar counter. O’Malley, Quinn said in his thick Irish brogue. Now, would ya look at who comes dancing his way so graceful into me establishment.

Hey, Rooster, said Carl Jones, resting the heavy end of his pool cue on the floor as Murphy passed the back pool table. Man, you don’t look too good.

I don’t look too good? Murphy sneered. Just imagine how good you’re gonna look behind bars. I remember your last booking photo, Carl; you looked like dog shit.

Jones shook his head and bent over the table to line up his next shot. "Sorry, Rooster, I was only kidding."

Mickey leaned in even closer to O’Malley and whispered in his ear. And it looks like he’s got a couple of whiskeys onboard too. But you know what they say. An Irishman is not really drunk as long as he can hold onto at least one blade of grass and not fall from the face of the earth.

Murphy reached the bar and handed the guitar over to Mickey. The old man took it and placed it in the stand Murphy had put back there for his visits.

Right you are, Sean, said Mickey. Let’s protect the guitar from harm. No sense in both of you being trashed.

Murphy ignored the comment and straddled a barstool. He looked past Mickey at a pair of framed photographs of uniformed police officers. One was a tough Italian American with olive-pit eyes and a big black mustache, the other a Hispanic cop with a warm, friendly smile. Both photographs bore traditional mourning bands.

Sean, said Mickey. Are you not going to greet your old granddad, then?

Murphy continued to stare at the photos.

Hey, Sean!

When Murphy still didn’t respond, Mickey moved in closer and peered into his grandson’s face. Oh, Jesus, I’ve seen that look before. It’s been a year, lad. Let it go.

Still no response. It was time for the blackthorn. Mickey lifted the shillelagh and slammed it down on the bar right next to Murphy’s hand. I’m talkin’ to ya now, lad!

Right, Mickey. I hear you. But if you’re a bartender, and not a priest, I’ll take a Jack and Coke.

Mickey poured the cocktail and set it down solidly on the bar.

Murphy hoisted it toward the photographs. To Dante John Castigari and Jesus ‘The Bean’ Gonzales. Rest in peace my brothers. He poured the drink into his mouth, and before he’d even swallowed it all, he motioned Mickey for another.

Mickey went about preparing it. ’Course, I could have been a priest, Sean, now that you mention it. But it just wasn’t the kind of lifestyle me mother, God rest her soul, thought might suit me.

I hear you, Mickey.

Mickey set the drink in front of Murphy. He tried to serve it with a little cheer. Hey, I hear that Johnny Cash is doing very well with ‘She Kissed Me and Mill Valley Goodbye.’

But Murphy’s attention was already back on Castigari and Gonzales.

Mickey patted the bar softly. Very nice, lad.

Murphy picked up the drink and carried it to the window. He stared out at the silhouette of Mount Tamalpais, the Sleeping Princess Mountain.

Using the shillelagh for support, Mickey made his way around the bar and over to Murphy. He put an arm around his grandson’s shoulder and looked out the window with him.

I wrote ‘Mill Valley’ up there, Mickey, on that mountain, said Murphy.

I know ya did, lad. I go up there meself, sometimes. The Miwok’s tell a pretty story, don’t they?

Murphy nodded slowly. The Miwok Indians had a legend about a god who laid his princess to rest at Stinson Beach. They believed that over the centuries, the mountain grew in her image, becoming the Sleeping Princess. She really does look like a sleeping princess, Murphy whispered.

She sure do, Sean. But the Indians got their legends, and the Irish—well—we got our own. Mickey pointed his shillelagh at the leprechaun behind the bar. Just ask O’Malley. He tugged on Murphy a little and managed to pull him away from the forlorn Sleeping Princess and back to the bar.

With some difficulty, Murphy settled himself onto his favorite barstool again. He looked into O’Malley’s eyes and shook his head. Leprechauns.

"That’s right. Leprechauns. I saw me one, a long time ago. Up