The Tourist

I knew she was a tourist from the exact moment she got out of her BMW. No one here drove a BMW and everyone knew the spot she was in was Mr. Murphy’s spot. Not one local had ever dared to park in his spot. Everyone knew he was an old mob boss and we sensed he still had some connections around the state and maybe even the city. Being only seventeen, I had only seen glances of Mr. Murphy, but wasn’t alive during his supposed running of town. But I was also obsessed with true crime so I was itching for Mr. Murphy to stop being so reclusive and grant me the interview I had always wanted. 

I was itching to be a reporter for any newspaper, I wasn’t picky, but all I wanted to do was write about crime. I tried to phrase my obsession as finding justice instead of being obsessed with murder, but sometimes I forgot. But maybe, just maybe, this tourist was the way I was going to finally meet Mr. Murphy. Maybe this was my chance to finally find out where he lived and how he still controlled whatever mob was still active in town. I knew it was finally time to meet my dad whether he knew who he was or not. It was time. My time. My chance. I needed to get in on the family business or soon enough it would be gone. Because my sources told me I was not the only one itching to find Mr. Murphy. I was just the only one who wanted him to stay alive. 


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