Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “I got here around nine-thirty and was walking across the gaming area to my office when I was stopped by a guy in a baseball cap.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He said my name. Down there by the slot machines. I assumed he was a customer, had some problem or something.”

  “Does that often happen? Customers complaining directly to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Customers who know your name?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “So the guy says he needs to talk to me about something. I tell him to go ahead and speak up, but he says it’s a private matter.”

  “Those were his exact words. ‘A private matter?’“

  “Yeah. So I said, okay, come up to my office.”

  “You invited him up here?”

  “Sure. He seemed okay. It’s first thing in the morning. What could it hurt?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Beck pulled out a little notebook, and wrote on it with a cheap pen. Son of a bitch was already recording the interview, why did he need notes?

  “So we come up here and he sits right there where you’re sitting,” Nick said. “And I ask him what I can do for him and he pulls a fucking pistol out from under his shirt.”

  “A pistol?”

  “I think it was a nine-mil, but it looked like a freaking howitzer when he pointed it at my face.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He ordered me to phone down to the counting room and tell them a different crew was coming from Universal Security to make the morning pickup.”

  “And you did as he ordered?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Beck grunted.

  “Then he pitched me a pair of handcuffs and made me cuff myself to the arm of this chair. He yanked the phone cord out and left me here. I didn’t know what happened next until after the police got here.”

  “You didn’t hear any noise from out back? There apparently was quite a—”

  “The guy closed the door behind him. An alarm went off a little bit later, but I couldn’t hear anything else in here.”

  Howard Beck stared at Nick for a minute, like he was waiting for him to spill something else. Fucker clearly didn’t know Nick.

  “The police tell me the robbers got away with nearly five hundred thousand dollars,” Beck said. “Can that possibly be correct?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Given the size of this casino and the size of Fowler, our experience would tell us to expect a smaller amount.”

  “Business was good this weekend.”

  “You’re sure about those numbers?”

  “Look, Howard, you don’t have to take my word for it. My bookkeeper will be more than happy to walk you through our accounts and—”

  “That’s not my job,” Beck said quickly. “We’ll bring in a forensic accountant to go through your records with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “Is that right?” Nick’s stomach flopped. He hoped Cindy Duquesne had done a good job of dummying up those books.

  “Standard procedure,” the investigator said. “Any time there’s a loss this large, we have to make sure the accounts are correct and up to date.”

  “No problem.”

  Beck reached across and picked up the little recorder and snapped it off.

  “I’ll need to interview your employees,” he said. “Anyone who was here during the robbery.”

  “Sure,” Nick said, relieved the interview was ending. “I’ll put the word out for everyone to be cooperative. If they give you any trouble, call me.”

  “I’ll do that.” Beck stood. “We want to get your claim resolved as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

  Nick believed that. This guy was efficiency personified. And if the insurer could quickly resolve the claim without paying out a penny, that would make the company only too happy. Probably get Howard Beck a bonus.

  Nick got to his feet and showed the investigator to the door. The man went to shake hands, but Nick didn’t want his paw crunched again, so he kept it in his pocket. Instead, he patted Beck on the shoulder with his left hand and wished him luck.

  Then Nick closed the door and poured himself a drink.

  Chapter 32

  Cindy Duquesne pushed the button on the front of the slot machine, then watched eagerly as the wheels spun. In the few seconds it took the jingling machine to make up its mind, she got a bubble inside her chest, a little thrill of possibility.

  God help her, she loved it. Each time she spun a slot or rolled the dice or turned over a card, a world of potential opened up before her myopic eyes. This could be the big one, the once-in-a-lifetime bonanza. And if it didn’t happen this time, well, okay. There was always next time.

  When she indulged the compulsion, it literally carried her away. She’d get mesmerized by those spinning wheels, those passing chances. Hours would slip past. She’d gamble until she ran through every dime. She’d borrow money to keep gambling, run up her credit cards to the max. She’d even steal, as she had in the past, embezzling money from the Starlite.

  A gambling junkie shouldn’t be anywhere near a casino, much less working in one, but Cindy had made a conscious decision to join the industry, just so she could be close to those clanging machines and felt-topped tables. With her background in finance, she could’ve found some corporate job, could’ve even started her own accounting firm. But she’d chosen to work at the Starlite. It was like finding a lover who was bad for you in every way, some married guy who lied and beat you, and moving in next door to him.

  After Nick Papadopoulos caught her embezzling, she should’ve put as much distance as possible between herself and gambling. But she thought she could manage her compulsion. How could she prove it if she ran away from it all? She’d chosen to stay, and she’d mostly been successful. But now, with the stress of the holdup and faking those numbers and the tough questioning from that stern insurance investigator, she’d caved in to the craving.

  Cindy pushed the button and watched the spinning cherries and sevens and diamonds flash past. Beautiful. No win, not a damned thing, but she did it again.

  Why shouldn’t she indulge herself? Everyone broke the rules. Papadopoulos had been skimming profits for months. Now he was trying to rip off the insurance company. He’d known that robbery was coming, days before it happened. If he tried to ream her out again about gambling or embezzling, she wouldn’t have to take it. She could face him down, if she could find the courage. She certainly had the evidence.

  Cindy took off her horn-rimmed glasses and cleaned them on her shirttail. The room was a golden blur without her spectacles, a palace of light and noise and desire.

  She couldn’t gamble at the Starlite, of course. But the Rancho Palomino was right next door, and it was prettier and livelier anyway. She loved the Western décor and the plush seats and the modern machines. Hell, she even loved that stuffed horse that stood by the front door. People made jokes about beating that dead horse, but she thought Big Jim Kelton’s devotion to Lucky was sweet.

  She slipped her glasses back on her face, and played the slot machine again. Two cherries lined up, but the third row stopped spinning on a lemon. A bump of adrenaline. Close that time. Certainly close enough to try it again.

  A shadow fell over her, and she turned to find a huge man standing behind her. He wore black clothes and no shoes on his big Flintstone feet. His short black hair was a spiky mess, and his brow jutted over the wide, scowling face of a tiki god.

  Another man stood at her shoulder. This one she knew: Rex Mangrum, Rancho Palomino’s sleazy security chief, with his cowboy hat and his smarmy smile. He’d come onto her one time, trying to buy her a drink and chat her up. Didn’t take him long to realize that Cindy came into Rancho Palomino for one thing, and it wasn’t to look for a boyfriend.

  “What do you want?”

  “The boss would like a word,” Rex said. “If you could pry yourself awa
y for a minute, we’ll escort you upstairs.”

  Cindy looked at the slot machine and back at the men. She didn’t want to stop gambling, and she certainly didn’t want to go upstairs for a palaver with Big Jim Kelton. She’d had enough of interrogations for one day. But her money was nearly gone anyway—

  The big man rested a hand on her shoulder. Didn’t squeeze or try to hurt her, but the weight of that hand was pressure enough.

  “What does he want?”

  “Just a little chat,” Rex said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Cindy picked up her purse and held it close as she slid off the tall stool. She cast one last longing look at the slot machine, then let the men lead her away.

  Chapter 33

  To Eve Michaels, Ernesto’s was the quintessential Italian restaurant: Noisy and lively, with great food and free-flowing wine. Tables covered with red-checkered cloths were crowded so close together, the skinny waiters had to swivel their hips to slide between diners. Chefs bustled about the open kitchen, shouting and chopping and dancing back as flames shot up from stoves. The restaurant could’ve easily fit among the touristy trattorias in North Beach, but instead it was on Clement Street, out in The Avenues, catering to locals. It was so popular, there often was a line on the sidewalk, but the hosts made that more palatable by handing out free glasses of wine to those waiting.

  Ernesto’s was the place where Tony had taken Eve on their first date, nearly three years ago, and they’d been regulars ever since.

  “Happy anniversary,” he said as they clinked glasses over their antipasto.

  She squinted at him. “You’re early. It’s still two weeks away.”

  “Not that you’re counting.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought we’d get a jump on the calendar.”

  They sipped the red wine, their eyes locked.

  “Three years,” he said.

  “Nearly.”

  “I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted three years before.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “What about that guy in college? That one went a long time.”

  “Not this long. And we broke up every other month.”

  “You must’ve been hard to get along with.”

  “It wasn’t me. He was a wise guy, thought he knew everything, but he was always getting things wrong. Like anniversary dates.”

  “Ouch.”

  A goateed waiter arrived with their pasta, fussing over them as he crowded everything onto the table.

  Once the waiter was gone, she asked, “Think we’ll make it another three years?”

  “Sure,” Tony said. “If you behave yourself.”

  “I thought you liked it when I misbehaved.”

  His cheeks flushed. “Good thing it’s so loud in here.”

  “Aw, look at the big tough criminal,” she said. “He’s embarrassed.”

  “Eat your food.”

  They dug into their steaming plates of pasta. Eve’s meal was just right, linguine with clam sauce, crusty bread, more wine.

  Once she came up for air, she said, “I worry sometimes, Tony, that something will happen to disrupt our happy little lives.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like work. That was a close call the other day. What if one of the boys had caught a bullet?”

  His expression darkened. He took another sip of wine and looked around, but no one was listening.

  “You sure know how to kill a romantic mood. Do we have to have this conversation now? Here?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. She hated to ruin the mood, but she couldn’t help herself. “I’ve been worried lately. Wondering when our luck will run out.”

  “We’re taking a break,” he said. “Weeks, maybe months.”

  “But then we’ll go right back to it. Taking chances. Running risks.”

  Tony chewed, frowning. Once he swallowed, he said, “I never wanted you working in the family business.”

  “Just because your dad was a heist man doesn’t mean—”

  “And my grandfather. And my uncles. It’s in my blood.”

  “It turned out badly for all of them. Eventually. The only one who didn’t end up in prison was your dad and that’s because he was dead.”

  “You’re ruining my appetite here.”

  “I’m sorry. But I keep thinking you could find something else—”

  “A job? Nobody will hire me, Eve. Everybody does background checks these days. I don’t exactly have a stellar résumé. Couple of years in the pen—”

  “When you were nineteen years old. Come on.”

  “And no visible means of support since. Think employers aren’t going to ask questions about that?”

  “Maybe we go into business for ourselves.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. Security experts?”

  That got a chuckle out of him. They ate for a while, both lost in thought. Eve worried that she’d said too much, that the evening was spoiled. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “You can get out any time,” he said finally. “I’d be happy to have you wait at home.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Besides, it would make me crazy. Knowing you and the boys were doing a job, waiting to hear how it went? I’d go nuts. Better that I’m along for the ride, watching your back.”

  Tony shrugged, as if to say: Then why are you complaining?

  “I’d like both of us to get out,” she said. “We’ve got lots of money now—”

  “It won’t last forever.”

  “No, but it would last long enough for us to make some changes.”

  The waiter stopped by again, asking if they’d like more wine. Tony raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Why not?” she said. “We’re not driving.”

  “It’s uphill all the way home. Be a long crawl.”

  “We can manage.”

  He nodded to the smiling waiter, who went to uncork another bottle.

  “Don’t know if we should be drinking,” Tony said, “if we’re going to have a serious conversation like this.”

  “I didn’t mean to get so serious. It’s been on my mind, and I sort of blurted it out.”

  “I never wanted you involved in the first place.”

  “I know.”

  “You even enrolled in those locksmith classes so you could—”

  “I know. You tried to talk me out of it. But how could I pass up such exciting work?”

  Tony nodded. “And it’s all I know how to do.”

  “You could learn something else. Go to college or something. You’re smart, Tony. You could do anything.”

  “Yeah, I can see myself going to college. Busting my brain over homework assigned by some egghead with a beard and Birkenstocks.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be like that—”

  “You know what I would be thinking the whole time? How much money flows through a college. And how I could steal it.”

  Chapter 34

  Nick Papadopoulos felt like hell. He hadn’t slept all night, too worried about insurance snoops and crooked accountants and all that could go wrong with his plans. He’d drunk too much booze and smoked too many cigarettes. His head pounded and his throat felt like he’d swallowed sand.

  His mood was not improved by the news that Cindy Duquesne hadn’t shown up for work. A lot was riding on how well Cindy held up to the pressure of the investigation. He didn’t need her crapping out on him now.

  He called her cell repeatedly, but she didn’t respond to the messages he left. He even sent his secretary over to Cindy’s apartment, but Monica returned with word that nobody was home.

  Had Cindy left town? If so, it could mean she feared her accounting fakery wouldn’t stand up to hard scrutiny. And that would mean trouble for Nick.

  He thought about a midday drink, a little hair of the dog to take the edge off his hangover, but decided against it. He needed to keep his wits about him.

&
nbsp; His intercom buzzed, and Monica’s voice came over the speaker: “Mr. Kelton is calling on line two.”

  What the hell did he want? Nick thought about not answering, but Big Jim would know he’d been snubbed. Monica was a terrible liar.

  Nick punched a glowing button and answered the phone.

  “What can I do for you, Jim?”

  “We need to talk. I was wondering if you could come out to the house.”

  “I’m kinda busy here. You want to talk, stop by my office.”

  “We’ve got some things to discuss, buddy.” Big Jim’s voice took on an edge. “The kind of things you wouldn’t want overheard by the hired help. And it would probably be better if I wasn’t seen hanging around the Starlite.”

  What could that mean? The son of a bitch had been plenty willing to stop by the Starlite and give him a hard time after the robbery. What had changed? Nick couldn’t afford not to find out.

  “All right. I’ll come out there. You mean right now?”

  “Sooner the better. I’ll be waiting.”

  The sun was a white orb that bleached the sky. Even behind dark glasses, Nick could barely stand the way the light speared his eyes. He had the Town Car’s air-conditioning turned up full-blast. Outside, the hot wind whipped the sagebrush and blew writhing snakes of sand across the highway.

  Last Chance Gas was gone. The cops had towed away the fried husk of the armored truck, and now there was nothing left but charred concrete and a few blackened timbers.

  “Urban renewal,” Nick muttered as he passed the spot.

  After another mile, the rolling green golf course at the center of Villa Mirage came into view. He was waved through the gate, then took the first left into Kelton’s half-circle driveway. A few cars were parked near the front door, but Nick couldn’t tell whether Kelton had company or simply had his Benzes and Cadillacs on display.

  Big Jim’s giant bodyguard opened the door without a word. He had a hungry glint in his eye, and Nick thought again how there was something deeply wrong with Shamu. There’d been a time, years ago, when Nick would’ve put him down, simply to make the world a safer place.