Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Shamu and Rex both seemed a little unsteady on their feet, but they kept their guns trained on Tony and Nick. On a nod from Big Jim, Shamu padded across to them, the scattergun pointed at their bellies. They stood very still.

  Shamu twisted Nick’s gun out of his hand. He handed the shotgun to Big Jim and tucked Nick’s pistol in his belt. He gave both of them a quick pat-down, then stepped back. He made a show of cracking his knuckles and flexing his wide brown hands, warming up his fists.

  “Great,” Tony said.

  Nick said, “Shut up.”

  Chapter 56

  Nick Papadopoulos took a long sideways step away from Tony, who didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy watching the fire-whipped Polynesian who loomed over him.

  “So,” Big Jim Kelton said. “You’re Tony Zinn, the famous casino robber.”

  Tony played modest. “Famous? Please. I keep a low profi—”

  Pow! Shamu backhanded him across the kisser. Spun Tony all the way around. A thin spray of blood and spit flew through the air and dappled the sleeve of Nick’s black suit.

  “Fuck.” He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at the blood. “There’s a dry-cleaning bill.”

  “Let me say it again.” Big Jim’s voice boomed. “Are you Tony Zinn?”

  Tony wiped blood off his chin with the back of his hand. He answered Big Jim, but his eyes were on Shamu.

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “You’re the one who robbed the Starlite.”

  Tony said nothing.

  “You’re the one who played pranks at my casino this evening, setting off the fucking fire alarms and costing me a fortune.”

  No answer.

  “You’re the dirty son of a bitch who set fire to Lucky, my favorite thing in the whole wide world.”

  Nothing.

  “I don’t know why he won’t talk,” Nick growled. “I couldn’t get him to shut up before we got here. Telling lies and making excuses. Once I had the drop on him, he never shut the fuck up.”

  Shamu slammed a fist into Tony’s chest. Tony collapsed around it like his ribcage was designed to fit that hand. He hit the floor hard and curled up, coughing.

  ***

  Rex Mangrum cringed. This was too familiar, someone getting beaten by a much larger man. When Shamu hit Tony Zinn, Rex flinched, which set off his own aches and bruises. It was almost like he was getting hit, too. Damn.

  He backed up a step, keeping his distance as Shamu booted Zinn in the kidneys with one of his callused feet. The robber writhed on the floor.

  Rex glanced at Big Jim, who still stood by the golden horse, watching the beating with glee in his eyes. The boss loved this kind of shit. Sometimes he suspected that Big Jim went looking for trouble, just for the pleasure of watching people get hurt.

  Rex flashed to that girl in the desert, the accountant. Big Jim had watched enthralled as Shamu bit her and broke her, but it made Rex sick. He could still hear her screams in his head.

  He sighed. He hurt all over. He was weary. Couldn’t they get this finished? Couldn’t they just shoot these motherfuckers?

  ***

  Shamu wiped stinging sweat and blood from his brow. Son of a bitch. Hurts to take a firebomb in the face. Not that he was up for any beauty prizes before, but damn. Every nick would leave a white scar on his brown face. He’d look like a fucking blizzard.

  He kicked Tony Zinn again. He didn’t know how Zinn had blown up the horse when he clearly was with Nick when it happened, but he felt certain the son of a bitch was responsible. He sure as hell was responsible for the purple bruise on his forehead. Shamu kicked him again.

  Zinn squirmed on the floor, his arms protecting his head. He always seemed to be at just the wrong angle for Shamu to really put some weight into it. Shamu wanted to stomp him like a fucking cockroach.

  “Get him, Shamu,” Big Jim shouted. “Take a big ole bite out of him!”

  ***

  Jesus Christ, Nick thought, look at these guys. Shamu dancing around, trying to stomp on Tony, like he’s a fire they need to put out. Now he’s gonna eat him? Fucking lunatics.

  Nick’s gaze went once around the room:

  Monroe, frozen at the door, watching Shamu in horror.

  Rex, farthest away, his big Colt limp in his hand, his face drawn with pain.

  Shamu, busy with Zinn, fully concentrating on kicking him to death with his bare feet.

  Big Jim, grinning with malice, the sawed-off shotgun hot in his hands.

  Nick said, “Fuck it. Now.”

  He dropped to one knee, both hands scrambling for the cuff of his trousers.

  ***

  Tony had managed to dodge many of the blows, and his zippered leather jacket offered some protection, but he’d still be lucky to walk away from this. Why was Nick taking so long? Then, finally, he heard him say, “Now.”

  Tony lashed out with his foot. Shamu was aiming another stomp, one foot in the air, and Tony hit inside the ankle of his anchor foot. Felt like kicking a tree trunk, but it had the desired effect. Shamu lost his balance and stumbled backward, wheeling his arms.

  He crashed into the golden statue. Blood spouted as one of the upraised hooves gashed open his scalp, and he spun into the horse as if he were falling into its embrace.

  As Nick brought the little flat gun up from his ankle holster, Tony rolled across the floor. He wanted to be out of the way for what came next.

  ***

  That shotgun worried Nick the most. He fired the ankle gun at Big Jim – pop, pop – and one bullet hit him in the hand and splintered the sawed-off stock. Big Jim shrieked and dropped the shotgun and reeled around, grabbing with his good hand at the geyser of blood where two fingers used to be.

  ***

  The sudden shots startled Rex and the Colt boomed in his hand.

  Oops.

  Rex could barely bring himself to look over to where the bullet had gone. He saw Monroe falling to his knees and grabbing at his side. Blood squirted through his fingers.

  Aw, hell. He hadn’t meant to do that. Monroe shouldn’t even have been here. And he was on their side and all. Rex felt bad as Monroe fell forward onto his face.

  A second later, he felt much worse, as a bullet whizzed past his head. And another.

  Rex wheeled around, bringing the big Colt to bear on the kneeling Greek. He saw a flash of gray bullet, clear as day, coming right at him. The bullet hit his eye and everything went black.

  ***

  Big Jim roared and danced. Christ, he couldn’t believe the pain. It was as if fire spurted out of his mangled hand. He clutched it to his chest, the sticky blood hot through his shirt.

  This whole thing had turned to shit. Rex was deader than roadkill and Monroe was bleeding out quick. Shamu had fallen, half-conscious, his arms thrown around the loins of the golden horse, so it looked like he was tackling it.

  Nick rose from his knees, a girly little pistol pointed at Big Jim’s face. Off to the left, Tony Zinn rolled up onto his feet and limped toward the door, wiping at his bloody nose.

  “He’s getting away,” Big Jim gasped.

  “No, he’s not,” Nick said.

  ***

  Though it hurt to stoop over, Tony scooped up the dead security guard’s pistol. Nice semi-automatic Ruger. The gun felt good in his hand.

  The room was clouded with gunsmoke. Tony checked Shamu and saw he was still tangled up in the golden horse.

  Nick was on his feet now, his gun pointed at Big Jim, who was bent over, clutching his bleeding hand. Grim set to Nick’s jaw, like he was making some tough decisions.

  “We’ve got ‘em now,” Tony said. “I’ve got him covered.”

  “Good,” Nick said. “Because this pistol is empty.”

  He slipped the ankle gun into his pocket, backing away from Big Jim. Then he picked up Rex’s six-shooter from the floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” Big Jim said through clenched teeth. “You were bluffing with an empty gun? I should’ve killed you wh
en I had the chance.”

  “Yeah, you should’ve.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve done. You don’t know who you’re fucking with—”

  “Keep talking,” Nick said. “Talk’s all you’ve got left.”

  Tony stepped around Monroe’s body. Through the frosted glass of the front door, he could see the silhouettes of two men outside. He reached for the doorknob, then called over his shoulder, “The alarm’s off?”

  “Fuck you,” Big Jim said.

  Except for Jim’s panting, it was very quiet in the room. The cocking of the big Colt’s hammer sounded like a thunderclap.

  “It’s off,” Big Jim spat. “The fucking alarm’s off. I never turned it back on after you got here.”

  Tony opened the door. Ross stood there, wearing dark coveralls, his blue eyes bright. He held a crowbar and a Glock. Behind him, Angie rolled a red two-wheeled hand truck.

  “What’s all the shooting about?” Ross said.

  “Some people got dead,” Tony said.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll live.”

  Ross stepped inside and looked around the blood-spattered room. “Pretty noisy. Good thing we tied up the guard at the gatehouse.”

  “We need to move quickly,” Tony said.

  As Angie rolled the hand-truck through the door, he said, “Hey, nice horse.”

  Chapter 57

  Shamu blinked. The way he was propped here, leaning into the horse’s crotch, his head hung down, and blood and sweat stung his eyes. He shifted his feet slightly, getting more of his weight onto them, preparing himself while the others thought he was knocked loopy. He’d have to move quickly, in one smooth motion. Untangle himself and whirl around and draw the pistol from his belt.

  From the voices, he had a pretty good idea where everyone stood. He’d go right to left as he swept the room with the gun. Nick, then Tony Zinn, then the other thieves who’d just arrived. He hadn’t seen those guys yet, but he had to assume they were armed. He’d pop caps off in a hurry and hope they struck home.

  Whenever he was in a rumble, Shamu went roaring into battle like his ancestors, mouth open, eyes popping. He pushed himself up from the rearing horse and ducked out from under the front hooves as he whirled to his left. His voice filling the room, he smoothly pulled the pistol – the Greek’s gun, the one everyone had forgotten – from his waistline and swung it up side-armed, pointed right at Nick fucking Papadopoulos, the rat who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong in this town.

  Shamu pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  “Shit.”

  He flicked off the safety, but it was too late. He was blindsided, knocked sideways by some man he’d never seen before. One of the thieves, wearing coveralls with the sleeves cut away. He was football big, with heavy muscles sheathed in a protective cushion of flesh. He’d come at Shamu low, catching him in the gut with a beefy shoulder, and lifted the larger man right off his feet. Shamu hit the marble floor hard, the breath knocked out of him.

  His attacker had a fuzzy round head like a tennis ball that rolled right up Shamu’s chest as he wrestled around on top of him, climbing him. He got hold of Shamu’s gun hand and locked his elbow, keeping the pistol pointed away.

  Shamu powered against the grip, pushing against the other man’s considerable weight. He got his arm up off the floor, but he couldn’t get loose. Damn.

  He bent his wrist, angling the gun, trying to get a shot at that round head. The other man lunged forward and caught Shamu smack across the jaw with his forearm.

  Shamu’s consciousness wavered for a second, but he snapped back to find his head turned to the side, pinned against the floor.

  He still had the gun, but for how long? The others would jump in any second. He could hear them shouting over his own strained grunts and huffs.

  “Get off him!”

  “Look out! Look out!”

  “Roll out of the way, Angie.”

  Angie. Good to know his opponent’s name. It gave Shamu an edge, a magical power over him. No one knew Shamu’s real name. No one knew Sammy Folanu from Long Beach. He was Shamu and he was mighty and he would get out of this yet.

  He heaved under the other man, bucking against his weight. Angie held his place, his grip firm on the gun hand, and he put more weight on the forearm, pressing down on Shamu’s jaw.

  Shamu twisted his head and sank his teeth into the meaty arm. He bit down hard, growling as his mouth filled with hot blood.

  Angie screamed and instinctively tried to pull loose. The flesh tore away, a big steamy mouthful, as Angie rolled off him, howling and holding his bloody arm.

  Shamu rolled the other way, spitting blood and flesh as he came nimbly up onto his bare feet. He swung his gun up, but he was too late.

  The bullets felt like punches, thudding boom-boom-boom into Shamu’s wide body. Just the sort of beating Big Jim Kelton loved to watch.

  As Shamu’s legs gave out, he looked over at Big Jim, wanting eye contact, some final communication. But Big Jim was too busy wrapping a white handkerchief around his wrecked red hand. His eyes were shielded by the brim of his cowboy hat. He didn’t even look up as the floor slammed Shamu in the face.

  Chapter 58

  Big Jim Kelton knew he was sunk. Before Shamu finished settling to the floor, Nick Papadopoulos pressed the hot barrel of the Colt against Big Jim’s ribs, went through his pockets and took his hidden belly gun – the last of his hopes.

  Nick kicked the damaged shotgun across the room. The pistol Shamu had dropped was scooped up by the red-haired guy. Damn. Jim was running out of options here.

  The big Mexican cussed through gritted teeth as he wrapped a handkerchief around his forearm. Big Jim got a glimpse before he covered it up, and it was a raw, bloody wound, a perfect example of the late Shamu’s handiwork. Little solace in that, though, not when the others were pointing guns at him.

  The redhead dragged Monroe’s body out of the way, leaving a smear of blood across the marble tiles. A dry breeze wafted into the foyer. Big Jim noticed that a dark van was pulled up close to the open door, screening it from the street. The van had a white horse trailer hitched on behind. If he could make a run out the door and duck around that horse trailer, he might get past them—

  Who was he kidding? He couldn’t outrun bullets. Where were the fucking cops? His neighbors must’ve heard the shots. Some citizen must’ve called 911. If he could just hold out until the police arrived, maybe he could survive this thing. These fuckers wanted money, they wanted his golden statue, whatever, they could have them. Big Jim could always replace things, but more body parts he couldn’t spare. Just come out alive, he told himself, whatever it takes. The rest is business.

  Tony Zinn limped over and jabbed a gun barrel up under Jim’s jawbone.

  “How is the horse alarmed?”

  “It’s not,” Jim said tightly. “It’s just bolted into the floor.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We kept all the security to the perimeter. They wanted to add motion sensors and stuff, but I like to come out here at night and stroke this pony. It helps me think.”

  “You’re lying,” Zinn said. “I’m ready to blow your fucking head off, and you dare to tell me lies?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Tony Zinn looked into Big Jim’s eyes a long time. Jim tried not to blink. Then Zinn stepped away and said to Nick, “You believe him?”

  “I wouldn’t believe anything that bastard said. He’s crooked as a pig’s dick.”

  The red-haired man was examining the statue’s low pedestal. “I don’t see any wires. If it’s alarmed, it’s probably a pressure plate underneath.”

  “There’s nothing,” Big Jim said. “I swear.”

  The redhead traded glances with Tony Zinn.

  “Do it,” Zinn said. “The clock’s ticking.”

  The redhead whistled, and a skinny guy came through the door, carrying a steel toolbox. He paused when he saw the blood and stre
wn bodies, then went straight to the statue. He and the redhead – they looked enough alike to be brothers – got busy unbolting the gold-plated horse, the two of them working as fast and efficiently as a pit crew. The big Mexican, bandaged up now, held the palomino by the forelegs to keep it from tipping it over. Looked like he was dancing with it.

  A young woman in jeans and a dark ponytail came through the front door. She froze when she saw the carnage, and her face went pale.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Tony Zinn flinched, then said, “I told you to wait in the van.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  “It got messy,” he said, going over to her. “We don’t have time to sort it out right now.”

  She looked at Nick, then back at Tony. “You’re okay?”

  “We’re fine,” Tony said. “Stay behind the wheel of the van. We don’t have much time.”

  The statue tipped, and the big man grunted as he took the weight.

  “Get that dolly,” the redhead said.

  Everyone watched as they rocked the golden statue onto the hand truck. Big Jim took a slow step to his right, as if merely getting out of the way, but he was beginning to eyeball that doorway again. If even the driver was inside the house now—

  “Stand still.” Nick appeared next to him, the big Colt level with Jim’s rodeo belt buckle. “You and me aren’t done yet.”

  Chapter 59

  Tony checked the front door. Still quiet out there, the heat fading as darkness gathered. Nobody on the street. It had been at least five minutes since the shots were fired. Where were the cops?

  Ross and Angie rolled the loaded dolly up a plank ramp into the rented horse trailer. The statue fit as if it belonged there. Moving quickly, they strapped everything into place. Doors shut, ready to roll, in minutes, all just as rehearsed.