Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Sheriff Herndon could see the driver struggling terribly inside the tractor’s big glass encased cab. The man’s face was red and hideously twisted as he fumbled desperately to open the door. The sheriff recognized the man as Hoke Paley, one of the richest men in Lee County. He owned half the land that bordered the 147. Mr. Paley was famous all across Alabama for his unscrupulous business dealings. Word was he had screwed half the people in the county without having sex with a one of ‘em. He was a mean, hard man who didn’t lack for enemies.

  Sheriff Herndon hit his lights and brakes at the same time as the big red tractor lurched onto the roadway. Hoke managed to open the door and, looking skyward with his hands clutched around his own throat, he stepped out of the tractor’s cab as if to walk a plank. Unfortunately he was eight feet above the ground and there was no plank. He tipped over like a cartoon character and landed flat on his terrified face.

  The big red tractor continued, driverless, across the road, through the big shrubs on the other side, and on through the field. The sheriff called for an ambulance but it didn’t matter. Mr. Paley was already dead when the sheriff rolled him over; several of his teeth were on the pavement. His face was covered with pinkish spit and gravel and there was a box of Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder poking out of his shirt pocket.

  5.

  Biloxi, Mississippi

  Jimmy Rogers was a member of the Fourth Estate, but only in the loosest sense of the word. He was really just a freelance writer with a fondness for music and a girl named Megan. Jimmy had been a reporter for a couple of the state’s newspapers but had quickly tired of the assignments they foisted on him — puff pieces on this year’s debutante fashions, that sort of crap. He knew the only way to get the assignments he wanted was by surrendering the security of a paycheck and going freelance, so he had resigned and started writing concert reviews and artist profiles.

  Jimmy had been doing it long enough and well enough to become the unofficial ‘official’ reporter-and-photographer covering the entire Mississippi music scene. At one end of the spectrum this meant reviewing the occasional big concert at the Coliseum in Jackson or the one in Biloxi. At the other end of the continuum he covered small clubs, like Mr. T’s, where local talent got its start. But he spent most of his time at the state’s thirty-some-odd casinos.

  On any given night, 365 days a year, there was at least one ‘newsworthy’ concert somewhere in the state. He covered any show he wanted, wrote reviews, then tried to sell them. Regional magazines and newspapers occasionally hired him to do interviews or review specific shows, and the tabloids were always interested in photographs — preferably scandalous ones — of anyone approaching celebrity status. The World Globe once paid Jimmy $2,500 for a photo of a drunk Jim Nabors impersonator throwing a punch at a woman who heckled him at a show in Vicksburg. “Faux Nabors, Real Punch!” was the headline. The casinos, which had descended on the state like a plague in the early ‘90’s, were Jimmy’s bread and butter.

  As a kid Jimmy was a devotee of the old James Bond movies — the ones with Sean Connery. It was through these films that Jimmy formed his image of what a casino should be like. They were elegance and sophistication, royalty and worldliness. Casinos were glamor palaces filled with beautiful, witty people and debonair espionage agents drinking martinis while surrounded by alluring decor.

  So Jimmy was understandably disappointed the first time he walked into one of the casinos on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. There wasn’t a tuxedo or a martini in sight, and Jimmy would have bet his own mother’s life that no one in the building was associated in any way with the intelligence community. The place was ten million watts of tackiness with all the glamour of a neon-lit cock fight. But it was where he plied his trade and tonight was no different. He was there to cover Eddie Long’s first appearance at The Gold Coast Extravaganza Casino in Biloxi.

  Jimmy had asked Megan, his girlfriend of three months, to join him. As they walked through the casino’s main room, he turned to her. “Is it just me, or does it feel like we’re inside a giant Dukes of Hazzard pinball machine?” Despite being a native Mississippian, Jimmy sounded only vaguely southern.

  “Granted,” Megan said, “it’s not Monte Carlo.” She stopped at a slot machine. “But it’s still fun.” She dropped four quarters into the slot and pulled the arm.

  Just then a man who looked like he would have been rejected by the producers of Hee Haw for looking too much like white trash walked past wearing a Who Farted? t-shirt and a big smile. Jimmy wondered if the man had hit a jackpot or if he was just happy he still had those three teeth. “Look at these people.” Jimmy’s tone was more sympathetic than condescending. “They can’t afford to throw their money away like this. Hell, I can’t afford it.”

  “I don’t see a gun to anybody’s head. And how do you know they can’t afford it?” The bell on Megan’s machine dinged a few times then dropped two quarters into the tray. “Ha! Look, I won fifty cents.”

  “No, you lost fifty. You put in a dollar, remember?”

  “Well thank you, Mr. Negativity.” Megan plowed the fifty cents back into the machine and pulled the lever. It made some cheerful electronic noises before displaying the results. Cherry. Orange. Bar. “Ohhh, poot.” Megan banged the front of the machine with her fist, then reached into her plastic bucket of coins and continued feeding the machine. “You know, I am so tired of hearing people talk about the evils of gambling and how it takes money from those who can least afford it and blahblahblah.” She rolled her eyes as if to say quod erat demonstrandum.

  Jimmy smiled at her “blahblahblah.” She never said, “blah, blah, blah,” like three words. It was always, “blahblahblah” real fast, like she was in too much of a hurry to express the et cetera in whatever she was talking about, and it was a lot easier than actually making a point. Megan wasn’t stupid, but she’d never been accused of intellectual industriousness either. She was ambitious and had every intention of ending up on top of the heap before all was said and done. She didn’t have a specific plan but she was adept at seizing opportunities.

  But none of that mattered to Jimmy. He was too smitten to care. He stood there watching her, still astounded by his dumb luck. He met Megan at a media convention in Jackson some months earlier. She was representing the radio station where she worked as an on-air personality. Jimmy was there networking. Her unconventional-for-Mississippi looks caught his eye immediately. She was twenty-seven with purposeful cheekbones and a downy complexion that had come by way of a beautiful Irish grandmother. Like something out of Mirabella, she was wearing a black silk charmeuse shirt, wool-silk trousers with a silk cummerbund, and black patent stiletto pumps. Her eyes were Liz Taylor violet thanks to tinted contacts. She was crowned with a bramble of wild reddish-orange hair that looked unkempt and expensively styled at the same time. In a state filled with blonde pageant beauties, Megan was a head-turner of a different sort.

  Jimmy had approached her immediately. “Hi, I’m Jimmy Rogers,” he said. “I love your radio show. Especially your character voices.” He smiled.

  She smiled back. “Thanks,” she said. “Which one’s your favorite?”

  He pretended to think for a moment. “That would have to be the Sweet Potato Queen. Very authentic. You really capture the spud-ness of the character.”

  Megan fingered the white glass necklace circling her throat. “Yeah, she’s one of my favorites.” She glanced across the room and waved at someone before returning her attention to Jimmy. “So, you were saying?”

  Jimmy gestured at her apparel. “Love your outfit too.”

  “Thanks. It’s Michael Kors, except the shoes, of course.” She kicked a foot out to show off one of the pumps. “Manolo Blahnik.”

  “Of course.” Jimmy kicked out a foot, mimicking her. He was wearing cheap, scuffed penny loafers. “Men’s Warehouse,” he said. “Fifty percent off.”

  Megan looked. “No. Those? And they look so. . . J. C. Penny.”

  “You just have to know h
ow to shop,” Jimmy said. “But I compensate for my lack of fashion sense by being cute.”

  Megan stepped back and gave Jimmy the once over. He was a boyish twenty-eight with an aversion to suits. He dressed to accommodate his image and his income as a writer — tan Dockers, white button down shirt, occasional sports coat. He had thick dark hair and a thin nose surrounded by a constant look of bemusement or confusion — it was hard to tell which. His eyes were trustworthy, lending him an aspect of decency. “Still,” she said, “cute as you are, you might want to consider shopping somewhere that doesn’t have the word ‘warehouse’ in the name.”

  They flirted for an hour or so before slipping away from the conference and going for drinks at Nick’s where Jimmy tried to talk her into becoming his fashion consultant in exchange for his being her sex slave.

  Now, three months later, while Jimmy was still marveling at her beauty, Megan lost her bucket of quarters in the slots. “Oh well.” She glanced at her watch. “Show starts in ten minutes. Let’s go on up.” They went upstairs and were seated at a table in the middle of the room. Jimmy pulled a small spiral notebook from his inside coat pocket and laid it on the table next to his camera.

  When the waitress came over, she pointed at the camera as if it were a snake. “Sir, you can’t have a camera in here. It’s casino rules.” Jimmy reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of laminated press credentials. He had one from Harrison County Civil Defense, one from the Associated Press, one from The Sun-Herald, one of his former employers, and one from the casino’s PR department. Jimmy handed her the last one. “Okay,” she said. “I just have to check.” She handed the card back and took their order.

  Jimmy had seen Eddie perform almost thirty times in the past several years, and he had written reviews of every show. In fact, Jimmy had written the first published account of Eddie Long in concert. It was a positive review that Jimmy sold to the paper in Natchez. Since then, Jimmy had sold several more reviews in addition to a short interview with Eddie. Eddie showed his gratitude for all the good exposure by buying a great many rounds of drinks. Between the liquor and the mutual admiration, they’d developed a friendship.

  As a writer Jimmy aspired to more than doing concert reviews and lurking in the shadows hoping for disgraceful photo ops. He wanted to write something more substantial, something big, though he didn’t know exactly what — a book, a play, something, as long as it was about music or musicians. Jimmy hadn’t hit on it yet but he was looking.

  The waitress arrived with two draft beers and a deep fried Cajun onion bloom just as the lights went down. An announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Gold Coast Extravaganza Casino is proud to present a rising star in country music. Please put your hands together for Mr. Eddie Long!”

  The crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause as the curtains parted in the darkness. All they could see was the silhouette of a tall, Stetson-topped figure stepping up to the mic stand. Eddie let the room settle until all they could hear was the faint ping-ping-ping of the downstairs slot machines. Then, through the hush, came the sound of Eddie tapping the soundboard of his guitar as he counted down to the start of the first song. “One. . . two. . . uh one, two, three.” The spotlight lit him up like a rocket launch. And when Eddie let the big flattop Gibson sing, it was like he’d closed an electrical circuit. A stray current surged through the room, charging the crowd. Hair stood on end as Eddie held the guitar tight up under his right arm while leaning left so the head of the guitar tilted just a bit downward. He cocked his head the way he’d seen in a picture of Hank Williams and smiled his way through an up tempo honky-tonker that brought the audience to its feet. Megan was the first to stand. She’d seen him a few times with Jimmy and she liked what she saw.

  Eddie sounded better than he ever had. His playing was assured, his voice was strong and clear, and his stage presence was undeniable.

  The power of music never ceased to amaze Jimmy. He picked up his camera and squared Eddie in the viewfinder. When Eddie turned and looked to the middle of the room, the light jumped under the brim of his hat and caught his face at the perfect angle. That’s when Jimmy noticed Eddie’s smile for the first time. It was a perfect and winning. Jimmy adjusted the focus and took a series of photos. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. Jimmy’s mind suddenly began spinning like the motor drive of his camera and, after about five shots, an idea formed. The last shot in particular — Eddie seeming to look straight into the lens — stuck in Jimmy’s mind like a thumb tack. He laid the camera on the table and looked around, measuring the faces in the crowd. They were mesmerized. Eddie owned them. At that moment Jimmy realized what he wanted to write. He grabbed his pen and started scribbling furiously on his note pad.

  Megan barely noticed. She was riveted by Eddie’s smile and his performance as he worked through his usual set, a perfectly paced roller coaster of ballads, mid-tempo traditional country, and upbeat Texas swingers. He ended his set with an up tempo country rocker that brought everybody back to their feet and elicited a dozen rebel yells. The stage was thirty feet wide and Eddie used every inch of it, pouring tremendous energy into his show.

  He was at one end of the stage as he neared the end of the last song. With one hand holding his hat and the other holding his guitar, Eddie started running. He fell to his knees and slid to a stop in the center of the stage where he leaned back and hit the closing licks. Anyone not already standing shot to their feet. Bathed in the spotlight, Eddie held his arms out to the side and shut his eyes, smiling all the while. He was something to look at, all right, and he got a standing ovation. After a minute, he got to his feet, tipped his hat, and took a bow. “I wanna thank you folks for coming out and having some fun with us here at the Gold Coast Extravaganza.”

  A woman in the crowd screamed, “I love you, Eddie!”

  Eddie smiled. “Why, I love you too, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat again. “I also love everybody in the upstairs office for having me here this week. I really do appreciate it.” He winked knowingly at the crowd. “And so does my wife.” He got a good laugh with that. “Ya’ll have a good night,” he said, wrapping things up. “And remember, friends don’t let friends gamble at the other casinos.” With that, Eddie spun on his boot heel and disappeared behind the curtains. A moment later, the house lights came up and the canned music came over the house speakers.

  As the standing ovation trickled out, Megan sat down and popped some fried onion into her mouth. “Wow. I can’t believe he doesn’t have a record deal.” Megan felt she was a fair judge of musical talent. She was, after all, the assistant music director at the radio station in Jackson in addition to being on the air. “That’s the best show we’ve seen him do, don’t you think?” After several years in radio, Megan had purged much of her southern accent. She could call it back in a flash, and she did so regularly in service of some of her radio character voices, but on an everyday basis she spoke with a geographically nonspecific broadcast intonation.

  Jimmy nodded, but didn’t speak. He was preoccupied, scribbling furiously in his note pad. He was hunched over the table, his dark hair hanging down, obscuring his face. Megan was about to say something when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey, good lookin’.”

  Megan turned and looked up. “Eddie!” She turned her head and offered her cheek which Eddie kissed in a gentlemanly fashion. “What a great show!”

  “Thanks.” Eddie spun a chair around and sat in it with his arms resting on the back. “I tell you what, it sure felt good.”

  Megan put her hand on Eddie’s arm. “I just told Jimmy I can’t believe you don’t have a record deal yet. But I just know it’s gonna happen for you. I really believe that.”

  “I appreciate that, I really do.” Eddie scanned the room. “I heard some A&R guy from Nashville’s supposed to be down here doing some scouting, but,” he shrugged, “nothing yet.”

  Jimmy, still lost in his writing, hadn’t acknowledged Eddie�
�s arrival. Eddie looked at Megan. “Man, you’d think he might at least look up when a guy kisses his girlfriend and sits down at his table. Hell, I’da already punched somebody.” He winked.

  Megan smiled and lapsed into the exaggerated Southern Belle character she used on her radio show. “Why Mr. Long, you’d defend my honah with violence?” She fanned her face then put the back of her hand against her forehead. “I believe I might swoon. “

  Eddie shook his head in mock disdain. “Miss Megan, I declare, you deserve better than this shabby treatment. Why don’t you come live with me?”

  “You mean, aside from the fact that you’re married?”

  “Yeah, aside from that.” He nodded toward Jimmy. “What’s he doing?”

  Megan shrugged. “Don’t know. He’s been working on it since your first song.”

  Jimmy suddenly looked up. “And you’re not going to be disappointed either.” He extended a hand to Eddie. “Great show.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “And stop hitting on my girlfriend.”

  “My bad,” Eddie said as he tried to get a look at what Jimmy had written. “You’re not writing another review, are you? I don’t think there’s a newspaper left for you to sell it to.”

  “I think you’re right.” Jimmy pulled his hair back and smiled devilishly.

  Megan reached for the notebook, but Jimmy wouldn’t let her have it. “Ah, ah, ah. Not yet.” Jimmy folded his hands over the pad and looked at Megan, then at Eddie. “Not five minutes ago I had what I believe you’d call a revelation. Actually I had two.”

  Eddie held his hands up to testify. “Well then, amen brother! Twice.”