Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  I smiled, shot my finger at him and walked out.

  In retrospect, I don’t think my meeting with Tallman accomplished a damn thing in terms of my investigation.

  But it sure was fun.

  36.

  I HAD A GREAT AFTERNOON. It was great because I knew the cops were following me. I didn’t really see ’em, although once I spotted a car that pulled away from the curb right after I did, but it was probably nothing, because I never saw it again.

  But I knew they were there.

  And you have no idea what a tremendous sense of power that gave me. I was living poison. I was the kiss of death. I could fuck up anybody in town I wanted just by walking up and talking to ’em. “Excuse me, sir, would you like to be a murder suspect? Why don’t you just chat with me for a minute?” “Excuse me, ma’am, do you know what time it is? Thank you very much, you’re a murder suspect.”

  I stopped in a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue and bought a cheeseburger. I overtipped the guy at the counter, knowing I’d just sicced the cops on his case. I hoped he had no health code violations.

  I went out, got in my car and drove off. I kept watch in my rear-view mirror just in case anyone was tagging along, but I couldn’t spot ’em. Except for that one time, and I might have imagined that.

  I drove out on Ventnor Avenue to pick a place for my meeting with Minton. I figured it had to be outside so the cops would have a chance to move in. There was no way I wanted to wind up alone in a room with the guy.

  I was nearly out to Steerwell’s when I spotted an alley in the middle of a block. It looked pretty good. I stopped the car, got out, crossed Ventnor, and checked it out.

  It was perfect. No illumination of any kind that I could see, except what would filter down from the street. Lots of doorways and alcoves that would become dark hiding places at night, for the cops to settle into.

  I walked all the way up and down the alley, just to make sure the cops took the hint. Then I got in my car and drove back to the hotel.

  I stopped and said hello to the girl at the front desk. I wondered if that made her a murder suspect. I figured that was stretching it a bit. I wondered if I was losing my marbles. I figured that wasn’t quite so much of a stretch.

  I went up to my room and lay down on the bed. Time to rest up for the main event. Fifteen rounds with the heavyweight champion, Murdering Minton. And me in the role of Rocky. I should have been in training. I should have been downstairs in the hotel kitchen, punching out slabs of beef. Except they didn’t have slabs of beef in the hotel kitchen, they only had a sandwich shop. Well, fuck it, I didn’t feel like jogging all the way back to Atlantic City, running up the front steps of Tallman’s Casino, and jumping up and down with my arms in the air, either. No, I’d train for this one lying down.

  I called my wife, told her things were going well and I’d probably be home in a couple of days. She seemed glad to hear it.

  I didn’t bother calling MacAullif. I knew he was busy. After all, he had three murders on his hands and I only had two. I also wanted to wrap things up before I made my report.

  I called Richard, though. He was glad to hear from me, too, what with me being a murder suspect and all.

  “Minton get back from Vegas?” Richard asked.

  “Sure did.”

  “Everything work out all right?”

  “Like a charm.”

  “I knew it would,” Richard said. “The cops let you go?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s good,” Richard said. “You have any more problems, you call me right away.”

  “First thing,” I told him.

  “You sure everything’s all right now?” he asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “That’s real good,” Richard said, “because Wendy found this photo assignment …”

  I finally got off the phone, but not before I’d accepted an assignment to shoot a department store escalator that some stupid kid had managed to get his finger stuck in. I felt like refusing it: “Sorry, Wendy, I don’t do this kind of shit anymore. I’m a full-fledged murder suspect.” But I figured she wouldn’t understand. I just meekly took down the info and told her I’d do it.

  I hung up the phone and lay there, thinking, gee, while I was at it, was there anyone else I wanted to call?

  Oh, yeah.

  That’s right.

  Minton.

  I called the Minton Agency. I recognized the dumb secretary’s voice on the phone.

  “Minton Agency,” she said.

  “This is Stanley Hastings. The murderer. I’d like to talk to Mr. Minton.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by the most wonderful silence. I could almost see her mind racing, trying to figure out what to do. Finally she figured it out, because suddenly I was on hold. About thirty seconds later, Minton’s voice came on the line.

  “Mr. Hastings?”

  “Yes. Mr. Minton. Did you get the money?”

  “I have it. Now I’ll tell you where to bring the pictures.”

  “Sorry, Minton, but we’re playing in my ballpark. You don’t tell me where to bring the pictures. I tell you where to bring the cash.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “That’s too bad, because it’s my ball, and if you don’t want to play, I’m gonna take it and go home.”

  There was a silence, then, “All right. Where do you want?”

  I gave him the address of the alley.

  “What time?” Minton asked.

  “How’s nine o’clock tonight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I couldn’t resist.

  “Dress casual.”

  37.

  THIS WAS IT. The big scene. The shootout at the O. K. Corral. High noon, if you can have high noon at nine o’clock at night. Mano a mano. Just me and the other gunslinger.

  There was only one thing wrong, and that was the word “other.” Other implies more than one. But there was only one gunslinger: Minton. I was, as usual, unarmed.

  Can you have a shootout between two guys when one of them is unarmed? I know you can have a shooting. But can you have a shootout? I realized it was simply a matter of semantics. The problem was, it was also a matter of survival. You see, I was kind of counting on surviving the final scene. I know the tragic hero’s supposed to die in it, but this wasn’t Greek tragedy, this was real life.

  And real life implies real death.

  And there you are. And there I was. Being brave. But not as brave as I would have been if it weren’t for the cops. I was banking on the cops. They were the cavalry, riding in to save the end of the scene. I guess the cavalry doesn’t really arrive in High Noon or Gunfight at the O. K. Corral, but you know what I mean. So while I might want to call this my big scene, I knew it wasn’t really one on one.

  I parked about a half a block away from the alley. It was a quarter to nine. I got out and looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. The street light was half a block away. It was dark as all hell.

  I straightened my tie and smoothed out my jacket. I straightened my gun-belt. I wasn’t wearing a gun-belt, but I straightened it, which gives you some idea of where my head was at.

  I walked out into the middle of the street. I walked down the middle of the street to the alley. There was no reason for walking in the middle of the street. It just seemed cinematic. I realized I was walking slightly bowlegged.

  I unbuttoned my jacket, pushed it back from my hip. Ready for the fast draw.

  I reached the mouth of the alley. It was dark as bloody fucking hell. As I’d anticipated, by night the doorways and alcoves were dark as pitch, and perfect for anyone to hide in.

  I’d come early on purpose. I wanted to give the cops tailing me a chance to settle in.

  I walked into the alley. Step by step.

  I stopped half-way down. This was it. This was the place.

  But now what? Shit. I should have had a signal. I should have told him I’d light a match. Or co
ugh three times. Or something like that. I hadn’t even thought of it. Because I’m an amateur and I don’t know how to do these things. Well, if I don’t get killed, I’ll learn.

  Waiting is a bitch. I don’t know anyone who likes waiting. I mean, when they put out lists of leisure activities people enjoy, you never see “waiting” on any of them. Or you’re talking to someone and they say, “Hey, I really like waiting, you know what I mean?” It just doesn’t happen. Waiting for the dentist. Waiting for your kid at camp. Waiting for your wife—that’s a biggie. Waiting for Christmas, when you were a kid. Waiting for Godot. Or Lefty. Yeah, no one really likes that.

  But they all beat waiting for a murderer.

  I caught a flash of movement in the alley up ahead on my right. Good. That would be the cops settling in. I wanted them in position before Minton showed, of course. That cop had managed to maneuver around by me in the dark. He’d be behind me. But there’d have to be another cop at the mouth of the alley, where Minton would come from. He’d be behind Minton. He was the one I was counting on. In fact, to be honest, I hoped there’d be more than just two.

  The cop I had spotted moving, moved again. He stepped out from the shadows where he was hiding into the middle of the alley. I could see him better now—my eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. He moved again, and what little light there was filtering down from the street fell on his face.

  It was Minton.

  I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, I’d asked Minton to be here, and here he was. True, he was a few minutes early, but then so was I. No, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the fact was, I almost jumped out of my shoes. It was like being in a funhouse when suddenly a face jumps out at you. A scary face. One you don’t want to see.

  The thing was, I didn’t want to act scared. For one thing, it would ruin my image as a private detective. For another thing, it would probably get me killed. I didn’t want to act scared, but I was. Jesus Christ! Well, if that’s Minton, where’s the cops? Where the hell’s the fucking cops?

  Minton stood there, feet slightly apart, weight nicely balanced, I was sure, ready for the quick draw.

  I stood there with my heart in my mouth.

  “Hastings?” Minton said.

  I wasn’t to be outdone. “Minton,” I said back.

  I think the next line should have been, “This town’s not big enough for the two of us,” but apparently Minton hadn’t read the script. “You bring the pictures?” he said.

  I was ready for that question. I figured there were only two answers, and if I picked the wrong one I’d wind up dead.

  “No,” I said.

  Minton took a step forward, ominously.

  “You were supposed to bring the pictures,” he growled.

  “I know that,” I said. “But you see, I’m not as stupid as I look. You’ve already killed two people. I figure if I had the pictures on me, you just might go for three.”

  He took another step.

  “Where’s the pictures?” he growled.

  “The pictures are in an envelope, waiting to be delivered to the police in the event I don’t make it out of this alley.”

  “Yeah,” Minton said. “Tallman called me. He said you used that line on him. It’s an old gag.”

  “I know. That’s what I told Tallman. The thing is, I’m not very inventive. I believe in the tried and true.”

  “Maybe. I think you’re bluffing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tallman fell for that, but I don’t. We’ve only got your word for it what’s in those pictures. You say they’re shots of Tallman and Nubar. Could be. But they could be shots of Steerwell’s girlfriend, for all we know. I say you’re bluffing. I say you got nothing.”

  “Then you say wrong. Steerwell had shots of Tallman and Nubar together. That’s what you were afraid of. That’s why he wanted in on your little deal. The deal with you and Tallman.

  “You liked the idea of being Tallman’s silent partner. You didn’t need someone else horning in. So you rubbed Steerwell out. Just like you rubbed out Nubar.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “And you’re unlucky.”

  “That I know.”

  “See, the way I figure it, even if there are shots of Tallman and Nubar and you send them to the cops, they prove nothing. It’s even money the cops aren’t even going to act on them.”

  “You figure wrong. You see, I enclosed a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yeah. A letter. To the cops. Wanna hear it? I can’t remember it word for word—it’s a long letter—but I can give you the gist. At least let me tell you how it starts. ‘Major Crimes Division, Northfield, Attention Lieutenant Barnes: Since you are reading this, it means that I am dead. I was killed by Mr. Minton of the Minton Detective Agency. He killed me in an attempt to cover up his role in two other murders, that of Joseph T. Steerwell and that of Frederick Nubar.’ It goes on for a couple of pages. It explains how you flew to Vegas and then had a private plane fly you back. It explains how Tallman was in so deep to Nubar that he cut a deal with you to get Nubar out of the way. So you set Nubar up to get killed. Then when Steerwell tried to horn in on the deal, you rubbed him out, too. It explains how you falsely identified me as the guy who hired Steerwell because the other witnesses had blown the identification, and how you, being guilty of the murders and wanting a fall guy, hopped on the bandwagon and identified me, too.

  “It’s a great letter. It’s one of the best things I ever wrote. In fact, if I could write that well all the time, I’d make a living at it, and I wouldn’t have to do this private detective shit.”

  Minton shrugged. “Maybe, but I still think you’re bluffing.” His hand flicked. “You know what this is?”

  I knew what it was. That is, I didn’t know the make or the caliber, but I knew it was an automatic pistol with a silencer.

  I’d had a gun pulled on me once before, back when I first started working for Richard, by an irate husband who didn’t take kindly to the idea of being served with a divorce complaint. While it scared me to death, at least that time I didn’t figure the guy intended to use it.

  I figured Minton did.

  Remind me never to hire myself out as a prognosticator. As usual, I figured wrong.

  “Relax,” Minton said. “I’m not going to shoot you with it. I just wondered if you knew what it was. Obviously you don’t. So I’ll tell you. This is the gun that killed Nubar.”

  I wouldn’t have thought my eyes could have gotten any wider, but they must have, because I could see Minton’s grin.

  “Means something to you, does it? Just beginning to get the picture, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I don’t understand at all.”

  I was fighting for time. Hoping he’d talk. Hoping he’d give the cops a chance to move in.

  “No,” I repeated. “I don’t understand at all. You ditched the gun you used on Steerwell. I figured you’d ditch the gun you used on Nubar.”

  “You figured wrong. I ditched the gun at Steerwell’s because something happened. I’d just plugged him and a car drove up. Naturally I didn’t want to get caught with the rod. I dropped it on the floor beside him and slipped out the back door. I crept around the house and saw the guy going in. It wasn’t the cops or anything, it was only the punk who hired him. I figured, great, the perfect fall guy, let him find the gun. I figured he’d panic and take it with him. Then he’d be fucked. He didn’t, and then some crazy broad picked it up, but that’s all right. He got the credit for bringing it. So when he went in the house, I hopped in my car and took off

  “I had this other gun in the car. Same model. Absolutely cold. No way to make a trace, an essential in my profession. I took it, went out and plugged Nubar. But I didn’t ditch this gun. I kept it for an occasion just like this.”

  He grinned at me. “Now I’ll tell you what happened. You hired Steerwell, and you killed him, too. You also killed
Nubar. You had it in for me because I identified you. I was the one who was going to put you away. You figured I was the main witness, without me the case would fall apart, so you decided to do me in, too. Now, I don’t know about the pictures or any letter you wrote to the cops. I think it’s bullshit. If you did, well, it’s because you were trying to frame me for the murders.

  “But here’s what happened. You came to my office this afternoon and threatened me. My secretary can vouch for that. You admitted you had the pictures. You told me to meet you out here and you’d give them back.

  “I didn’t care about those pictures, but I wanted to know what your game was, so I came. When I got here you pulled a gun.”

  He shifted it into his left hand and held it on me.

  “This gun. The gun you used to kill Nubar. You fired a shot at me with this gun and you missed.

  “And that’s when I shot you with this one.”

  Quick draw Minton. His hand flicked and suddenly there was something in it. A tough private eye would have said he saw a glint of blue steel. Frankly, I didn’t see shit. But I knew damn well the son of a bitch was holding a gun.

  Minton took another step in.

  “I’ll put the Nubar gun in your hand and fire off a shot. That will put your fingerprints on the gun and the powder marks on your hand, so the paraffin test will show you fired it. I don’t like it much. I’ll have to claim I shot you, and the whole bit. But it will be self-defense. And under the circumstances, it’s the best I can do.”

  He moved in another step. He wanted to be so close he couldn’t miss. There were only ten feet between us now. I figured a little closer and he’d fire.

  What should I do? What could I do? I didn’t know. I had no idea. “PRIVATE DETECTIVE HASN’T A CLUE: Stands Like Dope, Gets Shot in Face.”

  What thoughts run through your mind at a time like that? I know what thoughts ran through mine: “We Polked ’em in ’44, and we’ll Pierce ’em in ’52.” I don’t know if that was an actual campaign slogan, or if our American History teacher just made it up, but that was the maxim my classmates and I used to learn the terms of office of two of the more obscure presidents, James K. Polk, elected in 1844, and Franklin Pierce, elected in 1852. “And Zachary Taylor up the middle” was the saying that got us 1848. That, obviously, was no slogan—I made that one up myself.