Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  After his hospital visit, Marlin had remembered something crucial: He had taken a blood sample from Buck the same night he had tranquilized him. He had wanted to check for rabies, more as a precaution than anything else. Deer seldom get rabies, but it was possible. Marlin no longer thought rabies could be the problem, but at the time, it could have explained Buck’s behavior. So he would ask Becky to discreetly check the blood sample for drugs. Frankly, he was a little too embarrassed to mention the blood sample to Bobby Garza now; the deputy had given him a questionable look after the powder was stolen from Marlin’s cruiser. No, he’d rather wait until the sample was tested. If it came back positive, he’d have the evidence he needed to take to the DEA. Sure, they’d think he was a nut job at first, but with the sample, maybe they’d start to buy into his theory. Well, at least they’d listen without busting a gut.

  As for his other reason for calling Becky…his attraction…hell, he didn’t know what to do about that. Moving in on a woman your best friend was attracted to, now that was low. So he decided to just play it by ear, see where the conversation went.

  He dialed her number and was just about to hang up when she answered on the seventh ring, sounding out of breath. “Oh, Officer Marlin. Sorry, I was in the bathtub,” she said. For some reason, that comment made Marlin a little nervous. He could picture small beads of water dripping off various parts of her anatomy. “But I’m really glad you called,” she said. “Did you go see Phil today?”

  “I did, and it looks like he’s doing great. Thanks for the message yesterday. Most nurses wouldn’t bother calling….”

  “I could tell how close you two are, so I thought you’d want to know. I mean, two people who’ve been friends since kindergarten…that’s just about unheard-of. At least in a city the size of Dallas.”

  “That where you’re from?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “Nice town. I’ve been up there a few times. They obviously know how to grow some good-lookin’ ladies.” Somehow, Marlin managed to make that remark sound sweet instead of hokey.

  “Why, thank you,” Becky replied in an exaggerated voice of a Southern belle.

  Marlin said, “I was born right here in Blanco County, so I’ve known just about everybody all my life. I still see most of my teachers from school. A lot of my old classmates and football teammates are still around. In high school, I dated the former sheriff’s daughter for three years, and now she’s the dispatcher.” Now, that was a stupid thing to say, Marlin thought. Why did I bring that up?

  Becky got a teasing tone in her voice. “What happened with you and her? Couldn’t stand the heat from her old man?”

  “Naw, we just wanted different things. When I went off to Southwest Texas State University, we decided it would be best just to end it.” Marlin felt a little funny discussing his private life with a woman he barely knew. But somehow it seemed kind of right. Like the way he felt when he talked about personal things with Phil.

  “And what did she do?”

  “She stayed and got married—which is what she wanted in the first place. Has three kids now, one of them already in junior high.”

  “So you’re one of the non-marrying types?” Becky asked. Marlin could tell she was trying hard to sound casual.

  “I was then.” That should suffice, Marlin thought. Frankly, he didn’t know what “type” he was now. All he knew was that he was giddy inside, just because he was talking to this woman. Hell, she was really just a girl, probably ten years younger than he was. What was there to be nervous or anxious about? He’d dated lots of women, but had never felt so self-conscious with any of them. Marlin snapped out of his thoughts, realizing that Becky had just asked him something. “Excuse me?”

  “I was wondering if you were going to see him again in the next few days. I’m working tomorrow and I, uh…” She sounded a little nervous herself. “And I just thought I might stop by and say hello. If you’re going to be there.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a lot going on in the next few days. Deer season starts on Saturday and I’ve got a lot of things to take care of before then. Meetings with the Wildlife Commission all day tomorrow. Phil’ll probably get out of the hospital before I can make it back up there.”

  “That’s too bad. I mean, it’s great that Phil will be going home soon, I just, uh …” The pretty nurse stammered a little, and Marlin could remember phone conversations in high school that had had the same wonderful uneasiness. There is a certain rush of excitement and awkward romance that sweeps over you when you’re young. Somehow, those sensations, those emotions, lessen as you grow older. Or Marlin had always thought they did, anyway, until now.

  “I know what you mean. I was thinking the same thing,” Marlin said, taking her off the spot. “Listen, Becky, I was hoping we could get together sometime…” he said, wanting to arrange a meeting where they could talk about testing the blood sample.

  “I’d love to. What did you have in mind?”

  It happened that quick. She thought he was asking her out on a date. And he certainly wanted to, he just didn’t know whether his conscience would allow it. But now it was out of his hands, so he just rolled with it. “The next few nights, I need to be on patrol. You wouldn’t believe the number of hunters who go out spotlighting, hoping to get an early start on the season. So what I do, I park on a county road and wait to hear shots. It wouldn’t be the most romantic date you’ve ever had, but I was thinking you could join me—”

  “That sounds great!” she interjected. “I could bring along some sandwiches. I have an ice chest …”

  “That’s right, you have a very nice chest,” Marlin said, unable to resist the pun.

  Becky giggled and said, “Why, Mr. Marlin, I didn’t think you had noticed.”

  17

  OSCAR WAS ANTSY. He hated waiting almost as much as he hated being rushed. But right now, all he could do was wait for his men, who would arrive later that evening. They had immediately made arrangements for the next flight out, because when Oscar called, you answered.

  Just before noon, to battle his restlessness, Oscar decided to go into Johnson City and pick up some food and other provisions. Everything his American host ate was so bland and tasteless. Besides, he’d need to lay in a good supply for his troops.

  He left the main house and went to the smaller of two guest houses—complete with hot tub, wide-screen television, and full bar—and grabbed the keys to his rented Cadillac.

  As he exited the front door and walked to his car, Oscar paused. He had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Had he seen movement out of the corner of his eye? He couldn’t be sure. There was just something….

  He strutted slowly along the cobblestone walkway and out onto the crushed-gravel driveway. The small stones crunched under his feet. Then he heard something move in the nearby hedges. Oscar turned quickly, but saw only a solid wall of red-tipped photinia, lush from autumn rains.

  He shook his head, sure that he was letting his imagination run away from him. Then, when he was just two steps away from the car door, Oscar heard something like the slide being pulled on an automatic handgun.

  In one fluid motion, and without even thinking, Oscar pulled the .38 out of his waistband, wheeled, and shot Barney Weaver directly through the heart.

  The source of the noise, the Polaroid camera in Weaver’s hands, dropped and clattered on the gravel. The photo he had just taken fluttered lifelessly to the ground. He slumped to his knees, and then fell face-first onto the driveway. Weaver’s last thought was: Damn, that Antonio Banderas is one mean son of a bitch.

  Tim Gray was sure the stuffed animal heads on Roy Swank’s den wall were coming to life. That goatlike thing—what had Swank called it, an oryx?—it was staring directly at the strungout veterinarian. Hadn’t it been looking in the other direction earlier? And what about that damn red elk? Gray could almost hear the breath sucking in and out of its large nostrils. Jesus, it was hard to concentrate on Swank’s babbling with all t
his weird shit happening. Got to concentrate, he thought. This is important stuff.

  “You did great with Colby’s buck last night,” Swank was blathering, “and now I need some more help from you. I wouldn’t say we’re in an emergency situation, but it could turn into one. So what we gotta do is remove all the merchandise as quickly as possible. And I mean pronto. We’re looking at a total of thirty head…”

  Gray shook his head and tried to ignore the huge white-tailed buck that was blinking its eyes and staring down at him from behind Roy Swank’s massive leather chair. “Damn, that’ll take more than just a few days. It’s about two hours per procedure.”

  “Sixty hours….Lessee, that’s means you can finish up by midnight Friday. Perfect.”

  “Are you kidding me? You want me to operate for sixty hours straight? Wouldn’t it be easier just to shoot ‘em all and be done with it?”

  “Doc, you got any idea how much those deer are worth?” Swank smiled. He loved talking about money, specifically his money. “Five grand apiece, easy. Some of ‘em, more like ten. If you think I’m taking a rifle to a quarter-million dollars’ worth of animals, you’re nuttier than a squirrel’s morning crap. Besides, when have you ever had any trouble staying awake?” Swank said as he reached into a desk drawer. He came out with an amber vial filled with white powder and placed it on the desk in front of Gray. “Few snorts of that, you’ll not only finish by Friday, you’ll want to paint my barn afterwards. And if that’s not enough…” He reached into the desk again and tossed a pack of hundred-dollar bills to Gray.

  Gray caught the bills and was reaching for the drugs when a shot crackled through the air.

  A week ago, Roy Swank would have been puzzled, even a little concerned, about hearing a gunshot on his property outside of hunting season. But the events of the last few days had worn him down, first pushing his nerves to the limit, then numbing him to almost any development. He shook his head in dismay, more like a father hearing rap music from his son’s bedroom than a man whose fortunes rested on the crazy Colombian who was almost certainly the source of the shot. “Damn. What now?” Swank said, pulling his froglike body out of his plush chair. He walked over to the eastern windows, hoping to get a glimpse of the front driveway. No, the trees were still too full of leaves. So he proceeded over to the bar and poured himself a brandy, without extending the courtesy to Gray. Then he waited. He was sure that Oscar would be joining them shortly.

  Twenty seconds later, as if on cue, Oscar walked through the den door. He said nothing, but instead walked to the bar and grabbed the same bottle of brandy. He poured himself a healthy glassful, as Swank watched. Gray sensed the tension and took the opportunity to slip out the door.

  Oscar sauntered over by the fireplace and stood with his back to the hearth, as if warming himself in front of nonexistent flames. “We have a small problem,” he announced coolly. “I just shoot a photographer, perhaps from the FBI, perhaps from the DEA…”

  Swank was incredulous. “Here? You just shot a government man here? Right on my ranch?”

  “Yes, of course,” Oscar said casually, as if he was discussing what he had eaten for breakfast. “He is in my trunk. I will have my men dispose of the body when they arrive.”

  Swank put his hands palms-outward in front of him. “Oscar, I don’t want to know. I didn’t hear a word you just said, and whatever you’ve done, I want no part of it.” Swank didn’t think the dead man could actually be a federal agent because the ranch house would be surrounded by now. But whoever it was, Swank didn’t want to be involved.

  Oscar nodded, acting unusually rational. “I unnerstan’. You are only being wise. But you have to see how this affects all of us. Before, we had concern. Now we have more. If they send a photographer here, what do they know? How do they know it? It must be the game warden. But as you say before, they cannot get a search warrant. That is not our problem now. The man outside is our problem.”

  “Shee-yit,” Swank said, making it two syllables. He wanted nothing to do with the corpse in Oscar’s trunk.

  Now Oscar began to pace, his patience thinning. “Okay, you say you don’ want to be involve. My men will arrive tonight. We take care of everything.”

  This thought actually made Swank more nervous than knowing exactly what was going on. “But…”

  Oscar put his hands in front of him as Swank had earlier. “No. You leave it to me. In a few days, we will have no problems. Truss me.”

  Charles Walznick, the pot dealer, had provided Bobby Garza with a long list of regular customers, other dealers, and a few friends who helped him work the marijuana farm. He had also supplied Bobby Garza with the name of Virgil Talkington, Blanco County’s one and only bookie. Garza knew Virgil, and knew that he could cover just about any bet you wanted to place on any of the major sports. He’d been at it for nearly twenty years and managed to make a decent living. He knew sports well enough to put Marv Albert to shame, and he rarely had to pay off any of the bets with his own money. After all, bookies simply act as brokers between bettors. Then they take a commission, called a “juice” or “vig,” on the losing bets. So the trick was to always have the same amount of money on either side of a bet. For instance, if the Cowboys were playing the Redskins, Talkington wanted the same amount of money betting on both teams. If too many people were choosing the Cowboys, he’d just adjust the point spread to entice more people to pick the Redskins. Once he had it all evened out a day or two before the game, he’d close the books. Then, no matter what, he’d walk away with ten percent of the losing side. Standard bookie procedure.

  Talkington dealt with a fairly small betting pool—most of the adult male population of Blanco County. He’d seen rich men lose tens of thousands of dollars without batting an eye. He’d watched in morbid curiosity as poor men placed bets equal to their yearly salaries. Sometimes they got lucky. More often, they were driven by a frantic desperation that caused them to place bets they wouldn’t normally place.

  Talkington was never concerned about the losers paying up, because he never extended credit. Everything was cash up front—the bet you wanted to place, plus ten percent in case it tanked. Conveniently, Talkington had a cousin, a vice president at the local bank, who would happily extend a line of credit to just about anyone who could sign a loan application. Sure, the cousin received a small kickback from Virgil, but on paper down at the bank, everything looked nice and legit. Virtually every betting man in Blanco County had taken out a “debt consolidation” loan with Talkington’s cousin. The winners usually paid it off the next week. Losers usually took years.

  Like most small-time bookies, Talkington went virtually unharassed by local law enforcement officials. In fact, Sheriff Herbert Mackey was of his most loyal customers. (Mackey had a weakness for the A&M Aggies, and would bitch until the next season if they didn’t beat the spread against the Texas Longhorns.) So, Talkington had been curious but unconcerned when he had gotten a call from Blanco County Deputy Bobby Garza earlier that day. Garza had been cordial but friendly, asking to stop by Talkington’s house that evening. Maybe, after all these years, Garza was coming by to place his first bet with Talkington. Mackey had done well on the pro games last weekend. Maybe word had spread.

  Garza arrived at seven and Talkington greeted him at the door. Garza took a beer that Talkington offered and followed him to his garage office, Talkington’s customary place of business for drop-in customers.

  “So what can I do you for?” Talkington said, gesturing for Garza to have a seat in a chair next to his desk.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Charles Walznick,” Garza said casually, and watched as Talkington’s eyes widened a little. “We busted him this morning…growing pot on his place off Sandy Road.”

  “That right?”

  “Had a pretty healthy crop, with all the rain we’ve been getting. Thing is, he told me he never could have afforded the place except he won a few bets a couple years back. What can you tell me about that?”

  �
��Well, Bobby, you know I don’t really like to talk about my clients….”

  “I understand that, Virgil, and to be honest, I don’t have much of a problem with you running a book. Doesn’t seem that much different than the lottery to me. If people want to spend their money, hey, who am I to tell ‘em how to spend it?” Garza took a long swig of his beer. “But when the money they win gives them the capital to start a small drug operation, that’s when I have a problem.”

  Virgil scowled and adjusted the cap on his head. DRIPPING SPRINGS RANCH & FEED, it said above the bill, complete with a gaudy red-and-green logo. “Damn, Bobby, how’m I supposed to control what they do with their winnings?”

  Both men sat in silence for a minute. Finally Garza spoke again. “I’m not trying to put you out of business. I just need you to cool it for a while. Shut down the books for maybe six months. Because when the bust makes the papers, people are gonna wonder where a lowlife like Walznick got the money for the land. Sure enough, it’s gonna come back to you. Virgil, I don’t need to tell you what kind of conservative population we got in this county. When they hear about drugs and gambling, they’re gonna want some answers. I need to be able to tell ‘em we shut you down.”

  Talkington stood and began to pace the concrete floor. “You gotta understand, this is my busiest time of year, right in the middle of football season. Hell, the playoffs and the Super Bowl account for half my annual business. If I skip them, I’ll plain go broke.” Talkington swung his arm and gestured around him. “You can see that I’m not exactly making a fortune anyway. Same three-bedroom house for twenty-two years.”

  “I know, I know. But the pressure’s gonna be on me and the rest of the department to put an end to the gambling.” Garza truly felt bad, asking a man to give up his livelihood.

  Talkington plopped back down into his chair. Then his head lifted and a smile crossed his face. “What if I could tell you about something else that would be bigger than this Walznick thing, something that would blow it off the front page?”