Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Bobby Garza took another drink of beer, then said, “Let’s hear it.”

  18

  THAT NIGHT, JOHN Marlin sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. It buzzed and clicked as it warmed up, then it asked him for his password. The security procedure—even for his home computer—was a Parks and Wildlife Department mandate. Game wardens often kept their own records of game violations, complete with offenders’ names and addresses. Marlin typed his password, then opened his word processing program and began to type….

  TO: Mark Russell, Texas Attorney General

  FROM: John Marlin, Blanco County Game Warden

  DATE: Wednesday, November 3

  Mr. Russell:

  I’m sending you this note in confidentiality because I’m not sure where else to turn at the moment. I have a situation developing here in Blanco County and, frankly, I don’t know how to handle it. It goes well beyond the laws that encompass game and fish codes, and I thought it best to present my thoughts to the state’s top law enforcement official. But a warning: What I have to say might be a little hard to believe….

  Marlin laid out all the details in a concise, factual manner. Even so, rereading it himself, it sounded ludicrous. Roy Swank, one of the state’s most powerful men, a man from the inner circles of political power, a drug dealer?

  In any case, it helped Marlin clear his head just by putting everything down on paper. He had no intention of mailing the letter right now; he couldn’t really do anything until he had the blood sample tested.

  Red O’Brien had led a disappointing life, even by Central Texas trailer-park standards.

  For starters, there was his father. A kind and gentle man, Matt O’Brien had been one of the country’s most beloved rodeo clowns. Sure, younger kids loved clowns, but by the time Red reached junior high—and his dad was still working the circuit—the other kids teased Red mercilessly about his father’s profession. Red ended up with the nickname “Bozo Junior,” and he began to hate his dad for the cruel abuse from his peers. Then, when Red was fourteen, his father was killed by a fifteen-hundred-pound Brahma bull in Cheyenne, Wyoming. To this day, Matt O’Brien remains the one and only rodeo clown to die from a gore injury directly to the anus.

  His mother, on the other hand, was a lifeless woman with a taste for Irish whiskey. The small insurance settlement they received from his father’s death disappeared into the smoky air of beer joints and honky-tonks. Sometimes she came home alone, sometimes she came home with a man, sometimes she didn’t come home at all. For a while, she cleaned houses in and around their small hometown, but she spent most of her earnings on cigarettes and booze. When several of her customers began to suspect her of stealing, she and Red became outsiders in their community, living on food stamps and other government assistance. Finally, when Red was sixteen, his mother ran away with a welder. Red never told anybody she was gone, just continued to live in the old mobile home as if nothing had happened. He worked odd jobs, delivered newspapers before school, and forged her name to government checks. His mother’s absence was actually an improvement in his life. He later heard that she ended up somewhere around Midland, but he never knew for sure.

  Education was never Red’s strong point. He hated science. He didn’t understand math. History bored him. English seemed futile, since he already knew the damn language. The only class Red passed on a regular basis was PE. Most of the teachers had mercy on Red, though, and he managed to slip from one grade to the next. During his senior year, Red attended Career Day eagerly, hoping that the visiting representatives from various large corporations would see his potential. Hell, they might even offer him a job right now, without any college, Red thought. Deep in his heart, Red just knew that all this school bullshit didn’t really matter in the real world. He knew that his intelligence and savvy would outshine his lackluster grades and prove that he was worthy of any career he might choose. But when he got the report back the next week, what they called a “Career Recommendation Summary,” nobody seemed to understand that Red was a diamond in the rough. Right there under “Recommended Career Fields” it said: Truck driver. Construction worker. Custodial engineer. Custodial engineer? Red was smart enough to know what that meant: They thought he ought to be a fuckin’ janitor. Red was so angry he left school two months before graduation and never returned.

  His luck with women wasn’t much better. He was painfully shy during high school and never dated. After dropping out, he found a woman he liked quite well. They met at a tractor pull, and she quickly accepted Red’s offer for a date. She slept with him the first night, and Red had thought he was quite a charmer. Then, after a clumsy round of sex, she told him he could just leave the fifty bucks on the dresser. She smiled and said she could hold a spot for him every week if he wanted.

  Finally, three years ago, Red thought he had found true love when he hit it off with a bleached-blonde woman at a dogfight. Red dated Loretta for three months, and then they made a road trip out to Vegas to tie the knot. Exactly one week after their wedding night, back in Johnson City, Red was finishing up his dinner of squirrel and Hamburger Helper when there was a knock on the trailer door. Loretta put down her cigar, answered the door, and then stepped outside to speak with the visitor. Probably Violet, Loretta’s best friend who lived next door, Red thought. He went back to watching a rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard and was slugging down a sixteen-ounce beer when he noticed that the voices outside were getting loud. One was a male voice. Red stuck his head outside and saw Loretta arguing with a monstrously large man. He had a crew cut, huge yellow teeth, and hands the size of dinner plates. He wore overalls with no shirt underneath, and he clutched a bottle of cheap Mexican tequila in his dirty fist. Behind him, a worn Honda Civic clicked as it cooled down. Loretta and the stranger fell silent as Red stuck his head out the door.

  “Everything all right out here?” Red asked, eyeing the stranger.

  Loretta looked nervous. “Fine, Red,” she barked. “I’ll be back inside in a minute.”

  The stranger spoke up with a slur. “This yer brother you been tellin’ me ‘bout?”

  “No, sir,” Red said, doing his best to scowl as he came down the cinderblock steps. “I’m her husband.”

  If the chirping crickets had understood English, they would have immediately gone quiet. The big, drunk visitor looked from Red to Loretta and back to Red. “Tha’ fuck you talkin’ ‘bout? Her ‘husband?”

  He went on to explain that Red couldn’t be her husband, because, goddamn it, he was Loretta’s husband. Red told the stranger to hold on, he’d fetch the marriage license, and the visitor said that he might as well fetch a roll of toilet paper, because Loretta was his own damn lawful wedded wife. They continued to argue and Red was thinking about slipping back inside for his twelve-gauge—but before he could make his move, the stranger popped Red upside the head with his tequila bottle. Red fell off the steps but rebounded nicely, picking up a loose brick from the deteriorating sidewalk and bouncing it off the man’s chest. The man played possum, groping his ribs like they were broken, but then his eyes flashed and he moved with deceptive agility, getting Red in a headlock. The man began driving his knuckles into Red’s scalp, and Red quickly decided he didn’t like that at all. He managed to wriggle away, and dove for safety under the trailer. Once again the stranger was too quick; he grabbed Red by the cuffs of his pants and dragged him back out from under the trailer. Red came out grasping a square-nosed shovel and took a swing that would have made Mark McGwire proud. He caught the big man square in the forehead, and the impact made a sound like the buzzard that had hit Red’s windshield the week before. Red was winding up for another piledriver when both men were distracted by the sounds of squealing tires and slinging gravel. Loretta was taking off in the stranger’s Honda.

  “Well, good goddamn,” the stranger said.

  “Fuck me nekkid,” Red said. Both men stood silently for a few minutes, staring down the road after the long-departed sedan. Then Red went inside and returne
d with a six-pack of tallboys. He handed one to the stranger. “I’m Red O’Brien.”

  The stranger stuck out a beefy paw. “Billy Don Craddock.”

  Neither of the men ever heard from Loretta again. Billy Don had been Red’s best friend ever since.

  “Fuck you, Red,” Billy Don said, sitting on Red’s sofa. “Fuck you and the goat you rode in on.”

  Red O’Brien was used to setbacks. He’d faced them all his life. Actually, he didn’t really face them as much as ignore them. “So all we gotta do is…”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? Fuck you. I ain’t messing around with all that bullshit anymore. I been snake-bit, I been shot—in fact, the bandages on my gut are leaking again. Can’t believe I let that horse doctor take care of me. Plus, I think I caught the clap from that damn stripper.”

  Red threw up his hands. “What in the world does that have to do with Roy Swank?”

  Billy Don didn’t respond, but just grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on Buck Fever, his favorite hunting show. Danny Jones was sitting in a tall tower blind, telling his viewers how to rattle up big bucks. ”Best way to do it,” Danny said, ”is have one of your buddies under the blind with the antlers, while you’re sitting up top keeping an eye out. You want to really smash the antlers together to simulate two bucks fighting.” A camera outside the blind showed a man in camouflage working two antlers.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Billy Don, there’s gotta be a way we can make some money offa all this.”

  Billy Don turned the volume up even louder. Back inside the blind, Danny Jones was whispering, because a large buck had just come into view of the camera.

  Red tried another tack. “What the hell’s your problem? You scared of that little spick?”

  “Don’t push me, Red.”

  “That’s it, ain’t it? You’re scared. I wisht I’d knowed I was running around with a little girl.” Red raised his voice about three octaves: “ ‘I’m Billy Don, and I’m scared a that mean ol’ Meskin.’ “

  Billy Don turned to Red and emitted a low growl. Red had only heard it on two other occasions, and both times a guy had ended up in the hospital. So he quit prodding and decided to go get another beer. As if Red were psychic, the phone rang just as he rose off the couch.

  Billy Don continued to watch the show. He acted as if he wasn’t listening to Red’s conversation, but he heard the words “Mr. Swank” and tried to catch what he could. Red was doing more listening than talking. A few minutes later, Red returned to the living area and smiled broadly at Billy Don. “Guess who that was. Swank wants to talk to us again, and he’s ready to spit out some more cash.”

  Now Billy Don just nodded. Money had that effect on him.

  On TV, Danny Jones was lining up his rifle sights now, getting ready to take a shot. ”You don’t get many opportunities like this” Danny whispered.

  “You goddamn right you don’t,” Red agreed.

  Marlin lay back in bed and watched Louise grooming herself in front of his bathroom mirror. She was wearing red thong panties and a matching lace bra, C cup. Definitely Victoria’s Secret. God bless Victoria, whoever she was.

  Louise ran a brush through her long blonde hair and looked in at Marlin. “You’re quiet tonight.”

  He smiled back at her, trying not to appear lost in thought. “Sorry.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Marlin ordinarily hated it when a woman asked that question. But when Louise asked it, it was different. He didn’t have to be thinking about her or the sex they just had—and, in fact, she always knew he wasn’t thinking about those things. She was just being a friend, wondering what was on his mind. “Oh, you know, the season coming up and everything,” Marlin said. “Gonna be a busy one. Lots of rain this spring, so everyone’s expecting a great year.”

  Louise walked into the room pulling on her floral skirt. The skirt fell to midthigh, showing off her great legs. She was an avid jogger, logging about twenty miles a week. Couple that with the hours she spent on her feet at the diner and her legs were as trim and sculpted as young pine trees.

  “You met someone, didn’t you?” She looked at him with affection in her eyes. Women had a way of knowing.

  “Yeah.” Marlin tried to smile, but he was a little uncomfortable. He expected Louise to ask, Who is she? But then he realized she wouldn’t. Not her style.

  She sat down on the bed next to him. “I think that’s great, John. You deserve it. Lord knows I’ve had enough experience with this relationship business, so I know how important it is…to find the right one.” She reached out and caressed his cheek.

  Marlin nodded back at her, feeling awkward, a little embarrassed. Even though his relationship with Louise had always been casual, he still felt a sense of loss. Unspoken between them was the fact that this was their last night together. Marlin wondered if he’d miss the talks with Louise—the refreshing, open, honest discussions—more than he’d miss the sex. It was entirely possible.

  At one-thirteen in the morning, a small rented sedan rolled west on Highway 290 through the quiet streets of Dripping Springs.

  The driver, Julio Olivares, was a stout, squat man with a thick, droopy mustache, bushy eyebrows, and pockmarked skin. He was fifty-three years old and looked every day of it. He had yellow teeth from smoking, but it wasn’t a problem because he never smiled.

  Next to him was an expatriate American, Tyler Jackson. Former Marine, dishonorably discharged. Twenty-nine years old, six foot two, with a crew cut and a torso sculpted from iron. He was a monstrous man. If you looked closely, you could see needle marks in the crook of his arm. That’s where the steroids went in. Jackson had a criminal record so profound he had been forced to flee the States three years ago.

  Luis Ramiro, a tiny man in his mid-twenties, was in back, dozing. Luis was like that—laid-back—the kind of guy who could fall asleep with federales banging down his door. In fact, he had done exactly that on one occasion. Unlike Jackson, Luis didn’t need brawn. He could shoot a fly off a horse’s rump at a hundred meters.

  They followed Highway 290 to the intersection of Highway 281, took a right, drove about two hundred yards, then crossed over to Miller Creek Loop. Six miles later, they saw the impressive granite entrance to the Circle S Ranch.

  19

  “SO YOU WANT us to be, like, your bodyguards?” Red said. He and Billy Don were once again meeting with Roy Swank in the lobbyist’s imposing den.

  “Not bodyguards, exactly. More like my right-hand men…sorta look after things…be there if I need you.”

  Red didn’t know what being a right-hand man entailed, but he was sure it involved a lot of cash. He looked around the sumptuous surroundings. Hell, the place practically reeked of crisp, new currency, especially small, untraceable bills that the IRS would never be privy to. Red hiked up his jeans and asked “What kinda money are you prepared to spend for our services?”

  “Same as before,” Swank said, sipping from a mug. “Ten thousand in cash. I’ll need you for one week, max. You’ll stay in one of my guest bedrooms.”

  Red looked over at Billy Don and noticed a gleam in his eye. The same kind of gleam Billy Don got when he sat down to eat a sixteen-ounce rib eye. No question, Billy Don was in. But Red was thinking he could get even more. “Well, it’s not exactly the same as before. That time, it was for one night’s work. And if I do say so myself, we performed splendiferously.” Red thought he would impress Swank with that two-dollar word. Red had heard it just yesterday, uttered by a scientist on cable TV. Or maybe it was Martha Stewart. In any case, Swank just sat there, unimpressed. So Red pressed on: “The money part is good, but I sure could use a new set of wheels.” Red was dreaming of chrome rims, complete with new Kelly tires. He got even luckier, because Swank thought he was angling for a whole new vehicle.

  “I just bought three new Fords for the ranch,” Swank said with an edge, like he was losing his patience. “Pick one out and I’ll sign the pink slip over to you—one
week from today. But that’s all the slop that’s in the trough, boys.”

  Red stood and grinned. “Mr. Swank, sir, you got yourself a deal. Now tell me a little more about that Meskin I seen runnin’ around here.”

  “He’s not Mexican, he’s Colombian. And now there are four of them.”

  Bobby Garza had never been involved in a case—or cases, really—quite like this. One thing just kept leading to another, and that led to another. If what the bookie, Virgil Talkington, had told him was true, Garza was on to something that could nail a couple of the county’s most highly regarded citizens.

  As Garza pulled into the Exxon parking lot precisely at eight A.M. as planned, he saw Bo Talkington’s large sport utility vehicle parked around the side. All of those new SUVs looked the same to Garza, but this one was easy to remember. It was green, the color of money, and it had a bumper sticker on the rear window that said, BANKERS DO IT WITH INTEREST.

  Garza saw Bo inside the store, dressed in a lightweight suit, getting his regular morning cup of coffee and a bag of sweet rolls. Moments later, Bo walked out, proceeded to Garza’s cruiser, and climbed in. After a handshake, Bo Talkington began telling Garza the details of the story his cousin Virgil had first relayed.

  “I’m putting myself on the line, talking to you like this,” the bank vice president said. “So you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Garza nodded.

  “You know Claude Rundell, my boss down at the bank?”

  Garza nodded again.

  “Then you probably know his wife Kelly.”

  Kelly was a redhead with runway-model looks, about twenty years younger than her husband. Garza had pulled her over on several occasions and always had to remain professional while handling her bold flirtations. One time, Kelly had commented that Garza looked “good enough to eat” in his uniform. He wrote her up for going sixty-five in a fifty zone, but had to laugh when she pulled away. “I’ve met her,” Garza said.