Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Silky wore, what else, a black silk shirt, unbuttoned, a heavy gold chain around his neck. Kim Coates sat next to him. The court stenographer typed away as I prodded.

  “Isn’t it true, Mr. Morton, that you own the original pressing of Charlie Christian’s Solo Flight?”

  “Objection,” Kim sang out. “Irrelevant.”

  “Overruled,” I said, as if I were the judge. “Kim, you know very well that objections need not be made at deposition to be preserved at trial, so I’ll thank you for not interrupting my flow.”

  “There’s a flow? I failed to detect that.”

  “Stick around and you might learn something.”

  “Jeez,” Silky said, “you two got something going or what?”

  “There’s a question pending, Mr. Silky. Do you own the original pressing of Charlie Christian’s Solo Flight?”

  “The man practically invented the electric guitar, and I’m a collector.”

  “So the answer is yes.”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “What about Django Reinhardt’s Night and Day?”

  “Last cut before he died. Yeah, got that one.”

  “But you don’t have Cadillac Johnson’s I’m Leaving You, Baby.”

  “Wish I did, but it’s impossible to find.”

  “Really? Your lawyers seemed to find a few and gobble them up.”

  “Is that a question?” Kim shot across the table.

  “Yeah, for you. Do you think it’s ethical to hide evidence?”

  “You want my testimony, you better subpoena me.”

  “All I want to know,” Silky said, eyes daring between the two of us, “is who dumped whom?”

  “So you’re denying you ever had in your possession a 45 rpm recording of Cadillac Johnson’s I’m Leaving You, Baby?” I asked.

  “Already said that.”

  “And you’re also denying that you gave such a recording to Ms. Coates or anyone else at the Krippendorf law firm.”

  “Never gave nothing to nobody.”

  “And I resent the question’s implication,” Kim added.

  I ignored her and plowed ahead. “Do you rent a safe deposit box?”

  “Yeah, so what,” Silky said.

  “What do you keep in the box?”

  “My will. Insurance policies. Some jewelry.”

  “Do you rent warehouse space?”

  “I own a whole warehouse. Plus three homes, a condo, an R.V., and a customized bus. Search them all. I don’t have that old man’s song.”

  “Let’s talk about the warehouse first,” I said, as if I had all day.

  “This is a waste of time, a fishing expedition,” Kim said.

  “But it’s my pole and I paid for the license,” I said. “Your warehouse, Mr. Silky. Where is it?”

  Just then, my cell phone rang. I pretended to be surprised I hadn’t turned it off. Feigned annoyance, too. “Yeah, what is it?” I said into the phone. “Really, Doc? Terrific! Call me later at home.”

  Kim and her client eyed me. I couldn’t tell if their looks were suspicious or just intensely curious. I needed to toss some chum into the water and see how long until I got a bite. “We’re done here,” I said, cheerfully.

  “Done?” Kim asked. “You’ve barely begun.”

  “Got everything I need.”

  “You’ve got nothing.”

  “You’d be surprised, Kim. I’ll see you in court, Mr. Silky. Bring your checkbook.”

  I grabbed my briefcase and headed out of the library and down a corridor lined with framed platinum records. Before I reached the front door, Kim had caught up with me, just as I knew she would.

  “What’s going on, Jake?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Your depo was a joke.”

  “You’re not laughing”

  In fact, she was scowling, and I hate to admit it, but that made her even more attractive in some perverse way.

  “You can’t stand it that I’m a better lawyer,” she said.

  “Not better. Nastier.”

  “If I were a man, you’d say I was ‘powerful’ and ‘assertive.’”

  “If you were a man, I’d punch you out.”

  She exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. Or maybe it was a hiss. Either way, she was pissed. “Why’d I ever waste a year on you?”

  I gave her my crooked grin. “Because I let you take the top.”

  “You’re ridiculous!”

  “My headboard still has your scratch marks.”

  “And juvenile.”

  “I had to close the windows.”

  “And uncouth.”

  “Your screams scared the land crabs.”

  Without warning, Kim threw her arms around me, pulled me down to her level and kissed me. I could say that I shoved her away, but that would be a lie. I kissed her back. Long and slow. Sweet and soft, then harder and more urgently.

  This time, her sigh was deep, and I swear a tear dripped from her closed eyes. I couldn’t tell if she was pretending. But I knew I was.

  25. Night Games

  The bedroom television was tuned to the Cartoon Network with the sound down. On the screen, an anvil dropped from a balloon and missed the Road Runner. But squashed Wile E. Coyote.

  “Beep. Beep.”

  I was on my back in bed, Kim on top, straddling me. Grinding away. If I weren’t enjoying myself so much, I’d say she was using me. Well, it’s a messy job, but somebody has to do it.

  Her head was tossing back and forth, her hair whipping across my face. It would have been a sexy move, except she resembled someone having an epileptic seizure. This went on for some time before she screamed something in Spanish, which surprised me, because she’s not Hispanic, but that’s the Miami cross-cultural influence for you.

  I managed to time it so that we exploded more-or-less together. Then she collapsed onto my chest, her face pressed against my neck.

  “Do you hate me?” she whispered.

  “Intensely.”

  “I hate you more.”

  “I know.”

  She ran her lips along my neck and up my chin. Found my lips and kissed me.

  I ran a hand up and down her spine.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Looking for a dorsal fin.”

  She kissed me again. “You know you’re going to lose the case, right?”

  “Nope. Don’t know that.”

  “You have a very thick skull.”

  “Now, that I know.”

  “You have no evidence.”

  I gave her a crooked little smile. “Don’t be too sure about that.”

  She studied me a long moment, wondering.

  ***

  I fell asleep with Kim curled alongside me. When I awoke in the middle of the night, I felt as if I were sliding headfirst in a cloud of red dirt. It took a moment to clear the cobwebs. I’d been dreaming. One of those you clearly remember in the first seconds upon awakening.

  A baseball game. I take a lead off first base. The pitcher is Krippendorf. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s throwing spitters, but just now, he isn’t looking at the batter. He’s watching me take my lead. When he goes into his pickoff motion, I take off for second.

  Krippendorf tosses the ball to the first baseman. It’s Silky, who pivots and throws to the shortstop, covering second base. The shortstop is Bar investigator Grumley, who leaps high, but Silky’s throw sails over his head into the outfield. I haul ass for third base. The left fielder, Judge Buckstrom, tosses a bullet to the third baseman, Judge Colton, but the ball gets past him. I chug home, running like hell. Colton’s throw is on the money. The catcher, Kim, has her mask off and her makeup on. I slide head-first. She swipes at me, and misses!

  The umpire, Doc Charlie Riggs, my only friend in the bunch, signals, “Safe!”

  Awake now, I considered the dream a good omen. All my opponents dropped the ball. Unlike the play that gave rise to “Wrong Way Lassiter,” this was a good call. I had a distinct impres
sion my luck was about to change.

  After a few seconds, I realized I was alone in the bed. Another good omen. I knew Kim. Oh, how I knew her. There was very little chance she had gone home, and quite a strong chance that she was less than thirty feet away.

  ***

  I could have stayed in bed. No matter what Kim did, I would have Silky under surveillance in the morning. But part of me just wanted to be certain, not about the case, but about her.

  I padded out of the bedroom to the study, where a light was shining from under the closed door. No way I could open it without her seeing me. But in my mind, I knew what was happening inside. She was rifling my briefcase, looking for whatever scrap of evidence had made me so cocky. She wouldn’t find a thing. But surely she would notice the flashing light on my answering machine. And knowing Kim, her insatiable desire to win at all costs would force her to look at the LCD window, which would show just how many calls were waiting.

  I heard papers rustling, Kim saying something under her breath I couldn’t entirely make out, but it might have been, “Shit, shit, double shit.”

  Then silence. Had she seen the flashing light? I heard the click of a button. Then the mechanical announcement that there were three new messages. The first one was a telemarketer’s recorded voice asking if I wanted to consolidate my bills into one easy, monthly payment. Click, and the second message came on. Cece, my secretary, telling me about the next day’s appointments, including one with a potential client, a fashion model, who wanted to sue a plastic surgeon for giving her C-cup breasts when she specifically asked for D-cups. Another click.

  Doc Charlie Riggs’s voice: “Great news, Jake! The P.I. found where Silky hid the record. We gotta get a court order before he moves it. I’ll try you on your cell. Maybe you’re still in depo. Jakey, my boy, we’re gonna win!”

  I wish I could have seen the look on Kim’s face.

  Then, pressing my ear to the door, I heard the faint pings of a phone being dialed. I didn’t need to listen any longer. I knew who she was calling and what she would say.

  26. Self Help

  It was just after 9 a.m. when Doc Riggs called. I had been in my office since 8:15. Kim had declined breakfast and seemed cold and distant when she left. I figured by the end of the day, that would change to furious and vengeful.

  “You were right, Jake,” Charlie said.

  “Right, how? Bank or warehouse?”

  “Bank. Great Southern. Flagler Street just off Biscayne Boulevard. He just went inside.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Twelve if the drawbridge is up.”

  “Okay, but what do I do if he comes out before you get here?”

  “Just follow him. Don’t be a tough guy.”

  ***

  Some days, everything works out just the way you plan. Not most days. Just some.

  I found the last parking space along the median on Biscayne Boulevard and jogged to the bank. Charlie Riggs was sitting in his Dodge pick-up out front with the windows rolled down.

  “He’s still inside,” Charlie said. “Now what?

  “Now, I play tough guy.”

  It only took two more minutes. Silky headed out of the bank, nothing in his hands. No bag, no briefcase, no nothing. He wore a black silk Oakland Raiders jacket and black designer jeans. Guys who aren’t tough but want to be are always dressing in Raiders’ silver and black.

  Silky turned toward Biscayne Boulevard. I figure he was parked there, too. I cut him off just before he reached the corner.

  “Yo, Silky.”

  “What the hell? Lassiter?” I couldn’t see his eyes behind the aviator sunglasses, but I’d say there was a startled quality to his voice.

  “Let’s have it, Silky.”

  “Have what, shyster?”

  “Give me the record. I have a court order.”

  Technically, that was an overstatement. I wished I had a court order, but I couldn’t get one without prior notice to Krippendorf and that would have blown the whole scheme.

  “Got no record, sucker.”

  “Then unzip your jacket and let me frisk you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “The court order gives me the right to detain and search your person.”

  “Let me see that fucking order.”

  “As it so happens, I don’t have it on me.”

  “Then fuck you, sideways.”

  I took a step toward him. “I’ll have to use what the law calls self help.”

  “You touch me, I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”

  “What I’ve got is an old car and a stack of bills.”

  I reached out to grab Silky by the collar of his Raiders’ jacket. He swatted my hand away, turned and took off running, crossing the Boulevard against the light. I followed him, darting between cars, hearing curses and the bleat of horns. On the east side of the Boulevard, Silky passed the Torch of Friendship Monument and ran into Bayfront Park.

  Silky seemed fast, but then he was wearing fancy Air Jordans, and I was chugging along in scuffed loafers.

  I was never a speedster. In my playing days, I was too slow to be an outside linebacker, too small for the inside, and not athletic enough for either one. But I always had stamina. Now, even though I was falling behind Silky, I wasn’t worried. My breaths were coming smoothly, and I could run all day.

  I kept my head still, arms relaxed, pumping without flailing. Ahead of me, Silky’s running style was, unlike his name, not smooth. Elbows flying, feet coming up high.

  Silky was chugging down the steps of the empty outdoor amphitheater. I was twenty yards behind. I could smell the salt water of the nearby bay.

  “You can’t out-run me!” I shouted after him.

  “Fuck you, shyster!”

  I could hear the strain in his voice. A tortoise and hare deal.

  Hell, I could have sung a song and kept running.

  When Silky reached the stage, he turned right and headed south, deeper into the park. I had closed some of the distance, but he was still fifteen yards ahead. I could hear him gasping for air, which got me pumped. I picked up the pace and closed the gap just as we came to the children’s playground. I pulled to within five feet as we passed the sculpture of a dolphin, manatee, and turtle playing under the lip of a breaking wave.

  We were on sand now, so I sprinted a few more steps then dived at Silky, catching him behind the knees with my right shoulder. He shot forward, and I wrapped both arms around his legs, as if tackling a running back from behind.

  He hit the sand with a whompf of air expelling from his lungs. I flipped him over and reached inside his Raiders’ jacket. Felt something hard and slipped a 45 rpm record out of an interior pocket.

  Of course, the label would say, I’m Leaving You, Baby. With Cadillac Johnson’s name.

  But it didn’t. It said Mack the Knife, sung by Bobby Darin.

  Holy shit!

  “Where is it, Silky?”

  He got to one knee, puffing hard. “Ain’t got it.”

  “Bullshit! Where is it?”

  “Gonna sue your ass, shyster. Don’t care what you got. Gonna sue you your sorry ass just for the pure pleasure of it.”

  27. Human Factors

  Ten minutes after my stalking, assaulting and battering M.C. Silky, I was in front of Great Southern Bank looking for Charlie Riggs. His pick-up truck was still there, but he wasn’t.

  I headed inside the lobby and found him shaking hands with a man in a gray suit.

  “Then a court order it will be,” Charlie said to the man, who walked back toward an interior office.

  “I crapped out, Charlie.”

  “I know.”

  “How? What’s going on here?”

  “That was Mr. Stegmaier. Bank’s head of security. He’s going to get us the video tape that will show Silky coming out of the safe deposit area.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “See that trash can by the pedestal desk.” Charlie pointed toward the desk where cu
stomers fill out their deposit slips before approaching the tellers.

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I found this in the can.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a 45 rpm record. My breath caught in my throat as I turned it over.

  At the top, the printing read, “Eddie Burns Records, New York, N.Y.”

  Underneath:

  “I’m Leaving You, Baby. Cadillac Johnson.”

  A nice logo, too, the giant tail fins of a 1959 Cadillac El Dorado.

  “Silky took it from his box and dumped it.”

  “You’re amazing, Charlie. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. Just thought there was a chance he’d never risk carrying the record out of the bank. When I walked inside, I noticed that trash can was in plain view of anyone leaving the safe deposit area. I’ve studied human factors a bit, you know. Even if Silky didn’t intend to dump the record here when he entered the bank, seeing the can might have given him the idea. It certainly gave me the idea. But since I didn’t see him put it there…”

  “For evidentiary purposes, we need the security tape,” I said, finishing his thought. “That’ll tie up chain of custody.”

  “With a pretty bow.”

  I must not have looked joyful, because Charlie said, “What’s wrong Jake? You’re gonna win.”

  “Years.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It will take years of appeals. Like the George Harrison case with My Sweet Lord. Fifteen years! Cadillac doesn’t have that kind of time.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Get Cadillac his money while it will do him some good.”

  “How?”

  “Hit them hard and fast. And low.”

  28. Shove Your Rules

  We were arranged around the polished mahogany table in Krippendorf’s conference room.

  A sullen Silky.

  A glaring Kim.

  A peaceful Cadillac.

  Then there was the Kripster himself, shifting his prodigious bulk from one cheek to another in the high-backed cushioned chair at the head of the table.