Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  The man howled and let go of Rick. “Sonofabiiiitch!” He was up on one leg, holding on to the counter to support himself while he cursed and wailed and hopped around.

  Rick took the opportunity to swing the skillet again. He hit ankle bone this time, dropping the intruder. A third swing landed the Griswold flat against the side of the man’s head and he went limp and silent.

  Rick dropped the skillet, wondering if he had killed the guy. It didn’t seem like he had hit him that hard. He checked for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He figured you’d have to hit this guy with a Griswold number fifteen, maybe even a Dutch Oven, to do any real damage.

  Rick found some clothesline to tie the guy’s hands and feet. He was unconscious, face down on the floor, tied like a salami at both ends. Rick pulled another beer from the fridge, then opened the freezer and grabbed a sack of frozen peas. He sat in the Barcalounger with the skillet in his lap. His heart was pounding. Between foamy gulps on the beer, he held the frozen peas to his mouth, hoping to keep his lips from swelling into Angelina Jolie proportions. After a few minutes, he calmed down. He went over to the intruder to look for a wallet. He had his hand in the man’s back pocket when he stirred and said what sounded like, “Gedfuug offme.”

  Rick tapped the guy on the back of the head with the skillet. “Shut the fuck up.” He couldn’t find a wallet or any ID. He frisked the man for weapons. Finding none, Rick stood and put his foot on the man’s back, trying to figure what to do next. After a moment, he poked his toe in the man’s ribs. “Turn over.”

  The guy wiggled and thrashed and seemed to be stuck on his belly, so Rick gave him another prod with his foot, helping him over. The guy rolled onto his back with a groan and said, “Why’d you hit me?”

  Rick stared at him for a moment. “You oughta thank me for not hitting you harder.”

  The guy lifted his head so he could see Rick. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. “Hey, shit,” the guy said, jutting his chin toward Rick. “You ain’t him.”

  Rick leaned down, wagging the skillet like an admonishing finger and said, “That’s what I been telling you, you dumb fuck.”

  The guy lowered his head to the floor. “Well, where the hell is he then?”

  “Who?”

  “That Carter guy. He owes for an eight ball.”

  “Owes you or somebody else?”

  The guy hesitated before saying, “Somebody else.”

  “Who?” Rick wasn’t expecting an answer but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  The guy shook his head. “Ain’t sayin’.” He laid his head on floor for a second then lifted it back up and said, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m the guy who lives here now.”

  “Oh. Well, where’s that Carter guy at?”

  “That’s the million dollar question,” Rick said.

  “And you don’t know?”

  “I look like I got a million dollars?” Rick shrugged. “All I know is Carter’s gone and I got his job and this place. And now I got a loose tooth and your big ass on my kitchen floor.”

  The guy lifted his head again, almost smiling this time. “You work at the radio station?”

  “Yeah.”

  The guy stuck his chin out again and said, “Man, y’all oughta play more Ted Nugent. He rocks!”

  Rick gave a noncommittal smile. There was no point in arguing with Nugent fans.

  “Damn,” the guy said. “My leg hurts like a sumbitch.”

  “You want me to call the cops, see if they can help?”

  “No.” The guy shook his head. “That’s all right.”

  Rick went to the kitchen and opened a drawer. He pulled out a steak knife and knelt at the guy’s side.

  His eyes got big. “What’re you fixin’ to do?”

  “I’m fixin’ to cut you loose and you’re going to act nice after I do it.” Rick poked the tip of the knife into the guy’s back. “Right?”

  The guy nodded so Rick cut him loose. He rubbed his shin and his ankle, both of which had knotted up and were turning a deep purple. “It wasn’t personal,” the guy said. “It’s just business.”

  “Yeah, but not MY business.”

  “Yeah, well,” the man said. “Ain’t my fault you live here.”

  “Ain’t my fault either,” Rick said.

  The guy pulled himself up, teetering on his tender sticks. “Well look, I can’t leave without the three hundred.” He looked around the trailer. “Or sumpin’.”

  Rick noticed he was starting to look at the stereo components. “All right,” he said. “I understand. I mean, if the guy owed you, he owed you. So let’s think on this for a second.” A moment passed before he clapped his hands once, startling the guy. “Oh! Shit, you gave me a great idea.” He walked over to the albums and started looking for something. He turned and pointed at the guy. “You’re a Nugent fan, right? You’ll appreciate this.” He turned back to the records. “Carter said he didn’t have the money? Hell, it’s been right here all along.” He pulled a record and held it out like a holy relic. “You know the Amboy Dukes, right?”

  “Yeah, ‘at was the Nuge’s first group, wadn’t it?”

  “Exactly.” Rick turned the album over and made like he was looking for a serial number or something. “Yep, what I thought. This is a first pressing,” he said with authority. “We’re talking serious collector’s item here. Journey to the Center of the Mind, from 1968.” He slipped the record out of the sleeve, balancing it perfectly with the spindle hole on his middle finger. He examined it under the light, flipping it over to check both sides. “Pristine,” he said as he slipped it back in the sleeve. “This is worth at least five hundred bucks.” Rick handed it to the guy. “I were you? I’d put this puppy on eBay or, hell, take it to one of those rare record stores down in New Orleans. You can get the three hundred for whoever and make a couple hundred for yourself.”

  The guy’s eyes lit up. “No shit?” The guy took the record from Rick. He looked at the cover and pointed at the first song title. “Mississippi Murderer,” he said. “I bet that rocks.”

  “Oh hell yeah,” Rick said as he urged the guy toward the door. “Rocks like a mother.”

  As the guy limped toward his car, he held up the album and said, “Thanks, dude.” Then he got in his car and drove off.

  Rick stood in his doorway watching the tail lights disappear in the dust. “What a moron,” he mumbled. The record wasn’t worth more than about eight bucks. Rick figured the guy would take it to a used record store and get a low offer. Then, assuming the person behind the counter was trying to rip him off, the Motor City Madman fan would go off and, best case scenario, end up in jail for assault. On the other hand, if and when he discovered Rick had lied to him, the guy would probably come back and attempt to inundate him with bodily harm. Rick started to think now might be a good time to become a gun owner since that took a lot less time than learning how to fight.

  He locked the door and considered the implications of this recent visit. If Captain Jack had owed someone money for cocaine and that person had made Captain Jack disappear, they wouldn’t then come crashing in here looking for him, would they? So what did that leave? Either Captain Jack owed money to a second coke dealer or, more likely, Rick was right that someone on the tape was responsible for his disappearance.

  Rick pressed the sack of frozen peas to his throbbing mouth and thought for a moment about abandoning his nascent investigation. If he was going to get beat up every time he asked a few questions, he’d have to consider getting a new hobby. Then he realized tonight’s attack had nothing to do with the tape. The debt collector would have shown up regardless, so that was no reason to quit.

  Rick tossed the peas onto the kitchen counter and went back to the albums. He pulled Chicago IV from the collection and removed the tape. He threaded it onto the machine and hit fast-forward, watching the counter until it reached 3:20, the point where he had left off. He hit play then listened as Clay said, “You ain’t ever made a
loan for a piece of ass, have ya?

  The wormy little banker replied quickly. “Newwwww! Uh uh. Never have.” Rick could just see him shaking his head and making a face like he wasn’t that kind of a guy.

  “That’s one criteria,” Clay said, “I guess that’s one thing when you’re dealin’ with money you’re dealin’ with your morals or a little advertising or a damn T-shirt or something’s a little different.”

  That got funnier every time Rick heard it. Clay Stubblefield was a marvel of moral engineering.

  The banker tried a little bragging of his own but was undermined by his pinched and indecisive voice. “Yeah, but I’ve uh. . . I tried to. . . screw a girl I made a loan to. . . but I didn’t make it to do that, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Clay said in a dismissive tone. “Now I tell you what I did one time.”

  Rick stopped the tape and laughed. The moment Clay realized his banker buddy didn’t have a pussy story, he charged straight into another one of his own sordid tales. “Now I tell you what I did one time,” he said. “There was a place called Moore Furniture. Burned down.”

  “Here in town?”

  “Yeah, it was over. . . Woman set it on fire, I think, over there in Three Pines Shopping Center.”

  “Mmmm hmmm.”

  “Uhhh, I don’t know what in the hell’s . . . it’s some kinda damn shoe-store-looking thing in there now. But there was uh old girl ran that thing that I was crackin’. Tch. I used to go over there and we’d shut the store down and put a sign in the window ‘Takin’ Inventory,’ ‘n’ go back where the mattresses were at. . .”

  “No kiddin’?” Amazed that such things happened.

  “And we’d crack in there, you know.”

  “No kiddin’?” Like someone had found the cure to cancer.

  “Well, she had this friend needed some money and there was an old–”

  “Moore, uhhh, Furniture Company?”

  “Yeah. Her name was Donna Moore. And she–”

  “Donna Moore?”

  “Yeah, so she had this friend name of Holly Creel. . .”

  Rick stopped the tape. This was where things started to take a turn for the dangerous. It was one thing to confront someone about infidelity. It was altogether something else to confront someone about arson and insurance fraud. Maybe Lisa Ramey was right. Maybe this was Dixie Mafia territory. Rick rewound the tape and played it again.

  “Woman set it on fire, I think.”

  Casual as all hell. He tossed it off in a hurry so he could get to the crackin’ part of his story. The man’s a lower primate, Rick thought.

  Did Stubblefield mean it? Was he joking? He didn’t just say the place burned down, which by itself might imply arson. He came right out and accused her of doing it, presumably for profit. Why else burn your business down? To kill someone? Maybe, but given Clay’s casual attitude toward all this, he probably would have tossed in ‘killed some people’ if it had happened.

  And what about the banker? He’s talking to a man who says he knows a woman who committed a major crime or two in their own community and he doesn’t even seem to hear it, doesn’t even seem to blink he so badly wants Clay to get to the part about the crackin’. And even after he hears that part he doesn’t bother to go back and ask about these crimes, like arson and insurance fraud don’t amount to much in Deckern County.

  One thing did get Rick’s attention, though. After Clay started naming names, the banker interrupted for clarification. “Moore, uhhh, Furniture Company?” Like he’s writing it down.

  Clay said, “Yeah. Her name was Donna Moore. And she–”

  “Donna Moore?” You could almost hear his pencil scratching.

  “Yeah, so she had this friend name of Holly Creel. . .”

  Rick’s first thought had been that the banker was writing down her name as if thinking Donna Moore sounded like his kind of gal and maybe he’d just look her up and give her a call, ‘cause hell, if she’d do it in a warehouse with Clay, maybe he could get some, too. But now Rick had another thought. What if the banker was writing down all the information so he could blackmail these people? Of course he wouldn’t have any real evidence since he didn’t know the conversation was being recorded. Or did he? Maybe he was in cahoots with Captain Jack. He could have conspired with Captain Jack and later double-crossed him. No, Rick didn’t buy that. Anybody who would make a point of sounding offended at the notion that he’d make a loan in exchange for sex, didn’t have the testosterone for blackmail, conspiracy, and a double-cross. So he was back to his theory that Captain Jack had acted alone. So what did he do? Threaten to tell Miss Moore’s husband about her affair, and threaten to go to the police about the arson? This line of reasoning involved at least two assumptions: first, that she was married; and second that she had, in fact, committed arson.

  Rick figured it would be easy enough to find out if the place had burned down. If it had, he’d look for newspaper articles to see if they mentioned arson. Alternatively, Rick realized he could just go to Donna Moore and ask if anyone had tried to blackmail her on these points. The problem with that was obvious. If Captain Jack had tried to blackmail her and she, in turn, was involved in his disappearance, she wasn’t likely to admit any of that to a complete stranger. And worse, if she had something to do with one guy’s disappearance, what would stop her from having something to do with another?

  Rick rewound the tape and put it back in its hiding place. He turned the radio on.

  “Need quick cash? We can help. Universal Financial Services has the solution to all your problems. Got bad credit? We don’t believe it! At Universal Financial Services . . .”

  Rick sat in the Barcalounger and mulled things over. What kind of trouble was he flirting with? J.C. came out of the UFS spot and into Elton John’s My Father’s Gun which raised the question in Rick’s mind of whether he needed a weapon. He also wondered if there any state laws regulating private investigators. And what about the tape? What were the laws on recording phone conversations? If wiretapping was illegal, was there any penalty for merely being in possession of an illegally recorded tape? Did any of those potential legal matters compare to a run-in with the Dixie Mafia?

  All this made Rick wonder why he was so keen to pursue the matter. Sure, he was curious about Captain Jack’s fate. But at the same time it seemed likely that whatever had happened, the man had brought it on himself. Still, if it turned out Captain Jack had met with foul play Rick would like to see justice done, especially if that justice were to come down on the head of Clay Stubblefield.

  There was no question but that Stubblefield was a reprobate, cheating on his wife and bragging to his friends about it. But Rick wasn’t interested in defending the honor of Lori Stubblefield. He wasn’t that chivalrous. He just wanted to get back at Stubblefield for lying to him. After all, if it hadn’t been for Clay, Rick wouldn’t be sitting in a trailer in the backwoods of Mississippi with a fat lip and a loose tooth.

  Rick decided he’d go ask Donna Moore some questions, see if her answers shed any light on the situation. He wondered if he was crazy. The whole thing was starting to feel dangerous. His tongue pushed on his loose tooth. It wiggled, but it would heal. He smiled. Dangerous or not, Rick had to admit this was starting to get interesting.

  15.

  The Radio, Television, and Film department at Central Mississippi University required a research paper for seniors. Autumn planned to write hers on the format change at WAOR-FM. But first she had to get Rick’s attention long enough for him to sign off on her idea before she could go to her adviser and get the final go ahead.

  A few minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, J.C. strolled into Rick’s office dancing like Carmen Miranda while singing, “Welcome to the Hotel Mississippi. . .such a lovely place.” He spun and pointed both his index fingers at Rick. “Such a lovely face.”

  Rick demured, saying, “You’re too kind.”

  “Plenty of room at the Hotel Mississippi. Cha-cha-cha.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, hey,” Rick said. “I just remembered. I want to talk to you about something.”

  “The warm smell of colitas?”

  “No, actually. I heard you do a break last night, after Mose Allison,” Rick said. “You might want to be a little more concise when you talk between sets. It was kind of long-winded.”

  J.C. looked betrayed by the suggestion. “Well, bow me up,” he said. “I knew it! First day we met, I asked if you had any do’s and don’ts I should know about and all you said was, and I’m quoting here, no dead air and no Yoko.” His head bobbed as he spoke. “Now we come to find out the truth, don’t we? It’s like they say, boss, the truth’ll out!” He pointed at Rick, this time with just one finger. “And out it comes.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture across the room as if the truth went thataway.

  “J.C., it’s not that big a deal. It’s just that I heard you talk for three minutes without saying much of anything.”

  “No dead air and no Yoko,” J.C., said. “You didn’t say anything about suppressing my personality.”

  “I’m not trying to suppress your personality, J.C. I’d just like you to try to bring it into focus more quickly. That’s all. And maybe try a little more variety in your music. I’m hearing a lot of Sabbath and Budgie and Cream but not so much at the other end of things.”

  “Oooooh, so that’s what’s crawled up your hole, huh? I’m just playing the classic rock, and none of the clichés, just like you said.”

  Autumn walked into the office waving a piece of paper at Rick. “Hey, can we do this?”

  Rick gestured for her to sit. “In a minute,” he said. “J.C., just mix in a little more of the acoustic stuff. Try to strike a balance.”

  This led to a five minute discussion on the contributions of folk to classic rock during which Autumn looked like a spectator at a tennis match.

  At one point, Rick said, “It depends on your definition.”

  “No, sir,” J.C. replied. “It depends on your definition, seein’ as how you’re the PD. I’m just sayin’ from the jump, Cat Stevens ain’t rock ‘n’ roll.” He strummed his acoustic air guitar and warbled a line from Morning Has Broken.