Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Rick looked at her slim college-age hips and said, “Lord, am I getting old.”

  Autumn looked down at her exposed belly button. “What, this doesn’t do it for you?”

  “Well. . .” Rick smiled with a little lust in his eyes. “I’m not allowed to say on account of sexual harassment laws, not to mention my inherent gentlemanly comportment. But my point was simply that if you live long enough to see a fashion come and go. . . and come back? You’re old,” he said.

  Autumn looked at him skeptically and said, “I think you were trying to work a compliment in there somewhere, so thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. How’s your paper coming?”

  “Oh, fine,” Autumn said. “Work-in-progress, you know. But listen, I wanted to tell you something real quick.” She nodded back toward the studio where she was on-the-air. “I’ve only got a minute.”

  “What’re you playing?”

  “Dear Mr. Fantasy.”

  “Original or Welcome to the Canteen?”

  “The original. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about this idea I had last night,” she said. “I was listening to Uncle Victor’s show and he played the most amaaaaaazing set of stuff. It was this whole woozy alt country thing with the Grateful Dead and I don’t even know who all, but the harmonies on Til The Morning Comes were so great. And there was a song by some other group about going to the country, got to leave right away? That sound familiar?”

  Rick thought about it for a second then said, “Steve Miller Band from Number 5. A great record.”

  “Anyway, the whole set is just jammin’, okay? And I was driving home and I stopped at a light and I pulled up next to this, like, Lexus or something and there’s this guy, he’s like an older business guy, right? And he’s singing and his head’s bobbin’ and my head’s bobbing and then I realized we were listening to the same thing and it was like, whoa! Uncle Victor’s bridged a generation gap with this stuff. I mean, I’m groovin’, he’s groovin’ and I thought we gotta do something about it. So I had this idea about a co-op deal with T-Bone Record Shop, since they already do a lot of advertising with us, right? I was thinking we approach them about putting up a WAOR classic rock corner in the store.”

  “A corner?”

  “Yeah, like literally build a thing in the back corner of the store. Make it like one of those old head shops with black lights and all the old posters, like the Easy Rider poster where they’re flipping the bird and the Keep On Truckin’ poster and the Dylan poster and lava lamps and beads, and incense, all that stuff. And only the music we play, with lots of the more obscure stuff because I really think–”

  J.C. walked in and said, “Hey, toots, your record’s running out.” Autumn shrieked and ran back to the studio. The two men looked after her as she raced down the hall. J.C. said, “She wears those pants pretty well.”

  “What’s up J.C.?”

  “Oh. I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve figured out what the last record is in classic rock.”

  Rick put the Average White Band record into his box and said, “Do tell.”

  J.C. held his hands up like a director framing a shot. “Picture it. Winterland Arena. November, 1976. The backdrop from San Francisco Opera’s La Traviata on the stage and those Gone With The Wind chandeliers overhead.” J.C. lowered his hands and looked at Rick who was nodding his head at what now seemed obvious. “It has everything,” J.C. said. “The title alone, I mean, c’mon. . . The Last Waltz declares the end of the era. And who’s there to say goodbye with The Band?”

  Rick, still nodding, said, “Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Paul Butterfield, Van Morrison, Muddy Waters, Ronnie Hawkins, Dr. John, Eric Clapton. . .” He started shaking his head, embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it.

  “And don’t forget Ringo, Ron Wood, and Steve Stills,” J.C. said. “Hell, that’s the Beatles, the Stones, and Buffalo Springfield right there. That’s classic rock.”

  “I agree,” Rick said, “it just sounds funny coming from you.”

  “Hey, I never said heavy metal was the only kind of rock. I just happen to like it more. But I was over at T-Bone records yesterday and they were playing it. Damn thing rocks, except for Helpless and a couple of other songs. Anyway, it seemed like the answer to the question.”

  Rick could’ve kicked himself. Of course, The Last Waltz. Not only a knock-out record but, thanks to Martin Scorsese’s direction, probably the best rock concert film ever made. “I think that’s it,” he said, suddenly thinking of the girl he’d taken to see the movie when it came out. “When was that released, ‘77?”

  “Film and the soundtrack came out in April ‘78,” J.C. said.

  “So are you proposing the recording date or the release date as the end of the era?”

  J.C. paused. “Hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “Anything essential come out after November ‘76?”

  “Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours is early ‘77.”

  “That’s a great album,” J.C. said. “But, honestly, can you see that incarnation of Meetwood Flac on the Fillmore stage? Green and Spencer were long gone and the rest of ‘em had forsaken blues-based rock for pure pop.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said, “And for what? Multi-platinum success? A few zillion dollars?” He pretended to spit on the floor.

  “I’m not saying they weren’t popular. They just weren’t a classic rock band at that point. “Well, now Sands of Time wasn’t exactly based on an Elmore James riff,” Rick said. “But it’s a pure classic FM song.”

  “I’ll grant you that.”

  Rick turned and looked at the wall of music. “Hey, do we have the Buckingham-Nicks record in here? That was a fine little album.”

  “Uhhh, we’re losing our focus here,” J.C. said. “Do we agree that The Last Waltz marks the end?”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “I just wish we had such a clear cut record for the start date.”

  “Workin’ on it,” J.C. said as he turned to leave. “I’ll get back to you.”

  39.

  The McRae Booster Club held all its functions in one of the banquet rooms at the Magnolia Motor Inn. Saturday afternoon, a couple of hours before the event, Rick went to check the sound system Clay had arranged for him to use. As he passed through the lobby and down a dim hallway, Rick was struck by how much the place smelled like the early seventies. Maybe it was the old carpeting or something collecting in the ducts.

  The Dogwood Room was at the end of the hall. Rick was surprised to find the gear already set up on a table on the far side of the room. There was a mixing board, two turntables, two CD players, an amp, an equalizer, and two speakers mounted on stands off to the sides. Rick went over and powered the system up. He put on a record and started to adjust the sound.

  As he toyed with the equalizer, a couple of motel employees walked into the room carrying a podium. They stopped and looked at Rick for a moment before continuing to the dais at the front of the room. After securing the podium in the center of the platform they reached down and picked up a what turned out to be a banner that had been lying on the floor. They mounted it on the wall. It said: Congratulations Booster Club Businessman of the Year!

  The two men left momentarily before returning with a folding metal easel and something set in a large wooden frame which they installed on the right side of the stage. After mixing the sound, Rick went over to the easel for a closer look. It was a statement of the Booster Club philosophy. It called for members to help one another in all business endeavors by sharing information, making introductions and facilitating deals among fellow members, lobbying against government interference in all business practices, and maintaining an image of high ethical standards. Rick thought about Clay and smirked.

  He left to get a bite to eat and returned an hour later as the first Booster Club members and their wives were arriving. When he walked in, the first thing he saw was Clay talking to a group of cops from the McRae Police Department, all of whom looked to be contemporaries of Clay. From the way their heads were all duc
ked together, Rick figured they were either in prayer or, more likely, listening to Stubblefield tell one of his stylish jokes. As Rick crossed the room he passed close enough to hear the words, “So the guy turns to his buddy and says, ‘Are you kiddin’? I thought she’d opened a goddamn can of tuna!’” All at once, their heads heaved back in laughter. There was a great deal of back-slapping, snickering, and repeating of the punch line. “Goddamn can of tuna!”

  When the laughter finally subsided, Clay glanced around the room and saw Rick behind the table with the audio equipment. He nudged one of the cops, pointed at Rick, and said, “That’s him.”

  Now, Rick had always had a healthy fear of small town cops – a fear informed by more than a couple of personal experiences, and not all of them in the South – so when three big boys in blue made a bee-line in his direction, he almost panicked. The fact that he hadn’t done anything illegal had no bearing on his fear. He hadn’t done much the other times either, but that hadn’t stopped anybody from swinging that billy club.

  Officer Bobby Higdon grabbed Rick and spun him around, saying, “Hands on the wall.” Officer Higdon started to pat him down while everyone in the room stopped to watch. “Where they at?” Officer Higdon said.

  Rick looked over his shoulder and said, “What’re you talking about?”

  Just then Clay and the older cop, who turned out to be the chief of police, ambled over. “Well,” Chief Dinkins said. “Did ya find ‘em?”

  Officer Higdon shook his head. “Not on him.”

  Clay put his arm around Chief Dinkins’s shoulder. “Do me a favor, Chief. Let my man slide on this here, otherwise we ain’t got a DJ tonight.”

  “Well, Clay, I don’t want to look like I’m soft on crime.”

  “What crime?” Rick asked.

  Officer Higdon got in Rick’s face and said, “Boy, we ain’t heard no Grinderswitch or Iron Maiden since you got to town,” he said, all serious.

  The second cop stepped up and said, “We figured you musta stole all ‘em records since we don’t hear ‘em on the station anymore.”

  Rick’s expression must have been priceless. Clay and the cops tried to keep stone-faced but they all started laughing. Clay gave Rick a hardy clap on the back. “Had you goin’ there, Rick! Whew! Shoulda seen your face, like you were in the middle of doin’ somethin’ bad and the lights come on.”

  Chief Dinkins shook his head. “Fish in a barrel,” he said as he turned to walk away. “That was a good one, boys.” He headed for the bar.

  Rick figured he should go along and play the good sport. He held up his hands and said, “You got me, all right.” He managed a smile. “I swallowed it whole.”

  “Hey,” Officer Higdon said. “Hope I wasn’t too rough there, putting you against the wall and all that. Just having some fun.”

  The words seemed to get under Clay’s skin. “Christ, Bobby,” he said with contempt. “Ain’t no need to get all queer about it,” he said, soliciting a laugh from the other two cops. “You ain’t never hurt anything in your whole life.” He made it sound like an accusation, the sort of thing one should be ashamed of. Clay leaned toward Rick while pointing at Bobby. “Careful he don’t try to kiss and make up with you. Tch.” As Clay turned and headed toward the bar, the other cops nudged each other and sniggered at Bobby Higdon’s expense.

  The moment passed quickly but before it did Rick tried to measure it. What was the point of that? he wondered. Then he realized Clay hadn’t done it to make a point. He simply enjoyed inflicting small, needless humiliations. You ain’t never hurt anything in your whole life. Given the cultural imperative of violence among certain men, this taunt might have sprung from any number of events. Perhaps a failure in a boyhood fight over neighborhood honor, or maybe a missed opportunity on a football field, or possibly a show of humanity on a hunting trip. Whatever it was, Officer Bobby Higdon was stuck with it. He turned and walked away without saying another word.

  As the two other cops drifted off in Higdon’s wake, one of them said, “I thought she’d opened a goddamn can of tuna!”

  Rick marveled at the caliber of personnel deemed acceptable for local law enforcement. The room was filling up fast with people and noise. Boosters were three deep at the bar calling their orders. Rick checked his watch. The official presentation of the award was an hour away. In the meanwhile he played a steady stream of pop-jazz and watched the crowd, mostly couples in the thirty-to-sixty range in standard business attire. He wondered if the pigeon-hearted banker from the tape was among the crowd. Rick decided to keep an eye on Clay to see whom he talked to during the event.

  Out of the corner of one eye, Rick noticed a pink glow when the heat lamps came on over the roast beef station, signaling the opening of the buffet.

  Over by the entrance to the Dogwood Room, Clay was shaking hands with Chief Dinkins who was apparently done for the night. The two men were, by all appearances, old buddies. And if that was true, it fit with Rick’s theory that the local cops weren’t looking for clues when they tossed Captain Jack’s trailer. He thought about his chat with Donna Moore. What did she say? A cassette came in the mail. That might explain why there were no cassettes in Captain Jack’s collection. They probably assumed the master tape was a cassette and just to be safe, took every one of them. Then again, it was possible the cops hadn’t been to the trailer at all. Maybe Clay had taken the cassettes. In any event, assuming he managed to find some admissible evidence against Clay or whoever was involved in Captain Jack’s disappearance, Rick figured he’d have to find someone other than Chief Dinkins to tell about it.

  Right now, however, Rick had to find his next record. He bent over and looked at the crate of albums that was under the table. He pulled out an old Crusaders LP and went to cue Way Back Home. He had the headphone pressed to his ear when he noticed a woman on the far side of the room. Her sense of fashion caught his eye. She stood out in a revealing black pant suit with a backless halter top by Giancarlo Proli and four inch black stiletto heels with tapering gold straps crossing over exquisite tanned feet. She looked like the kind of woman who could reward a man’s curiosity.

  As the Crusaders grooved into the room, Rick kept watching her. Remarkable as her outfit was, he was more intrigued by the way she carried herself. Her strides were smooth and assured as she dodged and weaved through people like poles on a slalom course. A genuine smile here, a whispered aside there, a snide glance in another direction. She dealt them like cards. Rick wondered who she was. A city council member? Old lumber money? Whoever she was, her combination of style and attitude made her look like she’d be in charge of the military wing of the Junior League if such a thing existed.

  She eventually made her way across the floor to where Rick was. She stood next to his table for a moment, drinking deeply from a frosted collins glass. She gazed at the crowd and then, without ever looking at Rick, said, “You wouldn’t happen to have a gun, would you?”

  40.

  Rick played it cool. He gave a secret agent smile and said, “No. Sorry.” Like you wouldn’t happen to have a gun was the most common request he got.

  She let out a sigh and said, “Damn. I was hoping you might put me out of my mis’ry.” She looked at her drink and said, “I guess this’ll have to do.”

  Rick gave a perceptive nod. “I know the feeling,” he said.

  “Noooo you don’t.” She shook her head but kept smiling all the while. “You can’t possibly know the feeling until you’ve lived in McRae, Mississippi for at least thirty years. Enduring these elegant functions month-in, month-out, acting like you’re just so pleeeeased to meet them and aren’t those the cutest shoes and yes, it’s a pure shame what’s happened to property values in the older neighborhoods, but that’s what happens when they move in.” She stopped a passing waiter and put her glass on his tray. “Bring me another one of those, would you, sugar?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The waiter looked at the glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”

  “Yes, please, wit
hout the tonic if you would.” She looked at Rick. “Something for you? A little personality, as they say?”

  “No, thanks,” Rick said. “I don’t start drinking until the last hour of a gig.” After the waiter left, Rick held out his hand. “By the way, I’m Rick.”

  “Hello, Rick.” The woman shook his hand. “I’m a bitter, unfulfilled, and somewhat tipsy housewife. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Rick figured if she didn’t want to tell him her name, that was her business. Maybe she was some sort of local celebrity and she assumed he knew her name. Whoever she was, he liked her mordant sense of humor, not to mention the occasional glimpse she was allowing into her loose fitting halter top. And given the way she was inhaling the gin, he figured she was well on her way to drunk after which point she might say who she was. He gestured at the crowd and said, “So you know all of these folks?”

  “Oh, I know everything,” she said. “Who they are, what they do, who they’re sleeping with, where the bodies are buried.” She rolled her eyes and said, “It’s all deathly boring after a while.” The waiter returned with a fresh drink. She took the glass and made a sweeping gesture with it. “Most of these fine, upstanding citizens are. . . well, how shall I put it?” She took a long swallow of gin and said, “Let’s just say they’re all fine and upstanding. . . until they get caught at whatever they do. At which point we’re all asked to summon our compassion and forgive them so that there’s very little negative consequence for any sort of bad behavior.”

  Rick’s song was starting to fade so he bent over and pulled a record at random from the crate. It was George Benson’s Breezin’. Rick dropped the needle on the Leon Russell ballad This Masquerade and segued straight into it. “So,” he said as he put The Crusaders back in their sleeve, “which one of these respectable citizens are we honoring tonight?”