Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Eric Newlin.” It wasn’t a question.

  I met his eyes.

  “You saw what happened.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I told him, almost word for word the description I’d given Schmidt.

  “It went right over you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me.”

  “Some people, after a close call like that, might get religion. Might decide God spared them for a special reason.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Was Drake a churchgoer? Lots of people in this town were tight with God. You had to be careful, doing business here, not to offend the zealots. Another of my survival rules.

  But he’d hit on exactly what I’d been thinking before Schmidt interviewed me. If that Corvette hadn’t hit that steel wire, if the cable had snapped, if the physics had been slightly different, I wouldn’t be here now, wondering why the police chief was giving me the hard eye. Such a near-miss was enough to make a person ponder God and fate and karma. Enough to make me wonder why I’d been given a second chance.

  “Any idea why he was going so fast?” Drake asked.

  I shook my head, but the black Dodge flashed through my mind. Had that car been chasing the Corvette?

  “You know the driver?” he asked.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. I didn’t get a good look at him—”

  The chief pulled a notebook out of his shirt pocket.

  “Carleton Gentry,” he read off the page. “Goes by ‘Butch.’ Know him?”

  “No.”

  Why would he even ask that? No reason to suspect a connection between the dead guy and me. Surely he didn’t think Gentry aimed the Corvette at me—

  “Maybe he was in this bar earlier? Maybe you talked to him?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t talk to anybody except the bartender.”

  “I’m told you were in an argument.”

  “I did have a few words with Cecil Lynch, this clown who used to work for us at Honeydew Construction.”

  “I know Cecil.” There was disapproval in his tone, but I said nothing. For all I knew, Drake and Cecil were related.

  “I left right after that,” I said. “Came out here.”

  “You were just sitting in your truck at the time of the accident?”

  “I was running the A/C, cooling off the cab. I looked up when I heard his engine roaring.”

  “Just in time to see this car fly over you.”

  “That’s right. I told this to your guys already.”

  Drake paused, studying me. “You in a hurry?”

  “I need to get home. My wife will be wondering—”

  “You haven’t called her?”

  “I didn’t think I’d be here this long.”

  “This is a serious situation, Mr. Newlin. A man died here tonight.”

  “Hey, nobody knows that better than me. If you need me to come down to the station tomorrow, sign some kind of statement—”

  “I think we’ve got what we need.” Drake snapped his little notebook shut. “We’ll call you if there’s something more.”

  “All right.”

  I slipped off the tailgate, onto my feet.

  “You okay to drive, Mr. Newlin?”

  “Sure. A little shook up, but I’m okay.”

  “I meant your alcohol level. How many drinks have you had?”

  “Couple of beers. I sweated them out long ago. I’m fine.”

  Drake nodded, but I could feel his eyes on me as I carefully walked around to the door of my truck.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he said to my back.

  I climbed into the cab and shut the door. My hand shook as I put the key in the ignition.

  Don’t know why the police chief made me so nervous. He had no reason to doubt anything I’d said. But the way he squinted at me, it was as if he knew I was hiding something.

  I chewed on that all the way home, but put it aside as I drove up my gravel driveway. There, I faced something worse than Drake or flying Corvettes or mysterious muscle cars.

  Darlene.

  Chapter 4

  Our house sat forty yards off Quartz Hill Road, barely visible among two acres of oaks and evergreens. A three-bedroom rambler with fake cedar-shake shingles and a three-car garage, the house would’ve fit nicely in one of my father-in-law’s personality-free subdivisions. With good reason: He’d built the place himself. Gave it to us as a wedding present nearly seven years ago with the idea that we’d populate it with little Honeydew clones who’d one day take over his construction empire.

  Darlene and I had no kids, and we weren’t inclined to start now. The lack of offspring was as much her idea as mine – she was too vain to lose her trim figure to pregnancy – but I caught all the blame. Every time Bart looked at me, I felt he was doing a sperm count.

  Sometimes I wondered if our marriage would’ve turned out happier if we’d had kids. Maybe children would’ve kept Darlene busy, would’ve given her another focus for her critical eye. Instead, she spent all her time examining my many shortcomings and sharing her findings with me.

  Darlene had a complete arsenal – arched eyebrow, sharp word, pointed sigh – aimed at showing I was a disappointment. Between home life and work, I spent every day staring down the double barrels of her disapproval and her father’s disdain.

  No wonder I stopped off for a drink or three before facing another chilly evening at home. Showing up with booze on my breath only confirmed her worst opinions of me, but I required the anesthetic.

  All the windows blazed with light. I could practically hear Darlene pacing behind the closed door, waiting to spring.

  I stopped in front of the house, climbed out of my truck and walked up the front steps. The wooden door flew open.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Her dark, shoulder-length hair was mussed, as if she’d been running her talons through it, and her mascara was blurred. She wore a sharp-shouldered blue dress and stiletto heels.

  Uh-oh. Darlene usually went around the house in workout clothes and bare feet. If she was dressed like this, it meant—

  “We were supposed to have dinner with my parents!” she screeched. “Hours ago! I had to cancel, had to tell them I didn’t know where you were. Do you know how embarrassing that is? I was mortified!”

  Darlene’s voice was so shrill, my ears wanted to jump off my head and go yipping across the yard.

  “There was an accident—”

  “I tried your cell about a million times! Why didn’t you answer?”

  I pulled the phone out of my pants pocket and stared at it. I’d shut it off when I went into The Busted Nut, so Darlene couldn’t call and catch the bar noise in the background. I’d never thought to turn it on again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot about dinner. But I was nearly killed—”

  “Did you wreck your truck? Were you drunk?”

  She looked past me, at the truck parked in the driveway. In this light, you couldn’t see the dings in the roof or the stars on the windshield.

  “There was no accident. You’re lying to get yourself out of trouble.”

  I sighed.

  “Do we have to do this here, at the front door? The neighbors—”

  “They can’t hear us. I want an explanation before I let you in this house!”

  “I stopped at The Busted Nut for a drink after work. As I was leaving, a speeding car went out of control and flew through the air, right over my truck. Barely missed me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring.

  “It’ll be on the news,” I said. “The driver died in the crash.”

  That got through to her. “Someone died?”

  “I nearly did, too. Not that you’d care about—”

  “Come in the house.”

  She stalked across the living room. “I need to call my
folks. Let them know what happened.”

  “Fine.”

  I made a beeline for the bar in the corner. I’d told Chief Drake the truth about those beers: They wore off long ago. I needed something stiffer to deal with Darlene. I sloshed Johnny Walker into a highball glass and downed it while she was busy with the phone, then poured a refill for sipping.

  “He says he’s fine,” she said into the phone. “I’ll call you with the details once I know them.”

  That much was certain. Darlene and her mom spent all day every day on the phone, and my failings were their favorite topic. I often pictured Darlene as my life’s critical play-by-play announcer, and her mother as color commentator, egging her on. They had no shortage of material; I kept finding ways to screw up.

  Like most Honeydew homes, ours featured a great room with a vaulted white ceiling, tan Berber carpet and sliding glass doors that looked out onto the back deck. Our furniture was low and flat, selected by Darlene for its modern lines, but not particularly comfortable for sitting. I stripped off my necktie, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the couch, my glass resting on my soft belly. Fatigue washed over me, but I didn’t get even a minute to relax before Darlene loomed over me.

  “Sounds to me,” she began, “like none of this would’ve happened if you didn’t insist on stopping by that filthy bar on your way home from work.”

  “I had a rough day at the office,” I said. “It was hot. A beer seemed like a good idea.”

  “One beer,” she said flatly.

  “One turned into two. So what?”

  “We were supposed to be at my parents’ house! Mother spent all day fixing dinner.”

  I came dangerously close to laughing at that. Darlene’s mom, Ruth, had a cook and a full-time maid. She couldn’t find her kitchen with a map.

  “How could you forget?” Darlene demanded. “I reminded you this morning. You saw Daddy at work today. Didn’t it ever pop into your mind, all day long, that we had these plans?”

  I wanted to tell her that Bart Honeydew didn’t encourage thinking during work hours, but that would’ve just set her off. Instead, I said, “I didn’t plan on that accident. I would’ve been home in plenty of time, but the police kept me there.”

  “You could’ve called!”

  “I should’ve. But I was a little busy watching them cart away a corpse. Somebody died, Darlene. Can’t you get that through your head? I saw somebody get killed. After that, I wasn’t thinking so clearly.”

  She glared at me.

  “I’m lucky to be alive. Everybody says so. It was a near-death experience.”

  “You’re being melodramatic. Again.”

  She flopped onto one of the low chairs and crossed her legs. Her high-heeled foot bounced with irritation, as if it was all she could do to keep from putting it up my ass.

  “Who was this person who was killed?” she asked, which, for her, amounted to a remarkable show of empathy.

  “Guy named Butch Gentry. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Huh. I thought you might. He was driving a red Corvette.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Whoops. Back on thin ice.

  “Just that, you know, a car like that, he probably had money. You and your folks know every rich person in Northern California.”

  She chewed off her lipstick, glowering at me.

  “You know what I mean. The country club set. Your friends.”

  I wasn’t improving the situation. I sat up, sipped my drink, tried smiling. It didn’t seem to help.

  “They’re your friends, too,” she said. “When you’re not busy hanging out in dingy bars. Slumming.”

  The same word Cecil Lynch had used. Is that what I was doing, down at The Busted Nut? Swimming in white trash so I could feel superior, so I’d feel better about myself?

  “I’m more comfortable there than at the country club,” I said. “Drunks mind their own business. They don’t gossip all the damned time. Talking shit about me as soon as my back is turned.”

  She sat up straighter.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. The only time your name comes up is when people talk about me. ‘Poor Darlene,’ they say. ‘Saddled with that bum.’”

  I bounced to my feet, instantly angry.

  “Bum? I work my ass off every day, trying to make your father happy, and I’m a bum?”

  She smirked up at me.

  “Who are you kidding? You don’t do any more than you absolutely have to. You’ve got no ambition. If Daddy hadn’t given you that job, where would you be? Where would we be?”

  My forehead felt hot. Rage rising, same as it had with Cecil Lynch. Same argument, really. The one topic guaranteed to push my buttons.

  “I can take care of myself,” I said. “With or without your old man.”

  “Yeah, right. Look around. This house. That truck outside. The clothes on your back. All thanks to Daddy. Without Daddy, you have nothing. Without me, you have nothing. You are nothing.”

  She stared at me with raised eyebrows, daring me to argue the point.

  “Fuck this,” I snarled. “I’ve had enough.”

  I stepped into my loafers and stalked toward the front door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Anywhere,” I shouted without looking back. “As long as it’s far from you.”

  Chapter 5

  I drove around for an hour, trying to cool off, barely noting the light traffic and sleepy neighborhoods as I replayed the argument in my mind. Fights with Darlene were becoming daily events, often dragging on for hours, nothing getting resolved. This time, I’d avoided that well-worn rut by walking out, and there’d be hell to pay later.

  For now, though, I had nowhere to go. No surprise that I ended up back at The Busted Nut.

  The crashed Corvette had been removed, but shattered glass still littered the parking lot. One damaged car sat there, a forlorn Ford, its fender crumpled and half its windows gone. Yellow police tape fluttered from the side mirror, the only sign that someone died here a few hours earlier.

  I parked my truck near its previous spot. This time, the solid utility pole was between me and the intersection. Just in case.

  I sat there for several minutes, the air conditioner breathing cold air on my face. When I closed my eyes, I could see the red Corvette screeching toward me, its undercarriage flying past my windshield like a dusty spaceship. And I could see that black Dodge zoom away.

  I should’ve told the cops about that Charger, but I hadn’t wanted to get stuck answering more questions. I’d been in a hurry to get home to Darlene. Now, that made me loose a bitter laugh.

  God, I needed a drink. I locked up the truck and crossed the parking lot, avoiding the bits of glass and plastic that were mute testament to the final flight of Butch Gentry.

  The Nut was even busier than before. Nothing makes men thirstier than long-winded analyses of car wrecks. That’s why beer companies sponsor auto races.

  Clorette now had help, a taciturn bartender named Fred who usually worked only on weekends. They pulled beers and mixed drinks as fast as they could go.

  She raised an eyebrow as I found a spot at the noisy bar. Guess she hadn’t expected me to return tonight. I hadn’t expected it myself. She popped the top off a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and brought it over.

  “Back to the scene of the crime, huh?”

  That startled me. The “crime?” Did Clorette somehow know about the Dodge? But she was smiling at me, just joshing, and I nodded and said, “That’s right. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Not every day a car goes sailing over your head,” she said. “I can see how you might need a beer. That one’s on the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  She winked. “Maybe we’ll start calling you Lucky.”

  I didn’t feel lucky. Reliving the accident had left me tense and shaky. I felt bad about the dead guy. I couldn’t get that black Charger out of my mind.
>
  Clorette leaned across the bar toward me. The front of her shirt dipped, and her breasts pooled between her elbows. I struggled to keep my gaze on her face.

  “A couple of guys were here a little while ago,” she said, “asking whether there were any witnesses.”

  My stomach flopped. “Any takers?”

  “I guess the only one who saw it was you.”

  “Who were these guys? Reporters?”

  “I’ve never seen them before. Big guy and a little guy. The little one did the talking. Had a brace on his leg. The big one stayed by the door, so I didn’t get a good look at his face. Big, though, real big. Sound like anyone you know?”

  “No.”

  I must’ve looked worried because Clorette patted my arm.

  “Don’t fret, honey. They’re long-gone now.”

  Someone called her name, and she gave me another pat and hurried away.

  I drank my beer in silence, carefully not making eye contact with the drunken yahoos who crowded the bar.

  Cecil Lynch came inside a few minutes later, all swagger and tooth decay and sideshow tattoos. I was in no mood for his bullshit, but he didn’t come close. He cocked his hand into a pistol, aimed it at me, dropped his thumb – bang! – then ambled to the far end of the bar, grinning.

  He had a cell phone in his other hand. I’d never thought about Cecil having a phone, but I supposed he needed to stay in contact with those closest to him – his meth dealer, his lawyer, his bail bondsman.

  Clorette stooped to a low shelf, distracting me. Sometimes, the barflies ordered bottom-shelf booze just to watch her bend over in her cutoffs.

  When she straightened, she caught me looking. What could I do? I signaled for another beer.

  Chapter 6

  Two hours later, I staggered into the parking lot, beers buzzing round my brain. The night air smelled of exhaust fumes and cooling asphalt. Still over eighty degrees, but at least I could breathe without smoke trailing out my ears.

  I was nearly to my pickup when two dark shapes stepped out from behind it. A tall, heavy man with sloping shoulders and a slight guy with a limp.

  Aw, hell.