Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Oh, shit.

  I decided to leave through the garage, hoping that I could reach my truck undetected. My golf bag leaned in a corner of the garage. I snaked a club out of it as I went past. Carrying my weapons, I hit the button and the garage door rattled up.

  I crept forward so I could sprint out as soon as the door was high enough. But before I could dash, Hubert and Wayne stepped into the doorway, one from either side. I cocked back the golf club before I saw that Wayne had his big pistol pointed at me.

  “Drop that shit,” he said.

  I tossed the carving knife, and let the club clang against the concrete floor.

  “Back up,” Wayne commanded, and I obeyed.

  Hubert lumbered through the door and bent over and picked up the expensive club. I thought he might wrap it around my neck, but he was content to snap it over his broad knee. He tossed the pieces aside.

  Wayne said, “The boss told you to stay away from the cops.”

  “I’m trying to. I was on my way to work when Drake got here. He’s just following up. Butch Gentry’s family is making noise.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “Questioning why he was driving so fast in the middle of town.”

  “Did you tell him,” Hubert asked, “that Gentry was a dumb son of a bitch?”

  “I didn’t know the guy.”

  “Take my word for it.” Hubert’s voice was low and thick, as if his tongue was too fat for his mouth.

  “You didn’t know Butch,” Wayne said. “You say you didn’t see anything. Why does Drake keep questioning you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’ll stay after you until you tell him something.”

  “I could tell him you two keep threatening me.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. Both men took a menacing step toward me. I backpedaled.

  “You almost ran right into Drake yourselves. How smart is it, showing up here?”

  “Now he’s telling us what’s smart,” Wayne said to Hubert. “I bet he’s a college boy.”

  “Is that right?” Hubert leaned his bristled head toward me. I did not stare at the growth on his cheek. “Are you a college boy?”

  I sighed and admitted I’d gone to college.

  Hubert arranged the clay of his facial features into a scowl. “I hate college boys.”

  “See there, Hubert? He’s much smarter than the rest of us. That’s why he’s standing out here in his garage with a butcher knife and a putter.”

  “A two-iron, actually—”

  “See how smart? Wants to get all the details right. He’s a detail man.”

  I rubbed a hand over my eyes. My head still pounded. I did not need to go three rounds with the Goober Brothers.

  “I’m not telling the cops anything. I promise.”

  Wayne grinned up at his sidekick. “He promises.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Hubert said.

  “He said he promises. What more could we ask?”

  “Look, fellas, I’m late for work. If you’d just—”

  “You can afford to be late,” Wayne said. “Your father-in-law owns the goddamned company.”

  “He’s not happy with me right now.”

  “He’s worth millions and you can’t keep him happy? You must be a special kind of fuck-up.”

  I closed my eyes. “No. Just run-of-the-mill.”

  “Hear that, Hubert? A run-of-the-mill fuck-up.”

  “I hate fuck-ups.”

  Somehow, I knew Hubert was going to say that. I opened my eyes just in time to see his massive fist closing on my head. A sledgehammer blow, right at my hairline. My knees crumpled and I fell to the gritty concrete floor. I didn’t lose consciousness, but I kept my eyes closed. Playing possum.

  Footsteps crunched away on the gravel. Wayne laughed. Car doors slammed. An engine stirred to life and they drove away.

  Once I was certain they were gone, I sat up. My brain joined me a few seconds later. I groaned to my feet and brushed off my clothes and hobbled to my truck, still determined to get to work.

  Chapter 18

  My father-in-law was pacing in the lobby when I arrived at Honeydew Construction. As soon as I stepped in from the bright sunshine, he snapped, “My office. Right now.”

  He turned on his heel and stomped away, broad shoulders hunched, the back of his neck bright red. I followed timidly, filled with dread. I shut the door behind us as Bart stiffly sat in his office chair, meaty hands gripping the edge of his desk. His brow was twisted into that angry V.

  “I understand you didn’t spend the night at home.”

  His voice was low and shuddery. I knew better than to reply.

  “Have you been home this morning? Did you even notice that Darlene wasn’t there?”

  “I left her a note—”

  “Shut up, Eric.”

  He glared, waiting for me to argue. When I didn’t, he said, “The reason Darlene’s not home is that she’s through with you.”

  That stung. Not a total surprise, but still.

  I said, “She’s upset—”

  “No, she’s finished. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell that loser I never want to see him again.’ Is that clear enough for you?”

  I stared at him, my face burning, my head throbbing.

  “She could tell me herself,” I said. “We should at least talk, see if we can reach some sort of—”

  “She can’t talk,” Bart snapped. “She’s home with Ruth. Crying and carrying on. She’s staying with us until the divorce is final.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Son, are you retarded? Can you not understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Have booze and dope made you completely stupid?”

  “No.”

  “Then listen carefully: It’s over. She never wants to see you again. I never want to see you again.”

  “But my job—”

  “You don’t have a job. You’re fired, as of this minute. I never wanted you here in the first place. You’re weak and lazy and not nearly as clever as you think you are. I always said to myself, if Darlene ever wises up and dumps this guy, I’ll get rid of him. Today’s the day.”

  He smiled, but it was more like a hyena baring its teeth.

  “Now get up and walk out of here,” he said. “Don’t ever come back. Don’t even look back.”

  “What about severance pay? I deserve something after seven years—”

  “We’ll put your final paycheck in the mail.”

  I got to my feet and slumped to the door on shaky legs. As I reached for the knob, he called my name. His scowl was back.

  “If you bother Darlene or make any trouble, I will personally kick your tail. I may be sixty-seven years old, but I’m still man enough to take on a candy-ass like you.”

  I said nothing. We candy-asses like to stay quiet at times like these.

  “Don’t try me,” he growled.

  I turned and walked away.

  From everything.

  Chapter 19

  First thing I did, naturally, was try to see Darlene. I drove directly to the Honeydew place, which is west of downtown on a hill bristling with mismatched mansions, high above us mere mortals. The street was so steep that my truck chugged and rattled, searching for a lower gear.

  At the top, I braked for a driveway that sliced off at an angle. Tall stucco walls surrounded the property, but the wrought-iron gates stood open. Darlene’s Lexus crouched near the house.

  I parked behind her car and climbed out into the brutal sunshine. The paved driveway was lined by evergreen shrubs carved into spirals and cones. The tri-level house was the same shade of brown as a paper sack. Roofing tiles for that “Tuscan” look. Arched windows to take advantage of the westward view of rolling green hills and distant mountains.

  That timber tract Bart had discussed with Lester Davies was out there. Four hundred acres of pristine pine forest destined to become a maze of high-end homes. From up here, Bart
would have balcony seats while he watched his empire grow. Bastard.

  I stormed up the front steps as best as a man with a pounding hangover can, and leaned on the doorbell. Bing-bong.

  No answer.

  I held down the doorbell with my thumb. Bing-bong. Bing-bong.

  After a minute of this, the ironbound door opened and my mother-in-law stuck her lacquered hairdo through the gap and flicked her forked tongue at me.

  That last part might’ve been the hangover.

  “Get out of the way, Ruth. I need to talk to Darlene.”

  “You’re not coming in this house,” she hissed. “She doesn’t wish to see you. If you try to force your way in, I’ll call my dear friend the police chief and he’ll make your life hell.”

  That tripped me up. Ruth sensed my hesitation, and slammed the heavy door. I heard its lock snap home.

  Shit.

  I stumbled down the steps and out into the driveway, backing up until I had a clear view of Darlene’s upstairs bedroom. The curtains were closed.

  “Darlene!”

  The house stayed closed up tight.

  “Darlene!” Louder.

  She snatched the curtains open and looked down her nose at me, eyes blazing.

  “Open the window, Darlene.”

  She shook her head.

  “I just want to talk,” I yelled. “If you don’t open the window, I’m going to walk all over this hill, shouting your name.”

  I thought that would get her. She so valued the opinions of the other nouveau riche hilltoppers. But the window stayed closed.

  “Darlene!”

  She glared at me, unmoved.

  “I’m going house to house like this.” I unbuckled my loose jeans and let them fall to my ankles.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  I headed toward the street, taking little bitty steps and bellowing her name.

  Behind me, her window creaked open.

  “You’re not funny, Eric!”

  I turned in a circle, my jeans tangled around my feet. She leaned out the window, dark hair framing her face, her hands on the sill. Her fingernails were blood red.

  “Your dad said you want a divorce. But I have to hear that from your own lips.”

  “I want a divorce,” she shouted. “Clear enough for you?”

  “Why did I have to hear it from Bart? Why couldn’t you tell me yourself?”

  “I was trying to avoid a scene like this one,” she said. “I’m sick of all the drama.”

  My eyes burned, and a large bubble swelled in my chest.

  “Your dad said you think I’m some kind a pathetic loser.”

  “Oh, Eric, I’m sorry.” She straightened up. “But look at you. You are a pathetic loser.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Pull up your pants, Eric.”

  I looked down at the carpenter jeans puddled around my feet.

  While I was distracted, she slammed the window and closed the drapes.

  Chapter 20

  I hid out for a few hours in a downtown diner, drinking coffee and watching Pine Street traffic lurch past the window. Mostly pickups and lumbering SUVs and Winnebagos towing boats. The only pedestrians were bums and recent parolees orbiting the Greyhound station across the street.

  My patient waitress had a big smile and a sympathetic manner, but only nine fingers. I found that missing pinky troubling.

  My own troubles were no less tangible. As soon as word of the divorce hit the grapevine, I was finished in this town. I’d be blackballed by the country club set. Unemployable. Untouchable.

  What would I do? I had no plan for my life, no direction. I didn’t even have a résumé. I’d always just gone with the flow, taking the path of least resistance. Now that I’d encountered a whole buttload of resistance, I didn’t know how to act.

  I paid my tab, leaving a hefty tip, and went to my truck. Drove around downtown’s maze of one-way streets until I reached an ATM outside a bank on South Street. I kept the A/C going full blast while I rolled down my window and put my card in the slot. I punched in my personal identification number, and requested the daily maximum of two hundred dollars. The screen read, “Unable to Process at This Time.” What the hell? The ATM buzzed and spat out my card.

  Was the machine broken? I pushed the card back in and keyed my PIN. While I waited, I checked the rear-view. A Jaguar sedan was right on my rear bumper. The car was the color of red wine, and its wax job glowed. The white-haired man behind the wheel was Lester Davies.

  Shit.

  “Unable to Process at This Time.” Out spat my card.

  I pushed it in again, entered my PIN, then asked for my account balance.

  I looked in the mirror. The woman in the billionaire’s passenger seat was beautiful. Maybe thirty years old, with a red-gold flip of Ann-Margret hair, full lips, pussycat eyes.

  Damn. What was a woman like that doing with an old fart like Lester Davies?

  The Jaguar gave a discreet beep. Davies trying to hurry me along.

  “Fuck you,” I said to the rear-view.

  My balance read out on the screen. “0.00”

  Darlene had cleaned out the account. And nobody had warned me. Nobody at the bank had called to see if the transfer was okay. The money was simply gone.

  The ATM buzzed out my card. I stared at it, wondering whether there was a way to reverse the transfer, to protest that she’d raided our joint funds.

  Lester Davies laid down on his horn. I checked the mirror. His lined face was red under its white mane. The babe in the passenger seat looked bored.

  I took my worthless debit card, rolled up my window and pulled up so Davies could get his turn at the ATM. When I got a break in traffic, I turned right into the street, went half a block, then drove back into the bank parking lot. I’d go inside. See if the branch manager – Doyle Firner, proud owner of a Honeydew home – could give me any advice.

  As I climbed out of the truck, a dark van whipped into the slot beside me, dangerously close. The passenger-side mirror barely missed my face.

  Rydell Vance, wearing black sunglasses, was behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette.

  “Get in,” he said.

  “Um. Where are we going?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  I hesitated.

  He sighed a cloud of smoke, then flicked his cigarette out his window.

  “Get in the fucking van.”

  Chapter 21

  Soon as I settled into the worn bucket seat, I recognized the cracked windshield and reeking shag carpet. The kidnap wagon.

  No time to think what that meant. Rydell Vance stomped his cowboy boot on the gas pedal and we bounced backward across the parking lot. I hurriedly snapped on my seatbelt.

  He shifted the van like he was mad at it, and we bounded onto South Street. We turned north onto East Street, went a few blocks, then down a steep hill into the Garden Tract, a neighborhood of older homes tucked among sycamores, magnolias and a few towering redwoods. We crossed a bridge over an irrigation canal littered with ducks. The water seemed dark and menacing today.

  “Look in that cooler and hand me out a beer,” Rydell said.

  A small Igloo sat on the floorboard between us. I popped open the lid and found a six-pack of cold Bud inside.

  “Have one yourself,” he said. “You look like you could use some hair of the dog what bit you.”

  Rydell didn’t even bother to look around before he tipped up the can and let half the beer run down his throat. Drinking behind the wheel, and not worried who might see. What the hell, I wasn’t driving. I opened a can and sipped at it, hoping beer might settle my nerves.

  We turned onto a street lined with stores and cafes, then stopped at a red light at Redwood Avenue. Cars whizzed past on the six-lane boulevard.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Rydell asked. “Forty? Forty-five?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Newspaper said the cops reckon Butch Gentry was dri
ving this stretch at close to a hundred miles per hour.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  “No, it doesn’t. Butch must’ve been drunk.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Yeah?” The light changed, and he goosed the van up onto Redwood, and east across a bridge over the broad river. “Who you been saying that to?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” I said. “Your, um, employees must’ve told you that Chief Drake stopped by my house this morning. I told him the same thing I’ve been saying all along.”

  “I hear Butch’s family offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward.”

  “Drake mentioned that. I told him I was sorry I couldn’t help.”

  “Good answer,” Rydell said. “Hand me out another beer.”

  We cracked open Buds as the van climbed a hill past car dealerships and gas stations. Rydell got lucky at the green light and turned onto Bechelli Lane, which climbed past an office park and apartment buildings and homes.

  I could see where we were headed. Up onto the high bluff above Turtle Bay, where the Sacramento River curves to the south. I caught glimpses of the western vista through gaps between ever-larger homes. Glinting shoals down below, and the tilted white spire of the Sundial Bridge angling over the trees. Downtown and the moneyed hills and the mountains beyond. Beautiful.

  Rydell turned onto a side street, then bumped the van into an open patch between fenced properties. He drove across the dry grass and parked at the edge of the precipice, facing west.

  “Nice spot,” I said. “How come this lot’s still vacant?”

  “It’s an odd size, squeezed between these big homes, so nobody ever built on it. It’s a well-known local secret that you can park here and admire the view.”

  I got the feeling Redding had lots of “well-known local secrets,” and I would always be the last one to hear.

  We sipped our beers and watched a flock of geese flutter along the river.

  “Lucky I ran into you,” Rydell said. “I was just driving down the street, and there you were at the ATM.”