Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  It didn’t help my anxiety that Hubert Askew answered the door. I was getting like Pavlov’s dog around Hubert. Every time I saw him, I automatically flinched and averted my eyes from his face nipple.

  He glared down at me a few seconds, as if trying to melt me with his deep-set eyes. When that didn’t work, he turned without a word and stomped back into the shadowy house. I followed, blinking nervously.

  Rydell occupied the same chair where I’d first seen him. This time, though, Melanie stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. She smiled at me like she’d never seen me before. She had the eager, shiny eyes of a meth-head.

  Hubert went past them, to the far end of the living room, where Wayne Cherry sat glowering at me. Hubert squashed a chair across from him. Wayne shifted his gaze to the table between them, where Hubert did the amazing trick of dealing cards with his zucchini-like fingers.

  Rydell said, “Thanks, honey, that’s good. You mind giving us a few minutes? Eric and I need to talk.”

  “Of course, sugar.” Melanie bounded away like the happiest girl in the world.

  Once she was out of sight, I said, “Kind of runs hot and cold, doesn’t she? Last time I was here, she called you a ‘shitbag.’ Today, it’s ‘sugar.’”

  Rydell gestured me into a chair across from him.

  “That girl’s getting a bad crank habit,” he said. “She needs to kick it, but she’s not quite ready yet.”

  “How do you know when she’s ready? When her teeth start falling out?”

  Rydell narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “None of my business.”

  His features relaxed. He took his time lighting a cigarette, then said, “So you got evicted.”

  “Bart sent Chief Drake to make sure I didn’t make off with any valuables.”

  “Hope you didn’t take that sitting down. A man’s got rights in his own home.”

  “The house belongs to Bart. Plus, the whole place smelled like pot when Drake showed up. He chose to ignore it. I figured it was better not to argue.”

  Rydell squinted at me through the cigarette smoke.

  “And now you’re here for money. That’s it, when you get right down to it.”

  I tried to think of a way to sugar-coat it, but he was right. I nodded. I could feel beads of sweat popping out on my forehead.

  “I gotta tell you, hoss, I don’t give away money for free. I loan it, at rates higher than you want to pay, or I make people earn it.”

  I ran a hand over my face. It came away wet and I wiped it on my jeans. Mr. Cool.

  “I’m not looking for a job,” I said. “I just want enough to get out of this town.”

  Rydell frowned.

  “Did I offer you a job?” He shouted back over his shoulder. “Boys! Do we have any openings?”

  Hubert and Wayne growled and snapped.

  “No openings,” Rydell said. “As you can see, we keep a limited staff on hand.”

  I tried to smile, but I don’t think it worked.

  “I might have something for you,” he said, “but it’s a one-shot deal. Not completely legal, but the only people who get hurt are some of those fat cats you were bitching about.”

  A hundred questions ran through my mind, but only one really mattered: “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  I felt pale, like all the blood had dumped out of my face to go serve my pounding heart.

  “Twice what Butch Gentry’s family is willing to pay—”

  “Let’s just say it’s a nice round number.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that yet. It’s top-secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Right, boys?”

  Hubert and Wayne went “har-har,” but didn’t look up from their cards.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Rydell said. “For three or four days’ work.”

  “What do you want me to say? That I’ll do it, whatever it is? I’ve got my limits.”

  “I’m not asking you to kill anybody. Just play a role in a little drama I’ve got going.”

  “A drama.”

  “A little con job on a big shot. Nobody gets hurt.”

  That didn’t sound so bad. “Tell me more.”

  “I’d have to swear you to secrecy,” he said.

  “All right. I swear I won’t say anything to anybody. Ever. But I’m not promising that I’m in. Not until I hear the nature of the deal.”

  “You hear that, boys? Eric’s sworn to silence.”

  More grumbling from the peanut gallery.

  “They’ll enforce that commitment,” Rydell said. “Even if something happens to me. Especially if something happens to me.”

  “I understand.”

  “All right then.” He paused to stub out his cigarette. “Here’s the deal: Lester Davies, who we saw yesterday?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re going to kidnap him.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “That’s right, holy shit. It’s a bold plan.”

  “Kidnapping’s a federal offense—”

  “I know that,” he snapped. “Don’t talk to me about laws. The cops will never be involved. This thing’s a cinch.”

  Another survival rule: Anytime you hear something’s a “cinch,” bet against it.

  “That good-looking woman in the Jaguar with Lester?” Rydell said. “That’s his wife, Vanessa. She made a youthful mistake when she married him. She signed a pre-nup.”

  “Keeps her from getting his money in a divorce?”

  “She gets nothing. But she can’t stand him anymore, so she’s looking for a way to cash out.”

  I nodded. This part sounded familiar.

  “Why doesn’t she just have him killed?” Not that killing Darlene had ever crossed my mind . . .

  “She gets nothing in his will. She gets nothing if she leaves him. She’s stuck unless she plays along with us.”

  I waited.

  “We nab Lester and hold him someplace,” he said. “We send the ransom note. No cops, put the money in a bag, et cetera. Lester’s family might object, but Vanessa will gladly pay the ransom.”

  “In exchange for her cooperation,” I said, “you’ll give her a cut.”

  He sat back, delight dancing in his dark eyes. “Give the man a cigar.”

  “How much ransom you asking for?”

  “One million bucks. I split that with Vanessa, of course. And I pay you and the boys out of my share. Still, it’s a pretty good payday.”

  “You don’t need the money,” I said. “You’ve got all your other businesses—”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said, Eric? One million bucks. For a quick score like this? It’s fucking irresistible.”

  “Why not two million?”

  “We ask for too much, and his family might run to the cops over Vanessa’s objections. But a million? Hell, they won’t even miss it.”

  Many things bothered me about this plan, but one potential problem stood tall above the others.

  “The weak spot’s Vanessa,” I said. “How do you know she’ll go along with this deal?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Hubert and Wayne had nasty grins on their faces.

  Rydell said, “Because I’m fucking her.”

  Chapter 26

  When I finally managed to respond, I said, “I could use a drink.”

  “Good idea,” Rydell said. “All this talk’s making me dry. Melanie!”

  The young woman bounded into the room like a golden retriever. “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Could you bring us that bottle of Mister Baby that’s on the kitchen table? And some glasses?”

  “Sure. Want ice?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She skipped off to the kitchen to fetch the booze.

  I said, “Mister Baby?”

  “You like tequila?”

  “Sure, but it’s a little early for—”

  “I’m not talking salt and limes
and all that shit. I’m talking about sippin’ tequila.”

  “Why’s it called Mister Baby?”

  “It’s made by this old Mexican bootlegger down in Bakersfield. His name is Señor Infante.”

  “Bathtub tequila,” I said suspiciously.

  “Wait until you taste it.”

  I glanced over at the kitchen door. “I take it Melanie doesn’t know about the Vanessa situation.”

  “You take it right. And we won’t tell her. That’s all we need, that cranked-up minx on the warpath.”

  The cranked-up minx purred back into the room carrying a wooden tray with shotglasses and a clear bottle half-full of molten amber. She set the tray on the coffee table between Rydell and me.

  “Enjoy, boys.” She flounced off to the kitchen. Hubert and Wayne watched her go past, their eyes filled with lust and awe.

  “You boys want a drink?”

  Rydell held up the bottle. There’s something about a bottle with no label that makes me uneasy.

  “No, thanks,” Hubert rumbled. “I’m not man enough for that shit.”

  Yikes.

  Rydell poured me a glassful. I sniffed it, and it smelled like no tequila I’d ever encountered. Smooth and light with a hint of bug killer. I started to knock it back, but Rydell said, “Whoa. Take little sips.”

  The first sip burned my lips and made my eyes water. The second tasted like desert rain. The third was some kind of wonderful.

  Rydell watched the smile blossom on my face, and it pleased him. “Tastes so good, you think you could drink the whole bottle. But that would be exactly like shooting yourself in the head. This stuff’s a lot more powerful than tequila you buy at the store.”

  No sooner had he said it than the liquor reached my cerebral cortex. Not much worse than getting hit in the head by a two-by-four. The only sensible reaction to such a blow was to take another sip.

  Rydell matched me sip for sip, and his cheeks rouged from the exertion.

  “Whew,” he said. “Mister Baby rides again.”

  He poured another round. I suddenly got a new understanding of gravity, and had to steady myself to keep from toppling over.

  “Before we get too far gone,” I said, “maybe we could get back to the topic. While Melanie’s out of the room.”

  “You mean Vanessa?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll make a plan with her, set up the best time and place for snatching Lester. Then Hubert and Wayne will baby-sit him until we’ve got the money.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder, but Melanie was still out of sight.

  “I personally can’t get too close to this thing. Vanessa and I have a history. That’s another well-known local secret. But I want someone to hold her hand through this deal. She’ll have to shout down Lester’s family to keep ‘em from going to the cops. She might need someone on her side.”

  “But I don’t know her,” I said. “Why would anyone believe we’re suddenly friends?”

  “You run in the same circles. Say you met at the country club or a Rotary Club luncheon or whatever. Make something up. No one will question you. You’re the son-in-law of Bart fucking Honeydew. You’re one of them.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “They don’t know that yet.”

  I thought it over. “Sounds to me like I’m being set up to be a suspect. Seen with the wife after the husband disappears.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rydell said. “Nobody would ever believe you’d get involved in something like this. A smart boy like you? A college boy?”

  I rolled my eyes. I’d heard enough about my academic achievements.

  “Know what else nobody would ever suspect?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “They’d never even think to look for Lester Davies at your house.”

  “My house?”

  “It’s sitting vacant, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a rule against shitting in my own nest. Plus, Darlene might stop by any time for clothes or whatever. We can’t have her finding Hubert and Wayne there with Lester.”

  “I can see that,” Rydell said. “Maybe they’ll stay in your garage.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “We’ll work something out. Here, have another shot of Mister Baby.”

  Chapter 27

  As the crow flies, it was maybe five miles from Rydell’s country home to Cody’s ancient trailer, but winding highways and a head full of Mister Baby took me miles out of my way. The rolling landscape was two-toned: Dry blond grass dotted with clumpy blue-green oaks. Against that backdrop, the occasional red barn or fat black cow was startling.

  The countryside looked as bucolic and unthreatening as a calendar photograph, but, Jesus, the stuff seething beneath the surface. Drug-running, bootlegging, loan-sharking, kidnapping. A violent underworld ruled by hard men like Rydell Vance. In a matter of days, I’d gone from being happily innocent of that world to being in it up to my neck. It was as if I’d turned over a rock, found hideous wriggling things under it, then climbed into the hole with them.

  Cody was getting out of his truck as I drove up his dusty driveway. He looked hot and tired from a hard day on the construction site, but he waved and waited for me. We went into the trailer together. He’d left the air-conditioning going all day, and it was like stepping into a meat locker.

  “Aw, man. That feels great.”

  “Hell yeah,” Cody said. “I keep this old tin can cooled off. What would you say to a beer?”

  “I’d say, ‘Where you been all my life?’”

  “Always the smooth talker.”

  Cody fished a couple of beers out of the fridge and brought them into the living room. He stripped off his plaid shirt, used it to wipe the sweat off his face and neck, then tossed it in the corner. His sleeveless undershirt showed off the hard muscles from years of carpenter work. His salt-stained ball cap said “Panther Martin” on the front.

  “You’re lookin’ a little glassy-eyed, Eric,” he said as he handed me a Coors.

  “You ever heard of Mister Baby?”

  “What?”

  “Tequila.”

  “Ah.”

  He joined me on the gut-sprung sofa.

  “I probably shouldn’t have been driving,” I said soberly.

  “I didn’t see any deer or pedestrians stuck in your front grille, so I guess you made it okay. Now you’re safe and you don’t need to go anywhere. Drink up.”

  “Can I sleep on your couch again?”

  “I can stand it if you can.”

  “Thanks, Cody.” We tapped beer bottles. “You’re a good friend.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  I nodded. Señor Infante’s tequila sloshed around inside my head.

  “Know who I saw today?” Cody said.

  “Who?”

  “Cecil Lynch.”

  “That son of a bitch. I argued with him the night that car went flying over my head.”

  “I know, Eric. You told me all that the other night, before you passed out.”

  “I did?”

  “About ten times. That’s why I mention him. He was riding in a truck that went through the job site today. Real slow. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, but it’s hard to miss Cecil. He’s got his fucking name tattooed on his head, in case there’s any doubt.”

  “Cecil wants to make sure that, if he loses his head, it’ll get returned to him.”

  Cody grinned.

  “I wonder what he was doing at Liberty Ridge?”

  “Probably looking for something to steal,” he said. “I called Bart and told him he’d better beef up security.”

  At the mention of my father-in-law’s name, all my troubles flooded through my Mister Baby haze. I had a sudden urge to tell Cody everything about Rydell and Vanessa and Lester Davies. It was a lot to keep bottled up inside, but I put a cork in it. No sense endangering Cody, too. Let him go on living in the dreamland of ever
yday life. He didn’t need to turn over any rocks.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “I am, now that you mention it.”

  “I’ve got a couple of trout in the icebox. I could pan-fry ‘em.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “We’ll eat, then I’ll get cleaned up. I’d love to sit around here and entertain you tonight, but I’ve got a date. Remember Petula James? Used to be a receptionist at Honeydew?”

  “The one with the legs?”

  “Yeah. She moved back to Redding last week. Going to beauty school to learn to be a bushwhacker.”

  “A what?”

  “One of those beauticians who specializes in waxing and trimming and stuff. A pussy barber.”

  “They got a school for that?”

  “Petula says it’s an art form.”

  “Wonder if I could get into that school,” I said. “I’m looking for a job.”

  “Probably a law against a man being a bushwhacker. You might have trouble staying detached, if you know what I mean.”

  We chewed on that for a while.

  “You must be curious,” I said, “as to how Petula trims her own.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll find out tonight.”

  “I’ll expect a full report.”

  Cody leaned forward and reached a shallow tray out from under the sofa. It held a baggie of sifted pot and some papers and an ashtray.

  “Want to smoke a joint?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 28

  Late Saturday morning, I woke to Mister Baby’s revenge. Someone, presumably Señor Infante himself, had pushed a skewer through my temples during the night. I felt lobotomized.

  My mouth was cottony from all the dope I’d smoked. While Cody had been out on his date, I’d sprawled on the sofa, chasing Mister Baby with marijuana and sitcoms. Trying not to think about Rydell Vance.

  Cody had come home late, full of Petula’s tales of Hitlers and Brazilians and snatches sculpted into butterflies or Batman logos. Probably would’ve been fascinating, if I hadn’t been so stoned that I fell asleep in the middle of it.

  I plucked a roach out of the ashtray and burned my lips trying to suck in some hangover relief. I was still rooting around the ashes when Cody came out of his room, scratching and yawning.