Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  I nodded, which made my head hurt.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  Rydell gave me his gunfighter look. “I know everybody, hoss.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I just want to get my money and get the hell out of Redding.”

  “Some bastard slaps you around and damages your property, you don’t just leave town. You go find him and you fuck him up.”

  Rydell stepped closer to me, squinting at the knot on my head.

  “Damn. What did he hit you with?”

  “His hand.”

  “That’s a broken knuckle or two.”

  “He mentioned something about that.”

  He looked over at the house and gave a sharp whistle. Within seconds, Wayne and Hubert appeared like a couple of obedient beagles.

  “Tell me who hit you,” Rydell said.

  “This guy at the Nut. Cecil Lynch. But really it was my fault as much as it was his. I marched out into the parking lot like a punk and—”

  “You let Cecil Lynch hit you in the face?”

  “I kind of got blindsided and—”

  “Cecil Lynch is miserable rat-bastard biker trash.”

  “Oh, you do know him.”

  “The most dangerous thing about Cecil Lynch is his breath.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  Rydell turned to his boys. “Go get Cecil and bring him to see me.”

  “That’s really not necessary. I just want—”

  “Shut up, Eric.”

  Chapter 39

  Hubert and Wayne slunk away on their errand, and none of us mentioned that Cecil Lynch was the one who’d originally delivered me into their hands.

  I followed Rydell into the cool, quiet house. We went through the living room to a sunny kitchen in the back.

  Near the sink stood Melanie, wearing a slinky blue bathrobe and drinking coffee. Her eye was still swollen and purple. I thought my own bruised mug might give us a connection, but she darted from the room without a sound.

  “Don’t mind her,” Rydell said. “She’s coming down off the crank. Makes her tetchy.”

  We got cups of coffee and settled at the kitchen table, the top of which was crafted from a single slab of polished redwood. Rydell lit a Winston, then handed me a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Ransom note. See what you can come up with.”

  “Can’t they trace my handwriting?”

  “This is just practice, numbnuts. To get the words right.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I pulled the tablet closer, clicked the pen and froze over the paper, trying to think how to begin. Address it to Vanessa? The Davies family? “To whom it may concern?”

  I looked up at him, pen poised. He huffed impatient smoke at the ceiling.

  “Straightforward’s probably best,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “Keep it simple.”

  “Right.”

  “Less said the better.”

  “Just write something, damn it.”

  I printed it in block letters. Guess I’d seen kidnappers do it that way in movies.

  WE HAVE LESTER DAVIES, I wrote. WE WANT ONE MILLION DOLLARS. GET THE CASH TOGETHER. WE’LL BE IN TOUCH.

  I turned the pad around so Rydell could read it.

  “Not bad,” he said. “You’re a natural-born kidnapper.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “You left out the most important part, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Write this down: ‘Do not contact police—’”

  Of course. I had forgotten.

  “‘—or we will kill Lester.”

  I hesitated, pen upraised.

  “Seems a little harsh. Couldn’t we say, ‘Or you’ll never see him again?’ Something like that?”

  “No reason to sugar-coat it,” he said. “They sic the law on us, Lester will die. They should know that.”

  I wrote it the way he dictated. My hand shook as I slid the pad back across the table.

  Rydell read it over and nodded. “That’ll do.”

  He started tearing the page off the tablet.

  “Hey,” I said. “That can’t be the ransom note. It’s got my fingerprints all over it and—”

  “I know that, Eric. I told you this was a rough draft.”

  “Well, how are you going to do the real thing? Wear rubber gloves and—”

  “Not my problem.” He handed me the torn-out page. “You’re the one who’s ‘finding’ the ransom note at Lester’s house. You can manufacture it any way you like. Wear a hairnet and a condom if that’ll make you feel better.”

  I stared at the note in my hands.

  “If the law gets involved,” he said, “they’re not going to need DNA to figure out who’s behind this thing. That’s why we make sure nobody fucks up.”

  I looked up at him. “Do you mean me?”

  “I mean all of us. Most of all, I mean Lester’s son, Ted. He wears that big politician’s smile on his face all the time, but those are shark’s teeth he’s showing. He’s the kinda guy who pulled the wings off fraternity pledges.”

  “I got that feeling.”

  “He’s always treated Vanessa like a gold-digger. No reason to think he’ll act different this time. He might try to steamroll her. You’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

  I folded the note and stuffed it in my pocket.

  Outside, dogs barked and bayed. Tires popped on gravel.

  “That would be them bringing Cecil,” Rydell said. “Finish your coffee. We’ll need to do this outside. Melanie just cleaned the house.”

  Chapter 40

  Cecil was already out of the van by the time Rydell pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. Hubert had hold of his upper arm, but the tattooed biker looked too woozy to run for it. His nose leaked blood and he had a couple of red welts on his shaved head. His right hand was encased in a bright blue cast from fingertips to halfway up his forearm. The cast covered up some of his hideous tattoos, and I’m sure that hurt his feelings.

  “Rydell,” Cecil said. “What the hell is this about?”

  Then he saw me come out the door, and his eyes went round.

  Rydell said, “What did I tell you, Cecil, when you went to work for me?”

  “Wha-what?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “He works for you?”

  “Shut up, Eric.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, and tried to look as menacing as the rest of them. Cecil didn’t seem to notice. He was mesmerized by Rydell Vance.

  “I told you to stay out of trouble, didn’t I?” Rydell said. “To stay off the radar.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Cecil didn’t get to finish. Hubert speared him in the solar plexus with a fat thumb. He doubled over, gasping, but Hubert yanked him upright again. Wayne stood over by the van, laughing, like torture was the funniest thing going.

  “Come on, Rydell,” I said. “We don’t really—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Eric. We wouldn’t be doing this at all if you’d taken care of your own business.”

  Cecil tried to catch his breath, his mouth hanging open, rotten teeth showing.

  “I told you,” Rydell said, “as long as you’re on my payroll, you keep a low profile. Isn’t that right?”

  Cecil nodded.

  “Then Eric shows up today with a big knot on his head and his truck all fucked up, and it’s because you and your buddies are messing around in the parking lot of a tavern.”

  The biker hung his head.

  “Hit him again, Hubert,” Rydell said.

  Hubert squared up this time, and punched Cecil so hard his ancestors felt it. He fell down, clutching his midsection.

  “Let’s see that broken hand,” Rydell said.

  Hubert squatted on Cecil’s back, grabbed the injured arm and held it out flat for inspection. Rydell stomped the cast with the he
el of his cowboy boot.

  Cecil screamed. He tried to snatch the hand back, but Hubert held it in place. Rydell stomped again, and the cast shattered. Bits of white plaster puffed onto the ground as he ground his heel into the shattered fingers.

  I looked away as Cecil howled and wept. Felt like something fell away inside me, leaving a hollow place.

  “Pick him up.”

  Hubert stood Cecil on wobbly legs. Cecil clutched the broken hand to his chest. His flushed face was twisted in pain, and tears slid down his cheeks. He looked like an angry, toothless baby.

  “Eric’s doing some work for me,” Rydell said, “so he didn’t call the cops on you last night. But what if someone had? What if the cops had gone to your house and found that crank you’re supposed to be moving for me?”

  “I’m sorry, Rydell. I just—”

  “You made yourself a liability, Cecil. The only reason I don’t kill you right now is that I want you to go tell your biker buddies that Eric here is off-limits. If you see him somewhere, you’d better run the other way. If you see me coming, you better run fast. Do we understand each other?”

  Cecil nodded, but he blubbered, “Why would you take this peckerwood’s side against me, Rydell? He’s not even from here. You’ve known me all your life.”

  Rydell gathered himself up, his eyes smoldering. He reached into the hip pocket of his Wranglers, pulled out a folding razor and flicked the four-inch blade open with his thumb.

  “Hold him still, Hubert.”

  Hubert grabbed Cecil’s neck in both hands and squeezed. Cecil’s feet thrashed around, but his head was immobilized. Rydell stepped up to him, their faces inches apart, and pressed the razor against the biker’s scalp, right above the word “CECIL.”

  “You shouldn’t ever talk back to me, Cecil. It makes me want to hurt you.”

  The biker’s face was purple. His wide eyes were full of fear and pleading.

  “I could cut your name right off here,” Rydell said. “Get that piece of scalp tanned. Mount it on the wall next to my deer heads. Something to remember you by.”

  A trickle of blood trailed from the edge of the blade. Cecil’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went slack all over. Rydell stepped back as the sharp scent of urine filled the air.

  “Look at that, Hubert,” Wayne said. “Cecil passed out and pissed his pants. That’s a twofer.”

  Rydell flicked blood off the razor, folded it and pocketed it, all in one smooth motion.

  “Better let him breathe, Hubert,” he said.

  Hubert let go of Cecil’s neck, and the unconscious man fell to the ground in a heap of tattoos.

  Rydell brushed past me. As he went up the steps, he said over his shoulder, “Get that piece of shit out of here.”

  I was pretty sure he meant Cecil.

  Chapter 41

  I stayed busy Monday afternoon, partly to combat nervousness about the kidnapping to come and partly to keep my mind off what Rydell had done to Cecil Lynch. The violence sickened me, overwhelming the pleasure of seeing a loudmouth get his due. Still, my grudging respect for Rydell grew. Say what you want about the dangerous redneck, he knew how to get his point across.

  I spent an hour at the city’s spiffy new library, using a public-access computer to set the ransom note into plain type. Had a few nervous moments at the printer, whipping my head around, making sure no one saw the message spit out of the machine. I handled the page by its edges, never touching it with my fingertips as I slipped it into a large envelope. Then I erased all traces of the computer file.

  After a fast-food lunch, I went back to Cody’s and hung out on his sofa alone, mildly stoned, watching nonstop CNN because I couldn’t find the remote anywhere.

  I woke from a brief restorative nap feeling anxious, the TV still yapping about the world’s problems. I switched it off. Time to get ready for my dinner date with Vanessa Davies.

  Moving creakily because of my many bruises, I put on fresh khakis and some socks that nearly matched. Penny loafers and a clean white shirt. I hadn’t packed a tie or a suit when I was evicted, but Cody had a blue blazer in his closet that was only a little big on me.

  He still hadn’t come home from work by the time I needed to go. I left him a note, saying I’d be back late. I drove my scratched-up truck into town, to where the country club perched on a bluff overlooking the river.

  The sun was sinking behind the western mountains, and its beams sliced through the golf course trees like hot spotlights. I dashed into the shade of the portico.

  Inside, the lobby was full of middle-aged men dressed semi-formally: Tuxedos with short pants. They looked like penguins on vacation. They all had the drunken eyes and tight grins of Shriners, men committed to doing something stupid together for a charitable cause.

  I smiled my way through these back-slappers so I could reach the restaurant that cantilevered over the river. I hoped Vanessa already was holding a table there, as planned. Technically, I remained a member of the country club until Bart got around to blackballing me. But I didn’t want to wait for a table among the penguins.

  Then I saw her. She sat by the tinted window-wall, facing my direction. The curving river and rolling green hills behind her looked fake in the summer sunshine, like a landscape in the background of a Renaissance portrait. My Mona Lisa wore a secret smile, too. Sun bathed her golden shoulders, which were bare except for the skinny straps of a dress the color of mango flesh.

  Rydell wanted people at the country club to remember us. I didn’t think that would be a problem. Vanessa looked like a movie star.

  “My, my,” she said as I approached, “don’t you look dapper, Mr. Newlin.”

  “Same to you, lady.”

  She gestured me into the chair across from her. “I saved the view for you. It should be a beautiful sunset.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking her in the eyes, “is there a view?”

  Her smile broadened. “Smooth.”

  I yanked the linen napkin out from under my silverware, making a clatter, clowning. She laughed as a waiter magically appeared at our table.

  “Sir?”

  The waiter looked like a college student. He had a stubby ponytail and a spotty beard.

  “Do you have Dom Pérignon in the bottle?”

  “Let me guess,” he said flatly. “You’ll tell me to go let him out.”

  “Can’t put anything over on a sharp kid like you.”

  “Ha-ha.” Deadpan. “Sir.”

  I waggled my eyebrows at Vanessa, and said, “Tough room.”

  Amusement danced in her eyes. Like she couldn’t wait to see what I’d do next. I was wondering that myself.

  I heard myself say to the waiter, “Do you have a good tequila?”

  He answered something in the affirmative, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes were locked with Vanessa’s. Hers narrowed into rainbows when she smiled. She had great teeth. Perfect lips. A mouth loaded with rumor and temptation. I imagine the devil has such a mouth.

  “Good choice,” she said.

  “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

  The waiter still hovered, unclear on what label or what mixer or some other trivia. I said, “For God’s sakes, man, bring some tequila immediately. Can’t you see this woman is dying of thirst?”

  He hustled away, chased by Vanessa’s laughter.

  Once he was out of earshot, she said, “What happened to your forehead?”

  “I got in a fistfight.”

  She arched her exquisite eyebrows.

  “Broke the guy’s hand,” I said.

  “That’ll show him. You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. This has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

  She looked around to make sure no one was listening, then said, “So, everything’s a go?”

  “My part’s all set. I haven’t seen the others since this morning.”

  “I talked to him on the phone—”

  She didn’t need to explain which “him” she meant.

&n
bsp; “—and he said they were on schedule. Still, he said we should linger over dinner.”

  “Finally,” I said, as I opened the menu, “something I’m qualified to do.”

  The waiter delivered two glasses of amber tequila on ice, and hurried away before I could give him any more lip.

  Vanessa lifted her drink to that perfect mouth and closed her eyes, savoring the sip. Made it look so delicious, she should’ve been doing tequila ads on TV.

  I downed my drink, gasping against the burn, then signaled the waiter for another. I turned back to find her green eyes on me, locked and loaded.

  “No reason to hurry,” she said. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Chapter 42

  Vanessa was one of those earthy women who are even sexier when they eat, smacking her lips and licking her fingers and moaning with pleasure over her sautéed mushrooms. By the time we got to dessert, I was exhausted.

  The restaurant filled up while we dawdled over dinner. We talked of mundane things – the weather, mutual friends, tennis – while waving to people we recognized and shaking hands and explaining away the knot on my forehead. Smiling big, trying to be memorable.

  I knew our alibi was all set when Vanessa yoo-hooed at an old guy in a suit, and said, “How are you, Your Honor?”

  Our pony-tailed waiter didn’t warm to us as the meal wore on, but we didn’t let him affect our good mood. Maybe it was just me, and maybe it was the tequila talking, but there was real chemistry between Vanessa and me. We had a great time.

  As the waiter brusquely delivered another round to our table, a sun-dried woman with a face like a rumpled lunch sack sailed up to Vanessa. They did that air-kiss thing that women do, then the old bag turned to me, waiting to be introduced.

  “Do you know Eric Newlin?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Trudy VanVlieter.”

  It was like shaking hands with a lobster, but I said something polite. She said, “Aren’t you a handsome young man!”

  Vanessa slipped me a saucy smile that nearly stopped my heart.