Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  I could hear my own heart beating. I felt as evil as Rydell Vance, tempting Cody, showing him the route to damnation.

  “It’s a lot to ask of a friend,” I said. “We’re talking about murder.”

  “More likely to be self-defense. Rydell ain’t gonna stand still for us shooting him. It could get messy.”

  He stared at me, his eyes shadowed by the bill of the cap.

  “You’re willing to risk it?” I asked.

  “Like I said. Fifty grand is a lot of money.”

  “If we get the ransom, I’ll give you more. A lot more. But you keep the fifty either way.”

  “Pretty good deal,” he said. “Assuming I’m alive to spend it.”

  “You don’t have to get involved.”

  Cody stood and stretched, then went to the kitchen for more coffee. Over his shoulder, he said, “You’re my buddy, Eric. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “That’s sweet and all—”

  “Let me finish.”

  He leaned his hips against the kitchen counter, facing me.

  “It’s not about just you,” he said. “There’s more to it. Let’s say a mad dog was running loose in town. Every guy who was worth a shit would try to shoot that dog, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Rydell Vance has been running loose in Shasta County a long time,” he said. “The law can’t touch him. Somebody needs to stop him.”

  “Why you?”

  “Look around. What have I got to lose?”

  I let that sit there untouched. Instead, I said, “The way you see it, shooting Rydell would be a public service.”

  “Sure.” He winked. “You and me, we’re good citizens.”

  “We’re the salt of the fucking earth.”

  “And if we get rich, so much the better. Now let’s stop jawing about it and get over there before Rydell runs off with that money.”

  Cody picked up the fifty grand from the coffee table, and carried it back to his bedroom. I followed, and he said, “Get that rifle out of the closet.”

  He knelt beside the bed and peeled back the brown carpet in the corner, revealing a hidey-hole where a chunk of decking had been removed, exposing bare plywood sub-flooring. He arranged the money flat in the hole and put the carpet back in place. Undetectable.

  I pushed aside flannel shirts and parkas to reach a rifle standing in the corner of the closet. It was an old lever-action Winchester. A cowboy gun. I worked the well-oiled action, and said, “Nice.”

  “My daddy gave me that rifle when I was a kid,” Cody said.

  “It’s in great shape.”

  “It’ll do the job. I’ve got bullets in the truck. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 59

  I drove Cody’s truck while he loaded the old Winchester and the shotgun that usually rode in the rack behind our heads. The metallic clacks brought home what we were about to do. I felt chilled all over, and turned down the air conditioning.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Wavering a little. Are we sure this is the best thing?”

  Cody sighed and looked out the window at the passing trees. “You can run or you can fight. That’s about it for your choices. I’m willing to fight alongside you. But I won’t run. Once this thing’s underway, it’s all or nothing.”

  I kept my eyes on the road as I said, “We need to make him talk. I don’t know where he hid that ransom. Don’t shoot first unless you can’t help it.”

  “Stop worrying,” he said. “This’ll be fine or it won’t.”

  “You’re awfully calm about walking into a shootout.”

  “Hell, Eric, this ain’t nothing special. People been shooting one another in these hills for generations. It’s just our turn.”

  I turned onto the gravel road that led to Rydell’s secluded house. Kept both hands tight on the wheel so Cody wouldn’t see them shaking.

  “You’d better take the shotgun,” he said. “I’m probably a better shot than you, and I’m familiar with the rifle.”

  “Okay.” My voice cracked, which troubled me.

  “Be careful where you point it,” he said. “I loaded it with buckshot. If you pull the trigger, I don’t want to be even a little bit in the way.”

  We rolled down the slope to Rydell’s rambling home. The usual gaggle of vehicles surrounded the white propane tank. The shadowy screened porch made it impossible to see whether anyone was inside the house.

  Hounds bayed in the kennel out back. So much for the element of surprise.

  I stopped the truck and we sat there with the motor running and the air vents blowing on our faces. Cody handed me the shotgun.

  “Give it a second,” he said, as he rolled down his window. “See if he’ll come out.”

  No sooner had he said it than the screen door swung open and Rydell leaned out to peer at us.

  “That you, Eric? With Cody Barker?”

  Cody glanced over at me, and I could tell he was unnerved. It was like hearing the devil speak your name.

  “Thought I told you to leave town, hoss.”

  “Now,” I said.

  Cody and I threw open the doors and stepped from the cab with the long guns. We stayed behind the open doors while we aimed at Rydell Vance.

  “Come down from the porch,” Cody said. “Out here where we can see you.”

  “Now why the fuck would I do that?”

  Cody worked the lever on the rifle. “Because I’ve had this gun since I was fourteen years old, and I never miss.”

  Rydell smiled and nodded his head, like he was considering it. I was trying to remember whether my shotgun had a shell in the chamber. Cody racked the pump in the truck, right? Didn’t he?

  Rydell came down the steps sideways, facing us the whole time, which made me wonder what he had in the back of his belt. Cody must’ve been thinking the same thing. He kept the rifle up to his cheek, aimed at Rydell’s torso.

  “That’s good right there,” Cody said. “Turn around. Real slow.”

  Rydell did it, his hands out away from his body, amusement dancing in his eyes. He was dressed in his usual uniform – denim and chambray and boots – and there was no sign of any guns.

  “He keeps a straight razor in his pocket,” I said.

  “Get rid of it.”

  Rydell slipped two fingers into his hip pocket and slid out the narrow razor. He tossed it into the sparse grass.

  “Now what?”

  “Now,” I said, “tell us where you put that million bucks.”

  Rydell smirked. “Like fuck I will.”

  “We’re not asking you,” Cody said.

  “What are you gonna do? Shoot me? Hell, you’re gonna do that anyway. I can see it in your eyes. You boys are too scared to not shoot, now that you’ve got the drop on me.”

  “Give us that money,” I said, “and we can all walk away from here alive.”

  “Fuck you, Eric. I ain’t afraid of you. You don’t have the balls to—”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cody adjust his aim.

  Crack!

  Rydell didn’t flinch at the noise. His hands were still spread out to his sides. Nothing had changed, except the little finger on his left hand had vanished in a spurt of blood.

  “Goddamn!” Rydell clutched the hand to his chest. Blood soaked the front of his blue shirt.

  I gaped at Cody, but he still had the rifle to his cheek, aimed at Rydell.

  “I told you I don’t miss. Now are you gonna take us to that money, or do you want me to shoot some more pieces off you?”

  Rydell pulled a red bandana from his pocket and wrapped it around his wounded hand. He knotted it, looking up at us as he pulled it tight with his teeth.

  “You boys have made the worst mistake of your lives.”

  “I’m sure we’ll feel bad about it later,” Cody said. “But you’re gonna feel worse, right now, if you don’t give us that money.”

  “All right, take it easy. Hell, you’re practically standing right
on top of it.”

  Cody and I looked around, but couldn’t see what he meant.

  “It’s in the trunk of a car,” Rydell said through clenched teeth. “That seemed as good a hiding place as any.”

  I counted four cars parked around the hardscrabble lot, along with two pickups and the black van.

  “Which one?”

  “That old red Chevy.”

  Cody said, “The keys.”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Show me.”

  Keeping his wounded hand out of harm’s way, Rydell dug into the pocket of his Wranglers and came out with a fat key ring.

  “Throw ‘em over here.”

  The keys landed in the dust at Cody’s feet. He squatted and picked them up. “Which one?”

  “The key’s got red paint on it.” Rydell’s voice sounded phlegmy. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “Watch him, Eric.”

  Cody crossed the yard to the aged Chevrolet. I had the shotgun up to my shoulder, already visualizing how the buckshot would cut Rydell in two.

  Cody inserted the key into the trunk. He looked over at Rydell and then at me. Gave me a wink.

  He turned the key, and the trunk lid exploded in orange flash and black smoke. The blast threw Cody backward. His rifle flew away, end over end, as he thudded limply onto his back in the dusty yard.

  “Cody!”

  Flames licked up from the empty trunk of the Chevy. Bits of shrapnel rained from the sky. Cody lay perfectly still.

  I whirled, the shotgun tight to my shoulder, my finger hot on the trigger.

  But Rydell Vance was gone.

  Chapter 60

  I could’ve run for it after Rydell disappeared into the house. The truck’s engine was still idling. I might’ve reached the highway before he could catch up to me. But I couldn’t leave Cody lying in the dirt. Not without checking to see if he was alive. Maybe there was still time—

  I crouched low and ran across the yard, expecting bullets to come flying from the house.

  The car still burned, and I wondered whether its gas tank had gone up in the explosion. We were dangerously close to Rydell’s big propane tank.

  I squatted next to Cody, ready to drag him away from the crackling blaze, but it was no use. Half his face was gone, a bloody maw, and his body was punctured in a dozen places.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Puke roiled up my throat. I spun away from Cody and spewed coffee and saliva onto the dusty ground. I was bent over, spitting and crying, when I heard boots thud on the porch.

  I looked up as Rydell came out the screen door, the shiny six-shooter in his good hand. He brought it up and snapped off a shot that whistled past my ear.

  “Shit!”

  I lunged past Cody’s body and scrabbled in the dirt on elbows and knees, trying to put some Detroit steel between Rydell and me. Another shot kicked up dust at my feet.

  I reached a wheel and curled up into a ball behind it. It belonged to the matte-black van, the original kidnap wagon. No side windows, I remembered. Maybe I could get a running start. I still had the shotgun. Maybe I could surprise Rydell—

  A bullet sang off the van’s rear bumper, ricocheting past my chin.

  Fuck.

  I sprang to my feet and ran for the front end of the van. I crouched beside the front wheel as a bullet shattered the window above my head, showering me with stinging glass.

  Fuck. This.

  I reared up to the hole where the driver’s window had been and unleashed a blast of buckshot at the house. It tore the screen door off its hinges, but Rydell ducked inside in time.

  Anger boiled up within me, burning away my fears, steeling my spine.

  “Come out of there, you son of a bitch,” I yelled. “Come out and pay for what you did to Cody.”

  No answer from the house. Was he going to make me come in and get him?

  I crept behind the parked cars, peeking over fenders, watching the house, watching for more booby-traps, trying to remember to breathe.

  No sign of Rydell. Probably reloading. Or getting more firepower. God only knew how many guns he might have in there.

  Between the last car and the corner of the house was fifteen feet of sparse grass and thin air. A couple of windows and the screened porch looked out on this piece of ground, giving Rydell all the angles.

  Movement at the living room window. I fired a blast that shattered the glass and splintered the window frame.

  Then I was running, the shotgun at my shoulder. When I reached the house, I fell to my knees and pressed against the fieldstone foundation.

  Nothing.

  Panting, I cautiously stood and peeked through the shattered window. No one in the living room. Just the trophy animals on the walls, peering back at me with their glassy eyes.

  I ran past one end of the screened porch, toward the front door. The angle of sunlight on the screens shifted as I ran, and I could see the porch was unoccupied. I ran up the steps.

  The interior door stood open, and I flung myself to one side of it. Not a sound from inside. I wheeled into the doorway, ready to shoot, but the living room was empty. I cautiously crossed the air-conditioned room, headed for the kitchen.

  A thump on the planks behind me. I spun around, low, like I was trying to screw myself into the floor.

  Boom, boom. Bullets sailed over my head.

  Rydell stood in the front doorway, fire leaping from the long barrel of the silver revolver. He’d gone out the back and circled around, trying to ambush me. But I’d ducked under the gunfire.

  I pulled the trigger. Buckshot tore across the room and knocked Rydell’s legs out from under him. The pistol went flying as he tried to catch himself. He smacked face-first onto the hardwood floor, halfway through the door.

  I racked the pump as I straightened up. Rydell struggled up onto an elbow, his other arm trapped under him. The bandana on his injured hand was soaked with blood.

  “Goddamn you,” I said.

  His face was twisted with pain, and blood leaked from his nose, soaking the white side of his mustache. I kept the shotgun aimed at his head, but I felt shuddery and unsteady.

  “Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “Do it, and you’ll never find that money.”

  “Maybe killing you is more important than the money.”

  That made him laugh. He had blood on his teeth.

  “Nothing’s more important than money, Eric. I thought you’d figured that out by now.”

  His laugh turned into a cough and he spat blood on the floor.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Call me an ambulance and we’ll report this here accidental shooting. When I get out of the hospital, I’ll split the loot with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Still time to salvage this situation, Eric.” He coughed some more, made a face at the taste of blood.

  “Tell me where the money is,” I said. “Right now. And maybe I’ll call that ambulance.”

  “Shit. You get your hands on that money and you’ll leave me here to die.”

  “I’ll give you a phone. You can dial 911. I’ll be gone by the time they arrive.”

  “I don’t think so, hoss. Half that money belongs to Vanessa.”

  “Right. Like you weren’t planning to keep her share. You’ve hung her out to dry. That was your plan all along.”

  “What about you, Eric? What was your plan? To run away with the money and Vanessa?”

  I gaped at him.

  “You already fucking her? Or just dreaming about it?”

  I could feel my face flush hotly. I took a step toward him. The shotgun felt heavy. My shoulder ached from the recoil.

  “She probably told you that the two of you could live happily ever after,” he said. “Same shit she was feeding Butch Gentry.”

  “What?”

  “He was moonstruck. She has that power over fools. I didn’t care so much that he wanted to fuck her, but he tried to cut in on my action.”

  My mouth open
ed and closed, but no sound came out. Finally, I managed to say, “Butch Gentry and Vanessa?”

  Rydell spat more blood.

  “You dumbass. Why do you think Hubert and Wayne were chasing Butch? I told them to send him a message. But he panicked and drove up a goddamned telephone pole and killed himself. This whole business has been a shit sandwich ever since.”

  He coughed.

  “Then I showed up,” I said. “Just another dumbass, looking to get in on the action.”

  “I had this plan all thought out. After Butch died, I needed someone to take his place.”

  “Lucky me,” I said.

  He licked blood off his teeth and spat.

  “Come on, Eric. Give it up. You’re not gonna shoot.”

  My head swam with thoughts of flying Corvettes and blood and gunsmoke and Vanessa’s legs and that neat round hole in Wayne’s forehead. Cody’s face came to mind, and I seized upon that image. That final wink as he unlocked the trunk to the booby-trapped Chevy. Poor bastard. He was only trying to help me. Rydell deserved to die, if for no other reason than for what he’d done to Cody.

  Rydell must’ve read something in my eyes. The bloody smile slid off his face. He leaned over on his elbow, pulling his other arm out from under his body. As his hand popped free, I saw it held the small square pistol. Where the fuck had that come from?

  I lurched sideways as the pistol popped, and a bullet snagged my shirt under my arm.

  My finger reacted on its own, yanking the trigger of the shotgun, which roared fire and lead into Rydell’s face. The buckshot shredded his head, obliterating his face, leaving a chewed-up red stump. Blood painted the door jambs.

  I stumbled backward, away from the mess I’d made. My ears rang and I felt dazed, stupid. I needed to get out of here, but it felt like I was forgetting something—

  The money. I still needed the money. Vanessa wanted it. We couldn’t get away without it.

  I glanced at Rydell’s bloody body. He could’ve taken Cody’s truck, could’ve easily gotten away, after I started poking around inside his house. Why hadn’t he run? Was he so intent on killing me that he passed up escaping with a million bucks? Or was the million still somewhere in this house?

  I looked around the living room, trying to think where Rydell might’ve stashed the money. This snake’s den probably was full of hidey-holes and floor safes and drawers with false bottoms – and more booby traps.