Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

She smiled sweetly. Then she said, “You can’t stop me, Steve. I’m going to prosecute this case. And I’m going to win.”

  “Hit me with your best shot, Vic.”

  “Oh, I will. I’ll chop you into little pieces and use you for bait.”

  “Ouch.”

  “But if I feed you to the sharks, they’ll never touch you.”

  “Professional courtesy,” Steve acknowledged, nodding. “So I’ll just annihilate you in the courtroom.”

  “How? Bore me to death?”

  “I’ll file memos of law on every motion, briefs on every legal issue, make you work for a change.”

  “Great. Death by a thousand paper cuts.”

  “I’ll beat you in front of the jury, too. In opening. In cross. In closing. I’ll tie you in knots. And I’m gonna do it in a way you never could. I’m gonna win fair and square.”

  Twelve

  RICH (THE SHIT) SHACTMAN

  Walking along the corridor at Ponce de Leon Middle School, Bobby was totally bummed. He’d never see Spunky and Misty again. By now, they could be in the outer islands. Starving. They needed to eat thirty pounds of fish a day. Would they know how to catch their own? Or would they be waiting for someone to feed them?

  In some weird way, Bobby felt responsible. If he’d only reacted faster, maybe he could have saved them. He could have told the dolphins to hide. They’d have understood him. They’d have gone underwater and stayed there for twenty minutes on one breath.

  Deep down, he knew it wasn’t his fault, but still. . . .

  Spunky and Misty trusted me, and I let them down.

  He blamed Uncle Steve, too. He’d refused to take out a boat and search for the dolphins, saying it was impossible. He reminded Bobby of the fisherman’s prayer: “Oh, Lord, my boat is so small and your sea is so wide.”

  In his heart, Bobby knew his uncle was right. But still, Uncle Steve was the grown-up. He should have thought of something. Instead, he ended up representing that creep, Gerald Nash, the guy who’d messed up everything.

  That’s being disloyal to Spunky and Misty . . . and me.

  ***

  Bobby headed for his locker through the gauntlet of jocks, weirdos, nerds, pretty girls, chubby girls, brainy girls, geeks, freaks, and sleeks.

  Oh, shit.

  Leaning against the gray bank of metal lockers, chewing gum with his mouth open, like a sea lion gobbling a mackerel, was Rich Shactman. A concrete block disguised as a human being, in a muscle shirt stretched tight across his hairy chest.

  Yeah. A hairy-chested sixth grader. Thirteen years old, Rich had been held back a year, not because he was stupid—though he was—but because his even stupider father thought it would give Rich an advantage getting a college athletic scholarship.

  Was Rich looking his way?

  I never should have anagrammatized his name.

  Bobby hadn’t meant it as an insult. Last week, they’d been in the cafeteria, Shactman goofing off, squeezing one hand into his armpit, making farts as girls walked by. Pretty lame for sixth grade. But all the guys were whooping it up because the girls looked embarrassed, and let’s face it, a farting sound is pretty funny, no matter how old you are. Bobby wanted to be part of the crowd.

  Dumb. Why’d I open my mouth?

  “Hey, Rich,” Bobby had said casually, as if they were buds, “do you know the letters of your name can be rearranged to spell ‘Can Charm Shit’?”

  “Who you calling ‘shit,’ noodle neck?”

  “No. What I mean is, you know, ‘can charm shit.’ It’s like a compliment.”

  “Why you wanna compliment me, you little faggot?”

  Bobby felt his face redden. “Because I—”

  Shactman pushed his face close to Bobby. “Stay out of my grill, dude.”

  Bobby couldn’t stand to be this close to anyone, except maybe Uncle Steve and Victoria. He felt claustrophobic, trapped. He also smelled garlic bagel on Rich’s breath.

  “I know all about you, Solomon.” Shactman gave him a nasty little sneer. “Your mother’s a ho who locked you in a dog cage. Now she’s in jail somewhere, eating pussy in the shower.”

  “She’s not in jail.” Bobby staggered backward. Feeling puny and weak. He wanted to punch out Rich the Shit, hit him as hard as he could. But he knew Shactman would beat the crap out of him.

  And then Bobby had turned and run.

  In the week since the confrontation in the cafeteria, Shactman had been riding him hard. Bobby didn’t understand it. He’d known Rich from Sunday school at Beth Am. He’d been to birthday parties at the Shactman home in Pinecrest. A sprawling McMansion with the biggest yard Bobby had ever seen. The lawn was a full-size football field with yard markers and goalposts. Behind a row of royal palms was a sandpit with a professional volleyball court. One wing of the house held a basketball court with a set of folding bleachers and an electric scoreboard. A lap pool was behind the house, along with two clay tennis courts—lighted, of course.

  Why does one family need two tennis courts? Or five cars, for that matter?

  Rich’s father owned a chain of sporting goods stores, which explained all the jerseys and bats and balls signed by Marlins and Dolphins and Heat players. Bobby dreaded Rich’s birthday parties, which always centered around bone-crushing games of touch football and exhausting basketball games. But never swimming races, Bobby’s only decent sport.

  Now, walking toward his locker, feeling Rich Shactman’s hard, mean eyes on him, Bobby felt his stomach tighten. A moving blob of students pushed through the corridor, oozing toward their homerooms.

  “Here comes Word Boy,” Shactman taunted. His posse of C-minus retards scratched their nuts and waited. “Hey, Word Boy, what’s my name today?”

  “Rich. Your name’s Rich.”

  “And your name’s Ass Burger Boy, right?”

  Making a crack about his Asperger’s syndrome. A friggin’ riot.

  A couple of Shactman’s friends laughed. Bobby got to his locker, twirled the combination lock, and opened the door. Shactman leaned over and slammed the locker shut so fast, Bobby’s fingers were nearly caught. “Hey! Jeez!”

  “Listen up, loser. I want you off my team.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a total spaz. You can’t hit. You can’t catch. You can’t throw. I want you to quit.”

  “It’s only a Sunday school league.”

  “Only? Where do you think the high school coaches recruit? I’m gonna play at Gulliver or Ransom, then at U of M, and I don’t want a dweeb like you messing me up.”

  “I’m not quitting.”

  “You will after I shove a bat up your ass.”

  Bobby considered mentioning just how homo that sounded but thought better of it. He reopened his locker, pulled out his Social Studies book, closed the locker, spun the lock, and repeated, “I’m not quitting, Rich. You can’t make me.”

  “I know where you live, Solomon. You and your loser uncle.” He turned toward his posse. “The losers live in the South Grove near Little Africa.”

  Bobby had never heard it called that, but yes, Kumquat Avenue was a few blocks away from the heart of the African-American section of Coconut Grove. He tried to think of a comeback, some socially conscious remark, but it would sound so lame, he just gave up.

  “They don’t even have a swimming pool.” Shactman barked a laugh. “Where do you swim, the public pool? Ever catch scabies?”

  Bobby thought about saying that, yes, sometimes he swam at the Venetian pool in Coral Gables, and sometimes he swam with the dolphins, but that would’ve only provoked more abuse. When confronted with ignorance, prejudice, and big muscles, the best thing to do is keep quiet. That’s what Uncle Steve always said.

  “Know what else I heard? Word Boy here talks to fish.” Shactman poked Bobby in the chest. “C’mon, loser. Say something in fish talk.”

  Bobby wanted to say: “Dolphins aren’t fish. They’re mammals. And I’ve never met a dolphin as stupid as you.”
<
br />   But he didn’t say that. Bobby didn’t say anything. He walked away, deciding just how he was going to kill Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  4. A prosecutor’s job is to build a brick wall around her case. A defense lawyer’s job is to tear down the wall, or at least to paint graffiti on the damn thing.

  Thirteen

  A CRACK IN THE BRICK WALL

  Steve wanted his father’s help on the Nash case, but instead, he was getting a tongue-lashing.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” Herbert Solomon drawled. “You can’t try a case against your lady.”

  “Dad, I’m not asking whether to take the case. I’m asking how to win it.”

  “You’re plowing too close to the cotton, son.”

  “Drop the cornpone, okay?” Steve pounded a baseball into the pocket of Bobby’s new glove, trying to soften the leather. “I’m not one of your drinking buddies at Alabama Jack’s.”

  “Son, you got two conflicts of interest. If you lose, your client will claim ineffective assistance of counsel because your judgment was compromised. And win or lose, you’re risking your relationship with that fine woman.”

  Wearing paint-stained canvas shorts, Herbert stood at Steve’s kitchen counter, dropping ice into a tumbler. Four cubes. Just like Sinatra. Then he poured his Jack Daniel’s, three fingers’ worth—if they were Shaquille O’Neal’s fingers. The old man’s face was sunbaked, and his long silver hair was combed straight back and flipped up at the neck. To Steve, his Savannah-born father looked like a Confederate general, albeit a Jewish one. Herbert still spoke in imperative sentences, a remnant of his days as a Florida trial judge.

  “You best let Victoria prosecute the case, son, and you stay the hell out of it. Don’t you blow it with this gal, because frankly, she could do a helluva lot better than you.”

  “Thanks for the support, Dad.” Steve tied the baseball into the glove with a length of twine. With a deeper, softer pocket, maybe Bobby wouldn’t drop all those lazy pop-ups.

  “Ease up on the reins, son. Victoria’s got a chance to make a name for herself, so let her do it.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ve had your shot.”

  “Hey, my career’s not over. I’m still young, as lawyers go.”

  “All Ah’m saying, put your relationship first and be supportive of your gal.”

  “You been watching Dr. Phil, because you’ve never said anything like that, and you sure as hell weren’t supportive of Mom.”

  “Bullfeathers! Ah worshiped your mother and Ah adored mah kids.”

  “You weren’t there for any of us, Dad. Every night, clients, or Bar Association dinners, or judicial conferences. Always on the make, always polishing your own plaques. I wish I had ten bucks for every ball game and graduation you missed.”

  “Aw, don’t be such a grumble guts.” Herbert raised the tumbler and drained half the Jack. “Ah was a good father to you and your worthless sister.”

  “You ever put that up to a vote, you’d lose two to one.”

  “Family’s the most important thing in the world. And spending time with family is priceless.”

  “Where’s this coming from? You been stealing Hallmark cards from the Rexall?”

  “Ah mean it, Stephen. You and Bobby are mah life now. You’re what Ah live for.”

  “Really? Bobby’s got a baseball game Sunday. You wanna come?”

  “Sunday?” Herbert took a sip to think about it. Steve waited. It turned into a three-sip wait. “Nah. Ah’m caulking the boat Sunday.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Besides, why’s the boy want me hanging around?”

  “No good reason. Except he loves you, Dad.”

  Herbert could have said, “I love the boy, too.” Instead, he drained his sour mash whiskey. With Herbert Solomon as a role model, Steve thought, it was a wonder he could express any emotions at all. Other than anger, that is.

  Herbert poured himself more Jack and swirled his glass, the ice cubes clinking like chattering teeth. “If that’s it, Ah’m gonna sack out on the sofa and watch some pay-per-view titties on cable.”

  “Be my guest. I just thought you might have a tip or two on defending a felony murder trial.”

  “No way to defend it. It’s the one charge that’s stacked in favor of the state, and you know it.”

  “But Dad, with all your experience—”

  “You got any theory of the case?” Herbert interrupted. “You got a theme?”

  Better, Steve thought, the old buzzard was getting interested. “Not yet.”

  “Those ink-stained wretches been calling you?”

  “Herald, Sun-Sentinel left messages yesterday. Palm Beach Post this morning. Lisa Petrillo from Channel 10’s been camped out at my office.”

  “Thought she did entertainment news.”

  “Since you left the bench, Dad, that’s what murder trials have become.”

  “Well, before you say anything, make sure you get your theory of the case and your theme. Then keep pounding ’em. And stay on message.”

  Herbert Solomon might no longer be a lawyer—he’d resigned the bench and the Bar rather than face a bribery investigation—but his mind was still sharp. As a lawyer and a judge, he was usually the smartest person in the courtroom, and well aware of it.

  “Not that it’s gonna be easy,” Herbert continued. “From what Ah hear, your case is a loser. An open-and-shut conviction.”

  Steve dropped his voice into a gravelly imitation of his father. “Ain’t no case open and shut till the jurors open that door and the foreman shuts his mouth.”

  “At least you been listening. But you gotta have something to go on. A crack in the brick wall.”

  Another of his old man’s expressions. Before he’d been Chief Judge of the Circuit, Herbert T. Solomon, Esq., had been a terrific trial lawyer. He used to say that the prosecution’s job was to build a brick wall. Strong and sturdy, brick after brick, smoothing the mortar, making it all neat and tidy. The defense didn’t have to build a wall of its own. It just had to scratch away at the state’s wall, searching for weak spots. Rotten bricks or weak mortar, that’s what the defense is after.

  Make an iddy-biddy crack in that wall, just enough for a handhold, and you can tear the whole damn thing down.

  Right. But sometimes you were lucky just to spray paint some graffiti on that old wall.

  “So what do you have?” Herbert asked.

  “The state’s time line is fuzzy. Sanders was there three or four minutes before Grisby shot him. What the hell was going on all that time? Why would Sanders go for his gun when Grisby held a shotgun on him? And why’d Grisby shoot him twice?”

  “Why was Grisby there at all?”

  “He says he expected trouble after Pincher warned him about the ALM. But why be alone? Why not hire a new security guard? Or two or three?”

  “You suggesting Grisby didn’t want witnesses?”

  “Just asking questions, Dad, the way you taught me.”

  “The guard that supposedly quit. He back up Grisby’s story?”

  “Can’t find him. Moved without notifying his landlord. I can’t find my client’s girlfriend, either. She was also his accomplice. Moved out of her apartment and hasn’t called Nash. Then there’s the victim. Charles Sanders, last known address, Denver.”

  “For your sake, Ah’m hoping he’s got a long rap sheet.”

  Steve knew what his father was thinking. When defending a murder charge, it’s always helpful if the victim was a lowlife who wouldn’t be missed by law-abiding, God-fearing citizens like the dozen good folks in the jury box.

  “No priors,” Steve said. “Military. Retired Navy. Lieutenant Commander in the SEALs.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Next you’re gonna tell me he’s a war hero.”

  “Bronze Star for defusing mines in the Persian Gulf during the first Gulf War.”

  “Holy shit. And since then?”

  Steve shrug
ged. “All I know is he was stationed in San Diego when his retirement papers came through.”

  “What were his duties?”

  “The Navy’s classified everything after Desert Storm.”

  Herbert polished off his drink. “Don’t fit. A decorated naval officer hanging out with these animal weirdos.” He reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle. “That brick wall ain’t crumbling yet, but the mortar’s a little sloppy around the edges.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Jesus, Ah like a good puzzle.”

  Deep into it now. Steve watched his father, his crinkled eyes seemingly focused on a distant horizon.

  “So what do you think, Dad?”

  “Tough cases are more fun, and this one’s a doozy. If only you could stay in the damn thing.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Can you get your client to waive the conflict?”

  “Absolutely. He wants me.”

  “Can you keep things peaceful with Victoria?”

  “I can try.”

  “Then go for it. But keep focused, son. It’s State versus Nash. Don’t make it Solomon versus Lord.”

  Fourteen

  WHAT’S A MOTHER FOR?

  Victoria wanted her mother’s advice.

  How can I beat Steve in the Nash case and still preserve our relationship?

  But, as usual, Irene Lord, aka The Queen, was wrapped up in her own melodrama. “I’ve never been so humiliated,” she huffed. “My daughter’s paramour suing me.”

  “Mother, no one’s had a paramour since Barbara Stanwyck was making movies.”

  “Your live-in lover, then.” Irene sniffed, as if she found the notion of cohabitation distasteful.

  The air was tinged with rosemary, eucalyptus . . . and malice. Mother and daughter were settled into comfy chairs at the Bal Harbour Spa for their monthly pedicures. Irene wore a purple Hervé Leroux bandage dress with a matching boomerang clutch. Her shoes—until she’d ditched them for her pedicure—were rainbow-colored Cavalli slingbacks with a heel just shy of four inches. Her hair—the color of champagne—was swept up, revealing her graceful and still taut neck. Over the years, many men had told Irene that she looked like Princess Grace of Monaco, and she never disagreed.