Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  She hung up on him.

  Next, Steve called the Miami Police Department and got through to a desk sergeant. When it became clear that Bobby hadn’t been snatched, and that he’d been gone less than two hours, Steve could feel the officer’s interest level wane. Following procedures, the sergeant said to call back in the morning if the boy hadn’t returned.

  “Do you know what first attracted me to you?” Victoria said as they neared the collapsed trailer and sailboat.

  “My musk cologne?”

  “Your love for Bobby. The risks you took to rescue him. The way you put him first. With all your faults, you’re still the kind of man a woman wants to father her children.”

  “What faults?”

  “C’mon, Steve. Let’s pick up the pace.”

  They broke into a full run, Steve shortening his stride just a bit to match hers. Victoria ran athletically, smoothly. They were in perfect rhythm, perfect sync, and moving fast.

  They passed cars parked at water’s edge on the causeway’s lover’s lane. Couples inside. Drinking. Kissing. Writhing. Close by, a homeless man with a scrawny dog rummaged through a trash barrel.

  The tow truck was still there in the middle of the roadway, where they’d first seen it from the top of the bridge. Workers were trying figure out how to hoist the sailboat off the pavement.

  The causeway eased toward the right, and the warm southeast sea breeze hit them head-on. Behind them, horns honked, and traffic still hadn’t moved. They could see the lights of Cetacean Park, less than a mile ahead.

  Steve gestured toward Victoria’s purse, a black leather Dolce & Gabbana. “Isn’t that slowing you down?”

  “A woman never leaves her purse in the car.”

  “You want me to carry it?”

  “No way. You’re not licensed.”

  Steve gave her a look that she took as a question. It was the second time that night he’d asked.

  “Yes,” Victoria said. “I still have the gun Pincher gave me.”

  Thirty-nine

  DEAD DUMMY

  It wasn’t a body.

  It was a dummy. Like the ones used by the Navy in rescue training.

  Bobby climbed over the low wall and watched from high in the rafters. Wedged against a beam, he was hidden in the shadows, his head bumping against the corrugated metal ceiling.

  Spunky and Misty were somewhere deep in the tank below. The dummy floated faceup. Mr. Grisby held two wooden sticks that looked like pool cues, only shorter. The man in cowboy boots and the larger man watched as Mr. Grisby clacked the sticks together three times. A second later, both dolphins burst from the water. Spunky grabbed the dummy by an ankle and dived, dragging it with him. Misty stayed on the surface, turning circles, as if on surveillance.

  The seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. If the dummy had been a man, he’d be turning blue. After three minutes, Mr. Grisby blew the whistle. Again, Spunky blasted through the surface, this time tossing the dummy onto the platform, splashing the three men.

  A good way to kill an enemy saboteur, Bobby thought.

  Or Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

  Mr. Grisby reached into a pail and tossed chunks of raw fish to each of the dolphins. Misty shot water out of her blowhole and made a click-click sound that Bobby knew meant “thanks.” Spunky’s sound was more whiny, the thanks combined with a sound meaning he was still hungry.

  “Nice party trick,” Cowboy Boots said.

  “But I’m not sure it’s worth a million bucks,” the larger man said. “We can train the bastards, too.”

  “Even without Sanders?”

  Their voices carried easily across the water and echoed up the metal walls.

  “Big deal. We hire another frogman,” Cowboy Boots said.

  “The home office is none too happy with you about the whole Sanders deal,” the other man said.

  “I’m telling you,” Grisby said, “Sanders was working for the feds. He was trying to arrest me when I shot him.”

  “Bullshit,” Cowboy Boots said.

  “If Sanders was a snitch, you’d have been busted instead of that dipshit kid,” the other man added. “Anyway, you got no cause to double the price on us. There’s a place in the Dominican we can go. Six dolphins trained to B level.”

  Grisby laughed. “Try to get a B level to do this.”

  He kicked the dummy back into the water, then rattled the two sticks against each other like a drummer in a marching band. He kept the rat-a-tat-tat going until Spunky and Misty each grabbed the dummy by an ankle. They swam in opposite directions, whipping their bodies in a violent pitch and roll. The dummy tore in half cleanly at the crotch. Each dolphin shook its head and tossed half the dead dummy onto the platform.

  “Jesus,” Cowboy Boots muttered.

  Grisby grinned at the two men. “Either of you want to take a swim?”

  The big man laughed nervously. “We’ll get back to you on the price. We got to talk to the home office.”

  Grisby tossed two pieces of mackerel to the dolphins, who were standing on their fluttering flukes, waving their fins, as if applauding themselves.

  Wedged into his hiding place, Bobby felt himself tremble. Were these his best buddies?

  What have they done to you?

  The dolphins began leaping. Competing to see who could jump higher. Spunky was bigger and stronger, but Misty had a sleeker body. On their third leap, they neared the rafters. At the apogee of her jump, Misty stared straight at Bobby. She hung motionless in the air for a fraction of a second and emitted a toot through her blowhole. Not her usual greeting. Bobby translated the sound as an urgent and fearful, “Stranger.”

  Both dolphins curved gracefully back into the water below. Five seconds later, they shot toward him again, even closer this time. They whistled in unison. “Stranger!” The tone was frightening, the meaning of the word even more so.

  Have they brainwashed you? Have they turned me into a stranger?

  Once back in the water, the dolphins swam in a circle, splashing the men on the platform.

  Stop it, guys! Are you trying to blow my cover?

  “Something’s got ’em riled.” Cowboy Boots looked toward the rafters, shielding his eyes from the glare of the overhead lights.

  “Probably just some bats,” Grisby said.

  Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. He harbored the irrational thought that if he couldn’t see the men, they couldn’t see him. He tried to press himself even farther into the joint of the two beams. A second later, Spunky leapt from the water, his dorsal fin swiping Bobby’s leg. Startled, Bobby’s foot slipped off the beam. He fell, one foot on each side of the rafter. Landed hard on his private parts, howled with pain.

  “What the hell’s that!” Cowboy Boots yelled.

  All three men looked straight up, squinting into the lights.

  “Who’s up there!” Grisby demanded.

  Bobby felt like a horse had kicked him in the balls. The pain was so intense, it blinded him. Feeling nauseous, he slid backward on his butt along the rafter, a narrow two-by-four.

  From below, he heard a frightening sound. The clickety-clack of a shotgun racking.

  “I said, who’s up there! Last chance, or I’ll fill you with buckshot.”

  Dizzy now, Bobby lost his balance and flipped over. He hung upside down from the beam by his ankles, as if on monkey bars.

  “What the hell’s that?” The larger man pointed toward the rafters.

  Bobby’s thighs ached. He tried swinging upright on the beam but didn’t have the strength.

  He teetered left.

  Teetered right.

  He was losing his grip, and the building seemed to tilt on its axis.

  A second later, he plunged into the water, surprised at how cold it felt, how salty it tasted. A second after that, something grabbed him by one ankle.

  Forty

  DOLPHIN LOVE

  Spunky spun Bobby in the tank, whirling him around and around. His shirt tore, and his shorts were dra
gged down to his knees. Spunky sped up, Bobby spinning so fast his eyes blurred and his sinuses filled with water.

  If it were Chanukah, he’d be a human dreidel.

  Mr. Grisby blasted his whistle and Spunky let go. The rafters continued twirling above Bobby’s head, looking like wooden horses on a carousel. He choked on the salt water, then upchucked all over himself.

  “Who the hell is that?” Cowboy Boots snarled.

  “Robert Solomon,” Mr. Grisby said. “You’ve already met his uncle.”

  “That lawyer. Oh, shit.”

  “How much did you hear, Robert?”

  “Nothing.” Bobby treaded water. “Nothing at all.”

  “He’s lying,” the big man said. “It’s like a drum in here.”

  “Either way,” Grisby said, “he’s seen the dolphins. He’s seen the two of you.”

  “I lost my glasses. I can’t see anything. Really, Mr. Grisby.”

  Pleading, Bobby knew. Pleading for his life. He didn’t have any other ideas.

  “What are you gonna do, Grisby?” the big man said.

  Mr. Grisby picked up the two sticks. “One more demo for you to tell your bosses about. It’ll prove the total discipline of my training.”

  “How so?”

  “The dolphins know Robert. They like him. But properly trained dolphins are one hundred percent obedient. They’re deprived of free will.”

  “The Manchurian dolphin?” the big man asked. “That what you saying?”

  “Just watch. They’ll do to the boy the same thing they did that dummy.”

  “No, Mr. Grisby!” Bobby could picture himself being ripped in two, his intestines spewing out into the water like links of sausage.

  Misty circled Bobby, her fin brushing his arms. Spunky made a sound through his blowhole. The same rhythmic beats as before. “Stranger.” But this time, the dolphin turned his beak toward the platform. He pointed toward Mr. Grisby. It took Bobby a moment to figure out the message. He’d gotten it wrong before.

  I’m not the stranger. Mr. Grisby has become a stranger to them.

  They’re warning me.

  Thanks, but it’s a little late.

  Bobby put two fingers to his mouth and whistled a singsong: “I love you.”

  Mr. Grisby started rattling the sticks together. It was the cue for each dolphin to grab an ankle and begin tearing him apart.

  Neither one obeyed. Instead, Misty grabbed Bobby by the shoulder, her mouth gentle, her teeth not even breaking the skin. She held him upright in the water, letting him rest. No more need to keep pedaling to stay afloat.

  Grisby banged the sticks again, harder.

  Misty held Bobby still, rustling the water with her fluke.

  “Goddammit!” Grisby fumed. “Follow orders.” He blew into his whistle. A shrill, piercing sound.

  Spunky dived, leaving Misty on the surface, still holding Bobby by the shoulder.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you two?” Grisby shouted.

  Bobby looked at Misty, heard her click-click. The word “breathe.”

  She’s waiting for me. She’s waiting for me to take a deep breath.

  Bobby exhaled. He took the deepest breath he could. Then Misty dived, carrying the boy straight to the bottom of the fifteen-foot tank.

  Bobby could hear Grisby screaming cuss words as they went under.

  Spunky was already there, working his beak on the metal handle of a grated door that led to the spillway. The handle, a sliding bolt, wouldn’t budge. Maybe it was rusted. Maybe the water pressure was just too strong. Despite his great strength, Spunky seemed stymied.

  Bobby was running out of breath.

  He exhaled a burst, felt his lungs tighten.

  Spunky swam backwards, got a running start, swung sideways, and banged his bulk into the steal door, snapping the bolt. He pushed against the door with his beak, swinging it open.

  Bobby knew he was drowning.

  Misty tightened her grip on Bobby’s shoulder. She carried him through the door and into the spillway. Spunky came behind, nudging at Bobby’s feet. The three of them picked up speed with the flow of the water, and emerged at the bottom of the spillway and into the channel. Misty pulled Bobby to the surface, and the boy felt the night air. He gobbled half a dozen fast breaths and hung on to Misty’s dorsal fin. Behind them, Bobby heard the endless blasts of Mr. Grisby’s whistle.

  ***

  Steve chugged to a stop under a palm tree a few hundred yards from the channel. They were at the edge of the park. He stood, hunched over, hands on hips, sucking air. Victoria breathed normally. Was she even sweating? An hour on the treadmill each day and singles tennis under the Florida sun will build your endurance.

  “You’re not even winded,” Steve said. Sounded peeved.

  “You have to learn to pace yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Life’s a marathon. You can’t burn yourself out.”

  Steve straightened up and looked around. The channel was quiet. A half-moon gave off a soft glow, and the palm fronds rustled in the warm breeze. He looked past the bend in the channel, toward the quonset building, where light shone through the breezeway.

  “Someone’s in there,” he said, pointing.

  Before they’d taken two steps, a shrill sound came from the direction of the building. A whistle. One long bleat, followed by numerous short blasts.

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  12. Life may be a marathon, but sometimes you have to sprint to save a life.

  Forty-one

  SHOOT THE LAWYER

  Bobby heard the whistle and the shouts behind them. Mr. Grisby and the two men. They’d raced out of the building and were on the dock. Then the sound of a motor. A Jet Ski firing up.

  The dolphins picked up speed, heading toward the channel gate, Spunky leading the way, Bobby riding on top of Misty.

  But why go there?

  The gate would be locked. There was no escape.

  Behind them, a shotgun blast. Riding the Jet Ski, Grisby fired a shot into the air. Bobby winced. The dolphins kept swimming. Not even a shudder.

  ***

  At the sound of the shotgun blast, Steve and Victoria stopped short.

  “What the hell!”

  They heard the roar of the Jet Ski and raced toward the embankment. Fifty yards away, they were stunned to see Bobby fly by on the back of a dolphin.

  “Bobby!”

  But he didn’t hear his uncle.

  Close behind was Grisby on a Jet Ski, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Steve took off along the channel, just as he had when chasing Nash. This time, he ran even faster, his feet barely touching the scrubby weeds growing out of the sand. He felt strong, focused. He knew the distance to the gate, knew the shortcut, knew just what he would do.

  He’d jumped the channel before. He’d knocked Nash ass-over-elbows.

  He would do the same thing to Grisby.

  “Wait up!” Victoria yelled, running after him.

  But Steve couldn’t wait. Sure, Vic, life is a marathon. But sometimes, to save a life, you gotta sprint.

  ***

  Misty leapt from the water, splashed down again, Bobby hanging on with both hands around her neck. Spunky swam just ahead, leading them.

  The gate was a hundred yards away. From water level, it looked impossibly high. Maybe ten feet above the waterline, with another two feet of razor wire on top. Nasty.

  Could the dolphins jump it? Bobby didn’t know. They’d never tried. If they jumped, would they be chopped to pieces on the razor wire, along with him?

  The dolphins slowed. They weren’t going to jump. They were going to stop at the gate. Through her blowhole, Misty bleated one word. “Go!”

  It took him a second to figure it out. Misty would stop at the gate and let Bobby stand on her back. The gate was a series of vertical metal bars attached top and bottom to two horizontal bars. Skinny as he was, he could work himself through the vertical bars to get into the Bay. Swim fro
m there to the causeway, and safety. Spunky and Misty would stay behind. They would sacrifice themselves to save him.

  Bobby clicked a “No, no, no” to Misty. Then, “Faster!”

  Behind them, the roar of the Jet Ski grew louder.

  Bobby smacked Misty’s flank and whistled a command. “We jump!”

  Misty picked up speed. Powerboat fast, churning up a foamy wake.

  The gate was fifty yards away.

  The Jet Ski bounced in the dolphins’ wake. Grisby slung the shotgun into firing position.

  ***

  Steve ran full bore along the channel.

  He watched Bobby clinging to the dolphin, nearing the locked gate.

  And there was Grisby, closing the distance on the Jet Ski, swinging the shotgun off his shoulder.

  Bobby rubbed Misty near her blowhole as they neared the gate. Shouting now. “Jump! Jump, Misty! Jump!”

  The dolphin launched herself out of the water, Bobby hanging on to her dorsal fin, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

  Grisby lifted the shotgun. He aimed it squarely in the middle of Bobby’s back.

  Steve reached the embankment, and launched himself toward Grisby.

  Grisby sensed the movement and swung the shotgun from the hip, as if intending to drop a grouse from the sky. Before he could pull the trigger, Spunky blasted from beneath the water, and smacked Grisby flush across the face with his powerful fluke. Grisby’s neck shot back with an audible crack, and he tumbled off the Jet Ski. Steve belly-flopped into the water. Next to him, Grisby floated on his back, his eyes open, but his face expressionless.

  Misty cleared the gate, sailing over the razor wire with room to spare. Bobby tumbled over Misty’s dorsal fin, landing face-first in the water. Spunky leapt the gate a moment later and joined them in the open Bay.