Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Finally, a month ago, Marlin had sat Louise down and spoken from his heart. He tried to tell her delicately that he wasn’t in love with her and didn’t think he ever would be. He expected a slap or some tears of heartbreak. Instead, a look of relief passed over Louise’s face, and then she started to giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” Marlin asked, a little uncomfortably.

  “I was all worried, thinking you were gonna tell me you loved me. And here you were all worried because you had to tell me you don’t.” She took a long breath and placed her hand on Marlin’s shoulder. “John, believe me. I am not ready for anyone to love me. The divorce was hell, and I’m having the time of my life as a single gal. Why would I want to ruin that?”

  So they agreed to keep it casual. But they also promised to let the other person know if one of them began seeing someone else. Since then, Marlin and Louise had been free to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company, without complications or guilt.

  “Here’s the piece you’ve been waiting for,” Louise said with a wink, setting the pie in front of Marlin.

  “What if I’m still hungry after this?” Marlin asked, grinning. He loved flirtatious women.

  “Oh, I bet we could arrange for something a little more satisfying,” Louise replied. Then she got serious. “John, are we going over to your place tonight? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sure. You about ready?”

  Marlin wolfed down his pie while Louise gathered her things, then she followed Marlin out to his place in her Toyota. As usual, they proceeded directly to the bedroom.

  Afterward, Louise flicked on the nightstand light and turned to Marlin. “There’s something really funny—-and a little weird—that I need to tell you.”

  Marlin sat up in bed and gave her a quizzical look.

  “No, don’t worry,” Louise said. “I still don’t love you.”

  After they finished laughing, she continued. “As you know, I’ve been married twice. Neither of them were what you’d call catches. I don’t know how I ever got mixed up with either of them. Live and learn, I guess. You’ve seen my second ex, Barney, around town, so you’ve probably figured out that he’s sort of a head case. When I married him three years ago, I had just moved here from California. I wanted to get away from my first ex-husband, Bill, and Blanco was perfect for me, because my hometown was just as small, just as friendly.” Louise paused and reached over to the nightstand for a cigarette. “So while I was married to Barney, I found out what a strange guy he is.”

  “How so?”

  “Kinda paranoid and, I don’t know, out of touch with reality. He was always asking me about my first husband. At first, I thought it was jealousy, but then one night he got drunk and told me that he knew my first husband was rich. I told him he was crazy, but he wouldn’t give in. He demanded to see a picture of him but I didn’t have one. He asked me where I kept all the money I must have gotten in my first divorce. Don’t I wish! Even during our divorce, Barney was hounding me constantly, and he even hired a private investigator to track down Bill. No luck.”

  “He definitely sounds a little goofy,” Marlin said. “But why are you telling me all this now? You’ve been divorced for a while now.”

  “He’s been calling and leaving messages on my answering machine, saying that he wants his share. He told me that his lawyer said he should try to get it before I get married again and—quote—’really cause a cluster-fuck.’” She stared Marlin in the eye.

  “Oh, now I get it. You’re thinking that ol’ Barney might try to keep us from getting married.” Once again they burst into laughter. When they stopped, Louise spoke again.

  “Actually, I have to admit that I’ve worried about it a little more than that. I’m afraid that he might try to hurt you.”

  Oh, perfect, Marlin thought. A jealous ex-husband. A mentally confused ex-husband. “What the hell’s wrong with this guy, anyway? Why’s he think you’re rich?”

  “I told you, it’s my first husband, Bill.”

  “What about him?”

  “His last name is Gates.”

  Phil Colby stepped slowly backward as Moe and Curly came through the door.

  “Sit down over there,” Moe barked, gesturing toward a chair next to the desk. He was using a fake voice—-a silly rumble that sounded like a combination of Darth Vader and the bass singer from the Statler Brothers.

  Colby sat down slowly. “What the hell is going on? This some kind of dumb joke?”

  “No joke, boy.”

  Colby immediately thought of the Clovis points. “You can take all the arrowheads you want, but it won’t do you any good. They’ve been microscopically inscribed and you’ll never be able to sell them.”

  “Now, what would we want with a bunch of rocks? No sir, we’re looking for something a lot more valuable.” Moe paused for dramatic effect—a trick he’d learned from Matlock—and stared at Colby. Colby stared back.

  “What we want is the deer you’ve been hiding. And if you just tell us where it is, we won’t have any trouble.”

  “I assume you’re talking about the buck from the Circle S.”

  Moe nodded.

  “Last I knew, John Marlin had him. Then he jumped the fence.”

  Moe shook his head. “Bullshit. We know all about that pet deer of yours. He didn’t run off, you’ve got him hidden somewhere. Now, I’m gonna count to five, and you better tell me where it is so I won’t have to get nasty.”

  “You really think you can do it?” Colby asked.

  “Find the deer?”

  “No, count to five.”

  Curly tried to stifle a laugh but a giggle squeaked out. Moe fixed him with a baleful glare, then turned his attention back to Colby. “Very funny, smart guy. But you won’t think it’s funny if I have to use this gun.”

  “I think there’s something you need to know,” Colby said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s a pellet gun.”

  Red clenched his teeth. This was not going at all the way he had planned. Why did things always have to be so complicated? He decided to try another tack. “Listen up, Colby. You and I both know the rack on that deer is worth a lot of money. But the thing is, he’s worth even more alive. You do this nice and easy and that buck of yours just might not end up hanging on my wall.” He could tell from Colby’s face that he was having some effect. “All I’m trying to do is return it to the rightful owner. But if you give us trouble, I just may have to keep that deer for myself.”

  Colby opened his mouth to speak and then paused. He looked over at the desk. “In the bottom drawer you’ll find a ring with the key to my barn. That’s where he is.”

  Red smiled like a sailor in a whorehouse. Finally! Now all they’d have to do is tie Colby up while they collected the buck. And then the money. Yes, life was good for Red O’Brien. “You heard him, Billy Don … uh, I mean Curly. Grab that key and let’s get out of here.”

  Billy Don Craddock lumbered over to the desk, bent low, and yanked the bottom drawer open.

  9

  THE BRAIN OF Maggie the snake functioned on a very basic level. Her single goal in life was to survive. Thus Maggie looked forward to her weekly feedings of live mice, generously dropped into her cage by Phil Colby and Junior Barstow. Like an unintentional Skinnerian experiment, Maggie had begun to equate each man’s unique scent to the delivery of food.

  Unfortunately for Billy Don Craddock, he smelled nothing like Colby or Barstow. So, mere milliseconds after Billy Don opened the drawer and began rummaging around for the nonexistent key ring, Maggie decided to plant her fangs firmly into Billy Don’s forearm without so much as a warning rattle.

  Red was surprised to hear Billy Don let out a shriek as he was reaching into the desk drawer. He was even more surprised to see Billy Don jump backward with a rather large rattlesnake attached to his arm.

  “Red, git this thing offa me!” Billy Don bellowed as he started swinging his arm in circles.
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br />   Colby took a chance and bolted for the door, but Red stuck a foot out and tripped him. Colby’s head slammed solidly against the door frame.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Red yelled. Billy Don was now holding his bloody arm and the snake was nowhere to be seen. Both men stepped over Colby and ran out the open door into the night.

  Five minutes later, Maggie emerged from under the desk and curled up beside the familiar man unconscious on the floor.

  “Hello?” Marlin said in gruff voice. It was six A.M. Monday morning and he wasn’t too fond of receiving early-morning phone calls. It usually meant someone was reporting a poacher or a wounded animal that he would have to deal with. Not this time.

  “John, it’s Junior.”

  Marlin sat up quickly in bed. He couldn’t remember ever receiving a call from Barstow. “What’s up, Junior?”

  “Bad news. I came in early this morning to get ready for deer season and I found Phil in the office unconscious.”

  Marlin’s heart thudded. “What? Is he all right?”

  “The chopper just took him away. They’re flying him down to San Antone.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s what the deputies are wondering. There’s no sign of intruders—nothin’s missing—but he thumped his head pretty good. He coulda slipped, but …”

  Marlin was way ahead of him. This was not an accident, and pangs of guilt turned Marlin’s stomach queasy. He never should have given Buck back to Colby. Roy Swank was a man who was used to getting his way and he didn’t care how he did it. They’d all known that ever since he moved to Blanco County.

  “Listen, John. I know all about the deer. I figure I better go over to Phil’s place and tend to him.”

  “No, sir. Swank’s tied into all this somehow, and whoever has that deer could be in for trouble.”

  “Ain’t never been any trouble that Junior Barstow couldn’t handle. Now just you relax and leave it to me.”

  “Junior, I really appreciate that, and I’m sure Phil would, too. But it’s me who has to deal with it. I promise to call you if I need anything, all right?”

  Barstow sighed and agreed. “I never was one to argue with a game warden.”

  Bobby Garza tried the phone number early Monday morning. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say if anyone answered. Certainly not: Oh, good morning. I just wanted to let you know that I found your phone number on a dead man’s hand.

  But there was no answer after ten rings. Garza hung up and then dialed the operator, identifying himself as a Blanco County deputy. “I’ve been trying a number and getting no answer. Maybe you could give me some information on it?”

  “What’s the number, sir?”

  Garza recited it and could hear the operator punching it into a keyboard. After a few seconds, the operator said, “I’m afraid that’s a pay phone, sir.”

  Damn! Just the kind of thing he was dreading. “Okay, thanks anyway.” Garza was prepared to give up on the number when he had a brainstorm. The exchange for Johnson City was 555, and he had immediately assumed that the phone number on the corpse’s hand was a 555 number. But the exchange for nearby Dripping Springs, east of Johnson City in Hays County, was 556. A six could certainly be mistaken for a five, especially when you consider the writing surface in this case. So he tried the number again using the 556 prefix.

  A young man answered on the third ring.

  Garza responded: “This is Deputy Bobby Garza with the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Uh, Willie Combes. You must have the wrong number.” Combes sounded like a misplaced surfer from the beaches of Malibu. A regular Jeff Spiccoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

  “Actually, Willie, I need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I come by for a minute?”

  “Like, what’s this all about?”

  “Just routine stuff.” Garza didn’t want to show his hand just yet. “You live in Dripping Springs, right?”

  “Dude, you’re really on the wrong track here.”

  “I probably am, Willie. But if so, we can get this cleared up and I’ll be out of your hair.” Garza was sure Willie had plenty of hair. Probably a dark tan and sandals, too.

  “Can’t you even tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’d prefer to do that in person. Now, if you’ll just give me your address, I can come over and we’ll straighten this out.”

  “No warrants, right?”

  Garza thought, This kid definitely knows something. That’s the kind of question only a guilty person would ask. “No, Willie, I promise. No warrants.” Not yet, anyway.

  Tim Gray, the veterinarian, was accustomed to working on animals. Humans were another matter. Especially for something as serious as a snake bite. But Swank had called Gray first thing Monday morning and ordered him to get over to Red O’Brien’s mobile home pronto.

  “Doc, it hurts real bad,” Billy Don moaned.

  Gray surveyed Billy Don’s arm, which was now the size of a watermelon. “Well, why the hell did you wait so long to get medical attention? You could be dead by now.”

  “We had to go get the deer outta the barn at Colby’s place. And Red told me tequila would take care of it anyhow.” He glared at Red, who was sprawled on the sofa, still recovering from their impromptu celebration the night before.

  “Just hold still and I’ll fix you up.”

  Gray scanned the bottle of antivenin. The first thing he saw was a warning that said: FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY. Oh well. He himself had tried plenty of pharmaceuticals that had that same warning.

  The bottle listed a recommended dose for dogs up to one hundred pounds. Gray wondered: How much do you use for an animal that weighs about the same as a grand piano? He decided to triple the amount on the label.

  Gray expected a moan from Billy Don when he inserted the needle—this big man was proving to be quite a complainer—but Billy Don didn’t even wince. Bad sign. Billy Don had lost feeling in his arm.

  “All right,” Gray said, “That should help with the swelling and prevent heart failure.”

  Billy Don’s face immediately turned an ashen color. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what snake venom does. First, you get necrosing tissue. That means it pretty much rots and falls off. Then you go into shock, which causes respiratory failure and heart failure. Your ticker just plain gives out.”

  Billy Don’s eyes got as big as pool balls. Gray figured that if Billy Don was going to die, he would already be gone by now. But he was actually enjoying tormenting him. It was kind of fun dealing with a patient who could talk.

  Gray packed all his things back into his bag and turned to the two men. “All right, boys. Now let’s have a look at that deer.”

  John Marlin had plenty of time to think while he drove to the hospital in San Antonio. Obviously something was going on with Buck. Something important enough to land two men in the hospital in a matter of days. But this time, it was his best friend. Marlin decided it was time to quit playing hide-and- seek with the deer and confront Swank directly. Or he might have a face-to-face chat with Sheriff Mackey, try to rattle his cage a little. The sheriff had close ties to Swank, and he had seemed awfully intent on getting the deer back for him. Could be that Mackey knew what was going on.

  By the time Marlin arrived at the hospital, a light drizzle had begun to fall. He pulled into the parking garage and found a spot marked FOR EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. One of the perks of the job.

  Marlin crossed the elevated walkway to the hospital and proceeded to the front desk. An employee told him Colby was in room 211. Intensive Care. Right away, Marlin’s sense of guilt came back. His best friend was in serious condition with a closed head wound, and he couldn’t help but feel responsible.

  He tapped lightly on the door, expecting no response, but a gentle female voice told him to come in. Marlin swung the door open and met familiar eyes. Becky Cameron, the nurse who had taken care of Trey Sweeney, was in t
he room tending to Phil Colby. She did a double take when she saw who the visitor was. “Hello again, Mr. Marlin.”

  Marlin noticed that she had remembered his name. He nodded to her. “Miss Cameron, please call me John.”

  “If you’ll call me Becky. What brings you here today?” Becky asked. Then her eyes got wide. “Don’t tell me this is a friend of yours, too?”

  Marlin nodded. “It hasn’t been a good week.”

  Marlin walked over to the bed and was shocked at what he saw. Phil lay motionless, eyes closed. He looked pale and much too thin. A small machine that monitored Colby’s vital signs beeped and blinked at the bedside. Marlin decided to take a seat in a chair next to the bed before his knees gave out on him.

  Moments passed, and Marlin had all but forgotten about the nurse, when she spoke again.

  “John, I’m really sorry to see you here again, in these circumstances.” She stepped closer to the chair. “If there’s anything I can do …”

  Marlin smiled at her and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “He’s my best friend. Has been since kindergarten.”

  Becky wrapped herself with her arms, as if she was suddenly cold. Marlin could even see tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Please, just let me know what I can do,” she said. “I can get you extended visiting hours if you like. I could probably even get another bed in here if you want to stay.”

  Marlin nodded and turned back toward Phil.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” Becky said as she turned toward the door.

  “There is one thing you could do for me,” Marlin called after her.

  “What’s that?”

  “Have lunch with me.”

  The room was dimly lit, but Marlin thought he saw Becky blush. She glanced at her watch and looked up with a small smile. “You have perfect timing. My lunch hour just began. I’ll grab my purse and be right back.”