Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  Alone, Marlin stood and looked down at Phil. He reached out and grabbed his hand. It was warm, just like it should be, but there was no life to it. No response at all.

  All this for a fucking deer, Marlin thought. Hell, we shoot deer just like Buck every year, Phil. So why did you have to get so attached to this one? Was he worth this much trouble?

  Marlin gave Phil’s hand a squeeze and then went to wait for Becky Cameron in the hall.

  10

  “IT’S BASICALLY A light coma,” Becky said while waiting for her enchilada plate to arrive. “What that means is, Phil doesn’t need any life-support devices. He can breathe just fine on his own. Brain activity is normal. It’s just that his brain had too much pressure on it from cerebral hemorrhage. But everything is stable and we’re monitoring him very carefully. As soon as the body reabsorbs the blood, he should come out of it just fine.” She gave Marlin a smile meant to comfort. The man was obviously concerned over his friend’s condition—he almost acted as if he was responsible.

  Marlin nodded and took a big drink of iced tea. But he didn’t smile or act relieved.

  “John, do you know how long the average coma patient remains unconscious?”

  Marlin looked a little startled, and Becky wondered if she was being a little too matter-of-fact. Life as a nurse sometimes left you a little less than sensitive in situations such as this. Health emergencies become an everyday circumstance, and one begins to talk about them in the same manner as describing a trip to the mall.

  Marlin paused for a minute and then said, “I don’t know—six months?”

  Becky shook her head. “A couple of days, that’s all. But everybody sees the movies and soap operas where a person will lie in a coma for months or years. That rarely happens. I’ve seen people in far worse shape than your friend come out of a coma one day and walk out of the hospital the next.”

  Marlin reached across the table and grabbed Becky’s hand. She hadn’t expected it, and she immediately felt nervous. But it was a good kind of nervous.

  “I appreciate your support, Becky. I really do. If something was to happen … I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Marlin looked Becky straight in the eyes and she was struck by the sincerity she saw in his face. Here’s a man who knows what honesty is about, she thought. He seems so vulnerable, but so powerful at the same time. None of the typical macho crap.

  Marlin opened his mouth to speak again, when the waiter arrived with their lunches. “Enchiladas for the lady and the taco plate for you, sir.”

  As they dug in, Becky said, “You were about to say something….”

  Marlin looked down at his plate and smiled. “Just wanted to say thank you again. For taking care of Phil. And for going to lunch with me.”

  For Nurse Becky Cameron, enchiladas had never tasted so good.

  Bobby Garza followed McGregor Road one mile north of Highway 290, then turned left on the dirt driveway like Willie Combes had told him. At the head of the driveway, a rusty mailbox proudly announced COMBES to anyone who was interested.

  As he approached the house, a mobile home sitting on twenty or thirty cedar-covered acres, Garza thought maybe Willie was a local after all. Not many newcomers live out in the sticks like this, and the ones that do are Californians who pay three hundred grand or more for beautiful hilltop homes.

  Garza swung his cruiser up next to an old Buick and climbed out. Four dogs immediately began barking in a pen next to the mobile home.

  Garza had seen homes like this plenty of times, both in Blanco County and here, to the east, in Hays County.

  A satellite dish sat atop the mobile home. Two old refrigerators sat on the front porch next to a plaid sofa. No fewer than six rusting vehicles were clustered together in high grass a hundred feet away.

  As the dogs continued to bark, three geese approached Garza and began to make a racket. Garza knew from experience to keep an eye on them. They were quick to take a snap at your ankles and could easily draw blood.

  Behind a nearby fence, Garza could see seven or eight goats and several hogs lying in the shade next to a small sheet-metal shed.

  Out from the shed came a hefty, older woman in a floral print dress. She was carrying a galvanized bucket and waved at Garza with her free hand. “Hello! Be right with you.”

  The woman exited through a small gate and walked up to Garza. The dogs and geese fell silent as she approached. “Lordy, it sure is a hot one today.”

  “Yes ma’am, it sure is.” Garza removed his Stetson and said, “Ma’am, I’m Bobby Garza from the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Thelma Combes, glad to meet you.” She extended a pudgy hand, warm and soft, like her voice. She must have been about seventy-five, everyone’s idea of the perfect grandmother. Large and robust, her weight tested the seams of her dress. Bobby’s dad used to spot a woman like that and say she was smuggling grapefruits.

  Garza said, “I was looking for Willie….”

  Thelma Combes’ face got a worried look. “Uh-oh, is that boy in trouble again?”

  “I don’t know at this point. I just need to ask him a few questions. Has he been in trouble before?”

  “Ever since he started smoking that pot weed, he hasn’t been quite the same. My daughter sent him out to me to see if I could straighten him out. As you can see, I’m the one doing his chores, so I haven’t had a lot of luck.”

  “You’re his grandmother?”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t easy.”

  Garza smiled. “No, ma’am, I’m sure it’s not. Is Willie somewhere around?”

  “He’s in the house. Willie!” She shrieked loudly enough to startle Garza and quiet all the birds in nearby trees. “Willie! You got a gentleman out here that needs to talk to you.”

  They both stared at the trailer door. After a moment, a scraggly teenager emerged.

  “Willie, I’m gonna get right to it.” Garza and Willie Combes were sitting on a picnic table under some oak trees near the trailer. Garza had already asked Willie about his record.Coupla misdemeanors is all, Willie had said. Both for possession of marijuana. No big deal. Garza could sense that he wasn’t dealing with a bad kid. Just your average confused youth. The kind who was slow to answer questions, but not clever enough to lie his way out of trouble. Garza continued: “We found a dead body buried in a bridge over at Mucho Loco. You know where that is?”

  Willie nodded.

  “So far, we’re not sure what the cause of death is—but we don’t think there was any foul play.”

  Willie nodded again.

  Garza looked Willie straight in the eye. “The dead man had your phone number written on his hand.”

  Willie looked at the ground. If he wasn’t involved, he’d be smiling by now, knowing he was free and clear.

  “Willie, before you answer my next question, let me tell you a little something about the way the judicial system works.” Garza paused and took a drink of the iced tea Thelma had brought him. A very kind woman, bless her heart.

  “Sometimes folks get involved with stuff they don’t want to be involved in. Their first inclination is to cover it up, get out of it somehow. You know what happens? They end up in way more trouble than they would have gotten into in the first place. Now, my guess is that this guy somehow died—through nobody’s fault—and someone got nervous and did something a little stupid with the body. If that’s the case, I really don’t see where anybody would get into any trouble at all.”

  Willie looked back at the trailer anxiously. “I really, really don’t want to get screwed around on this deal. I didn’t do anything wrong, too much.”

  Garza nodded, thinking: Sure, Willie, nothing wrong at all. Other than illegally disposing of a corpse and failing to report a death. “Tell me what happened, Willie, and I think everything’s gonna work out just fine.”

  Willie took a deep breath. “The guy you found—his name’s Michael. I worked with him on the surveying crew.”

  “Was he from around here?
”

  “No, Austin.”

  That would explain why Garza hadn’t heard about a missing person.

  “He came over one night and we were drinking…”

  “And getting high?”

  “Yeah. See, Michael had asthma that would bother him some when we were out in the field. He’d have to sit for a while and catch his breath. And he had an inhaler that he used sometimes. But he’d still get high, saying that it actually made it easier to breathe. So we smoked a joint and I noticed that it tasted a little funny at first. Michael did, too. But by the time we were done, we didn’t even notice it anymore. Then we smoked another one later. Michael used his inhaler a few times, and it seemed like he was getting a little sick … out of breath … but he said pot never did this to him, so it must be something in the air. We were smoking our last joint when he really started gasping. I went inside to get him a glass of water, and when I came back, he was just laying there. His eyes were open, but I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.”

  “What’d you do?”

  Willie looked embarrassed. “I felt for a heartbeat. I didn’t find one, so I tried CPR on him.”

  “Are you trained in CPR?”

  Willie shook his head no.

  “Then what?”

  “I started to go inside and get Grandma, but she was asleep. And you got to understand that I was really smashed … between the pot and the beer. So I just went to bed, hoping everything would be cool when I woke up. But in the morning, Michael was still behind the barn, in the same position.”

  Garza resisted a strong urge to grab the kid and shake him like a rag doll. Why on earth hadn’t he even called 911?

  Willie saw the look on Garza’s face. “Man, I was really freakin’. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I just knew I’d get in trouble for somethin’. It had to be something wrong with the weed. So I knew I had to do something with Michael.”

  “And that’s where the bridge at Mucho Loco comes in?”

  Willie nodded.

  “You buried him and just forgot about it all?” Garza asked incredulously.

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Call for an ambulance, that’s what!” Garza stared at Combes, but the kid wouldn’t meet his eyes. “All right, Willie, last question: Where did you get the pot?”

  “Aw, man …”

  “I’m not kidding about this. Tell me where you got it or I’ll take you in right now.”

  Willie sighed and finally said, “His name is Charles Walznick.”

  11

  THE COLOMBIAN MAN had been in Texas several times, but he had never been to Johnson City.

  And from what he had seen so far, he had already made a vow not to come back. Nothing but pickup trucks and rednecks, as far as he could determine. Couple of mom-and-pop restaurants, nothing that looked too promising. The obligatory Dairy Queen. Even a couple of small hotels on the main strip. Every building in town could use a coat of paint, except for the courthouse. It was made of stone. Just like other small towns in Texas, hardly more than a wide spot in the road.

  The man pulled into Big Joe’s Restaurant, hoping the crowded parking lot was a sign of good food. He hated the thought of having to sit down and eat in the midst of a bunch of yokels, but he was getting hungry and couldn’t wait any longer.

  He squeezed his rented Cadillac between a rusty Ford truck and a Chevy Suburban. Tight spot. He was already picturing how he’d have to fuck up some hick if he came out and found a scratch on this nice car.

  He walked through the door and a cute brunet girl was waiting for him, asking if it would be just him for dinner. She sat him down at a small table and gave him a big smile. He smiled back. Maybe this wouldn’t be all that bad. He felt pretty sure she was impressed by his linen jacket, which was imported from France. Nice Italian shoes, too. Slicked-back hair with two-hundred-dollar shades perched on his head. Impeccably groomed mustache. Sure, there was plenty for a girl to smile about.

  Scanning the menu, the man started to groan inside. Christ, don’t they have anything here that isn’t fried in fat? Chicken-fried steak. Chicken-fried chicken. Deep-fried okra. He imagined they’d fry the pecan pie if they could find a way. When the brunet girl came back, he ordered the chicken-salad sandwich.

  “Thass not fried, ees it?” he asked, flirting a little, thinking the girl might like his accent. He was a regular Ricardo Montalban.

  She didn’t catch the sarcasm. “No, sir. But you might want to try the chicken-fried steak. Best in town.”

  He told her he’d stick with the sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

  The man glanced around the dining room and observed the crowd. Lots of guys in jeans and boots, colorful pullover shirts and cowboy hats. Plenty of women and young girls, too, dressed for a night on the town, it looked like.

  The brunet brought his iced tea and he asked if something was going on in town.

  “Big volleyball game tonight against Marble Falls. If we win, we take district.”

  “Don’ you play volleyball?”

  “I did, but I graduated last year.”

  “Bet you were the star player, with long legs like that.” The man looked her up and down and the girl gave him an embarrassed smile.

  She was about to reply when a young man, barely drinking age, caught her eye from a few tables over. He was shaking an empty beer bottle at her, asking for another round. She excused herself and went into a back room.

  The man glanced over at the impatient customer’s table. Four local men—boys, really—were hunched over plates hidden by enormous slabs of chicken-fried steak. They all wore workshirts and boots. About a dozen beer bottles were assembled into a pyramid in the center of the table.

  The girl came back with another round for the young men. The one who had shaken his bottle at her—Mr. Impatient—said something to her. The Colombian man couldn’t hear it, but he could sense tension between the waitress and the young punk. The customer said something else and then glared over at the Colombian.

  As the man ate his sandwich, the crowd thinned. Nearly eight o’clock, time for the game. By the time he was done, he was alone in the room with the beer drinkers and a few older couples.

  The waitress brought his check and the man gestured toward Mr. Impatient. “You know that guy?”

  The waitress looked embarrassed. “Ex-boyfriend. Thank goodness.”

  The Colombian tried to flirt one last time. “Wass there to do in this town on a Monday night?”

  “There’s the River Ballroom, if you like two-steppin’, but that won’t really get going until after the game.”

  “Perhaps you and I could get together.… Maybe you teach me lessons to do this two-step.…” The man gave her his best pickup smile.

  She was clearly uneasy, glancing over at the locals. She said she couldn’t make it tonight, thanks anyway, but she was in charge of cleanup.

  Well, it was worth a shot. Time to find out which hotel was the least objectionable and get a room for the evening.

  He laid a twenty on the table to cover his twelve-dollar tab and drained the last of his iced tea. Then he heard a voice.

  “Mister, is that your Cadillac out there?”

  The man looked up to see Mr. Impatient standing to his left. He had apparently just come in from outside, and he was folding up a Buck knife, inserting it into a sheath on his belt. The man didn’t reply.

  “Comprende inglés, amigo?” Mr. Impatient said. He smiled over at his friends, still at the table. They were all grinning back at him.

  “I hate to tell you, but it looks like you picked up a nail out on the highway. Got yourself a flat tire. El flatto tiro.”

  Mr. Impatient stood there a moment while the man dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

  He stood without saying a word, nodded to the three locals at the table, and went outside. He could hear laughter as he went out the door.

  The left rear tire was slashed. There was a gaping slit on the sidewall, clearly not the
result of a nail. One word had been traced in the dust on the back window: SPICK.

  Five minutes later, the young men came outside to find the Hispanic man leaning against the only truck left in the parking lot. Mr. Impatient spoke first: “I think you’re a little confused, amigo. Those are my wheels. That’s your Caddy right over there. The one low on air.”

  The man was standing with his arms crossed, so none of the locals noticed the brass knuckles on his right hand. And his hands moved so quickly, they probably never saw them at all. One quick shot to Mr. Impatient’s forehead and it split open like an aging dashboard. He fell to the ground with a yelp as the blood enveloped his face.

  The largest boy in the group took a swing, but the man ducked it and cracked his ribs, feeling the bone give. He, too, dropped like a sack of feed. The two remaining locals took off behind the restaurant.

  The Colombian man slowly took off the brass knuckles and slipped them into his pocket. He reached over and grabbed Mr. Impatient by the hair and pulled hard.

  He said, “My name ees not ‘amigo,’ it ees Oscar. Now which one of you sheetkickers is gonna change my tire?”

  Early Tuesday morning, John Marlin received a call from Thomas Stovall, one of the best rock masons in Central Texas, a hell of a poker player, and a frequent poacher. Marlin knew him quite well, and had written him up for minor infractions several times over the years. But Marlin had to admit, he liked Stovall—he was quick with a joke and entirely honest when he wasn’t hunting.

  “This is a switch, Thomas. You calling me,” Marlin joked. “Usually it’s me trying to track you down.”

  Stovall gave it right back to him. “You know how I like to avoid the law, especially when they’ve got a hard-on for poor country folks like myself.”

  Marlin smiled while Stovall continued. “John, I need to talk to you about something. Actually, I need to show you something.”

  “What you got?”

  “I’d rather show you if I can. Can you swing by my place this morning?” Stovall’s voice sounded urgent.