Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Small town.”

  “That’s right. I recognized the guy behind you, too, in that Jaguar.”

  “Lester Davies,” I said.

  “You know him?”

  “Not really. My father-in-law does business with him.”

  “They say that man’s richer than God.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  Rydell opened the cooler, removed the last two Buds and handed one to me. I was getting a buzz from the sudden beer. The throbbing in my head seemed to be subsiding.

  “You know all those rich bastards,” he said.

  “A lot of them. Through my wife’s family. The country club. But I guess that’s all over now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Apparently, I’m getting divorced. And I got fired today, too.”

  “Busy day.”

  “You said it.”

  He poured more beer down his gullet and stifled a gentle burp.

  “What’re you gonna do for money, if Bart Honeydew’s cut you off?”

  “Move, I guess. Find a job somewhere.”

  “That’s too bad,” Rydell said. “We need more folks such as yourself around here. Smart fellas who know how to keep their mouths shut.”

  I kept my mouth shut. Proving him right.

  “You know, there are economic opportunities available in this burg, if you’re not too hung up to take advantage of them.”

  What was he getting at? What opportunities? Was he offering me a job?

  “I couldn’t do anything illegal,” I said. “I don’t have the nerve for it.”

  Rydell smiled. Sunglasses still hid his eyes.

  “You get used to it.”

  “Not me. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

  “Laws are flexible,” he said. “We pick and choose which ones make sense. Only suckers obey them all.”

  “Guess I’m a sucker then.”

  “I’m told you smoke marijuana. That’s against the law. I’m guessing you do a fair amount of drunk driving, too.”

  I would’ve objected to those inferences if they hadn’t been true.

  “You probably break the speed limit on occasion,” he said. “Cheat on your taxes. Improperly dispose of dead batteries. Those are all laws, but it’s more convenient to disobey them. At that particular moment, it’s worth the risk to you.”

  I shrugged and gulped beer.

  “I’m willing to accept more risk than most people, particularly when it comes to commerce,” Rydell said. “Folks around here need moonshine and marijuana and pharmaceuticals to get through their miserable day-to-day lives. I fill that need. I’m a businessman, just like your father-in-law or Lester Davies or the big shots at Wal-Mart.”

  I nodded, but he didn’t seem to need prompting.

  “The law protects old crooks like Lester Davies, but persecutes people like me, who are only giving the public what they want. That’s why I’m careful in all my dealings. It’s why I make sure boys like you stay smart.”

  I started to deliver more assurances, but Rydell’s attention was on his mirrors.

  “Aw, what’s this?”

  I looked out the back windows. A bald guy with a silver beard, a big paunch and skinny white legs picked his way through the weeds in flip-flops.

  As he approached, he called out, “Move along! You can’t park here!”

  Rydell stared straight ahead as the old guy filled his window.

  “You can’t park here. This is private property.”

  Rydell said, “You own it?”

  “What? No, I don’t own it. I live over there.”

  “Then it’s none of your business who parks here.”

  “Yes, it is,” the bearded man insisted. “I’m with Neighborhood Watch.”

  “They pay you?”

  “I’m a volunteer.”

  Rydell looked him up and down.

  “Unless you volunteered for an ass-whipping, you’d better shut your mouth and run along home.”

  The neighbor blinked. Started to say something more, then thought better of it. He hurried back the way he’d come.

  After he reached a safe distance, he shouted, “I’m calling the police!”

  Rydell, watching the man in his mirrors, muttered, “Dickhead.”

  He turned to me and said, “More dickheads moving into Redding all the time. When I was in high school, I could park on this same spot and nobody gave a shit. Hardly any houses up here then. You could look out over the lights of town, have a few drinks, steam up the windows boning your girlfriend. It was nice.

  “All these big-city people move in and build their dream houses and suddenly they’re concerned about privacy and property and keeping the rednecks out of sight. I spend a lot of time thinking of ways to make the rich cocksuckers pay for messing up my hometown.”

  He cranked the engine.

  “I feel the same way,” I said, “about the civic boosters at the country club. Most of ‘em dumb as a bag of hammers, but they’re all rich. How is that fair?”

  “I hear you,” Rydell said.

  He backed the van across the grass and up onto the road. As we passed the bald neighbor, Rydell hung his arm out the window and flipped him the bird.

  We didn’t say much as we traveled west on Redwood Avenue, going the same direction as the last ride of Butch Gentry. When we reached the intersection by The Busted Nut, Rydell said under his breath, “Twenty-five thousand dollars. My, my.”

  He might’ve looked over at me. I kept facing forward, staring at the Corvette’s landing spot.

  We went uphill on Pine, turned into the bank parking lot, and stopped near my truck. Rydell dipped fingers into the pocket of his chambray shirt, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to me.

  “That’s my cell,” he said. “Things get too rough, give me a call. I don’t want you to get so desperate that you start thinking about that reward.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  Rydell’s two-toned mustache twitched. “You’re a smart boy, right?”

  I nodded, but I put his number in my pocket. How smart was that?

  Chapter 22

  Friday morning, I slept late in my own bed, which was warm and soft and pleasantly Darlene-free. I walked around the house in my boxer shorts – no one there to complain – made strong coffee and carried a cup into the bathroom with me.

  According to the mirror, the night’s rest had done me good. My usual rosy color was back, and the circles under my eyes were less pronounced. I was on the mend.

  My head felt clearer, too. I’d stayed off the booze the night before. After my beery ride with Rydell Vance, I’d picked up a couple of joints from Cody at the construction site. Marijuana and a long sleep in the comfort of my own home had seemed the proper prescription. I was out before the sun finished setting.

  Now here it was, a new day, and I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself.

  I had nowhere I needed to be. No job. No chores. No responsibilities. Felt sort of freeing, until I remembered I also had no money, no plan and no prospects.

  I shaved, showered and hunted up some old jeans and a black T-shirt from a long-ago Grateful Dead concert. Once I was properly caffeinated, I sat at the kitchen counter and dialed Honeydew Construction. The receptionist had instructions not to let me through to Bart, but I pleaded and wheedled until she gave in. I figured a little begging was a nice warm-up for what was to come.

  Here’s the way my father-in-law answered the phone: “What the hell do you want, Eric?”

  I didn’t let that rattle me.

  “Good morning, sir. We need to talk.”

  “I told you to stay away from Darlene.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  “Let me get this straight: You were standing around outdoors in your underwear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why would you do that? What’s the matter with you, boy?”

  “It was hot.”

  He
muttered something about my smart mouth, but I let it go.

  “So I’m leaving Darlene alone,” I said, “and I’m talking to you instead. Let’s work out some kind of settlement. I’ll walk away, let her keep the house and everything. You give me a grubstake so I can get started in a new life. Fair?”

  “I’m not giving you a goddamned thing.”

  “Be reasonable. Nobody wants the kind of drawn-out divorce that gets names in the newspaper.”

  Silence for a few seconds, then he said, “You think I give a shit whether you go away happy? You can’t scare me. I’ve got more lawyers on retainer than you could afford in your entire lifetime.”

  “I only need one to drag it out forever. Lots of small-timers would gamble on getting part of your fortune.”

  “Good luck finding one. I know every lawyer in this town. You’ll have to bring in somebody from outside the area, and you can’t afford that.”

  “I can’t afford anything,” I said. “That’s what I’m telling you. I need some kind of settlement. I’m not moving out of this house until I get it.”

  “What are you going to live on?”

  “I’ll get another job.”

  “Not in Redding. Once I put the word out, you’ll be poison.”

  “I’ll commute to Chico. There’ll be something.”

  “Not for you,” he said.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t we work this out?”

  “You had a golden opportunity, Eric. You could’ve learned from me, lived a proper life, and inherited the whole world. You could’ve been the son I never had. But you wasted it.”

  “I never meant—”

  “I can’t abide any more of your weaseling. I want you out of Darlene’s life, out of my life. Pack your shit and get out of Northern California.”

  “Half this house belongs to me. I’ll be damned if I walk away from it with nothing.”

  “It doesn’t belong to you,” Bart said. “You think I pay the property taxes every year out of the kindness of my heart? I called that house a gift, but my name’s on all the paperwork. I own it.”

  Took me a minute to swallow that.

  “Everything you think you own belongs to me,” he said. “Your house, your truck, Darlene’s car. All in my name. I never trusted you, Eric.”

  I ground my teeth so hard that I gave myself an instant headache.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You can have that truck. I’ll sign it over to you. Pack your clothes and get in your truck and drive away from Redding.”

  “But I—”

  “We’re not negotiating. That’s my final offer. And you’d better hurry and pack. As soon as I hang up this phone, I’m calling Chief Drake to have you escorted off my property. I expect he’ll make that a priority. He doesn’t seem to like you much, either.”

  What could I say to that? He was right.

  “I ever find you anywhere near Redding again,” he said, “there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Click.

  Chapter 23

  The ashtray I’d used the night before sat within reach on the kitchen counter. I dug out the roaches and burned my fingertips sucking the last little buzz out of them. Then I reeled over to the sink and washed my hands and patted my hair.

  Pot smoke hung in the air, but I didn’t care. Wasn’t my house. Why should I care if it smelled of smoke? I didn’t care if it burned to the fucking ground.

  I went into the bedroom, threw open the closet doors and looked inside. Most of Darlene’s clothes still hung there. I considered taking a knife to all the pretty dresses and silky blouses, leave her something to remember me by, but even I wasn’t that big a shitheel. Instead, I opened two suitcases on the unmade bed and started tossing my clothes into them. Maybe, while I kept busy with that, something would come to me, a way to squeeze the Honeydews for some traveling money.

  I was mostly packed when the doorbell rang. I padded barefoot across the great room, waving my arms at the still-hanging smoke, and answered the door.

  Police Chief V.J. Drake blocked the sunlight like a full eclipse.

  For a second, I entertained the notion of slamming the door and running. Instead, I said something stupid and welcoming and he bulled his way through the doorway.

  He wasn’t ten feet inside before he stiffened all over, sniffing the scorched ganja in the air. Slowly, he turned. I tried to keep my expression serious, but I felt glassy-eyed and grinny.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that Bart’s already talked to you.”

  I nodded.

  “You all packed?”

  “Almost.”

  “Show me.”

  I led him to the bedroom, where the suitcases sprawled open, sleeves hanging out every which way. The bags looked like they’d been packed by a retarded chimp.

  “Kind of a neatnik, aren’t you?”

  I snickered through my nose. Nothing says “stoner” like that hissing laugh.

  The police chief hooked his thumbs in his belt and watched while I zipped the bags closed. I stepped into my penny loafers without bothering with socks.

  I turned toward Drake, awaiting his orders.

  “Where you gonna go?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Darlene’s taken all my cash. She’s probably canceling my credit cards, too.”

  Drake fingered his scar-tissue ear, thinking. “Twenty-five thousand dollars sure would come in handy.”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t that stoned.

  “I get the feeling,” he said, “that you know something more about Butch Gentry’s death. Something you’re not telling me.”

  “I told you everything.”

  “Maybe there is something else and you don’t realize you saw it. If we could uncover it, you could get your hands on that reward.”

  And, I thought, my life wouldn’t be worth spit. I’d join the other corpses Rydell Vance buried in the woods.

  “Have you ever been hypnotized?” Drake asked. “There’s a guy here in town, a psychologist, who’s had some success helping witnesses recall things. Maybe he could hypnotize you.”

  “That’s too mumbo-jumbo for me. I don’t want some shrink prowling around inside my head.”

  “Well, I can’t make you do it. Not without a court order.”

  “There’s nothing anyway,” I said. “I’ve told you everything I saw.”

  “Maybe so.”

  I dragged my bags off the bed and hefted one in either hand, ready to go.

  Drake looked me over. “Can I trust that you haven’t taken any valuables? There’s nothing in those suitcases that belongs to Bart Honeydew?”

  “Just clothes and toiletries. I don’t want anything else from this house.”

  He held open the front door so I could squeeze through with the bags. I set them down outside and turned back to lock up the house.

  “That’s it? You don’t want to take a last look around?”

  “Nothing to see here,” I said.

  I carried the bags over to my truck, pitched them inside and climbed behind the wheel. Drake stood watching me the whole time.

  “You’re just gonna drive away. Without looking back.”

  “That’s right, Chief.”

  And that’s what I did.

  Chapter 24

  I spent the rest of the morning at the same downtown diner where I’d whiled away the day before. The nine-fingered waitress kept giving me her best flirty smile.

  I slugged down coffee and watched the traffic outside. Snowbirds and couriers and truckers and working stiffs. People with jobs to go to, errands to run. People with destinations.

  Me, I was running out of options. I could stay at Cody’s for a few days while I waited for my final paycheck, but then what? Drive off into the sunset with nothing more than gas money and a pickup that says “Honeydew Construction Co.” on the sides?

  My phone sat next to my elbow, beside the slip of paper with Rydell Vance’s phone number. It took a while, but I finally worked up the courage to dia
l.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “About those economic opportunities you mentioned.”

  “Your problems have gotten worse,” Rydell guessed.

  “I’ve been evicted. Without a dime. Everything I own is in my truck.”

  “That’s a tough one,” he said. “You need a place to stay?”

  “What? No. Thanks, but no. I’d rather just get enough money to split. Bart said there’ll be trouble if he finds out I’m in the vicinity.”

  “You gonna let him run you out of town?”

  “Don’t see that I have much choice. Nothing for me here now anyway. I’ve lost everything.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Might be best to get a fresh start.”

  “That’s what I have in mind.”

  I waited for him to make an offer. This is what it’s come to, I thought. I’m auctioning off my own departure. If somebody will make a bid, I’ll go away.

  Rydell didn’t take the bait. Silence from his end of the phone, though I got the feeling he might be smiling at my discomfort.

  “Chief Drake himself did the evicting,” I said finally. “He made more noise about that reward, trying to tempt me.”

  Nothing. I could hear my own heartbeat.

  “We talked about this reward,” he said finally. “I thought that was settled.”

  “Absolutely. I keep telling Drake there’s nothing more to tell about Butch’s death.”

  “Good call.”

  “But he keeps coming back. He even asked if I’d let myself be hypnotized. I need to get out of town before he can take another crack at me.”

  Another long silence. Then he said, “Why don’t you come out to the house, and we’ll talk it over?”

  Chapter 25

  I was jumpy as a scalded frog on my way to Rydell’s place. The closer I got, the more certain I became that he had no intention of paying me off. He was luring me out here to kill me, and I was driving right into the trap.

  My only bargaining chip was the fact that I was a witness. A needy witness caught in a downward spiral of a life gone wrong. Wasn’t a missing witness always preferable to a risky one? Wasn’t a dead witness best?