Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Why don’t you make me?”

  I sighed. Tom-toms banged inside my skull.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m too hungover to argue. Let me drive away, and we can have a nice argument next time I see you.”

  “You being clever?”

  “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

  He squinted at me. His hand absently stroked the pistol.

  “I’ve worked for Rydell for ten years,” he said. “I’m not having some shitass come in late in the game and usurp me.”

  “Usurp?”

  “You try to become the new number two man around here, and I’ll put you in the ground. Do you understand me?”

  “Completely.”

  He gave me the squint again. “I’m not sure you do.”

  I was running out of patience. “I tell you what. Let’s go back in the house and you can make this speech in front of Rydell. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds stupid.”

  “Rydell’s opinion is the only one that matters. While you’re out here, giving me hell, Hubert’s probably in there buffing Rydell’s boots. Hubert’s your competition, not me.”

  Wayne cast a worried glance at the house.

  “I’m just a temporary hire,” I said. “Soon as this job is done, I’m gone.”

  “All right,” Wayne said, distracted now. “Long as we understand each other.”

  He limped off, hurrying, as if he might catch Hubert the Usurper in the act.

  I drove away from there as fast as I could.

  Chapter 35

  Once on the highway, I called Cody’s cell. He was running an errand on the other side of town and offered to meet me halfway for a liquid lunch at The Busted Nut. I would’ve preferred to go straight to his place for some weed, but buying him a beer was the least I could do, considering he was providing me with free room and board.

  “Sorry I never called last night,” I said. “I kinda passed out on somebody’s couch.”

  “That’s happened a lot lately.”

  “Perhaps my life has gone awry.”

  Cody laughed. “I’ll see you at the Nut. Save me a stool.”

  He clicked off. I pocketed my phone and checked my speed. Redding cops often ran radar just inside the city limits. Last thing I needed was the attention of the police. I could see myself cracking under the slightest pressure. That’s what I needed: Get pulled over for speeding, and end up confessing to conspiracy to commit kidnapping.

  I arrived at the Nut fifteen minutes later. In the bright sunlight, the bar looked faded and rundown. Only a few cars and rusty trucks stood in the parking lot. This time of day, most folks were enjoying Sunday dinner with their families. The bar would get busier in the afternoon, when the drunks gathered to watch baseball on the big-screen TV.

  The Corvette scrape on the parking lot was still there. People seemed to avoid parking in that spot. Superstitious.

  The sun-baked asphalt felt like a brownie fresh out of the oven. I hurried into the air-conditioned saloon.

  Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted from the jukebox. “Gimme Three Steps.” That should’ve served as some kind of signal. Such outlaw anthems make rednecks want to stomp their feet, preferably on someone’s head. There was a nasty mood in the air, like when a favorite team loses or the welfare checks are late.

  The good news was that Clorette was behind the bar. A beam of sunshine on the grayest of days. She smacked her gum, all sexy swagger, as she brought me a beer.

  “Eric,” she said dryly. “You’re looking well.”

  “Been a rough weekend.”

  “It’s early yet,” she said. “Plenty of time to salvage it.”

  “Hey, can you do me a favor? Run this credit card and see if it’s still good. I’m afraid my soon-to-be-ex-wife might’ve canceled it.”

  “Sure, honey. You’ve got cash for the beer?”

  “Yeah, but Cody’s coming by. I want to treat him. He’s letting me stay at his place.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “So you and Darlene are quits, huh?”

  I wasn’t aware that Clorette even knew my wife’s name. Then again, how many drunken nights had I spent leaning across this bar, whining and confessing? Clorette probably knew everybody’s secrets.

  “She’s staying with her folks until the divorce is final.”

  “Too bad.” She flipped her blond hair back and slipped me a smile. “At least it’ll be quick. With Bart Honeydew’s lawyers on the job, this will be over before you know it.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about pulling a tooth.”

  “There are similarities,” she said. “Drink up. I’ll go check on this card.”

  She came back a few minutes later with a fresh beer and good news. The MasterCard still worked. I told her to run a tab. And to bring me a shot of tequila.

  The Mexican hooch seemed to reactivate all I’d drunk the night before. My hangover packed its bags and left in a hurry, as if it knew trouble was coming.

  The door opened and bright sunlight penetrated the bar’s dim interior. A figure with broad shoulders and a round head was briefly silhouetted there, then the door shut and we all blinked at the arrival of Cecil Lynch and his tattoos.

  “Hey,” I blurted. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Yeah?” He strolled over, following his taut round belly. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Huh?” I was slow on the uptake. That tequila had been a bad idea.

  “We weren’t done the other night when you walked out of here and that car sailed over your head. I had more to say to you.”

  “Tough. I’ve moved on.”

  His eyes narrowed and he turned his face to the side, as if I’d slapped him. I saw the “CECIL” tattoo. His head needed a shave. The Gothic letters were bristly.

  “What I want to know,” I said, “is why you called Hubert Askew and Wayne Cherry and sicced them on me.”

  I lowered my voice when I said their names, but people still heard. The place had hushed.

  Cecil leaned closer. His breath was like a garbage scow. A wonder he didn’t have seagulls circling his head.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and you can’t prove a damned thing anyhow.”

  “That’s the worst denial I’ve ever heard.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, boy. You fucked me over once. I deserved a little get-back.”

  “I didn’t do anything to—”

  “You fired me from a good job,” he said.

  “You were drunk. You could’ve put a nail through your own foot.”

  “I’d still be able to kick your ass with it.”

  Clorette drifted toward us, and I rolled my eyes at her, as if to say: I won’t stoop to this idiot’s level. She didn’t seem impressed.

  “Look,” I said to Cecil. “Let’s call it even, all right? I fired you. You called Rydell’s people on me. It’s over now. Let’s forget the whole thing.”

  “Fuck that.” His puckered face glowed. “I say let’s go. Right now.”

  “You mean—”

  “You know what I mean, asshole. You and me. I’ll kick your butt and get it out of my system.”

  “I don’t want to fight you—”

  “I’ll bet you don’t,” he snarled. “But you ain’t gotta lotta choice.”

  I looked to Clorette, hoping she’d act as the voice of reason. She said, “Take it outside.”

  A murmur of excitement rippled through the Nut. Bleary alcoholics hurriedly downed their drinks so they could stumble out into the hot sun and watch two idiots in a slugfest. Nobody wanted to miss a second of that action.

  Some faces were familiar, but I didn’t really know anybody in the bar except Clorette, and she was no help. At least one of the customers was a biker friend of Cecil’s, and I needed to keep an eye on him. He was a bulky skinhead called Buick, and he had black tattoos of bold Chinese characters on his neck. I’d always assumed they translated to “American Jackass.”

  Buick was
first to the door. Grinning, he held it open for us.

  Cecil still glared up at me, chewing air with his rotten molars, keeping himself worked up.

  I was getting worked up myself. My breath came hard and blood pounded in my temples. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was Rydell’s influence, but I was tired of people pushing me around.

  “Let’s go,” Cecil said, and he turned on his biker boots and stomped toward the door.

  For a second, I entertained the notion of busting my beer bottle over his departing skull. But others were watching, and the moment passed. I sucked it up and went outside to have my first fistfight since elementary school.

  A dozen drunks formed the traditional ragged circle just outside the door, with Cecil and me in the center. The sunshine was merciless, and several fumbled to clamp sunglasses on their faces.

  The saloon door slammed, and Buick stepped up to plug the last hole in the circle. The men went solemn with anticipation. I felt like leading a prayer.

  “Come on, schoolboy,” Cecil growled. “Take your best shot.”

  Aw, hell.

  I put up my dukes and bobbed side to side, trying to look like a boxer. Cecil stood unmoving, squinting at me like Popeye.

  All right. Here goes nothing.

  I jabbed at his face. Kind of a weak jab, hesitant. Cecil slipped the punch, stepped inside and sank a fist in my stomach.

  Okay, that really hurt, and I no longer could breathe. I pushed him away, and swung a right at his head. It connected with his jaw, but I didn’t get the satisfying clack of his teeth hitting together. Instead, his face sort of mooshed. It was like hitting an overripe pumpkin. Yecch.

  I tried to dance to my right and someone – Buick, I’d guess – shoved me from behind. I tripped and fell forward, just as Cecil swung an uppercut from somewhere down around his own ankles.

  His fist crashed into my forehead. I heard the distinct pop of cracking bone, and hoped it was his hand rather than my skull. Lights flashed behind my eyes and the pavement slapped my face.

  Cecil howled. The others hooted and grunted like apes.

  “Son of a bitch!” Cecil’s voice. “You broke my fuckin’ hand!”

  Ah. Some good news.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see Cecil’s motorcycle boot swing into focus. It hit me in the chest. Felt like a hammer against my ribs.

  I rolled away, sun and shadow flashing in my eyes. Another foot came from a different direction, and caught me in the kidney. I scrambled up onto my knees, just in time catch a boot in the stomach. It lifted me into the air. I fell back onto all fours, vomit heaving from my mouth.

  The crowd went “Ewww!” and stepped back. Cecil cussed some more. I spat on the sizzling asphalt.

  An engine roared and an old Chevy truck bumped into the parking lot, brakes squealing.

  Cody’s truck.

  He leaped out of the cab and reached back to drag his shotgun from the rack over the rear window. He pointed the gun toward the sky and worked the pump. The familiar clackity-clack caused everyone to freeze.

  “Get the fuck away from him!” Cody commanded, and the crowd opened up. Only Cecil stood in the way.

  Cody pointed the shotgun at his face and said, “Cecil Lynch, you can’t afford to get any uglier.”

  Cecil grumbled, but he stepped aside.

  “Eric. Get in my truck.”

  I stumbled to my feet, my throat burning, my head spinning. Cody kept the shotgun pointed at Cecil and friends until I was safely inside. He handed me the gun as he climbed behind the wheel. I fought off the temptation to shoot Cecil.

  Cody backed the truck out of the lot, and we zoomed away.

  Chapter 36

  “You want to aim that gun somewhere else?” Cody said as we rocketed uphill into downtown.

  “Sorry.” I stood the shotgun between my knees, pointed at the ceiling.

  “What the hell was happening back there?”

  I was out of breath. I hurt all over. I was dizzy. I didn’t need an interrogation. I snapped: “What did it look like?”

  “Well.” Cody checked his rear-view as he slowed for a red light. “It looked like those bikers had you down on the ground, kicking the shit out of you. Did I misunderstand? Had you asked them to kick the shit out of you?”

  “No, they decided that on their own. I thought we were going to have a fistfight.”

  Cody didn’t look over at me, but he appeared to be holding back laughter.

  “A fistfight,” he said.

  I sighed.

  “Cecil wanted to fight. I sort of went after him, but his friend tripped me and then they started using their boots.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t kill you. Those are some rough old boys.”

  “They seemed content to kick me around the parking lot. I’m glad you showed up when you did.”

  “You need a hospital?”

  “I’m all right. I could stand to clean up.”

  “Let’s go to my place. Get you some fresh clothes. Smoke a joint. Maybe you can stay out of trouble for a few hours.”

  “That sounds good.”

  We rode in silence for a while. I kept checking behind us, but found no one following.

  “We’ll come back into town later for your truck,” he said. “Give Cecil and friends time to get bored and go home. Maybe they’ll decide they’re done with you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Cecil is kinda dogged.”

  “He has a small mind, but it has a firm bite once it’s locked onto something.”

  “Probably just as well that you’re planning to leave town,” Cody said. “You got an exit strategy yet?”

  “It’s still sorting itself out.”

  “But some part of it involved sparring with Cecil Lynch in a parking lot?”

  “No. That was a separate deal.”

  “A sideline.”

  “More like recreation. But only because I’ve been drinking too much.”

  “You need to get a grip,” he said. “You can recover from a hangover, but a beating takes longer. What if Cecil had kicked out your teeth?”

  “My teeth?”

  “You got dental insurance right now?”

  I looked out the window at the passing pines.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “How do you think Cecil ended up looking the way he does? That’s a pre-existing condition right there. He won’t ever be able to afford new teeth.”

  “Guess I’m lucky I didn’t try to chew on his boot.”

  He glanced at me.

  “You probably ought to see a doctor about that lump rising in the middle of your forehead. Could be a concussion. But I reckon you’ll live.”

  “If I get out of town.”

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d hurry.”

  Chapter 37

  We stopped for beer on the way to Cody’s place, and he fixed us a fine meal and we got so stoned that we watched two entire Godzilla movies on TV. So it was around sunset when we finally got back to The Busted Nut, and we were slow-witted and giggly until we got a look at my pickup.

  Someone had dragged a key or knife along the fenders, carving squiggly lines in the paint. The same sharp implement had scratched a few random swastikas on the hood and big “X’s” over “Honeydew Construction Co.” on the doors. One headlight was bashed out, and a fist-sized chunk of concrete sat in a nest of cracks in the center of the windshield.

  “Those sons of bitches.”

  “Take it easy, Eric. Nothing you can do about it now.”

  “What if they’re still inside? I could take your shotgun in there—”

  “You don’t want to do that,” he said.

  “The hell I don’t.”

  “It’s just a truck. You were probably going to have it painted anyway to get Bart’s name off the sides.”

  He had a point. But still.

  “It’s just so stupid and mean,” I said. “You interrupted their fun, kicking the shit out of me, so they kick
ed the shit out of my truck instead.”

  “Better this way. Right now, you look better than your truck. A little.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to call the police?”

  Chief Drake flashed into my mind. Talk about a buzzkill.

  “I don’t really want the attention of the cops at the moment. Too much shit going on.”

  “You can say that again. Every time I turn around, you’ve been in a fight or a domestic dispute or a drunken party. You’re lucky the cops aren’t already up in your ass.”

  “But look at my truck! I need to do something.”

  “No, you don’t. Follow me home. We’ll fix that headlight in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, Eric. Enough’s enough.”

  I glared across the parking lot at the neon-lit entrance to The Busted Nut.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s an old Mothra movie on at nine. I don’t want to miss it. Let’s get stoned and watch Mothra, man.”

  How could I pass that up?

  Chapter 38

  Rydell Vance was outside, hosing off his picnic table, when I arrived Monday morning. Through my cracked windshield, he looked as fractured as a Picasso portrait.

  Only an hour had passed since his call, but I’d showered and put on clean jeans and a fresh polo shirt. I’d swallowed so much coffee and Tylenol at Cody’s that I felt almost lifelike.

  Overnight, a great purple knot had risen in the middle of my forehead, as if I were trying to grow a horn. My body was decorated with bruises, too, and I found it most comfortable to walk slowly in a hunched-over position. I looked like a cross between a unicorn and a jumbo shrimp.

  Rydell turned off the hose and tossed it aside.

  “The hell happened to you?”

  “I got into a little scuffle last night,” I said. “I’m all right.”

  “Damn. Look at your truck.”

  “Yeah,” I said bitterly. “Fuckers.”

  He went over to the truck and ran his blunt fingers over the rough swastikas etched into the hood.

  “It’s one thing to give a man an ass-whipping,” he said. “If that’s what he’s got coming, then that’s the way it’s got to be. But to key a man’s pickup, that’s malicious.”