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Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels
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DIE LAUGHING
Five Comic Crime Novels,
Five Award-Winning Authors
Steve Brewer
Bill Fitzhugh
Parnell Hall
Paul Levine
Ben Rehder
All novels in this collection are copyrighted by their respective authors.
All rights reserved.
These novels are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of these books may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
CONTENTS
LOST VEGAS – Steve Brewer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Fender Benders – Bill Fitzhugh
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Favor – Parnell Hall
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Books by Parnell Hall
Habeas Porpoise – Paul Levine
One RUNNING TALL
Two FROM BEDROOM TO BAY
Three CALL ME FISHMEAL
Four GUNSHOTS IN THE DARK
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Five ANOTHER PERP
Six HABEAS PORPOISE
Seven ALL STEVE, ALL THE TIME
Eight THE RIGHT WOMAN FOR THE JOB
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Nine STUPIDITY IN THE FIRST DEGREE
Ten NO MORE WAYWARD BREASTS
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Eleven LOVE THE MAN, HATE THE GRIN
Twelve RICH (THE SHIT) SHACTMAN
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Thirteen A CRACK IN THE BRICK WALL
Fourteen WHAT’S A MOTHER FOR?
Fifteen FOOTBALL AND MURDER
Sixteen SQUID PRO QUO
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Seventeen THE HABITS OF DOLPHINS
Eighteen EVERYTHING BUT THE TRUTH
Nineteen DRESS LIKE A WOMAN, STRIKE LIKE A TIGER
Twenty STEVE SOLOMON STREET
Twenty-one STUCK ON HIS SHTICK
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Twenty-two THE SECOND PUZZLE
Twenty-three THROWING A CURVE
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Twenty-four A TALE OF TWO LOVERS
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Twenty-five FLIPPER GOES TO WAR
Twenty-six ON CAT’S FEET
Twenty-seven EVEN STEPHEN
Twenty-eight THE BASHERS
Twenty-nine NEVER TRUST THE SUITS
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Thirty SPEECHLESS
Thirty-one CLUELESS
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Thirty-two SATURDAYS AT THE MORGUE
Thirty-three PITCHING PRACTICE
Thirty-four THE PROVOCATEUR
Thirty-five DOLPHIN DOUBLES
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Thirty-six THE OFFICE FLOW CHART
Thirty-seven RISKING IT A
LL FOR LOVE
Thirty-eight STRIDE FOR STRIDE
Thirty-nine DEAD DUMMY
Forty DOLPHIN LOVE
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Forty-one SHOOT THE LAWYER
Forty-two CRIME SCENE
Forty-three PLAY BALL
SOLOMON’S LAWS
Buck Fever – Ben Rehder
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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EPILOGUE
LOST VEGAS – Steve Brewer
Copyright 2011 by Steve Brewer
All Rights Reserved.
Chapter 1
Tony Zinn’s attention wandered during the heist.
This was supposed to be the big payoff — quick-cut scenes of the robbers in action, their plan coming together right before the audience’s eyes — but Tony thought the movie was bullshit. Another improbable thriller in which nobody gets hurt, the crooks have hearts of gold and the crime somehow settles an old score.
In real robbery, there’s one motivation: Desire. Somebody has something and somebody else wants it. Wants it so bad, he’s willing to take it by force. He pulls a gun and the item changes hands. Simple. Quick. All the clockwork complications with computers and nightscopes and grappling hooks? That’s show business.
The bullshit factor was even higher in the theater next door. It was Memorial Day, which meant opening weekend for the annual special-effects blockbuster starring BadgerMan. Damned movie had been so loud, Tony heard the explosions and car crashes through the wall. Huge turnout for BadgerMan, lots of people willing to hand over their hard-earned money for two hours of superhero fantasy.
Only a handful watched the heist movie, which ended predictably with the handsome robbers standing around the loot, showing off their cleft chins and golden hearts as they shipped the money to charity or some damned thing. As the credits rolled, Tony tucked his chin into his leather jacket and sank lower in his chair, trying to be an inkblot of black clothes and dark curly hair.
The sparse audience hustled out and the house lights came up, but Tony watched the credits, wondering for the hundredth time what a “gaffer” was, or a “best boy.”
He stayed in his seat until the music stopped and the movie reached the copyright date at the end. Then he stood and stretched and looked at his wristwatch. Nearly midnight. Last late show finally over, the theater would now close for the night.
He ambled over to the fire door, where a green EXIT sign glowed. A taste of cool night air as he swung open the door, then Tony stepped aside to let three men enter. Two were wiry guys of average height – five-nine, five-ten, a few inches shorter than Tony – but the third was a beefy three-hundred-pounder who had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the doorway. All three wore red motorcycle helmets with black face shields, gray coveralls and white rubber gloves. One of the men carried an extra helmet. As he handed it to Tony, Ross Cooper said, “How was the movie?”
“Same as always,” Tony said. “The good guys won.”
“Aw, you always give away the ending.”
Tony slipped the helmet onto his head, the black visor dimming his view like sunglasses.
The other three produced stubby revolvers from the pockets of their coveralls. Tony pulled a fearsome old Browning Hi-Power 9mm from inside his biker jacket. He thumbed off the safety, and said, “Let’s do it.”
***
The Genmark 12 Cinema in Pleasanton, California, had been built a decade earlier, and it showed its age. The red-and-black carpet was worn, the bathrooms were grimy and many of the theater seats were shot. But the place was a cash cow, drawing bored teens and escape-craving adults, especially on holiday weekends.
The twelve theaters were arranged along a carpeted concourse, and Tony led the way to the lobby. Ross marched next to him, gun at the ready. Behind them, big Angie Hernandez and Ross’ younger brother, Don, checked doors and rounded up the few pimply employees still sweeping up. The kids uniformly wore limp white shirts, black slacks, red bowties, and startled expressions.
Near the lobby stood an eight-foot-tall cardboard cutout of BadgerMan in his elaborately furred uniform, brandishing his gleaming claws. Angie stopped the employees there, and ordered them to lie facedown on the popcorn-littered carpet with their hands under their foreheads. They appeared to worship at BadgerMan’s feet. Don covered them while Angie lumbered away to check the other theaters.
Tony and Ross crossed the lobby, keeping their guns close to their bodies as they ordered two gasping girls to come out of the concession stand and go wait in the corridor with Don.
The one Tony and Ross wanted was the night manager, a lumpy slob named Stan Oliver, who occupied a small office behind the concession stand. When they burst through his door, Oliver’s face flushed bright red behind his twitching brown mustache.
Tony had worried about this moment. Oliver was at least a hundred pounds overweight. All week, while casing the theater, Tony kept picturing him clutching his chest and slumping over his metal desk.
If Oliver’s heart was pounding, he didn’t let it show. He sighed resignedly and put his hands in the air.
“I tried to tell them,” he said.
“What’s that?” Ross’ voice was a notch higher than usual.
“Our security sucks,” Oliver said. “I’ve told corporate a dozen times that we need an armed guard. But they figure nobody would rob a theater out in the suburbs.”
“You’ve got cameras,” Ross offered, pointing at three black-and-white TV monitors that flickered silently on the wall behind the manager.
“Lot of good they do us. We’ll get videotape of guys in motorcycle helmets.”
“Not even that,” Tony said. “You’ll hand the tapes over to us. But first, you’ll open that safe.”
Oliver’s beady eyes flicked side to side.
“I don’t have the key. There’s no way for—”
“Yes, you do,” Tony said. “It’s in your pocket. I’ve seen you use it.”
“I—”
“You shouldn’t leave your office door open when you’re handling money back here,” Ross said. “People might get ideas.”
Tony gestured with his gun, and the night manager wrestled up out of his swivel chair. He dug in the pocket of his baggy pants and came up with a pound of keys on a Mercedes-Benz fob. Yeah, right, Tony thought. The guy drives a rusty Dodge minivan with a broken taillight that made him easy to follow.
As Oliver waddled around the desk, he said, “I tried to tell ‘em.”
“Sure you did,” Ross said. “They never listen.”
He and Tony kept their guns pointed at Oliver as he stooped over the lightweight safe, which sat in the corner like a hotel minibar.
“Look at that safe,” Ross said. “It’s beige. That’s how serious they take security around here.”
Oliver shook his head sadly as he opened the door, revealing three canvas money sacks and a couple of zippered vinyl bank bags. Fat ones.
“Thank you, BadgerMan,” Ross said.
He pulled a heavy black trash bag from his pocket and quickly loaded the loot into it.
Oliver sidled around his desk to where the TV monitors showed views of the empty lobby and the corridor where six prone employees were overseen by Don and Angie. He killed the system and ejected a videocassette and handed it to Tony. Then he fell winded into his ch
air and stuck his plump hands back into the air.
Ross hoisted the loot over his shoulder, and Tony kept the Browning pointed at Oliver until they were out the office door.
Don stood at the mouth of the corridor. He gave them a thumbs-up.
“Time to go,” Tony called.
Tucking their guns out of sight, he and Ross met the other two at the front doors. They stepped outside as a dark van pulled to a stop at the curb. Tony climbed into the shotgun seat and the others piled into the back. The van drove away at a sedate pace, across the empty parking lot.
***
Once they were clear of the shopping center, speeding along a frontage road next to Interstate 680, the driver unwrapped a black scarf from around the lower half of her face. She shook loose her long dark hair.
“We okay?” Eve Michaels shouted over the van’s engine.
“We’re fine,” Tony said as he peeled the motorcycle helmet off his head. “It went smoothly.”
He looked over his shoulder. The others were shedding helmets, too, and their grins gleamed in the streetlight that leaked in the tinted windows. Ross’ freckled face looked polka-dotted. His brother’s lank brown hair was tangled and staticky from the helmet and he raked at it with his bony fingers. Angie’s forehead bore a red crease from the too-tight helmet and his broad face was slick with sweat.
“Nobody’s hurt?” Eve asked.
Don said, “Angie punched somebody.”
“Angie!”
“I didn’t mean to.” Angie ran a hand over the stubble on top of his round head. “This usher tried to run—”
“You punched a kid?” She scowled at him via the rear-view.
“I was trying to grab him. I slipped!”
“You accidentally punched somebody?”
Ross said, “Butterknuckles.”
“I didn’t hit him very hard,” Angie grumbled.
“Knocked his ass out,” Don said. “Accidentally.”
“Shut up, Don.”
Angie swatted at him, but Don ducked away, laughing.
***
The van rode rough, especially for the guys in the uncushioned cargo space, and they were groaning and griping by the time they reached the leased warehouse in Oakland thirty minutes later. Tony jumped out and unlocked the overhead door, then rolled it up so Eve could drive the van inside. He flicked a switch, turning on four cage lights that hung from the high ceiling. Two rental Fords were parked inside, and Eve docked the van between them.
The men spilled out of the van, lugging trash bags full of coveralls, helmets and loot. Eve stepped out into Tony’s arms, and he gave her a quick hug. Her cheeks were flushed and her smile was bright.
The others loaded the trash bags into the trunks of the anonymous sedans they’d drive home to San Francisco. The money went into the car Tony and Eve would take, and he felt compelled to say, “Come by the apartment tomorrow to pick up your cut.”