The Wrong Dead Guy

  But what are the chances of that happening?

  7

  It was over ninety degrees in the Valley, but Sheriff Wayne Jr. was dressed to kill. A white Stetson with a white leather jacket, vest, shirt, pants, and boots. The jacket and vest had LEDs sewn into them so he could light up when they shot commercials at night. It was a great effect, he thought. The Electric Cowboy meets Elvis. What’s not to love?

  Today was an afternoon shoot and it had been going on way too goddamn long for his taste.

  “Action!” said Chris, the director.

  Sheriff Wayne took a loping step toward the camera.

  “Hi! I’m Sheriff Wayne Jr., blowing away high prices in the sunny San Fernando Valley!”

  He pulled out the two six-guns from the holster he wore low across his hips, and fired them into the air.

  “Yee-haw!”

  “Cut!” called Chris, the director. He was a recent USC graduate who didn’t dream about his girlfriend anymore, but instead dreamed about Kubrick and Scorsese’s tracking shots. He had the day off from running the cameras for porn shoots and was making a little money on the side working in a broiling-hot parking lot.

  “Did you get it this time?” said Sheriff Wayne.

  “Let me check the playback.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Sheriff Wayne had about had it with the kid, what with his funny camera angles and fiddling with the lights. Hell, he didn’t even want the damned llama in the shot. Probably some kind of animal rights homo, thought Sheriff Wayne. He bummed a cigarette from one of the sound guys and waited to hear the verdict.

  “Well, Sheriff Wayne,” said Chris. “Here’s the thing . . .”

  Sheriff Wayne pulled one of the six-shooters and pointed it at Chris’s head. “Here’s what thing?”

  Chris froze by the video monitor. He wasn’t afraid of pissing himself. He’d sweated away far too much water for that. But if he died now he knew that his entire movie legacy would be a second-place prize for a short film at school, and being principal photographer on Cheerleader Taco Truck.

  Chris put up his hands. “Please . . .” he said.

  Sheriff Wayne smiled and reholstered the gun. “Don’t be an ass, son. They’re fake. You think the insurance company would let me run around with loaded guns out here? Hell, I’d shoot half of my customers. Now give me some good news.”

  The highlights on Sheriff Wayne’s forehead were blown out from sweat, a plane’s shadow had ruined the pristine parking lot full of shiny used cars in the background, and, at the last minute, a stray dog had taken a dump by a Prius. All of which Chris knew he could fix with enough beer and his computer.

  “Looks great, Sheriff!” he called, giving him a big thumbs-up.

  “Good to hear it, Chris. Because the truth is, these guns are real, they are loaded, and I have more lawyers in my family than a bear has pecker hairs. So, what do you say we wrap this up for today?”

  Chris started to say something to the crew, but they were already packing up the equipment faster then he’d ever seen before.

  “An excellent idea,” said Chris. He was smiling so hard it hurt. It was like half of his face was trying to hide behind the other half. He suddenly longed to be back on the set of his first fetish porn shoot, Forrest Gimp. There was air-conditioning, pretty girls, free Red Bull, weed, and no guns.

  Sheriff Wayne was already walking back to his office. “When can I see a cut?” he called.

  “End of the week,” said Chris.

  “Great. Nice working with you, son. Let’s do it again.”

  Chris waved and called, “I hope your llama gets rabies and bites you.”

  Sheriff Wayne, who couldn’t hear a word, waved and walked into his office.

  “What were you yelling about?” said Donna, his secretary. They’d met at an RV show in Tarzana and tested out the sleeping facilities and suspension on several camper models before the weekend was over. Fortunately, Mrs. Sheriff Wayne Jr. never found out. In gratitude—and to keep her around—Sheriff Wayne gave Donna a job answering phones and softening up customers before he came in for the kill. She didn’t have a flair for selling, Sheriff Wayne knew, but she had a body that would give a T. rex a heart attack.

  “I wasn’t yelling, dear. I was saying good-bye to that jackass of a movie director you found.”

  “He came highly recommended.”

  “You’d think that someone who shoots skin flicks could work faster.”

  Sheriff Wayne adjusted his holster on his hips, checking himself in the office mirror.

  “Well, some of us like it slow,” said Donna, running a patent-leather pump up Sheriff Wayne’s inseam. He swatted her away.

  “Not while there are customers around. I told you.”

  Donna smiled and sat up in her desk chair. “Are you sure you should wear those around the lot. People bring their kids. Aren’t you afraid you’ll scare them?”

  Sheriff Wayne adjusted his hat. “Hell. The guns are what brings them in. People like to be scared. Why do you think they like all those monster movies?”

  “So, you’re the Creature from the Blue Lagoon?”

  “Black Lagoon, honey,” said the sheriff, adjusting his bolo tie. “And no, I’m not. I’m the law, here to protect folks from monsters like that.”

  “And sell them hot cars.”

  Sheriff Wayne looked around and closed the office door. “‘Hot’ and ‘not hot’ is a state of mind,” he said. “Like that mink stole I gave you. Some would consider that hot.”

  Donna’s eyes narrowed. “You gave me a stolen mink?”

  “It was stolen before they even sewed it together. You think the mink gave it up for free?”

  “So, it’s not stolen?” said Donna tentatively.

  “You can’t steal something that’s already stolen, can you?” said Sheriff Wayne.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Of course you can’t. See? Hot and not hot is a state of mind.”

  Donna did a rueful little smile. “You could talk Dorothy out of her panties and her ruby slippers.”

  He did a quick draw with his fingers. “And straight into a pre-owned minivan with room for all the Munchkins she wanted.”

  Donna typed something on her laptop. “Aha. The Blue Lagoon was a movie with Brooke Shields.”

  “I guess you were right. It is a monster movie.”

  “No. It’s about shipwrecked kids.”

  “Wrong. It stars a model,” he said. “Models are well-known devourers of men’s souls.”

  Donna cocked her head. “That include me?”

  “Especially you.”

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  Sheriff Wayne came up behind Donna and rubbed her shoulders. “Baby, it don’t mean anything. Whatever little smidgen of my soul is left, it’s yours to gobble up.”

  “And not Mrs. Sheriff Wayne Jr.?”

  “She’s eaten more than her fair share of my soul. And fried chicken. When she bleeds, gravy comes out, and when she farts, she farts biscuits.”

  Donna crossed her arms. “Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?”

  “Of course not, honey. You’re my Brooke Shields. My Blue Lagoon. You’re Miss Tarzana RV Queen three years straight.”

  She turned around and hugged him. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Never,” he said. Gently pulling free of her arms, he turned around toward the doors. “Now go and shake those taters of yours at the customers. Get ’em worked up. I have something to do out back.”

  Donna straightened her dress and hair in the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Like the Devil herself.”

  “Just how I like it.”

  “One thing. Stay away from the llama. It’s in a mood today. Liable to spit at anything that gets near it.”

  “Llamas spit?”

  “That they do. And from what I understand, they’re quite the marksmen. So, keep yourself and customers away from the mangy thing.” r />
  “Aye aye, sir,” Donna said, and went out to the sales floor.

  “I’m a cowboy, not goddamn Cap’n Crunch,” he said.

  She shrugged, and he shook his head. He went out the office’s other door to the back of the dealership. A man in a Peterbilt hat with gold caps over his front teeth came over to Sheriff Wayne. They shook hands.

  “Hello, Lee.”

  “Afternoon, Junior.”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s not my real name. It’s made up.”

  “How come?”

  “It makes customers think of families. Makes them feel good.”

  “Is Wayne your real name?”

  “What do you think?”

  Lee looked at him. “Then what should I call you?”

  “‘Sheriff’ works.”

  Lee smiled his metal smile. “Well, Sheriff, today we have an assortment of the finest reconditioned luxury vehicles money can buy. All straight from Texas, where they came from my people in Juarez.”

  Lee handed Sheriff Wayne a clipboard. “You have paperwork on all these heaps?”

  “I’ve got pink slips and yellow slips. Big slips and little slips. I’ve got smog certificates, and insurance cards, and original bills of sale. VIN numbers that will check out and brand-new tires on each and every vehicle you see before you.”

  They walked around the truck loaded with what appeared to be shiny new cars. “You’ve always done right by me in the past, Lee.” Sheriff Wayne turned and shook the other man’s hand. “Let’s go inside, do some paperwork, and get you your check cut.”

  Lee smiled. “That girlfriend of yours around?”

  “Business associate. And yes, she’s with some customers.”

  He led the way into the office and the two men sat.

  “She any good at selling?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Lee leaned on the desk and spoke quietly. “I could use a woman like that in my business. Talking to some of the meatheads I have to deal with. Soften them up a little.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but Ms. Donna is a dud in the sales department.”

  “That’s too bad. So, what is she good at?”

  Lee gave Sheriff Wayne a wicked smile. Sheriff Wayne was about to tell him to shove his smile up his ass when Donna ran in the office and slammed the door. The front of her dress looked like someone had hurled a plate of fried eggs at her.

  She panted as she talked. “The llama.” Pant. Pant. “Some kid let it out.” Pant. Pant. “It’s running wild. Chasing people around.” Pant. Pant. “And it spit all over my new goddamn dress!”

  Sheriff Wayne got up. “Donna, you remember Lee. We were just finishing up some business, but it can wait. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and change into some clean overalls from the garage? I’ll deal with your dress after I deal with the beast.”

  Sheriff Wayne picked up a long case from behind his desk and set it on top. Inside was a rifle. He took an odd-looking bullet from a small box and loaded the gun.

  “You’re not going to kill it, are you?” said Donna. “There’s kids out there.”

  “Calm down. It’s a tranquilizer. It’ll just put him to sleep until I can get his dumb-ass handler out here. Right now, you go take care of yourself. Lee, you’ll be all right here for a few minutes?”

  “Take your time, Sheriff. You have any beer?”

  “In the minifridge. Donna can show you.”

  As Sheriff Wayne went out, Donna called after him. “Be careful.”

  “Always am, darling.”

  Sheriff Wayne stalked through the salesroom and out into the parking lot with a loaded rifle in his hands, startling salespeople and customers alike. It had been one big shit sandwich of a day. First that John Ford wannabe with the camera, now Lee trying to steal Donna away. And Donna. How was he going to make up for a load of llama spit?

  Besides that, he needed a new gimmick. The llama had been a bad idea since day one. What he needed was something new and exotic. Something spectacular. Maybe he could get a big aquarium and put a whale or some sharks out front. No, that was asking for trouble. He’d come up with an answer. He always did. In the end, there was only one thing that was going to make this day bearable.

  At least I get to shoot something.

  8

  “Please pass the siu mai,” said Morty.

  “Which ones are those?” said Coop.

  “The little pork dumplings.”

  “They’re all little pork dumplings.”

  The break-in crew, along with Bayliss, were seated on the floor of Coop and Giselle’s apartment. Giselle passed a paper plate to Morty.

  “Thanks,” he said, picking up a siu mai with a chopstick and putting it on his plate.

  Coop looked at Giselle. “When you said you were ordering Chinese, I thought you were getting normal food.”

  “There’s more to the world than General Tso’s chicken,” she said.

  “But I don’t understand half this stuff. What are these?” said Coop, pointing to a puffy mound of white dough.

  “Char siu bao.”

  “It’s a pork dumpling, right?”

  “It’s steamed.”

  “Okay. What’s this?”

  “A potsticker.”

  “What’s that?”

  Giselle hesitated. “A pork dumpling.”

  “But it’s fried,” said Bayliss.

  “See? I win.”

  “You don’t win anything,” Giselle said. “You’re just complaining because it’s new.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m confused. I need to be briefed on future culinary experiments. I need charts and blueprints.”

  “Like at the museum,” said Morty.

  “Exactly,” said Coop. “Display cases and docents.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” said Giselle, through a mouthful of egg roll.

  “Sorry, Coop. Dim sum was my idea,” said Bayliss.

  Giselle waved her chopsticks at her. “Don’t apologize to him. He’s baffled by mac and cheese.”

  “Only the kind with those little bread crumbs on top.”

  “Ooo. I like it like that,” said Morty.

  “Seriously, Coop. Did you grow up eating anything that didn’t come from a box or a can?” said Giselle.

  Coop shook his head. “Chili dogs were exotic international cuisine in the Cooper residence.”

  “Not mine,” said Bayliss. “My folks were crazy for anything new. I was eating sushi when I was five.”

  “That’s great. How about you, Morty?” said Giselle.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Eat,” said Coop. “Morty’s parents weren’t what you’d call nurturing.”

  “That’s not true. Remember in sixth grade that time my dad got me a suit for school pictures?”

  Coop set down his food. “Morty, that was a corpse suit. It tied at the back like a robe so the stiff would look good in an open casket.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” said Morty. “Dad had to break into a funeral home for it. There’s no money in funeral homes. He went out of his way for me.”

  “The funeral home was next door. The minute people saw you in that suit your dad got arrested.”

  Morty wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I didn’t say he was a good crook. But he was a nice one.”

  Giselle picked up her beer. “Here’s to nice crooks. Like us.” She looked at Bayliss. “Not that you’re a crook, of course. Or you, doc.”

  Thank you.

  The others raised their beers in a toast.

  “Stick with us, doc. We’ll have you picking six pockets at a time with those claws of yours,” said Morty.

  I always wanted a second career.

  “That’s the right attitude. No one wants to do government work forever,” said Coop.

  Speaking of government work . . .

  “Good point,” said Morty, spreading the museum’s blueprints on the floor between the foo
d cartons. “How do you want to do this, Coop? Go in through the loading dock?”

  “That makes sense. It’ll be easier getting King Tut out that way.” He looked at Giselle. “What about the guards? How many can we expect?”

  “On a Sunday, no more than four.”

  “In the whole museum?”

  She flipped through some papers. “They have alarms on the doors and the exhibits, plus motion detectors all over the place. They probably think it’s enough.”

  “We’ll need to cut the power to get around all that,” said Coop.

  “Not a problem. The DOPS has gizmos for that. I’ll requisition one,” said Giselle.

  Coop looked at Morty. They both shook their heads.

  “You people really take the fun out of crime,” Coop said.

  “Sorry,” said Giselle. “You’d rather crawl up poles or down manholes looking for the right wires to cut?”

  “Oh, man. Those were the days,” said Morty, an almost dreamy look on his face.

  “What about landlines?” said Bayliss.

  “Please tell me we get to cut those,” said Coop.

  “They’ll go out when I cut the power, but if it makes you feel better, go ahead.”

  “Can I do it?” said Morty.

  “Okay. You’re in charge of phones.”

  Is there anything I can do?

  “Yeah. We don’t exactly have a lot of mummy experience. How do we move it?” said Coop.

  Slowly and gently. It will be easier if you carry it on a bodyboard, the kind ambulances use for accident victims.

  “Good thinking.”

  “This is really exciting,” said Bayliss. “I’ve never seen how anyone plans crimes.”

  “Welcome to the glamorous world of hiding behind Dumpsters at midnight,” said Giselle.

  “How’s the office-supply situation?” said Coop.

  Bayliss frowned. “They took my squid.”

  “What?”

  “My desk squid. Whoever it was took it and a bunch of other supplies last night. I wasn’t going to mention it.”

  “Bastards,” said Morty.

  “I’m sorry,” said Giselle.

  “Woolrich is onto me. I can’t steal any more stuff,” said Coop.