Death Wears a Big Hat

By Randall J. Funk

Humor blogger Joe Davis and his friends go on the run when one of them is accused of murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997827729

Book preview

repay.

CHAPTER ONE

Trust comes in many forms. We like to think it’s always a positive one, but in reality, not so much.

For example, when my friend Mike and I were in college, one of our classes required us to do the trust exercise by which one of us would close his eyes and tumble backwards, safe in the knowledge that his best compadre would be there to catch him before he hit the floor. Mike and I failed because we refused to do the test. Neither of us were silly enough to think the other wouldn’t see the incredible comic possibilities in letting some schmo just drop to the floor like a sack of spuds. We absolutely, completely trusted that, push-come-to-shove, the other guy would do the shitty thing.

After all, what is trust, if not that little corner of our lives in which we demand absolute predictability? On those occasions when the fecal matter reaches the cooling unit, we want as little guesswork as possible. Yes, it’s lovely to say, I know if I needed someone, so-and-so would be there for me. But really, there’s also a certain comfort in saying, I know if I needed someone, there’s no f’n way I would call so-and-so. I’d turn around and that son-of-a-bitch would be three states away with his phone turned off and no forwarding address.

My name’s Joe Davis. I get paid to write stuff like that.

Another form of trust, sometimes misplaced, is the trust we place in ourselves. Mike is one such example. He has a complete trust in his ability to pull a Verbal Houdini whenever he’s in trouble. Sometimes, he’s able to pull it off. And then there are times like this.

Every winter, Mike drives the Oldsmo-tank his parents gave him in college. While he takes surprisingly good care of the thing, he’s made it abundantly clear he will not mourn the beast when it finally goes to that great Used Car Lot in the Sky. And the way he drives the thing reflects that.

On this particular evening, Mike’s driving has landed us on the side of Highway 94, just a stone’s throw from the Mississippi River and the campus for the University of Minnesota. The red squad car lights flicker through the windows and a cop is ambling toward us. Mike’s big bulldog head bobs about as he prepares to confront the forces of law and order.

What’s the speed limit here? Mike asks our friend Carol, currently riding shotgun.

Carol’s blue eyes hit him with a laser stare. It’s fifty-five. The same as it’s always been.

Really? They didn’t change it to seventy?

No.

Well, I don’t know how I’m expected to know that. Mike runs a hand through the brush of dark hair atop his Cro-Magnon forehead. It’s okay, though. I got this.

I put my forehead against the window and enjoy the view from the Oldsmo-tank’s backseat. A light snow is falling and the silhouette of downtown Minneapolis peeks through the gathering gloom. Cars are whipping by on 94, making me a bit uneasy. It’s one of those things about Minnesota drivers: a good rain will paralyze the whole state, but by January, everyone’s so used to the snow they’ll drive through it like turn three of the Daytona 500. Mike included, which is, well, why we’re here.

The cop, a round-faced dude with sandy hair and a protruding gut, peers in the window. Mike hands over his license and insurance info, then starts drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The cop ignores him.

You know how fast you were going, Mr. Griffin? the cop asks.

I do not.

I had you clocked at seventy-two. Are you in some kind of rush?

As a matter of fact, we’re running late to a very important event.

The cop is unmoved. Well, now you’re definitely going to be late.

"But we wouldn’t be if you hadn’t pulled me over. Mike points at the cop. So in a way, you really dropped the ball on this one, officer."

The cop looks up from the paperwork, waiting for a punchline that never comes. He steps away from the window. I’ll be right back, Mr. Griffin.

Mike slaps the steering wheel. I knew it. I knew something like this was going to happen. We wind up leaving late and I have to rush because Carol never gets ready on time.

Carol swats Mike on the arm. Hey, go to hell, Leadfoot Johnson. You were ten minutes late picking me up.

Because I knew you’d need the extra time.

"And what’s this B.S. about being late? The event starts at six o’clock. It doesn’t say we have to be there at six o’clock."

I smack my hands down on the back of the seat. Would you two knock it off!

Carol and Mike face forward again. They’re quiet, but resentful. That’s probably all I can ask: uniting them against a common enemy. I’ve had to do that frequently in the couple of years since Mike and Carol broke up. Right now, I feel like my father when he used to threaten to turn the car around and go home if my two brothers and I didn’t stop fighting (as if we really believed he’d consign himself to six more hours of misery without even the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to his destination.) Carol checks her makeup in the window and fusses with her scarf.

Maybe I should call Ed, she says, Let him know I’m going to be late.

The Ed in question is one of Carol’s friends from college. A collection of said friends have started a store catering to craft beer enthusiasts and the grand opening is tonight. Carol, for reasons passing understanding, refuses to show up alone. Thus, I’ve been Shanghaied (assuming Shanghaied is still part of the vernacular) into accompanying her. Mike has his own personal business to tend to, so he volunteered to drive us. Thus, we can all bask in the warm glow of Mike’s latest brush with the law.

The cop returns with a shiny new speeding ticket and provides a few instructions on how and when to pay it. Mike sits through the whole thing like someone’s holding a small turd under his nose. He waves the ticket toward the cop.

Hope this makes your night, Mike says, I’m guessing you have a quota or something.

The cop shrugs. Actually, I was going to let you off with a warning. But to be honest, you’re kind of a dick.

The cop waddles back to his car. If this were a cartoon, the red would be rising up through Mike’s neck and head like a thermometer about to burst. There’ll be steam shooting out his ears any moment now. He uses his middle finger to point in the general direction of the cop.

Did you hear that? Mike says, That guy can’t talk to me like that. I’m lodging a complaint! You guys are witnesses.

Are we? I say.

Mike takes a break from his indignation to notice the deadpan stares he’s getting from Carol and me. Carol’s gone as far as to fold her arms. The air goes out of Mike. He tosses the ticket on the dashboard.

Speaking of dicks… Mike mutters.

The Oldsmo-tank pulls back on to 94, a tad slower and humbler than before. Our destination is the warehouse district in Minneapolis. It’s on the river, opposite Washington Avenue from downtown. The afore-mentioned warehouses were originally built to hold the output of the flour milling industry that largely built Minneapolis. Most of them have since been converted into apartments, artist quarters and retail businesses.

I can give you guys an hour or so, Mike says, Don’t forget I’ve got to pick up Lars, too.

Carol flips her shoulder-length hair free of her scarf and coat. Lars has a business meeting? Is that right? What’s it about?

Mike says nothing. Since Lars is my downstairs neighbor, it’s up to me to answer. He didn’t know exactly, I say, This guy named Pete called him up and wanted to talk about some kind of business venture. That’s as much as Lars knows.

Mike and Carol both scoff (again they’re united in scorn.) Any venture involving Lars is the entrepreneurial version of the Donner Party. He’s has made a sideline business out of various get-rich-quick schemes. Maybe I should amend sideline business because I’ve rarely known Lars to hold a regular job for any length of time. He currently serves as the superintendent of the converted rowhouse we live in on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. So his rent is free, leaving him plenty of time to plot and scheme.

I’m going to love hearing about this on the drive home, Carol mumbles.

Just remember: you got an hour, Mike says, I don’t think I can give you much more than that.

Mike, these are my friends, Carol says, You don’t have to give me the bum’s rush if we’re having a good time.

If they’re such good friends, why have I never met these people? Mike says, taking the Fifth Street exit off 94.

Well, not introducing Mike to people you like is self-explanatory to everybody but Mike. But in this case, I’ve never met these people. Carol usually isn’t hesitant to introduce me to her friends. After all, I’m something of a local celebrity. Something.

They were college friends, Carol says, You know how you lose touch.

Actually, I don’t. Through either cruel twist of fate or some virulent strain of co-dependency, most of the guys I ran with in college are still in my social circle. Although my friendship with Mike has made losing touch with your college buddies look kind of appealing. Mike is similarly unmoved.

And what’s the name of this store they opened? he asks.

The Four Firkins, Carol says, It sells craft brews from all over the country. No Budweiser or Miller or Coors in sight.

What about PBR? I ask.

Carol’s face wrinkles. Well, you have to appeal to the hipsters.

Sadly.

Sadly.

Mike swings the Oldsmo-tank on to Washington Avenue and cruises toward the warehouse district. The buildings are dark against the streetlamps and the snow. I’ve always found the place more ominous than cozy. Maybe it’s the history of fat cat mill owners getting rich off the underpaid employees they endangered. Or maybe it reminds me of haunted houses and the unavoidable Boogey-Man. Mike flips on windshield wipers, beating away the falling snow.

They just opened this store? Mike asks.

It’s actually been open since the beginning of November, Carol says, They were just waiting until after the holidays to celebrate the grand opening.

Yeah, because what says Let’s celebrate more than January in Minnesota? If not for the snow, though, this is one of Minnesota’s more hospitable winter evenings. The temps are in the thirties. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s coming after a below-zero cold snap that lasted the better part of two weeks. Trust me, this feels like spring break.

Well, I hate to cut you off early from your friends, Mike says, But I’ve got important business and it’s not going to wait.

An amused smile graces Carol’s thin lips. Ah yes. I forgot. We must be careful with the girlfriend’s pet.

Mike’s only response is a sour look (slightly more sour than the one he normally sports.) He’s been dating a girl named Shae for about a few weeks and he’s facing his first major relationship hurtle. Shae’s going out of town and needs someone to take care of her pet. Mike agreed to the task, sight unseen. And by unseen, I mean he’s never met the pet and doesn’t actually know what it is.

And you’re prepared to take care of this thing? I ask.

I am, Mike says, bobbing his head, Completely.

But you don’t even know what it is, I say, How are you going to get food or a bed or even approval from your building?

"Oh that, he says, No, I haven’t done any of that. I thought you were asking if I was emotionally prepared."

And are you?

Oh, hell no.

Carol and I exchange pained looks. For the last handful of years, we’ve functioned as Mike’s quasi-parents. While the job can be annoying to everyone involved, Mike probably prefers us to his actual parents. They were a military family and Mike was raised with strict limitations on his behavior. When he got to college, he discovered his freedom and embraced his inner-Caligula. He’s never been quite the same.

Frankly, though, I wish Mike was coming along on this beer store adventure. It’s easy to picture how this thing will go. Carol’s going to spend all her time catching up with old friends while I’m left to my own devices. I don’t do well when left by myself at a gathering. It’s like when you get an invitation to a wedding or a birthday party and you don’t really know anybody there. Yes, you know the guest(s) of honor, but so does everybody else. You’re going to get a nanosecond of the guest(s) of honor’s time and then you’re stuck in a room full of people you don’t want to talk to. And there’s at least an even chance that the guest(s) of honor aren’t going to remember you were there, thus removing the necessity of your having gone to the damn thing in the first place.

But I’m already in the car, so what am I going to do?

A few minutes later, Mike stops in front of the squat brick building that houses the store. It’s retail on the ground floor and residential on the four floors above. A green neon sign advertises The Four Firkins.

Have fun, Mike says, a little smirk creasing his goatee. He’s fully aware of how little I’m looking forward to this.

Good luck with the pet, I say, Assuming it’s housebroken.

So much for Mike’s smirk. The Oldsmo-tank has a bit of an attitude as it fishtails back into traffic. Carol fusses with her black duffel coat and red scarf. I still have no idea why she needed me to accompany her on this excursion. It’s understood that I’m not functioning as her date nor am I to pose as such. But I didn’t have a decent excuse with which to turn her down. And she’s well aware that I’ve got a rather copious amount of free time. My day job is writing a thrice-weekly column (Cup o’ Joe) for The Daily Bugle, a former indie rag that now functions exclusively as a website. My work day usually starts at noon and on productive days ends at about one-thirty. So Sorry, I’m busy is not an excuse that anyone who’s known me more than five minutes will accept.

Carol takes a quick breath as she reaches for the door. Ready to do this?

No. But that’s not going to stop you from opening that door, is it?

Carol gives that a nervous little laugh. If my presence here is supposed to relax her, I’m a miserable failure. She’s about as cool as she would be on a blind date with George Clooney.

We step inside the store and into a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. The Four Firkins doesn’t have a lot in the way of floor space and it’s currently wall-to-wall customers. The décor, from what I’m able to make out, is all dark wood, deep colors and stained glass. Two walls and a couple of free-standing shelves are lined with bottles of pale ale, lager, stout, wheat beer and Belgian imports. There’s a large cooler on one wall for those who must have their beer chilled immediately. An oval island in the center houses two cash registers. Near the back is a small cherrywood bar used for tastings. Hanging lamps with green painted glass cast a warm glow, much nicer than the harsh florescent lights at your average liquor store. All in all, a pretty classy place to grab your hooch.

Carol’s still trying to get her bearings when she notices someone knifing through the crowd, heading right toward her. It’s a tall guy with close-cropped graying hair and a gray suit. A pair of sharp blue eyes focus in on Carol. The guy smiles, but it doesn’t seem to come naturally to him.

Carol, he says, his voice deep and formal, I was hoping you’d come.

Carol returns the smile and gives the guy a hug. Wouldn’t miss it, Ed.

Ah, this must be the Ed that Carol’s told us so little about. The hug lingers for a few seconds and then they stare at each other. Carol lets out a little chuckle (louder than I think she intended.)

Congratulations, she says, You guys really pulled it off.

Ed turns toward the crowd behind him. It’s exactly what we’ve been dreaming about. A place that caters to your average beer snob.

Carol hastily gestures my direction. Oh, Ed, this is one of my friends.

I offer a hand. Joe Davis. Average beer snob.

Ed’s eyes go a tad cold and he gives me an exceedingly firm handshake. Good to know you, Joe. Welcome to The Four Firkins.

I’m trying not to wince, lest I give up alpha status right off the bat. I can honestly say it’s good to be here.

And I’m not blowing smoke up Ed’s behind. I am something of a beer snob (by which I mean, I’m totally a beer snob) and would be willing to sit in a crack house if it offered a good selection of craft brews. (I don’t share that observation with Ed because you never how people are going to react to having their life’s dream compared to a crack house. Poorly, in most cases.)

Carol, meanwhile, gives someone in the crowd a quick wave. It’s a blonde, surfer-type dude over by the cash registers. She gives Ed’s forearm an apologetic squeeze.

I’ll be right back, she says, I just need to go say hi to Jace.

Ed’s face falls a bit, but he manages to keep the grim smile in place. Perfectly fine. I’ll just be here.

Carol’s eyes linger on Ed for another few moments, then she makes her way through the crowd. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow Carol, stay in conversation with Ed or just start wrecking the place. See? This is why I hate coming to parties. The protocol’s a minefield. Ed, though, isn’t going anywhere, so I guess I’m stuck in conversation with him.

So you’ve been planning this for a while? I say.

Ed gives that a single, firm nod. Back when we were in college. It started as drunk talk, but so do a lot of good ideas. Just took a little time, a little fundraising, a little smart planning and, well, here we are.

He ends the last part of that sentence on such a downbeat note, it sounds like a transient’s tale of woe ending with and now I’m in the workhouse for thirty days. Ed’s only half in conversation with me anyway. His eyes keep flicking around the room, as if someone’s going to sneak up on him. Now I feel challenged. It’s perfectly fine if I don’t want to be in conversation with somebody, but that doesn’t mean they should not want to be in conversation with me. This inattention will not stand, man.

So it was four of you who started the store? I ask.

Ed seems surprised to discover I’m still here. Yeah. All of us knew each other in college. He points to the surfer dude, greeting Carol with a hug. That’s Jace. He adjusts the trajectory of the point ever so slightly, indicating a thin, blonde woman behind the surfer dude. That’s his wife, Harper. He waves a hand toward the general area of the back of the store. And Vince is back at the tasting bar. I’m sure you’ll meet all of them later.

He delivers the introductions, so to speak, with so little conviction that he might as well be picking out random people at the bus station. While my college buddies are largely a collection of worthless miscreants, I at least like all of them. I’m not getting any