Death Stole My Ride

By Randall J. Funk

When Joe Davis, humor blogger and low-grade Twin Cities celebrity, inherits an old beater car from a senile relative, he entrusts his friend Lars to sell off the unwanted vehicle. 

Turns out his trust is misplaced.

Lars loans the car to Joe’s cousin, Micky, who uses it as the getaway vehicle in a botched robbery. Now, Mick

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ghost Light Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997827781

Book preview

DEATH STOLE MY RIDE

BY

RANDALL J. FUNK

ALSO BY RANDALL J. FUNK

Death is a Clingy Ex

Death Lives Across the Hall

Death Wears a Big Hat

Death is Sleeping with My Wife

Death Will Be Brief: Joe Davis Mystery Tales

Copyright © 2019 by Randall J. Funk

All rights reserved

Published in the United States by Ghost Light Press, LLC

www.randalljfunk.com

ISBN: 978-0-9978-277-9-8

Cover design by Ann McMan

First edition

Special Thanks to:

Michael Paul Levin, who gave me the true story this book is based on…and then completely evolved away from. (It’s still a good story, though, Michael).

Samantha Papke, for her help in preparing the manuscript.

Ann McMan, for her usual awesome work on the cover.

My son Ben, a car guy and my consultant on this book.

Everyone who has bought the previous Joe Davis books and helped me along on this adventure.

For Adam King and Kris Wilke Detailleur; two Joe Davis fans and, more importantly, two good friends. Gone too soon. Cancer, you can go fuck yourself.

CHAPTER ONE

Family is hard enough to figure out without adding aunts and uncles and cousins into the mix. I mean, who are these people really?

Parent-child relationships? Those are easy to figure out. They’re based on nurture (ideally) of the child and fulfillment (theoretically) of the adult. But brothers and sisters aren’t something you planned, that was your parents’ thing. Aunts and uncles? Those were your grandparents’ idea. Cousins are your aunts’ and uncles’ problem. The further we get away from our immediate family, the further we get away from the Nexus of Caring. How much loyalty do we owe to people we see less often—and don’t know much better—than the guy working the counter at the coffee shop? Yet we have to pretend we’re interested in their lives and say completely insincere things like—I don’t know—"I love you" and stuff like that. Your immediate family is enough to handle without adding this group of quasi-strangers.

You can see why I’m not much good at family gatherings.

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

Right now, I’m on the phone with a family member who does matter. And for her sake, I’m keeping my temper under control. After all, I don’t want to expose my mom to the batshit angry side of my personality.

It’s awfully loud there, Mom says, as I struggle to hear her, Is something going on?

I pace my living room, fighting the urge to stomp the floor. Lars is having a party.

My mom, familiar with my friends in reputation if not in the flesh, requires no further explanation. My friend and downstairs neighbor, Lars, is good for about two parties per year: one in the summer and one at a randomly selected date and time in which he gives the rest of the building absolutely no heads up regarding the hedonistic shit about to go down. This is the summer party, held on the kind of July night meteorologists categorize as hot as balls. 

I’m not keeping you from the party, am I? Mom asks.

No, not at all, I say, distracting myself by randomly straightening things, I’m not up for it. Besides, with all the noise, I might as well be there already.

As long as you got home okay.

I’ve spent the past week visiting my parents in my hometown of Porter’s Bay, a quaint little tourist trap on Minnesota’s North Shore. Mom worries not only about my more-than-three-hour drive back to St. Paul but also my general welfare once I get here. Having lived in a small town her entire life, Mom views the Twin Cities as Sodom and Gomorrah incarnate. The thought is laughable, of course. One look out of the arch windows at the front of my third-floor apartment, at the sight of the rowhouses and converted mansions lining Summit Avenue, is enough to dispel the notion I live in a hellhole. However, the noise from downstairs provides a powerful counterargument.

Mom, probably relieved I’m not partaking in said hedonism, changes the subject. How’s the car? she asks.

Um, fine, I say.

Have you been able to sell it?

I should probably explain. 

My great uncle Howard passed away shortly after Memorial Day. I’m not exactly prostrate with grief. I met Howard three times in my life and only at family reunions. He could never figure out which of my brothers I was. 

You’re the lawyer? he’d ask. 

I’d patiently explain my older brother Kevin is the lawyer.

Oh, you’re the one who’s going to take over the store when Henry retires? he’d say.

I’d explain, a little less patiently, that my younger brother Owen is being groomed to take over my dad’s hardware store.

Oh, he’d say, What is it you do again?

Then I’d mumble something about being a roadie for Metallica and how they’re a bunch of assholes and then I’d excuse myself to get another drink. 

These few conversations with Howard somehow inspired him to leave me something in his will. My inheritance was an old Chevy Monte Carlo bearing more resemblance to an aircraft carrier than an actual automobile. But I’m not going to burden Mom with my complaints. She thinks it was a lovely gesture on the part of her batty old uncle. Who am I to shatter her illusion?

The inheritance of the Monte Carlo, though, presented a logistical problem: I had no place to park the damn thing. I have only one designated space in my building’s parking lot and it’s the property of my Saturn Ion. Ergo, I would have to park the Monte Carlo on the street at all times. If you keep a car in same spot on the curb, the city of St. Paul will eventually come along and tow the damn thing. Meaning you have to constantly move it. It was more work than I wanted to deal with.

I talked to Lars when I got in, I say, He managed to sell the car.

Lars is the one who urged me to sell it. While the Monte Carlo couldn’t be worth much, he noted I hadn’t paid anything for it, so any money I made on the sale would be pure profit. (Pure profit being the holiest words in Lars’s vocabulary.) Knowing I’m congenitally unable to haggle, Lars volunteered to handle the sale on my behalf.

Mom sounds relieved, but stops to ask: How much did you get for it?

I’m not sure, I say, Lars was occupied with the party when I pulled in. He’s going to stop by later to give me the money.

Well, make sure you thank him. As you can tell, my parents have worked overtime drilling the social niceties into my brothers and me. 

I will. Assuming his party ever ends.

Mom picks up on the Okay, let’s wrap this up tone in my voice and moves us to the Long Minnesota Goodbye. I promise to take care of myself, eat right, keep the apartment locked at all times, etc. (Keeping the apartment locked is about the only one of those I’m likely to do.) She says she’ll pass along my best to my dad and say hi to my brother Owen for me. After another round of All right, sounds good and Okay, you take care now, we wind up the conversation.

I wander around my living room; one man alone in an apartment that now feels larger than it’s one-bedroom, one-bathroom specs would indicate. I don’t wander far, lest I get beyond the radius of my air conditioner. Since I’m susceptible to humidity (and the grouchiness it inspires), I prefer to be in a cocoon of artificial comfort. The noise downstairs penetrates the hardwood floor. Lars’s parties generally sound like the Roman Empire on shore leave. There are bursts of laughter, yelling from room to room and a high-pitched yodeling I can’t quite identify (and don’t really want to). There’s a song playing, and it takes me a second to recognize it as Tarzan Boy. I flop down on the futon and try to ignore it. No such luck. It’s not like I can turn on the TV or the stereo. They’d just be drowned out. And with the noise, I’m not going to even try writing a column.

My chosen profession is being a thrice-weekly columnist for The Daily Bugle, an independent newspaper that became an independent website when the internet became the primary delivery system for news in this country. My column (Cup o’ Joe) covers all manner of things—sociological, political, artistic—all with the sort of in-depth analysis one would expect from a Daffy Duck cartoon. But it (barely) pays my bills and doesn’t ask much more than about a two-hour workday (and that’s when I’m struggling). I have no need to work on a column anyway. I was shockingly productive this week (being at my parents’ place with very few distractions had its benefits), so I’m a few columns ahead. I can take the evening off, whether I want to or not. After a few minutes of stewing, I decide to brave the heat. I fish a bottle of Grand Brewing Hefeweizen out of the fridge and go to my deck.

The deck is part of an erector set of stairs and decks that are not native to the building (and sometimes creak and rattle as if they’re about to step away and go strolling down Grand Avenue). It isn’t large, but there are walls on two sides, giving me the illusion of privacy. I’ve outfitted the place with a few deck chairs, a propane grill and some Christmas lights strung in a crisscross pattern overhead. It’s a great hangout when the weather’s decent. But right now, it most certainly is not. The humidity hits me like a punch in the chest the second I walk out the backdoor. I wander to the railing and take in the view. A carriage house hems in my parking lot, the posh Grand Avenue area surrounds it and downtown St. Paul can be seen down the hill. The general lighting is bright, but not harsh. Even with the noise and the humidity, it’s quite an atmosphere. 

At least part of Lars’s party can be seen below me. He has one more bedroom than I do, so his apartment extends a little farther back and his deck is largely visible from mine. Various weirdos are gathered below. For reasons passing understanding, Lars has a couple of tiki torches lit. The torchlight flickers on sweaty faces. There’s a lot of giggling and flirting and clowning, all done to impress Someone of Interest. It’s not the sort of thing that interests me, but it’s nice to see it still going on in the world. 

Joe! a voice calls from below, That you up there, brother?

Yes, Lars, I call down, I haven’t moved out and had my apartment rented by someone who bears a striking resemblance to me.

Thank God. Because that’s exactly where my mind went. Stay there, I’m on my way.

Lars’s head bobs on the sea of people below. His height and quasi-pompadour make him easy to spot. Once clear of his deck, he bounds up the stairs toward my place. He swings past my neighbor’s deck and sashays over to me. He’s sweated through his bowling shirt. He rubs a large gin-and-tonic (which seems all the larger at the end of his pipe-cleaner arms) across his forehead, sighing as he enjoys the momentary cool.

You know you’re invited to the party, right? he asks.

I do, I say, I’m just a little tired from the drive. Although, it doesn’t sound like I’ll be getting to bed any time soon.

Lars takes this as an endorsement. We’re going strong, no doubt about it. Weird, wild stuff is at hand. It would be great to have you down there, brother.

I’ll take it up with my staff.

I’ve got your share of the loot, he says, reaching into the pocket of his shorts, from the sale of the car.

He takes out a collection of sweaty twenties and hands them over. (Mental note: dry out the money and disinfect my hand.) I stuff the bills into the pocket of my shorts. (Additional mental note: burn these shorts.)

Who did you sell it to? I ask.

Lars gives the glass a jaunty wave. Some guy from White Bear Lake. He wanted to haggle, but I stuck firm. Easy-peasy.

You told him the car’s probably on its last legs, right?

"No. But you know what they say. Cogito, ergo sum."

I think, therefore I am?

Lars’s drink stops shy of his lips. No, wait. What’s the buyer beware one?

"Caveat emptor?"

That’s it. All that Latin stuff. He should have known that.

I could fault Lars for his dishonesty (and his horrible grasp of Latin), but we were only asking a couple hundred for the car. If it breaks down, the buyer can just sell it for parts. I won’t feel guilty. And if I do feel guilty, I can probably talk myself out of it.

Lars leans against the railing. You sure you don’t want to come down?

I’m not in the mood.

Is this about Norah? he asks.

Nuts. Lars has me figured out. Not that it’s a difficult task. He’s one of my three closest friends. He’s figured out my bonhomie (such as it is) has been compromised by the loss of a girlfriend. Norah and I had gotten involved in the spring and when I found out she was married (a revelation that happened much further into the relationship than it should have) it set in motion a chain of events that caused our breakup. Oh, and almost put me in prison for murder.

It’s not about Norah, I say.  When Lars gives me the Cut the shit look, I add: Okay, not entirely.

Lars claps a hand on my shoulder. It’s a hell of thing. You really liked that girl.

I did.

I don’t blame you, he says, She was quite a lady. Smart, vivacious, pretty. I’ll bet she was a demon in the sack.

Lars—

"Not that it’s the be-all-and-end-all. I myself prefer a person I can have a good, engrossing chat with after we’ve exhausted ourselves with spectacular nookie. Norah fit the bill. Am I right?"

Hey, thank you for stopping by, Lars. It’s always great to see you.

He slides close and lowers his voice, as if there’s a danger we’ll be overheard by the mosh pit below us. Julie Gustafson was asking about you.

Julie…well, this is interesting. I’ve bumped into Julie Gustafson a few times in the past and would be entirely open to bumping into her in a more meaningful way. I didn’t realize she knew Lars and I tell him as much. He chuckles at my ignorance.

Julie and I have known each other for a long time, he says, She’s a very sweet girl.

And she was asking about me?

Specifically, your availability. Both to attend my party and in a general dating sense. She’s down there, waiting for you.

Lars extends his arm in the general direction of his deck. I catch sight of Julie leaning against the deck railing, chatting with a couple other young ladies. She wears a tan sundress with spaghetti straps inching across her shoulders. The dress hangs a little and gives me a fine view of her cleavage. Her blonde hair is up, exposing a graceful neck. She laughs and her blue eyes light up. Her skin glistens. (I mean that. Julie’s one of these people who doesn’t sweat. She glistens.) 

You might be on to something, I say, You’re only young once, grab life by the horns and all that happy horseshit. I’m going to clean up. Be down in a minute.

I’m about to turn away from the railing when Julie locks eyes with me. For a second, it’s like the whole rest of the world falls away and it’s just the two of us. She gives me a little finger wave; the sexy kind where she uses only her index finger.

Well, I can’t be hermit the rest of my life, now can I?

***

Morning is never a welcomed time in my house. I generally try to skip it and go right to the afternoon. But here I am, awake at nine a.m. A nasty little headache reminds me where my blood alcohol level stood when I went to bed. And I’m plagued by feelings of failure.

None of that concerns my cats, who only want to be fed.

Two cats, litter mates, run my household. Lenny, a handsome, bullying butterscotch tabby, hogs the guests’ attention and eats everything in sight. Squiggy, my tuxedo cat, is a sort of self-appointed butler, responsible for keeping an air of decorum about the place. Everything you need to know about them is revealed in how they wake me up. If it’s Squiggy, I get a gentle tapping on my arm. If it’s Lenny, as it is this morning, I get a cat sitting on my face. I toss Lenny aside and stumble out of the bedroom, clad in boxer shorts and a t-shirt and spitting out cat hair. At least it’s quiet. After the noise of last night’s party, the silence is almost eerie. Lenny sprints for the kitchen while Squiggy taps my bare leg with his paw.

Sir?  Sir? I picture him saying, in a deep English accent, Do you require my assistance?

I reach down and scratch Squiggy’s ears. He seems content with that. He reports back to Lenny and the two of them wait for me to get my act together. I weave into the kitchen, rubbing my bleary eyes, and fetch the cats some dry food from the plastic container on the counter. As long as I’ve got the momentum going, I put together a pot of coffee. While it brews, I stagger into the living room, ignoring the glare of sunlight off the hardwood floors, and collapse into the comfy chair. The air conditioner blows away the heat that tends to bother my hangover.

I’ll live, of course. On the Bell Curve of Hangovers, this one’s nearer the mild end. Just the headache and a very slight nausea. The former will be taken care of when the ibuprofen kicks in. The other should be tamed by some toast-able hash brown patties. But the feeling of failure, after having blown it with Julie Gustafson? That’s going to linger.

Things were going swimmingly when I first went down to Lars’s party. Julie was happy to see me. There was a pitcher of Mai Thais going around. Excitement was in the air. After a while, Julie and I were friendly enough to go up to my place so she could meet the cats. We sat extra-close on my futon and chit-chatted while sipping vodka. It looked like a great evening would be had by all.

Then she asked me about the copy of Macbeth on the coffee table.

It’s been sitting there for more than a month, right after the relationship with Norah ended. Norah was an English teacher at a private high school, and she taught the play to her kids. Looking at it makes me miserable. But it reminds me of Norah, so it stays