Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,2

there since the Rat Pack was big.

Three strong drinks later, Mary looked at herself again in the bar mirror, remembering the young cop standing across from her, her dead uncle between them. The cop had looked at her, expecting her to choke out through great sobs a heart-touching story about the old man. Goddamnit, she didn’t have any stories. Uncle Brent had been a first-class smart-ass, just like everyone else in the family. He’d made her laugh a couple times, though. Like the time he’d told their church lady neighbor that he’d been up in Hollywood, making porn movies. Uncle Brent claimed to be making five movies a day, ten bucks a shot. He’d said his stage name was Dickie Ramms.

Mary had been in high school around that time, and she had nearly pissed her pants. Now, she suddenly started at her reflection. Mary was shocked to see a smile on her face, and even more stunned to see moisture around her eyes. It was leaking out onto her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand.

“Quiver,” she said, replaying the family tradition when someone was about to cry. “Come on, quiver for me,” she said to her reflection. “Quiver.”

And that Davies? Come on. What in the world was Jake thinking? She was all wrong for him. Christ, if he wanted a sheet of plywood he should have just gone to Home Depot. Maybe he had some kind of weird fetish for women resembling corpses. Necrophilia Lite. Uh, God, she thought. She felt nauseated over the thought of a corpse. Her uncle. Fuck. What a shitty way to go. The anger came back, and she welcomed it. It was much better than the self-pity she was on the verge of diving into.

The bartender walked over and noticed her expression.

“Everything okay?” he asked. Mary thought she saw a touch of actual caring, along with a healthy dose of good old-fashioned curiosity.

Mary wiped her nose. “No, everything’s not okay. I just lost my uncle.”

The bartender started to offer his condolences, but Mary cut him off.

“But,” she said. “I haven’t looked under the fridge yet.”

The bartender paused, then walked away, shaking his head. Mary shrugged her shoulders. There were people who got her. And there were people who didn’t.

She’d long since given up trying to figure out who was who.

Two

Hey Brent, what are those photographers shooting? Your last head shot? Damn. Felt good to see that bastard julienned in the alley. It’d felt even better to stick the knife in him, to see the shock on his face.

Here I am, sitting a block away at a little Coffee Beanery, watching the death parade. The rats actually found you first, Brent. Maybe even gnawed a little on you before someone called the cops. Think the rats thought you tasted like chicken?

Revenge was a dish served best over and over again. Third, fourth, fifth helpings. Keep it coming, baby.

Cops don’t have a clue, either. Too fucking stupid.

You’re the first bookend, Brent. Start off big, with one of the leaders. Sandwich a few of the sheep in between, then end big with the other bookmark.

The set-up and then the big punchline.

Who’s laughing now, asshole?

Who’s laughing now?

Three

Mary parked her Buick in front of Aunt Alice’s house. The Buick was just one of her cars. She had a Lexus when she needed to meet with clients or set up surveillance in the wealthier part of L.A. She also had a Honda Accord when she needed to blend in as an employee of a firm downtown. They were parked in the garage back at her office. When she needed something really expensive, say a Porsche or a Ferrari, she just rented it. But Mary used the old Buick for occasions that took her into the financially depressed sections of L.A.

The great thing about the Buick was that even though it was old, it didn’t have many miles and it had surprisingly smooth power. Still, she’d endured quite a bit of heckling for it. A woman just north of thirty driving a Buick. She’d heard it all. Was the trunk big enough for a full case of adult diapers? Had she gotten an AARP discount? What was the dual temperature control for – menopausal hot flashes?

The sad thing was, most of those jokes had been her own.

Now, the morning sun warmed her back as she stepped onto the porch of the small house in a quiet part of Santa Monica. Alice Parthum had lived there for forty