The Bike Bats fell silent. They were as greedy as they were stupid. Soon as I mentioned them getting a share of the gold, I knew I had them. “What makes you think we need your help?” Kenzie asked. He looked at his gang, spread out through the dark street. “We’re the Bike Bats, man. We can handle anything.”
“You couldn’t stop me from wrecking you all with a ’48 Packard this afternoon,” I pointed out. “Here’s the deal – follow my lead, do what I say, and you’ll get half of the Baron’s treasury.”
“Half?” Nails shook his head. “Come on. We’re worth a little more than that.”
“You ain’t worth the spit in my mouth,” I said. “But I got a feeling you’ll come in handy. You’ll get half and you’ll be glad about it. You understand me, Nails?”
They knew I was right. I had gone through them like a knife through flesh, and they would have to follow my lead. Nails nodded meekly. “What’s your plan, Candle?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.” I walked back to the Packard. “Follow me on your bikes, and keep the motors low. Kill the engines when we reach the top of the hill and roll them in on foot. You’ll know when to start them up again.” I didn’t look at Kenzie as I sat down next to Weatherby.
I started the car and looked over at him. He had lost his smoking jacket and wore his waistcoat, tie and shirtsleeves. As he pushed his spectacles up on his nose, he looked a little like the kid he was, just for a second. “You do have a plan, Mr. Candle?” he asked me.
I looked in the back. We had a lot of hardware. I had a feeling we’d need it all. “Sure, kiddo,” I agreed. “It involves gunning down the Germans, and then letting our biker pals take on Bruno and the baron.” I looked over Weatherby as we started driving back to Ravenwood. “There’s something else I been meaning to ask you.”
“What would that be?”
“When I bump Vessler and his goons – you want to be in at the death?” I checked on our weaponry again, already deciding on the heater I’d use. “I can make it quick for them. But if you prefer – and I don’t mind – I can take my time with the sons of—”
“No.” Weatherby cut me off. “I am no sadist. You don’t have to make them suffer, not on my account, if you please.” He stammered as he leaned against the Packard window, clearly uncomfortable with the whole subject. “And I’d rather not, well, have to do the killing. I j-just don’t know if I can—”
“I got it. I’ll do them quickly.” I shrugged. “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”
We drove on into the night. It was just about the right time when we got back to Ravenwood. I spent a few minutes checking things out with a pair of field glasses, then getting ready and telling the score to the Bike Bats. Weatherby and I loaded up and went in. None of us said much. The quiet Nebraska night was gonna explode in violence – and soon.
The mausoleum was located in the rear of the grounds, at the back of Ravenwood Manor. I guess whatever robber baron had managed to steal and swindle his way into getting the fortune enough to buy the place had decided he and his family ought to be laid to rest there as well. And there they rested, all inside a palatial mock-Greek temple with white marble columns gone gray with dust from the hills. A domed roof topped the mausoleum, and graves stood in neat rows before it.
That’s where they were meeting. I started walking past the grave stones, my trench coat wrapped around me and a cigarette burning between my lips. Up above, the stars glared down like angry eyes. The full moon was a round and white dinner plate. Colonel Vessler had about six krauts with him, all armed. Two of them carried rifles and two had sub-guns. I bet the rest had pistols in their black trench coats. Baron Exham was there, along with Bruno. So was Lenora.
Exham wore a dark robe, leaving his chest naked, and he carried some ceremonial vampire sword, something curved and Balkan with a jeweled hilt. He looked uneasy. Colonel Vessler was kneeling before him. All of the German suitcases stood to the side. They all turned to look at me. I walked ahead, while Weatherby hung back. He had all the supernatural stuff ready, for when lead, powder and steel wouldn’t be enough.
“Mr. Candle,” Baron Exham said, speaking too quickly. “I’ve been looking for you. I’ll have your payment shortly.”
“Yeah,” I said, taking the cigarette from my mouth. I flicked it way. “Change of plans, baron. I didn’t know you were dealing with the Third Reich here. I’m not too happy about that. Neither is my partner. I guess you can figure out why.”
Exham turned to Lenora. “You showed him. I told you not to. If you had listened to me, we would just pay them with the Nazis’ money, they’d be none the wiser and we wouldn’t be having this problem!”
“That’s not all I showed him,” Lenora replied.
Baron Exham’s eyes widened. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. “Traitorous slut!” he bellowed, and threw her to the ground. My eyes widened. There was real strength in the baron’s arms. I didn’t like it being used to rough up a twist. Colonel Vessler and his Germans stood motionless. They weren’t sure what any of this was, and then Vessler looked up at Weatherby.
“Little Weatherby!” he said, a smile twisting his scarred face. “Oh, you have grown bigger. But not that big, I think. I can still squash you under my boot, without much trouble.”
“That’s enough.” It was time to play my hand. In the folds of my trench coat, I carried a tommy gun, and now I revealed it. The tommy gun was one of the big older models of the Chicago Typewriter, with the drum magazine under the barrel. I aimed it at the Nazis. “Alright, Hans. You and your Gestapo pals better toss your guns down to the dirt. I don’t got all night.”
Vessler’s smile faded. “You seem like a strong man, Herr Candle, and doubtlessly one who knows how to make an advantageous deal. I have in my possession more than enough wealth to satisfy your every need. Do not expend your strength trying to protect some runt like Weatherby Stein. Find a better use for it.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Now drop your weapons.”
“You are not agreeable? Pity.” Vessler shouted something in German, and then went for the Luger in his coat. His men raised their weapons and so did I.
I started firing, cutting them down one after the other in the same unending stream of lead. Shell casings tumbled to the dirt as I turned the Thompson on the Nazi riflemen, blasting through their bodies and knocking them back on the steps of the mausoleum. A bullet kicked up dust at my feet, and then one grazed my leg. I didn’t back down, but kept pouring on the gunfire.
Three of the Krauts were dead in the first three seconds, and two more followed them. I kept shooting, dropping to a crouch as I neared the end of the clip. They were shouting in German, cursing me as they died. Bruno stood his ground, flexing his fists and preparing. Exham held onto Lenora, watching everything with careful eyes. I can’t say I paid them much attention.
Vessler fired his luger at me and the shot blew past my shoulder, taking a bit of flesh with it. I turned the muzzle of the tommy gun to face him and gave him a long burst. He didn’t drop, so I gave him another. “American…swine!” Vessler hissed, sinking down as he clutched his chest.
“Shut up and die,” I said. “And don’t come back.” I gave him the rest of the clip, right between his eyes. When the smoke cleared, Vessler didn’t have much of a face. I let the Thompson fall to the ground as I faced Bruno and Baron Exham. I didn’t have any use for it anymore.
Baron Exham looked at the dead Germans. He still held his wife’s arm, and she lay loosely on the mausoleum steps. “I can’t say I’m upset,” he said. “Now I don’t have to turn those silly Germans into vampires. But you made some mistakes, Mr. Candle. You turned against me. You listened to my slut of a wife. And most importantly – you picked a full moon to make your move.”
Bruno growled. It was a low, animal sound. His skin bristled, and his sideburns seemed a lot longer than they used to. He crouched down, his hands reaching forward and his fingers sinking into the dirt. His s
weater started to rip as his bones cracked and muscles moved around inside of him. More fur split his skin, red and coarse and covering his body. Claws wrenched out from his fingers.
In the space of a few seconds, I was looking at a wolfman. He was big as a car and covered in bristly reddish fur, with teeth and claws like steak knives. His low growl continued through the entirety of his transformation, and he kept growling as he pawed towards me.
I didn’t mind it so much. I had brought my own back-up. Motors started roaring behind me, and the Bike Bats arrived. They came screaming in on their motorcycles, speeding like demons over the hills and heading for the graveyard. Dust clouds came behind them, luminous in the moonlight.
Nails Kenzie rode at their head, a sawed-off thundering in his hands. “Waste the wolf, boys!” he cried. “That Nazi gold is ours!”
They sped forwards, and Bruno leapt forward to meet them. I didn’t pay much attention to their fight as Weatherby ran to my side. My brain got stuck on the word about Nazi gold. I looked at the suitcases. Sure enough, they were stuffed with gold bars, jewelry, watches, and tons of other treasures. It was the detritus of Europe’s wealthy victims, taken away from them as they were herded into the camps.
Weatherby stopped as he looked at the suitcases’ contents. “I h-heard they took gold fillings, from their prisoners. They wrenched them out of mouths and melted them down—”
“I know,” I said. “We don’t have time for that now.” We didn’t have time for the other question in my mind. Baron Exham had a fortune. Why did he need Nazi treasure? I realized the answer as Weatherby handed me the anti-wolf equipment – a modified Lee-Enfield rifle with a bayonet and bullets of solid silver. Weatherby gave it to me and I brought it up to my shoulder.
Bruno was tearing his way through the Bike Bats. Like I expected, they weren’t lasting long. Their bullets sank into his flesh, and he smashed their bikes and their bodies with simple swipes of his big claws. He sent the bikers flying like rag dolls – and munched on them like chew toys. He had a severed arm dripping in his mouth, and a biker’s head under his claw when I swung the rifle to face him.
“Sorry about this, big man,” I said. “Nothing personal.” I fired, planting the bullet in his flank. He turned to face me, as bright blood leaked down his side. He let out a roar and charged. I worked the bolt and fired again. I had faced down Tiger Tanks, but Bruno was something different. I wanted to drop the rifle and run. But I stood my ground, fired again and again, and then the clip was empty and he was on me.
He struck me with the back of his claw and I went hard onto the ground, kicking up dust as I rolled over and he pounced on me. He swatted me again, shredding my coat and my skin. I felt something wet against my chest, and I hoped he hadn’t opened me up like a can of beans. I grabbed tightly to the rifle, and looked up as I pulled it back. I aimed for his neck, and thrust it forward with all of my might. The silver blade stuck deep inside of him, and I left in as I rolled out of the way.
Bruno moaned, and it sounded more human than wolf. He crumpled, slinking to the ground as his hair fell away and his bones cracked back to normal. He was turning back into what he had been, and I didn’t want to watch.
I tried to come to my feet, when the handle of a sword struck my head and sent me back to the ground. Everything went gray as a wrecking ball ran into my chest. I looked up and saw Baron Exham. He kicked me again, and then glared down as he pulled back his sword. “You peasant!” he snarled at me. “My wife has turned you against me! You’ll pay for that, by God, you will!”
“You never had any ancestral treasure,” I said, crawling backwards as I reached down to my boot. My Ka-Bar combat knife was there, waiting to be plunged into his chest. “You were feeding me a line. You couldn’t pay me at all – at least until you had done your deal with the Nazis. That’s why you wanted to do business with the Nazis. You needed their dough. Because you want to be an aristocrat, you want to be a baron, but when it comes down to it, you don’t even know how to go about it.” I forced my battered face into a grin. “Like right now – you can’t even think of anything noble to say to me before you bring down that sword.”
I was right. Exham blurted out something incoherent and swung his sword. Then he gasped, a wooden stake stabbing through his chest from behind and peeking out the front. He sank backwards, suddenly deflated as he started to fall apart. His fingers and nose went first, falling away like he was a leper. He took a halting step closer, disintegrating before my eyes. He was a pile of dust when he hit the ground.
Behind him was Lenora. She ran over to me and helped me up. She pressed me close to her and I kissed her and for a few precious seconds everything was right with the world. “Oh, Morton,” she whispered. “Oh, Morton, it’s done. We can take the Nazi gold and get out of her. We can make a life for ourselves, anyway we want.”
“Sounds swell,” I said, as she wrapped her arms around my neck. “Except it ain’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“You knew right away Exham couldn’t pay me. You knew he was broke. And something else – Exham’s a wannabe royal. What does he know of world politics? Someone must have reached out to the Nazis, or given him the idea. I’m betting it was you.” I held the combat knife tightly in my hand. “And I got another feeling – I’m not gonna be around that long after I stop being useful.”
Suddenly her grip was stronger than a lover’s. She lunged for my throat, her lips curled back to reveal long white fangs. I pulled back my combat knife and stabbed forward. It was over in seconds. I felt the blade pressing through flesh, and then she was falling apart in my hands.
She was ash in seconds. I stepped back and brushed it away from me. “Sorry, sister,” I said. “But I didn’t want a bloodsucker’s goodbye.”
I looked up at the empty mausoleum. The grounds of Ravenwood manor were quiet now. The Bike Bats stood around, helping their wounded. Nails Kenzie and Weatherby walked over to me. Weatherby produced a few bandages and got to work on my cuts.
Nails smiled. “No hard feelings, eh, daddy-o?” he asked. He looked down at the suitcases. “This is quite a haul. You said we get half and you get half? That’s fine by me.”
“You can have it all,” I said.
Nails stared at me and so did Weatherby. “Seriously, man?”
“That stuff is soaked in blood and I’m no leech.” I patted Weatherby’s shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get back to the auto. We got places to go.”
Weatherby didn’t complain when I called him ‘kiddo.’ He even offered me a smile, and I returned it. We walked back to the Packard together.
We met with Sly Baum in the top story high-stakes room of the Poker Palace in downtown Havana. Baum didn’t own the Poker Palace, but because he brought in most of its business and took so much cash off the house, he might as well have. It was one of those American-owned gambling joints that had started flourishing in Cuba right when Prohibition went into effect, where the island rum flowed like a tropical sea. It stayed popular thanks to the efforts of El Presidente Batista and the Chicago Outfit in equal measure.
The high-stakes room was a sumptuous hole with a green-felt topped card table between blue walls adorned with prints of palm fronds and naked women. Sly Baum sat in one of the chairs at the corner. He wore a shining blue tuxedo, the bowtie undone, so he looked like he was trying to blend in with the wall. His dark hair was in unkempt strands and his eyes were darting around the room. He looked pathetic. Clearly, the ace gambler’s cards were all on the table.
“You just got here?” he asked, looking up at me and Weatherby Stein. “Oh, thank god. Thank god for that. Do you want anything? I can get Paco to mix you up a drink or—”
“I disdain alcoholic libations,” Weatherby announced. “I have no wish to become swept up by the endless Bacchanalia which pollutes this muddy strip of sand.”
He still wore his full Victorian suit and vest, despite Cuba’s dry heat. I had my trench coat draped over the chair, only wearing my
shirtsleeves. That showed off my twin Colt automatics in crossed shoulder-holsters, but I don’t think Baum minded much. I shrugged. “Let’s just get down to business,” I suggested. “You called Stein and Candle, Mr. Baum. That means you got a problem the average private dick can’t help you solve. What is it?”
“It’s my son. My little boy. Jesus Christ, he’s about the only thing I care about. The only thing that matters.” He reached into his tuxedo jacket and set the picture on the table. “My Henry Wallace.”
I stood up and looked at Henry Wallace Baum. The kid was maybe ten or eleven, scrawny as a plucked chicken and smiling nervously at the camera. He had his father’s dark brown hair, but wore a pair of glasses that made him look owlish, and a white suit, bowtie and trousers. I looked up from the picture at Sly. “And what happened?”
“He’s been kidnapped. It happened while I was visiting Miss Rosa. I go once a week.” Miss Rosa was Rosa Dominguez, a high end mistress who had every gringo in Havana lusting for her. Baum was a concerned father, but he wasn’t a family man. “He was waiting downstairs, reading some comic books I had imported from the States for him, and then a bunch of masked men came in, held the bouncer at gunpoint and dragged him away.” Baum shook his head. “He’s my son, Mr. Candle. He’s been the only thing that’s good in this goddamn dirty world of mine.”
Weatherby looked down at the photograph. I saw the kid’s lips form a grim line. I had seen him worked up before, usually about the Nazi stooges that gunned down his parents in front of him, but not over someone else. “We’ll get him back, Mr. Baum,” Weatherby announced. “You have my word.”
“Did the kidnappers leave a note?” I asked. “And have you gone to the police?”
“Batista’s idiots are too busy looking the other way to be of any help,” Baum muttered. “And yeah, I got a note. I think the kidnappers might know me.” He pulled a crumpled lined piece of paper and set it on the table. Weatherby and I looked it over. “The dough they’re asking me to lay down – it’s almost the exact sum I owe to Don Vizzini.”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 3