The door cracked open and Joey Verona stepped inside, both pistols blazing. I poured some fire at him and kept him back, then ran to the stairs. I reached the high stakes room and threw lead behind me. The gangsters hurried inside and two of them tried to make it up the stairs. I gunned them down before they got halfway.
“Anyone got any ideas?” I asked, as I struggled to reload my pistols. I was running low on ammo, and couldn’t last long. Weatherby had his revolver out, but he was as useful as a pineapple to a toothless man. I looked at Mama Le Croix. “More zombies, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I have just a little zombie powder left. Not enough to summon my undead servants.”
“Just a pinch, eh?” Belasco asked. “Well, how about a deal?” He pulled out the radio from his belt. “I know my bosses in the Company would kill – and I do mean that literally – for a little of that zombie powder. It’d make wetwork way easier. Give me that, and I’ll summon a helicopter to get us out of here.”
“But the mobsters will kill you too. Call up your helicopter, in the name of reason!” Weatherby cried.
“Will they? Or will I slip away like I weren’t even here?” The mobsters started throwing lead up the stairwell from cover. A bullet crossed my shoulder and I ducked down. “Tick-tock, tick-tock,” Belasco said. I looked up at Mama Le Croix. It was her decision.
She nodded and untied a tiny cloth bundle from her dress. She handed it to Belasco, who reached for his radio. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, and started fiddling with the dials. “I hope you guys like Miami. That’s where were going.”
Blood was flowing freely down my shoulder. A bullet must have ripped past it. I hardly noticed. Time seemed to slow down, passing in a slideshow of bullet-ridden moments. A grenade landed next to my shoe and I kicked it back down the stair. The explosion knocked dust from the ceiling, and then Weatherby was grabbing my shoulder, screaming at me and pointing to a stairwell in the corner.
I forced myself to stand and started running. Mama Le Croix went first, and then Sly Baum, who was holding tightly to Henry Wallace. I had to lean on Weatherby, and I felt a sting in my left leg that had to be another bullet crossing my flesh. A sub-gun opened fire behind us. I turned and fired. A lucky shot crumpled the gangster against the wall.
And then we were up, onto the stairwell and up into the cool Havana night. Belasco stared up into the sky like the crazy kook he was. Miss Rosa stood next to Sly and Henry Wallace. They made a cute couple, I thought. Mama Le Croix looked at Belasco sourly.
I stood on the roof and looked down at the city. The sea of neon glared up at me, shot through with moonlight. A couple of the Mob’s snipers started firing in our direction. One of their shots struck the main neon sign of the Poker Palace, sending up a spray of sparks.
“Point me in their direction,” I hissed to Weatherby through gritted teeth. “And let me loose.”
“No, Morton, I shall not allow you to die,” Weatherby replied.
“Why the hell not?”
“For the same reason that Sly Baum desires the safety and well being of his son.”
I stared at him. For some reason, I focused on his words and not the whine of bullets. “You saying we’re family, kiddo?”
“We’re something close to it,” was Weatherby’s reply.
And then I heard some growing roar, like a storm crackling into existence overhead us. I looked up and my eyes went wide. A large helicopter, a great glass bubble of an aircraft with several seats in the back, swung down low over the rooftop. The copilot had already tossed down a rope ladder, which swayed back and forth as the helicopter got closer.
Belasco waved to them. “All aboard who’s going aboard!” he shouted.
We ran for the rope ladder. Sly made sure Henry Wallace was the first to start heading up the rungs and then we followed. I went last. The bullet in my shoulder was really aching now, throbbing with each movement of my arm. Bullets whizzed around us, as the gangsters tried to blast the helicopter out of the sky. I bit down and kept climbing, and then Weatherby reached down to help me up.
He set me down in one of the leather helicopter seats and then we sped away, over the neon lights and the crowded streets and the mobsters shooting at us and all the vice and sin and corruption that America needed to have a good time. We headed out over the bay, over the sea and back to the States. I didn’t mind, and I guess the others aboard didn’t mind either. They had ways to make more money and so did I.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the roar of the helicopter blades. After a while, I opened my eyes and looked at Weatherby. He was looking at Sly Baum and Henry Wallace. The boy was held in the strong arms of his father, and he was as content and felt as safe as if he was in his bedroom in some suburban neighborhood, and not in a helicopter screaming over the Caribbean, taking him away from gangster but not out of his father’s life of crime.
I had always felt sorry for Weatherby, but now I put my hand on his shoulder. “Weatherby,” I said. “You jealous?”
“A little.”
“Yeah. Well, I guess we’re all we’ve got, in that regard. But I hope it’s close enough.”
He turned to face me and smiled again. “You know, Morton,” he said. “Perhaps it is.”
I returned the grin as the helicopter sped onwards through the tropical night.
Weatherby Stein and I arrived early to the Shim-Shim-Shammy for a meeting that some anonymous caller said would be ‘worth our while.’ The Shim-Shim-Shammy was a rundown roadhouse a couple of miles from San Diego. Weatherby and I were staying in San Diego in between jobs. I spent money on booze and he spent his money on books. Whoever called knew who we were, but didn’t want us to know who he was. So we showed up to the meeting early, heeled and ready for trouble.
The Shim-Shim-Shammy was a dark structure of wood that could have been a barn in a previous life. There were peanut shells lying thick on the floor, and neon signs advertising the beer – and not the water that came with it. Weatherby looked at the musty bar as we sat down at a round back table, shaking his head with snobbish disdain.
“What a shabby little gin palace,” he said, kicking a pile of peanut shells away from his polished shoes. “Why must we always wander into the sleaziest locales in existence, Morton?”
“We’re detectives, kiddo.” I set my fedora on the table and looked at the Shim-Shim-Shammy’s usual clientele of boozehounds and bums. “It’s our natural element.” I blinked my eyes at the cigarette fumes as a waitress pushing forty and fat for her age waddled over to give us a pair of beers.
She pointed to a man in a dark leather trench coat at the bar. “He paid for it,” she said. She lowered her tired eyes. “I think he wants to talk to you.”
“Starting to look that way,” I agreed. I didn’t recognize the fellow, and I figured he’d introduce himself in time.
I didn’t touch my beer and neither did Morton. The waitress shrugged and shoved off, and then our mysterious benefactor headed over to meet us. He pulled his chair with him, and it scraped across the concrete floor with a noise like an animal’s shriek. He set the rickety chair next to us and leaned back in it, placing worn cowboy boots on the table and crossing his arms.
“Stein and Candle?” he asked, his voice a low drawl with a hint of the southern to it. He had a nose like a rodent’s snout, black curly hair that tangled over his forehead, and wore a bolo tie with a jade clasp. “Name’s Leon Strank. Now, I’m not so good putting names to people, but I’m gonna go ahead and guess which is which.” He pointed to me. “You look like Candle.” He pointed to Stein. “And you look like Stein.”
“Congratulations,” I said, reaching for a cigarette. Strank apparently enjoyed hearing his own voice. “What tipped you off?”
“Heh. I knew beforehand. I looked you guys up. Got a buddy in the state department who sent me your dossiers. Real impressive.” He pointed to me. “How many medals you win for killing krauts in Germany? More than
there’s stars in the sky, I’d wager. And Weatherby Stein, your family’s been neck deep in the occult since the medieval ages. I bet you know all kinds of good little secrets about what goes on in Heaven and Hell.” I decided right then I didn’t like him.
“What’s the nature of this job?” I asked. Weatherby stared at Strank and said nothing. The kid liked being unknown, especially after what happened to his family when word got round about how much they knew.
Strank shrugged. “A little driving. A race, actually. You ever heard tell of the Morningstar Car Club? Nope? I wouldn’t expect you to. They’re one of them little driving outfits, run hot rod races up and down the coast. Except, they got connections to various other groups, which are much more connected to the kind of people that little Weatherby’s parents must have hung around with.”
“Sorcerers?” Weatherby asked, a little uneasily.
“Satanists,” Strank corrected. “Now, every couple years, they have a nice, leisurely race from Point Santos all the way to Crescent Bay. It’s got no cash prize, no reward of cars or engine parts – nothing like that. But there’s one racer — driving a black Cadillac with red flames on the side that’s faster than white lightning — who always enters the race and always wins. There’s something strange about this fellow, and I guess you can guess who he is.”
“The Devil himself,” Weatherby whispered. He shrugged when I stared at him. “Lucifer enjoys such contests of skill against mortals. My reading has unearthed several examples of the devil challenging mortals to various duels and challenges – fiddling contests, for instance.”
“Smart boy.” Strank nodded. “That’s right. Now, if you beat him, you get yourself a nice little wish. Anything you ask for will be yours. If you get third or fourth place, or dead last even, that’s okay too. You don’t lose nothing but your pride. But if you get second place — If you come in behind the devil – then you lose your soul.” A slow smile crept across his face. “I want you to enter that race. I want you to get first place. And I want your wish to be to get my soul out of the devil’s book.”
I considered it for half a second. “No dice, pal.” I stubbed the cigarette out on the table. A tiny line of smoke wove up towards the ceiling. “According to you, it’s hard to beat the devil at his own game. Coming in second place and falling into eternal damnation doesn’t seem too pleasant to me. So go find some other idiot who won’t recognize a sucker’s play.”
Strank shook his head. “Let me tell you what—”
“I don’t care how much dough you’re offering. I may have been bored out of my skull during Sunday school, but I’m smart enough to not lay my soul on the line in some damn automobile race.” I stood up. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s dangle.”
“Come outside to the parking lot.” Strank stood up, his pleasant tone vanishing. He spoke to Weatherby and not to me. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see.”
He turned on his heel and walked out. Weatherby followed him, and I followed Weatherby. He led us outside into the parking lot, to an old Ford sitting not far from the ditch on the side of the road. There were two people in the back seat. Weatherby recognized who one of them was and tried to run to the car, but Strank grabbed his shoulder and held the spindly kid back. I ran over to Weatherby, reaching for my pistols, but the kid shook his head vigorously.
“Oh God!” he cried. “Selena!” he called, sinking down to his knees like he had been slugged in the chest with a wrecking ball. “Don’t hurt her! For the sake of all the gods and devils, do not harm her!”
I looked into the car. A fat fellow in shabby white checkered suit sat in the back holding a straight razor to the throat of a pretty college-age girl. She wore a long earth-colored dress and a white sweater over her blouse, her neat short hair the same raven black as Weatherby’s. Her eyes were wide and she looked slowly over to Weatherby.
“Weatherby?” she asked, with the same hint of an English and German accent that her brother had. “Oh, Weatherby, don’t worry! I’ll be just peachy. Don’t let these men—”
“Shut up.” Strank’s friend struck her with the back of his hand. My guts felt cold as I realized what Strank’s game was. Selena was Weatherby’s older sister. He had mentioned once or twice that he had another relative in America, but didn’t want to bother her. That was the kind of chivalrous idiocy I expected from Weatherby. I had no idea he was talking about his sister. But Strank had apparently done the same research, and now she was his prisoner.
Weatherby came to his feet and turned to Strank. I thought for a few seconds that he would cry. “Don’t hurt her,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t hurt her.”
“I already told you what I want.” Strank smiled at Weatherby. “The Morningstar race starts tomorrow evening at Point Santos. You enter that race and you win it, and free my soul from the devil’s clutches. Then you’ll get your sister back.” He walked over to the car and opened the door.
“P-please,” Weatherby said, trying to follow Strank. “Can I talk to her?”
“You’ll get all the time you want to chat up old times, Weatherby, once you win the Morningstar race and I let her go. Of course, if you lose I’ll get Jimmy here to slit her throat and leave her in a ditch – after enjoying himself with her, of course – so, I suggest you win.” He slammed the door shut and started the engine. The flivver burned rubber as it backed out and shot into the road.
Weatherby ran after them for a few paces, before he realized the uselessness of it. He stood still and watched Strank and his sister speed into the distance and then turned to me. “What are we going to do, Morton?” he asked. “The bastard has my sister. Selena never had any of the wretched imprisonment that my family faced. She was in boarding school in America, and stayed there during the war. She’s in college now.”
“You kept in touch?”
“Through the occasional letter and nothing more. And after I left the care of the CIA, I stayed with her for a while. If she saw me any longer, she’d ask about the details of what happened in Castle Stein in the Black Forest. She’d hear about the death of father and mother, and she’d be torn apart with the guilt. I could not allow that to happen.” Every so often I forget that Weatherby was about fourteen-years-old and was still a child. Every so often, he reminded me. “And now she’s in the clutches of a psychotic Satanist! And it’s my fault.”
“Hey.” I put a hand on his shoulder and steadied him. “Weatherby, it ain’t nobody’s fault but Strank’s. And he’s got something coming for it, believe me. But in the meantime we gotta focus on getting into this Morningstar race, and maybe come up with a plan of attack.”
“A plan?” Weatherby asked. “Good heavens – he has my sister, man! And we can’t outrace the devil, not to mention all the other speedsters that will no doubt enter this little automotive challenge. How are we to go about stopping him?”
I considered the question. “For starters,” I said. “There’s a fellow we ought to go see.”
We headed over to the Packard to start the drive, leaving our drinks back on the table in the Shim-Shim-Shammy. We wouldn’t get to enjoy them, but I figured it wasn’t much of a loss.
We arrived at Dutch’s place in the wide suburban sprawl that surrounded Los Angeles sometime around midmorning the next day, having driven through the night. At first, Weatherby couldn’t have slept unless someone cracked a pistol handle to the back of his head, but his fatigue got the better of him, and he passed out sometime after we hit the interstate. I woke him up when we had arrived at the Dutchman’s garage.
He looked out the window at the black asphalt, the filling stations, the wide garages and the faded neon sign glittering above it all. “What in god’s name is this place?” he asked, as I stopped the Packard and got outside.
“His name is Dutch. His real name is something I don’t know and don’t care to ask. In our unit, back during the war, he could do to machines what men can do to women – make them come alive.” The sun was coming down like a
n artillery strike. I blinked my eyes against the glare as I walked to the garage. “I remember one time, the brass had screwed up the drop coordinates real bad. We ended up way behind enemy lines, with only a ruined panzer for company. Dutch made that panzer work, and we rode it all the way back to Patton’s army.”
“And you believe he can help us win this automobile race?” Weatherby asked.
“If he can’t, no one can.” I approached the door of the garage and gave it a knock. It swung open on rusted hinges, and Dutch stared up at me. He rubbed his eyes and I gave him a grin. “Hello there, Dutch,” I said. “How you been?”
“Getting by,” he said. Dutch had grown a pot belly and stooped shoulders since the last time I saw him. He wore a stained pair of coveralls, with a rubber bowtie and a flat cap. He had thinning hair and a wide grin. “Christ, Morton. It’s been years.”
“And they haven’t been kind to me.” We shook hands and I introduced the kid. “This is Weatherby Stein. You remember him, right? The kid we pulled out of that Nazi hellhole in the Black Forest?”
“Jeez Louise, that is him!” Dutch smiled. “I don’t suppose you remember me, son, but I remember you – I don’t think any of the boys in our squad will forget what happened there. I’m sorry as all hell about what happened to your family…” He trailed off. “Please, come on in. I’ll put some coffee on.” He led us inside a small kitchenette attached to his quarters, and busied himself.
Weatherby was still worried sick about his sister, but he nodded politely as he followed Dutch inside. “I thank you and Morton every day for preserving my life. But I fear I have another boon to ask of you.”
“We both do,” I said. “You know the Morningstar Car Club’s annual race along the coast? We’re gonna be in it. And we don’t want to come in second place.”
Dutch looked at me in surprise. His cheeks puffed out like he was a frog.
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 7