I pulled the Ka-Bar out of my boot and walked over to the wheels of the Crabbpatch’s station wagon. The two Crabbpatch boys behind me were still whining on the ground. I knelt down and slashed their front tires, cutting deep grooves in the rubber until they were useless. I moved to the back tires. Another Crabbpatch tried to stop me and got the handle of my knife slammed into his forehead for his trouble.
It was done in a matter of minutes and I stepped back. The Crabbpatch Clan was out of the race now – for good. I doffed my fedora to them. “Word of advice, boys?” I said, looking at the terrified yokels inside their car. “Go back to moonshine-running.”
I walked back to the Packard and got into the driver’s seat. Weatherby stared at me, looking only a little surprised. “You’re going to play dirty?” he asked.
I nodded. “That’s how you win,” I replied and slammed on the gas.
Dutch had picked his roads right. We made good time speeding through the winding dirt paths and the back roads of the California coast. The ocean was never far away, and I could smell the spray and the salt as we rode along. Weatherby checked the route on the Esso road map constantly, his thin fingers carefully picking their way along the fabric as we drew closer and closer to the finish line. I kept the gas pedal down and never got slower than a buck twenty.
The Morningstar Race was a long one. Dawn came and went and we were still going. I had been sure to have a full tank when we started, but now the needle was pressing down to empty. I glared at the gauge, but that didn’t make it twist back to full. We were gonna have to stop.
“We need gas,” I told Weatherby. I pointed down the road, where a rusty sign advertised a filling station up ahead. “I’m gonna pull over and fill her up, then get on the road again.”
“And do we have the time for this lamentable detour?” Weatherby asked.
I shrugged. “I figure the other racers must have to stop for gas too at some point. It’s a long road from Point Santos to Crescent Bay, after all. We’ll just be quick about it.” I twisted the wheel and sent us down the road the gas station. The bootlegger roads ended after that. We’d be rolling down the same stretch of pavement as the others. I wondered what would come of that.
The gas station was a little lump of metal and wood next to the road, with a sign glowing luridly in the early morning light. There was a small diner next door, the color of dirtied pearl, with a scrawny highway patrol officer alone at the counter. I slowed the Packard and slid it next to one of the pumps. A place like this was self-serve, I figured.
Weatherby stayed in the car, drumming his fingers on his knee while I starting pumping. A couple minutes later, a speedy coupe with no markings and freshly stolen license plates slid into the pump next to me. It was Buck Beltz, the getaway man. He hopped out of the car and started gassing up, checking his watch and eyeing me suspiciously. I nodded to him and he turned away. He never was a friendly fellow.
I looked back at the cop inside and got an idea. Winning a race against three people, one of them being the Devil, would probably be easier than winning it against four. I motioned to Weatherby to watch the pump and took a walk inside the diner.
The cop was reading the paper. He had a shabby moustache and a flat nose, which made him look like a gopher peeking up from a burrow. I sat down next to him and nodded to the overweight man at the counter. “Say, officer,” I said, not facing him as I talked. “You know there’s a notorious criminal wheelman getting gas down there by the pump.”
He lowered his newspaper and looked at me. “What?” he said.
“That’s right,” I said. I got the feeling I’d have to walk this flatfoot through the motions. “That guy with the big golden necklace is Buck Beltz. He rode the getaway car on a string of Kansas City armored car robberies a few years back. Pulled that bank job up in Reno too.”
“What?” He turned to stare at Buck, but I grabbed his shoulder and pointed to the mirror behind the diner’s bar. He looked at Buck through that, without turning to stare at him. “Really?”
“You bet. Say, I bet there’d be some real promotions and good press in store for the officer who brought him in.” I stood up and patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to think about it?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, as I headed outside.
I walked over to Buck. He was enjoying a fat Cuban cigar while he filled up his car. I nodded to him. “Say,” I said. “I’m a good sportsman, you know? I don’t think cheaters ought to prosper, and I play by the rules – especially when I race.”
“Oh yeah?” Buck asked. He sounded bored. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“Like a charm.” I pointed to the diner. “So, I just went in there for a cup of joe, and I overheard the cop in there talking about you. I think he made you, buddy. I think he’s gonna come right over here and arrest you. Unless you take care of him first.”
“Ah hell. Really?” Buck Beltz reached into the small of his back. He pulled out a snub-nosed .38. “Goddamn it, goddamn it. I’ll just go and sap him with the handle, or get his gun away from him and tie him up.” He started walking towards the diner, the revolver held loosely in his hand. He cared more about his freedom than his car. That was smart, but it would cost him the race.
Soon as he turned his back, I pulled the nozzle out of his gas tank and set it in the driver’s seat. The gas kept pumping, leaving a thick black puddle of oil on the leather of his seat. It dripped down around the pedals, and sprayed onto the wheel. Weatherby watched me without a word as I drew out my lighter and cigarettes.
“Playing dirty?” Weatherby asked.
“I’m playing to win,” I said. I lit the cigarette and took a drag on it. Buck was halfway to the diner when I let the cigarette go. It fell onto the gas and started the fire instantly. The heat was instant and terrible, and I looked away from the brightness of the blaze. Buck turned around at the whoosh of fire, and I ducked back and headed to my car. Weatherby had already slid inside.
“Oh no!” Buck cried. “Not my baby! No, no, no!” He turned away from the diner and started running to his automobile. But the sudden flash of flame had drawn the attention of the cop, and he came running out of the diner, raising his gun in shaking hands.
“Drop it!” he ordered.”Drop the gun or I’ll blow you away! Just see if I’m kidding, Beltz!”
Buck had his back to the cop and had no choice but to let the .38 tumble to the dirt. It was that or get a bullet in his back. He was a smart guy. I love messing up smart guys.
I had finished gassing up now and got into my Packard. I started the engine and sped away. I caught Buck Beltz watching me as the cop ran to him and forced him to his knees. His eyes were narrow and dark. I grinned at him and waved, then slammed on the gas. I was speeding away from that little gas station before the cop had Buck in handcuffs.
From there, the bootlegger road wound along to an intersection with the main highway to Crescent Bay. I kept the engine at top speed, doing my best to keep the tires rolling straight and the Packard zooming forward. Weatherby stared at me, and blinked his eyes several times.
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked. “Beating people? Cheating to win? Rigging every game in your favor?” He lowered his voice. “To be a man without honor?”
I would have laughed at his joke, called him ‘kiddo’ and told him to go climb up his thumb, but something about his question hit me like a sniper’s bullet right between the eyes. I had heard about honor, and maybe seen men in my platoon and even enemy Krauts who practiced it. But it was never for me.
“A part of me likes it,” I said. “But I don’t like that part of me very much. But to save your sister – for a good cause – I’ll gladly indulge it.” I kept the gas pedal depressed and looked at Weatherby. The kid looked thoughtful.
He nodded slowly. “Well, thank you, Morton. Thank you for that.”
“No problem.” I looked ahead and saw that the intersection wasn’t far away. We’d be coming to the end of the race soon enoug
h, and that’s where it would get fast and nasty. The bad part was coming up, and my fists and wits wouldn’t help me much. It would be the steel of the Packard, the strength of my hand on the wheel, and the iron in my blood that would settle it.
I kept on driving and then I saw it. The bootlegger road met the highway through a small hole in the wall of cliffs, wrapped round with vegetation and scarcely visible. I gunned the engine for all it had, already tightening my hand on the wheel. If I judged it wrong, we’d scoot out onto the road, right across it and then off the cliff and into the sea.
The engine roared as I started turning the wheel, sending the Packard rolling out of the bootlegger road and onto the highway beside the sea. I could smell the sea air, and it felt good to have slick asphalt instead of dirt under my wheels.
The street was empty, except for three cars, and they were all in front of me. I decided to do something about that. The black Cadillac had kept its lead, with Vette Veaux’s car close behind, and Hadley Stullworth III’s expensive racer ahead of me at the back. So the rich kid would be the first to go.
I came up behind him fast, not giving him any time to notice my arrival. I saw him turn to look at me, and saw the reflection of my face in his mirrored sunglasses. I saw that I was smiling. Then I slammed the bumper of the Packard into the back of his car. Metal squealed as I bumped him again, ramming him forward into his steering wheel. He was starting to panic and I eased off the pedal for a few seconds, just enough to let terror take hold, and then I hit him again.
“Dear god!” Stullworth cried, louder than the roar of our engines. A curve in the road was coming up. There would be sharp cliff on one side and a sheer drop and ocean on the other. That’s when I made my move. I slammed into his bumper and then twisted the wheel, screaming alongside Stullworth and shoving him out of the way. I turned to stare at him in the seconds before the front of his car crumpled into the cliff wall. He was terrified and I gave him a quick nod.
“Nothing personal, kid!” I said. “But you ain’t winning this race!” Then I slammed down on the gas pedal and sent my ride shooting down the road. The wind whistled through my cracked window, running through my hair and tearing at my face like a creature’s claws. I ignored it. Up ahead was Vette Veaux – and the black Cadillac.
Vette saw me coming in her rear view mirror. I couldn’t muscle past her like I did with Hadley Stullworth. She kept her engine humming and her vehicle just a few inches ahead of me. Hers was lighter and faster, and she was dancing in front of me, laughing like a hyena all the while.
She turned around and smiled at me, the wind in her dark hair. “Come on, you old tom cat!” she cried with manic joy. “Make this pussy purr!”
She was flying ahead of me and loving every minute of it. I’d have to shut this crazy cat down before she unsheathed her claws. But that was her weakness – she loved danger and wanted to push everything to the edge. I took my foot off the gas pedal and dropped down to a slightly less insane speed. And wouldn’t you know it? She did the same.
Vette’s car slid back as mine slid forward. We evened out. Vette’s car faced the ocean and mine was close to the cliff. She was still smiling at me. “Come on, baby!” she roared. “Drive me wild!”
“You got it.” I slammed my car into the side of hers, giving the Packard everything it could. Vette kept on laughing as her car teetered to the edge of the cliff, and then the front of it edged off as she screamed on the breaks. I kept rolling ahead of her, and only bothered to look back once.
The go-go dancer was stuck with her car half on the cliff and half off. She was laughing, drumming her hands on the dashboard in tune with the blaring radio. “Whoa, baby!” she cried. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time!” I had knocked her out of the race, but she still managed to enjoy herself.
Weatherby’s eyes were set dead ahead. The black Cadillac was still a ways in front of us, as the Morningstar Car Club’s race entered its final and most lethal stretch. The Cadillac was eating up the street with ease, and I could see the makeshift finish line in the distance. I kept the gas pedal fully depressed and narrowed my eyes as I started catching up.
The finish line was marked by two garishly painted Morningstar Car Club hot rods parked on either side of the road. A small audience had gathered to watch the finish, their cars set in a parking lot near a roadside diner a little ways back from the finish line. The cliff road continued for a while after that, lessening to a single lane between the mountain and the ocean, with Crescent Bay beyond.
One of the cars in the diner’s parking lot was a beaten Ford. Leaning back on the hood, smoking a cigarette but not enjoying it, was Leon Strank. In the back of his car was a girl named Selena Stein – with a straight razor to her throat. Weatherby leaned forward, his fingers tensed and his teeth gritted.
I gunned the engine as I neared the Cadillac. This was where things were going to get rough. I still couldn’t see the driver behind those tinted windows, so I could only guess his reaction when I slammed the mangled front of my Packard into the back of his vehicle. I kept pressing against him, ramming him with everything the Packard had.
He slid out of the way, and I drove forward. I kept pressing against him, ramming into that Cadillac again and again, until he was nearly as banged up as I was. My muscles ached with every collision, and poor Weatherby got jounced around quite a bit. But I didn’t let up.
The finish line was just ahead, and I turned to Weatherby. “I didn’t tell you the last part of the plan, kiddo,” I said. “Because you’re not gonna like it. You’re gonna win the race. I’m gonna face down the devil.”
“What?” Weatherby shook his head. “Good god – you’ll be incinerated by infernal energies or devoured by demons instantly! There must be another way!”
“I’ll be okay.” I reached down to the long wooden box between my feet, the one I had taken from the monks in that old Spanish mission. “The cars are gonna stop. I need you to get out and run for the finish line. Nothing in the rules says your car has to make it across for you to get a victory. Hell, I’m not sure there’s any rules at all in this crazy race.”
Weatherby nodded slowly. “Be careful,” he said.
I shrugged. “That’s me,” I said. “One careful fellow.” Then I twisted the steering wheel around and drove my Packard right into the center of the devil’s Cadillac. I slammed him against the gray rock wall of the cliff and kept the gas pedal down. Metal squealed and the engine smoldered. “Go!” I shouted as I kicked open the door.
Weatherby dashed outside. He stumbled and fell to the pavement, but then came to his feet and started scrambling for the finish line. I grabbed the long wooden box and slid out myself. I was dazed and battered from the crash, so it didn’t surprise me when the doors to the devil’s Cadillac swung open by themselves.
Two long legs in a perfectly creased set of pinstriped trousers tipped with Italian loafers touched down on the pavement. A slim man in a dark pinstriped three-pieced suit stepped carefully onto the pavement. He had steel gray hair with a red rose in his lapel and black gloves on his hands. He wore a wooden devil’s mask, completed with curving horns, glaring eyes and a fanged mouth in a giddy grin. He started walking towards me.
“Mr. Candle, Mr. Candle, Mr. Candle,” he said, shaking his head. His voice had no accent, and he seemed more amused than anything. “You’ve been a good boy, Mr. Candle. You’ve sent quite a few people my way. But now, after wrecking my car, and screwing up my race, well…” He trailed off. “Let’s just say there’s a lot of people down with me who are eager to meet you again.”
I opened the wooden case. “Tell them to wait,” I said. I pulled out a pale leg bone, wrapped round with rosary beads and crosses. I held it up and approached the devil. He stepped backwards, raisings his hands and emitting a bestial hiss.
The bone belonged to a fellow by the name of Eustace. A long time ago, he got himself devoured by wolves in a Roman coliseum. For his trouble, the Catholics made him a saint and turned hi
s bones into relics. The monks in the Mission had it in their collection. They didn’t want to hand it over to me – at first. It was only after I pressed the muzzle of my pistol to the priest’s belly that he gave it to me. I had promised to give it back when I was done, but I don’t think they believed me.
The leg bone of St. Eustace had the desired effect. The devil stepped back, covering his masked face with his gloved hands. I took a halting step forward, feeling my aching muscles explode in pain with every movement. Behind me, Weatherby was running for the finish line. The audience was cheering. This was the kind of show they liked to see.
They cheered even louder when Satan’s long leg lashed out and cracked into my knee. I fell down and the leg bone tumbled from my grasp. I tried to dive for it, but then the devil grabbed my tie and hauled me to my feet. He wrapped his hand around my throat and held me in the air. I kicked my leg into his chest but nothing happened.
“Little mortal…” the devil hissed. “I’m gonna enjoy seeing you down in the pits! I’m gonna take time out from my day – every day, for eternity – to personally make you feel pure agony! And I’m gonna enjoy it! But first, I’m gonna—”
I managed to talk through a crushed throat. “You…lost…” He looked to the finish line and the devil followed my gaze.
Weatherby had crossed it. “Satan!” he cried. “You’ve lost this contest! We came in first and you came in second! Those are the rules and even you must abide by them! Now, you will grant us one wish!”
The devil let me drop to the ground. I fell to the road and Weatherby ran to my side. “Hold on,” I said, grabbing the leg bone and tucking it under my arm. “Gotta keep my promise to return the bone to those priests.” I looked back up at the devil and stood up. We had won, but Selena wasn’t safe. As long as Strank had her, she wouldn’t be.
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 9