“Kind of untypical for a gothic,” I said. “What do you make of it?”
Weatherby shrugged. “I originally thought Mallet’s simpering displays were pointless little entertainments for the dull minds of the masses, and nothing more. But they provide a window, however blurry, into the real darkness that lurks in the world. They can’t show what happened to me in the Black Forest, and everything else that happened in those terrible years and the hands of the Nazis, or all the other wretched things in the world, but they can put hints of it into their work, and still make it acceptable for a mass audience. It seems Curse of the Witch Queen will follow that tradition.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right,” I said. “Now get your coat. We got a plane to catch.”
Paradise City billed itself as Las Vegas without the sleaze. It was an isolated resort town, lost in the California desert, and every day tourists in their station wagons sped in to lose their money, watch the shows and dirty the linens in their hotel room, before speeding on back to their white picket fences without feeling the least bit guilty. They’re wrong, of course. Everything in the country is rotten. You just have to peel back the skin.
That’s my line – digging through the dirt to find out what stinks. My partner Weatherby Stein and I arrived in Paradise City for a job, and I was sure I was gonna end up getting my hands dirty. I didn’t know that when the day was over, my arms would be up to their elbows in blood.
We rode in down the main street of the resort town, past the lines of palm trees and buildings gleaming golden in the desert sun. My powder blue Packard, more battered than a glass-boned weakling after going a couple of rounds with the resident champ, stood out amidst the pale pinks and shining cars of the new rich and the middle class. I didn’t mind. They were coming to lose their money. I was coming to make some.
Or so I thought, anyway. Weatherby had received the letter from an old pal of ours – a gambler by the name of Sly Baum. Sly was too slick for his own good, but he always managed to pay his debts. Weatherby was also pen-pals with Sly’s son, a shy kid by the name of Henry Wallace. The boy was ten-years-old and Weatherby was fourteen, but they got along great.
I wagered it was because of the similarities in their lives. Weatherby had been kidnapped at an early age by the Nazis, and seen his parents die before his eyes. After that, he’d lived alone, without kids his own age. Henry Wallace got dragged over the country with his father, moving from one high stakes game to the next, without ever settling down roots and getting many friends. They were both lonely, without a chance to meet other kids.
I wasn’t sure what the job entailed. Weatherby said that we should head to the grand ballroom in the Oasis Casino, a swanky joint in the center of Paradise City, and meet up with Sly there. I didn’t ask many questions, figuring Weatherby would get around to filling me in on the details as we neared our destination. But here we were, a couple of blocks from the Oasis and I still knew nothing. I decided to ask some questions.
“So,” I said, pulling the smoldering cigarette from the corner of my mouth. “Feel like telling me why we’re here? What does Sly want with us?”
Weatherby stiffened. The spindly kid never seemed comfortable in his Victorian suit and vest, but it was the only thing he would wear. “Well, it’s not Mr. Baum, exactly,” Weatherby explained. He had a package wrapped in brown paper at his side, and his thin fingers drummed on it expectantly. “It’s Henry Wallace. You see, Mort, it’s, well, it’s the boy’s birthday, and he seemed quite insistent that I should attend.”
I stared at Weatherby. “We’re here for some runt’s birthday party?” I asked. “No, let me rephrase that — we drove all the way across the country, all the way out to this miserable sucker’s Sin City, for a runt’s birthday bash?”
“Yes…” Weatherby seemed more than a little embarrassed. “See here, Mort – Henry Wallace and I have been communicating through letters for some time. He strikes me as an exemplary young man, and I feel an almost paternal affection for him, as well as a simple friendship. Plainly stated, I think he needs a friend. And he deserves one.”
I breathed smoke out from between clenched teeth. “You got him a good present?” I asked.
“The best,” Weatherby assured me.
“All right, kiddo. We’ll play this game for a little. Hell, maybe I can get myself a good drink at the Oasis’s bar. I got a feeling I’ll need one.” I spotted the Oasis Hotel and Casino gleaming at the end of the wide avenue. I steered the car in that direction, and settled into the parking lot.
The Oasis was one of a thousand new types of gambling halls to crop up all over the country, after gangster bosses decided to invest their money hard-earned in Prohibition days in something stately, glitzy and just on the edge of legal. It was a tall tower of aqua-blue glass, with a small forest of palm trees and lawn flamingoes planted around the entrance. Across from the parking lot, a blaring neon sign advertised pompadour-topped singer Tommy Gabriel, who was apparently crooning at the Dorado, and for a limited time only. Weatherby and I walked past the sign, through the palm trees, and into the casino lobby.
Through a marble archway behind the front desk, we could see the seemingly endless series of clanking slot machines, each occupied and whirring away. Waitresses dressed in soft pink robes and veils, revealing their bellies, crossed the room holding up trays of complimentary drinks. I watched one of them march by, enjoying the view while Weatherby talked with the receptionist, who wore a golden turban and vest.
But as I was examining the waitress’s more pleasing parts, I saw a flash of crimson from a familiar Hawaiian shirt behind her. I looked up, trying to place those red flowers on a red background, but before I could fix my eyes on the shirt, it was gone, vanished behind a row of rattling one-armed bandits. I shook my head as I turned away.
Weatherby stood before me, Henry Wallace’s present tucked under his arm. “Right,” he said. “The east ballroom is this way. Mr. Baum apparently rented it specifically for his son’s celebration.”
“Terrific,” I said, and fell into step behind Weatherby.
We walked down a hallway bordering the casino floor, and headed to a large set of double doors at the end. Weatherby pushed it open, the heavy doors giving him a little trouble and we stepped inside. You could have fit an army into that ballroom, and it was all empty, except for a round table at the center, where Henry Wallace Baum and his father were looking over a birthday cake.
Henry Wallace perked up when he saw Weatherby. “Holy cow!” he cried. “You’re here! Thank you, Weatherby! Thank you for coming! We’ve got some cake, and punch, and papa – my father, I mean—he says we’ll go see one of the shows later!” He hurried over to Weatherby’s side, chattering excitedly. Henry Wallace was a thin kid, small for his age, with all his hope and innocence spread across his bespectacled face. He wore a white suit, trousers and a bowtie.
I walked over to join Sly Baum at the table, while Weatherby and Henry Wallace talked. Sly had the same dark hair and bright eyes as his son, though his hair was thinning and he didn’t wear round spectacles. He had on his usual blue tuxedo, the bowtie undone and drooping.
Sly held a shining martini in one hand, and offered it to me. “Care for something a little stronger than punch, Mr. Candle?”
I took the martini and drained it. “Thanks,” I said. I watched as Weatherby and Henry Wallace walk to the table, deep in conversation. Weatherby was talking about the lifecycle of vampires, and Henry Wallace was listening in utter fascination. “So, is anyone else gonna show up to this little shindig?”
“Uh, no.” Sly Baum replied. He shrugged. “Look, Mr. Candle. I’m always on the move. Sometimes I got people chasing me, but more often than that, it’s another game luring me to Vegas or Atlantic City or New Orleans or any other burg where the cards are dealt and the money’s made. Henry Wallace reads a lot, and I buy him everything a boy could need, but there’s not much room for friends in his life. Or in mine, come to think of it.”
Henry Wallace and Weatherby sat down, and Sly indicated the cake. The candles were already burning. “Chocolate, sport,” he said. “Just like you asked for. Shall we sing now?”
“Okay,” Henry Wallace agreed.
We sang happy birthday to the kid. I mumbled along, while Weatherby belted out the words and beat the table in time. Henry Wallace blew out the candles and we all applauded. Sly handed Henry Wallace his present, and the boy carefully tore it open. He smiled at the model plane inside.
“Thanks, papa,” Henry Wallace agreed. “That’s a swell gift. I don’t think I have this one…”
“He does have a lot,” Sly said, with a grin. “Let’s see what Mr. Stein brought you.”
Weatherby’s present was a thick stack of leather-bound books, a collection of classics if there ever was one. “Mary Shelly’s brilliant novel is in there,” Weatherby explained. “In an original printing. I’ve set aside a collection of poems, featuring my favorites by Blake and Byron, the Castle of Ortranto, a few of the other minor gothics. And Treasure Island. That was one of my favorites, when I was a boy.”
Henry Wallace held each book like it was some irreplaceable treasure. And in way, the books were just that. “You’d give them to me?” he asked. “Wow. Thank you, Weatherby.”
“You’re quite welcome, my friend. I hope you enjoy them.” Weatherby sat down next to Henry Wallace as Sly started cutting the cake.
I munched on some of the chocolate cake, feeling the icing clog up my mouth like wet cement, while Weatherby described the plots and stories to Henry Wallace. This wasn’t the kind of place for me. I stood up, and turned to Sly. “Any more booze?”
He shook his head. “I’ll have to go to the casino bar and grab some more.”
“I don’t feel like waiting.” I grinned at Weatherby. “You kids have a nice time,” I said, and ambled out of the ballroom. I felt strange. Was I some parent dropping off his kid with the neighbors for a play date? Was this the equivalent of that for the kind of people me and Weatherby were – taking place in a sleazy hole of a casino instead of some suburban neighborhood? I didn’t like it, either way.
I left the ballroom and returned to the main casino floor. I walked over to the bar, my hands in the pockets of my trench coat. “A White Russian,” I told the bored buck-toothed bartender in the vest and turban. “And don’t take your time.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and got to work. I looked back at the casino while he mixed my drink. I watched the patrons at the slot machines, staring glassy-eyed at the one-armed bandits as they worked the cranks and lost their money. They were zombies, all of them, trapped in a lifeless trance of pleasure between their boring jobs and boring lives. It was strange how craving a bit of excitement was even duller than their usual existence.
I finished my White Russian, watched the crowd, and saw that flash of red again, heading for the bathrooms. This time I remembered where I had seen it before. More importantly, I remembered the bastard wearing it. I downed my White Russian in a single gulp, tossed a few bucks on the counter and stood up. “Bobby Belasco,” I hissed under my throat as I followed him.
Bobby Belasco had been my unit’s contact in the OSS. Maybe he had started out with some measure of idealism. Maybe he had even been a good guy, once. But somewhere after the OSS turned over into the CIA, somewhere between toppling Latin American democracies, executing enemies of the state and dreaming up new wonder weapons to win the Cold War, Belasco’s sanity had gone south. Now he was the ultimate Company wetwork expert, a coldhearted killer with a hothead and a sick sense of humor.
I followed him into the bathroom, walking down the row of clattering slot machines and following him into the men’s room. I pulled open the door and stepped inside silently. Dealing with Kraut snipers in the Black Forest taught you how to move quietly. I reached into my coat, letting my hand rest on one of the .45 automatics I wore in crossed shoulder-holsters.
Sure enough, Bobby Belasco was in the bathroom, overlooking a terrified tourist in a torn suit, who crouched in the corner before the sinks. Belasco wore his rumpled Hawaiian shirt, his unkempt brown hair meeting his spray of stubble. He held a silenced automatic in his hands, aimed at the terrified balding tourist.
“P-please!” the poor guy cried, raising his hands. “Don’t do this! I j-just need a hospital!” I saw a bloody makeshift bandage on his right arm.
“Sorry, pal,” Belasco replied, keeping the gun level. “The only cure for what you got is in the barrel of this weapon.”
“I got a wife and kids!” the tourist cried.
“Uh, no, you don’t. I took care of them earlier. Sorry.” Belasco shrugged. “Now hold still.”
I charged him, pulling the handle of my gun back to deliver a crashing blow to the CIA spook, but I was too late. He fired, striking the tourist neatly in the forehead. A spray of blood hit the marble sinks and the mirror behind them. Then I collided with Belasco.
Down we went, onto the tiled floor. I cracked the barrel of my pistol against Belasco’s forehead. “You lousy spook!” I cried. “What the hell are you doing, gunning down innocent people? You finally snapped, is that it?” He scrambled to grab the machete from the leather scabbard on his hip, but I grabbed his wrist and held it back. I placed the muzzle of my pistol against his forehead, and his hand went limp, letting the machete clatter to the floor.
“I ain’t snapped yet, my flickering little Mort Candle,” he said. He nodded to the dead tourist. “Nice to see you, by the way. You look good. And about this little thing? I can explain.”
“So start talking.” I stood up, keeping Belasco covered. He squatted on the ground, not far from the bleeding body of his latest victim.
He grinned up at me. “You gonna point that cannon somewhere else? You’re giving me stage fright.” I didn’t move so he continued. “All right, all right. Believe or not, I’m here to save the world, same as always. Paradise City’s had itself a little accident, after a U.S. military helicopter crashed on the edge of town, containing some very important samples of Project Lugosi.”
“Lugosi?” I asked. “The actor?”
“Of White Zombie.” Belasco stood up, reaching for his fallen machete and sliding it into its sheathe. He acted like I wasn’t there as he straightened his collar in the bloody mirror. “You should know about it, Mort. Hell, you were there when I got it started, back in Havana.” He grabbed his silenced pistol, as well.
I had heard enough. In Havana, Belasco had got his hands on some Voodoo zombie powder. He figured it would be a handy tool for his Company. But now it was out of the toolbox and into Paradise City, bringing Hell with it. I grabbed his hand and dragged him to the door. “Okay,” I said. “My associates are in the ballroom. We’ll go there, you can explain what’s happening to Weatherby and maybe he can think of something.”
“So shooting everyone’s out of the question?” He smiled plaintively. “That was a joke, Mort. Hah-hah.” He shrugged as we left the bathroom. “You’re the boss. Lead on.”
I walked him past the casino floor and back to the ballroom. I knew we didn’t have much time, but I didn’t know Belasco wasn’t as thorough as he suggested. While we were walking, the plague was spreading, reaching its way through tourists, high-rollers and casino workers in bites and scratches. We didn’t see it. You never do see your doom – until it rears up in your face.
When I got back to the ballroom, I knew something was wrong from the sudden silence. Henry Wallace and Weatherby had ceased their enthusiastic chat, and Sly Baum said nothing. I motioned for Bobby Belasco to stand back, and then kicked open the double doors, fearing the worst.
What I got was a little better. Joey Verona, mob hitman with a penchant for style, had Weatherby, Henry Wallace and Sly Baum covered with a pair of shining automatics. He was well-dressed at least, in a snappy salmon pink suit and carefully knotted tie. His straw-colored hair was slicked back, making him look streamlined. Verona was a gun-for-hire, and I could figure out who was paying him for this hit.
>
“Morty!” Verona had some idea that we were friends. I did my best to dispel it. “Fancy meeting you here!” He turned to grin at me. “I’m here for a job, for Don Vizzini. You don’t want to mess with that scar-faced Sicilian, Morty. Tell your teenage pal here to step aside and let me get to work.”
Sly had one hand raised, the other on Henry Wallace. The youngster was staring at the two pistols of Verona, unable to take his eyes off the weapons. “You want me, isn’t it?” Sly asked. “Okay. Mr. Candle? Mr. Stein? Could you take Henry Wallace out of here? I’ve put aside some money for him. He’ll be okay.” He looked up at Verona. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”
“No dice, Baum,” Verona replied. “Don Vizzini was quite clear on the matter – you’ve gone and humiliated him, sneaking away like that in Havana. He wants you and your son whacked, as much as a lesson for others as for the Don’s peace of mind.” Verona raised his pistols. “Morty, tell your buddy to get out of the way. I want a clean shot at the both of them.”
Weatherby stepped in front of the Baums, like he could block the bullets with his flimsy frame. He narrowed his eyes at Joey Verona. “Mr. Verona, Henry Wallace is my friend. I will not allow him to come to harm.”
Verona sighed. “Ain’t no job easy these days, is it? You get bystanders getting involved, cops not willing to take a pay-off, marks not staying dead. It’s just one big headache.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And it’s gonna get worse.” I pushed Belasco forward, knocking him to the ground, then went for my second automatic.
Verona turned to face me, but I already had one heater pointed his way. We paused, right in the middle of a Mexican standoff. Verona had one pistol pointed at me and one at Weatherby and the Baums. The air was charged and silent. A little bit of pressure and I could splatter Verona’s brains and hair tonic right over the table – but maybe not before he popped Weatherby in the chest.
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 13