The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1)

by Michael Panush

  But then Inky Abrams appeared above me and I stopped moving. “You’re awake? That’s wonderful.” He held up his hands. “I own a stake in this place. I’ll kill the owner if I don’t get it. And he lets me get rid of things here. ‘Ralph’s Rodent Rodeo,’ it’s called.” Inky Abrams walked around me, looking up at the stars. “Sure is a beautiful night, ain’t it, Candle?”

  “Enjoy it,” I said. “It’ll be your last.”

  “You sure like to smart me. Even when I told you not to.” He gave me another kick in the side. The searing pain shot through my body. “Now, I gotta get a move on. I figure the Wild Man will be at the Mystery Beast Preserve, the next attraction on the Roadside Line. That’s where we’ll kill him. But you’ll just die here, shamus.”

  He pushed me forward and I rolled. I tasted gray dust in my mouth, and I reached the edge of the pit. I dropped straight down, gasping in sour air until the bottom broke my fall. Inky tossed my two pistols after me. I looked up at him in surprise.

  “They’re empty!” he said. “Hah!” He turned away, moving back to his pick-up truck. “Gotta go, detective. Enjoy the company.” I heard his engine roar and the car speeding away, and then I finally sat up. My eyes tried to adjust to the dark of the pit. Many things were coming my way, big and hungry, squeaking like rusty metal as their claws touched the dirt.

  A rat stepped into the light. It was big as a pit bull, with a matted coat, beady eyes and long yellow teeth. I thought it was a pair of rats, close together, but as it drew closer, I realized the truth. The rat had two heads. Twice as many teeth, four eyes angry, and two tails waving like worms through the dirt. More two-headed rats appeared behind it. I struggled to reach for my knife, feeling panic rising inside of me. These monsters wouldn’t leave much but bones – if I let them.

  I leaned down and felt my fingers scrape the handle of my Ka-Bar. My palms were slick with sweat and the rodents were getting closer. It seemed like it took an hour, but I finally got the knife out and slashed open the ropes – just in time for the rats to attack.

  They sprang forward, and I came up to meet them, knife drawn. The first rat went for my throat, both sets of teeth about to dig into my neck before I skewered it with the combat knife. Another two-headed rat started chewing on my leg and I went down. I kicked the rodent, sending it scampering away. But the rest of them were there, waiting to wash over me like a black chattering tide.

  I started fighting them with everything I had, swinging my Ka-Bar and kicking out with both feet. Furry bodies cracked against the sides of the pit, and my blade was soon red to the hilt. I put my back to the wall, making sure no rats snuck up on me. But I could still feel their claws scratching my legs, their teeth trying to grab a finger or even a whole hand and stuff it in their bellies.

  I managed to handle myself okay – for a couple minutes. Maybe it was longer. It was difficult to tell the passage of time, just like when you’re in a foxhole in a snowy field in Belgium, watching the Panzers roll in slowly while the white-suited stormtroopers scamper forward between them. You fire and you fire until the Thompson in your hand is white hot and you don’t stop firing. And next to you, the .30 cal is blaring its endless song, and then the Kraut mortars start screaming down, kicking up snow and dirt and turning bodies into things that you couldn’t even comprehend until they splashed all over you and your precious hole. And then you’re killing someone, not with a knife, not with an entrenching tool, but with your hands – and he’s doing his best to do the same to you.

  I remembered those times, and fell back into them. The worst about it was that I found it almost comforting, like an old worn pair of boots, easily slipped on again.

  It took Weatherby’s voice, shouting louder than the imaginary mortar strikes, to bring me out of it. I looked up, through the top of the pit and saw Weatherby and Elkins look down.

  “Morton!” Weatherby cried, true panic in his voice. “Great Gods! Hold on, Mort! We’re putting down a rope!”

  I felt sunlight on my face and realized it was morning. Elkins lowered down a rope and I grabbed it. A rat jumped for me, and Elkins blasted it apart with his sniper rifle. I managed to reach down and grab my automatics, stuffing the cannons in my shoulder-holsters as Weatherby and Elkins hauled me up. They carried me up, closer and closer to the light.

  And then I was crawling out on the dirt, looking up at them. “Thanks a million,” I rasped, and Elkins handed me a canteen of water, and then a hip flask of something stronger. After wetting my whistle, I felt a little better. It was the morning, and that meant Big Daddy, Inky Abrams and his gang would be out looking for the ’66 Wild Man.

  My Roadmaster was parked near the edge of the rat pit. Ralph Rodent’s Rodeo looked even worse in the daytime. I walked past the rickety storefront with its wide dusty windows, and moved to my car. I didn’t speak until I had reloaded my pistols, and slapped a few quick bandages on the bites and scratches on my legs and arms. I felt like I would fall apart with each passing second, but this wasn’t the time. I didn’t want to let Inky Abrams win.

  “How’d you find me?” I wondered.

  “You did not reappear at morning. We searched the trailer park, and found no sign of you. Mr. Elkins knew that Mr. Abrams commonly uses this Rodent Rodeo establishment as a base of operations, and we headed here with great haste.” Weatherby shook his head. “Just in time too, it appears.”

  “You find out anything?” Elkins asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know that the Wild Man is Big Daddy’s son, and that it was Inky Abrams who murdered all those people. Inky wants the Wild Man dead, and if we don’t stop him, he’s gonna pull it off – at the Mystery Beast Preserve.”

  “That’s a ways down the Line,” Elkins said.

  “Then we’d best start driving.” I took another hit from the whiskey bottle and handed it off.

  We hurried into the car. Elkins drove and I sat in the back with Weatherby. He patched me up a little bit better, shaking his head like a schoolteacher looking over sloppy work. “We’ve chosen a very painful line of work, Mort,” Weatherby said. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s truly worth all the pain and trouble.”

  “What else would we do?” I asked, leaning back in the seat. I noted the heavier weapons, resting on the floor, behind the seats. I had a feeling we’d have need of them.

  “Do we have a plan?” Weatherby asked.

  “Remember what I said about plans?” I asked, as I clawed a cigarette out from the package. I still felt like hell, and I certainly wasn’t up to what was going to happen.

  “But Big Daddy and Inky Abrams have a goddamn army on their side!” Elkins pointed out.

  “Yeah? Well, we’ve got something stronger – the truth.” I leaned back in my seat. “I’m gonna rest my eyes, kiddo,” I said, my words slurring. “Let me know when we get there.”

  The ride didn’t last nearly long enough. Soon, Weatherby was shaking my shoulder and I opened my eyes. I looked out the window at the Mystery Beast Preserve. It was a couple of enclosures of rusty bars, all surrounded by tall signs and statues of the eponymous Mystery Beast – which appeared to be a small dog, dyed purple and outfitted with fake butterfly wings. A few of the Mystery Beasts were lying lazily in their cages, unconcerned about the hell breaking loose right next to them.

  The pick-up trucks of the Roadside Mafia were parked near the edge of the Preserve, and their passengers stood in a large crowd in the center, right before the ’66 Wild Man. Big Daddy was carefully approaching his monstrous son, both flabby arms outstretched. I saw that the hick army was now prepared, with weighted nets as well as firearms. Inky Abrams stood with them, armed with a long rifle and waiting for his chance.

  Elkins hit the brakes and leapt out, running towards Big Daddy’s gang, just as he gave the order. The nets were hurled through the air, followed by an occasional gunshot. The Wild Man tried to get away, but a net covered him. He started biting through the net, and Big Daddy watched silently as the Roadside Mafia ran forward and star
ted hitting him with the butts of their rifles. The Wild Man didn’t go down, lashing out with heavy fist or a pounding kick to send his attacker’s flying. He fought like a cornered beast, and I doubted they’d take him alive.

  “He’s innocent!” I called out, nearing the edge of the crowd. “Inky’s the killer and the Wild Man’s nothing but a patsy!”

  That got their attention. They turned to look at me and I saw Inky’s eyes widened in disbelief. Elkins smiled at him. “You try and kill a man, you ought not to forget about his friends,” he explained. He nodded to Big Daddy. “Mort’s right, Big Daddy. Inky let your boy out, murdered a whole mess of innocent folks – including your girl Rose – so he can take over the Roadside Line.”

  Big Daddy turned to Inky. His thugs stared at each other, unsure of what to do. “Is this true?” Big Daddy whispered. “Inky, you’re my lieutenant. You can’t betray me, am I right?”

  “Ah, what does it matter?” Inky demanded. “I’m your lieutenant, and you care more about that brainless freak than me! I can see it in your eyes, right now! You’re gonna have him inherit the Roadside Mafia, ignoring all the work I did, all the heads I busted for you!” He raised his rifle, taking aim at the subdued Wild Man.

  “My son!” Big Daddy stepped in front of Inky, just as the rifle cracked. I saw Big Daddy’s sunglasses fall to the ground, and then he sank down to join them. He lay on his side like a beached whale, breathing raggedly as a red mark spread through his white shirt.

  Inky stood over him. “He went mad, trying to save his killer son,” Inky said. “And now he’s dead. So I’m in charge.”

  The gang didn’t make any move to acknowledge his authority. They stared at the Wild Man, who was roaring and thrashing about in the weighted net. The Wild Man was roaring some incomprehensible cry of grief, with slowly morphed into a single word, repeated endlessly. “Faw-thuh! Faw-thuh!”

  Then he ripped through the net, and sprang for Inky. The tattooed killer swung the rifle to face the Wild Man, but it might as well have been a stick, for all the good it did him. The Wild Man tackled Inky, tore the rifle from his hand and snapped it half with a loud, clear crack. Then he started bringing those wrecking ball fists down on Inky’s head. I didn’t make a move to put the poor bastard out of his misery. Inky’s screams ended in a choking gasp.

  Soon enough, the remains of Inky’s skull were sinking into the dirt. The Wild Man looked up at glared at the Roadside Mafia. Nobody said much.

  “D-did Inky really do the killing?” one puffy-faced Okie asked in a reedy voice.

  “Look what we found in his car!” Two other members of the Roadside Gang approached, holding up the bloody hatchet. Inky had been too stupid or confident to remove the weapon, proving his guilt.

  Weatherby smiled. “His guilt is assured,” he said. “So what does that mean for the leadership of this sorry little criminal enterprise?”

  The Wild Man stood up on his hind legs. He reached down grabbing the fedora from Big Daddy’s head. He placed the makeshift crown on his own head. “I…am…heir,” he announced. “I roool.” He looked over the gangsters, and saw them bow their heads respectively. “I will be good roooler. I will be fair. But I will mash any who…don’t like it.”

  Everyone liked it just fine. I stood next to Weatherby and Elkins, still swaying on my feet, and saw the ’66 Wild Man turn to face me. He pointed his finger at me like it was a cannon. “You…” he said. “You found..troooth.”

  “I kind of stumbled into it, but yeah, I suppose I did,” I agreed.

  “Yooo will get payment.” The Wild Man nodded to his men, naming a sum that sounded very nice to my ears. They hurried off to fetch it.

  “Thanks, Wild Man,” I said. “Billy, I mean. I guess Plunket won’t really have you back in his enclosure.”

  “Tired of that…anyway,” the ’66 Wild Man replied. “Needed to…change.”

  While they were fetching our dough, Weatherby, Elkins and I walked back to the Roadmaster. “Need a lift anywhere?” I asked Elkins. “We’ll be going west, back to California.”

  “Nah. Figure I’ll head back east. Maybe get a job with the Chicago Outfit, or the families in New York. I figure they’ll be somebody who will pay good money for a good sniper.” Elkins bowed his head, almost ashamed at his plans.

  “You don’t have to still be a soldier,” Weatherby pointed out. “The Wild Man, he’s changing from a sideshow freak to a powerful crime lord. We can change our ways, Mr. Elkins, and you deserve better than to be some mere underworld assassin.”

  “You’re a sweet kid, little Weatherby,” Elkins said, his usual optimism washing away. “But you don’t know me.” He turned to me. “You’re still fighting a war, Mort. And you’ve dragged this poor child into it.”

  I shrugged. “We’re like you, private. We don’t change.” But then I looked at the Wild Man, his massive arms folded as he looked out over his new mob. “But sometimes, even monsters like us can catch a break.”

  The first thing I noticed about Hawaii was the heat. It boiled into me, wrapping around my skin, sliding into my nostrils and down my throat. I stepped down the walkway from the plane, looking out at the airport’s landing strip in Honolulu. It was a small airport in a small town on a small island – but all that was going to change. Tourists liked the heat, they liked the tropics and they liked not having to leave the United States to visit some place exotic. All of that meant Hawaii was as profitable to businessmen as a corpse was to vultures.

  And just like it is when the carrion birds have a buffet, business was always accompanied by death. That’s why my teenage partner Weatherby Stein and I had flown out to Hawaii from our hideout in California. Hotel magnate Horace Pepperdine had died a strange death, and no one investigates strange deaths better than Morton Candle and Weatherby Stein, private dicks with too much experience in bizarre cases.

  I blinked in the sunlight as I walked down the runway. The sky was bright blue, and the growing buildings raced up to fill the sky like steel skeletons. Palm trees swayed slightly in an island breeze. I wiped sweat from my forehead as Weatherby stood next to me. The kid had been fidgeting during the flight. Something was bothering him.

  “What’s eating you, kiddo?” I wondered.

  “Nothing really, Mort,” Weatherby replied evenly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. We walked through the airport lobby and out to the street. I moved to wave down a bright yellow cab, but Weatherby shook his head. “No need to do that, actually,” he said. “You see, I have already, well, arranged us conveyance to the Grand Tiki Hotel.”

  “Conveyance?” I asked.

  A wood-paneled automobile, a broad-nosed Buick, slid to a stop by the curb. A good looking college-age girl was at the wheel, and she gave me a polite smile. She had short dark hair, coming just over her ears, and the same shade as Weatherby’s. Her eyes were bright, and her fingers were thin. She wore a crisp white shirt and jeans, as well as a pair of round sunglasses for the tropical glare. Selena Stein opened the car to embrace Weatherby.

  “Your sister,” I said. “Your sister’s giving us a ride.”

  “I’d like to do a little bit more than that, Mr. Candle,” Selena Stein explained, as Weatherby hopped into the seat next to her. She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him close. “My baby brother might need some help with this case, and since I’ve got the weekend off from my studies, I think I can help however I can.”

  “Uh-huh.” I got into the back as she started pulling away from the curb. “What the hell are you doing here, sister?”

  “Well, you know that I’m studying anthropology back east, and I’ve come out here for some research on local customs. I greatly enjoy folklore and local mythology – possibly a result of growing up in Castle Stein, and I’ve been having an absolutely wonderful time meeting with the locals and learning of their beliefs. It’s quite fascinating.”

  “Wonderful,” I repeated.

  “They’re shamanic in their principals and structure, aren’t they?”
Weatherby asked.

  Selena nodded. “I’ll have to show you the paper I’m working on, darling. I’m sure that your comments would be just as helpful as any professor’s.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t—” Weatherby’s usual irate confidence vanished as soon as Selena opened her mouth. He had been crushed under the boots of the invading Nazis while she was away in America at school, powerless to help. Weatherby saw himself as the man of the family, and figured his duty was to his sister. I guess Selena was just trying to make up for lost time. Either way, I didn’t like it.

  I interrupted Weatherby. “Look, you can’t tag along on this case,” I said. “It could be dangerous. We’re dealing with murder, and the telegram said it was a real odd one at that. I’d advise going back to your hotel, Miss Stein, and maybe you can meet with your brother when it’s over.”

  “I will not do that, Mr. Candle,” Selena replied. “He is my family, and I’ll stick with him – danger be damned.” She turned the car down a wide avenue, past some the smaller stores and shops that made up Honolulu’s main drag. The Grand Tiki Hotel was out a ways, overlooking the beach.

  I was about to respond, when Weatherby shot me a look that would wither grass. I closed my mouth and he nodded slowly. The kid needed to be with his sister, but he didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted to help him in any way she could, and coming along on this case let both of them feel decent and still be around each other.

  “All right, all right,” I muttered. “But you keep your nose clean and you don’t do nothing unless I tell you to, you got that, sister?”

  “Of course. Rest assured, Mr. Candle, I’ve got no intention of causing you trouble.” She smiled as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ears. “I can handle myself. Oh! And I bought you boys a present when I heard you were coming. I hope I’ve judged your size correctly, Mr. Candle.” She reached under the dashboard and pulled out a pair of Hawaiian shirts, both a light pink and with a loud floral pattern. “They match!” she exclaimed, as she tossed me the larger shirt. “What do you think?”