“Still think he’s paying you enough?” He asked, holding the crowbar in one hand as he opened his coat to reveal twin .45 automatics in crossed shoulder-holsters. Weatherby gasped at the guns – and at the natural way that Mort Candle wore them. The two dock wallopers had enough. They turned to run, dashing past Mort and Weatherby as they pounded down the pier. They were soon gone from view.
Weatherby turned to Mort. “I suppose you removed them with the minimum of bloodshed, for my sake?” he asked.
“Something like that. Come on. Let’s go see what Bava’s so excited about.”
The two of them walked down to the shack. Mort knocked on the door and a woman’s voice came from inside, bubbly and full of delight and expectation. “Arty, baby! You’re back so soon!” Mort stared in surprise at Weatherby as he opened the door and stepped inside.
A neat little room had been set up, with a bed opposite a couch and a radio turned to some station that played mambo and nothing else. A woman sat on the bed, her high heels swinging back and forth like she was a bored child. She had blonde hair falling over her shoulders, and a ready smile. She wore a black dress that clung tightly to every inch of her, and went down just past her knees.
She smiled at Mort “You’re not Arty,” she said, sound pleasantly surprised.
“Yeah. And you’re Wanda Scellone.” Mort turned to Weatherby and closed the door. “You’re a lot younger than Mr. Scellone. And a lot prettier.”
“Arty, baby…” Weatherby repeated her words. “That’s a term of endearment.”
“That’s right. This ain’t no kidnapper’s hideout.” Mort glanced around the room. “This is a love nest.” He looked down at Wanda. “I’m Mort Candle and this is my partner, Weatherby Stein. Mrs. Scellone, your husband hired me to find you. He thought you were kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? No. Arty would never do that! He just wanted me by himself, so we faked it, with a couple of his Chinese buddies for versatility’s sake.” Wanda’s voice had a squeak of false innocence, and she shook her head vigorously with each word.
“You mean ‘veracity’s sake,’ ma’am,” Weatherby corrected politely. “But from Bava’s cold manner, it seems a little unlikely that he placed you here out of affection.”
“W-what do you mean?” Wanda demanded. “He told me he loved me!”
Mort snorted. “You got played, sister – same as your chump husband.” Mort paced around the room, hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat. “Art wants a war with the Gold Dragon Tong. It’s not hard to see why – a war will weaken both gangs, but probably end in a bloody stalemate. The Gold Dragons are weakened, Scellone’s mob is weakened – and Bava can put his connections to work and take over both.”
Wanda shook her head. “Arty would never do that! Would he?” She looked up at Mort and smiled. “You’re real big and strong, mister.” She hopped off the bed and approached him. Weatherby felt warmth creeping into his cheeks as he watched her. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Wanda Scellone saw it and gave him a smile that could excite a dead man. “And your little pal’s real cute too.”
“Don’t try anything, Mrs. Scellone,” Mort said. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Come on. We’re taking you back to your husband.”
“You won’t—you won’t tell him, will you?” Wanda asked, clinging to Mort’s arm as they left the house. “If Tony knew, well, I just don’t know what he’d do! You can’t tell him! You gotta promise me!” She suddenly wrapped her arm around Mort’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him about me and Arty. Don’t tell him about me and you!”
Weatherby forced himself to look away. He tried to focus on the slow rise and fall of the oily waters, or the ships slipping in from the mist, or the large truck sliding to a stop before the docks. It was an old truck, black paint peeling over dark steel. It came to a halt, and its rear door rolled open with a creaking groan. Weatherby felt a chill running electric down his spine. Darkness lurked inside. Something stirred.
“Morton!” Weatherby cried. “I believe Bava’s agents have arrived.”
Mort was trying pull Wanda Scellone off of him. “What? You mean, the goddamn—”
“Yes.” A bare foot reached out from inside one of the cars, and rested on the dock. “The Hopping Corpses are here.”
In the next second, the Hopping Corpses leapt out of their transport and faced their prey. They were lean corpses, dressed in robes of Qing dynasty finery and round jeweled hats. Their beards were long, thin and white, drooping down to their waists. Their fingernails were black claws, curved like ceremonial daggers. They opened their mouths, and tongues like black worms the size of pythons snaked out. They leapt for the little shack, speeding through the air with impossible speed.
“Son of a—” Mort cried as he drew his automatic. The blast of gunfire blared out his last word. He let go of Wanda, and she tumbled to the ground. “Weatherby!” he cried. “Get her to the car! I’ll cover you!” His first shot missed, and his second knocked a chunk of flesh from a Hopping Corpse’s chest, but the undead monster kept coming.
Weatherby grabbed Wanda’s arm and pulled her up, as he dug a hand into his pocket. He reached for the yellow paper, and felt his fingers closing around the precious scrap. “You can’t defeat these monsters with conventional weapons, they require—” Something thick and slimly wrapped around his leg and pulled. Weatherby hit the ground, crying out loud as harsh wood slammed against him. A Hopping Corpse had grabbed his leg with its tongue and was reeling him in.
“Mort!” Weatherby pulled out a fistful of yellow papers, each one carefully inscribed with a Chinese spell. The Hopping Corpse’s tongue tightened like a noose, and the shadow of the dead man fell over Weatherby. He saw one of its claws rising to strike.
Then Mort’s automatic cracked. The bullet split the tongue, sending black blood oozing across the wharf. Weatherby stood up and raised a yellow square of paper. He slammed it into the chest of the Hopping Corpse. Instantly, the dead man stiffened, his dark eyes growing white and still. The legs of the Hopping Corpse buckled, and it collapsed onto the ground, rot and decay boiling through its body and causing it to melt away into nothingness.
The smell was overpowering. Weatherby’s leg was bleeding and his back ached. He wanted to fall down and not get up, but he heard Mort gurgle in panic behind him, and Wanda scream. He turned around and ran to them, scrambling to grab another Chinese spell from his pocket.
The Hopping Corpse stood over Mort, its tongue wrapped around the detective’s neck. “Unhand him, you fiend!” Weatherby cried, raising the spell paper high. He tried to press it against the Hopping Corpse’s skin, but the cadaver swerved to the side, and slashed the boy with its long claws. Weatherby winced as he felt the sudden dull sting in his shoulder, and then something wet seeping into his shirt. The Hopping Corpse struck again, and Weatherby slammed the paper onto its outstretched hand before the claw could reach him.
The corpse opened its mouth and stepped backwards, lines of black rot running through its white face. It shook and decayed, until a bullet through the skull put a sudden end to its silent scream. Mort stood up, rubbing his neck. “Christ,” Mort cried. “The dock’s lousy with the dead bastards. We gotta dangle – and fast.”
“But I don’t understand!” Wanda whined. “Arty said they was friends of his!”
“They are – coming to kill you, and blame it on the Tong. That’ll stop any the gang war from ending. And I think it might have already started.” Mort drew out a second automatic. “We’ve got to get her back to Scellone.” They looked down the pier. Between them and Mort’s Packard, a dozen Hopping Corpses squatted silently, their tongues waving expectantly through the air. They were preparing to attack.
Weatherby swallowed his fear and pain. “W-what exactly do you recommend?”
“Same thing I always do when my back is up against the wall.” Mort squared his shoulders. “Charge forward and give them hell.”
He ran for his car, the pistols clattering away in
his hands. Wanda and Weatherby followed him, and Mort barreled straight into the middle of the Hopping Corpses.
The battle was fast and bloody. A thin claw struck Weatherby’s arm, drawing blood, and he hurled a yellow paper its way. A Hopping Corpse’s tongue snaked out towards Wanda, until Mort blasted the dead man’s head into decomposing chunks. Another Hopping Corpse leapt for Mort. He dropped his pistols, pulled a long knife from his boot, and plunged it into the zombie’s chest, skewering it until Weatherby finished it off with another spell.
Wanda reached the auto first, with Weatherby close behind. Weatherby got the door for her. “Just sit inside there, Mrs. Scellone,” he said, as she stepped inside. “And don’t mind the weapons. We’ll depart shortly.”
“Cute and polite!” Wanda gave him a wink. “Ain’t you just a little gentleman!”
“I’m not that little…” Weatherby muttered, as Mort staggered to the door.
The Hopping Corpses were coming after them, moving in swift bouncing leaps that sent them soaring over the docks. Mort slammed open the door and slumped inside, starting the engine as Weatherby scrambled into the car. Mort sent the Packard roaring backwards, spinning the wheel madly to turn it around. A Hopping Corpse lunged for them, landing on the hood of the car and reaching a claw to the windshield.
With one hand on the wheel, Mort raised his pistol and fired. “I just bought this ride!” he cried. “And you won’t screw with it!” He shot through the windshield, shattering glass and pounding a bullet into the throat of the Hopping Corpse. The living dead man fell off the hood. Mort started the auto and sent it screeching down the street.
They gained speed with each second, the engine of the Packard roaring like an angry beast set free. Weatherby risked a glance in the rear view mirror. The Hopping Corpses were close behind, leaping along the street, jumping from buildings and streetlights, and always staying within sight. They didn’t tire and they didn’t scare. Weatherby felt his wounds. They would heal – if they had the chance.
“Where to now?” he asked, his voice a nervous gasp.
“Let’s see what the radio has to say.” Mort switched it on and listened, hearing the static edged out by a burst of local news.
The reporter’s brassy voice came fast and thick. “Reports of gang violence along Chinatown’s Mott Street have been confirmed by the police. Citizens are urged to stay out of the area, and remain indoors. Police units are on their way, and will put an end to the violence as soon as possible. The combatants are allegedly notorious racketeer Tony ‘Bones’ Scellone and the Gold Dragon Tong, an oriental organization noted for violence and brutality. City hall declared that—” The radio buzzed out as Mort switched it off.
“So,” he said. “Looks like we’re going back to Chinatown.” He kept the gas pedal down, weaving through traffic as the Hopping Corpses followed. They leapt on the roofs of cars, causing motorists to honk and swerve in panic. Mort did his best to keep the Packard driving straight, as they sped out of Brooklyn and to Chinatown – and the middle of an impending gang war.
When they reached Mott Street, the place was deserted. The police were nowhere to be found, and Mort nodded like he expected it. “Scellone paid them off,” he told Weatherby as he sent the Packard speeding down the empty street, under the swinging paper lanterns. “That’s one thing you ought to know about America, kiddo – look hard enough, and you’ll always find the rot and corruption under the shine. They act like it’s not there in New York. I don’t know why they bother pretending.”
Weatherby kept an eye on the Hopping Corpses behind them. “So where is Mr. Scellone?” he wondered. “And the Tong?”
Wanda leaned forward. “There’s Arty!” she cried, as Mort rolled around the corner. “Arty!” she cried. “It’s me, Arty, baby! It’s Wanda!”
They saw a large convoy of gangsters, all wearing Scellone’s uniform of dark pinstriped suits and fedoras. Scellone stood at the beginning of their column, his tommy gun resting on his shoulder. Art Bava stood next to him, carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Scellone narrowed his eyes at the Packard. He seemed to recognize Mort, Weatherby, and his wife. Bava did too.
Bava raised his sawed-off, swinging it around to face Mort’s auto. Mort’s eyes widened and he spun the wheel. “Christ!” Mort cried. “Get down, kiddo! Get down or that lead will take off your face!”
He ducked low as the shotgun thundered. Weatherby did the same. The remaining glass in the windshield shattered. The Packard kept speeding along with no hand on the wheel, until a brick wall stopped its advance. The crash shuddered through Weatherby’s body, knocking him hard against the dash board.
Mort moved quickly, grabbing a pistol and kicking open the door. He grabbed Weatherby and pulled him clear. His vision a fuzzy blur, Weatherby looked behind his shoulder and saw the pack of Hopping Corpses closing in. They were like hounds that never lost a scent, and they were nearly upon them. Weatherby reached into his coat, trying to find more of the magic yellow paper. His pocket was empty. They were defenseless.
“No,” Weatherby whispered. “I can’t… I can’t defend us. They’ll tear us apart.” He looked at Mort, his voice breaking. “I can’t do anything. I’m useless. Just like at Castle Stein. Just a useless little boy, cowering in fear as the monsters approach.”
“Don’t say that.” Mort squared his shoulders and aimed both pistols towards the Hopping Corpses. “You’ve done a crackerjack job cracking this case. You’re the bravest guy I know. Don’t go to pieces now.”
As the Hopping Corpses approached, the windows of the tall tenement buildings suddenly opened. Weatherby looked up at the windows on both sides of the street. He saw Tong soldiers leaning down, composite crossbows held tightly in their hands. The Hopping Corpses didn’t notice. They were intent on their prey.
Then the crossbows opened fire, sending a flurry of arrows hurtling down in the street. Each arrow had a piece of yellow paper covered in Chinese writing tied to it. The shafts struck deeply into the bodies of the Hopping Corpses, until each one was a pincushion. The decay spread through them quickly, and bits of them fell away, their white flesh going black as it turned into charnel dust and spilled across the pavement in a rotting blizzard. In seconds, the Hopping Corpses were gone.
Mort looked up at the windows. “Uncle Wu,” he said. “Thanks a million!”
Scellone hurried forward, Bava close behind him. “Morty!” he cried. “What the hell happened? Who were the dead Chinamen? Why did the Tong kill them?”
“They were working for Bava, Mr. Scellone.” Mort pointed to the consigliore. “He’s trying to stab you in the back. He kidnapped your wife – just to force you into a war with the Tong. And it looks like it’s working.”
Bava shook his head. “He’s lying,” he said. “Wanda, tell him he’s lying! You tell him he’s lying or I’ll tell him that you’ve been—”
“He kidnapped me! The bum kidnapped me and sent his Japanese zombies to kill me!” Wanda’s shrill voice shrieked. “Kill him, Tony! Kill him for me!”
“You got it, babe.” Scellone swung the Thompson to face Bava. The consigliore tried to talk his way out of it, before a rain of bullets cut him down. The heavy slugs of the tommy gun chewed into him, splattering his flesh on the street and sending him down. He let out a final gasp, and then lay still. Weatherby looked away from the carnage, feeling sick to his stomach.
Wanda ran to her husband and clung to him. She buried her head in his shoulder, and he glared up at Mort. “What was Art gonna say before I whacked him, Morty?” he asked. “You got any ideas?”
Weatherby turned to Morton. It was clear what would happen if Scellone found out about his wife’s affair. There’d be another burst of lead, and she would join Bava on the bloody street. Weatherby closed his eyes and waited for Mort to tell the truth, and the inevitable burst of gunfire. But it never came.
“I don’t know what the lying bum was trying to say,” Mort said. “But he was a traitor, Mr. Scellone. He was probably just playing
some angle.” He looked down at the corpse. “For all the good it did him.”
“That’s right.” Tony Scellone smiled. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “All right, Chinamen!” he called. “You’re off the hook – for now! I’m going back to Brooklyn, and my boys are going with me! You fellows don’t like it, you still want to play rough – come and look me up sometime! I’ll be waiting!” He turned around, and then looked at Mort like he had forgotten him. “Oh, and Morty, here’s a little extra something for your trouble, besides the canceling of your debt.” He reached into his coat and tossed Mort an envelope thick with cash. “You done good.”
“Thanks, Mr. Scellone. You’re a life saver.” Mort pocketed the cash and walked back to his car, Weatherby staying close to him.
They hurried into the Packard and sped away from Chinatown, driving over the rotting remains of the Hopping Corpses as they left Mott Street. Mort handed Weatherby the envelope. There were more bills crammed inside than the boy could count. “Half of that dough’s yours, kiddo,” Mort said. “You sure as hell earned it.” He paused, staring forward as he turned the corner. “You thought about my little business proposition?”
“A bit,” Weatherby replied. “Morton? Why exactly did you lie to Mr. Scellone about the faithlessness of his wife?”
“He would have killed her. He would have shot her dead sure as the moon follows the sun into the sky. And I didn’t want a woman’s blood on my hands. She screwed around a little, but who hasn’t, in this day and age? It certainly wasn’t worth seeing her die.”
Weatherby nodded. “You’re a good man,” he said softly. “You may think otherwise, but you possess the spirit of a hero.” He smiled. “Yes, Morton Candle. I’ll be your partner in the detective business. With my knowledge and your strength, we can do a great deal of good for the world.”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) Page 18