“Take my car!” Roscoe cried to his friends. “And stay close!”
The Packard flew under him. It roared over the sidewalk, the engine hauling the car swiftly down the open road. Cimeries tumbled after the Packard, dragged by the chain. Demon skin met blacktop pavement. Cimeries howled as the car dragged along. Roscoe didn’t let up. Betty tried her best to hang on and struggled with her seatbelt. Roscoe hugged the turns in the twisting road. The roadway veered from the coast and doubled back toward La Cruz, to a tall bluff, towering over the ocean. Willow Point loomed in the distance, facing the calm sea. Cimeries’s howls shrank to whimpers, but Roscoe didn’t stop. Angel and Wooster followed in the Deuce.
Betty looked over at Roscoe. Cimeries was making dog-like whines now. “Think that’s enough?” .
Roscoe stared back at her. “Not by a long shot.” But then he saw the pain in her eyes. Wherever he came from, whatever his past was, Roscoe knew his former life had drained him of pity and mercy. Compassion didn’t come easy to him. But, he liked Betty and he could tell she disliked torture―even of a demon. “But it’s late and I’m getting tired.” That was another lie. Roscoe couldn’t really sleep and his energy mostly came from grub. He twisted the wheel and decelerated, then pulled over onto the bluff and brought the Packard to a stop.
They stepped out and walked around to approach Cimeries. The demon’s eight legs were tangled together and one of his horns had snapped off on the road. Roscoe cracked open his shotgun and slammed in two new shells. Betty withdrew her cross. The Deuce rattled to a halt next to them and Wooster and Angel hopped out. All of them hurried toward Cimeries.
They stared down at the demon. Betty was the first to speak. “You’re from Hell, right?” she asked. Cimeries stared at her with his eight eyes. Betty grimaced. “Stupid question, I know. But that’s what you are―a demon, out of Hell?”
“Hurhhhh.” Cimeries made a breathy, rumbling roar. “I have come to riot and destroy. I have come to burn with fire. I will see the souls of this town writhing in agony in the fiery pits of the Inferno. I will see Satan―”
Wooster’s boot to the demon’s face shut him up. “Guess we know the answer to that question. But there’s another pressing conundrum―what y’all want in La Cruz? The allies of Hell are up to something. They’re gathering in strength, in the form of them fools on the motorcycles. But what exactly are you looking for?” Wooster fingered his knife. “Talk or I’ll loosen that forked tongue of yours the hard way.”
Betty grimaced at Wooster’s brutality. He was even worse than Roscoe.
Cimeries’s answer was low and almost reluctant. “The Cross,” he whispered. “The Cross.”
“That’s what La Cruz means, man,” Angel said.
“He’s feeding us a line.” Roscoe let his sawed-off swing down to face Cimeries. “All right. Now, we know Torrance and his Speed Fiend scumbags summoned you, but who taught them the ritual? That’s not something you learn in high school. And who’s backing their move into La Cruz?” He posed the question carefully. “Who’s behind everything, demon?”
“Mr. Roach.” Cimeries responded without pause. “He’s already here. He will pick your bones clean, dead man.” The demon’s eyes all swiveled to face Roscoe. “There is a soul in that withered form, but it will never leave. You won’t be damned, dead man, for you already are. You will simply burn―and then you’ll be wiped away for good.”
“You sure about that?” Roscoe asked. Mr. Roach was the same person Torrance had bragged about. Must be some Satanic bigwig, trying to expand his power. “Well, I bet you wish that Mr. Roach guy was here right now.” He gripped the sawed-off with one hand. “I ain’t got any more question. Just a message.”
“Which is?”
“When you get back to Hell, tell your friends to stay out of my town.” Roscoe’s sawed-off fired twice. Two point-blank shotgun shells at a demonic head did the needed damage. Cimeries’ head exploded in a shower of dark red gore. His remaining horn flew to the side while dust burst from his shattered skull. His whole body shook and writhed, his tongue slipping out of his mouth and slashing around. He convulsed and then he came apart, his skin and bones decomposing into thick, black foul smelling powder. The particles spewed into the air, caught in the wind and wafted down to the sea.
The demon’s death took a minute or two. When it was done, Wooster looked at the blood on the pavement. “Ah Hell.” He pointed to the back of his ride. Dark stains streaked the paint job. “Some gore got there too. Demon blood always takes at least a week to scrub off.” He sighed as he held out his hand and Roscoe gave him his keys. “Well, at least we got some info from the goat-headed fellow.”
“Mr. Roach,” Roscoe repeated. He didn’t like the name. “Whoever he is.”
Betty tucked her cross back into her purse. “But we still don’t exactly know what they want―beyond just La Cruz’s destruction.” She pointed down the hill, to the lights of La Cruz. Some of them were just flicking on, to match the rising sun in the distance. “We’d better head back to town and tell the Captain about this.” She stared at Roscoe. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Roscoe, are you okay?”
He looked down at his injuries. Cuts and shredded skin covered his chest, and his right eye rested unsteadily in its socket. He pressed his eyeball back into place with his thumb and shrugged as he faced Betty. “I just got to eat a burger or two, sister. I’ll be fine. Me and Angel will grab some grub on the way.” He nodded to Angel. “Come on. Betty’s right about the Captain. Let’s go back home and see him.”
They headed back to their cars. Ocean breezes shifted the dusty remains of the demon, blowing them into the cold morning air.
The drivers made their way back to Donovan Motors in a rough convoy, led by Roscoe and Angel in the Deuce. True to Roscoe’s word, they swung by a greasy spoon that had just opened and nabbed a pair of burgers. Roscoe snacked on them as he drove, his jaws ripping and tearing at the ketchup-doused meat. He could feel his body rebuilding itself, dead flesh knitting painfully back into place. If only it was as easy to repair his auto. A guy could dream. The exposed engine had been dented and the paint was stripped from the sides. Roscoe would have to work tomorrow to fix it. He didn’t mind the work. It would keep his mind off his job.
They rode back down Main Street, passing the small shops, diners, the town hall and a brand new supermarket that made La Cruz look like any small town in America. Suburban sprawl surrounded the row of structures. Long tentacles of identical houses, manicured lawns and perfectly kept gardens led into the horizon. Families lived here, the kids attending school in town while the parents made the daily commute to Los Angeles or one of the surrounding burgs for work. It was a nice place to live, Roscoe supposed. He couldn’t remember anything else. At the center of Main Street was Donovan Motors, a double set of garages with a two story apartment complex in the back. The garage was where the drivers stored their rides and made chump change working on other cars. The apartments were where they lived. Roscoe drove into the asphalt lot and killed the motor. Wooster followed in the Packard.
After parking their cars, they went in for breakfast. A small communal kitchen stood behind the offices in the back of the garage. That was where they dined together. Betty was the first to the door.
She smelled the air. “Looks like the Captain’s been making coffee.” Roscoe would have to take her word for it. Death had dulled his senses. Betty opened the door and smiled. “Felix! You’re awake. Good morning, honey.” She looked back at Roscoe, Angel and Wooster. Her glare told them not to mention the night’s activities in front of Felix, who was after all, only a fourteen-year-old boy.
They filed into the little kitchen, which held a round table surrounded by a tiled counter with a mess of growing dishes packing the sink. The Captain and Felix both sat down to breakfast, the boy apparently getting ready for school. They presented a strange pair. The man was old and gray-haired, with the stiff bearing of a disciplined soldier. He seemed ill at ease at the end o
f the table, his austere gray suit and vest hanging on his thin frame. His fedora rested on the table. He had thick white hair and a matching white moustache. The Captain was the man who ran Donovan Motors. Though he looked as stiff and formal as an undertaker, Roscoe could see the affection in his eyes for the boy sitting next to him munching cornflakes. That was one of the reasons why Roscoe had stayed so loyal to the old man―the Captain was kind.
The Captain nodded at the coffee brewing on the counter as his drivers walked in. “Good morning. I was waiting for you to arrive. Felix needs transport to La Cruz High School. He’s working on some school project a little early with some of his friends―Penny Barrow and that Arkin boy, I believe.”
“And Stan Swann,” blurted Felix. His accent was a curious, hesitant mix of German and English. Felix was a refugee from Europe, a Jewish German who had been captured by the Nazis along with his scientist parents. They gave the family a cruel ultimatum―work in our mad science programs or suck gas in the camps. The young family had agreed and Felix had been harassed by his captors for a year or so until Captain Donovan and his government buddies arranged a rescue. They got Felix out, but his parents weren’t so lucky. The government had raised the boy, tutoring him in advanced science amongst their own technicians while Felix examined his parents’ papers and his memories of their captivity. The Captain wouldn’t have it. He’d adopted the orphan boy as his own. Now Felix Tannenbaum was part of the Donovan Motors family.
Betty took a seat and grabbed a cup of coffee and a roll from the table. “Sure thing, honey,” she said. “We’ll take my coupe, if you want.” She bit a hunk out of the roll. “What’s the project about?”
Felix, who looked like a miniature scientist in his white suit, vest, and dress shoes, beamed as some redness crept into his freckled face. He had extremely dark hair, parted with almost surgical neatness and dark-rimmed spectacles. He pointed to the dog bed in the corner, where a shaggy lump of fur in the shape of a baby gorilla was snoozing away. “The project concern Snowball’s sense of smell and his ability to sense rotting things from far away.” Snowball was the boy’s pet yeti, a treasured Bar Mitzvah gift from the Captain. At the mention of his name, Snowball perked up and scrambled over.
“Sounds fun, kiddo,” Roscoe said. He patted Felix’s head and then leaned down to scratch Snowball’s neck. The yeti wiggled back and forth in delight, like its little body was being electrocuted. “Need some rot from me?”
“I doubt that will be n-necessary, sir,” Felix stammered. “Penny’s father, Basil Barrow, works in the La Cruz Municipal Cemetery. We can merely borrow some ancient corpse from him.” He smiled brightly and then paused. Nervousness crept in―fear for his friends’ safety. “What were you doing all night?”
“Working late, boy,” Wooster said. “Best leave it at that.”
“Nothing dangerous, though.” Angel patted Felix’s shoulder. “But you gotta get ready for school now, right?”
The Captain nodded. “You need to be prepared, son. Go and get your book bag. Miss Bright will take you.” He gave Felix a quick embrace as the boy stood up. Felix whistled to Snowball, who followed him out of the kitchen on pattering feet. Then the Captain looked back at his drivers as they all sat down. “Well? Was it like last time?”
Roscoe grabbed his cup of coffee―still scalding hot―and drained it. The coffee burned its way down his throat, but he didn’t feel it. “A little―but a whole lot tougher. Torrance was there, same as the last three, and so were his Speed Fiend suck-ups. But they had some powerful mojo. Summoned a major league demon, straight out of Hell.” He grinned and dragged a dry tongue across his lips. “We sent him back.”
“Glad to hear it.” The Captain frowned. “But Torrance and his criminal organization are weak. They’re normally cautious too. They know how weak they are, compared to us. This brazen display of devil worship speaks to something greater.” He folded his fingers. “They’ve got backers.”
“We did get a name,” Angel said. “Mr. Roach, it was. Torrance and the demon both said that. Who Mr. Roach is, I couldn’t tell you. Sounds like bad news, though. And they said that, whoever he is, he’s already in town.”
Wooster laughed, a harsh and wolfish bark. “Heh. We can take him.”
The Captain didn’t answer. He sipped his coffee in silence. Roscoe heard the clicking of Felix’s dress shoes on the tiled floor and turned. The boy had returned; a book bag slung over his shoulder and his hand on Snowball’s leash. The little yeti was pacing around at his feet.
“I believe I am ready,” Felix said. He stared at Roscoe, noticing the wounds for the first time. “Mr. Roscoe, you are not injured, are you?” He liked Roscoe―and Roscoe didn’t mind him.
“Only my pride, kiddo.” Roscoe grinned. “Betty, take the boy to school. The rest of you better get some sleep. Not me, though.” He sat down across from the Captain. Steam from the coffee slipped out through his nostrils and between his teeth. “I don’t need it.”
“Well, I can always use more beauty sleep.” Wooster chuckled as he headed for the door.
Angel started for the door, but paused near Roscoe. “You okay, man?” He frowned. “What Torrance called you―”
“He called you a name as well,” Roscoe said. “Don’t worry. My skin’s thick.”
Angel clasped Roscoe’s hand tightly, then slipped through the door.
Roscoe turned around to see Betty steering Felix out to their cars. “Have a nice day at school, kiddo.” Roscoe offered Felix a quick wave. The boy returned it and then Betty ushered him out the door, with Snowball pacing excitedly at their heels.
After they left, Roscoe was alone in the kitchen with the Captain. He looked at the older man. “You’re worried about this Roach character, right?” It wasn’t much of a question. The hollowness in the Captain’s gaze was answer enough. “Think he’s going to make some move, muscle into town?”
“Perhaps,” the Captain replied. “And we do have a lot to lose.”
“We could call for help,” Roscoe said. “Basil Barrow in the cemetery. Walt Weaver, the private dick in LA. Hell, maybe the Deadbeat could lend a hand, if we asked nicely.”
“I don’t think we’re there just yet.” The Captain sighed as he looked at the kitchen door. “There’s a meeting at the Playa Roja Beach Club―a Chamber of Commerce sort of event. Mayor Corrigan will be there, as will Sheriff Braddock and several other leading lights of La Cruz.”
“Bunch of humps,” Roscoe muttered.
The Captain glared at him. “They support us without question. They deserve our respect.” He reached for his fedora and stood up. “Anyway, they invited me to attend as well. I believe they have some development they’d like to present. Also, I could tell them to expect trouble from this Roach character and new pressure from the Speed Fiends Motorcycle Club. I would like you to come with me, as my driver.”
“And to watch your back in the meeting?”
“Something to that effect.”
Roscoe considered the invitation. “I don’t know, boss. I wouldn’t really fit in with a bunch of squares like that.” He tapped his cheek, pointing to dead, green skin. “I don’t know if you ain’t noticed, but I kind of stick out in a crowd.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The Captain came to his feet slowly. He moved stiffly, fatigue in his aged limbs. “It may not seem like it, but I stick it out in that crowd as well.” He nodded to the doorway. “And you need to be involved in this part of the work. We’re the guardians of La Cruz, California―not soldiers occupying the city. It’s important to keep a good relationship with our town.” He smiled―an oddity for the dour captain. “Plus, we’ll be driving there and there’s no one I trust more behind the wheel.”
“We’ll take the Deuce, then?”
“Better stick to the Rolls,” the Captain replied.
The two men left the kitchen table and headed outside, blinking in the light of day.
The Rolls Royce was a sleek silver dream of a machine that handl
ed with refined grace. Roscoe enjoyed driving it and he liked the engine’s low, contented purr as it sped down the open blacktop road that wound alongside the coast. They passed Willow Point and drove by an exclusive set of homes dotted with the occasional seaside mansion. It was picturesque country, with rolling green hills on one end, bulging dunes and stretches of yellow beach on the other. The ocean lay beyond, turned bright as a blade by the blazing sun. They approached the Playa Roja Beach Club, a sprawling structure that resembled an oversized, terra cotta-topped Grecian temple beside the sea. Shark-like, the Rolls slid into the spacious parking lot and Roscoe brought it to a stop.
A uniformed Negro usher in the lobby led Roscoe and the Captain up a set of velvet steps, to where the brunch was taking place. It was in a ritzy parlor adjoining a balcony overlooking the beach. The whole place was done up in Tiki chic, with looming, glowering wooden statues in the corners and torches blazing away around the tables. One table contained appetizers and the other held drinks. Well-dressed guests, mostly businessmen in conservative black, blue, or gray, chatted together in loose clumps. Roscoe had been right. Even though he could pass for living if the light was right, he stood out like a scorpion in a bouquet.
A portly fellow in a blue suit and bowtie scooted over to them. It was Mayor Clinton Corrigan, elected leader of La Cruz. He had a pleasant round face, a paunch, a double chin, and the wide, relaxed and bovine eyes of a man who thinks choosing his tie is the most difficult decision of the day. He pumped the Captain’s hand.
The mayor’s smile was wide and guileless. “So glad you could make it!” He continued shaking hands and even reached out to grasp the Captain’s shoulder. The Captain reacted like someone was ripping out his nails and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of a scream. “Now, we have someone here who you absolutely have to meet. He’s just a wonderful fellow and he’s going to truly lead La Cruz into a brand new era.”
Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1) Page 2