Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1)

by Michael Panush

  “Actually, sir,” the Captain said. “I’d like to talk to you about some troubles La Cruz is having right now.” He nodded toward Roscoe. “You know my driver, Roscoe.” The Mayor acknowledged Roscoe with a nervous smile. He didn’t offer to shake the dead man’s hand. “And you know what me and my men do. Well, last night―”

  Mayor Corrigan cut him off as he waved two more men into their conversation. “Sheriff Braddock!” he cried. “Reverend Grubb―please join us.”

  Sheriff Leland Braddock was in charge of La Cruz’s police force, a small squad of officers used to giving out parking tickets and riding horses in monthly parades. Sheriff Braddock, a tubby fellow with a Sam Browne belt straining against his belly, touched the brim of his peaked cap to the Captain, who returned the respectful salute.

  But Reverend Everett Grubb was not so polite. The town’s major Protestant minister was a gaunt fellow with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. He had stiff, spiky, and completely white hair. His suit was black, apart from the white band of a preacher’s collar. He looked at the Captain like the older man was a rotting body―then stared at Roscoe with even more distaste.

  Mayor Corrigan looked nervously between them. “Is there a problem?”

  “I was unaware than an abomination had been invited to join us,” Reverend Grubb hissed.

  Roscoe sighed. “And I didn’t think some uptight jerk would be crashing this party.” He stepped closer to Reverend Grubb. If his blood still flowed, it would be growing hot. “What’s the matter, pal?” He flashed a toothy grin. “Something about me anger you?”

  “Yes. Something about you does indeed upset me―along with every one of your noxious allies, who are given practically free rein to run around our pleasant town. I know for a fact that, besides the cursed corpse in front of me, the Captain’s upstart menagerie includes a convicted criminal, a Hispanic thug and a godless young woman known for―”

  Now Roscoe was truly angry. “You want to talk about Betty? You want to insult Angel?” He raised a fist to emphasize his word.” I’ll break your goddamn jaw.”

  The Captain stepped between them. “Roscoe.” The single word was a command.

  Roscoe shut up, but Reverend Grubb kept talking. “I will not be intimidated by a damned soul.” If you were righteous in life, you would not be walking around. But you are and that proves to me that God has turned his back on you. I urge La Cruz to do the same.”

  Neither Mayor Corrigan nor Sheriff Braddock contradicted Reverend Grubb. The sad thing was Roscoe did not expect them to. He heard whispers behind him, wherever he went. He knew kids from the high school dared each other to sneak up to Donovan Motors while he worked or to his booth in the downtown diner to catch a glimpse of him. He was a zombie in a town of the living―a town that demanded conformity. He was an outcast. All the drivers at Donovan Motors were. Reverend Grubb was just rubbing in that fact, like jamming a lit cigarette into a bruise. Roscoe said nothing and let his dead face answer for him.

  The Mayor swiveled to the side. “Mr. Strickland! Miss Winters! Just the folks I was looking to see!” He ushered two more people into their circle with wide waves of his hand. “Captain, I’d like you to meet Mr. Reed Strickland of Strickland Industries and his secretary, the beautiful Miss Kay Winters.”

  Reed Strickland stepped between Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan, as if they were servants he could command with his presence. He was a tall and slim fellow, wearing a gray suit and black tie spangled with geometric designs. He had extremely neat, iron-gray hair and a pencil-thin moustache above his lip. Strickland nodded evenly. “And who exactly are we meeting, Mayor Corrigan?” His voice was deep with an amiable, conversational tone.

  “This is the Captain,” the Mayor said. “And his, ah, driver Mr. Roscoe.”

  “A chauffeur?” Strickland asked, with a simple grin.

  “Something like that,” Roscoe replied.

  “You do seem like an interesting fellow.” Strickland turned back to the Captain. “And your employer seems like an interesting fellow, too. The mayor has mentioned you to me, Captain. You serve as a sort of auxiliary police force, isn’t that right? For threats that La Cruz’s police force simply isn’t equipped to handle.” He paused. “Supernatural threats, perhaps?”

  The Captain stared right back. “Do you believe in the supernatural, sir?”

  “My wife certainly did. We were always going to séances―when we were young. This was in the Twenties, you understand, when every widow and grieving mother was engaging some table-rapping con artist to find the souls of dead doughboys.”

  “I served in the trenches myself,” the Captain replied. “I know.”

  “Ah―a veteran.” Strickland’s smile grew. “Strickland Industries serves our armed forces very well. We manufacture weapons at a great rate.” His smile faded. “Anyway, after my wife’s passing, I kept up the practice of seeing spiritual mediums and other masters of the occult. I’ve learned to keep an open mind about all sorts of things.” He put his arm on Kay Winters’ shoulder and pulled her close. “Isn’t that right, Kay?”

  “You bet, Mr. Strickland.” Kay stared straight at Roscoe. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the typing pool, sporting a flame-red gown and a short jacket that clung to her thin arms. She had a cigarette holder at her side and used it to spread a thin line of smoke into Roscoe’s face. “And that’s why we’re here in La Cruz, right?” Kay’s red hair fell down to her shoulders in a shimmering curtain. She had the kind of beauty that bred confidence.

  Strickland’s grin grew. “Leave the business to us fellows, darling,” he said pleasantly. “Stick to looking good and lighting my cigars.” He chuckled at his joke and turned back to the Captain, not noticing Kay’s sudden frown. “Yes, I was hoping for a major investment in this area. I’m thinking of several new factories and offices. You have a rather large slum, Butcher’s Row, I believe? The locals there could find fine jobs in my factories. More workers would arrive as well, making local businesses boom.” He pulled a fat brown cigar, thick as a thumb, from his pocket and held it out. Kay provided the match. “Of course, I’d require the local authorities to make it worth my while.”

  “You want their help?” the Captain asked.

  “I’d like their assistance in dealing with certain troubles that a business such as mine naturally creates.” Strickland shrugged as his cigar flared. “Unions, for instance. And negative publicity. Sheriff Braddock has graciously agreed to assist me. I’m sure I can count on your assistance as well―if difficulties that are under your area of expertise should arise.”

  The Captain paused. “What sort of difficulties?”

  “Any sort.” Strickland’s pleasant mask suddenly slipped. “That you can help with.”

  Reverend Grubb shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Strickland. The Captain here has constantly refused to side with good men in our town. He consults the Catholic―and Mexican―Father Montez in Butcher’s Row instead of me, he employs the daughter of a noted communist sympathizer in his stable of drivers and”―Reverend Grubb pointed at Roscoe―“he keeps that wild delinquent in his confidences. When we were collecting offensive comic books to be burned, he completely refused to help.” Reverend Grubb sounded like he was pronouncing sentence. “And he has never once attended a service at my church.”

  “My.” Strickland stared at the Captain and Roscoe. “Sounds like he’s a bit of a square peg in a round hole. In my factories, we do our best to avoid those.” He twirled the smoldering cigar between his fingers. “They tend to cause all sorts of problems.”

  Roscoe leaned closer to the Captain. “I’m gonna split. I stick around, I know I’m gonna hit someone.” The Captain responded with a quick nod. Then Roscoe turned away and headed to the balcony, first swinging by the drinks table and grabbing a glass of champagne.

  When he stepped outside and walked onto the open, he upended the champagne and downed it. He could hardly taste the booze, only the bubbles pricking the dead flesh of
his tongue. Once the glass was empty, Roscoe tightened his arm and hurled it away. It arced up and soared over the beach, shining in the sun. He didn’t see where it landed in the surf. Roscoe sat down in a wicker deck chair and started breathing, even though he knew he didn’t have to. He rested his hand on his belly and watched it move up and down.

  Another set of footsteps came up behind him. “What’s a matter? Indigestion?” It was Kay Winters. Roscoe turned. She walked next to him, heading to the wooden railing and leaned against it. She gazed at the ocean and not him. “Or maybe the air in there just got a little too unfriendly for you?”

  “That’s it. Your boss wasn’t helping.”

  “He’s a good man,” Kay said. “Rescued me from a dead end job, waitressing in some Las Vegas dump. I’d bring drinks to the zombies in front of the slot machines, keep them liquored up so that they’d keeping losing money. Mr. Strickland saw me, talked with me a little and hired me on the spot.” She paused. “The pay’s great, and I get to travel.”

  “And with such nice company.”

  Kay stared at Roscoe over the edge of her cigarette holder. “He’s not the most polite of men, I’ll admit it. But he does really want something better for La Cruz―and for the world. He’s a man of vision, I suppose you could say. But if things don’t really fit into his vision, well, that makes him upset.” She paused and stabbed at the air with her cigarette holder as she spoke. “He just doesn’t like oddities. They piss him off.”

  Roscoe watched the ocean waves roll. “If that’s the case, then he came to the wrong town.” He turned and looked back at Kay. “Why are you telling me all this, anyway? I’m hired help, just like you. Why do you gotta convince me that your boss is a good guy?”

  “I don’t know.” Kay shrugged. “I like your face.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “No.” Kay smiled slightly. “It’s honest. You’re honest. That’s something I haven’t seen since I was a little girl.” She flicked her cigarette holder. The cigarette soared down, trailing a tiny line of ash. “When I was growing up in Chicago, after the Crash.”

  That was interesting. “A tough town?”

  “Yeah. And I couldn’t leave it, not until the War started and I became a nurse. That brought me to Europe―and it was even worse. I was little more than a girl, then. Too young for that sort of thing.” Kay walked in front of Roscoe. “But that’s enough about me. I told you about my past. You want to spill on yours?”

  He couldn’t. Roscoe couldn’t remember a single thing about his past―about his life. He knew his skills and his tastes, his love of cars, knowledge of guns and fondness for black leather jackets. He remembered speed, the sensation of zooming down an open highway with an engine roaring and the wind battering your face like the flailing strikes of a boxer about to be defeated. There were hints of other things too: gunshots and the name―’Roscoe’―shouted before a blazing darkness. He couldn’t tell her a damn thing. He stood up instead, but then paused before the door.

  Slowly, he turned to look at Kay. “I ain’t got one. At least, I don’t remember it.”

  “Amnesia?”

  “That goes away, after a while,” Roscoe said. “But my blanks never get filled in.” He stepped inside, leaving Kay outside on the balcony. Roscoe didn’t look back. He gritted his teeth, knowing how unsatisfactory his answer was. He walked inside and then saw the Captain, standing tall and waiting for him. “We’re leaving?”

  “We’re leaving.” The Captain turned for the door.

  He and Roscoe walked out together. Strickland was deep in conversation with Mayor Corrigan, Sheriff Braddock and Reverend Grubb around the drinks table. The mogul was talking and the other three were listening. None of them noticed Roscoe and the Captain leaving. They seemed to be pretending the two men didn’t exist.

  Roscoe and the Captain left the Beach Club and walked down the stone steps to the parking lot.

  “Strickland’s quite keen on investing in the town,” the Captain said. “And also seems determined to exert his control. I don’t like it―but it’s not exactly our business. Still, you have to wonder about the timing. The Speed Fiends up their attacks and then this new force arrives.” He stroked his moustache as they walked back to the Rolls. “But a respected businessman in league with biker trash? Something doesn’t add up. There’s intelligence we’re unaware of.”

  Roscoe wasn’t listening. He was thinking back to the names Torrance and Cimeries, what Reverend Grubb had called him, and what Strickland had said. Square pegs and round holes. That was Roscoe and everything around him. He told himself he didn’t mind it, but then it came time to tell somebody he had no past at all and suddenly normalcy was enviable. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they stayed with him, all the way back to La Cruz.

  he rest of the day passed as normally as a day could in La Cruz. Roscoe worked on a few automobiles in the garage, repairing engines and enjoying the feel of machinery and gears against his hands. Angel worked with him, while Betty headed indoors to spend some time on her studies. Wooster sat in a lawn chair by the door and chewed tobacco. He would spit fat globs of tobacco onto the sidewalk and they’d stain the cement like blood. It was a warm day, but it cooled down a little in the afternoon. The Captain stayed inside his office the whole time. After Betty returned from picking up Felix and Snowball at the high school, the Captain finally emerged into the fading sun.

  Roscoe looked up from his work. He straightened his coveralls and stood at attention. The Captain was staring down Main Street, watching his city. “Boss? What’s up?” Behind him, Angel also came to his feet. Even Wooster stood and Betty poked her head out of the garage offices.

  “I just received a call from Mr. Swann,” said the Captain. “He wants to meet.”

  Wooster scratched his sideburns and spat out the last of his tobacco. “He say what for?”

  “It’s the Speed Fiends. We’ll travel in the Rolls and leave in twenty minutes. In the mean time, I’d like to say good evening to Felix.”

  Roscoe frowned as the Captain walked back inside. Eldridge Swann was the Negro crime lord who controlled Butcher’s Row. If he had more information about the Speed Fiends, Terry Torrance and his satanic brothers could be pulling another ritual―or maybe something worse. If their ritual was anything like last night, taking it down wouldn’t be easy. Roscoe returned to the Buick he was working on and slammed the door, then went inside to get ready. Angel followed him without a word.

  Just like the Captain said, they left in twenty minutes and went straight to the diner on Main Street La Cruz. That was where they went for meetings with Swann. He was in his usual place―a booth in the shadowy back. It was the best a Negro could hope for. The diner was a sprawling and well-kept place, bright enough to make the pearl linoleum shine. A couple high school kids slurped milkshakes along the counter and a few families occupied the booths near the windows, but the place was otherwise deserted.

  The Captain entered first, Betty, Roscoe, Angel, and Wooster trailing after him. The Captain walked past the counter and handed the waiter a small roll of bills as payment for using the diner as a meeting place. Then they went to the booth in the back. A broad-shouldered Negro tough was standing in the aisle, out of place in his sharp, gray, sharkskin suit and matching fedora. He nodded to the Captain and stepped aside, revealing the booth that contained his boss.

  Eldridge Swann was sitting in front of an untouched plate of French fries. He was just a little younger than the Captain―and just as conservatively dressed. Swann wore a dark suit, red tie and overcoat; a bowler hat lay on the table next to him. His dark face was pleasantly round and lined with age. If it weren’t for the single knife scar that squiggled down from his forehead to his chin and nearly crossed his eye, he could have been a porter in a fine hotel―probably the best sort of job a Negro could get in Los Angeles. Swann nodded as the Captain, Betty and Roscoe sat down across him. Angel stayed standing along with Wooster, who eyed Swann’s bodyguard uneasily.
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  Swann held up a French fry. “Hungry, Captain?” He had a slight Louisiana drawl that decades of living in California hadn’t eroded.

  “I’ve already eaten,” the Captain replied.

  “So have I, but they won’t let me hang around in this joint unless I order something.” Swann shrugged. “You hear about the kids’ science projects at the high school? That albino monkey of yours earned them a fine grade, apparently. Stanley was telling me all about it.” Swann leaned back in the leather seat. He seemed more comfortable when he was talking about his son. “It’s good, Stanley being friends with that German Jew boy. Not too many others would even want to associate with the only colored kid in La Cruz High.”

  The Captain nodded. “Stanley is an excellent child. He deserves Felix’s friendship.”

  “They’re both outcasts,” Swann said. “Guess they just gotta stick together then.” He shrugged. “Maybe I can relate.” Swann let the fry fall back to the plate. “Anyhow, I reckon you didn’t come out here to chat about parenting.” He leaned closer, his eyes darting to Roscoe and Betty. “You want to know what the Fiends are up to.”

  “They’re planning something, sir?” Betty asked.

  “Not exactly, little lady.” Swann sighed. “I can see how you’d think that. Those Fiends are stirring up Hell every other night it seems. Didn’t used to be this way. They was always trouble, but the worst those motorcycle-riding fools would do is sell reefer and Ouija boards to white high schoolers. Don’t cut into my profits, so it don’t matter to me. But lately, they’re pulling off robberies of occult supplies, setting fires to a fortune teller’s shop and holding up liquor stores and gambling joints that pay off to me.” His eyes narrowed, and his scar quivered. “It’s gotta end.”

  “We hear you,” Roscoe said. “And we’ll end them. But we think they’re getting help.”

  “Out-of-town help,” the Captain added. “The name we’ve been hearing is Mr. Roach.”