“Mr. Roach…” Swann repeated. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. See, one of the Speed Fiends owes me quite a bit of money after taking a loss in one of my corner dice games. I been stringing him along, cutting down his debt in return for information. And he just told me something big. There’s gonna be a meet, between Terry Torrance and that Roach man in the Purgatory Roadhouse just out of town. They fixing to meet around sundown. Apparently talk a little business over drinks.” He smiled. “Could be a chance to take them both out.”
“That’s not exactly how I operate,” the Captain replied.
“Might be time to start.” Swann gnawed on a French fry.
“I don’t think so. We’re occult defenders of La Cruz―not criminals guarding our turf.” The Captain stood up and nodded to Roscoe and Betty. “But thank you for the information. It may prove invaluable.” He turned to his drivers. “Roscoe, Betty, Angel―I’d like you to go to the roadhouse and see if you can catch a glimpse of this Mr. Roach. Take two cars, in case tailing becomes necessary. Take weapons as well. Don’t risk a confrontation and don’t risk your lives, but find out as much as you can.”
Wooster whined. “Not sending me out? Why not?”
“Quiet is far from your specialty, Wooster.” The Captain patted him on the shoulder. “And I need you to return to the garage with me and stand guard.” The Captain paused. “The city is becoming more dangerous. I need someone I can trust―someone strong―to be there for me and Felix.” There was a hint of shame in the Captain’s voice. The implication was clear: he wasn’t strong enough to protect Felix or the garage anymore. Not by himself.
Wooster nodded quickly. “You got my word, sir.” It’ll be fine.”
“You a little worried about this, Captain?” Swann poked at the uneaten fries.
The Captain looked back. “Operational necessities.” He headed out of the diner. His drivers followed him. The Captain still hadn’t talked to Roscoe about Strickland and the businessman’s proposal for La Cruz. He’d mentioned it to the other drivers, but no more had been said on the matter. Roscoe guessed the Captain hadn’t quite made his mind up about Strickland Industries―and what to do about the company’s new presence in town. That was okay. Neither had Roscoe. He and his friends headed outside and back to the Captain’s Rolls.
Roscoe found himself looking forward to tonight. After dealing with Strickland in the morning, a simple job and a chance of bloodshed would be a welcome change.
They set out before sundown and drove for the edge of La Cruz, then entered the highways that connected the city with Los Angeles and all the other cities that clung to the coast or spread out into the Inland Empire. Roscoe rode in Angel’s automobile while Betty followed in her neat, two-seater convertible coupe. Angel traveled in style, riding a brilliant red Cadillac that hung low to the ground. They traveled in silence, following the road to the Purgatory Roadhouse. Angel chewed on a toothpick while playing with the radio until he got to the Deadbeat. Roscoe was grateful for the music.
They tuned in just as a rumbling rockabilly track ended. The Deadbeat’s voice oozed back across the airwaves. “Evening, cool kids and ghoul kids. That was Zap Telford and the Boo Babies with a real hot number called ‘My Phantom Girl.’ Now here’s your La Cruz news update.” He cleared his throat. “Dig it―there’s a new power coming to our little town and his name is Strickland.”
Angel fiddled with the dial and upped the volume. “This this guy you met, right?”
“Now Reed Strickland may be seen as a big La Cruz booster by our square citizens, but the Deadbeat knows the score.” The Deadbeat’s voice shrank a little lower, moving to a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t get to be one of the most powerful men on the West Coast without a few skeletons in your closet and the Reedster’s got some big ones.” Roscoe listened closely. “Chief amongst them is that Strickland Industries was on a first name basis with Adolf Hitler. Seems that Reed and the Fuhrer had a friendship born of a mutual love of order and business. Strickland Industries made a fortune selling weapons to the Nazis―and then made an even bigger fortune making weapons to fight them in the War. I guess that’s just good business for someone like Strickland, right, cats and kittens?”
The Caddy turned off the freeway, taking an exit that curled around through an open field. The asphalt square of the Purgatory’s parking lot loomed ahead. Angel glanced over at Roscoe. “He worked with the Nazis? And now he’s here and everyone seems to accept him because he’s got money? Sounds like bad news to me, man.”
“Yeah.” Roscoe spat out the window. “Me too.”
They pulled into the parking lot and Betty’s coupe came to a stop in the space next to them. Angel reached for the door as Roscoe eyeballed the parking lot. The Purgatory was a way station, a dump that catered to drifts and local drunks. The roadhouse itself was a dingy, rambling structure of dark wood, shaped a little like a circle. Roscoe spotted a number of familiar figures in black leather jackets sauntering across the parking lot from a phalanx of parked motorcycles. “Wait.” He pointed and sank down in his seat, making sure they couldn’t see him. Angel did the same.
It was Terry Torrance and four of his Speed Fiends. They walked through the swinging batwing doors and headed inside. Mr. Roach must already be in there waiting for the meeting. Roscoe turned around and looked at Betty. She had put a pair of sunglasses on and had pulled up the top of her convertible. She caught Roscoe’s eye. Roscoe pointed to the parking lot floor, motioning for her to stay put. Then he got out.
Angel hurried to Roscoe’s side. “You gone nuts? We can’t just walk in―and the Captain said to keep our distance!” Roscoe didn’t slow. Torrance and his friends were already inside. He had to see them.
“And we will,” Roscoe said. “Once we get inside.” He reached inside his pocket and withdrew a folded newsboy cap he had grabbed from his apartment. Roscoe set it on his head and pushed the bill down, then turned up the collar of his leather jacket. “Does that help? Disguise clever enough for you?”
“You still got the green skin, Roscoe.” Angel gestured at him.
“Just another reason to stick to the shadows.”
They reached the door and stepped inside. Roscoe turned to look at Angel. “You can stay in the parking lot, if you don’t want to risk it.” He gazed into the smoky interior of the Purgatory. A beat-up jukebox was wailing in the corner. Drunks sucked back booze at the bar. Peanut shells crunched underneath his boots.
“No.” Angel shook his head. “If you’re going in, then I’m going in.”
“Suit yourself.” Roscoe pointed to the corner at a round table, draped in darkness. Torrance and his friends were going there. Another table, a little bit away, was open. Roscoe figured that was his best shot. “Over there.” He pointed. “And take your hat off.”
Roscoe and Angel walked to the table and sat down. A waitress sidled over and Roscoe ordered a pair of beers, then craned his neck and looked in the corner. Torrance and the other Speed Fiends sat there. Roscoe stared into the darkness. A guy who had to be Mr. Roach joined them. Torrance was talking to him, bowing his head like a disobedient son before a father. Mr. Roach sat between two other guys, both of whom were tall, pale and wearing salmon-colored suits and matching bowties. They had sunglasses, even in the darkness of the roadhouse. Neither moved nor said a word.
Mr. Roach was another story. He was strange to look at, like a mannequin in a department store with extra features glued on. His skin seemed a little too tight, his thin, colorless hair a little too closely pressed to his scalp. He wore a salmon-colored suit and matching bowtie as well, though his sunglasses rested in his coat pocket. His emotionless, pale eyes stared blankly out of his strangely handsome face. Mr. Roach was nodding along as Torrance talked. Roscoe could get snatches of Torrance’s words, but not enough.
“Goddamn it,” Roscoe muttered. “That jukebox is stopping me from listening in.” He touched his ear and then smiled to himself. He had an idea. “Say Angel,” he
said. “I know you never go anywhere without a pair of switchblades. Give me a shiv, will you?”
Angel pulled out the switchblade and snapped it open. “What exactly you need it for, man?”
Roscoe gripped his ear and raised the blade. He slashed it down and started cutting. Putting the blade through the tough flesh caused sharp pain to race through his body and reach what was left of his brain. He winced, but kept pushing the knife down. Angel watched in mute horror until Roscoe finished and his severed ear fell limply to the table. Roscoe grinned and handed back the knife to Angel.
“I was right,” Angel said. “You have gone nuts.”
“I can sew it back on―don’t worry.” Roscoe gripped the ear and then knelt down. It was strange to have the ear off and to hear his voice from two angles at once. It sounded like there was another Roscoe, speaking somewhere above him. “And it’s not like it hurts my good looks any.”
“I thought hearing comes from those holes on the side of your head–not the ear itself.”
“It’s called magic.” Roscoe wiggled the severed ear in Angel’s direction. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”
Then he tossed the ear across the bar. It was a light, underhanded throw. The ear landed under the table where Torrance and Mr. Roach were talking. Nobody noticed. Roscoe sat back up, covered the ear remaining on his head and did his best to listen.
Torrance was talking. “So, I’m sorry, Mr. Roach. I really am. But the crew at Donovan Motors shut us down last night and I don’t think I’ve got the manpower or the strength to wipe them out. They’ll crumble all right, and I’ll be the one to bury Roscoe, but I need more time and more―”
“Shut up.” Mr. Roach’s voice was a thin whine. “If I wanted to hear you whine, I would start cutting pieces off of you.” Mr. Roach spoke slowly, like he was lecturing a dull child. “Now, you weren’t tasked with destroying Donovan Motors. You were tasked with distracting them and changing the balance of power in Butcher’s Row. Has this been done?”
“We robbed a couple liquor stores that pay off to Swann…” Torrance said.
“No,” Mr. Roach replied. “I answer my own question. We gave you tomes containing the names of some of the foulest demons of the pits and you could do nothing with them. I wanted to see La Cruz’s streets blazing with hellfire. I wanted the city lit up like Christmas, and you gave me nothing.” Mr. Roach folded his hands. “Shall I ask for an excuse? Do I want to hear you whine again?”
“You gotta understand how things are here,” Torrance said. “Donovan Motors―they got all the help in the world. La Cruz PD loves them, ‘cause they do half of fat Sheriff Braddock’s job for him. The mayor loves them because they keep weirdness to a minimum. Even La Cruz’s citizens like them because they fix up cars and will handle that goblin in the garden free of charge.” He paused and folded his arms. “The drivers are like heroes, sir. You can’t fight heroes on their own turf.”
“That will change,” Mr. Roach said. “Don’t worry. But, when the time comes, I don’t know if you’ll be around to share in the sudden change of fortunes.”
Now Torrance got angry. “I want a piece of them. I deserve a piece of them. The Fiends have had it bad in La Cruz since forever because of Donovan Motors. We’ve helped you take the fight to them and we want to be in at the death.”
“Well, Terry, I’m afraid it’s completely out of my hands.” Mr. Roach reached out and patted Torrance’s cheek. Torrance froze. “You’re not the only one who has a master to answer to. I’m going to see mine tonight and I’ll tell him everything. I’ll have to mention your failings. And whether or not you’re involved in our continuing operations here depends entirely on him.”
“You ain’t the boss of me, pal,” Torrance said.
“Hmm.” Mr. Roach stood up. His two guards did too, moving in rigid unison. Then Mr. Roach stopped. “You wearing a new cologne, Terry? No, I didn’t think so.” Mr. Roach knelt down and sniffed. Roscoe could hear the sharp intake of air. “The smell of death is here. It’s something I’m familiar with.” Roscoe went stiff. He knew what was going to happen. “Yes.” Mr. Roach reached out for Roscoe’s severed ear. “The smell of death is indeed in the air. And it’s only going to get stronger.”
Angel must have noticed the terror on Roscoe’s face. He reached out and grabbed Roscoe’s arm. “Everything okay, man?” Angel asked. Then he fell silent as Mr. Roach and the Speed Fiends approached. Mr. Roach held Roscoe’s ear in his hand and then tossed it aside. “Dios,” Angel whispered. “They found us.” He nodded to the door. “I’ll distract them, lead them back to La Cruz and lose them in the back roads. You and Betty can tail Roach in her coupe, see where he goes, and what his plan is.”
Roscoe stared at his best friend. “That’s a bonehead play. If they catch you―”
“They won’t catch me, man. And coming in here was a dumb play too.” Angel stepped into the aisle and reached into his coat, before Roscoe could stop him. Then his automatic was out and he was taking aim at the bikers.
“Cabrones!” he cried, and pulled the trigger. The pistol spat lead, louder than the crackling music in the jukebox. The gunshots echoed around the Purgatory, thunder against the walls. The Speed Fiends ducked, but Mr. Roach and his bodyguards just stood there and faced the bullets zooming past them. The only thing Angel shot was a pitcher of beer. It exploded and sprayed brown sudsy liquid onto the floor. Then Angel ran.
The Speed Fiends raced after him. “Get that goddamn taco bender!” Torrance snarled. He was the first out the door, after Angel. Roscoe stayed behind at his table, completely ignored. The Speed Fiends pounded toward Angel, and Mr. Roach and his buddies followed them out. Roscoe stood up and scrambled across the roadhouse. He spotted his severed ear, lying in an ashtray next to cigarette butts like a greenish slice of ham. Mr. Roach must have left it there. Roscoe pocketed it and hurried to the back door.
He stepped into the cool night air and hurried around―just in time to see Angel’s Cadillac peel out of the parking lot and barrel into the road. Angel burned rubber as his automobile shot down the street. The Speed Fiends followed, a cluster moving together on shining motorcycles. They didn’t leave anybody behind. Mr. Roach and his men got into a maroon Rambler Sedan in the corner of the lot.
Roscoe crossed the parking lot and reached Betty’s coupe. She clutched the wheel, her snub-nosed revolver in her lap. “Cripes!” Betty cried. “What are you guys doing? Going inside the roadhouse after those maniac Speed Fiend cultists? Fleeing the place with said bikers in hot pursuit?” She watched as Roscoe sat down next to her. “Now what are you doing?”
“I want you to tail that Sedan, sister,” Roscoe said. “Angel can lose some biker trash. What’s important is following Mr. Roach. He mentioned he was going to see his boss and I want to know who that is.” The Sedan went out of the parking lot. “We ain’t got all night.”
“Okay, okay.” Betty started the engine and followed. The Captain had taught all of them how to handle surveillance. She drove, staying back and keeping the coupe at a normal speed―but never let the Sedan out of her sight. They followed it down the road and then it went back onto the main highway. Betty glanced over at Roscoe. “Should I ask why you’re missing your ear?”
“Operational necessities.” Roscoe repeated the Captain’s words with a grin.
“Uh-huh.” Betty reached over and popped the glove compartment. A spool of twine and a needle lay next to assorted ankhs, silver crosses, iron nails, a Voodoo doll and a few other talismans and charms that Roscoe couldn’t identify. “Still remember how to sew?”
Roscoe grabbed the needle and thread and got to work stitching. He could feel the slight pinch as the needle stabbed into his skin and then he pulled it through to re-attach his ear. A chili dog or two would fix it for good. But the uneasy nature of Mr. Roach―and his unknown master―was a whole different problem. Roscoe knew it wouldn’t be so easy to solve.
They drove through the late evening, following Mr. Roach’s seda
n. He avoided La Cruz altogether and then went to the road that wound along the coast. They passed the movie star mansions and the open beaches, with the moonlit sea beyond and the palm trees stirred by ocean breezes. Betty shivered a little and huddled in her sweater. Roscoe couldn’t shiver at all. Then he saw where Mr. Roach was going, and he almost wished he could. It was the Playa Roja Beach Club. The Sedan drove into the parking lot, looking out of place amongst all the luxury automobiles, and Betty followed it. Roscoe looked at the Grecian columns, and suddenly he knew who Mr. Roach was going to see. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.
Betty parked in the back of the lot. They stayed put and watched as Mr. Roach and his two guards went inside. Roscoe waited for them to go inside before he opened the door. He nodded to Betty and she stepped out as well. They looked at the large glass doors of the Beach Club. Mr. Roach and his men were already disappearing down the hall.
“So what now?” Betty asked. “We can’t just follow them in?”
“I can be quiet when I want to,” Roscoe said. “I bet you can too.”
He headed for the Beach Club. Betty stayed by the car for a little and then followed him with a grimace. They both entered. The building was a little quieter now, with the moonlight outside and the ocean’s gentle waves in the distance. A few beach-goers were inside, resting before heading home. The concierge glared at Roscoe like he was a stray dog who had wandered inside―until Roscoe slipped him a ten dollar bill and asked where his friend Mr. Roach held their nightly meeting.
The answer was the balcony, the same one where Roscoe and Kay had sat together during the morning brunch. Roscoe stayed in the lounge, sticking to the shadows and the unlit Tiki torches. Betty stuck with him. No guards got in their way. Roscoe hadn’t really been expecting any. The Playa Roja Beach Club was supposed to be too exclusive for intruders. He drew a little closer. Betty stood next to him and they both stared outside.
A table had been set for dinner above the rolling sea. Four people sat there, sipping wine from a tall bottle. Candlelight flickered between them, working with the sparse electric lights to hold back the shadows. Mr. Roach’s men stood at the far end of the balcony, staring blankly into the distance. Mr. Roach sat at the table. So did Reed Strickland.
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