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

by Michael Panush

  Strickland didn’t touch the wine. “Well, It seems we’re all here now and we can begin. I’ll make the introductions. Feel free to enjoy the wine. I’m a teetotaler myself―a habit left over from my late wife. She insisted and I’ve retain the practice in her memory.” Strickland folded his hands. “Now, I’d like you gentleman to meet my personal private detective, Roy Roach.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Roach said.

  Roscoe looked at the other two men. Memory burst into his mind like a shotgun shell. He’d seen them before. He knew he had. Just looking at the faces was like peeling scabs off of old wounds or knowing he had some task to do, some important chore, but not being able to remember what it was for the life of him. He shuddered and Betty grabbed his hand and squeezed. Roscoe did his best to stay calm. He didn’t know the names of either man.

  “Now, Mr. Roach, I’d like you to meet Don Vittorio Lupo.” Strickland extended a hand to the older of the two men. “Unquestioned leader of the Lupo Family and one of the most powerful members of the Mafia in the fine state of California.”

  Don Lupo reclined in his wicker seat, a thick cigar clutched between his fingers. He had skin like melting wax, and dark hair slicked back and shot through with strands of gray. A fastidiously prepared black pinstriped vest and tie covered his portly form.

  “We’re old friends,” Strickland said.

  “Mr. Strickland has had numerous problems with business competitors and unions.” Don Lupo’s voice was familiar to Roscoe as well as his face. He spoke with a slight Sicilian accent, the sound of the old country. “I have removed these problems.”

  “A mutually beneficial relationship,” Strickland said. “Which will continue here in La Cruz.”

  So Strickland was bringing the Mob in. That wasn’t exactly surprising. Strickland had all but bragged about his underworld connections and he’d need something more than the Speed Fiends to run vice in La Cruz. On the occult side of things, Roscoe guessed Mr. Roach could handle the city. Strickland’s private detective was a man of many talents, it seemed.

  “Who’s the other?” Roach asked.

  “My man.” Don Lupo pointed to the seated fellow next to him. “Detective Elihu Burns, LAPD.”

  More memories clawed at Roscoe’s mind when he heard the name. Detective Burns was a broad-shouldered man, bald and wearing a white checkered coat. His tie was loud, with geometric designs, and he had a fat, golden ring. His aviator sunglasses were tucked into his coat pocket, and he seemed completely relaxed with everything around him, like he could lean back and fall asleep.

  Roach smiled, revealing large, purely white teeth. “Elihu, eh?”

  “My old man was a bible-thumper―devoted to Sister Aimee and the Foursquare Church.” Detective Burns returned the smile. “He was a police officer―a beat cop. And he’d shakedown all the bootleggers and dope dealers and donate every other penny he stole to the church. We were real popular at Sunday school picnics.”

  “And you inherited the family business?” Roach wondered.

  “I’m expanding it,” Detective Burns corrected. “Into La Cruz.”

  Don Lupo held out his cigar, and Detective Burns drew a lighter. “I have been talking with Detective Burns about this and we both agree it will be a good thing. I myself have many businesses in Los Angeles that would only increase in profitability if I controlled La Cruz. But my friend was telling me troubling news―that you are looking for a fight with the drivers at a certain garage and that this is a mistake.”

  Strickland nodded as the lighter flashed to life. “What are your concerns?”

  “Everyone who takes on Donovan Motors is ruined,” Burns explained. “Julius Eisendrath, local Jew hood―he messed with them and vanished without a trace. Lucas Sinclair, businessman and would-be film producer―his private zeppelin was shot out of the sky. Special Agent Jay Pruitt, crooked G-Man―barely escaped with his life and his career’s in the toilet.” Burns tapped the table. “All of them messed with Donovan Motors. All of them paid the price.”

  Roscoe smiled a little. He had a right to be proud.

  Strickland was smiling too. “But you do agree they are a threat.”

  “Maybe not.” Don Lupo shifted his cigar and puffed smoke. “Their concern is with the supernatural, is it not? The work of the Strega and so forth. You want business, and I want crime. Why would they even be concerned?”

  “We’ve got plans.” Mr. Roach adjusted his tie. “Plans that will concern them.”

  “So they must be broken or destroyed. And I understand your worry.” Strickland came to his feet. He walked to the balcony and stared out at the sea. “But let me put your minds at ease. I have a plan to remove the Captain and his allies from their current lofty position in La Cruz.” He rested his hands on the railing and leaned out, breathing in sea air. He slipped into the shadows. “I have other backers. They’ll be arriving soon to help.”

  “What are you planning, Strickland?” asked Don Lupo.

  “Something big. It will stir up La Cruz, spread a little chaos around. I’ll need you gentlemen ready to step in when the city is in a more agreeable form.” He turned back to look at his allies. “How does that sound? Acceptable?”

  Before they could respond, Roach stood. He sniffed deeply and then looked into the darkened lounge. “The smell of death seems to follow me,” Mr. Roach said. “There’s rot here―and it’s not from my men.” He took a step closer to the lounge, and his two bodyguards followed him. Roscoe stepped back, and stumbled. Betty kept hold of his hand and he doubled his grip on her and turned. Then he was running through the lounge, pounding down for the hall with Betty alongside him.

  They raced down the hall and scrambled into the lobby, feet pounding on the tiled floor. “He knew?” Betty asked. “How―”

  “Roach knows!” Roscoe cried. “He can smell me or something, I don’t know.” Roscoe doubled his pace. The concierge shouted something at them, but Roscoe ignored him. Then they were out into the parking lot. “He said he can smell the rot.”

  They dashed across the parking lot and reached Betty’s car. Betty got behind the wheel and Roscoe opened his coat. The sawed-off shotgun rested there. Roscoe snapped it open, placed in two shells and closed it with a flick of his hand. Betty started the engine. She looked at the sawed-off in Roscoe’s lap as she pulled out of the parking lot. Unease flashed in her eyes. This wasn’t her department.

  The coupe sped down the darkened road. Betty checked the rearview mirror. “We tracked the Sedan. Now the Sedan’s tracking us. And it’s not bothering with a stealthy approach.”

  Roscoe checked. Sure enough, the Rambler Sedan was speeding after them. The Sedan drove in the center of the road, matching their pace. No other traffic took up space on the coastal road, nothing to slow the Sedan down. Roscoe scanned the sides of the street. The Shady Links Golf Course was in the distance, but little else.

  The Sedan’s passenger window went down. One of Roach’s men leaned out, holding a high-powered carbine rifle. He fired, and the windshield of Betty’s car cracked. Roscoe spun around as the rifle fired again. The bullet blasted into the dashboard. Roscoe leveled the sawed-off, and fired both barrels. They were useless at this range, but at least it would keep the shooter’s head down. Nonetheless, Roach’s bodyguard fired the rifle again. This time, the bullet grazed Roscoe’s shoulder. The gunner wasn’t afraid of bullets.

  Betty clutched the wheel with white knuckles―but she stayed calm and kept the car on the road. “Roscoe… We’re faster than they are, but I can’t outrun bullets. What should I do? What’s your plan?”

  “We’ve got to get close if we want to stop them.” Roscoe nodded to the golf course. They were speeding by the links, which were separated from the road by a thin fence. “We’re gonna have to go there.” He opened the sawed-off and slammed in new rounds. “Then we’ll stop playing tag, and their rifle won’t count for nothing.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Betty said. She twisted the wheel. The coupe rocked t
o the side and bashed through the fence. They wound up speeding down a rolling grass hill, turf spraying from their wheels. Roscoe bounced in his seat as the car slid through a dip and rocketed up another hill. He glanced over his shoulder. The Sedan still followed them. The gunman still fired―but the bumps of the golf course’s hills kept the bullets from hitting anything. Now it was time to finish them for good.

  Roscoe stared ahead. The golf course was a perfectly manicured stretch of greenery, where the grass looked combed. Their wheels shredded that finely manicured grass, but Roscoe didn’t care. Right ahead of them, behind another hill, was a putting green. Roscoe pointed to it. “Get over there and slow down! Bring us to a stop and put us right in their path!” he shouted over the sound of the motor. “Then keep your head down!”

  “If you say so.” Betty’s coupe flew off the top of the hill, the white tires leaving the grass for a split-second before slamming down hard. Betty hit the brakes and spun her auto to the side. The wheels dug trenches in the putting green before careening all the way around and facing the Sedan―which was just coming over the hill and rumbling toward them. Then something happened Roscoe wasn’t expecting at all.

  The gunner jumped out of the moving Sedan. He dropped his rifle and flew through the air, a pink comet on the move. Betty let out a little yelp of terror and surprise as Roach’s bodyguard slammed straight into the hood of her car. The goon’s hands drove into the windshield. His skin was pale and bloodless, streaked with lines of rot. He stank, too, with a familiar smell. Though he had just hurtled through the air and smashed into metal, he didn’t seem concerned at all. His sunglasses fell away, revealing dead pale eyes that never blinked. It was like staring into a mirror. Mr. Roach’s bodyguards were zombies―like Roscoe, but mindless.

  The zombie stabbed his head over the top of the windshield. His mouth fell open, the lower jaw hanging down pendulously. Flies began to buzz up out of his throat. Roscoe heard the impossibly loud humming, as a great black swarm of insects descended on him and Betty. The girl covered her face with her hands and turned away. Roscoe stared back, feeling the million pinpricks as the flies buzzed around him. He struggled to raise his sawed-off. The flies seethed around him in a black blizzard. Roscoe aimed as best he could, guessing where the zombie’s head was. Flies crawled on his lips and slipped between his teeth. Roscoe pulled the trigger.

  The sawed-off blasted into the cold night. The zombie flipped back, its head a broken, gray mess. The dead man struck the ground in front of the coupe, and Betty slammed on the gas. Betty’s automobile shot forward, sending two wheels rolling straight over the zombie’s belly. The crunch of bones sounded just as clear as the gunshots. The flies swarmed away, and Roscoe’s vision cleared. Betty slowed and Roscoe stepped out.

  He stumbled onto the putting green as another rumble sounded across the golf course. Roscoe looked up and saw the Sedan heading straight for him. He looked at the approaching headlights, angry yellow eyes in the dark.

  “Great,” he muttered, seconds before the Sedan slammed into him. The blow slugged him like a wrecking ball, pushing Roscoe onto the hood. He bounced off, flew through the air and rolled in the putting green. Grass clung to his leather coat as he spun three times before coming to a stop. The sawed-off fell from his hands. The second zombie ambled out of the car and leveled a revolver at him. Roscoe tried his best to crawl for the sawed-off, but he knew he wouldn’t reach it in time.

  Three gunshots popped off. The zombie slumped back against the car. Betty ran to his side and offered him her hand. Roscoe took it. A petite revolver smoked in her other hand. She was a pretty good shot, as it turned out. The zombie lay on the ground, twitching. Roscoe walked to his shotgun and grabbed it. He reloaded and then walked back. The zombie’s sunglasses had fallen off. The dead man’s eyes had been sewn shut, with black twine worked through the pale flesh. Roscoe raised his shotgun and gave the zombie two more shells. Bits of skull and brains stained the putting green.

  Roscoe turned back to Betty. “Just to make sure.” He walked over to her car. “You can call Sheriff Braddock once we get back, explain that this was just us doing our job. He’ll clear it up. I don’t really want to hang around anymore.”

  Betty was still staring at the zombies. “They’re dead men… Zombies. Enchanted with magic and set to serve a master―who I guess was Mr. Roach.” She turned to Roscoe. “But they’re not like you. You have free will and they don’t and―”

  “And they ain’t as good a shot as I am,” Roscoe muttered. “Yeah, sister. I know. Now drive us back to the garage.”

  He forced his eyes to close as Betty started the engine. She sped away from the golf course. They drove over the hills and returned to the main road that led back to La Cruz. Roscoe stared at his eyelids. He imagined string tying them shut and an outside force controlling his mind. That thought hung around in the back of his mind, like some predator hiding in the shadows, all the way back to Donovan Motors.

  They returned in total darkness. Almost all the neon signs of Main Street had gone out and the city seemed to be washed in night. Betty pulled up to Donovan Motors, and Roscoe was pleased to see Angel’s Caddy parked with the other cars. Angel had made it back after all. Roscoe and Betty got out and headed upstairs to the Captain’s office, the only room in Donovan Motors with the lights on. Roscoe held the door open for Betty and they both stepped inside. The Captain had a comfortable office with a red leather couch in the back, a small desk and a few other chairs. An oversized, misshapen skull rested in the corner of the desk, and instead of the usual fishing trophies and calendars, several weapons, including a WWI rifle and an old cavalry saber, hung on the walls. Otherwise, the room looked like any small town businessman’s office.

  The Captain sat behind his desk. Wooster stood in the corner, and Angel reclined in one of the chairs. Felix Tannenbaum snoozed on the couch, his white suit coat covering him like a blanket and his glasses sitting on the armrest. Snowball lay next to him, curled up protectively at the boy’s feet. Felix’s chest rose and fell evenly.

  Betty sat down next to him. “He fell asleep waiting for us?”

  “I didn’t have the heart to send him away,” the Captain said. “He was worried.” He rested his hands on the desk and glared at them coldly. “And so was I. Your orders were to observe the situation from a distance, not rush in as Angel tells me you did. The mission was reconnaissance and you didn’t have the needed support for a―”

  “Strickland’s backing Mr. Roach,” Roscoe said.

  The Captain fell silent.

  “We tailed Roach back to the Playa Roja Beach Club. He was there, meeting with Strickland, an LA kingpin named Don Lupo, and a crooked cop named Burns. They’re planning to take us out and then take the city.” Roscoe decided he might as well tell them everything. “And Mr. Roach had two zombies working for him. Mindless dead men. I killed both of them, but I don’t think he only brought two.”

  Everyone listened to Roscoe in silence.

  “Dios…” Angel whispered.

  “You’re sure?” the Captain asked. “It is Strickland who’s been behind this?”

  “We’re sure,” Betty said, with a nod. “And he talked about planning something―something big.”

  Angel pondered for a moment. “Could be the Sand and Surf Festival coming up next week.”

  “Could be,” Roscoe said. “That would get everyone’s attention.”

  Wooster stepped out of the corner. “Well… I reckon we all know what to do. We know the Speed Fiends are trying to take over thanks to this Roach fellow and that Strickland’s backing their play. So how about we load up, drive over to that fancy Beach Club place and kill them all?” He started ticking off names on his fingers. “We kill Strickland, kill Roach, kill Torrance and kill the bent cop and the mobster they got with them. Let them all burn in Hell together.”

  “That’s not how we operate,” the Captain said. “We work within the confines of the law. We can’t just go out and start murdering peop
le.” He paused. “That would be unacceptable and monstrous.”

  “Well, we’re already plenty monstrous, Captain,” Wooster said. “If you hadn’t noticed.”

  The Captain turned his glare on Wooster. That Okie seemed to respect nothing but whiskey and violence―but something in the Captain’s gaze held him. The Captain spoke again, this time each word carried the weight of an artillery shell. “We are defenders of our town and nation. We protect the innocent. We don’t shed blood if we don’t have to, and we won’t be the ones to declare war.”

  “I figure it might be called for…” Wooster mumbled.

  “You don’t know what war is, Wooster,” the Captain replied. “I do. And I won’t have it here. Now, I know the Sand and Surf Festival is coming up. That’s a big event for La Cruz. Brings the tourists down from the city and gets all the locals out. It rouses all the local spirits too. We’re always on guard during the festival and this year will be no exception. We’ll be ready to defend the good people of La Cruz, and nothing more.” He folded his hands. “Any more questions?”

  Nobody said anything. Angel stood up and looked back at Roscoe. “You okay, man?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Roscoe furrowed his brow, continuing before Angel could answer. “You’re always asking me if I’m okay. And I always am.” He decided that was enough. Roscoe walked to the couch and picked up Felix. The boy stirred slightly. He was very light. Snowball hopped down from the couch and scampered after Roscoe, staring after him and emitting a whiny little growl. “I’ll take him to his room. Don’t wait up.” Then he headed outside, into the cold night air. Only Snowball pawed after him.

  Roscoe took Felix to his apartment, which was right next door to the Captain’s office. It was a cozy bedroom with posters of occult symbols and mathematical equations covering the walls. Bookshelves loaded with complex texts bordered the bed. Betty had loaned the kid many of her father’s books. A couple lurid horror comics, garish four-color fright fests, sat in an untidy pile by the boy’s bed. A single picture rested on the nightstand, showing a young Felix and his parents in some Berlin street. All of them wore bright yellow Star-of-David badges on their chests. Roscoe set Felix down on his bed and put the boy’s spectacles on the nightstand.