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

by Michael Panush

  “Deadbeat, I’ll need you to keep spreading the truth about Reed Strickland and his corporation. Dig up as much dirt as you can. I’m particularly interested in Strickland’s connection to the Nazi Party during the Thirties―and their occult weapons programs.” He turned to Swann. “Eldridge, my friend, I will need you to begin gathering weapons. Pistols, shotguns, explosives and any other ordnance you can get. I’ll call up my contacts in the military and see what I can get. When Strickland makes his next move, we’ll be ready.”

  Swann sighed. “I’ll be needing help keeping Lupo out of Butcher’s Row, if you can.”

  “I’ll have Angel patrol your neighborhood. He can keep an eye on Lupo’s operations and maybe scare some of his soldiers away,” the Captain suggested. “It’s not much, I know―but it’s the best I can do.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” Angel said.

  Then the Captain turned to Barrow. “Mr. Barrow, I’ll need you to begin gathering occult supplies from the graveyard. Felix may need to construct another entropic engine. Any artifacts you have may help with that.”

  “Penny will help me,” Barrow said. “She loves digging up graves with her father.”

  “And Mr. Weaver?” the Captain asked.

  “Yeah?” Walt replied.

  “I want you to contact the fisherman. Have his boat ready to launch in case we need to make a speedy departure from La Cruz.” The Captain leaned across the table. His hand reached out and landed on Walt’s wrist. “I want safe passage for my family and friends, if the worst happens. I’ll pay you and him whatever you’d like―but I want this done correctly. Is that understood?”

  Walt nodded quickly. “I won’t charge you a red cent, sir. You and your drivers have always helped me out in the past.” His eyes twinkled at Roscoe. “Even if one of them does smell a little rotten now and then. And don’t worry about the fisherman. He owes me for saving his hide when that gambling ship was attacked by those humanoid fish creatures. He’ll bellyache a little, but you’ll get your ride.” Walt set his fedora on his head and stood up. He held out his hand and the Captain shook it. “Anything else, or is this meeting adjourned?”

  “I think that’s all we need,” the Captain said. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  They broke up shaking hands and heading back their cars. Roscoe shook hands as well. Barrow leaned close as his long, pale fingers wrapped around Roscoe’s hands. “Penny thanks you, sir. For protecting Felix and Ace. She calls you a knight clothed in grave dirt. You are very highly regarded in our dwelling.”

  “Ah, thanks,” Roscoe said.

  Roscoe and the Captain walked outside and watched them go. Angel took his place in the corner to stand guard, and Betty went upstairs to check on Felix. Roscoe and the Captain stared out at Main Street as the automobiles drove away. It was as quiet as a tomb now. The two men looked at the dark neon lights and the closed diners and shops. Roscoe touched the wound in his chest. The burger had healed most of it, but his flesh still felt weak and spongy. It still ached. It deserved payback.

  Roscoe turned to the Captain. “You’re sure about―”

  “I’m going to tell you about Sir Roderick the Red,” the Captain said suddenly. “And why it’s important that we’re well―regarded by the people of La Cruz.” He turned to face Roscoe. “Roderick the Red was a British knight who led his army on a grand crusade to the Holy Land. He and his men were full of religious fervor, determined to oust the infidel from Jerusalem and claim it for the right God.” He lowered his eyes. “I can imagine their idealism. I felt the same way when I signed up to fight in the trenches of France. But it ended up worse for them.”

  “What happened?” Roscoe asked.

  “Sources differ. The tale I was told mentions Sir Roderick and his knights leading countless raids against the Muslims. They slaughtered hundreds, and soon the Saracens forced them into a particularly desolate patch of desert. Sir Roderick’s men began to die. The Saracens now raided them and took bloody revenge. Sir Roderick found he was leading a scraggly dying army and he cursed God for a liar and himself for a fool. Then he came across a thin, pale man in the desert, wearing the bloody skin of a goat. He was given simple instructions―slaughter your priests. Dedicate your relics to the Devil. Surrender your soul to Hell. Sir Roderick agreed.”

  “Jesus.”

  The Captain nodded. “A cruel slaughter followed. One priest, an Irish monk accompanying Sir Roderick, managed to survive. He saw one of the relics, part of the True Cross, being drenched in the blood of the innocent and dedicated to Satan. He stole this cross and managed to escape, with Sir Roderick’s army close behind. He returned to Ireland, trying to put as much ground between him and the crusaders as possible. He married and told his children to keep the cross―the Crimson Cross―safe. When the New World was discovered, his descendants fled there. They traveled across the continent, aided by Spanish monks, until they reached this place. They brought the Crimson Cross with them. They have been in La Cruz ever since—that’s the source of the town’s name, in fact, though no one knows it.” The Captain rested a hand on his chest. “The Crimson Cross is in the old mission, past Cowl Canyons. Mexican priests still guard it. The Cross is an object that is both divine and damned. If it ever fell into the wrong hands, it could unmake the world.” The Captain paused. I have seen true horror, Roscoe. In the trenches and elsewhere, I have seen such terrible sights. La Cruz is an unblemished and innocent paradise compared to the Hell I’ve been through. But I know the curse that hangs over this town. I’ll give my life to hold that curse back.”

  After telling his story, the Captain fell silent. Roscoe looked at the older man. It made sense, why the Captain saw defending La Cruz as a duty given to him by the highest authorities―and why he cared about the city so much. “So, you think Strickland and Sir Roderick’s ghost―or spirit or whatever―are playing on the same team?”

  “Yes,” the Captain said. “Though, I am not sure.” He patted Roscoe’s shoulder. “I will tell the others soon. I suspect most of them have guessed the importance of the mission and the Crimson Cross. For now, let them rest easy. We have troubles enough.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Sure.” He turned back to the city as the Captain walked inside. Roscoe rammed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. These were just skirmishes. The real battle was coming. He would have to be ready.

  hat night, Roscoe knew he couldn’t face his bedroom. He stayed in the kitchen, flipping through old newspapers and lurid horror comics while he brewed a fat pot of coffee. He kept it hot, boiling enough so that the steam billowed out of the pot like an impatient ghost. Roscoe sucked the boiling water, feeling the hot liquid tear down his throat and splash into his belly. He kept reading without understanding the words and didn’t try to sink into his muddled half-sleep. When the sun rose, he was still there. Footsteps tapped in the hallway and Roscoe looked. It was Betty Bright. She was up early, wearing a dark robe and still fiddling with her spectacles. She walked over and sat down across from him. He offered her a mug of coffee.

  Betty accepted and raised it to Roscoe in a sardonic toast.

  “You’re up early,” Roscoe said, as she added cream and sugar and had a quick sip. “The sun’s just come up. You have some bad dreams, sister?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Betty said. “Not after what happened. You?”

  “I don’t need to sleep. Not really.” Roscoe shrugged. He leaned back in the wicker chair and folded his arms. He could see the pain in her face, in the way her eyes looked pinched and her lips were pressed shut too closely. “You okay?” “Yeah. I suppose so. This thing with Wooster last night―and Felix being so close it―I guess it shook me up a little.” She held her mug with both hands, waiting for it to cool. “We’ve been in bad situations before. There was that business when they accused my father of being a communist, for instance. But it was nothing like this. It was never this bad.” She glanced up at Roscoe. “You look worried too, Roscoe. Something’s bothering you, and
it’s not just the gunfight yesterday.”

  She could read him. They’d known each other long enough. “I’m starting to get…” Roscoe struggled for the right word. “Visions. Feelings about the past. My past.” He rested his palms on the linoleum table. “The crooked cop, Burns, he called me ‘Carmine.’ Said he recognized me. I think Carmine used to be my name. I think he knew me―when my flesh was warm and my blood still flowed. The rest of my past is there, buried and waiting to be unearthed.”

  “Maybe it is,” Betty said. “And maybe you deserve to know.”

  “I don’t know if I want to know.” He looked down at his jeans, his leather jacket and his white shirt―the clothes he had chosen to wear. “What if I don’t like Carmine? What if I found out something terrible about him? What if I prefer being Roscoe?” He raised a hand, his dead fingers wiggling in the kitchen air. “But I can feel the past creeping around me, getting ready to strike. When it does, I don’t think I’ll be able to resist it.”

  “You’ll always be Roscoe,” Betty said. Roscoe didn’t answer. “Look, when I was growing up―”

  “You gonna give me a lesson about playing with dolls?” Roscoe rolled his eyes.

  “Shut up and listen,” Betty said, with just enough edge to make him fall silent. “When I was growing up, I was the only girl on the block who didn’t want to date football players at and become a housewife when I grew up. I didn’t care how I dressed, and I worked on my father’s car and read his books about folklore instead of going to sock hops. They despised me, the other girls and their parents, too―all of them did. The hate was always there, oozing out of their whispers and glances and threatening to strangle me.” She paused and looked into her coffee cup. “I cried myself to sleep. More than once.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I stayed true to myself. I knew that I was who I was and no amount of teasing or dirty looks would change that. I kept working on cars, learning about the occult, and then there was some trouble with a bunch of vampires a little while back and I went to work for the Captain. Now the other girls at my high school are learning how to heat up TV dinners for their husbands while I keep the city safe and get to hang around swell people like you, Angel, Wooster, and Felix. I think I got the better end of the bargain.” She pointed at Roscoe. “You can stay true to yourself too.”

  “To Carmine?” Roscoe asked. “Or Roscoe?”

  “To whoever you want.”

  Roscoe wasn’t so sure. He stood up and stretched, pulling dead muscles taut beneath his skin. “I’m going into the city today. You can tell the Captain if you want, but I won’t ask him for permission. I’ve got to find some things out. “He walked over to the counter. His sawed-off shotgun―the lupara― and crowbar were there, sitting on the marble counter next to the salt shaker and the cookie jar. He took them both and tucked them into his jacket and belt and then headed for the door. The sunlight was starting to make La Cruz shine.

  “Roscoe?” Betty asked. “When will you be back?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked outside and let the door slam shut behind him. Roscoe headed to the Deuce and got inside. He started the engine, and heard its familiar roar. He drove, zooming down Main Street and out to the highway. Soon, he joined the other cars, all packed together and streaming toward the endless, sun-washed maze of Los Angeles.

  The city was like he remembered: hot, crowded, and moving at its own pace. Smog was tainted the blue sky, swathing it in grays and black. The neon signs flickered to life, and Roscoe drove past restaurants shaped like giant hotdogs or burgers, while the Hollywood sign loomed in the distance. In Los Angeles, everything was about putting on a show. Roscoe made his way carefully through traffic, driving just as aggressively as he needed. His boot seemed to press the gas pedal all by itself. His hand spun the wheel and made the turn off the freeway, over into the city. He seemed to know where to go and his destination was drawing him in like a magnet. There was nothing he could do. The current was flowing through him, carrying him downstream. Roscoe could only wonder where it would take him.

  The answer to that question was an Italian joint called the Palazzo Cafe, located in the slums around Bunker Hill. The place was a dump, a rundown single-story adobe structure featuring Italian flags by the windows and a menu hanging on the door. The parking lot stood empty. Roscoe stopped the car on the edge. He knew this place. He knew about the sawdust on the floor and how the baked ziti tasted like garbage. Roscoe eyeballed the doors, and then walked over. Closed shades kept him from seeing past the flags. There was a newspaper stand by the door. Roscoe tossed in a few cents, grabbed a copy of the Examiner, tucked it under his arm, and went inside. He ducked into the first booth, raised the paper to hide his face and looked around.

  Everything was familiar. He remembered the tall, leather booths in the corner and the smaller, round wooden tables that filled the floor. An ancient waitress moved around, refilling white porcelain cups of espresso, but taking no orders. The booths at the far end of the restaurant were occupied, all with men in loud pinstriped suits, who sipped their drinks, talked about the latest baseball scores and played cards as they waited. Roscoe watched them. The men sported an occasional bulge in an armpit, where a pistol was held. Roscoe knew right away this was a mob joint―one of Don Lupo’s businesses. These men? Don Lupo’s Capos, waiting for their payoffs.

  The little bell at the door rang, and a fellow in a Hawaiian shirt and a pencil-thin moustache crept in. He walked over, head bowed like he was in the presence of royalty, and chatted with the Capos about business at his nightclub. Roscoe watched them from behind his newspaper. An envelope stuffed with cash changed hands. It was a process as old as time, the serfs giving their taxes to the lords. Roscoe found he knew it well. The club-owner smiled weakly and split, as soon as he had handed over the money. Roscoe watched him beeline out the door.

  Someone sat across from him. “Funny,” said Kay Winters. “Meeting you here.” She was wearing a short trench coat over her skirt. She slid into the booth like she belonged there. Roscoe examined the way her arms folded, and her eyes casually looked him up and down.

  “Jesus.” Roscoe glanced over his shoulder. The wise guys were too busy chatting to notice. “You want to send up a flare? Let everyone know I’m here?” He slid to the end of the booth, doing his best to stay out of sight. “And what exactly are you doing here, Winters? Strickland having you pick up his meals now? I bet he likes his food better than what they serve here.”

  “Maybe I like the atmosphere.”

  “Must beat hanging around the offices of Strickland Industries,” Roscoe said. “At least mobsters are honest about their crimes. Strickland hides behind cat’s paws, keeping his hands nice and clean while his underlings do all the dirty work.” He pointed at Kay. “How are your hands, sweetheart? Any of your boss’s business rubbing off on you?”

  Kay’s good humor seemed to drift away. “So what are you? Some knight in rotting armor?”

  Roscoe grinned. “I fought a bunch of knights, just the other day. I won.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that.” Kay drew a little closer. Her tone lowered, panic seeping in. “What are you doing here, Roscoe? If you’re found out, they’ll kill you. They’ll take you out to some warehouse or alley and kill you enough times to make it stick. Strickland wants you out of La Cruz, and, if you don’t follow his commands, he’s gonna keep being unhappy and then things will get really bad for you.”

  “I ain’t buckling.” Roscoe dropped the newspaper. “Your boss is a maniac. He’s gotta be stopped.” He cocked his head at Kay. “You know that, don’t you? You know how bad he is, that he sent hitmen to murder two little kids just yesterday?”

  “That was Lupo’s call―not Strickland’s.” Kay paused. “They didn’t know about the kids.”

  “And they didn’t care either. Your boss uses Don Lupo as a bludgeon, swinging him down to get what he wants. He doesn’t give a damn who gets hurt, as long as his profits keep rolling in an
d his perfect vision of La Cruz as some middle-class paradise becomes real.” Roscoe let his teeth show. “He’s rotten. All of his kind, the rich with their fancy suits and their bought-and-paid-for morals, they’re all rotten. They’re as rotten as I am―but they think they don’t stink.”

  Kay didn’t respond for a long while. “I deserve him.”

  “That’s not true,” Roscoe said. “You’re better than that.” He reached out and took her hand. Even in his cold fingers, he could feel the warmth on her skin. “I know you are.” Kay pulled away. She stood and looked down at him. “He’ll get rid of you. When he’s done.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first.” Kay put her hands in the pockets of her trench coat. “What are you doing here, Roscoe?”

  The gangsters in the back of the Palazzo stirred. They filed out together as one large crowd. Roscoe left the booth and moved into the shadows by the door. None of them looked at him as they sauntered past. A few nodded to Kay, and she nodded back. They must have seen her with Strickland around the place before. The Capos all left and then Roscoe and Kay were in the place alone. The waitress started puttering in their direction. Roscoe tossed some spare change on the table.

  “Roscoe?” Kay repeated. “Whatever you think you have to do, you don’t.”

  He didn’t answer, but walked to the glass door and held it open. The little bell rang like the sudden chirp of a sad bird. None of the Capos looked back at him. All of them headed to their cars. They left in a convoy of polished chrome, bold pastels, and tailfins. Roscoe headed to his Deuce. He got inside, started the engine and sped after them.

  Tailing them was cake. They cut through traffic and drove out of Bunker Hill. Some of the cars peeled off, but the majority of them stayed together. In the back of his mind, Roscoe knew where they were going. The destination popped into his mind like it had always been there. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue, just about to be whispered. He held back, always keeping an intersection between him and the Capos. They made all the turns he thought they would. Eventually, they ended up in Angelino Heights, an upscale neighborhood marked with old money Victorian houses and leafy rows of palm trees. Roscoe slowed and let them pull ahead. He knew exactly where they were going.