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

by Michael Panush

  At the end of a residential section, the road curved upward and led further into the hills. There were no houses at all here, only the closely-packed, tangled mix of reddish dirt, dead trees, scrub and tangled twigs that passed for a forest in Los Angeles. Roscoe drove to the edge of the road and parked. He left the car, letting his boots rest on the black asphalt. Then he walked into the woods, taking cover in the underbrush, and kept walking. It took him about a half-hour of tramping through dead leaves and pine needles until he reached his destination, visible through the trees and as familiar as an old acquaintance. The Lupo Manor stood at the top of the forested hill, like it had been waiting for him for a very long time.

  Don Lupo resided in a mansion dolled up to look like a Roman villa. It had high walls wrapped with creeper vine, a wrought-iron gate and a full fountain in the courtyard, complete with a spitting cherub. Gangster guards sat in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes, and watching the cherub spit. Behind the courtyard, the mansion reared up with square walls, a slightly pointed roof and palm trees and white marble statues beside the windows. Roscoe crouched down across the road and looked the place over. There was some activity around the main door, but the place remained still and quiet. The trickle of water in the fountain sounded pleasant. Roscoe reached into his coat and gripped the handle of his sawed-off shotgun. He’d have to get close to use it. He thought back to the terror he’d felt the previous day, the pure sadness in Ace Arkin’s eyes―and the remembering in Felix’s face. All of a sudden, he made up his mind.

  A quick dash and he’d crossed the street. Roscoe reached the wall and swung himself up. His hands lunged out and grabbed the far edge of the wall’s top. His fingers dug into grooves in the pale stone and held. Roscoe pulled himself up, and then fell down hard. He rolled into the shadows. The guards hadn’t spotted him. Roscoe knew the alcove to duck into. He crouched down there, staying out of sigh, and kept his hand on his gun. He darted down the length of the house and then came to a tall sycamore tree. It reached up, matching the length of a balcony projecting from the second story. That would be his way in.

  Roscoe scrambled up the side of the tree. A low hanging branch caught his arm and he poked his hand between the balustrades of the balcony and found a firm grip. He hauled himself over the ridge and landed quietly on the stone. A door, ajar, led to the balcony. Opera music, deep and warbling, floated out interspersed with voices. Roscoe recognized both of them. He crouched low and peered inside.

  Just as he thought, Don Lupo was reclining in his usual armchair, wearing a deep red smoking jacket and enjoying a fat cigar. Detective Burns stood above him. The Don’s bedroom was sumptuous and richly furnished. A glass coffee table caught what little sunlight streamed in through the window. A zebra skin rug rested under a king-sized bed complete with drapes. The record player was in the corner, the source of the music. Neither Don Lupo nor Detective Burns paid much attention to the music.

  Burns was wearing his trench coat and staring out the far window, looking down at the bulging LA skyline. He was bare-headed, his bald skin catching a little sun from the window. “So, there it is. All due respect, but the LAPD’s been in this game a lot longer than you have. We’ve been running rackets, doing shakedowns, and busting unions since before you hopped off the boat from Sicily. And we’ll run things just fine when you’re gone.”

  “You will run things, you mean,” Don Lupo replied sourly.

  “That’s what I said, ain’t it?” Detective Burns turned to face the Don. “And you’ve got a place for yourself now, over in La Cruz. Trust me, Butcher’s Row will be a gold mine. Strickland might not let you push dope in the suburbs, but you can still make a fortune keeping Negro junkies supplied in the Row. You’ll make out all right. La Cruz is close to the seashore too. The air’s cleaner. You’ll love it, Lupo. I know you will.”

  Roscoe tried his best to read between the lines. Clearly, Don Lupo was getting forced out of Los Angeles―and into La Cruz.

  “So that is what I am reduced to?” Don Lupo asked. “One who sells poison to Blacks?”

  “Get off your high horse, pal,” Burns replied. “You’re a gangster―and that’s all you’ve ever been. People like me and Strickland, we’ve got respectability. That means we’re always gonna be in charge.” He walked across the roof, trampling the zebra skin rug. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. We’ll look out for you―”

  “But put someone else in charge of vice in Los Angeles?” Don Lupo asked.

  “Yeah. Someone a little more New World, if you catch my drift.” Burns stroked his chin. “That Jew, Irving Rose―his name’s getting thrown around a lot. The LAPD higher―ups don’t like him anymore than they like you―but they can work with him. He’ll know his place. And if he doesn’t…”

  “Then you can send him away―like you are sending me away.” Don Lupo leaned back in his chair. “I understand. I know Mr. Strickland cares about the changing times. Once, in the Thirties, it would have been no trouble to have a friend like me. But now, with hearings in the papers and This Thing of Ours becoming nationally known, I am made inconvenient.” He folded his hands. “But there is something else you are not thinking of. La Cruz has its defenders. The cops there are nothing, but the Negro gangster, Swann, he is tough as the leather of an old boot. And the drivers, they are tough as well. What if they do not fall?”

  “You don’t need to worry about them,” Burns said. “Strickland’s got a plan.”

  “His plan asked me to murder the drivers already. Now five of my men are waiting in the morgue to be buried, and the drivers are not truly harmed.”

  Detective Burns shrugged. “Like you said, it ain’t the old days anymore. You gotta do more than just whack someone. You gotta taint them. That’s what Strickland’s doing. You might not understand it, but I can tell that it’s working. The botched hit may not have killed any of them, but it served our purposes nonetheless.” Burns walked to the corner and grabbed his fedora from the top of the dresser. “I’ll be in touch, Lupo. Keep someone by the phone at all times and we’ll tell you what to do next. Oh―and I want my cut early this week. Have someone bring it by my house, and make sure they’re prompt.”

  “What happened to you, Elihu?” Don Lupo asked. “You used to have respect.”

  “What happened?” Burns repeated. He grinned. “I learned how to play the game. I suggest you do the same, Lupo.” He left through the door and slammed it. He stood up, slipping out of his armchair and crossing the room to the liquor cabinet in the corner. Don Lupo drew out a tall green bottle of red wine. He poured himself a glass and held it in one hand, the stem poking through the fingers of his fist, then walked back down to his chair.

  Roscoe pushed open the door, covering Don Lupo with his sawed-off as he approached. At first, the Don seemed not to notice him. Then Lupo looked up from the wine. He was still stirring it. Don Lupo cocked his head as he stared at Roscoe’s eyes―not at the barrels of the shotgun aimed at his face.

  “Carmine,” Don Lupo said.

  “Shut up,” Roscoe hissed. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Burns said that it was you, Carmine, in the body of a dead man. I did not believe him. But now I know it is true.” Don Lupo stood and crossed the room, draining his glass as he walked. “Now you come here, because you want to remember. Isn’t that right?” Don Lupo pointed to the shotgun. “Or maybe you mean to kill me? Perhaps that is why you’re here?”

  “You’ll find out in a bit,” Roscoe replied.

  “Hmmm.” Don Lupo poured himself another glass. There was silence apart from the trickle of the wine into his cup. “You do not like to hear ‘Carmine,’ do you?” He clutched the bottle, knuckles whitening as withered fingers laced together. “Francesca called that name out, at the end. Do you remember her? She screamed your name for a very long time before she finally died.” Don Lupo turned around. “But you were not there to help.”

  Francesca. The name struck Carmine like a gunshot to the face. He stumbled. Fran
cesca Lupo. He knew her full name, and he remembered her fingers pressed to his cheeks when they were warm with blood, love, life. The shotgun lowered and Don Lupo swung the bottle hard into Roscoe’s face. Roscoe stumbled back. Don Lupo bashed him again, and the glass shattered. Jagged bits of glass dug into Roscoe’s cheek and nose as the Mafia Don screamed for help, bellowing the names of his guards. Roscoe staggered, the pain reducing the shouts into an unintelligible blur.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The door cracked open. Two of Don Lupo’s goons burst through and leveled handguns. They fired as Roscoe turned to run. Bullets whizzed past him. He fired his sawed-off over his shoulder at them without looking. The shot must have hit the record player, as the opera singing stopped amid electronic crackles as Roscoe leapt over the railing. Bullets cleaved through the air, narrowly missing him.

  He fell through the air, his arms flailing. The top of the wall rushed up and rammed into his chest. Roscoe’s mouth opened. Some of his ribs cracked. Gunshots sounded past him.

  “Kill him!” Don Lupo shouted, speaking in Italian—which Roscoe could understand. “Bring him down and let me see his head! Let him die the traitor’s death!”

  Roscoe rolled. He slipped off the wall and struck the pavement. The wrought-iron gate opened. Roscoe tried to stand, but he knew he’d never reach his Deuce at the bottom of the hill in time. Don Lupo’s wiseguys would find him and bring him back and then he’d be tortured into submission and destroyed. That was what Don Lupo did with everyone who betrayed him. Roscoe stumbled down the hill. A car horn honked.

  The sound came from a sleek pink Tucker parked across the street. Kay Winters pushed open the door. “Roscoe!” she cried. “Hurry!” Bullets whistled past Roscoe’s shoulder. He limped across the street, gaining speed as the gate opened. He dove past the open door and landed on the passenger seat. Kay stepped on the gas. They roared down the hill, the car catching short bursts of air from the uneven paving.

  Kay kept both hands on the wheel, sliding her car around the steep turns. “What were you thinking, Roscoe? Trying to get yourself killed? You know what people like Don Lupo do to those they don’t like.”

  “I know,” Roscoe said―and he did, from personal experience.

  They sped down the road, and approached the Deuce, parked on the curb. He looked over at Kay. He couldn’t figure it out. She seemed attached to Strickland, and she believed in his vision―but she wasn’t like him at all. She was decent. “Why are you with him?” Roscoe asked. “So he stopped you from being a waitress. So he pays your bills. Why stay with Strickland?”

  “I wasn’t a waitress.”

  “What were you?” Roscoe asked.

  The look in Kay’s eyes told Roscoe to keep his mouth shut. “I did whatever I needed to. I gambled and drank. I started owing money―a lot of money―to some of the local hoods. Reed paid my debts and had me hired. He’s giving me a chance to be something respectable.”

  “No,” Roscoe said. “He’s not. He likes to have you around because you look nice on his arm, but he doesn’t give a damn about you. There’s no place for you in his perfect world, just like there ain’t room for me. He’ll cut you loose as soon as he gets the chance.” Kay started to glare at him, but he kept talking. “And you’ll deserve it too. Strickland’s a monster and you believe his lies as much as he does. It’s only going to―”

  “Roscoe.” Kay brought her car to a sudden halt, about a block away from the Deuce. “Get out.”

  “Thanks,” he said, as he exited her car. Kay didn’t look back. She sped away. Roscoe sighed and walked over to his car. He opened it up and sat down behind the wheel, then started the engine. It was time to go home to La Cruz.

  But was La Cruz really his home? Memories of other places flashed to life inside of him, and he knew these wouldn’t be like the usual half-remembered dreams. The memories would be there to stay this time, and Roscoe didn’t like them at all. Carmine was hovering just above his head, waiting to drop down and take his place behind Roscoe’s eyes. Roscoe didn’t think he wanted him there. He drove as fast as the car would go, as though he could outpace the memories. Roscoe grinned, happy to leave Los Angeles―and his past―behind.

  When he got back, the Captain was waiting for him outside the garage. Donovan Motors was otherwise empty. The Captain had his fedora and gray trench coat on. He seemed ready to go. Roscoe pulled up and got out of his car.

  The Captain walked up to him. The points of his moustache looked like spears carved of ice, wedged above a firm and angry mouth. “Roscoe, you left without permission and were gone the entire day. You abandoned your post. Where were you? Miss Bright said you went to Los Angeles. What were you doing there?”

  “Something happen while I was gone, boss?” Roscoe looked around. “Where is everyone?”

  “Angel and Betty took Felix to visit Wooster at Dr. Randolph’s house. I allowed them to leave because they promised to stay close, and the police already have a guard there. You left without a word and without any guarantee of your safety.” The Captain paused. “Wooster’s doing well, by the way. He’s awake and looks like he’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Good to know,” Roscoe said. “And you’re nuts if you think those bozos with badges are any good against―”

  The Captain’s stern glare shut Roscoe up. “What did you do in the city?”

  Roscoe shrugged. “Drove around. Saw the sights.” He knew the Captain wasn’t buying it. “Look, there were some questions about myself I needed to answer.”

  “Did you find those answers?”

  “Some. I don’t know if I like them, though.”

  The Captain fell silent. “I don’t care about your past, Roscoe. You’ve always been a stalwart defender of La Cruz and a loyal member of this unit. Your skills are unparalleled, your virtue unquestioned. If you’d rather not talk about what you learned, that’s fine with me.” He extended his hand to the Rolls Royce, parked against the curb. “Now, there’s a community meeting tonight at the La Cruz New Baptist Church. I’d like to attend.”

  “That’s Reverend Grubb’s place, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right.” The Captain turned toward his car. “All the more reason to go. I don’t want to bury our heads in the sand while public opinion is being twisted against us. You know about Strickland wanting to bring in his own security forces to help restore order in La Cruz. We have to convince the town his course of action is unnecessary and harmful.” He swung open the passenger door. “Would you mind driving, Roscoe?”

  Roscoe trudged over to the Rolls. “I don’t know, boss. If I show up, it might not be making a good case for Donovan Motors.”

  “Maybe,” the Captain said. “But hiding you away is admitting defeat.” He smiled grimly. “I’ve never done that.” He patted the seat next to him. “The meeting’s set to start shortly. We’d better get moving if we’re to make it.”

  There was no arguing. The Captain had to give him directions to get to the New Baptist Church. That was one place in La Cruz Roscoe had never visited. The route took him to the edge of the suburbs and then to a sleek, ultramodern building with a large stone cross gazing down at a packed parking lot. Roscoe brought the car to a stop between a pair of family sedans and hopped out. A large crowd was heading inside, all respectable middle-class La Cruz citizens. The men were in somber dark suits and fedoras, and the women wore modest dresses and coats. Roscoe and the Captain walked over to join them as they filed in.

  A banner reading ‘Community Meeting’ had been placed above the altar, covering the stained glass windows. Reverend Grubb stood directly below the banner, with Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan seated next to him on folding chairs. The pews were packed. It was standing room only. The lighting in the church was low, with shadows bathing the pews and clustered in black pools at the edge of the stage. Roscoe glanced around and his eyes landed on Ace Arkin. The kid sat between his parents and spun around waving excitedly at Roscoe. With a grin, Roscoe returned the wave. Other member
s of the audience turned and glared at him. Roscoe glared right back.

  Reverend Grubb was already talking. “My dear friends.” His voice boomed through the microphone. “There is trouble in La Cruz. Violence and chaos rule our streets. We all know about the attack during the Surf and Sand Festival. Then there was the brutal gunfight, not a few blocks from this very church. High school-aged children were involved in the carnage. How long until other innocents find themselves in the line of fire? How long before the safety of our children becomes little more than an illusion?”

  Mumbles rippled through the crowd. The Captain folded his arms and stood tall. It was like he was waiting to speak, but no one was looking at him. Roscoe watched as Mayor Corrigan came to the microphone. The mayor was holding out his hands, like he was trying to mollify the crowd―or push away a hungry beast.

  “Please,” he said, as the talk died away. “There is no reason to be alarmed. Hysteria will get us nowhere.” He smiled weakly. “Now, I have every confidence―every confidence―that our wonderful sheriff’s department has the apparent crime wave well under control. As for the… ahem… other business, we have the gentlemen at Donovan Motors who will do their best to keep us safe.” Roscoe smiled a little at the mention.

  But Reverend Grubb wasn’t having it. “Their best? Well, my dear friends, I’m afraid we already have gotten the very best from that group of miscreants. We’ve gotten the best of their violence, their corrupt natures, and their callous disregard for American values. I think it’s time they found a new city to reside in. Maybe they could do their best there.”

  More talk pulsed through the crowd.

  “Lousy bum,” Roscoe hissed.

  “He’s being blackmailed,” the Captain whispered.