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

by Michael Panush

  “It’s that bad, huh?” Roscoe asked. He knew Swann wouldn’t ask for help if it wasn’t.

  “Yeah.” Swann turned back and set the glasses on the table. “I’ve gone to ground. Ain’t ashamed to say it. The Italians got me outgunned. They’ve taken over the rackets and are working them harder than I ever did. Draining the Row dry. Bringing in dope by the truckload, too.”

  “Now that’s some rebop we don’t need,” the Deadbeat muttered.

  Walt drained his shot glass. “And I suppose you can’t go to the authorities for help.”

  “Not in this town. Not now.” Swann held up his own glass, studying the liquor inside. “Law was never any help for our people anyhow. But, now, the local badges are more scared than ever of even venturing into the Row. And Strickland is backing Don Lupo’s Mob one hundred percent. They even been arming the goddamn gangsters. You know how Strickland owns munitions factories and so on? Well, he’s been giving war surplus firearms and ammo to Don Lupo’s shooters. We just can’t compete.” He downed his drink. “Not to mention those zombies helping him out at every opportunity.” He grinned. “They ain’t as well behaved as you.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” Roscoe said. He left his own drink untouched. “What about Stanley?” It was important for him to know. Roscoe liked Swann’s son, and Felix was one of the boy’s best friends. “You got him somewhere safe until this blows over?”

  “Out of town with his mother’s folks,” Swann said. “Way out of town.” He looked back at Roscoe. “But I don’t know if this will blow over or if I’m gonna be stuffing a casket real soon. What’s the Captain say? He gonna help?”

  “That’s a question I want the answer to as well,” the Deadbeat added. “As much as it’s my business. You dig?”

  Roscoe considered his answer. “I don’t know if I can speak for the Captain. But he wants to help. I know he wants to return. He hates Strickland, hates what’s happening and wants nothing more than to help. It’s just that, well, he’s not a young man anymore.” Roscoe paused. Fear grew on the faces of Swann and the Deadbeat―and even Walt. They didn’t want this to be the answer. “He lost a few fights here in town, and the ones he loved most were endangered. He wants to play it safe.” Roscoe paused and rested a hand on the bar. “He’s worried about a lot of things. I think he’s mostly afraid about leading us astray.”

  “Sounds like he might need someone else to take the wheel, now and then,” Swann said.

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “But who the Hell could ever do that?”

  Walt grinned. “You know, Roscoe. I think you’ll never guess.”

  Before Roscoe could wonder what Walt meant, engines rumbled outside. Roscoe turned as half a dozen automobiles, the gaudy, hulking battleships that moneyed mobsters drove, drove into the parking lot. Windows rolled down. Thompsons, rifles and shotguns leaned out. He didn’t have time to wonder how Don Lupo had found out that Swann was holed up at the Kard Kave or even to prepare to fire back. He had time only to duck before the guns started to blaze.

  He leapt below the bar. “Get down!” Roscoe cried, and his friends managed to find some cover just as the bullets struck.

  A Negro guard with his back to the door wasn’t so lucky. Bullets ripped through his shirt, tie, and suspenders, and he fell splayed on the billiards table. More shots tore into the Kard Kave, shattering glass in the bar, blasting into card tables and clattering off the floor. Roscoe leaned against the bar and drew his sawed-off shotgun. He clutched the gun closely, waiting for a break in the firing. Outside, the automobiles had finally parked. Don Lupo’s men stepped out of their vehicles―some still firing―and advanced.

  Now, Roscoe saw it wasn’t just Lupo Family triggermen. Gray Strickland automobiles, with Roy Roach and a couple of zombies inside, pulled up as well. The zombies headed out after the gangsters, toting their own weapons. Roach seemed to have recovered from the boiling coffee well enough. There were no burns or marks of any kind on his face. He grinned as his Mafia allies poured bullets into the Kard Kave.

  Roach cupped his hands over his mouth. “You in there, Swann?” he yelled. “I bet you are.” He paused. “You know, some of your boys ratted you out. Told where you were in exchange for a quick death―which they didn’t really get. That’s neither here nor there, I guess―but I’d thought you want to know before you die.”

  Swann had his BAR in his hands. “Sure, Roach!” he bellowed. “I love hearing you talk! You come a little closer, we can talk all day!” He poked the muzzle of the heavy rifle out of the nearest window and sent a blind burst into the ranks of the gangsters. One of Don Lupo’s torpedoes dropped after taking a few slugs to the gut. He lay on the ground and wailed. The gut-shot mobster flailed and wiggled until Roach walked over and shot him through the face. The Deadbeat winced at the blast. Roscoe and Walt had their guns out now, ready for what was going to come next. Swann’s few remaining men did the same.

  They stood up and started firing back. Roscoe’s sawed-off thundered out through the nearest window, gunning down a mobster trying to come inside. Swann walked out from behind the bar, the heavy machine gun chattering away in his hands. Walt stood up as well, cracking off a few shots with the revolver. They stood together and fired, forcing Lupo’s men to take cover behind their cars. Only the zombies stayed in the open, and Walt scored a headshot and downed one of them.

  Roscoe looked over at Swann and then at the Negro gunmen standing by the doors. “Send them home. Send them out the back and tell them to run and take cover.” He fired again and then snapped open his sawed-off to reload. “They don’t deserve to die here―not at Roach’s hands anyway.”

  Swann turned to look at Roscoe. “Tough decision, sending them away.”

  “It’s not mine to make,” Roscoe replied. “But I’m asking.”

  “Okay―and to be honest, I was thinking the same.” Swann raised his voice and turned to face his remaining men. “Clear on out the back. This ain’t your fight. Lay low until I come for you. We’ll make these bastards pay soon enough.” He clutched his BAR and glared at them, his eyes diamond-hard. Roscoe wouldn’t want to disagree with Swann at all. “But now I’m telling you to leave.”

  They did, tucking their pistols into their coats and hurrying out the rear of the Kard Kave. Walt whistled as they left. “That really the smart play? Sending away extra guns when we need them most?”

  “Well, I don’t think I ever been one for smart plays.” Roscoe shrugged and fired again. The blasts shattered the windows of the nearest car. He stepped closer as he reloaded, placing more shells into his sawed-off. He crouched down and took cover, peering over the sill at Don Lupo’s men. His eyes darted back to the Strickland Securities automobile, parked near the back. The zombies were clustered around it. Roach was there, giving orders. Then one of the zombies swiveled back to face the Kard Kave. He had a bazooka in his hands. Roscoe recognized the heavy firing tube. Carmine’s squad had used them to smash Nazi tanks in Italy. He just never thought he’d see one here.

  He had a second of disbelief before the zombie fired the bazooka. Roscoe watched the white smoke trail as the rocket sped straight for him. He managed to take a single step back before the rocket hit the window sill. Wood and glass sprayed inward, bordered with fire. The force of the impact sent Roscoe flying onto the carpet. He rolled twice before he came to a stop, his limbs waving as shrapnel coated him. The Deadbeat grabbed Roscoe and hauled him away, as more shots chattered away from Don Lupo’s gangsters. Lead cut through the air around them. A green pineapple grenade, soared through the broken window next. Roscoe brushed past the Deadbeat, grabbed the grenade, and tossed it back―a second before it exploded on the pavement. The explosion blasted a straggling zombie to pieces. The blast hurled a severed arm inside. Its fingers crawled on the ground. The Deadbeat snatched it up and tossed the limb back.

  Roscoe looked back at Swann. “You weren’t lying about military firepower. Those dead bums out there have everything an army could want.” He stare
d down at his sawed-off shotgun. It seemed like a BB gun compared to Strickland’s cannons. “I think we’ll have to leave.”

  “You gone bughouse, dead boy?” Swann asked. “This is my last joint. The last place I control in this town. I can send my men home, and the Captain can keep his nose clean of the fight, but I ain’t going. I’m staying. It’s a man’s job to stay. If I up and flee, then I’m something else.”

  “That ain’t what you said to me,” the Deadbeat muttered.

  Walt let out an exasperated snort. He crouched against the bar, his back to the wood as he carefully loaded more ammunition into his revolver. “If you don’t, then we’ll be dead as Roscoe―only without his good looks.” He swung his pistol to the window and popped off a few more shots, blasting blind to make Don Lupo’s gunsels cower behind their automobiles. “We leave right now or they’ll blast in more rockets, knock this house of cards down, and bury us in the rubble.”

  He ducked as another bazooka shot whistled through the air. This time, it soared into the open window and blasted the billiards table. Scraps of green felt and billiard balls went spinning in the air. Roscoe stayed low as the eight-ball shot past his head and embedded itself in the wall. Gunshots followed the rocket. Walt scrambled to avoid the shots. Roscoe and the Deadbeat crawled under one of the remaining card tables, while Swann fired a few more rounds from the BAR and then pressed his back to the wall and took cover. He looked over at Roscoe.

  “What do you think we ought to do?”

  Swann was asking Roscoe to be the leader. It wasn’t a position Roscoe had often been in―and it was something Carmine Vitale had never done. Still, Roscoe didn’t hesitate. “We run,” he said. “We’ll come back later. Oust these humps from La Cruz for good. But, right now, we run and live another day―well, not in my case, but you get the idea. We’ve got no choice.”

  “I don’t want to―“Swann started.

  “Think about Stanley,” Roscoe said. “Dying here won’t help him at all.”

  Roscoe’s words made Swann pause. He clutched his BAR, holding the gun like it was a rope he could use to pull himself to safety. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked over at the Deadbeat and Walt. “You ready to run, then?”

  “Beats catching rockets,” the Deadbeat agreed.

  “Okay.” Swann gripped the BAR and stood. “Then let’s give them something to remember us by.” He leveled his weapon at the doors and gave them the rest of the clip. Roscoe and Walt stood up and did the same. They fired together as they darted to the back of the Kard Kave. The Deadbeat hurried with them, keeping his lanky body low. They moved through the debris. Swann kicked open a rear door and they headed out―into the wide lot behind the Kard Kave. They hurried into the sunlight, stepping across the shining, sun-warmed pavement to the gap in the tall barbed wire fence that surrounded the lot. A blank street led to alleys and an escape beyond.

  A compact Strickland Securities automobile came speeding toward them. Zombies leaned out of the windows, shotguns in their hands. The car crashed straight through the barbed wire, bouncing over the curb. There was no time to run, no time to find cover before the zombies started shooting. Roscoe cursed himself in the split-second it took to bring up his own gun. He should have known Roach would send someone around the back to cut them off. Swann pulled the trigger of his BAR―only for the gun to click empty. Roscoe watched the bulky, steel gray auto speed closer.

  Another honking horn cut off the attacking motor. A sleek red Caddy shot past the street and flew over the curb. Angel Rey had one hand on the wheel and the other clutching a blazing pistol. He punched shots into the windshield of the Strickland Securities car, before the two vehicles collided. Angel’s car had the speed and the muscular edge. He upended the boxy Strickland auto, tossing it over and letting it crunch in the open street. Angel leaned on the gas, shoving the security car out of his way as he swerved to a halt by his friends. Behind him, another familiar automobile came speeding up. It was Roscoe’s car, the Deuce with the exposed motor and the silver flames along the side. Betty Bright was driving, with little Ace Arkin riding shotgun.

  Both cars screeched to a halt.

  Angel pushed open the door. “Time to go, man. And the next time you run off, you let us know, okay? The Captain, Betty, Felix, and even Wooster got real scared… “ He paused as he let the empty clip from his automatic fall. “I did, too.” Angel jammed in another magazine.

  “Glad to know you care,” Roscoe replied. He looked at his own car, which was just coming to a halt. “How’d you know we were here?”

  Betty poked her head out of the window. “We’ve got Ace to thank for that. Soon as we came in, he found us on his bike and told us that you were in Butcher’s Row. We just followed the sounds of gunfire and here we are.” Ace opened the door of the Deuce and stepped out. His face glowed a bashful red. “And he insisted on coming along,” Betty added.

  The Deadbeat hurried over and grinned at Ace. “I’ll have to spin some records in your honor, little man. Show my gratitude, you dig?”

  “Um, that sounds swell,” Ace said. “But it wasn’t really me. This lady, Miss Winters, she found me while I was riding my bike to the diner and told me that she saw you guys heading to Butcher’s Row. Then I saw Mr. Rey’s slick ride and biked over to tell him what was happening.”

  So Kay had wanted to help. Roscoe shook his head. There was no figuring her.

  Ace reached into his coat. “And I have something else that might help you guys.” He pulled out a folded piece of an Esso road map, showing La Cruz and the surrounding environs.

  Walt looked over his shoulder. “Don’t really have time for show and tell, son.”

  “No―this is important!” Ace pointed at the map. “These are the old bootlegger roads that lead out of La Cruz and run through Redborough, then head to Los Angeles. They’re unpaved, but made of hard, compact earth. Nobody knows about them or uses them since the Twenties ended.” He smiled slightly. “My grandfather showed them to me. He used to, ah, do a bit of bootlegging.”

  “An honorable profession,” Swann added. He looked at Angel. “I’d appreciate a ride out.”

  “You got it,” Angel said. He turned to Roscoe. “You want to take your own ride, I guess?”

  Roscoe hastened to the Deuce. Betty scooted over and Ace scrambled in the back. The boy’s bike was already there, a playing card between the spokes of the front wheel. “You know it.” Roscoe gunned the engine. Walt, Swann, and the Deadbeat piled into Angel’s Caddy. “Now let’s ride.”

  He hit the gas. They drove away from the Kard Kave and crossed into the street. Behind them, another bazooka struck into the front of the building. The structure shuddered in the rearview mirror. He focused on driving, not the carnage behind them. Angel took the lead. Swann must be giving Angel directions, telling him the best way to make their escape. They shot through alleys and side streets, making switchbacks to lose any potential pursuers. The little two-car caravan weaved through Butcher’s Row, crossed Main Street, and then sped down a side road marked on Ace’s map. Nobody talked during the journey. When they neared the place where pavement gave way to dirt, Angel slowed. Roscoe did the same.

  The cars stopped before a bit of dirt road that entered a tunnel of tightly packed trees. This was Redborough, the rough country outside of La Cruz. Wooster knew a few Okie settlements scattered here and there in the wilderness―along with tourist traps, cabins, and a couple floundering wineries―but it was mostly occupied by trees and fields of scrub brush. It was the perfect place for a bootlegger road. Roscoe hopped out, along with the Deadbeat and Swann. Ace out as well, taking his bike.

  Roscoe looked at them. “Staying here?”

  “I’ve got to get home to my parents,” Ace said, lowering his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hate to say it, but the kid may be safer here than with you,” the Deadbeat said. “I’m not running either. There’s some people I care about here―and there’s my radio program. How wo
uld it be if the Deadbeat stopped broadcasting? I can’t see that happening.” He turned to Swann. “I bet you’re the same way.”

  “Can’t abandon my people,” Swann said. “Or the Row.”

  Betty left the car next. “Well, if we can’t convince you, then I guess we can thank you. I’ve been talking to the Captain―he’s not at all happy about you, Roscoe, but we can talk about that later―and he’s working on plans to come back and save La Cruz.” She lowered her glasses. Her eyes were wet. “But thanks for sticking by us, even when times are tough.”

  Ace reached out and took Roscoe’s hand. He shook it, with surprising strength in his young fingers. “We just want you to know La Cruz is still backing you guys. Even if the mayor and sheriff and those people are frightened, La Cruz is still with you.” He smiled at Roscoe. “And so am I.”

  “Ride on home, kid,” Roscoe said. “Work on that bike of yours.” He returned Ace’s shake. The kid turned away and wheeled his bicycle down the dirt road. Swann and the Deadbeat walked with him. Betty waved goodbye and Ace returned it. Roscoe sighed and walked back to his car. Angel already had the engine of his Caddy roaring.

  Walt called over the motor. “Want to dangle now?”

  “Might as well,” Roscoe said. “I’ve seen enough.” He got into the seat of his automobile and hit the engine as Betty sat next to him. Roscoe took the lead this time, rumbling down the trail and driving away from La Cruz. He glanced over at Betty. “The Captain’s pissed at me?”

  “Extremely so,” Betty said. “Walt’s note helped a little―but he thinks you’re trying to commit suicide or run away.” She lowered her eyes, wilting a little from Roscoe’s unblinking gaze. “He doesn’t know what to think. And you know what? Neither do I.”

  “I needed to see what was happening,” Roscoe replied. “And I did.”