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

by Michael Panush

  “I say we bomb them.” Wooster slammed his fist on the table. “Wire some dynamite to the door of City Hall or have a car loaded with explosives parked outside that fancy-pants beach club. Wait ‘til they get inside and blow the place in half.” He fiddled with his bolo tie. “I blew vaults and doors all the time when I was robbing banks. Ain’t no difficulty to making the bombs a little bigger, level the whole building and be done with it.”

  Mayor Corrigan stared in horror at Wooster. “Are you seriously considering bombing our city?”

  “It’s not your city any more, pal,” Walt said. “La Cruz belongs to Reed Strickland, remember? Now you’re calling on us to take it back.”

  The mayor of La Cruz lost control of his legs. He sank and Betty shoved a chair under him to stop him from hitting the floor. Sheriff Braddock seemed similarly sickened.

  The Captain stood and glared at Wooster. “We are not launching such a strike. What about civilian casualties? Have you thought of that?”

  “What about them?” Wooster asked.

  Everyone was quiet after he spoke. Betty looked at her friends and shook her head. Angel turned away. Walt let out a long sigh.

  “The shedding of innocent blood isn’t worth anything,” Sheriff Braddock said quietly. “You people at Donovan Motors have always believed that. That’s why I knew I could always rely on you when something strange happened―because you put the citizens of La Cruz first.”

  “And look where it got us!” Roscoe’s voice crackled with anger. It was the voice of Carmine Vitale. “We’ve slaved away for you for years. Every time you’ve got a restless spirit in the palm trees or a ghost needs exorcizing, you’d just pick up the phone and call up Donovan Motors. But then you turn around and treat us like dirt. You call us freaks and monsters. Soon as the time comes, you turn on us. Now you come back here begging for help, and all you can do is complain about how we ain’t helping the right way.” He turned away. “I’m done with this. I’m done sitting here and chatting. When there was blood pumping in my body, that ain’t how I handled things. Someone messed with me, they got a bullet in the brain, and that was the end of it.”

  “Roscoe,” the Captain said. “I’d like it if you stepped in the other room. Keep an eye on Felix.” The request was polite and calm. The Captain might have asked Roscoe to pick up coffee. There was silence after the Captain spoke. Roscoe forced down a little of the anger. He stepped out of the kitchen and walked over to the couch.

  Frustration and rage dueled in his mind. Roscoe looked down at Felix. The kid had fallen asleep with his glasses on, again. Roscoe knelt and took them off. He folded and set them on the glass coffee table, next to the scattered notes. He looked at the door. Sheriff Braddock hadn’t closed it. A cardboard package sat there, about as big as a hatbox, on the edge of the spidery steel balcony. It didn’t have any address written on it―no marks at all, actually. Roscoe hadn’t remembered any mailmen stopping by. The package had just appeared, materializing out of nowhere on Walt Weaver’s porch.

  Carefully, Roscoe approached it. He pulled open the door, then turned back to the kitchen. They were still talking, speaking in hushed tones about their plans. “Hey, Walt!” he called. “You order anything? There’s some package for you, out on your porch.”

  Walt’s head popped up in the doorway. “I didn’t order anything.”

  The Captain walked past him into the living room. “Keep it outside, and stay by the door.” He looked at the others. “I’d appreciate a little help. Mr. Mayor? Sheriff Braddock? Kindly stay in the kitchen. Betty, you better stay there as well. Maybe prepare your tools, just in case.”

  “Just in case,” Betty said.

  The Captain, Walt, Angel and Wooster walked out on the porch. The Captain knelt down and looked at the package. “This looks like a trap. We need to―” The surface of the package bulged and broke. A black scaly stripe cut through the air, flying up and striking the Captain’s shoulder. Roscoe had his shotgun half out of his leather jacket when he realized what it was. The package had contained a serpent―a cobra that rivaled a boa constrictor in size. It was covered in shimmering black scales, with a pair of glowing green eyes under its flared hood. The cobra’s long fangs drove deep into the Captain’s shoulder, the pink gums flaring as they pulsed in their venom. Roscoe leveled his sawed-off, but he couldn’t get a shot. He might hit the Captain as well as the snake.

  “Goddamn it!” he cried. “There’s no clear shot!”

  “Hold on!” Angel grabbed the cobra’s coil as his switchblade sprang open in his hand. Wooster reached the cobra next, his Bowie knife already drawn. Angel stabbed the snake in the belly and dragged up. Blackish gore, more like tar than blood, oozed out and steamed as it spattered on the ground. The cobra slithered away from the Captain and moved onto Angel, circling around him and squeezing as it lunged.

  Wooster’s Bowie knife plunged into the cobra from behind. It was a powerful, punching blow, and the heavy blade of the Bowie knife did its job well, cutting the snake into two pieces. Wooster wrenched back his knife. Black blood sprayed everywhere. Roscoe swung his sawed-off as the pieces of the cobra uncoiled from Angel and struck the ground. Roscoe’s cannon thundered. He put one barrel into the flared hood of the cobra. Dark gore, shattered flesh, and scales flew everywhere. Roscoe gave the snake the second barrel as well, blowing the rest of it to pieces. The tail still wiggled back and forth.

  Walt picked up the bleeding section of coil and tossed it away. It splattered on the pavement below. “I certainly didn’t order that.”

  The Captain gasped slowly and sunk to his knees.

  “Help him inside,” Roscoe said.

  Wooster and Angel took the Captain’s arms and legs. Roscoe held up his midsection. The man seemed terribly light, like a bag of dry sticks. Walt slammed the door and locked it.

  Everyone inside watched them in terror. Mayor Corrigan and Sheriff Braddock remained in the kitchen, frozen in place. Betty came to the couch, holding her purse. Felix sprang out of his makeshift bed, holding his coat and glancing around. Snowball scampered around his feet, yipping in panic. “What is happening?” Felix yelled. He saw the Captain, and his face went ash pale. “Mein gott!” he cried. “The Captain―Oh God, please, is he―”

  “Don’t worry, dear heart. Just stand back and let me work,” Betty said, as they set the Captain down on the couch.

  Everyone obeyed her. Roscoe stood next to Felix and put his hand on the kid’s shoulder while Betty knelt. Felix shivered continuously. Betty had a brass ankh in one hand and a shining electrum dagger in the other. She worked carefully, stabbing the dagger into the Captain’s shoulder before pressing the ankh into the skin above the blade. Steam rose from the wound.

  Betty looked up. “Okay. I think I’ve stopped the poison. I got to draw it out or else he’s a goner.”

  “What was that snake?” Angel asked. “Didn’t look normal.”

  “It’s not,” Betty said. “The snake’s one of Apep’s children―Egyptian demons. The Saracens lived in terror of them, during the Crusades.” She looked back down at the Captain, her face grim. “A devil worshipper like Sir Roderick could easily get hold of one.”

  “It’s a message,” Roscoe said. “Strickland, telling us to make up our mind about the Cross.”

  There was silence after he spoke. The Captain had led them for a long time. His wise counsel had always been there. Now he lay on the couch, near death’s door, unable to speak. Snowball pattered around and whined. Felix picked up his pet and held him. From the kitchen, a chair creaked.

  Sheriff Braddock stood. “Excuse me? What do we do now?”

  Roscoe knew. He turned to Walt. “What’s Strickland’s LA address?”

  His request boiled out of him, before he could think it through. It took Walt by surprise as well. “He’s got some swanky digs in Hancock Park.” Walt fiddled in his coat. “I got it marked down in my address book. Let me grab some paper and―” Walt drew out a small book bound with red leather. R
oscoe snatched it out of his hand.

  “Roscoe, please,” Betty said. “Strickland won’t even be at―”

  “Shut up.” Roscoe pocketed the address book. “I’m going to Strickland’s mansion. Maybe I’ll find some answers there. Maybe I’ll burn the place down. Maybe I’ll kill some people.” He turned to the door. “It’s what we should have done all along.”

  He started for the door. Angel stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “You don’t act like this, man,” Angel said gently. “You know when there’s time for anger and rage. This isn’t it. That’s Carmine Vitale in you, making you say those things. Sit down and bring Roscoe back.”

  “Get out of the way,” Roscoe said, his voice low and cold. “Now.”

  “What are you gonna do, Roscoe?”

  Roscoe leaned closer, giving Angel a full view of his greenish, dead skin. He pulled down his sunglasses, letting Angel stare into his dead, bloodshot eyes. “Look at my face, and ask me that question again.”

  Angel stepped aside. Roscoe brushed past him, walked onto the balcony and into the night air. The box was still there. Roscoe kicked it away. His heart pounded in his chest―an involuntary motion. He coughed and expelled stale air from his lungs. The air left his body but the anger remained. Roscoe hopped into his Deuce and slammed his fist against the dashboard. He relished the feeling of the contact, the pain that cut through dead nerves. He revved the engine and drove off. After speeding away from the apartment complex, he checked the address book. Strickland’s manor was far, but traffic was light. Roscoe had the whole night to let his anger burn.

  It was still dark when Roscoe arrived at Strickland’s Manor. Reed Strickland had his place in an exclusive corner of Hancock Park, the part of town where estates took up whole blocks and private guards patrolled with the regularity of clockwork. Even the sidewalks looked polished and spotless. Roscoe found the address and eyeballed it as he drove over. It was a towering mansion in classic Tudor style locked away, behind high, spiked gates. Roscoe didn’t want to scale the gates or look for another entrance. His rage demanded an immediate entry. He gunned the engine, and the Deuce flew across the street. The grille bashed into the gate and broke it. The gates cracked back, and Roscoe drove inside. He finally slammed on the brakes and stopped the Deuce―right before it crashed into the massive double doors of the mansion.

  Roscoe hopped out and drew his sawed-off. He looked up at the mansion, staring at three stories of gray stone dotted with climbing ivy and windows. One of the lights flickered on. Roscoe snapped open the sawed-off shotgun and reloaded. His father’s voice was in his ears. He’d have to get close before he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. He kicked open the door and moved inside.

  It was dark in the grand foyer. Roscoe’s eyes adjusted. A marble stairwell led up to the second floor. A sprawling lounge occupied the front, all done in red velvet and ivory. The red carpet, couches and chairs made it look like someone had died and bled everywhere. There was even a drinks cabinet, though Roscoe knew Strickland was a teetotaler. It must have been for guests. Roscoe heard footsteps coming from upstairs, heading to the massive staircase. He went still, gripped his gun, and waited.

  A slim figure stepped into view. The lights switched on, letting him see everything in the foyer. Kay Winters came down the stairs. She wore a silken robe done up like a Japanese kimono, pearl pink and tied around her waist with a thin belt. Kay wiped sleep from her eyes and stared down at him.

  “Roscoe?”

  “Hello,” Roscoe replied coldly. “Sorry about the hour.”

  Kay stepped down the stairs, holding onto the railing. She still seemed sleepy. She walked past Roscoe and went to the liquor cabinet. “Let me guess. You’re looking for Reed. Well, you’re in the wrong city, smart guy. He’s in La Cruz, if you didn’t know.”

  “And you’re here.”

  “That’s right, Einstein.” She started to make drinks. “You want me take a message?”

  “No.” Roscoe drew closer to her. “I’d rather talk to you.” He slid the sawed-off back into his coat, grabbing Kay’s shoulder and spinning her to the side, slamming her against the wall. The other picked up the bottle of brandy. He smashed it against the side of the counter. Glass shattered. Booze spilled on the carpet, leaving a fat, round circle. Roscoe raised the jagged edge of the bottle. It glittered like something made of diamonds. “Tell me about Strickland. Everything you know.”

  Kay shook in his grasp. Roscoe stared into her eyes. He felt sorry for her and let go of her shoulder, but still kept the bottle pointed in her direction.

  “You want to play it this way?” Kay asked. “I’ve seen it before. Tough guy making threats. Yeah. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Don’t feed me any lines,” Roscoe said. “Talk. Tell me about Strickland.”

  His tone made her clam up. Her eyes moved from his face to the bottle. “Okay, Roscoe. You win. I’ll tell you.” She paused. “You know most of his story from the papers. He grew up, inherited his family’s business, and made a killing. Married some society girl as the Twenties boomed. Then the bottom dropped out of the Stock Market, he goes bankrupt and his wife offs herself. Did it right in front of him.” Kay’s eyes blazed. “He told me about it once. Described the whole scene with tears in his eyes.”

  “Sounds very moving,” Roscoe said. “Keep talking.”

  “So she dies and something inside of him changes―just switches off. He goes back into business. This time, he doesn’t take prisoners.” Kay took a seat in one of the velvet armchairs, the drink in her hands. She glared at Roscoe as she continued. “He breaks strikes violently this time. Starts doing work with Don Vittorio Lupo and the Mob.” She folded her hands, clasping them around her tumbler of brandy. “He makes worse friends too.”

  “Worse than the Mob?”

  “Nazis.” Kay said the word calmly. “Hitler and Strickland were natural pals. Strickland never had much against Jews―though he didn’t care for them either. But he liked order and that’s what Hitler brought to Germany. Strickland liked his vision, a world unified and controlled. He helped bankroll Hitler’s rise to power. When the Nazis took over, Strickland Industries helped open factories to produce guns and tanks. And that’s not the half of it.” She had a sip from her drink. “He hesitated to tell me this, you know. I had to get him drunk first, which was no easy feat, as he hates alcohol. But I kept convincing him and he kept drinking, and I learned the whole thing.”

  Roscoe watched quietly, still holding the broken bottle. “Go on.”

  “Well, Reed fell in with a peculiar subset of Nazi society. He was always interested in mysticism, thanks to his wife. Her older brother died in the First World War, drowned in mud in some trench apparently, and she was always seeing spiritualists, attending séances, that sort of thing. I don’t think Strickland liked them much. They never got the results he wanted. But the mystic Nazi types did. They were interested in Teutonic heritage, Norse magic, and mad science and had plenty of human prisoners to use as guinea pigs. They stole artifacts from across the world too, hoarding them in their ancestral castles. One group of maniacs, called the Thule Society, practically adopted Strickland. They were the ones who gave him the sword of Sir Roderick the Red.”

  “The devil-worshipping crusader,” Roscoe said.

  “Exactly. Strickland took the sword home and didn’t really think about it. Then Pearl Harbor got bombed, and suddenly the Nazis weren’t our friends anymore. Strickland became a big patriot. He started selling guns and building tanks for America. Used wartime rules to crush even the hints of strikes. He spent more and more time with the sword too. Communing with it. I think that’s when Sir Roderick started talking to him. Mr. Roach appeared a little after that, sent by the Lords of Hell to help Strickland achieve his goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “A Hell on earth.” Kay paused. “Or maybe a Heaven. I don’t know anymore.”

  That was all she knew. Roscoe could tell. He set down the broken bottle and s
tood up, pulling his jacket around him. It wasn’t much―but at least he knew how Strickland got Sir Roderick’s sword. Roscoe stared down at Kay. She drained the last of her tumbler. Her eyes were downcast, and she seemed almost bored, like she was watching a television program she’d seen several times and didn’t like.

  “Are you with him anymore?” Roscoe asked.

  Kay looked up at him. “Does it matter?”

  “I want to know.”

  “No. I’ve seen what’s happening in La Cruz. I thought it would be some kind of paradise, a peaceful little town where nothing bad happened. But his zombies beat people up for littering. There’s gunfire every day in Butcher’s Row. He’s holding children hostage to get some artifact out of the old church. Reed says it’s just growing pains, having to teach the world how it’s gonna be. But I think his world will always be like that. I think his control has to be bought in blood, and it will be innocents who pay the price.”

  “We’ll stop him,” Roscoe said. “Your information helps.”

  “You want to thank me now?” Kay stood up and moved closer to Roscoe. “After threatening me? I don’t know why I should be upset. It ain’t the first time someone’s threatened to hurt me. Far from it. You think I would be used to it by now, but I’m not.” Her hands fell to her side, clutching the tumbler. “I think it’s because I always thought things would get better for me. Maybe with Strickland, maybe with someone else. And they’re not. They’re staying exactly the same as they were in Chicago and when I did nursing and in Vegas.”

  Her words sliced through Roscoe’s anger, cutting something inside of him. He looked at Kay, this brave young woman he had threatened. It was Carmine who had done it―but Roscoe had let Carmine take control. It was his fault too. “I’m sorry.”

  “Go to Hell,” Kay said. “You could have come in and asked me nicely what I knew about Strickland, instead of treating me like an enemy. Maybe I would have told you everything. But you didn’t trust me. You turned to violence right away―just like Strickland does, with Roach and Sir Roderick the Red whispering in his ear.” She jabbed her finger into Roscoe’s coat. “When I met you, I thought you were different. Odd and freakish maybe, but still someone with a little compassion. Now I know better.”