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

by Michael Panush

  The song started. Roscoe listened to it―as a sleek Tucker cruised over to the garage. He recognized the car as it rolled to the curb. Kay Winters drove. She was dressed well, wearing a sleek white trench coat that made her red hair shine. A large sun hat and a pair of round sunglasses hid her features. She crossed the sidewalk carrying a manila folder under one arm. Roscoe watched her.

  Kay came to a stop, right in front of Roscoe. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, sister,” Roscoe muttered. “I’ve had enough trouble in the past few days.”

  “I’ve heard.” Kay clutched the folder. “Bad business. Can’t say I was sorry to see you get some pain―or to hear about what happened to Reed.” She set the folder down on a card table. “He died for his dream. Maybe it was a more of a nightmare, but he believed in it. I can’t blame him for that. I can blame him for being a first-rate heel. You’re guilty of that as well.” She rested her hands on her hips. “Walt told me about it all. He stopped by the mansion yesterday.”

  Roscoe nodded. “He was comforting the grieving widow?”

  “I’m not grieving,” Kay replied. “And Walt’s charming―in his own way.” She smiled to herself. “Besides, I popped open Reed’s safe before leaving his mansion last night. Cleaned out every bit of cash in the joint. He had a small fortune stored away, tax-free. Its mine now.” She tapped the manila folder. “He had this too.” She pulled it open.

  The folder was full of pages, each showing amounts, dates, and names. Roscoe glanced it over. It didn’t take him long to realize it was Strickland’s catalogue of bribes and payoffs. Countless politicians made appearances. The name that appeared most frequently was Detective Elihu Burns. If news of this got out, he would be finished in the LAPD and probably end up filling a cell in San Quentin. Roscoe flipped through the pages and closed the folder. He stared up at Kay.

  “Y-you’re giving this to me?” he asked.

  Kay hummed. “Yeah. Not because I like you―but because I hate Burns more. He hung around Strickland all the time, siphoning off as much cash as he could. Never took his eyes off me either. Burns deserves all the hurt that’s coming to him. Go on and hurt him, Roscoe. Hurt him as much as you want.” She folded her arms. “I’m done with it. I’m done with the whole rotten business. I’ll be driving back to Los Angeles now and if I never set foot in your crummy beachside dump of a town again it’ll be too goddamn soon.”

  “As if Los Angeles is any better?”

  “In LA, at least people are honest about how much they lie.” Kay turned away. “Goodbye, Roscoe. I’ll see you around.”

  Roscoe stared at her in silence as she walked back to her car. He didn’t try to say a word. He knew it wouldn’t matter. He’d let her see the dead man inside of him, the rage that was Carmine Vitale. She’d never care to see Roscoe again. He sighed as the Tucker rolled away.

  More time passed. Wooster returned with more food. Roscoe munched burgers and guzzled milkshakes. Wooster went inside to bring some to the Captain and Betty. He still hadn’t risked putting much weight on his legs, besides the attempt in the kitchen. In his condition, he wasn’t sure if it would hold. Maybe he just needed to eat more and let his battered flesh mend. He a third extra large cheeseburger and lapped up grease with his tongue, then looked up as another automobile pulled in.

  It roared up the sidewalk and came to a stop, right before the garage. The door opened. Don Lupo emerged, inking in the sun. Detective Burns was driving. The crooked cop had bandages slapped across his cheek and forehead. Otherwise, he looked okay―even after being caught in the ambush in the canyons. Roscoe looked into the garage. His crowbar was sat on a shelf with a few other tools. His sawed-off was nowhere to be found. Roscoe knew Detective Burns was packing. He had no more time to waste. He had to stand.

  With a grunt, he pushed back the chair and forced his legs to take some weight. He stood and casually tried a step. It almost didn’t work, but he still stood tall. He took another step toward the shelf with the crowbar, but stopped as Detective Burns reached him. The detective looked Roscoe over and shook his head.

  “Jesus, Carmine,” he said. “You look worse than normal.”

  “You look like someone asking for a bullet,” Roscoe replied. “Beat it.”

  “I just want to talk, buddy.” Detective Burns spread his hands. Don Lupo waddled over to stand next to the detective. “We both want to. Obviously, the situation in La Cruz has changed somewhat. We just want to know how things stand. Where do we go from here? It’s a simple question.” He gave Roscoe his best smile. “No offense meant.”

  “I’ll tell you how things stand―none of you are welcome.” Roscoe reached down and grabbed the manila folder. He held it open, letting Burns stare inside. “This is from Strickland’s safe. It’s got names, dates, and payoffs. You’re on the list, Detective. Now either you clear out of La Cruz and never come back or I’ll release it to every newspaper on the West Coast. You’ll be ruined.” Roscoe tried his best to speak calmly. His dead heart let out a single beat. It hurt like Hell. “Now beat it.”

  “Carmine, there must be―” Don Lupo started.

  “You, too, old man,” Roscoe said. “You know how many men you lost in La Cruz. Try to run your rackets in my town again and it’ll only get worse.”

  Don Lupo lowered his eyes. “I am being squeezed out of Los Angeles. If I cannot have La Cruz, then I will have nothing.”

  “That’s not my problem,” Roscoe replied.

  While they talked, Detective Burns stared at the paper. He narrowed his eyes. Wrinkles of rage speckled his bald head. “Trying to strong arm me? A dumb wop who I already killed is trying to strong arm me?” This was what Roscoe had feared. Detective Burns was talking himself into action. He reached into his coat. “I was faster than you last time, Carmine. Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better.” He reached in to his shoulder-holster, and his fingers closed around the automatic pistol inside. There was no time to call for help.

  Roscoe lunged and grabbed the crowbar―swinging it in the same motion. It caught Burns’s arm. Bone break. Detective Burns howled. He withdrew, crumpled and weak. Roscoe slugged him, driving his fist deep into the detective’s belly. Burns gasped and sank down. Roscoe grabbed the pistol, and yanked it away He rested the tip of the crowbar on Detective Burns’s forehead, the two prongs set right in his skin like the beak of a hawk about to strike and rip.

  Roscoe leaned closer. He looked over his sunglasses and stared with unblinking, dead eyes. He let a little of Carmine come out, a little controlled rage edged into his voice for. “You ever come back to La Cruz, and I will kill you. You ever hurt any of your friends in Los Angeles or anywhere else, and I will kill you. You ever try to muscle in on Donovan Motors or prop up anyone trying to get a piece of La Cruz, and I will kill you. I will kill you, Detective Burns, and I promise I’ll make it stick.”

  Detective Burns stepped back. “Crazy goddamn guinea―”

  “Get out,” Roscoe snarled. “Get the Hell out, and don’t say another goddamn thing.”

  That was all that was needed. Detective Burns turned away and scurried back to his car, holding his broken arm.

  Don Lupo remained, staring at Roscoe. “Carmine,” Don Lupo said softly. “I raised you like a son. I took you into my own home. You were nothing when I found you and you became a soldier for me. You could have made capo―if you hadn’t made the single mistake of falling under the spell of Francesca, that temptress.” He held out his hand. It was plaintive gesture. Don Lupo was an old man, just like the Captain. “Please, Carmine, come back with me. All will be forgiven. You can go to work for me again. We can kill the new, fancy gangsters coming to power. We can run Los Angeles and La Cruz.”

  Don Lupo was almost like the Captain―but Roscoe wasn’t fooled. “Carmine Vitale is dead. On your orders. Now leave me and don’t come back.”

  Don Lupo shrank away. He shambled toward Detective Burns, who was already starting the car and pulling back into t
he street. Don Lupo had to pull open the door and leap inside before the Studebaker pulled away. It was a humiliating exit. Roscoe walked back to his seat. He set down the crowbar and picked up a plate of cheese fries. Roscoe flopped in the chair, legs up on the table. He devoured the cheese fries while grinning at the departing Studebaker.

  Not long after it was gone, Angel’s Caddy returned. It wasn’t alone. It dragged another car behind it ―more of a frame really, wobbling on old, busted wheels. Roscoe stood as the Caddy rolled into the garage. Angel hopped out. Felix and Ace Arkin were sharing the back seat. Ace seemed a lot better than when Roscoe had last seen him. He had a bandage pressed to his nose, but seemed otherwise unharmed. They piled out and hurried over to Roscoe as he walked over.

  “Mr. Roscoe!” Ace cried. “We found it! We found it for you!”

  “What’d you find?” Roscoe asked.

  “A new automobile, Mr. Roscoe,” Felix said. “For you to drive!”

  Roscoe looked at the car that was to be his new ride. It was a sleek two-seat convertible, with a broad nose extended before a sweeping chassis and a short windshield. The hood was open, showing no motor or gears of any kind. It wouldn’t have an exposed engine like the Deuce. He walked around the car, getting a sense of the size. It looked comfortable and it could pack some serious horsepower. Roscoe smiled as he recognized the make and model.

  He glanced up at Angel. “Nash-Healey?”

  “And she’s a beauty,” Angel said. “She ain’t now, of course. No, she’s just a carcass. Needs a new engine, for starters. New seats and upholstery, too, man. Not to mention a new paint job.”

  “I’m thinking something in black…” Roscoe mused.

  “Yeah, man. But once that’s all in, she’ll go from some corpse car taking up room in the graveyard to a mean speed machine.” He patted the hood. “You want, I can get some tools and we can start working on her right now.”

  The restoration of a car, the creation of a new ride―that was just what Roscoe wanted. It was taking something dead and making it live again. He stepped back and looked over the Nash-Healey, his mind filling with comforting notions of what motor to use, what wheels to apply, and how best to make the auto come alive. Roscoe grinned at Angel. His best friend knew him well. They’d been working together long enough. He held out his hand and Angel shook it.

  Roscoe turned to the kids. “No time like the present… but I’m gonna need some help.”

  “We will do our utmost, sir,” Felix said, with deep seriousness.

  “You want us to help?” Ace asked. “That’d be―that’d be swell.”

  “I think so too,” Roscoe said.

  He walked toward the garage to start gathering the right tools, Angel, Ace and Felix trailing after him. The afternoon would soon be evening. Roscoe felt his strength coming back. He’d be back to normal in no time;, maybe he’d even be a little better. He knew about Carmine Vitale now. Knew everything about his former life and how terrible it had been. But he didn’t want that life back. He liked his new one, even if he wasn’t really alive. The road might be a little bumpy, but he’d have plenty of help to smooth out the ride. His road was a dead man’s drive―and Roscoe was content behind the wheel.

  I would like to thank the artists, editors, and staff at Curiosity Quills for their tireless support.

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  Michael Panush has distinguished himself as one of Sacramento’s most promising young writers. Michael has published numerous short stories in a variety of e-zines including: AuroraWolf, Demon Minds, Fantastic Horror, Dark Fire Fiction, Aphelion, Horrorbound, Fantasy Gazetteer, Demonic Tome, Tiny Globule, and Defenestration.

  Michael began telling stories when he was only nine years old. He won first place in the Sacramento Storyteller’s Guild “Liar’s Contest” in 2002 and was a finalist in the National Youth Storytelling Olympics in in 2003. In 2005, Michael’s short story entitled, Adventures in Algebra, won first place in the annual MISFITS Writing Contest.

  In 2007, Michael was selected as a California Art’s Scholar and attended the Innerspark Summer Writing Program at the CalArts Institute. He graduated from John F. Kennedy High School in 2008 and has recently graduated from UC Santa Cruz.

  Other works by Michael Panush: Dinosaur Jazz, Stein and Candle Series, and El Mosaico Series.

  he engine of the custom Nash-Healey two-seater didn’t roar―it purred. Roscoe kept the gas pedal fully depressed, feeling the rumble of the engine as the auto rolled across the open desert. He’d built the Nash-Healey himself, turning it from a busted hulk to the sleek machine he now drove. Its curved sides and black paint job made it look like a smooth shadow rolling across the open desert plains. In the distance, Roscoe could see the curling red rock and twisted walls of Cowl Canyons, burnished by the high sun in the cloudless sky. Beyond that, the small Southern California town of La Cruz lay in the distance and then big, blazing Los Angeles gleamed like a string of glowing jewelry. Roscoe turned back to the road. Another car sat parked on the barren desert. He inched his foot on the gas pedal. The automobile slid to a halt. Roscoe spun the wheel. A cloak of dust rose behind the turning auto, hanging in the air before fading. Roscoe liked to make an entrance.

  He killed the engine and stepped out. With his pure, black hair in a careful spit curl, his white t-shirt, black leather jacket and jeans, Roscoe had the look of a greaser. A crowbar swung from his belt. There was something else unique about Roscoe―he was dead. From his lean face to his thick knuckles, every bit of his skin had the green tinge of death. His eyes hung open, pale and unblinking. He walked okay and his reflexes were decent, but not great. He managed to avoid shambling as he approached the silver Rolls Royce.

  His employer, the Captain, stood looking out at the desert through a pair of binoculars. The sun caught the lenses, making it look like the Captain’s eyes glowed. He lowered them and nodded to Roscoe. “Any sign of the target?” His voice had a clipped, military politeness.

  The Captain had a whole career in the military, serving in both World Wars before his retirement. Now he ran Donovan Motors and led the drivers to protect La Cruz from outside evil. He was used to strange things like Roscoe. The Captain wore a simple silver trench coat, a fedora shading his wrinkled face, steely eyes and carefully combed beard and goatee.

  “Not a one,” Roscoe admitted. “Could be he split, Captain.”

  “I don’t think so, Roscoe.” Betty Bright leaned against the Rolls. She was the youngest of the drivers, a college girl who split her time between battling the occult and defending La Cruz. Her short-cut blonde hair her sunglasses made her look like any young woman. She wore a light sweater, blouse and trousers. She gave him a quick smile. “He’s supposed to have friends nearby and this is the quickest way. According to our benefactor at the FBI, he wants to move quickly.” She looked to the dust in front of the Rolls― and to the fourteen-year-old boy crouching there. “Felix, honey, why don’t you come back over here. Stay close when Dr. Bolton comes by.”

  Felix Tannenbaum, the Captain’s adopted son, leapt to his feet. A slight kid with very dark, straight hair and freckles dotting his pale face, he looked like a scrawny, miniature scientist in his white coat, vest, dark tie and square, black-rimmed spectacles. “I am sorry, Miss Bright.” He stepped back, hands in his pockets. “But there appears to be some rising dust coming towards Cowl Canyon. Perhaps it is Dr. Bolton and the stolen vehicle? He is moving extraordinarily fast.” He turned to Roscoe and offered a nervous smile. “I am not certain you will be able to catch him, Mr. Roscoe.” Felix was a child genius―captured and orphaned by the Nazis. After the war, the American government had swept up Felix and put him to work in their own labs, tutoring him with their gr
eatest scientists to become an expert on the intersection of technology and the occult. Thankfully, the Captain had rescued the boy and officially adopted him. Felix’s pet, a Yeti pup named Snowball, crawled along next to the kid’s polished shoes. He gave Roscoe a slight yawn.

  Roscoe knelt down. He patted Snowball and the little simian rolled over to reveal his belly. Then he stood and patted Felix’s head. “Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Ain’t nothing can outrun me.” He turned to the desert. A single line of dust carved across the horizon, like a knife had been dragged into the Earth and was stirring up a wound. “So.” Roscoe glanced at the boy. “You know Dr. Clyde Bolton when you worked in the American labs?”

  “Oh yes,” Felix said. “A decent fellow―not exactly friendly, but he did not treat me like some caged creature on display, as many of the scientists did.” He put his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Try not to hurt him, Mr. Roscoe.”

  “He’s stolen a top secret experimental vehicle from the government, Felix,” the Captain said. “He’s a criminal. We’ll deal with him the best we can.” The Captain turned to Roscoe. “Don’t take chances. Don’t let him get away.”

  “I can handle him and his experimental jalopy,” Roscoe explained. He turned back to his Nash-Healey. “Betty―keep an eye on the Captain and the kid.”

  “You got it, Roscoe,” Betty said.

  Roscoe started for the Nash-Healey, but glanced over his shoulder at a timid voice behind him. “Mr. Roscoe?” Felix had lost his earlier confidence. Most of the time, the kid tried his best to sound like an adult. Now he was a child―a frightened kid. “Please be careful.”

  “I will.” Roscoe said and then slipped behind the wheel of the Nash-Healey.

  He gunned the engine, letting it purr for a moment before he set off into the open desert. The Nash-Healey zoomed along, dust rising from the wheels as he roared across the ground. The earth, flat and dry, seemed perfect for the new tires he’d installed for this job. The wind tore at his face and the sun blazed. Roscoe fumbled around the glove compartment, reaching past the sawed-off shotgun to grab his sunglasses. With a confident grin, he snapped them open and set them on his nose before scanning the road. Another dust cloud rolled just ahead of him, Dr. Bolton and the experimental vehicle at the head of it. Roscoe turned from the wind. He pulled up next to the stream of dust, an arrow heading towards its target. He glanced at his speedometer. The needle ticked further along with each passing second. Now the motor roared. Roscoe turned back to his quarry.