The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3)

by Michael Panush

“Shut up, Chad.” I stood up and walked out of the restaurant to reach the street, Weatherby hastily finishing his eggs and following. He stood by me, saying nothing as we looked out at the roaring traffic, filling the streets like water fills an ocean. The kid was nervous. I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. This poetry shindig will be a big event. Wagner won’t risk trying to attack us in public.”

  “I know,” Weatherby agreed. “But we won’t be in public for long, will we?”

  “So you think they’ll try to attack us at the hotel?” I asked. I shook my head. “That’s okay. We just gotta be prepared.”

  I spent the rest of the morning getting ready, loading my automatics and taking a few other cannons to the Roadmaster, in case heavy artillery was called for on the road. The tommy gun and shotgun should handle any trouble we ran across in Greenwich Village. Weatherby and Selena watched cartoons with Henry Wallace, enjoying each other’s company much more than the simpering images flickering on the screen. Chad read from some dog-eared beat novel. Sly Baum played solitaire. Before I knew it, it was time to go.

  We said our goodbyes to the Baums and headed downstairs. The Roadmaster was waiting, and I got behind the wheel and drove to the Village. I wasn’t looking forward to it. That part of town was Jerusalem, Mecca and Rome all rolled up into one for punk kids, hipsters, hopheads, commies and fruitcakes. But that’s where the enemy was and that’s where we went.

  Traffic wasn’t bad, and we made good time, getting to the Café Rigoletto right around the start of the poetry recital. The Café Rigoletto was the kind of place that put the emphasis on being trendy, rather than serving good food. It was cramped and dark, with worn wooden chairs and tables surrounding a small stage. Chad, Weatherby, Selena and I squeezed our way in, and sat down at the back.

  “Oh, I really dig this guy,” Chad whispered, pointing to the bearded nut in the plaid shirt squatting on the stage, who was removing his glasses and opening his notebook. “He’s just got a kind of power, you know? A raw vitality, that really speaks to the soul of America.”

  “It really speaks to something,” I muttered. I was eyeballing the crowd. It was fruit city. Guys had hair longer than their girlfriends, people were smoking – but not tobacco – and everyone was trying their best to look as cool as possible. I looked through the slumming rich kids and eager devotees of Beat Poetry, until I spotted what I was looking for, sitting like a king on his throne in a dark corner of the restaurant.

  Viscount Wagner Stein was a bit older than the rest of the audience, and stood out in his purple three-piece suit and fedora. But I guess he didn’t mind. Two of his skeletal henchmen sat next to him, wearing sunglasses and low fedoras to disguise the fact that they didn’t have any skin or flesh on their faces. Wagner held a cane topped with a silver skull, and rapped it on the ground as the audience applauded.

  I waited for the poet to finish his reading. He spoke loud and fast, sounding like a drill sergeant yelling at his troops. From what he said, I figured they ought to lock him up in the madhouse. Some line about ‘one-eyed shrews’ really stuck in my head for a reason I couldn’t place. Chad nodded along with each word, and Selena and Weatherby listened with rapt interest. After a while, I realized that I was doing the same.

  The poet finished and stood up, nodding his head in a ragged little bow. The place exploded with applause. I turned to Wagner, and found that he hadn’t gone anywhere. The poet hustled off the stage and the crowd started to talk and mingle. Some clown strummed an acoustic guitar on the stage while his buddy worked a set of bongos, but nobody paid them much attention.

  “Right,” I said, standing up and facing Wagner. “Time to pay our friend a visit.”

  Weatherby, Selena and Chad followed me as I made my way to the corner. A long line of beatnik kids stood before Wagner, handing him thick rolls of cash. He handed them paper bags, smiling and nodding with each transaction.

  “Yes…” Wagner said, grinning as he dealt dope. “Remember, you cool cats, Panacea is the kind of pick-me-up that can’t be beat. Don’t bother dating old Mary Jane, as Panacea should be the only girl worthy of your interest.”

  I pushed junkies out of the way. Some of them complained loudly, but nobody raised a hand against me. They were smarter than they looked. Soon I stood before Wagner and glared down at him. Chad, Selena and Weatherby did the same, the girl with her arm around her little brother’s shoulder. I pointed at Wagner. “What you hell are you doing?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Destroying the best minds of this generation,” he replied simply. “Nothing more, nothing less.” He held up a bag of Panacea. It was dark as grave dirt. “Want a taste, Mr. Candle? First one’s free.”

  “I ought to take that dope and shove it down your throat,” I growled. “Now what are you doing with Dracula? What’s the big plan you two are putting together?”

  Wagner just shrugged and leaned back. “A plan? Why, we’re just giving America what it wants. That tiresome vampire has his market.” He extended a hand to the dope fiends in line. “And I have mine. We’re just doing whatever we can, to fit into this brave new world of modern America.”

  “You’re a real piece of work, man,” Chad said. “You really think you’re gonna last long as some dope dealer?”

  “I’m not a mere purveyor of narcotics, you fool,” Wagner replied. “I’m Dr. Twist.” He looked at me, folding his hands and smiling. “Now, I know it will be foolish to bother warning you to stay away. Your conscience simply won’t let you. You’ll have to die, Morton Candle. And oh, how you will die!” He faced Selena. He had an unholy fascination with her. “But you, my dear, have a chance at survival. You and your runt little boy both. Provided you align yourself with me, of course.”

  “You fiend!” Weatherby cried. “Don’t talk about her! Don’t you dare talk about her!”

  “Lay off Selena, man! I’ll kill you!” Chad chimed in, almost in unison with Weatherby.

  But Selena didn’t get angry. She simply shook her head and turned away. I think that pissed off Wagner Stein more than anything. I patted Weatherby’s shoulder and followed her. Chad stayed close. We stepped into the street, outside the Café Rigoletto and the choking clouds of smoke that filled it. I sucked in cold air and breathed it out in relief.

  Weatherby was still seeing red. “He’s a devil,” he said. “Selena, perhaps you should leave the city. Wagner appears to have some horrible fixation on you, and I can’t stand the very thought of it.”

  “I can handle myself,” she replied. She leaned down and gave him a smile. “I think you should get used to the idea. Chad has, though not without difficulty. We’re with you, Weatherby, until the end.” She looked up at me. “Morton, what do you think of Wagner’s activities?”

  “I’m not sure.” We headed over to the Roadmaster, which I had parked across the street. “Like Dracula, it seems that he’s not doing much but making tons of cash. He seems to know just what to say to get those idiot hipster kooks lining up to take his dope.” I got to the door and slid behind the wheel. “And one more thing – where the hell is Joey Verona?”

  “He must have him stashed around someplace,” Chad suggested. “Verona’s face kind of attracts attention, you know? And even without the scars, a crazy mobster cat would stick out sore-thumb style in that crowd.”

  It made sense. I started the car and rolled down the open road. There wasn’t too much traffic. I was thinking of heading back to the hotel, resting up a little, and then grabbing some dinner while I plotted my next move. I thought about calling Belasco. Now that Wagner and Dracula knew I was snooping around, maybe they’d have a meet and talk about it. And if Belasco had some well-placed bugs, maybe I could listen in.

  But as we drove down the wide, tree-lined streets of the Village, we found out just where Joey Verona was. Weatherby noticed it first. “Mort,” he said, panic slipping into his voice. “Purple vehicle, coming up behind us. I believe such an automobile belongs to Wagner Stein.”

  I checked the mir
ror. Sure enough, a purple corvette was roaring after us. Its speed increased with each second, as it drove closer and closer to my car. The top was down and I could see everyone in it, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. A skeleton was at the wheel, two more in the back, manning a .50 caliber machine gun. That monster could rip my Roadmaster to bits in seconds. In the passenger seat was Joey Verona.

  He waved to me, and then raised his tommy gun. “Hey, Morty!” he shouted, over the roar of his engine. “Small world, huh?” That was all the talk he wanted. I was a little surprised. Normally, Verona wanted to revel in my pain before killing me. But I guessed Wagner had him on a tight leash. He spared the chitchat and opened fire.

  Lead from the Thompson sprayed the Roadmaster. I had spent a nice chunk of cash getting it repaired after our little adventure in San Francisco, and now it was getting wrecked all over again. I gripped tightly to the wheel and slammed on the gas. “Hold on and keep your heads down!” I shouted, swerving around a corner to try and lose the corvette.

  I didn’t have such luck. Joey Verona’s car stayed close, and the skeletons in the back were setting up the .50 cal. They opened fire, a roaring blast that tore into the back of the corvette. Chad and Selena ducked down, but I heard the girl scream. I turned around and saw her holding her shoulder, where a bullet had badly grazed her. Blood spilled down her leather jacket.

  “No!” Weatherby cried. He pulled out his revolver and started shooting at the corvette. He fired madly, holding the gun with both hands and barely pausing between shots. He missed each one. I hoped I would have better luck.

  I didn’t bother with the automatics. That .50 cal didn’t give us time for a protracted car chase. I needed to end it quickly – or they’d end us. “Weatherby,” I said, as I reached under the seat and grabbed the tommy gun. “Take the wheel.”

  He was staring back at Selena. There were a few drops of blood on her dark jacket, and Chad was holding her close and keeping her down, as he tried to staunch the bleeding. She wasn’t hurt bad, but that was all it took to bring total terror to her baby brother. “W-what?” he asked.

  “Take the wheel, kiddo. Like in Transylvania.” I drove with one hand. My auto careened onto the empty sidewalk. The corvette was close behind, a sleek wolf nearing its prey.

  “Like in Transylvania. Right.” He shook the fear from his head, leaned over and grabbed the wheel. He pulled away from the sidewalk, sending us screaming into the middle of the street. Weatherby did his best to drive. I had other concerns.

  I kicked open the door and leaned on, swinging the tommy gun to face the corvette. Verona let out a burst with his tommy gun. His shots whined into the steel next to me, sending up sparks. I felt their heat. I opened fire, not bothering with a burst now. I pumped out a long stream of lead, emptying the entire drum magazine into the corvette. I sprayed the driver. I shot out the tires. I blasted the skulls of the gunner in the back. I even put a round through Verona’s arm, making him drop his gun and scream.

  The corvette shot madly to the left. A telephone pole got in its way. Metal screeched at the impact, and they stopped chasing us. I looked at Verona as the Roadmaster roared down the street. He was staring at me, his eyes narrow and cold. The meaning was clear – this wasn’t over. He had that right.

  I took the wheel back from Weatherby, before he could drive us into a tree. I let the tommy gun fall on my lap. Smoke curled up from the muzzle. I looked back at the Roadmaster. It wasn’t shot up too bad. And most importantly, nobody was dead.

  “Selena?” Weatherby asked. “Are you okay? Was she hit badly, Chad?”

  “I’m fine, dear.” Selena held her coat over her shoulder. “I’ll be okay. I’ve got a first aid kit at home, and that should be all I need to patch this up. It’s just like a bad cut, that’s all.” Her words soothed Weatherby, and she was careful to speak calmly and clearly. She smiled a little at me. “At least we know where Joey Verona is.”

  “At least,” I muttered. I rested my hands on the wheel, slowing the Roadmaster to a manageable speed. “Come on. Let’s go home. That’s enough excitement for one day.”

  We sped home. Weatherby reached back, holding on to Selena’s hand. Chad stayed close to her. They were a strange army to fight a war with. But like Weatherby had said, there was nobody I’d rather have at my side. I weaved quickly through the growing traffic, and I got back to the Hotel Grande by the late afternoon.

  We took the elevator upstairs. I let Selena have my coat, so the receptionist didn’t see that she was bleeding. She and Chad headed to our room, where he could patch Selena up. Chad kept on reassuring Weatherby, telling him that he had taken a first aid class and scored top marks, and knew just what he was doing.

  “So you want to be a doctor?” I asked, as we walked down the hallway to our rooms. “Or do you people not bother with jobs and just get by on what your rich parents leave for you?”

  Chad didn’t even bite back. “I’m taking a bunch of classes. I’m working as a cook to pay for everything, and only get what my old man is willing to dish out and that ain’t much. And I have thought about a career, man. I’m thinking of studying literature. I can study poems, like the guy we saw today. There’s a lot there for study, Morton.”

  “And could that support a family?” Weatherby would never ask these kinds of questions. He liked his sister too much to question her choices in men. So it was up to me. I kept my voice down, staying with Chad while Weatherby and Selena went ahead

  “A professor’s salary? Sure.” He looked over at me. “You think I can’t support Selena, is that it? Well, don’t worry, man. I can support her just fine. I love her like nothing else on earth, and if I’ve gotta take a million jobs to support her, then so be it. But you know what? She can take care of herself. That’s why I like her, you know. She takes care of herself and the ones she loves.”

  I watched her and Weatherby head to their room. “She is that,” I agreed. “You take care of her anyway, pal.” I left Chad standing in the hallway and walked back to my room.

  I got inside and found the lights switched off. I smelled strong cigar smoke, and knew what I would find before I switched on the lights. Sure enough, Bobby Belasco was sitting in the armchair in the corner, smoking away with his legs crossed. I sat down across from him.

  “Why don’t you come right in, Belasco?” I said dryly. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Heh. That famous Candle wit. It’s gonna get you into trouble one of these days. Maybe it already has.” He pointed out to the hall. “So, I know the squirt is Weatherby, but who are the rest of these top soldiers you’re bringing in? Some Jew swindler and his little boy? A beatnik and his girlfriend?”

  “They’re my friends,” I replied. “You know what those are?”

  “I’ve got some idea.” Belasco stood up. “Anyway, you remember how I said I was keeping up surveillance on Dragonson and Wagner Stein? Well, it paid off. I’ve got a room at the Imperial uptown, where I relay signals from all the bugs and taps. I’ve found out that Wagner and Dracula are scheduled to have a sit-down, at their usual back alley. And guess who has a microphone in the trash can?”

  It was like I expected. Because someone was about to crash their party, Wagner and Dracula weren’t thinking straight. Hopefully, they wouldn’t scope out their meeting spot. We could hear their every word.

  “Belasco, I never thought I’d do this, but I’m gonna give you a compliment – you are a godsend.” I pointed to the door. “Let’s go to your place. We’ll take a cab. My ride’s a little bullet-ridden.” I had wanted to take a break after the car chase in Greenwich Village. I didn’t often get what I wanted. I stopped by the drinks cabinet and wet my whistle, then followed Belasco into the hallway.

  Weatherby was waiting in the hall. He stared at Belasco. “I thought I told the hotel to spray for odious roaches such as yourself, Mr. Belasco,” he said.

  “Great. Now the kid’s cracking wise too. Hilarious.” Belasco looked up at me. “Is he coming along?”


  “He goes where I go,” I replied, starting down the hall. I explained the situation to Weatherby along the way. He looked surprised. I guess he never expected Bobby Belasco to come through on his word. We took the elevator down and exited through the lobby. I stopped at the desk to reserve another room on the top floor, then went outside and called a cab.

  The ride to Belasco’s place wasn’t long, but he kept on checking his watch, hoping we’d be in time for the meet. He looked up at Weatherby and his stubble-clad face split in a grin. “So, you having a nice time, visiting with your sister and your little friend and all your other buddies? A real swell vacation in the Big Apple?”

  The kid didn’t look at Belasco when he responded. “If I didn’t know better, Mr. Belasco, I’d say you were a little jealous.” He turned to face the CIA Agent, and his imperious nature dried away. “I should thank you, though. Mort and I would have no access to this kind of intelligence, if it wasn’t for you. And it was your excellent espionage skills that discovered the plot of Wagner and Dracula in the first place.”

  “Thanks, kid.” Belasco shifted in his seat. Obvious gratitude made him uncomfortable. “It weren’t nothing. Just an old spook doing what he does best.”

  The taxi turned the corner, rolling into Mott Street. Belasco had rented a room at some flophouse in Chinatown. The cab let us off. I paid for the fare, and followed Belasco into his apartment. He gave the Chinaman at the counter a dirty look, and then took the stairs – rather than the busted elevator – to his floor. Belasco unlocked the door and let us inside.

  The room was a mess. Greasy paper plates, cigar stubs, beer cans, and candy wrappers coated the floor. There were a couple bottles in the back, full of yellow liquid. Belasco must have spent so much time at his listening post that he didn’t bother getting up to run to the toilet. A small table in the corner was loaded down with radios, microphones, and other bugging apparatuses. Belasco sat down and started fiddling with dials.

  Weatherby and I walked inside, careful not to step on anything. “Wow, Belasco,” I said. “Living the dream, eh?”