The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (11 page)

We arrived at Dutch’s place in the wide suburban sprawl that surrounded Los Angeles sometime around midmorning the next day, having driven through the night. At first, Weatherby couldn’t have slept unless someone cracked a pistol handle to the back of his head, but his fatigue got the better of him, and he passed out sometime after we hit the interstate. I woke him up when we had arrived at the Dutchman’s garage.

He looked out the window at the black asphalt, the filling stations, the wide garages and the faded neon sign glittering above it all. “What in god’s name is this place?” he asked, as I stopped the Packard and got outside.

“His name is Dutch. His real name is something I don’t know and don’t care to ask. In our unit, back during the war, he could do to machines what men can do to women – make them come alive.” The sun was coming down like an artillery strike. I blinked my eyes against the glare as I walked to the garage. “I remember one time, the brass had screwed up the drop coordinates real bad. We ended up way behind enemy lines, with only a ruined panzer for company. Dutch made that panzer work, and we rode it all the way back to Patton’s army.”

“And you believe he can help us win this automobile race?” Weatherby asked.

“If he can’t, no one can.” I approached the door of the garage and gave it a knock. It swung open on rusted hinges, and Dutch stared up at me. He rubbed his eyes and I gave him a grin. “Hello there, Dutch,” I said. “How you been?”

“Getting by,” he said. Dutch had grown a pot belly and stooped shoulders since the last time I saw him. He wore a stained pair of coveralls, with a rubber bowtie and a flat cap. He had thinning hair and a wide grin. “Christ, Morton. It’s been years.”

“And they haven’t been kind to me.” We shook hands and I introduced the kid. “This is Weatherby Stein. You remember him, right? The kid we pulled out of that Nazi hellhole in the Black Forest?”

“Jeez Louise, that is him!” Dutch smiled. “I don’t suppose you remember me, son, but I remember you – I don’t think any of the boys in our squad will forget what happened there. I’m sorry as all hell about what happened to your family…” He trailed off. “Please, come on in. I’ll put some coffee on.” He led us inside a small kitchenette attached to his quarters, and busied himself.

Weatherby was still worried sick about his sister, but he nodded politely as he followed Dutch inside. “I thank you and Morton every day for preserving my life. But I fear I have another boon to ask of you.”

“We both do,” I said. “You know the Morningstar Car Club’s annual race along the coast? We’re gonna be in it. And we don’t want to come in second place.”

Dutch looked at me in surprise. His cheeks puffed out like he was a frog.

“Ah jeez,” he said. “You do not want to be doing that, Mort. I heard things about the Morningstar Car Club and especially about that race – and the people who win second place. This one fellow, some nice Okie kid, won second place last year. Next month, he drives his car off a cliff into the ocean. A shark bites him in half. The year before that, the second place winner drove into a brick wall going one hundred and eight miles per. He was spread across that wall like paint.”

“So I’ll have to drive carefully and buckle my seatbelt,” I replied. “After I win.”

“You don’t understand, buddy!” Dutch cried. “There’s this one black Cadillac with black flames who always races and always wins. You don’t stand a chance, not a chance in Hell.”

I stood up. “I seem to recall hauling a bullet-ridden GI to safety, Dutch. I seem to recall carrying him for what seemed like a mile through dense forest, with Kraut snipers trying to pick me off the whole time. I thought that meant something to you.”

“It does, Mort! Of course it does! And that’s why you shouldn’t race – I’m trying to return the favor and save your life!”

For a split second, I thought I couldn’t convince him. But then Weatherby coughed, and Dutch turned to face him. “We may not stand a chance in Hell, sir,” he said. “But my sister has been kidnapped and unless we win the contest, she will be murdered. I beg of you, I beg you with all of my heart, do whatever you can to help us win and preserve my sister’s life.” He was plaintive and pathetic, a totally different person from the snobbish follower of decorum he usually was.

“Your sister?” Dutch asked. “Ah jeez.” He stood up and looked down at his work shoes. “All right,” he finally said. “Let’s have a look at that vehicle.”

We led him outside. I had parked the Packard in front of his main garage. Dutch walked around it like a boxer sizing up an opponent. He bent down and touched the tires, then opened the hood and peered inside. He let out a slow moan, like a red hot poker had been shoved up his behind.

Weatherby and I watched him. “Well?” I asked. “What’s the verdict?”

“Death sentence, if you want to drive this heap in the Morningstar Car Club race.” He stroked his chin, a general preparing his strategies. “But let me see if I can sway the jury. I’ll swap out the engine of this lemon, and the tires, give you something with a lot of horsepower, and some traction. You’re gonna go off-road for this race, I promise you that. Maybe I should reinforce the siding too.”

“Do that,” I said. “I think I’m gonna bang some bastards around with that auto, and I want them to feel it.”

Dutch nodded. “Can do, can do,” he said.

“Aces. But what did you mean about going off-road?”

“I think I got a way to pull ahead in that race – there’s some old bootlegger roads that run from Point Santos to Crescent Bay. They’re in bad condition, but when I overhaul your ride, you should be able to handle the bumps and dips.” He nodded, sounding like he was reassuring himself more than anyone else. “Yeah,” he said. “It should work out.”

“Glad to hear it.” I tossed him the keys. “Get to work.”

“You’re a rude bastard, Mort.” Dutch said, opening the powder blue Packard and sliding inside. “You ought to find another line of work, Weatherby – or a new partner.” He drove the car inside the garage.

But Weatherby wasn’t looking at our car. He was staring down the street, his hands in the pockets of his father’s waistcoat. I walked over to him. “Perhaps he’s right,” Weatherby said. “I associate with criminals, lowlifes, degenerates and scum of all stripes. It is no wonder that my dear sister finds herself endangered by my life.”

“You ain’t seen her in years,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

He turned to face me. “I remember when I was very small, I had the extremely foolish idea of leaving my bedroom at night and going into the mausoleum on our grounds. I believed it would be an adventure. But I became lost quite quickly, wandering through the mist and the cold stone graves. I sank down onto the ground and cried. Selena came and found me. She helped me up and took me back to my room and when I asked her why she had left her room, she said that it was her job to take care of me, and keep me safe and happy.”

“Weatherby—”

“That’s the job of any family – to ensure the safety and happiness of its members. And with the death of my father and my mother, I am the patriarch of the Steins. And I have failed to keep my sister safe.”

“Weatherby, we ain’t failed yet. It’s not your fault that your sister is in trouble, and we can still protect her. I give you my word.” I pointed across the street, where one of those little diners was open for business. It was the kind of cheap coffee-and-pie place that cropped up on the sides of roads like rot on corpses. “Tell you what – go over there and get some breakfast, for me and Dutch as well as yourself. I got something else to do.”

“What exactly are you planning, Morton?” Weatherby wondered.

I smiled. “I’m gonna go to church,” I said. “There’s an old mission not far from here. It’s mostly a museum, but there’s still a few priests hanging around.”

“Now does not seem to be a decent time to be getting religion,” Weatherby pointed out.

“You just worry about getting breakfast. Be back soon.” I doffed my fedora and started down the street, leaving Weatherby alone on the sun-blasted pavement. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna say to the priests. Most of men of the cloth were friendly enough, and always up for talking to a lost soul. But for what I had in mind, they might need just a little more convincing.

I returned in the afternoon, with what I wanted set carefully in a long wooden case at my side. I walked to the garage and found my Packard lying stripped and naked on the pavement. Dutch was taking a smoke break, munching on a sandwich Weatherby had brought him. He nodded to the long case I carried.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Insurance.”

“Well, I hope it’s got a good payoff, because you’re gonna need it.” He nodded to my car. “This baby will be ready to roll in an hour or two. She’ll be able to outrace a cheetah, and ram a rhinoceros.” He set his sandwich down and nodded to Weatherby. The kid was standing on the edge of the sidewalk, staring into the distance. “So, you taking care of him or something?”

“Or something,” I replied.

“I’ll bet.” Dutch grinned. “You’d never admit it, you bastard, but out of all of us, you had the biggest heart.”

“Sure, Dutch. And what about you? You seeing some lovely lady?”

Dutch shrugged. “I don’t know. Women are confusing. That’s why I like cars.”

“Cause they don’t talk back?”

“No. They do. And they say all the right things, telling you just what they need. A broad, though, they’ll get you going the wrong way, drain you of gas and blow out your engine before you know what happened.” He patted the top of my Packard. “And people like you and me – what we’ve been through – how we supposed to talk about anything normal, with normal people?” He shook his head. “It’s a machine I can’t fix, Mort.”

“Yeah.” I reached for my cigarettes and offered him one. “You take care of yourself, Dutch. We’ll be leaving, soon as this thing is ready.”

“I know.” Dutch took the cigarette, set down his sandwich and grabbed his wrench. “Be careful out there. And keep the kid safe.”

“Don’t worry,” I agreed. “I intend to.”

I got out of his way and let him work. After looking over the bootlegger roads he had outlined on a state map, I ambled into his living quarters and had a nap on his couch. I didn’t dream of the war, but of poor little Selena Stein. I wondered what it must have been like for her – stuck in some upper crust boarding school and reading the newspaper every day with terror in your heart, dreading what you’d find. And afterwards, finding out that her brother had turned from, by all accounts, a sweet little boy to a cranky bastard in a teenager’s body – I wondered how she’d feel about that.

I woke up just before nightfall, and the Packard was ready to go. The tires were big and white, some European model that should do wonders on the back roads. Dutch had swapped out the engine and put a couple of armored plates along the side. When I put my foot on the gas pedal, I could feel the raw power of the vehicle, a wild animal tugging at its chains, roaring to be let loose.

I grinned up at him. “You’re a regular wizard,” I said.

Weatherby clasped his hands and bowed before Dutch. “I thank you, Mr. Dutch,” he said. “With all of my heart.”

Dutch grinned and patted Weatherby’s thin shoulder. “Just go out there and come back alive,” he said, waving a grease-stained rag like a patriot with a flag. “Take care, boys! Don’t go down no road you can’t handle!”

“You got it,” I said, backing up the auto as Weatherby hurried inside. I got the Packard into the street and then cut loose. Point Santos wasn’t far away, but I didn’t want to be late to the race.

I used the opportunity to put the car through its paces. Dutch had done an excellent job. It handled like a dream and gobbled down miles like a starving man at a buffet. Of course, for what I planned, she’d need to.

We reached Point Santos a couple minutes before the Morningstar Club was to begin their race. Point Santos was a small village, a collection of cottages down the winding road from the lighthouse. The road hugged the cliffs and led straight out into the horizon, two lanes of asphalt that would soon be a battlefield.

The racers themselves were setting up in the middle of the road, and I drove over to join them. I parked the Packard and stepped outside. There was time to enjoy a cigarette and eyeball the other competitors before the race started. Weatherby joined me and we looked over the others cars and drivers. We didn’t like what we saw.