The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (12 page)

These were the wild ones, the mad ones, the crazy bastards who lived on the edge and liked it. Their cars were hot rods and muscle cars, sleek, bulky, smooth machines decorated with flames and in a mad rainbow of neon colors. The drivers leaned on their cars, drinking and smoking and laughing with each other about the danger they’d soon be faced with.

I recognized several of them, and the rest seemed keen in getting acquainted. Soon as I popped out, a tall busty woman with flowing dark hair and a striped shirt revealing her belly walked over to me slowly. She leaned forward, giving me the kind of show any fellow would enjoy. She smiled slowly, a predator’s grin.

“That’s a big car, mister,” she said, slurring her words. “Real big. But you know what they say – it ain’t the size, but how you handle it.” She put her hand on the hood of the Packard. “Can you handle it, big man?”

“I can handle plenty,” I replied. “But maybe not you.”

“Name’s Vette Veaux,” she explained. She stepped back and waved her arms in a slow circle in the air. Weatherby’s eyes were glued to her. I didn’t blame him. “I do go-go dancing during the day, and drive at night.”

“And spend Sundays in church?” I grinned as I stepped back.

Behind her, a pack of yokels arrived in a sleek silver painted station-wagon with a Confederate battle flag stenciled on the hood. They wore worn overalls and straw hats, and smoked large hand-rolled cigars. I didn’t let the hillbilly act fool me. These were the Crabbpatches, a clan of moonshine-brewers who had outraced revenue men for generations. They were Kentucky cutthroats who ruled their patch of the woods through numbers and brutality. They pulled up next to our car and started whistling at Vette.

I waved to them. “You fellows entering in this race?”

The driver smiled at me. He had a crocodile skin jacket and a grin to match. “That we are. Aiming on winning it too.”

Vette tore away from me and approached the Crabbpatches. “I don’t think you got what it takes. I drive real fast. Try and keep up.”

I looked at the car on the other side of us. I recognized the driver of this one, a tight coupe without markings or a license plate. He had slicked back hair, an opened collared shirt and a canary yellow blazer, with a thick gold medallion resting in a nest of his chest hair. This was Buck Beltz, a notorious getaway driver for independent heist crews. We exchanged a nod. I figured I could knock him out first, if necessary.

The driver in the car in front of me turned around. He was a good lucking towheaded kid in a fine pinstriped suit and was wiping his sunglasses with a silken handkerchief. “Pardon me,” he said, sounding bored. “But are we going to start this race any time soon?”

“Who’s asking?” Vette wondered.

“Hadley Stullworth III. I’ve spent a small fortune preparing this automobile, madam. I want to get some use out of it.”

“Well, listen up Hadley — we don’t start this race until the black caddy arrives.” Vette covered her eyes from the moonlight and looked in the distance. “Speak of the devil,” she said, grinning savagely. “Here he comes now.”

The Black Cadillac with red flames around the wheels rolled right over and came to a sudden, silent stop. The windows were tinted, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to see inside. I hopped in the Packard and Weatherby joined me in the passenger seat. He was tapping his fingers on his thin knees, staring intently out the window. I didn’t want to let him down.

The Black Cadillac’s engine revved up, a roaring snarl like the crackle of flames. The other cars followed, preparing their own engines. The leader of the Morningstar Car Club, a greaser with a carefully prepared pompadour and black leather jacket, walked to the center of the road and pointed a pistol to the sky. I felt my heart tense up as his finger wrapped around the trigger. An hour later, it seemed, he fired the gun and the race was on.

I took my foot off the brake and let the Packard rocket forward, sliding past Hadley Stullworth’s car and screaming to the lead. The black Cadillac was coming up fast behind me, and Vette’s coupe was on the side. The Crabbpatches, and Buck Beltz fought for space behind — while the audience howled.

Vette hogged the road, and I decided to do something about it. “Hang on,” I told Weatherby, and started spinning the wheel. My Packard smashed into the side of her car, and metal screamed on metal. She glowered at me as she tried to pull ahead. I grinned at her. My car could take the hits and hers couldn’t.

We rode along the side of the cliffs, fighting for a place as the seconds ticked by. I nodded to Weatherby and he brought up the map. “The entrance to the shortcut Mr. Dutch specified should be on the right,” he explained. “But we may not even need it. We appear to have the lead!”

But then the black Cadillac came screaming up from behind and blew past us. It tore off the side view mirror on Weatherby’s side as it took the lead, and I gripped the wheel with white knuckles trying to steady the Packard. The scent of burning rubber filled the air, joined by the roar of pounding engines and the scream of vehicles being pushed to their limits.

The black Cadillac pulled ahead of me and of Vette. She shook her fist at the Cadillac, but that was about all she could do. The devil drove like he owned the road – and he did. He hugged the curves, slid without traction across rough patches and sped over bumps like they were smooth as glass. I kept the gas pedal down, but my lead was gone and it wasn’t coming back.

“See you at the finish line, big man!” Vette shouted over her engines’ roar as she zoomed past me. “If you can make it, that is!”

I swore and looked back at the map. “All right, Dutch,” I muttered. “Let’s see if you can stop me from going bust-o.” There was a gap in the rocky cliffs up ahead, a dirt road leading inland and framed by trees. I worked the wheel like a madman, sending the Packard roaring down the dirt road. It nearly crashed into the rocky walls, but I kept it steady and dead center of the narrow road.

The wheels worked like a charm. Dirt flew behind us like smoke from a torch, but we rumbled forward with only a small difference in speed. I leaned back in the seat and exhaled. “All right,” I said. “Looks like things are going okay.”

“We’re nowhere near first place, you imbecile!” Weatherby cried. “My sister is still in the hands of a deranged maniac and we’re going to lose our souls to the devil! How can things possibly be ‘okay’?” He looked into the rear view mirror and cursed. “Oh no,” Weatherby whispered. “It seems others know of this shortcut as well.”

“Is that so?” I checked behind us. Sure enough, the Crabbpatches were rolling behind us in their battered station wagon. They were swilling whiskey, hanging onto the back and hollering louder than coyotes as they gained ground.

The bootlegger road was only wide enough for one car, but they were catching up fast and we’d soon be bumper to bumper. I smiled to myself as I reached for the breaks. I had a little plan to win this race, and less racers made it more likely to succeed. “Hold on a second, kiddo,” I said. “I gotta take care of something.”

I slammed on the breaks. The Packard rolled forward, spraying up dirt before it came to a stop. Behind me, the Crabbpatch station wagon did the same. They panicked and started shouting, fearing a collision with the rear of my car. They ended up screaming to a halt just a little behind my Packard. I opened the door and stepped out. They were pissed. I wanted them that way.

“Sorry, boys,” I said, walking to their car with my hands in my pockets. “But you’re heading the wrong way.”

“What the hell you talking about, scumbelly Yankee bastard?” The Crabbpatch in the driver’s seat hopped out and approached me. He was a big corn-fed bumpkin, the kind you find wrestling alligators and lynching Negroes for fun. He crossed his large arms and stared at me.

“Didn’t you hear?” I asked. “It ain’t safe.” I moved first, driving my fist directly into his face. I heard his nose crack, and then head-butted him in the chest while he was unsteady on his feet. He started swinging for me, howling out a curse as his fist hit empty air.

I pressed my shoulder into his face and knocked him back against the hood of his car. The other Crabbpatches realized what was going on, and another stepped outside, but I was moving too quickly to be stopped. I didn’t know too much about winning races, but I was an authority on handing out beatings. I took the newest Crabbpatch by the throat and slammed his head against the hood of his car. I introduced a little more red to the stars and bars of the painted confederate flag, and then let him slide to the ground. That’s when I went for my knife.

I pulled the Ka-Bar out of my boot and walked over to the wheels of the Crabbpatch’s station wagon. The two Crabbpatch boys behind me were still whining on the ground. I knelt down and slashed their front tires, cutting deep grooves in the rubber until they were useless. I moved to the back tires. Another Crabbpatch tried to stop me and got the handle of my knife slammed into his forehead for his trouble.

It was done in a matter of minutes and I stepped back. The Crabbpatch Clan was out of the race now – for good. I doffed my fedora to them. “Word of advice, boys?” I said, looking at the terrified yokels inside their car. “Go back to moonshine-running.”

I walked back to the Packard and got into the driver’s seat. Weatherby stared at me, looking only a little surprised. “You’re going to play dirty?” he asked.

I nodded. “That’s how you win,” I replied and slammed on the gas.

Dutch had picked his roads right. We made good time speeding through the winding dirt paths and the back roads of the California coast. The ocean was never far away, and I could smell the spray and the salt as we rode along. Weatherby checked the route on the Esso road map constantly, his thin fingers carefully picking their way along the fabric as we drew closer and closer to the finish line. I kept the gas pedal down and never got slower than a buck twenty.

The Morningstar Race was a long one. Dawn came and went and we were still going. I had been sure to have a full tank when we started, but now the needle was pressing down to empty. I glared at the gauge, but that didn’t make it twist back to full. We were gonna have to stop.

“We need gas,” I told Weatherby. I pointed down the road, where a rusty sign advertised a filling station up ahead. “I’m gonna pull over and fill her up, then get on the road again.”

“And do we have the time for this lamentable detour?” Weatherby asked.

I shrugged. “I figure the other racers must have to stop for gas too at some point. It’s a long road from Point Santos to Crescent Bay, after all. We’ll just be quick about it.” I twisted the wheel and sent us down the road the gas station. The bootlegger roads ended after that. We’d be rolling down the same stretch of pavement as the others. I wondered what would come of that.

The gas station was a little lump of metal and wood next to the road, with a sign glowing luridly in the early morning light. There was a small diner next door, the color of dirtied pearl, with a scrawny highway patrol officer alone at the counter. I slowed the Packard and slid it next to one of the pumps. A place like this was self-serve, I figured.

Weatherby stayed in the car, drumming his fingers on his knee while I starting pumping. A couple minutes later, a speedy coupe with no markings and freshly stolen license plates slid into the pump next to me. It was Buck Beltz, the getaway man. He hopped out of the car and started gassing up, checking his watch and eyeing me suspiciously. I nodded to him and he turned away. He never was a friendly fellow.

I looked back at the cop inside and got an idea. Winning a race against three people, one of them being the Devil, would probably be easier than winning it against four. I motioned to Weatherby to watch the pump and took a walk inside the diner.

The cop was reading the paper. He had a shabby moustache and a flat nose, which made him look like a gopher peeking up from a burrow. I sat down next to him and nodded to the overweight man at the counter. “Say, officer,” I said, not facing him as I talked. “You know there’s a notorious criminal wheelman getting gas down there by the pump.”

He lowered his newspaper and looked at me. “What?” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. I got the feeling I’d have to walk this flatfoot through the motions. “That guy with the big golden necklace is Buck Beltz. He rode the getaway car on a string of Kansas City armored car robberies a few years back. Pulled that bank job up in Reno too.”

“What?” He turned to stare at Buck, but I grabbed his shoulder and pointed to the mirror behind the diner’s bar. He looked at Buck through that, without turning to stare at him. “Really?”

“You bet. Say, I bet there’d be some real promotions and good press in store for the officer who brought him in.” I stood up and patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to think about it?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, as I headed outside.

I walked over to Buck. He was enjoying a fat Cuban cigar while he filled up his car. I nodded to him. “Say,” I said. “I’m a good sportsman, you know? I don’t think cheaters ought to prosper, and I play by the rules – especially when I race.”

“Oh yeah?” Buck asked. He sounded bored. “And how’s that working out for you?”