The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (19 page)

Henry Wallace and Weatherby sat down, and Sly indicated the cake. The candles were already burning. “Chocolate, sport,” he said. “Just like you asked for. Shall we sing now?”

“Okay,” Henry Wallace agreed.

We sang happy birthday to the kid. I mumbled along, while Weatherby belted out the words and beat the table in time. Henry Wallace blew out the candles and we all applauded. Sly handed Henry Wallace his present, and the boy carefully tore it open. He smiled at the model plane inside.

“Thanks, papa,” Henry Wallace agreed. “That’s a swell gift. I don’t think I have this one…”

“He does have a lot,” Sly said, with a grin. “Let’s see what Mr. Stein brought you.”

Weatherby’s present was a thick stack of leather-bound books, a collection of classics if there ever was one. “Mary Shelly’s brilliant novel is in there,” Weatherby explained. “In an original printing. I’ve set aside a collection of poems, featuring my favorites by Blake and Byron, the
Castle of Ortranto
, a few of the other minor gothics. And
Treasure Island
. That was one of my favorites, when I was a boy.”

Henry Wallace held each book like it was some irreplaceable treasure. And in way, the books were just that. “You’d give them to me?” he asked. “Wow. Thank you, Weatherby.”

“You’re quite welcome, my friend. I hope you enjoy them.” Weatherby sat down next to Henry Wallace as Sly started cutting the cake.

I munched on some of the chocolate cake, feeling the icing clog up my mouth like wet cement, while Weatherby described the plots and stories to Henry Wallace. This wasn’t the kind of place for me. I stood up, and turned to Sly. “Any more booze?”

He shook his head. “I’ll have to go to the casino bar and grab some more.”

“I don’t feel like waiting.” I grinned at Weatherby. “You kids have a nice time,” I said, and ambled out of the ballroom. I felt strange. Was I some parent dropping off his kid with the neighbors for a play date? Was this the equivalent of that for the kind of people me and Weatherby were – taking place in a sleazy hole of a casino instead of some suburban neighborhood? I didn’t like it, either way.

I left the ballroom and returned to the main casino floor. I walked over to the bar, my hands in the pockets of my trench coat. “A White Russian,” I told the bored buck-toothed bartender in the vest and turban. “And don’t take your time.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and got to work. I looked back at the casino while he mixed my drink. I watched the patrons at the slot machines, staring glassy-eyed at the one-armed bandits as they worked the cranks and lost their money. They were zombies, all of them, trapped in a lifeless trance of pleasure between their boring jobs and boring lives. It was strange how craving a bit of excitement was even duller than their usual existence.

I finished my White Russian, watched the crowd, and saw that flash of red again, heading for the bathrooms. This time I remembered where I had seen it before. More importantly, I remembered the bastard wearing it. I downed my White Russian in a single gulp, tossed a few bucks on the counter and stood up. “Bobby Belasco,” I hissed under my throat as I followed him.

Bobby Belasco had been my unit’s contact in the OSS. Maybe he had started out with some measure of idealism. Maybe he had even been a good guy, once. But somewhere after the OSS turned over into the CIA, somewhere between toppling Latin American democracies, executing enemies of the state and dreaming up new wonder weapons to win the Cold War, Belasco’s sanity had gone south. Now he was the ultimate Company wetwork expert, a coldhearted killer with a hothead and a sick sense of humor.

I followed him into the bathroom, walking down the row of clattering slot machines and following him into the men’s room. I pulled open the door and stepped inside silently. Dealing with Kraut snipers in the Black Forest taught you how to move quietly. I reached into my coat, letting my hand rest on one of the .45 automatics I wore in crossed shoulder-holsters.

Sure enough, Bobby Belasco was in the bathroom, overlooking a terrified tourist in a torn suit, who crouched in the corner before the sinks. Belasco wore his rumpled Hawaiian shirt, his unkempt brown hair meeting his spray of stubble. He held a silenced automatic in his hands, aimed at the terrified balding tourist.

“P-please!” the poor guy cried, raising his hands. “Don’t do this! I j-just need a hospital!” I saw a bloody makeshift bandage on his right arm.

“Sorry, pal,” Belasco replied, keeping the gun level. “The only cure for what you got is in the barrel of this weapon.”

“I got a wife and kids!” the tourist cried.

“Uh, no, you don’t. I took care of them earlier. Sorry.” Belasco shrugged. “Now hold still.”

I charged him, pulling the handle of my gun back to deliver a crashing blow to the CIA spook, but I was too late. He fired, striking the tourist neatly in the forehead. A spray of blood hit the marble sinks and the mirror behind them. Then I collided with Belasco.

Down we went, onto the tiled floor. I cracked the barrel of my pistol against Belasco’s forehead. “You lousy spook!” I cried. “What the hell are you doing, gunning down innocent people? You finally snapped, is that it?” He scrambled to grab the machete from the leather scabbard on his hip, but I grabbed his wrist and held it back. I placed the muzzle of my pistol against his forehead, and his hand went limp, letting the machete clatter to the floor.

“I ain’t snapped yet, my flickering little Mort Candle,” he said. He nodded to the dead tourist. “Nice to see you, by the way. You look good. And about this little thing? I can explain.”

“So start talking.” I stood up, keeping Belasco covered. He squatted on the ground, not far from the bleeding body of his latest victim.

He grinned up at me. “You gonna point that cannon somewhere else? You’re giving me stage fright.” I didn’t move so he continued. “All right, all right. Believe or not, I’m here to save the world, same as always. Paradise City’s had itself a little accident, after a U.S. military helicopter crashed on the edge of town, containing some very important samples of Project Lugosi.”

“Lugosi?” I asked. “The actor?”

“Of
White Zombie
.” Belasco stood up, reaching for his fallen machete and sliding it into its sheathe. He acted like I wasn’t there as he straightened his collar in the bloody mirror. “You should know about it, Mort. Hell, you were there when I got it started, back in Havana.” He grabbed his silenced pistol, as well.

I had heard enough. In Havana, Belasco had got his hands on some Voodoo zombie powder. He figured it would be a handy tool for his Company. But now it was out of the toolbox and into Paradise City, bringing Hell with it. I grabbed his hand and dragged him to the door. “Okay,” I said. “My associates are in the ballroom. We’ll go there, you can explain what’s happening to Weatherby and maybe he can think of something.”

“So shooting everyone’s out of the question?” He smiled plaintively. “That was a joke, Mort. Hah-hah.” He shrugged as we left the bathroom. “You’re the boss. Lead on.”

I walked him past the casino floor and back to the ballroom. I knew we didn’t have much time, but I didn’t know Belasco wasn’t as thorough as he suggested. While we were walking, the plague was spreading, reaching its way through tourists, high-rollers and casino workers in bites and scratches. We didn’t see it. You never do see your doom – until it rears up in your face.

When I got back to the ballroom, I knew something was wrong from the sudden silence. Henry Wallace and Weatherby had ceased their enthusiastic chat, and Sly Baum said nothing. I motioned for Bobby Belasco to stand back, and then kicked open the double doors, fearing the worst.

What I got was a little better. Joey Verona, mob hitman with a penchant for style, had Weatherby, Henry Wallace and Sly Baum covered with a pair of shining automatics. He was well-dressed at least, in a snappy salmon pink suit and carefully knotted tie. His straw-colored hair was slicked back, making him look streamlined. Verona was a gun-for-hire, and I could figure out who was paying him for this hit.

“Morty!” Verona had some idea that we were friends. I did my best to dispel it. “Fancy meeting you here!” He turned to grin at me. “I’m here for a job, for Don Vizzini. You don’t want to mess with that scar-faced Sicilian, Morty. Tell your teenage pal here to step aside and let me get to work.”

Sly had one hand raised, the other on Henry Wallace. The youngster was staring at the two pistols of Verona, unable to take his eyes off the weapons. “You want me, isn’t it?” Sly asked. “Okay. Mr. Candle? Mr. Stein? Could you take Henry Wallace out of here? I’ve put aside some money for him. He’ll be okay.” He looked up at Verona. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“No dice, Baum,” Verona replied. “Don Vizzini was quite clear on the matter – you’ve gone and humiliated him, sneaking away like that in Havana. He wants you and your son whacked, as much as a lesson for others as for the Don’s peace of mind.” Verona raised his pistols. “Morty, tell your buddy to get out of the way. I want a clean shot at the both of them.”

Weatherby stepped in front of the Baums, like he could block the bullets with his flimsy frame. He narrowed his eyes at Joey Verona. “Mr. Verona, Henry Wallace is my friend. I will not allow him to come to harm.”

Verona sighed. “Ain’t no job easy these days, is it? You get bystanders getting involved, cops not willing to take a pay-off, marks not staying dead. It’s just one big headache.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And it’s gonna get worse.” I pushed Belasco forward, knocking him to the ground, then went for my second automatic.

Verona turned to face me, but I already had one heater pointed his way. We paused, right in the middle of a Mexican standoff. Verona had one pistol pointed at me and one at Weatherby and the Baums. The air was charged and silent. A little bit of pressure and I could splatter Verona’s brains and hair tonic right over the table – but maybe not before he popped Weatherby in the chest.

A few seconds passed, and no one said anything. Bobby Belasco looked up and then turned around. “Hey, Mort?” he asked. “There’s someone at the door.” Sure enough, I could hear a dull knocking on the double doors. I didn’t turn my face away from Verona. “You want to go see who it is?” Belasco wondered.

“Not particularly,” I replied.

“They seem real insistent…” Belasco said.

He was right. They were so insistent that they smashed the door open and stepped inside. I turned and saw it was one of the waitresses, the one I had been staring at earlier. Now, she didn’t look nearly as good. Her eyes were open, unblinking and the color of rotten milk. Her blonde hair was in a tangle over her shoulder, and she had a slick red wound on her shoulder. She stepped forward slowly, her mouth open and tongue lolling over her teeth.

“Project Lugosi,” I whispered.

“The application of zombies into war zones – the ultimate destruction of a hostile population.” Belasco grinned at the waitress. “Of course, our helicopter transporting the first test subjects happened to have a little engine failure right over the Paradise City express way. The experiments got out. This is the result.”

“Well, they’re still manageable,” I muttered. “Couple of lurching corpses. Pretty much a shooting gallery at a carnival.”

Unfortunately, the zombie had other idea. The waitress came towards me, not in a slow, limping lurch, but in a ferocious charge. I turned around; ready to bring my pistols up and shoot her down, but the corpse was too fast. Her slim form carried surprising strength and she knocked me down, against the table and to the floor. I grabbed her neck and tried to hold her back, feeling her cold skin against my fingers as her open mouth dropped lower and lower.

“Afraid not, buddy-boy,” Belasco explained, not making a move to save me. “You see, Project Lugosi made a few changes to the zombie powder – adding copious amounts of amphetamines. Makes them a little stronger – and a lot faster.”

I couldn’t hold her back for long. My pistols were on the ground. I reached for one, feeling my fingers wrap around the butt. I couldn’t get it in time. I looked up into those milky white eyes and that face that had been pretty, before death set in. Then it exploded, sending brains and skull fragments spinning through the air.

What was left of her head slumped on my chest. I pulled her off of me and wiped the blood from my eyes. It was Joey Verona who held the smoking gun. He walked over to me and offered his hand. I took it. “Did you miss?” I asked. “Aim a little high?”

Verona shrugged. “Nah, Morty I don’t hate you that much.” He turned to the door. “And I think I’m gonna need someone between me and these dead mooks. That’s means you get a free pass, Baum. For now.”

Weatherby hastened to my side as I grabbed my fallen pistols. I felt their weight in my hands, like a boxer getting comfortable in his gloves before the fight. Verona reloaded his own automatics, and Belasco removed his silencer.

“Mort, you cannot conceive of allying with these villains!” Weatherby cried. “They have threatened the life of Henry Wallace! Directly in the case of Verona, and Belasco with his foul Black Ops machinations!” He was angry, the kind of white hot rage you feel after a fellow in your platoon goes down from a sniper’s slug and you can’t do anything about it.

I was about to respond, but Henry Wallace stepped forward. He bowed his head. “Weatherby?” he asked, his voice soft. “I think things are going to get really bad, and we need all the friends that we can. Thanks, for being angry and stuff, but I think we need to work together.” He shivered. “I mean, just listen to what’s going on out there…”

So we listened, and in just a few seconds, we heard all the screams, gurgles, spurts, cries and sounds of tearing flesh that we needed to. Next door, on the casino floor, it seemed the zombie plague was spreading, victim by victim. Belasco wasn’t nearly as thorough as he thought he was.

“Okay,” I said, raising both pistols. “I’ll take point. Belasco, you get behind them, keep that pistol of yours ready. Verona, stay next to me. If you try anything, well, you’d better not miss.” I turned to Weatherby. “Stay with Henry Wallace and his papa, kiddo. If you got any anti-zombie dingus in that coat of yours, now’s the time to bring it out.”