The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (29 page)

“Well, how’d you like to hear a little story, private eye? My car’s back there. I know a little place, just down the way, where the walls ain’t got ears. Care to accompany me?”

“You’ll go with a guy waving around a gun?” I wondered.

“I gotta tell my story,” Rose said simply. “You coming or not?”

I nodded. Rose knew something about Big Daddy. If my instincts were right, she was a former lover. That meant she had all the right information on the local crime lord, and most importantly, she was willing to talk. That meant I was willing to listen. “Lead on, Miss Rowan.”

“Please, Morton,” she said, giving me a quick smile. “Call me Rose.”

I followed her out of the trailer park. She had bribed the guards at the gate, who gave her a nod as she walked outside. She had a neat corvette, a two-seater painted electric blue. She slid into the driver’s seat and I joined her. Rose Rowan started the engine and we sped off into the night. “Want a cigarette?” she asked.

“I brought my own pack,” I said, pulling the deck from my coat and fishing out a coffin nail.

“Good. Give me one. I’m gonna need some smoke in my lungs before I start talking.” I complied, and she seemed a bit happier now that she was telling me what to do. She kept on driving and didn’t say another word.

Soon enough, we arrived at the diner, a little greasy spoon that stayed open all night, though it looked as if it didn’t get many customers. We walked inside, our shoes clicking on the linoleum. Rose nodded to the tired cook at the counter and we slid into one of the many unoccupied booths.

“I know Big Daddy from way back,” she said. “We met in the Depression, when the Dust Bowl hit. He was knocking over banks and I drove his getaway car. I was his best friend – but he never loved me. Funny, how that can happen.” She rested her withered hands on the table and looked at her long nails. “But I loved him – and one night, just as that war was starting, I got him good and drunk.”

“I don’t need the details,” I said. “Did you go your separate ways after that?”

“Big Daddy was investing his money, building up a syndicate. I didn’t want no part of that,” Rose explained. “That’s when he changed his name, you know. Thought it sounded nice. ‘A father to his men,’ and all. I bet the brainless Okies he lords over don’t even get it.” She glared up at me. “But he is a father, Morton. He’s the father and I’m the mother.”

“And the son?” I asked.

Rose’s eyes widened. “Is the ’66 Wild Man.”

That was more than a little surprising. “What happened?”

“Well, when I left Big Daddy – pregnant with a kid he didn’t want – I decided to take a sizeable chunk of his fortune with me. He sent his goons after me, but I outran them – and straight into a nuclear missile test range. I got a big whiff of that radiated dust. It went right through me, to the baby growing inside. Soon as little Billy was old enough, I handed him back to Big Daddy, who said he knew just what to do with the kid.”

“Putting him in a roadside show?” I asked.

“What else could he do, huh? You city slickers never realize that some folks just ain’t meant for great things. That they are what they are, and there’s no changing it.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “You’re a detective, Morton. A killer to the manner born. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Is the Wild Man?” I corrected myself. “Is Billy?”

“No. He may be built like a tank, but he’s gentle as a kitten. Despite his size, despite his strength, he’s still a good and kind kid, Morton. And he’s smart. He doesn’t show it, but he is.” She had desperation in her voice, a mother’s fear. “He didn’t kill those people. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t him. I gotta convince Big Daddy of that, and stop him from killing his own son!”

“So if the ’66 Wild Man didn’t murder that family, who the hell did?”

I was so busy, focusing on Rose’s story, that I didn’t hear the bell as the door opened. I didn’t hear the crocodile skin boots tapping across the floor to our table, or the hatchet pulling back. But I sure felt the heavy handle cracking into my skull and knocking my face to the table.

The black graphite slammed into my face and then I rolled off of the chair and onto the ground. I looked up to see Inky Abrams, grinning at me as he held up a hatchet. I saw his gold teeth shine in the low light. He rested the axe on his shoulder. “Who killed them, detective?” he asked. “That’d be me.”

Rose started screaming. She tried to stand, but that was far as she got before Inky buried the hatchet in her skull. She slumped down and Inky got to work, swinging the axe down again and again until blood spewed onto the glass and the table. He stepped over me, pausing to give me a searing kick in the ribs. I tried to reach my pistols, but Inky knelt down and pulled them away, setting them out of my reach.

It was like I was seeing everything through a red haze. I heard the cook at the counter screaming something, and then gurgling out his life blood. Inky got to work on him, taking off his head and mashing up his body with the axe. Then he returned to glaring down at me. “You’re probably asking yourself why I didn’t bury this blade in your skull, you shamus scum,” he said.

“I’m asking myself how I’m gonna kill you…” I groaned. I tried to stand up, and got a boot to my face for my trouble.

“You won’t be smarting me, detective. You dying here, well, that’s a little much. Might make Big Daddy suspicious of the real killer. I don’t want him suspicious. I want him grieving, so sad at the death of his old flame that he gets angry at the Wild Man and has me and the boys take out that monster for good.”

“Why?” I asked. “What’s the Wild Man to you?”

“Nothing – except the son and heir of Big Daddy. I’ve been waiting years for that tub of lard to keel over, and then I found out the truth from a drunken floozy that Miss Rowan had spilled her heart to. I learned that when Big Daddy does die, a brain-damaged freak could inherit what’s rightfully mine! You’ll understand my frustration, I’m sure.” He pulled back his hatchet. “That’s why I busted the Wild Man out of Plunket’s place, and why I cut up that family in the Easy Z’s Motel.”

“But you’re not gonna kill me?”

“Heh. What I got planned for you, flatfoot? You’re gonna wish you got the axe.” He brought the handle down on my head. The red haze deepened, and swept up the rest of my vision.

When I woke up, I was looking up at the night sky. The stars winked down like flickering eyes, laughing at my stupidity. There was a small storefront on my right, some kind of old wooden structure that could have been a general store in a Western flick. A large rat was painted above the doors. I tried to move my hands, but thick cords bound them. My thoughts instantly turned to the Ka-Bar in my boot. Inky hadn’t touched it. If I could just reach down and grab it, I’d give that tattooed freak a couple more marks he wouldn’t soon forget.

But then Inky Abrams appeared above me and I stopped moving. “You’re awake? That’s wonderful.” He held up his hands. “I own a stake in this place. I’ll kill the owner if I don’t get it. And he lets me get rid of things here. ‘Ralph’s Rodent Rodeo,’ it’s called.” Inky Abrams walked around me, looking up at the stars. “Sure is a beautiful night, ain’t it, Candle?”

“Enjoy it,” I said. “It’ll be your last.”

“You sure like to smart me. Even when I told you not to.” He gave me another kick in the side. The searing pain shot through my body. “Now, I gotta get a move on. I figure the Wild Man will be at the Mystery Beast Preserve, the next attraction on the Roadside Line. That’s where we’ll kill him. But you’ll just die here, shamus.”

He pushed me forward and I rolled. I tasted gray dust in my mouth, and I reached the edge of the pit. I dropped straight down, gasping in sour air until the bottom broke my fall. Inky tossed my two pistols after me. I looked up at him in surprise.

“They’re empty!” he said. “Hah!” He turned away, moving back to his pick-up truck. “Gotta go, detective. Enjoy the company.” I heard his engine roar and the car speeding away, and then I finally sat up. My eyes tried to adjust to the dark of the pit. Many things were coming my way, big and hungry, squeaking like rusty metal as their claws touched the dirt.

A rat stepped into the light. It was big as a pit bull, with a matted coat, beady eyes and long yellow teeth. I thought it was a pair of rats, close together, but as it drew closer, I realized the truth. The rat had two heads. Twice as many teeth, four eyes angry, and two tails waving like worms through the dirt. More two-headed rats appeared behind it. I struggled to reach for my knife, feeling panic rising inside of me. These monsters wouldn’t leave much but bones – if I let them.

I leaned down and felt my fingers scrape the handle of my Ka-Bar. My palms were slick with sweat and the rodents were getting closer. It seemed like it took an hour, but I finally got the knife out and slashed open the ropes – just in time for the rats to attack.

They sprang forward, and I came up to meet them, knife drawn. The first rat went for my throat, both sets of teeth about to dig into my neck before I skewered it with the combat knife. Another two-headed rat started chewing on my leg and I went down. I kicked the rodent, sending it scampering away. But the rest of them were there, waiting to wash over me like a black chattering tide.

I started fighting them with everything I had, swinging my Ka-Bar and kicking out with both feet. Furry bodies cracked against the sides of the pit, and my blade was soon red to the hilt. I put my back to the wall, making sure no rats snuck up on me. But I could still feel their claws scratching my legs, their teeth trying to grab a finger or even a whole hand and stuff it in their bellies.

I managed to handle myself okay – for a couple minutes. Maybe it was longer. It was difficult to tell the passage of time, just like when you’re in a foxhole in a snowy field in Belgium, watching the Panzers roll in slowly while the white-suited stormtroopers scamper forward between them. You fire and you fire until the Thompson in your hand is white hot and you don’t stop firing. And next to you, the .30 cal is blaring its endless song, and then the Kraut mortars start screaming down, kicking up snow and dirt and turning bodies into things that you couldn’t even comprehend until they splashed all over you and your precious hole. And then you’re killing someone, not with a knife, not with an entrenching tool, but with your hands – and he’s doing his best to do the same to you.

I remembered those times, and fell back into them. The worst about it was that I found it almost comforting, like an old worn pair of boots, easily slipped on again.

It took Weatherby’s voice, shouting louder than the imaginary mortar strikes, to bring me out of it. I looked up, through the top of the pit and saw Weatherby and Elkins look down.

“Morton!” Weatherby cried, true panic in his voice. “Great Gods! Hold on, Mort! We’re putting down a rope!”

I felt sunlight on my face and realized it was morning. Elkins lowered down a rope and I grabbed it. A rat jumped for me, and Elkins blasted it apart with his sniper rifle. I managed to reach down and grab my automatics, stuffing the cannons in my shoulder-holsters as Weatherby and Elkins hauled me up. They carried me up, closer and closer to the light.

And then I was crawling out on the dirt, looking up at them. “Thanks a million,” I rasped, and Elkins handed me a canteen of water, and then a hip flask of something stronger. After wetting my whistle, I felt a little better. It was the morning, and that meant Big Daddy, Inky Abrams and his gang would be out looking for the ’66 Wild Man.

My Roadmaster was parked near the edge of the rat pit. Ralph Rodent’s Rodeo looked even worse in the daytime. I walked past the rickety storefront with its wide dusty windows, and moved to my car. I didn’t speak until I had reloaded my pistols, and slapped a few quick bandages on the bites and scratches on my legs and arms. I felt like I would fall apart with each passing second, but this wasn’t the time. I didn’t want to let Inky Abrams win.

“How’d you find me?” I wondered.

“You did not reappear at morning. We searched the trailer park, and found no sign of you. Mr. Elkins knew that Mr. Abrams commonly uses this Rodent Rodeo establishment as a base of operations, and we headed here with great haste.” Weatherby shook his head. “Just in time too, it appears.”

“You find out anything?” Elkins asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know that the Wild Man is Big Daddy’s son, and that it was Inky Abrams who murdered all those people. Inky wants the Wild Man dead, and if we don’t stop him, he’s gonna pull it off – at the Mystery Beast Preserve.”

“That’s a ways down the Line,” Elkins said.

“Then we’d best start driving.” I took another hit from the whiskey bottle and handed it off.

We hurried into the car. Elkins drove and I sat in the back with Weatherby. He patched me up a little bit better, shaking his head like a schoolteacher looking over sloppy work. “We’ve chosen a very painful line of work, Mort,” Weatherby said. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s truly worth all the pain and trouble.”

“What else would we do?” I asked, leaning back in the seat. I noted the heavier weapons, resting on the floor, behind the seats. I had a feeling we’d have need of them.