The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3) (17 page)

“Thanks, Father,” I agreed. “We’ll do our best not to let God down.”

“Thank you, sir.” Weatherby shook Father Nikolai’s hand. “Your kindness is perhaps undeserved. But it is greatly appreciated.”

The two of us headed out of the little cabin. More of the monks were there, standing watch before the tall trees of the forest.  A small automobile was parked near the house, some pre-war piece of junk a couple miles away from the scrapheap. But it was the best they had. Weatherby and I got in the back, and the monks covered the windows up with tattered cloth. It was the best car they had and the best disguise they had. I sure hoped God was with them, because it didn’t seem like anything else was.

Weatherby and I slid into the back. A monk pulled back his hood, set a porkpie on his head, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine and the car rumbled away from the cabin and hit the road. Dracula – and the KGB – were waiting for us. I wasn’t planning to disappoint them.

The journey to Zadar was long and boring, but I’d had enough excitement and didn’t mind. I leaned back and let my eyes rest. My body’s aches and bruises started blazing to life like a symphony warming up for an overture. I let the pain come and laughed at it. It would go away in time and I’d still be there. Weatherby was beaten up worse than me, and the kid leaned over and got some well-deserved sleep. I let him rest, even as we rolled past borders and the occasional guard post. Nobody bothered the monk.

Finally, we reached Zadar. It was a beautiful, bustling little town, overlooking the bright blue Adriatic. The buildings all gleamed with white paint under red shingles. It was a tourist town, a resort burg on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain. There wasn’t much time to look at the scenery.

I woke Weatherby up when the monk arrived at the harbor. He stopped the car before the long line of piers, with the fishing boats, cargo and passenger ships floating in the bright blue waters. He turned around and gave me a silent nod. The fellow had risked his life for me and Weatherby, and hadn’t said a single word to us the whole time.

“Thanks, pal,” I said, shaking his hand as I got outside. I gave him a few of Greeley’s dollars, the bigger bills. He looked up at me in surprise. “For the Order,” I explained. “At least to take care of the hospital bills.”

With a quick nod, he pocketed the money and backed up his auto. Weatherby and I waved as he sped away. Then we looked at the docks. There was one passenger ship, leaving for Italy. A guy was selling tickets in a small booth overlooking the water, so I went and bought two. I got first class. Greeley’s money was burning a hole through my pocket. I wouldn’t be sorry to see it go, considering that it had helped release Dracula.

After that, Weatherby and I got some pastries and munched on them, waiting for the ship to leave. I kept my eyes peeled for any KGB agents, but didn’t spot any. That didn’t make me feel any better. Finally, the boat’s bell started ringing. It was time to board.

We headed up the empty dock, walking toward the narrow gangplank to the ship. That’s when Weatherby’s thin hand touched my shoulder. “Mort,” he whispered. “Behind us.”

I turned around. Four men in dark gray trench coats were heading our way. Their coats were the big bulky kind, capable of hiding anything smaller than an artillery piece. Kazmo Karlov was leading them. A pair of Soviet army trucks rolled to the street overlooking the dock behind them. They screeched to a halt before the church with its tall spire, and the Soviet troops in their olive green fatigues began to unload.

Karlov smiled. “I am very sorry, Mr. Candle,” he said. “But I’m afraid I cannot let you board that boat.”

I reached into my coat. The soldiers were moving quickly. I could only hope they wouldn’t reach the docks in time. “That’s a lot of firepower for just two guys,” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Candle, I have read your file.” Karlov waved a gloved hand to the soldiers. “Let us say that I have come adequately prepared.”

He wasn’t prepared enough. A burst of fire appeared from the top of the steeple. A rocket streamed down, crashing into the nearest army truck. The truck crumpled under the spreading cloud of fire, which knocked soldiers hard onto the street. I would recognize that sound anywhere – someone was on the church steeple with a bazooka.

I looked up and saw a flash of tropical red against the white stone of the church. It was Bobby Belasco. He drew a sniper rifle and started shooting, picking off the soldiers with solid, accurate cracks. Belasco had risked his life to help us. I decided not to let him down.

I slammed a fist into Karlov’s chin, spinning him back. He reached into his coat, trying to draw a pistol on me. I rammed my fists into his chest a couple of times and called to Weatherby. “Get to the boat!” I shouted. “Hurry!” We started running. Karlov gurgled and spat out one of his steel teeth. I hit him again and he spat up more.

Then I tossed him down and followed Weatherby, pounding to the gangplank. I took out my pistols and started shooting, tossing lead at the other KGB agents. I put a round through the hat brim of one agent, his fedora falling off in a spray of brains. Weatherby and I reached the deck of the ship, just as it started to pull away.

A sailor stood up to look at us. I handed him a couple bills. “Just keep sailing, Popeye,” I suggested. “We’ll worry about the rest.” He nodded and dashed off without a word. The engine of the boat rumbled to life and the smokestack heaved up gray clouds. We were soon on our way.

Weatherby gasped for air and wiped his forehead. He clung to the railing and looked back at the docks – and the church. “Mr. Belasco saved us,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it. “Good Lord, Mort. Do you think he’ll be captured?”

“Bobby Belasco? I don’t think so. He’s probably got a route back to West Berlin all mapped out and ready to go.”  The soldiers were swarming into the church, but I had a feeling they were too late. Belasco was already on the road. “But what I don’t know is, why the hell did he do it? What would make him pull our behinds out of the fire?”

After a second of thought, Weatherby answered. “He’s alone. You’ve said that the other CIA agents dislike him intensely. And being a spy does not leave room for many friends. But when he sees us, he always tries to act pleasant, no matter what awful business he’s up to. And he doesn’t want us to die. Because we’re the closest thing to friends that he has.”

I thought about his words. They sounded right. “I’m a lot like him. I helped let Dracula loose, which sounds like something right up Belasco’s alley.” I looked down at Weatherby. “But you still stick with me. You’re still my friend.”

“You’re nothing like him, Mort,” Weatherby replied. He patted my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see our rooms.”

We left the deck and headed to our quarters, leaving the bright blue of the Adriatic behind. The boat rumbled onwards, leaving the Balkans and Central Europe. Maybe I was like Belasco. Maybe if things had been different, it would be me out there, navigating a world of shadows and secrets, with no one I trusted and no one I cared about. But I had Weatherby and he had me. That made all the difference in the world, and I was glad of it.

Dracula, the KGB – it didn’t matter. As long as we had each other, they didn’t stand a chance.

Stein Family Reunion

F
amilies are something I read about in the Saturday Evening Post and watch on television. My mother croaked giving birth to me, right after she got off the boat from Calabria. My old man bought it the next week, after he failed to pay off some local Black Hand extortionist. They took off his face with a sawed-off shotgun and stuffed his body in a barrel. After that, the only family I knew was the kids in the Brooklyn’s Catholic orphanage, the sadistic priests and nuns that got their jollies off of beating us, and the mobsters that recruited me.

But my partner, Weatherby Stein, has got himself a family that he loves. He watched his parents die after going through pure hell, but he’s still got a few people who care about him. There’s his sister, Selena Stein. She’s an anthropology student at NYU, smart as a tack and cute as a button. I like her. There’s her boyfriend, Chad Albright. He’s a rich kid turned beatnik, with an annoying habit of trying to be cool, but he’s still got a good heart. I don’t like him so much.

Then there’s Viscount Wagner Stein. He’s a decadent nobleman from the time of the Renaissance, who studied up on black magic and sadism. His guards had the good sense of putting him to death, but they didn’t finish him off right. His occult skills preserved his body – until Weatherby and I made the mistake of waking him up. I figured we could handle him. He broke Weatherby’s arm, nearly killed me, and escaped. Since then, he’s established himself in Greenwich Village as counterculture drug guru, named Dr. Twist.

So when Selena sent us a message from San Francisco, telling us that Wagner Stein and his associates had arrived and were making some lucrative deals with the local Mafia, Weatherby and I drove right over. We met Chad and Selena at their hotel, and Chad filled me in on the situation.

“Oh man,” he said, slipping into the back next to Selena. “After Selena told me about your crazy great granddaddy Wagner being Dr. Twist, I put two and two together and had her give you a ring, you dig?”

I looked over my shoulder, glaring at Chad.  “I dig, buddy. I dig all right. How’d you hear about Dr. Twist being in town? You ‘digging’ the drugs he produces? You gone junkie as well as beatnik, buddy-boy?” I didn’t really like Chad. I didn’t try to hide it.

“I told you, man – I don’t do any of that stuff, especially not Dr. Twist’s Panacea.” Chad shook his head. “Are you gonna keep running me down this whole time? I’d rather you didn’t, because I don’t like the idea of some gorilla in a trench coat thinking he can—”

“Chad?” Weatherby asked suddenly. “How did you encounter him? Did he see you? Did he see Selena?” The poor kid really beat himself up about Wagner Stein. He blamed himself for raising the Viscount from the grave. And Wagner and him sharing blood, only worse.

Chad spoke calmly and seriously. He liked Weatherby. “Don’t worry, little man. He doesn’t know us. I heard he was in town from a friend of mine, so Selena and I headed to a poetry reading where he showed up. The two of us fit right in with the crowd. He did look at Selena, but I think that’s just because she’s so unbelievably beautiful.” He smiled at Selena. “So I did some more asking around.”

“And what were your answers?” I started the Roadmaster. I had a feeling we’d need to motor somewhere soon. Selena and Chad were staying at a decent hotel in the middle of Frisco, with the bridge and the bay in the distance. Fog drifted in from the ocean, sliding over the city like a set of gossamer curtains. It looked like rain. That was the least of my worries.

“Well, Dr. Twist – that’s the name Wagner Stein is going by – is making some big time deals with local gangsters. Apparently, he had meetings with nearly every big time hood in Frisco, making them an offer for some kind of deal. According to the papers, a lot of international organized crime bigwigs are in town, so he’s cozying up to them.”

Selena reached forward, putting her hand on Weatherby’s shoulder. “I think you’ve met some of them before, dear – like Don Vito Vizzini of the Mafia and Boss Yamoto of the Yakuza.” Her voice and face were pained. “They’re dangerous men, Weatherby. I don’t really like you dealing with them.”