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

by Michael Panush

  “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 teen
ager’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.

  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.