Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1)

by Michael Panush

  Roscoe nodded to Detective Burns’s pistol. “You can go ahead and pull that trigger. Put a bullet in my belly. I’ll get a stomach ache. Then I’ll fire and blow off your face.” He straightened his arm, keeping the sawed-off aimed straight at Detective Burns.

  “I can do more damage than that,” Burns said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Sure.” Burns let a strangled chuckle leave his pursed lips. He lowered his revolver. “I have before.” Then he turned to the street as three black-and-white police cars―the only cars the La Cruz Police Department had―careened down the block. They came to a screeching halt, and the local cops poured out into the street, all raising their shotguns and pistols. Detective Burns slid his revolver into his shoulder-holster and approached them. He pulled his badge from his coat and flashed it out. “Don’t worry, officers. I was first on the scene. Seems like some sort of gangland violence.” He pointed to Roscoe. “You’ll probably want to take him in for questioning.”

  Sheriff Leland Braddock came gingerly out of his police cruiser. He walked up to the sidewalk and looked at Detective Burns’s badge for a long time, like he was memorizing its contours. Then he looked at Roscoe. “Gangland violence?”

  “He’s lying to you,” Roscoe said. “He was with them. He was part of the hit.” But Roscoe looked at Sheriff Braddock’s face and could tell he wasn’t buying it. The other cops weren’t buying it either. They had their guns raised―and every muzzle was pointed toward Roscoe. Detective Burns was already walking into the road, to stand near the ranks of his fellow cops. It all made sense. The La Cruz PD would always believe a respected Los Angeles plainclothes detective over a zombie greaser with a history of strangeness.

  “Well, we can examine that a little later,” Sheriff Braddock said. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “But let’s just get you away from the crime scene, Roscoe. We can call up the Captain and talk it all over. We’ll figure it out. But, for now, why don’t you come with us?”

  Roscoe looked back at the Packard. Wooster was leaning against the side of the car. Felix and Ace stood next to him. They were doing their best to staunch the bleeding. Ace still looked shaken and horrified. Felix wasn’t much better. Wooster’s eyes were open. They were red and tired, like he was going through a hell of a hangover. The kids needed to be returned to their families, and Wooster needed a hospital. Fighting would only delay that.

  “All right,” Roscoe said. “But I want you to escort Ace and Felix home. Keep a cop car across the street from Ace’s house, too.” It was unlikely Don Lupo’s goons would try to attack the Arkins, but it was best to be prepared. “Don’t worry about protecting Donovan Motors. We can do that better than you ever can.” He held out his wrists.

  “Okay, Roscoe,” Sheriff Braddock said. “Okay.” He slapped on the cuffs and then shouted some orders.

  His cops rushed to action. They hurried to Wooster’s side and helped him up, then took him down to one of their automobiles. Ace and Felix were led down as well. The cops had put blankets on their shoulders. The boys saw Roscoe with the cuffs on and rushed to him. Roscoe remained standing.

  “Mr. Roscoe!” Ace cried. “These badge bandits are hauling you away? That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Ace turned to the officers. “He saved us. He protected me and Felix, just like he’s always protected this town.”

  “Indeed,” Felix said. “You brutes are making a mockery of justice!”

  Detective Burns walked over to stand next to Roscoe and looked at the kids. “You boys don’t know what you saw. I’m sure you were just terrified by the exchange of gunfire. It makes sense that the sequence of events isn’t quite clear in your developing minds.” He patted Ace’s head. The boy shied away. “Go on home. Hug your mothers. Eat your Wheaties.” Then he turned away and sauntered back to the nearest police car like it was his personal automobile.

  The kids were waiting for Roscoe’s word. They’d protest, if he asked them to― but that would only waste time. Roscoe held out his hands, still stuck in the cuffs. Felix and Ace took them. He gave each of their hands a quick clasp. “Felix…You tell the Captain exactly what happened and you make sure Wooster gets all the help he needs. When that’s done, maybe have him send someone to the police station to pick me up. But you stay at Donovan Motors and you stay safe. Give Snowball a pat for me. Understand, kiddo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Ace?” Roscoe asked. Sheriff Braddock rested a meaty hand on Roscoe’s shoulder. The meaning was clear―it was time to go.

  “Yeah?” Ace asked breathlessly.

  “Keep your wheels on the road,” Roscoe said. The officers led him back to the police cruiser and gently urged him inside. Sheriff Braddock plopped in the passenger seat, and a pimple-faced La Cruz cop took the wheel. They sped around and drove away from the crime scene―a gangland massacre that had ripped to life in the suburbs. Roscoe realized he was breathing, his lungs rising and falling out of instinct. He touched his chest and pressed out the last of his breath as the police cruiser drove back toward Main Street.

  It was the early evening when Betty Bright arrived at the La Cruz Police Station to bail out Roscoe. The Captain had called ahead and squared it with Sheriff Braddock, because he went to the single row of jail cells in the back to unlock the door and lead Roscoe to the lobby. The Police Station was a relic from the Wild West days a little after the gold rush, an ostentatious Victorian dump that looked like a gingerbread house of gray stone. Sheriff Braddock had to fiddle with the key ring for a little before unlocking the cell door. That cell had only held juvenile delinquents and the occasional drunk. Roscoe had the feeling this whole business was something La Cruz had never experienced before. He fell into step beside Sheriff Braddock.

  They walked past the other empty cells. “So, you’re on Strickland’s payroll too, huh?”

  Sheriff Braddock glared at him. “I’ve never taken a dime from anyone. And you know that, Roscoe. I’m a cop who is doing his job and there’s no reason to insult me for that.” His bluster died away as they reached the lobby. “But the trouble that’s coming to La Cruz―with that madness at the festival this weekend and now this―I just don’t think I can handle it.”

  “It’s not getting cats out of trees, is it?” Roscoe asked.

  “That’s the fire department.” Sheriff Braddock sighed. “There’s been talk about this. Mr. Strickland has approached me, offering his private security forces to help restore law and order to the city. He apparently owns a security company, you see, of guards and watchmen for his factories. He’s thinking of sending them here, to help out. It wouldn’t be bribery, Roscoe. It really wouldn’t. It’s just a little help. And, to be honest, I think we need it.”

  The lobby was empty, apart from a bored receptionist with a beehive hairdo, and Betty Bright sitting in one of the chairs with a chili burger wrapped in tinfoil by her side. She hurried up, taking the food with her, and ran to Roscoe. Betty threw her arms around him in a quick embrace and then presented her offering.

  “A little snack. In case you were hurt this afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” Roscoe unrolled the burger and took a large bite. Chili dripped down his chin and plopped onto his leather jacket. He didn’t care. One bite and the hole in his chest knitted itself back together. Roscoe held out the burger to Braddock. “Want some, sheriff?”

  Sheriff Braddock shook his head and stepped back. “Please take him home, Miss Bright, and tell him to talk to the Captain about Mr. Strickland’s proposal. I know the Captain doesn’t exactly like Mr. Strickland, but I think we’re all gonna have to learn to work together―for the safety of La Cruz.”

  “Okay, sheriff,” Betty said. “Thank you.” She put her arm on Roscoe and steered him away, before he could make another outburst. She took him to the door, and they went outside, into the dark parking lot. The coupe was still there. “They treated you all right I’ve been reading about what police do to captured Civil Rights workers and then there are Angel’s stories
about the Zoot Suit violence―but cops here don’t act like that, do they?”

  “It was fine. A regular Ritz-Carlton.” They walked over to Betty’s little two-seater coupe. “How’s Wooster and Felix?”

  “Wooster has pulled through. The police took him to Dr. Randolph, on Chestnut Street, to see if they needed to take him to a bigger hospital in LA. You wouldn’t believe how many slugs Dr. Randolph took out of Wooster―but he says our friend’s condition is stable. He says any other man would have probably been killed.”

  Roscoe grinned. “That’s Wooster for you―too stubborn to die.”

  “Felix is terrified. He’s trying not to show it, pretending to be brave, but the little fellow’s worried about everything. I think it’s reminding him of what happened when he was very young, in Germany―right before the Nazis took him and his parents away. He’s up in his room right now, reading and fretting over Wooster.” Betty glanced at Roscoe as they started the engine. “The Captain’s called a meeting. All of our allies from La Cruz and LA are going to be there. He even had Angel go to the bakery and pick up some muffins.”

  “Muffins,” Roscoe repeated. “Great.”

  The coupe sped quickly down Main Street. There wasn’t much traffic, which was surprising even for La Cruz. A lot of the shops were closed. The diner’s neon signs were dark. Betty drove straight back to Donovan Motors and they headed inside. Angel was leaning against the side of the building, waiting for them. He walked over and patted Roscoe’s shoulder without saying anything. All of them walked into the main garage hall together.

  The Captain stood next to a card table, set in the center of the cement room, with a tray of muffins resting on it. He nodded to Roscoe as they walked inside. “You and Wooster performed commendably today. It could have been much worse.” Roscoe had the feeling that it very well might get much worse quite soon. “I apologize for the sheriff’s treatment. Braddock is a good man, but he frightens easily. He doesn’t like this sort of business―open warfare―in his city. It makes him act irrationally.”

  “Tell me about it.” Roscoe pulled up a chair and grabbed a muffin. Angel stood behind him. “Strickland’s apparently offered to lend his private security goons to help restore law and order. That means more zombies, I bet.” Roscoe munched the muffin. “Sheriff Braddock sounded like he was buying what Strickland was saying.”

  “Strickland’s making his move, man,” Angel said. “Just like he said he would. And the cops―we can’t be getting no help from the goddamn cops. It’ll be like the old days all over again, when gringo sailors would come gunning for anyone with brown skin and the cops would just sit back and let it happen. They’d join in too.” Angel put his hands inside his pockets. “We beat them by sticking together and fighting as dirty as they did.”

  “He’s got a point, boss,” Roscoe mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

  The Captain stared at them. “I want a measured response. We can’t operate without the full support of La Cruz’s people. If we lose that, then we’re finished in this town and Strickland will win.” He folded his hands on the table. “That can’t be allowed to happen. The stakes are high―higher than any of you can imagine.”

  Before Roscoe could ask what exactly the Captain meant, Betty walked in. “Captain?” she asked. She pointed down the street. “I think our guests are here. They look like they’re ready to start the meeting.” Roscoe followed her finger. Sure enough, a quartet of new automobiles had rolled to the garage.

  Eldridge Swann came first, driving a dull purple Cadillac with the roof up. His two broad-shouldered bodyguards stayed outside as he walked inside. Next came a shining black hearse with a coffin still in the back. That belonged to Basil Barrow, the undertaker at the La Cruz Municipal Cemetery and little Penny’s father. He was a pale and sallow-faced man, jowls drooping under his chin. A top hat rested at a crooked angle and his head was wedged beneath his shoulder-blades, like he was being crushed under a heavy weight. He walked over and carefully sat down across from the Captain.

  Two more cars joined the meeting. One was a battered Studebaker Commander in a dull gray that was remarkable for how well it blended in with the other cars on the road. The fellow who stepped out of that was Walt Weaver, an occult private detective from Hollywood. He wore a faded trench coat and a rumpled suit, the tie drooping over his collar. His eyes were deep set and weary above a narrow nose. He removed his fedora and held his hat in his hand as he took his seat. The last to arrive was the Deadbeat. His car put even Roscoe’s to shame. It was a Hudson Hornet, painted the same silver as starlight. A raccoon tail swung on the antennae. The Deadbeat himself emerged from behind the wheel, a tall guy with an ageless, hairless face, and eyes hidden behind thick square sunglasses. He wore a tight, dark sweater and jeans. The Deadbeat pushed up his shades and strolled over to occupy the remaining seat at the card table.

  They were all there. Roscoe looked at them. Nobody took a muffin.

  The Captain cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we have a bit of situation brewing in La Cruz. I’m sure you all heard about the attack on the Surf and Sand Festival and―”

  “The dead rose,” Basil Barrow intoned. “Seeking the souls of the living.”

  Weaver stared at Barrow. “Looks like you could use some of the living’s souls yourself, pal.” He glanced back at the Captain. “Yeah, the storm striking your little Rotary Club beach party made the papers even in the big city. The Deadbeat’s radio show filled me in on the rest.” Walt nodded to the Deadbeat. “It’s an informative little bit of radio―even if the music sounds like a chorus of cats getting strangled by monkeys.”

  The Deadbeat shrugged off the insult. He reached out and snatched a muffin. “Wouldn’t expect a square like you to understand. But you just listen to the truth and leave the bop to those who can bop, you dig?”

  “Whatever you say, buddy.” Walt grinned. “Anyway, this whole thing is bad business and I think it’s only gonna get worse―especially if Reed Strickland’s involved.”

  “What do you mean, man?” Angel asked.

  “I’ve been doing a little research on him. He lives like a king in his mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Every cop and politician jumps at his beck and call. He’s got government contacts after making weapons for the War and those arms factories of his are goldmines. He’s got a private security force, too, to guard his factories. It’s staffed by freaks―zombies with Sam Browne belts.” Walt grinned at Roscoe. “No offense, buddy.” He pointed back to the Captain. “And he’s got mob connections.”

  Eldridge Swann shifted in his seat. He’d clearly been waiting for a chance to speak. “I hear that. We got a problem in the Row, Captain.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Walt asked. “Price of Thunderbird malt liquor going up?”

  Swann glowered at Walt. “You keep talking,” Swann explained. “You ain’t gonna last long.” The Captain looked like he was going to criticize Walt, but then the PI clammed right up. The Deadbeat emitted a low whistle. Swann kept talking “As I was saying, It’s an outside outfit, trying to muscle in. Wiseguys. Italians. I think it’s Don Lupo’s gang, from LA. They’re taking over my protection routes and starting to move in dope and bigger gambling. Hate to say it, but Butcher’s Row could be a gold mine for them.”

  “It was Don Lupo who was behind the attempted hit today,” Roscoe said. “And Detective Burns was there, too.”

  “Burns?” Swann shook his head. “Hell. That bastard’s a devil with a badge. I got cousins up in Watts. Burns is a regular around there. Shakes them down like clockwork and he’s good with brass knuckles, and his pistol too. Always hides behind the law when it suits him. Word is he used to do hits for the mob when he was coming up. Dirty money paid his way to his current rank, and I think his star’s only gonna rise.” Swann’s eyes lowered. “Strickland’s got the law on his side now.”

  “And you ain’t gotta add that his goal to make everything nice and square,” the Deadbeat added. “Even if he’s pretty twisted himself. I
f he gets into power, I bet that my little radio station’s gonna be first on the chopping block. He’ll probably get that real gone new coffee joint, Splitsville, bulldozed, too. Everything for his dream of peaceful middle-class suburbia― which is a nightmare for cats like us.”

  Barrow folded his gnarled hats. “He is a man of nightmares,” he said softly. “Such is the power needed to summon the dead in those numbers, as Strickland did during the Surf and Sand Festival. Do you know what those knights were? My daughter brought me some of the bones. I crushed them to powder and conducted arcane rituals, once used by Egyptian priests in shadow-wreathed pyramids, and learned some answers. They are crusaders, gentlemen, knights who traveled to the Holy Land and found only death in the ageless sands.” Barrow’s dark eyes flashed. “And now they are here.”

  Roscoe had been listening to everything grimly. He stood after Barrow spoke and everyone stared at him. “So we kill him. Lupo. Burns. Roach. Strickland. We kill them all.” He leaned over and tapped the table. “They ain’t invincible. They ain’t even that tough. And they’ve already declared war. So let’s declare war right back and wipe them out.”

  Everyone was silent after he spoke. Roscoe looked at the Captain. The old man’s eyes were half-closed. He seemed tired―and disappointed as well. “We’re not murderers. We are not killers. Not if we can help it. If you murder Strickland, the law will close upon you like a noose. You’ll fry in an electric chair, Roscoe, or suck gas in a gas chamber―and when they find that doesn’t kill you, they’ll lock you away forever. La Cruz needs you free. I won’t allow you to take that course of action.” The Captain stood. Everyone’s eyes were on him. “But we will prepare, wait for Strickland to falter, and then move in and finish him.” He looked over the men at the meeting. “I’ve got tasks for all of you. They’ll need to be completed if we want to emerge victorious.”

  “Lay it on me,” the Deadbeat said.