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

by Michael Panush

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. Strickland has something on him, forcing him to play his role.” The Captain sighed. “I don’t think we’ll get him to admit it. Grubb’s always hated us. He’s locked on course. There’s no turning away for him now. We’ve just got to work to try and get the people on our side―and to keep our tempers.” He stepped past Roscoe, moving toward the aisle. “Sir!” the Captain called. “Sir, may I speak?”

  Reverend Grubb fixed his stare on the Captain. The church went quiet. “You may not. The devil does not speak in a House of God, after all.” Now there were shouts and cries coming from the audience. Roscoe was shouting too. Reverend Grubb stared down at the Captain, his face still impassive and cold. Mayor Corrigan and Sheriff Braddock were trying to talk to Reverend Grubb, trying to get him to let the Captain speak, but the priest wasn’t listening to them. Grubb simply leaned closer to the microphone. “You attacked me, Captain. Your dead man, your friend there, attacked me as well. Why would I extend you a courtesy now?”

  “Because I deserve to have my voice heard, damn you!” The Captain stepped into the aisle of the church. Everyone looked at him. His weathered face went pale. He seemed to hunch over a little, and Roscoe wanted to run to him, to support him and make sure he could stand. The Captain cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. “It’s true that I am different. I am entirely different than most other people in La Cruz. The individuals who work for me are different as well. I don’t think any of them have any interests in the kinds of lives you good people lead. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t protect you. We’ve done that for years. I’ve done that for the majority of my life, which I consider justly spent. Our differences don’t mean that―right now― you can’t protect us.” He looked over the faces of everyone in the church. “That’s all.” He paused. “I won’t waste your time with anymore equivocation. Good afternoon.” Then he turned away and walked back to Roscoe’s side. “Let’s go.”

  Roscoe nodded. They walked out of the aisle and stepped into the church’s lobby. A cacophony of discussion rippled to life behind them. Roscoe hardly heard it. Instead, he was looking at two men standing by the open glass doors. Mr. Roach and Reed Strickland. Roach had on his pink suit, his sunglasses hanging low on his thin nose. He was smiling, showing his white, square, and even teeth. His hands flapped together in mock applause. Strickland stared on silently, looking at the Captain and Roscoe. The two pairs stared at each.

  “An excellent speech,” Roach said. He turned to Roscoe. “I was sorry to hear about yesterday, Roscoe. That fracas in the streets sounded nasty. How are you? Bullet wounds healing up?” He puckered his lips, full of mocking care. “And how are the kids? Any nightmares from dear little Felix?”

  “You say his name again and I’ll―” Roscoe started, but the Captain put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Not here,” the Captain ordered. He nodded to Strickland. “It’s what he wants.”

  “And I always get what I want.” Strickland stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper as he looked over at the Captain. “This town is mine. By tomorrow, it will be my mine completely.”

  The Captain did not respond. He walked past Strickland, moving between Roach and the tycoon. Roscoe followed. They stepped outside and walked into the parking lot. There was still discussion going on from inside the church.

  After returning to Donovan Motors, Roscoe and the Captain met up with Angel, Betty and Felix for dinner. Snowball was there too, bounding around their legs and yipping excitedly until Felix picked him up and calmed him. Roscoe didn’t join them. He needed solitude, to sort out the memories boiling away inside of him. They seemed to be overflowing from his mind.

  He hurried to his room and sat on his bed. This time, he leaned down and rested his head on the pillow. His eyes closed. It wasn’t the half-sleep he normally sunk into, the blind and restless darkness that took an effort to maintain. It was true sleep. And something else happened, which Roscoe had never experienced during his entire undead existence: he dreamed.

  His name was Carmine Vitale. He was a boy, growing up amongst the olive groves of Sicily. He remembered his mother’s apron and the touch of his father’s weathered hand on his cheek. The sun would rise, orange and brilliant, over the olive groves and it was like fire had fallen from the sky. Carmine loved to watch it. His father taught him how to shoot and talked in anger about Mussolini and the Fascists―along with the local Mafia strongman. In the end, it was the Mafia which destroyed him. They shot Carmine’s father through the head and set fire to his house, while his mother bled to death inside from a knife wound. Carmine raced outside and saw the smoke and flickering flames, rising up into the sun. The fire was the same color as the sunrise he used to love.

  He moved to America. He went to work for his uncle, a drunk who slaved in a garage in Los Angeles. Carmine loved the cars, loved the way metal responded to his touch. His uncle gambled. He owed money to Don Lupo, who was establishing himself after moving to Los Angeles from New York. One day, Carmine found his uncle had disappeared. Nobody wanted to talk to him about it. He turned to the streets, which had always been his preferred home in America.

  Garage work led to breaking into cars for purses and wallets. That led to a charge of grand theft auto and a choice―prison or the Army. Seventeen-year-old Carmine chose to serve his country. They sent him back to Sicily and taught him to kill. Motors and murder were the only things he was good at. He excelled in the war. He stormed across Sicily. He slaughtered Fascists and left bodies bleeding in the dust behind him. His smile never faded. When the war ended, Carmine knew exactly what he was going to do for a living.

  He went to work for Don Lupo. He started as a driver, delivering money and dope to a city flush with post-war cash. That led to hijackings―and that led to murder, which was where Carmine Vitale really shone. He torched a Chinatown gambling parlor and gunned down the burning Tong enforcers as they ran screaming into the sidewalk. He ran down a Pachuco gangster, ripping his sharkskin gray zoot suit under the wheels of his tires. He shoved a Greek dope pusher from the passenger seat of his custom car―straight into oncoming traffic. Soon enough, Carmine started working with a corrupt patrolman―Officer Elihu Burns―to do his hits. He got a name, too. Everyone called him Wheels.

  The memories slowed. It became a film instead of a slideshow. Now Roscoe could remember names and put them to faces. He remembered a job―his last job. It was to murder a bookie named De Silva, a Paisan who owed the Lupo Family a great deal of money and had no intention of paying. He lived with his mother, a fortune teller who operated out of a parlor called Madam Aradia’s in Boyle Heights. The mother was supposedly a Strega―a witch―who had emigrated with her son from Tuscany. The orders were simple. Go with Officer Burns. Kill the bookie, make it neat, send a message. It was nothing Carmine couldn’t handle.

  drove to the shop together, arriving in the middle of the night when even Boyle Heights was silent and sleepy. It was a small store, with open hands and a crystal ball stenciled on the glass by the door. Carmine and Officer Burns, off-duty and wearing his usual bad blue suit, went to the door. Carmine gripped his lupara and knocked. There was no response so he blasted the lock off the door and kicked it open.

  They darted inside, guns raised, and entered a small reception area with dusty magazines, a couple benches, and a desk in the corner.

  “Case the joint,” Burns said. “Find that bum De Silva, and do him fast. Don’t worry about the gunshots. They’re as common as cracks in the sidewalk in this neighborhood.” He pointed to the offices behind the main lounge. “You try the crystal ball room. I’ll sweep the office.”

  “Sure,” Carmine said.

  He went to the far door and stepped inside while Burns went for the office. Carmine pushed open the door with his shotgun and looked around. It was a small room, kept purposely dark with black curtains. A round table stood in the center, draped in a large black velvet cloth. A crystal ball sat on the table, gleaming in t
he moonlight coming through the open window. The fabric around the table moved.

  Carmine drew closer and reached under. His hand caught a wrist. He pulled. It was De Silva. The bookie slid out from under the table, already babbling and crying. De Silva looked like a rat with slicked-back dark hair and a rumpled checkered suit. His collar lay open, revealing a large gold crucifix above his stained undershirt. He stumbled to his feet and tried to run―so Carmine swung the sawed-off around and cracked the barrel hard into his cheek. De Silva struck the ground and rolled over, wailing and begging. Tears streamed down his face. Snot pooled in the spot between his nose and mouth.

  Carmine leveled the gun.

  “Please!” De Silva cried. “My mother needs me! She’ll be all alone when I’m gone.” He came up to his knees and clasped his hands. “I’ll get Don Lupo his money! Every cent! I swear to God! I swear on my immortal soul! Please, don’t―”

  The sawed-off spat its second barrel, straight into De Silva’s throat. He hit the ground, gurgling and gasping as blood sprayed out of him. It looked black on the dark floor, like a spreading puddle of shadow. Carmine cracked open the shotgun and reloaded. De Silva twitched a little and lay still. Footsteps clicked behind Carmine. He spun around and brought up the lupara. An old woman stood in the doorway―crooked with age and with a weathered face framed by smooth, gray hair. She wore a dark shawl over her nightgown, with countless bits of jewelry clanking on her neck, wrists, and ears. Severe eyes glared at Carmine above her hooked nose.

  She charged at Carmine. “Fiend!” she cried, speaking the language of the Old Country, which Carmine had once spoken with his parents. “Devil! You murder my son! You murder for money!” Her hand struck out again and again. Carmine looked into her deep, dark eyes. He didn’t resist. “He spoke of you, Carmine Vitale. He spoke of you in terror. He fears you because you are alive but your soul is dead. You murder people for money. Only a dead soul would agree to such a dreadful task.”

  Carmine retreated. He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d killed unarmed men before―but never an old lady. De Silva’s mother―the Strega―slapped him again. She reached into her robe and drew out a small silken pouch. “I curse you!” she roared, ripping open the pouch “I grant you the living death, so that your body may wither as your soul has, and you will never truly die and know peace!” Madam Aradia tossed the contents of the pouch―tiny bird bones and dry rose petals―into Carmine’s face. The concoction made him cough and turn away. The fortune-teller continued. “On the bones of my grandmothers and the spirits of the mountains and glens, I curse you! May rot and corruption claim you, Carmine Vitale, and never let you go! May you―”

  A revolver’s blast ended her words. Shot neatly through the forehead, Madam Aradia slumped to the ground. Carmine turned. Officer Burns stood in the doorway. He was already sliding his revolver into his shoulder-holster.

  “All right,” he said. “It’s done. Let’s go, Carmine.”

  “You killed her.”

  Officer Burns shrugged. “No witnesses. Now let’s go.”

  They left together. As they walked to Carmine’s automobile―a silver Cadillac bought with blood money―Officer Burns drew closer to him. “There’s another job tomorrow. Don Lupo wants us to go south, do some work in La Cruz. It shouldn’t take all day. I’ll pick you up at your place in the morning, all right?” He patted Carmine’s shoulder. “And you better be ready.”

  “Sure,” Carmine said. He got into his car and drove―but not to his home.

  He went to a motel he had visited once a week for three months now, always for no more than an hour or so. It was a dingy flophouse in Watts, where the neon sign advertising the vacancy glared down like an angry eye. Carmine drove to his usual spot and stopped his car. He walked across the lot and reached the door of room 005. He knocked and the door opened. A woman looked back at him. She had a thin, swan-like neck, and a face gone pale with worry. Her long, dark hair hung down over her bare shoulders. She grabbed Carmine and hauled him inside. She was Francesca Lupo, the boss’s wife.

  Francesca and Carmine embraced. Afterwards, Francesca wordlessly made drinks for both of them. She stood framed by the window, moonlight and shadows playing across her and the peeling wallpaper. Carmine never talked about his work with her and she never talked about her husband. It went better that way.

  While they sipped the drinks, Francesca turned to face Roscoe. “We’ve been doing this for two long. We need to run, far away. I know the combination to my husband’s safe. I can take out enough of his money to support us. We’ll go south―down to Rio. We can lay low there, live comfortably. Be together for the rest of our lives. We can sun ourselves in the morning and spend days on the beach.” She turned back to Carmine. He was sitting on the bed, the booze cold in his hands. “What do you think?”

  “I got a job tomorrow,” Carmine said. “One more job. Burns already asked me. It’ll look odd if I don’t show and they’d send someone after us.”

  “One more job and then we’ll leave?”

  “Yeah, and never come back.”

  Francesca ran to him. Their kiss was fire in the shadows.

  The next memory was the final one. It was a back road around La Cruz, by the scattered Okie villages and fruit groves in the patch of country known as Redborough. Carmine was in the back seat. It was raining, the falling gray lines made worse by fog creeping in by the sea. Burns’s Chevy bounced and rolled over the roughly paved road. He was driving with another Lupo shooter, a bloated killer named Enzo, in the passenger seat. Burns was talking about baseball scores but Carmine wasn’t listening. He was only thinking of Francesca. Carmine had left his sawed-off shotgun at home. Burns promised they’d get the heaters they’d need in La Cruz. However, Carmine had still decided to bring a .38 snub. He had tucked the revolver in the waist of his jeans. Burns hadn’t seen it.

  They drove in silence. Carmine decided to risk a question as they rolled past empty green fields banded by crooked, broken wooden fences. “So, what’s the job?”

  “You are,” Burns said.

  “The hell you talking about?”

  “I got curious. Tailed you after a job a few weeks ago.” Burns and Enzo turned to look at him. They had their guns drawn. “You go to visit Francesca, don’t you? You two spend a lot of time together.” Burns pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. Carmine’s heart pounded. “I told the Don everything. He’s going to deal with Francesca personally. I’m going to deal with you.”

  Terror gripped Carmine. He reached down and managed to rip the .38 from his ankle-holster.

  “He’s got a roscoe!” Enzo screamed, and his gun went off.

  The bullet ripped into Carmine’s gut. Burns shot him as well. The .38 fell from his hands. He never got a chance to fire. Blood coursed from his wounds. His eyes stared open, looking at his murderers. He remained frozen, like he was paralyzed and not dead. Officer Burns opened the door and went around. Enzo helped him.

  They grabbed Carmine’s body, and tossed him into a ditch. He lay for a long time, his eyes open and facing the gray sky. Raindrops spattered his face. After a while, the dead man stood up and walked. The word “roscoe” pounded in his head, resounding again and again like a skipping record. He stumbled down the road. He crossed the path of a speeding Rolls Royce and crashed into the hood. The force knocked him into the street. Angel Rey was driving. The Captain was in the back seat.

  Roscoe’s eyes flashed open. He reached for the nightstand at his desk and pulled open the drawer. A bottle of whiskey was waiting for him. Roscoe pulled it out and fumbled with the cork. He started to drink, letting the booze burn down his throat and splash in his belly. He emptied the bottle, wishing he was still alive and could feel the drunkenness and relief liquor brings.

  oscoe stayed in his room throughout the night, slipping in and out of sleep. The memories of Carmine Vitale darted around him, like a fast-moving boxing opponent in a shadowy ring. Whenever Roscoe’s guard dropped, the memory of some blo
ody hit or executed soldier bounced back and struck him right between the eyes. The whiskey didn’t help. Roscoe remained in the twilight of his vanished past―until a knocking at the door stirred him to true wakefulness. Once again, his dead mind flashed to life. He stumbled up and reached for his leather jacket, then shook his head as if he could cast off the memories with the gesture. He pulled open the door. The Captain was standing there, waiting for him. It was light outside, the sky the cloudless blue of the early afternoon. Roscoe had been inside for a long time.

  The Captain’s face was grim. “There’s been a murder.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Roscoe sat on his bed, trying his best to be casual. “I heard our town was soon going to be a dangerous place that wouldn’t be safe to raise our kids. Is this something like that or just some housewife taking out her husband with a steak knife?”

  The Captain shook his head. “Sheriff Braddock called me. He wants us to be there. We’ll take Angel’s car.” The Captain walked inside. He picked up the empty bottle. His eyes darted from the label to Roscoe. “I didn’t know you were a drinker.”

  “First time for everything.”

  “Were you inebriated?”

  “Not as much as I wanted to be.” Roscoe stood up and walked to the door. “Let’s go see this murder.” He brushed past the Captain and walked out onto the balcony.

  The Captain followed him outside to the Cadillac outside. Angel started the engine without a word and drove down Main Street.

  Angel looked at the Captain. “It’s over on Sycamore Street, right?”

  “That’s right. That’s all Sheriff Braddock said.”

  “That dumb flatfoot couldn’t stop a kid from robbing the cookie jar,” Roscoe replied. He leaned back in the seat, feeling the wind stir his dead, greenish skin and play through his stiff, black hair. “I bet he’s gonna want us to solve it, play detective, and do his job for him. I say we tell the bum to take a―”