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

by Michael Panush

  Before he could finish, Angel leaned over and looked at him. “What’d you do last night, man? Running off like that, and not telling me? I’m your friend, Roscoe. I been that way since the beginning.” The Captain stayed quiet. “And then you come back and barricade yourself in your room for hours, not saying nothing? It ain’t right. You gotta tell me what’s happening.”

  “You want to know?” Roscoe snapped without thinking. “Okay. I’ll tell you.” He stared at Angel. “I found out about the guy I used to be. His name’s Carmine Vitale. He’s a mobster, Sicilian-born, who worked as a button man for Don Lupo.” Roscoe’s voice grew louder as he went on. “He’s a cold-blooded killer, a murderer a thousand times over who finally got what was coming to him―and then you bounced me off the hood of your car…”

  There was silence in the Caddy. Angel spun the wheel, turning on Sycamore Avenue.

  “This Carmine guy,” Angel said. “He ain’t you.”

  “How do you know that?” Roscoe asked. “How do you know he hasn’t been there this whole time, waiting for his chance? How do you know every nice thing I’ve done, every kind word I’ve said to Betty or Felix, hasn’t been some lie, some goddamn cover-up of who I really am?” He pointed to his dead face, jabbing his finger into the greenish skin of his cheek. “Have a peek at me, Angel. I look the part, don’t I?”

  “Sure,” Angel said. “If you was some cabrone judged others by how they look instead of how they act.”

  One of the La Cruz sheriff’s department black-and-whites was parked alongside the curb up ahead, next to the coroner’s van. The house was cozy and well-kept, painted in pastel tones and done up in flat-roofed, modern style. Sheriff Braddock stood by the door, looking bloated and tired. His head was bowed. He seemed deflated, like a salesman who had been out all day and hadn’t sold a single product. Angel parked by the coroner’s van.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” the Captain said. “What exactly―”

  He sighed. “I’m calling you in because I owe you a favor,” Sheriff Braddock said. “Please, come inside. All your questions will be answered―very quickly. I’m sure about that.” He walked back to the open door. “This way, please.”

  The house looked like it had been decorated by some widowed grandmother. Pictures of kittens and flowers covered the brightly painted walls. Little figurines of big-headed children bedecked every surface. One family picture stood framed near the doorway. Roscoe stepped closer. It showed Reverend Everett Grubb and his wife, Mabel, standing before the Sunday School choir class. They were beaming in black and white as the children mangled their way through some hymn in the background. A plain wooden crucifix next to the photo proved it.

  This was Reverend Grubb’s house.

  The living room was where the house stopped being charming. The bodies of Reverend and Mabel Grubb lay on the couch, staring at the blank TV across from them. Flies buzzed about, shooed away from the officers. They’d been dead for a while, and it hadn’t been an easy death. Roscoe stepped a little closer and knelt down, staring at the bodies.

  The Reverend and his wife had been beaten to death. Their bones had been shattered, and their faces had been mauled. Spurts of blood had spattered on the plastic-covered, mint-green couch and soaked into the carpet. Grubb wore his suit and preacher’s collar, and Mabel had her nightgown under a thick housecoat. Roscoe looked at them and felt a tinge of sadness. He’d hated Revered Grubb, wanted to strangle the self-righteous bum plenty of times. But the wife had never been cruel to him―and nobody deserved this.

  Angel and the Captain walked over to stand next to Roscoe. “Dios…” Angel whispered.

  “He is with his God now, I suppose.” The Captain covered his mouth with a handkerchief as he looked up at Sheriff Braddock. “Any clues or leads to the culprits of this terrible murder?”

  Sheriff Braddock shook his head. “My boys are still canvassing the place, looking for a murder weapon and questioning the neighbors. It was something blunt and heavy. Each victim was struck multiple times. The coroner says each victim has plenty of broken bones. The killer just worked them over. He knew they were dead and he kept going.” He closed his eyes and shivered. “P-paperboy saw them through the window and called it in. They think they were murdered sometime last night. “His composure broke. He looked up at the Captain. “Jesus Christ, Captain!” he cried. “This is La Cruz! This kind of stuff happens in big cities, in New York and LA and Frisco, not here. I can’t stand to see this kind of butchery here. Nobody can.”

  The Captain stepped closer to the sheriff. “Leland, the world is a cold and cruel place. That cruelty has finally reached La Cruz. I don’t wish you to become used to it, but you have to be strong. The innocents of this city need you.” He looked back at Angel and Roscoe. “Search the house yourselves. See if you can find anything the cops didn’t.”

  Without a word, Roscoe and Angel walked further into the house. They headed down a narrow hall into the rear of the house. Roscoe looked past the open doors. There were two bedrooms―one for the Reverend and one for Mabel―and a bathroom. Angel scanned the rooms as well.

  “They slept separately?” he asked. “A little strange, man.”

  “Maybe they weren’t so happy together as they let on before the pulpit,” Roscoe explained. “No matter how their marriage was going, they couldn’t show it before the congregation. Nobody in La Cruz can. They’ve got to keep their unhappiness bottled up.” He nodded to the bedroom. “You take that one. I’ll take the bathroom.”

  “Okay, Roscoe,” Angel said. “Whatever you say.”

  He walked into Reverend Grubb’s bedroom, whistling softly. Roscoe peeked into the bathroom. He looked at the toothbrushes on the marble counter and the toilet. There was a cupboard above the toilet with a few books inside. The Man Nobody Knows, that kooky book about Jesus being a businessman, was there, dog-eared and well-thumbed. Next to it was the Bible―King James Version―which looked pristine. Roscoe wondered why anyone would choose the Good Book as bathroom reading.

  He picked it up, noticing a bulge in the middle. Roscoe opened it, finding a thin, unmarked envelope. Clearly, the cops hadn’t done the same. Roscoe pulled it out and wormed out the note inside. It was small, done in graceful, curling handwriting. The message was simple. Roscoe read it aloud.

  “We meet tonight or I tell her everything.” Roscoe stared at the note. He could figure it out. Reverend Grubb was being blackmailed. The blackmailer? No doubt, Reed Strickland. The Captain had said as much, figuring Strickland had something over Grubb in order to get the Reverend in his corner. It must not have been a hard sell. Reverend Grubb had always hated the Captain and the crew at Donovan Motors. A little blackmail was all it took to make him start spreading his views more aggressively. But what had been the dirt? An affair with a lover? Or something worse? Roscoe didn’t really care and it didn’t matter now.

  He walked out of the bathroom. “Angel, I found something big. It’ll blow this whole case open.” Angel poked his head out of Mabel’s bedroom. “Let me go and show it to the Captain, and then we’ll go home.”

  “You got it, man.”

  They found the Captain and Sheriff Braddock, deep in conversation, standing a little bit behind the bloody couch with Reverend Grubb and his wife still on it. Before Roscoe and Angel could reach them, another uniformed cop came in through the door to the backyard. He had a plastic evidence bag in his hand. Roscoe couldn’t see what was in it―only that there were splotches of red on the plastic, like bits of blood frozen in the air. The cop handed it to Sheriff Braddock, who stepped aside to examine it and then urged the cop to leave him for a second. Roscoe and Angel walked over and stood next to the Captain.

  Then Sheriff Braddock raised the bag. There was a wrench inside of it―a big heavy wrench, of the kind used for maintenance work at a garage. The wrench was stained red to the handle. It was obviously the murder weapon. It had obviously come from a garage as well. Roscoe looked at Sheriff Braddock’s face. He saw the sherif
f’s face shift from puzzlement to cold realization and then to total fear. That piece of evidence was pointing straight at Roscoe.

  Sheriff Braddock pointed at Roscoe. “Where were you last night?”

  “In my room at Donovan Motors, above the garage,” Roscoe said. “I was alone, all night. No one saw me.” He gritted his teeth. “I got no alibi. None at all.” Then he pointed to the bodies. “And you think I did this.” It wasn’t a question.

  The Captain stepped between the sheriff and Roscoe. “He would never have committed this bloody murder,” the Captain said. “I’ve known Roscoe for years. He has a violent side, as well you know, but always in the service of what is right. Cold-blooded murder is far beyond him.”

  “He’s got a motive.” Sheriff Braddock stared at Roscoe. “He expressed hatred toward Reverend Grubb. He almost physically assaulted him, on more than one occasion.” He pointed to the Captain. “And you did physically assault him.” He shook his head. “Motive, method, opportunity―it’s all there.”

  “And I found something else.” Roscoe held out the note. “Found this in Reverend Grubb’s bible. I bet Strickland sent it. The priest was being blackmailed. Strickland was playing him and then murdered him so he could pin it on me.” He handed the note to Sheriff Braddock. “It’s as plain as day.”

  The sheriff examined the note. “They’re just words. They could’ve come from Reverend Grubb’s sister. They could have been a sermon he was working on. I’ll take that into account, but I’m afraid it doesn’t change much.”

  Angel shook his head. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed. “It’s a frame-up, man! Someone beats these two to death with a wrench, tosses it in the backyard, and runs. Come on, man. It’d have to be one stupid murderer to leave the weapon lying right there on the grass, where anyone could find it!”

  “And I didn’t do it,” Roscoe added. “If that means anything.”

  But their efforts weren’t working. Roscoe could see the wheels turning in Sheriff Braddock’s mind. Those same wheels would turn in the minds of everyone else who learned of the murder. Roscoe and Donovan Motors would always be the prime suspects. They were freaks, and they were different and that would make them the culprits. There was nothing that could be done about it. Sheriff Braddock would want to take Roscoe and cripple Donovan Motors with an investigation and maybe more arrests. After that, it would be a small matter for Strickland and Don Lupo to split them up and finish them for good.

  But then Sheriff Braddock did something Roscoe didn’t expect. He stepped closer to the Captain and put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I like you, sir. I like you a lot, and I like the people who work for you. I know they see me as a joke with a badge, and you may think I tolerate you as a necessity, but I admire you. Captain, you are a veteran and a man with honor. Your drivers are the same way. So I’m going to give you an hour’s head start. It’ll take me that long to get back to the station and do the proper paperwork. Then I’ll go to Donovan Motors with warrants for Roscoe’s arrest. If you’re not there, that’ll be too bad.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Captain.” His voice was heavy with regret. “That’s the best I can do.”

  The Captain shook Sheriff Braddock’s hand. “You’ve got to uphold your office, Leland. However you see fit.” He turned back to Roscoe and Angel. “This was planned,” he said. “Strickland will be trying to finish us. We’ve got to go.” He started away from the couch, back to the doorway. Roscoe and Angel followed.

  Roscoe drew closer to him. If Roscoe’s blood had still flowed, it would have been getting warm with rage. “So we just run? With our tails under our legs?” He stepped in front of the Captain, blocking him from leaving through the front door. “I ain’t going soft, boss. This is our town. Strickland’s trying to take it. I say we stay and fight.”

  “It will be a losing battle. We can’t battle Reed Strickland and his allies along with the La Cruz Sheriff’s Department,” the Captain said. “We have our own people to think of. Their safety must be assured before we go on the offensive.”

  “The Hell with you,” Roscoe snarled. “We’ve already taken plenty of shots, and you’ve always wanted to play it quiet. This is what it gets you. We’re in more danger than ever when we should’ve just killed Strickland at the start. I ought to go and―”

  “Roscoe!” Angel’s shout stopped him. Their eyes met. “That ain’t you talking,” Angel shook his head. “Listen to yourself. You don’t say that kind of thing. You’re my friend and I know you’d never do this.” He jabbed his thumb back at the murder scene. “It’s those memories, man, and your own anger at what’s happening. They’re getting into your mind. Polluting you. You gotta fight them.”

  Roscoe tried to calm himself. He looked at the Captain and thought back to Felix, Betty, and Wooster, still at the doctor’s office. Going to war now, with his friends still vulnerable, was stupid. They needed to be saved first. Then the killing could start. “Okay.” Roscoe spoke in a slow and deliberate tone. “Okay.” He turned and walked across the lawn, his boots tramping on the perfectly kept grass. “You drive, Angel.”

  Angel drove like a madman, ripping through turns and burning rubber. The Captain gave instructions that sounded like battle plans―for a retreat. Roscoe smoldered in the passenger seat, thinking about the violence that had visited La Cruz and the death and bloodshed he was certain would be coming soon.

  Before hitting the garage, Roscoe, the Captain, and Angel stopped by Dr. Randolph’s office to pick up Wooster. Angel kept the engine running while the Captain went in to get him. Roscoe drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He listened to the gentle hum of distant cars, passing by the quiet, residential street where Dr. Randolph had his home and his office. Strickland had good timing. His agents were probably already swooping in for the kill. Every noise made Roscoe twist around to see if there was some car following them, some hit squad about to rake the quiet street with automatic fire and send the day spiraling further into Hell. Angel seemed just as nervous. He switched on the radio.

  Static crackled and buzzed through the car before Angel switched to the Deadbeat’s channel. The soothing voice, smooth as dark chocolate, oozed into the Cadillac. “Got some bad news, cool kids and ghoul kids,” the Deadbeat crooned. “Seems Reed Strickland’s moving in his private security guards to help deal with the lawlessness at the site of his future factories. Glad the Reedster’s got the best for our community in his black little heart? Don’t be so sure, listeners. Dig it―Strickland’s goons are more soulless than even average strikebreakers. They’re zombies, living dead men with no allegiance except to the equally soulless living man pulling their strings. That just happens to be Strickland. Now they’re coming here. It ain’t the lawlessness we got to worry about now, my midnight cats. It’s the law that’s about to be our enemy.”

  The Captain emerged from the building, followed by Wooster. The Okie was walking under his own power, with only a slight limp. He seemed to have recovered fully, wearing his usual tan suit and bolo tie. His Bowie knife was even in the gator-hide sheath on his belt. Wooster had a halting gait, like he had to consider where he was going to put each foot before he set it down, but he still made it to the Caddy and slid into the back seat.

  Wooster’s lips curled back, but not in a smile. It was like a perpetual growl, frozen on his face. “The Captain filled me in, boys. Goddamn if it don’t make me want to do some killing. This frame job stinks, Roscoe. No two ways about it.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “And I think it’s gonna get bloody soon.”

  “Good,” Wooster replied. “Suits me fine. I been sitting in a bed, bandaged up. Couldn’t even piss in a toilet for a while. Had to use a bedpan. It ain’t a fitting place for a man.” He pointed to Angel. “It’s gonna get bad now, I figure. You sure you can handle it? Your kind ain’t known for winning too many fights. You want to back out, boy?”

  “Hell no,” Angel replied. “And I’ll show you real soon how my people fight.”

  “Heh.
” Wooster tapped his seat. “Sounds good. Now vamoose.”

  Angel hit the gas, and they shot past small businesses and diners on their way back to Donovan Motors. Angel tucked the Caddy beside the open garage and put it in park―but kept the engine running. Everyone hopped out. Betty leaned against the far wall, waiting for them.

  She walked over, her hands clasped. Their faces must have told the whole story. “Oh god. What’s going on?”

  “Bad news, sister,” Roscoe said. “We gotta leave.”

  “We’ll explain on the way,” the Captain added. He walked past her, heading for the phone in the corner of the garage. “Miss Bright, I need you to pack your things for a few days―and tell Felix to do the same. Fetch him and Snowball down, if you don’t mind. Mr. Stokes, I’ll need you to clean out the safe and see to loading weapons and ammunition into your vehicle.” The Captain gave his orders curtly. He picked up the phone as he talked. “I’ve planned for this eventuality. I’m going to make a call to our friend in Los Angeles. He’s got a mutual acquaintance who will get us out of La Cruz in a matter of hours.”

  Betty still seemed shocked and confused. “We can’t just drive?”

  “Strickland will have people watching the roads. It’s too dangerous.” The Captain began to dial, spinning the rotary wheel with precise movements. “We’re going to go to Willow Point. The old Willow House will provide shelter until our transport arrives. Then we’ll travel by sea.” He finished dialing, and then he was talking to the man he had called. “Mr. Weaver? It’s time. Alert the fisherman. Tell him to meet us at the appointed place. And no, Mr. Weaver, I do not have any comforting words. There never are, in times of war.” He slammed down the phone and turned to Betty. “Miss Bright? Did I not already give you your orders?”

  “O-okay,” Betty stammered. “I’ll get Felix.” She hurried into the garage. The Captain sighed. Roscoe knew he hadn’t meant to be so harsh. Roscoe was considering offering some comforting words, when a gunshot cracked through the stillness of the late afternoon from the road in front of the garage.