The slow approach gave Roscoe plenty of time to eyeball the neighborhood. He knew right away what had changed―the town was quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence of a lazy Sunday afternoon, punctuated by television in the den or kids playing in the backyards. This silence was absolute and total, like a law had been passed forbidding anyone to be outdoors doing any kind of activity. Roscoe watched the streets. There were no kids in the yard and no dogs yapping on leashes. Everyone had gone inside, waiting out a storm.
Then they passed the New Baptist Church. Roscoe rolled down the window and risked poking his head out for a better look. A single glance told him Reverend Grubb had been wrong about his pals―even if they had been blackmailing him. The church was empty and abandoned. The stained glass windows had been shattered. The big, decorative stone cross had even been brought down. Someone had dynamited the base. The great crucifix had tilted over and smashed into the front lawn like the statue of some defeated general. Roscoe shook his head as he looked over at Walt.
The detective stared at the church. “Breaking God’s windows? What the hell does it mean?”
“Under new management,” Roscoe said. “Drive on.”
Walt gave the Studebaker a bit of gas. Another turn and they reached Main Street. Now Roscoe knew things had really changed. Traffic was sparse and hummed along quickly, the drivers eager to get where they were going. But now, more cars parked on the edges of the blocks and watched the streets. They were gray hulks with “Strickland Securities” stenciled on the sides. Strickland guards swarmed the sidewalks. The whole of Main Street was lousy with them. Roscoe looked at the guards standing outside the diner where he had devoured burgers and milkshakes just last week. They were clearly zombies, with dull green skin and dead eyes hidden by aviator sunglasses. Someone had dolled them up like cut-rate cops in peaked caps and Sam Browne belts. Heavy automatic pistols rested on their waists, along with the occasional shotgun. They watched the passing motorists with open, hungry mouths. Walt drove past them.
“Looks like Strickland’s got this place locked down,” Walt observed. “Guards at every corner, watching everything. I bet they’ll come in handy when his factory goes up too. Turn this place into a company town.” He sighed. “And here I thought it was just some charming dump by the seashore.”
“It was my home,” Roscoe said. “Now Strickland has it.”
“And for what?” Walt wondered. “It’s not like he can’t just choose any town in America as the site of his new factory. Hell, he’d have chambers of commerce killing each other for the privilege of seeing one of his plants go up. What’s so special about La Cruz?”
Roscoe knew the truth now―about the Crimson Cross in the Mission and the undead crusader, Sir Roderick the Red, who was behind Strickland somehow. But how exactly had Strickland become best friends with a satanic crusader? Roscoe didn’t know. Right now, it didn’t really matter. He decided to keep some of the information from Walt. The Captain could tell him later.
“He’s got his reasons,” Roscoe said. “And he’s after a lot more than cheap real estate.”
Walt sighed. “I can imagine.” He glanced over. “Say, you just want to drive around taking the scenic tour or should we stop somewhere, maybe interview one of your fellow La Cruz citizens and see if we can get the whole story―without getting singled out and torn to pieces by the Zombie Gestapo, that is.”
It seemed like a good idea. But where would be a good place to stop? Where hadn’t Strickland and his goons penetrated just yet? Roscoe stared across the street and pointed. “Over there. The coffee place. Splitsville.”
That was a small coffee shop, of the trendy kind popping up in San Francisco and Los Angeles like hipster mushrooms after a rain. It was a small, square-shaped building of dark metal with a fat, white coffee cup perched on the roof and had a chimney in it so it wafted real steam. Splitsville was small, but it was about as Bohemian as La Cruz would tolerate or, at least, that was the way it had been before Strickland Industries took over.
“A Beatnik joint?” Walt grumbled as he pulled in and parked. “Maybe they’ll read us some poetry.”
Roscoe kept his head down, the collar of his leather jacket up. He and Walt crossed the street to the wide glass doors and stepped inside.
A long counter law below a menu written on a black chalkboard, showing the coffee offered at Splitsville. Comfortable leather booths filled most of the place, with bookshelves sitting in the corners. Apart from a bored-looking, bearded fellow at the counter and a single customer at the central table, it was deserted. The lone patron lowered a fashion magazine and looked up at Roscoe. It was Kay Winters, wearing a smart, charcoal-black business suit. A cup of java steamed at her side.
Kay folded her magazine and stood. “Roscoe. Didn’t think I’d find you here.” She sauntered over, tucking the magazine under her arm. “You’re back in town? It won’t be good for your health. I thought you got the message to stay out at Don Lupo’s mansion.”
Walt looked Kay up and down and grinned. He licked his lips. “Who’s this one, Roscoe? She’s got a dangerous set of legs on her, I’ll say that much.”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “And a soul to match.” He took off his sunglasses and set them in his pocket. “I’m back, sweetheart. I’m back, and I’m gonna get answers and see what your boss is doing to my town.” He took a step closer to her. “Now what the Hell are you doing here?”
“I came for the coffee,” Kay replied. “This is the only decent place in town for that.”
“And I bet it’ll go soon, just like everything that doesn’t march to the beat of Reed Strickland’s drum.” Roscoe reached out and took Kay’s shoulder. Anger grew inside of him, making his heart beat and his blood boil. Carmine Vitale must have felt this way, countless times. “La Cruz has sold us out. Strickland’s carving the place up. You helped.”
“You can come to some arrangement,” Kay said. “Just talk to him―”
“I’m through talking―and I’m through talking with you.” Roscoe pointed to the door. “Get lost.”
Kay opened her mouth. Roscoe thought she was going to protest. Instead, she shrugged her way past him and headed for the door. Walt looked after her and then turned back to Roscoe.
“Christ, buddy,” he muttered. “You sure got a winning way with the dames. Scared her right off, didn’t you?” He walked further inside. “She could have helped us. I bet she knows all her boss’s secrets. She would have spilled, and then we’d know what we need to. Instead, we still gotta ask around.” He looked at the bearded guy behind the counter. “Hey, Moses, are you in a talkative mood? Maybe we can ask you a few questions.”
A lanky figure emerged from the booth in the back. “Put up the ‘closed’ sign, Carlo.” Roscoe recognized the voice. He’d heard it coming from the radio, countless times. “And draw the curtains. These cats and I are gonna be talking.” It was the Deadbeat. He had his sunglasses on, along with his thin black sweater and jeans. The Deadbeat motioned for Roscoe and Walt to join him as the bearded store employee closed the door and pulled down the blinds before the window. Roscoe shook hands with the Deadbeat and sat down. He had a tall mug of coffee in front of him, untouched and cold. He looked like he had just been sitting there and thinking before Roscoe and Walt came in.
Roscoe nodded to the DJ. “Good to see you, Deadbeat.”
“And it’s A-okay seeing you too, man,” the Deadbeat replied. The edges of his pale lips curled up in a faint smile aimed at Walt. “And you brought the shamus along. That’s cool. So, is this a rescue mission or something?”
“Reconnaissance,” Roscoe said.
“Well, dig this reconnaissance―all of La Cruz is going straight to Hell.” The Deadbeat’s cool seemed to break. His voice shook a little as he talked, and his long, pale fingers drummed on the black Formica tabletop. “Soon as you guys left last afternoon, Strickland and that monster Roy Roach came in from the Playa Roja Beach Club and started making orders. They brought in carloads of zomb
ie gun thugs. Word is, Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Coffey finally told Strickland ‘no’ when they wanted to smash up the church. Strickland explained he’d feed their families to Roach unless they went along with everything he wanted. They acquiesced.”
It was bad―worse than Roscoe expected. “What about our friends? And you?”
The Deadbeat shrugged. “I’m doing okay. But I think Strickland’s gonna send some boys around to see me pretty soon. I can guarantee I’ll fight―but I don’t think I’ll win.” He curled his finger idly on the table as he talked. “As for the others, they’re mostly in the same boat. The Swannster’s getting gobbled up over in Butcher’s Row. And Basil Barrow and his little girl are surrounded in the cemetery. Strickland will make his move on all of us. It’s just a matter of time.”
Walt looked up at Roscoe. “I’m sure glad I live in LA. The big city’s seeming safer, all of a sudden.”
“I hear that,” the Deadbeat agreed. He leaned closer and even the dark lenses of his sunglasses seemed nervous and afraid. “In La Cruz, you never know what sort of trouble is waiting to find you.”
Just after he spoke, the door creaked open. The lock broke and the glass door swung back. Carlo, the bearded clerk, was hurled to the ground. Roscoe looked out of the booth―just in time to see Roy Roach and three zombie Strickland Securities goons swagger inside. Roach leaned inside and took a long and happy sniff. His lips curled back, moving like a curtain on opening night, to reveal his clenched and anxious teeth.
Carlo stared at Roach. “We’re closed, mac. Come back―”
“Beat it or I’ll cut open your belly and eat your heart,” Roach ordered. Carlo scrambled to feet and raced out the door, his apron flapping behind him. Roach stepped inside and slid his hands into his pockets. “This place is closed down. Permanently. I’m sure the paperwork will come through, rubber-stamped by the mayor’s office and everything.” He dragged his hand across the counter, upending a large glass jar of pastries and smearing carrot cake on the floor. “The reason? Too many college dropouts who don’t know how to shower. And one radical public enemy who owns a radio show.” He stepped into the center of the room. “The Deadbeat. I want to talk to him now.”
The Deadbeat looked at Roscoe and Walt. He pointed to the back of the restaurant, to wooden door. It must lead outside of Splitsville. The Deadbeat stood up. “Okay, okay.” He walked out, his hands raised. “What do you want, Roach? Strickland looking for some tunes? I can think of a few real gone little numbers I could play him.”
Roach walked over to the Deadbeat. He didn’t look around the place at all. In their shadowed booth in the back, Roscoe and Walt remained hidden―but they didn’t know for how long.
The Deadbeat stood in front of Roach―just a little taller than Strickland’s chief enforcer.
“You know,” Roach said. “I think you’re right. I want to start hearing you sing right now.” He pounded a fist into the Deadbeat’s belly. The Deadbeat crashed into one of the tables. He fell to the ground, the table tumbling down next to him. Roach sprang to him and hauled him up―then turned to the zombies. Like they could read his thoughts, the three zombies drew out their nightsticks and closed in. The blackjacks lifted, ready to strike. Roach crouched low. “You feeling musical, Mr. Deadbeat? How about the chart topper telling me where the Donovan Motors crew went? Feel like singing that song?”
Roscoe reached his hand into his coat. It tightened around the sawed-off. Walt looked back at him. Their eyes met. Walt’s hand was inching past his trench coat, fingering the revolver in his shoulder-holster. They would have to move fast. Roscoe stepped out slowly. The nearest zombie had his back to him. This corpse was brain dead. It didn’t notice Roscoe moving behind it and leveling his shotgun at the back of its head. Roach didn’t notice either.
“You want to start singing, Deadbeat?” Roach’s attention was focused on his target. “Where are the freaks from Donovan Motors?”
“There’s one right here.” Roscoe pulled the trigger.
The zombie’s head exploded. Bones and brain sprayed everywhere. Roscoe swung the shotgun around and took aim, as the Deadbeat rolled toward him. Walt fired as well. Another zombie went down, caught by Roscoe’s sawed-off and Walt’s revolver. Roach ignored the bullets. He lunged and grabbed the Deadbeat’s arm, and hauled him closer. Roach’s mouth opened impossibly wide, a snake about to eat.
The Deadbeat’s hand clutched madly at the nearby counter and grabbed the handle of a glass pot of coffee, fresh from the stovetop. He swung it around and smashed the pot into Roach’s face. Shattered glass and boiling coffee rolled across Roach’s skin. He reeled back. Roach’s tongue, flickered back and forth. Jagged bits of glass and burning coffee steamed and smoked, shrinking Roach’s skin. But Roscoe’s eyes were on the tongue. It wasn’t human―and it wasn’t even a tongue. It was a long, segmented centipede. Its legs wiggled and the antennae flicked back and forth. Then it snaked back into Roach’s mouth. Roach’s jaws clamped shut and he pulled an automatic pistol from his coat. He fired, just as the Deadbeat raced away.
Walt shot Roach, punching a bullet into his gut. Roach let out a slight gasp. He patted the wound with his hand and smiled. Bullets wouldn’t stop him. He must have been play-acting when he sought cover previously—pretending to be alive.
“This way, guys!” The Deadbeat cried, springing toward the back door. Roscoe and Walt ran with him. “And I appreciate the save.” The Deadbeat barreled through the doorway. Roscoe and Walt followed him. They hurried outside in a long cement alley, one of the many little side streets that honeycombed La Cruz.
Roscoe reloaded as he ran. “Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure.” He stopped and glanced back at Splitsville. More zombies rushed inside, hurrying through the opening door. Roach shook his head, flinging away the boiling coffee. “But I don’t think we’re gonna last long without some means of escape.”
“Great,” Walt muttered. “I get to die alongside a zombie and a beatnik.” He grinned to himself. “Well, at least the zombie showers.”
The honk of a car horn made them look up. A dull purple Cadillac came roaring down the alley, burning rubber as it came to a shrieking halt. The Negro driver wore a dark suit and overcoat. Eldridge Swann sat in the passenger seat. He pushed open the door and walked out. A Browning Automatic Rifle, a heavy squad-destroying machine gun, rested in Swann’s gloved hands.
“Get your heads down!” Swann cried. Then his BAR bucked and thundered. He fired from the hip, sending bullets blazing into Splitsville. Tables shattered. Zombies went down, their bodies shredded before they could fire back.
The shots bought Roscoe and his friends precious seconds. As soon as Swann stopped firing, he lowered the BAR. “Get on over here,” he yelled. “We ain’t got time to waste!” Roscoe raced over to the Caddy and dove into the back seat. Walt and the Deadbeat tailed him. Swann sat down and his driver hit the gas. They sped out of the alley.
Swann looked at Roscoe, his face fused into a frown. It made his scar bend. “What was you thinking?” he said. “I got me a couple eyes on Main Street, and they dialed me up when they saw you cruising down the road like you was in some parade.” He pointed to the Deadbeat. “And you―hanging out in that damn restaurant, what were you trying to prove? That you didn’t retreat or something?”
“You ain’t retreated,” the Deadbeat said.
“I got guns watching my back. You ain’t got nothing.” He shook his head, his frown softening. “You’re a stupid bunch― even for white folks.” He turned back to the road. The purple Cadillac swung around and sped through another alley. “But don’t you worry. I can keep you safe. For a little ways, at least.”
“You got a place to hide out?” Roscoe asked.
“Sure. Little gambling joint, over in the Row.” Swann sighed. “But I can’t hold it for long. Still, it’ll be better than being shot at here.”
Roscoe nodded. It was hard to dispute that.
The purple Cadillac soon brought them to Butcher�
��s Row. If Strickland Industries’ occupation had silenced Main Street and suburban La Cruz, then it had muzzled and beaten Butcher’s Row into submission. Roscoe leaned against the closed windows, looking at the shuttered liquor stores and battered houses. Nobody was out of their homes. Even if they had simple errands to run, the residents thought it best to say inside. Every so often, a speeding automobile would zoom down the street. When that happened, Swann had the purple Caddy drive into a nearby alley or parking lot to hide. Maybe it wasn’t as obvious as Strickland Securities zombies walking the street, but Don Lupo’s patrols were still dangerous. Still, Swann managed to get Roscoe, Walt and the Deadbeat safely to their destination.
It was an old gambling hall, a single-story poor man’s casino called the Kard Kave. Two large red Ks, the neon dulled, hung over the entrance and overlooked the wide, surrounding parking lot. Swann had the Cadillac park in the front and they all hopped out and headed inside. Swann himself pulled open the double doors. The place was a ghost town. Only a few Negroes stood guard around the windows, some playing pool on a dusty billiards table. The others kept watch from wide windows. There were a few slot machines in the back and several card tables, all tipped with green felt splotchy with stains.
Swann walked behind the bar in the corner. Roscoe, Walt, and the Deadbeat joined him. “I suppose you fellows might like a drink. I’m gonna have one. Figure I need it.” He busied himself behind the bar, grabbing dusty bottles and shot glasses. “So, Roscoe, what’s the word from the Captain? Is help coming?”
Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1) Page 17
