“To beat Strickland―without destroying La Cruz―we have to fight smart.” Roscoe looked at the batwing doors of the Purgatory, at the low light inside like night had yet to leave the place. “That means making some friends out of enemies.” He patted the sawed-off in his coat and reached back to the car for his crowbar. “But we’ll be prepared, in case they have other ideas.”
“Okay.” Angel went outside and slid his pearl-handled automatic into his shoulder-holster and covered it with his zoot suit. “Long as we’re prepared.”
Both men approached the roadhouse.
Inside, the air was smoky and dark. The only ones here were Speed Fiends, all sporting black leather jackets. They sat at a dingy table covered in peanut shells and spilled booze. Many were snoring away. One overweight biker lay on the ground, his drool mixing with a puddle of beer near his mouth. Terry Torrance was at the head of the table, his head slumped over. Sporting a new eye patch, he looked like the king of a defeated kingdom. Roscoe pushed the door open, letting in great streams of light. The Fiends muttered and stirred.
Torrance looked up at Roscoe and Angel. “Well, the zombie and the greaser. Come to gloat?”
“No.” Roscoe walked over to the table. Angel hung back. Roscoe reached over to a peanut bowl. “Just come to ask how you been doing?” He snatched a peanut and tossed it into his mouth, shell and all, crunching it loud so the whole bar could hear it.
“How I been doing?” Torrance muttered. “You know how I been doing, Roscoe. Roach beat me up. Humiliated me. Now his zombie security goons own the town. Some of my boys tried to peddle reefer at the high school day before yesterday. Zombies caught and ate them. Devoured them right there, in front of the school.” He leaned closer, out of the shadows. “Okay. So we try and make a move in Butcher’s Row. Go to some of the old houses where we used to have our rituals. We find that Italians have taken the whole place over. Wise-guys with heavy weapons took out my boys. Shot one to death. Broke the legs of the other.” He gripped the table. “It’s worse than ever. Even worse than when you and your freak show were running things.”
“So you want to go back to that?” Roscoe asked.
Torrance took a deep breath of stale roadhouse air. “There’s no way it’ll happen. Strickland’s got an army backing him up. You and your clowns are good at beating up a couple of biker punks, but that’s it.” He looked around at his friends. “And that’s all we ever were, really. But compared to Strickland, you’re out of your league.”
“I got a way to even the odds,” Roscoe said. “Finish him for good.”
“And how are you gonna do that?”
“It’ll involve bloodshed and bullets.” Roscoe folded his arms. He saw the gleam in Torrance’s eyes. “And I’ll need the help of you and your biker buddies to pull it off. How about it?”
There was silence in the Purgatory Roadhouse. Torrance looked over at his men. They stared back, waiting for his words. “I’m listening,” he said, settling deeper into his seat. “Let me hear your plan. Maybe it’ll entertain me.”
Roscoe turned to Angel and motioned for him to come closer. He told Torrance and the Speed Fiends what they had to do.
After a while, he finished laying it all out. They all had their parts to play. Roscoe checked his watch as he and Angel got up to leave. He would stay here and arrange the attack with Torrance and their other allies, while Angel returned to La Cruz and prepared the rest of their friends. After that, Angel would swing back and pick him up. It was the afternoon already Roscoe checked the clock. They didn’t have much time left before nightfall, when Strickland would murder his friends.
Angel climbed into the Deuce. “Don’t worry, man,” Angel said. “I’ll take care of her.” He patted the wheel.
“It ain’t the car I’m worried about right now.”
“Well, I ain’t worried about nothing,” Angel said. He grinned. “You’re like the old Roscoe again. The one who became my best friend, even after I peeled him off my hood.” They clasped hands. “The old Roscoe and Angel Rey. There’s nothing we can’t do.”
“I hope so.” Roscoe paused. “I just hope I’m not screwing up everything.”
“No need to hope, man.” Angel started the car. “You’re leading now. You know you’re making the right decisions.” He peeled away, onto the open road. Roscoe watched the Deuce drive past while some of the Speed Fiends stepped outside.
Angel was right at least about one thing―Roscoe was leading the Donovan Motors crew now. But he had no idea if he was leading them in the right direction.
n the late afternoon, with peanut chunks stuck in his teeth, Roscoe cut back through Redborough in the Deuce and made his way to Cowl Canyons. Angel had picked him up and now he drove. Angel sat next was next to him, loading his pistols. Roscoe clenched the wheel. He was breathing again, the shallow pulse of his lungs scrabbled like soft claws at his innards. It wasn’t anger now―but nervousness. Roscoe created the plan, putting it together on the fly with help from Angel in the smoky interior of the Purgatory. Phone calls back to Walt Weaver’s apartment had cemented it. Everyone was currently speeding off on specific tasks. Roscoe and Angel went for the Mission. Betty took Felix in Angel’s car, back into La Cruz. Their destination was the Municipal Graveyard, the home of Basil and Penny Barrow. Meanwhile, Wooster and Walt were making their way into Butcher’s Row in the Packard. Roscoe had hated putting it together, but this was the best way, and it was too late to change it now.
But now it was time for Roscoe to put his plan into effect and lead the drivers into war. He didn’t know if he could do it. Did the Captain feel like this? How the Hell could the old man stand it, knowing everything was riding on his decisions?
Neither Roscoe nor Angel talked much. Roscoe kept the engine humming, the needle showing over eighty miles per hour and climbing. The fuel gauge drooped, angling toward empty. That was fine. All part of the plan. Roscoe steered through Redborough, taking side roads that led past the city. Soon, the cluttered forests gave way to parched grassland―and those gave way to rocky hills. The Cowl Canyons were ahead. A wild maze of tunnels and sand-blasted rocks lurked close to La Cruz―a place that parents warned their kids about. Teenagers went there sometimes, but terrible things often happened amidst the sheer rock and winding, little creeks. The drivers had battled there before and knew the place well. The Mission was in the center of the labyrinth of stone.
The Deuce went off the paved road and hit the open stone and gravel of Cowl Canyons as it passed between two tall ridges, looming far over them. The sky, glimmered purple with the sunset, a distant band of color beyond the jagged rocks. Pebbles clattered against the mudguards; the Deuce shook. Roscoe fought to keep it steady. They were almost there.
Another turn, and the canyons peeled back revealing a winding slope that led to a little hill. The hill ended in a plateau, where the Mission’s adobe walls waited. The Mission was an ancient structure, a square set of crumbling walls surrounding an old, ornate church. It had been there since the days of the Spaniards, always inhabited by a few priests who traveled into town to see to the spiritual needs of La Cruz’s large Catholic population. Most of the city pretended it didn’t exist―though school groups occasionally braved the canyons to tour the old Mission and see what La Cruz’s history had been like. Roscoe had visited the Mission before and even met Father Montez, the head priest, a few times. He liked the calmness of the place, the way it stood apart from everything else. But now? It was under siege.
The forces of Strickland Industries massed at the front of the Mission, their compact, steel gray automobiles parked just past the dirt road that ran up from the canyons. The zombie security guards stood at attention, rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns in their hands. They had been shooting at the walls too, marking the ancient adobe with fresh bullet holes. Roach stood before the cars, smoking a cigarette and holding an automatic pistol in one hand. The hostages knelt in front of him. Everyone was there―Eldridge Swann, with bruises to match the s
cars on his face; Basil Barrow, holding his daughter, Penny; the Deadbeat, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses; and little Ace Arkin, who perked up at the sounds of the motor. Roach didn’t seem to hear it.
Roach glared at the entrance to the Mission. “It’s not exactly sundown, but I think it’s close enough.” He grabbed Ace’s shoulder and hauled the boy up. “He’s dying first, you know. Unless you toss out the Crimson Cross.”
“Set him down, demon!” Father Montez’s voice bellowed from behind the closed wooden double doors. “Please! He is a child―an innocent! Let’s talk, just a little more. We can come to some arrangement, I promise. But do not harm those poor people.”
Roscoe had had enough of it. He gunned the motor. The Deuce flew up the slope, billowing a cloud of dust in its wake. The zombies shifted toward the noise as Roscoe cut the wheel and leaned on the brakes. The Deuce went into a sideways slide, screeching to a stop as the haze of dust rolled over the Strickland guards. The hostages looked up. Roach did, too.
Roscoe was already opening the door. “I’ll be quick,” he said.
Behind him, Angel gripped both his pistols. “I hope so, man.”
Ace Arkin waved. “Roscoe!” he cried. “I knew it! I knew you’d save us!”
The zombies stood stiff, not even reacting to Roscoe. He was counting on it. Of course, Roy Roach was nothing like his zombie servants. He stepped in front of Ace, blocking Roscoe’s view of the other hostages. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” Roach opened his mouth, his fat pink tongue touching each of his even, square, white teeth. “I was just about to gobble down the little one here. Figure I could suck up some of his life blood, terrify the padres inside. But now you’re here, so I guess I don’t have to. Come to negotiate the Cross’s surrender, Roscoe?”
“No.” Roscoe leveled his sawed-off. “Come to kill you.”
The shotgun thundered. Roach took the first round straight in the gut. He didn’t fall. He took a single step back and clutched the wound, a bloody cave in the center of his belly. Worms, long, glistening bands that could have been intestines if not for their writhing motion, slipped out between Roach’s fingers. He pressed them back and straightened up. The wound knit together. Roach’s mouth fell open. A centipede emerged out, its little legs crawling over his cheek. He sucked the centipede back in, through his lips. They would need something more powerful―like the force of the Entropic Engine―to take him down.
He pointed at Roscoe. “Kill him!” His words were a snarl from between clenched teeth.
This was what Roscoe was expecting. Still, dealing with the zombies would make him leave the hostages behind. His eyes met with Ace. “Gotta go,” he said. “Stay strong, help the others.”
He turned and ran for the Deuce. The zombies started shooting. Lead whizzed through the warm canyon air. A shotgun shell creased Roscoe’s ribs, taking some flesh with it. He cursed. There was so much to do. He couldn’t be getting hit so goddamn soon. He scrambled to his car and jumped inside. The engine was still running. Roscoe gripped the wheel and twisted into a U-turn as he slammed down the gas pedal.
The zombies started to follow. They stumbled to their cars, leaving the doors open in their haste to pursue. The engines of the stubby little autos roared to life, one after the other, and the cars zoomed toward the Deuce. Roscoe sped down the slope, back into the maze of stone. The zombies drove after him and―despite Roscoe’s best efforts― gained ground. Their little steel cars ate up the miles easily. The zombies leaned out the windows and opened fire. Roscoe winced as his rear window shattered.
“Some return fire would be nice, Angel,” Roscoe yelled. “If we don’t want our ride blasted to scrap before we even get there.”
“On it,” Angel replied. He leaned out the door, firing both pistols at the zombies. Bullets peppered the nearest car, holing the hood twice before the zombie hanging through the window took one to the head. Its skull exploded, the body slumped limp, dragging a line of red gore across the rocky side of the canyon. Roscoe grinned.
The canyon grew narrow. A burst from a Thompson ripped into the back of Roscoe’s seat, the shot slicing through his arm. He lost control as the road turned. The side of the Deuce bumped against one wall, causing a shower of sparks and clipping off the rear view mirror. Angel crashed against the window and yanked his head back inside. More shots whistled past them. Roscoe feared they’d be shot to pieces and destroyed soon enough. He had to reach the right spot. His eyes darted involuntarily to the fuel gauge. It was almost empty, just like he planned
Out of the fog, twin headlights flashed ahead through the canyon. “There!” Angel cried. “It’s Wooster, man!” Sure enough, the Packard rolled into view, driving fast. Wooster was behind the wheel. Next to him, Walt leaned out the window firing a carbine rifle.
Wooster wasn’t alone.
At least five sleek automobiles chugged in hot pursuit after the Packard. Lupo Family wiseguys packed the cars, firing as their vehicles skidded through the dirt. Bright suits and fedoras shimmered in the sporadic glow of muzzle flashes. Now came the part of the plan that would even the odds.
Roscoe scanned the side of the canyon. The drivers knew every inch of La Cruz―even Cowl Canyons. When he spotted the winding little slope in the canyon wall, almost hidden amongst the tall ridges, he twisted the wheel and gunned the engine. Wooster did the same. The Packard reached the slope first and bounced over the bottom of a natural stone ramp. Roscoe followed, eking out the last bits of gas from the tank. It went dry as he crested the slope at the top of the ridge. The Deuce coasted forward a few feet and then came to a stop.
The zombies―brainless and dumb as they were―didn’t see the hidden passageway. The mobsters had been going too fast, intent on their prey, to turn in time. The wiseguys hit the brakes, but it was too late. The two collections of cars collided, with no way to turn. The Strickland cars and the Caddies came together in a rumbling crash that filled the canyon with the sound of twisting metal and shattering glass. Voices drifted through the sounds of groaning vehicles, cursing and howling in pain.
Roscoe got out of the car and walked to the ridge, staring down at the mashed procession of cars. Zombies were ambling around and the gangsters tried to pull themselves out of their smashed cars.
The Packard pulled alongside the Deuce, its brakes squeaking as it came to a stop. Wooster sauntered out, followed by Walt. The private detective was trembling.
He fumbled for a cigarette as he walked over to stand by the others at the ridge. “Butcher’s Row wasn’t friendly. Not at all. And you know what, Roscoe? Next time you drivers need some help, from someone in the shamus’s professional line, why don’t you just check the goddamn yellow pages?”
“Good to see you too, Walt,” Roscoe replied.
Wooster looked down at the mess in the canyon. “They don’t look happy.” He sent a stream of chewing tobacco juice over the side of the ridge. “They gonna find the way up soon, man,” Angel said. “We gonna be ready?”
Motorcycle engines answered Angel’s question. The Speed Fiends arrived, along with the remnants of Eldridge Swann’s gang. The Fiends were on their motorcycles, Terry Torrance at their head. The Negro gangsters drove a pair of maroon Buicks, both built like tanks and full of every gun they could get their hands on. Torrance and his friends dismounted and walked over. The steel of a revolver flashed in Torrance’s hand. Roscoe wondered if Torrance would let his anger get the better of him and pick a fight, but Torrance and his fellow bikers walked over to Roscoe and the others without incident. Swann’s men joined them as well.
Torrance peeked over the side. “Almost perfect.”
A familiar voice roared up from the crash. “Roscoe!” It was Detective Elihu Burns. “Roscoe―Carmine―whatever the Hell you call yourself―you ain’t won, you know?” Detective Burns peered out from the window of the rear auto. “You pull a slick move, you smash up some cars and break a few bones―but you ain’t won a damn thing!”
“Now it’s perfect,”
Roscoe said. He fired his sawed-off, even though it might not be more than a noise-maker at that range. Angel did the same with his pistols and Wooster opened up with his Thompson. Torrance started shooting, and the Speed Fiends joined in. Walt called to Swann’s friends. They came over with heavier guns―and something else. At Roscoe’s urging, they’d brought dynamite and every other type of explosive they could find. They hurled them down as the barrage reached its zenith. Roscoe fired blind, shooting, reloading, and shooting again into the tangled mass. The explosives went off, ripping fire and death through the canyon.
The force of the blast sent pieces of metal clanging against the walls. Some zombies managed to crawl up out of the destruction, gouging bony fingers into the stone. Angel and Wooster picked them off and sent them plummeting.
It wasn’t a pretty business, this methodical and cruel slaughter―and it certainly wasn’t fair. But this ambush was what had come to Roscoe’s mind, and worked. Strickland had too many men in La Cruz. After this, he was stripped of most of his manpower. Roach had no more zombies outside the Mission—and now they could race back and save the hostages, as soon as the Deuce had one more minor alteration.
The rumble of another engine made Roscoe look up from the slaughter. Plumes of greasy smoke drifted up from the remains of the cars. The air stank of gasoline, death, gunpowder, and dynamite. Roscoe was glad to turn away. Betty’s coupe sped over, with two passengers inside. The trunk strained, tied down to prevent it from popping open.
She cruised to a stop next to the Speed Fiends’ motorcycles and the other cars. Betty and Felix got out. Felix scrambled around to the trunk and got to work. Betty looked tired and weakened. A nasty bruise turned purple on the right side of her face. She walked over to join Roscoe.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Okay. There was a giant scorpion guarding the graveyard.” Betty shrugged. “Nearly flipped the car over. But we went right to the Barrows’ little cabin and got everything we needed. Felix is nearly going mad with worry.” She paused. “And so am I.” Betty took a step to the edge of the canyon. “What happened here, was it all―”
Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1) Page 22
