Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two

by Michael Panush

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  © 2015 Michael Panush

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  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

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  hey reached Las Vegas that afternoon, crossing Nevada in a five-car convoy. Roscoe led, riding in his Nash-Healey with the desert wind rustling his dark hair and his sunglasses hiding his eyes from the glare―first from sunlight, and then from neon. Angel came nest in his Cadillac, followed by Betty in her little two-seater coupe. The Captain, driving his Rolls Royce with Felix in the passenger seat and Snowball scurrying around the back. Finally, Wooster brought up the rear in his Packard, which carried most of their supplies. It had been a pretty boring trip, full of open desert and splotches of habitation that passed for towns. Roscoe kept fiddling with the dial to keep the Deadbeat’s program on, pleased the signal carried all the way out here. But when they reached Las Vegas, with the oversized sign of the waving cowboy with his perpetual wink and a cigarette jutting in the corner of his mouth, everything got real exciting.

  The drivers rolled down the Vegas Strip, driving by casino after casino. Even though it was still afternoon, the lights had already switched on. They blared from the towering, bulky casinos, and bathed the dark pavement and the cluttered cars in a thousand bright shades of color. The sidewalks, packed with gamblers and tourists, seemed to glow as well―but that might have been from the sequined costumes of showgirls advertising the casinos, or the Hawaiian shirts of the tourists who came from all over the country to gamble and dabble in a little bit of wickedness. Roscoe had been through Vegas a few times―never long enough to lose more than a couple bucks ―and it took his breath away whenever he visited. The city was a monument to the wealth America had acquired at the end of the war, and its collective desire to spend it all in a wild storm of bright, mad sin.

  Right there, in the center of the Strip, stood the Sandpiper Hotel and Casino―the palace of Frankie Fink’s criminal empire. It had a vaguely desert theme, with Moorish columns by the square doors and showgirls dressed like belly dancers. That was about as far as the theme went. The structure itself looked like a large tan rectangle full of windows, and covered in gilding. The sign, in cool blue neon, shone down from above the entrance. Roscoe gazed at it. Getting in seemed easy enough, but he was sure it would be a bit more difficult to get out.

  This time, Roscoe didn’t stop at a casino. Instead, he led the convoy past the Strip and into the city of Las Vegas proper. The Captain had scoped the place out beforehand and already picked where they’d be staying: The Oasis Motel. It lay in a quiet side street, with the Strip glowing like a setting sun on the horizon. It seemed a good place to lay low. Roscoe spotted the sign for the Oasis, blazing red under a light-up palm tree, and drove into the square parking lot. The hotel formed a horseshoe around the lot, offering a pool of fetid water in the back and bristly fake grass on the balconies. Roscoe and his friends parked and climbed out of their vehicles, stretching and groaning after a long time on the road.

  A rotund fellow in a turquoise bowling shirt, wandered over to greet them. He scratched his thinning hair when he saw the five gleaming automobiles. The Captain emerged, Felix at his side. Snowball hopped out as well.

  The portly fellow, who had to be the dump’s owner, eyeballed the baby Yeti and wiggled a finger inside an ear. “Um…We don’t really allow pets. I’m sorry.”

  The Captain reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope, which he handed to the owner. “I apologize. But I think you’ll find this ample compensation.” The owner took it, and his eyes bulged when he looked inside. “We’ll take five rooms, side by side, on the ground floor. We don’t want to be disturbed. If anyone comes by asking for us, you telephone my room and let me know.” As he spoke, Wooster opened the trunk and hauled out two army green duffel bags, packed with supplies. “We’ll do our best to be courteous and quiet during the time that we’re here.”

  “Sure,” the owner said. “And I can overlook your pet, ah, monkey, is it?”

  “An ape, actually, sir,” Felix . “He is very well-behaved.” Snowball urinated on the bristling fake grass as Betty and Angel helped carry in the suitcases. “And I will make sure that he does not bother your other guests.”

  The owner nodded. “Well, that’s just fine.” He paused and looked at the drivers. Roscoe walked over to stand next to the Captain and Felix. “So…What’re y’all here for? See the casinos, maybe?”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “The casinos.”

  “I’ll fetch you the keys. Your rooms are right there on the first floor.” The owner tucked the envelope under his arm. “Let me know if you need anything. Name’s Otis, by the way. You just ask for anything and I’ll get it.” He hurried across the parking lot, seemingly eager to be out of the way.

  The Captain watched him go. Wooster, Angel, and Betty came to stand with him.

  “Seems like a charming little place,” Betty said. “Ice boxes are freshly stocked, at least.” She turned to the Captain and Roscoe. “But I don’t think we’re here to see the sights. What’s our plan, Captain? How do we find Townsend Mars and Dr. Bolton?”

  Wooster spat chewing tobacco onto the asphalt. The puddle spread, drying quickly in the warm sun. “Want my advice? We hit him hard, right now. We got the equipment. We got the artillery. It’ll be simple.”

  “I’d rather not, Wooster. I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves―and I’m sure our government employers wouldn’t want an armed incursion in a crowded casino.” The Captain stroked his gray moustache as he stared at the dust. “We need to accomplish this carefully, and I don’t want any civilians involved.”

  Roscoe leaned on the side of his car. “So we ask―we ask Fink to hand over Dr. Bolton. He’s a businessman and he doesn’t want any trouble. We explain to him the truth of what his friendship with Mars means, and he’ll do the rest.”

  “That’s a good idea,” the Captain said. “We can seek an audience with Finkelstein. Discuss matters. Perhaps we can convince him to give Bolton up without a fight.”

  “He’s a hood. He might need plenty of convincing.” Angel pulled a switchblade from his zoot suit’s pocket and flicked it open. “You want me and Roscoe to persuade him, boss?”

  Betty gave Angel a quick smile. “Maybe we should try politeness first.”

  “May I go?” Felix asked. “If you wish to show good intentions, perhaps I could come along? I could explain the situation to Mr. Finkelstein about why he needs to turn Dr. Bolton over to our custody. Perhaps that would be helpful?”

  “Bringing a nice kid like Felix would show that we’re not on the warpath,” Betty added.

  “Leave the Yeti here.” Roscoe squinted at the cloudless sky. “I’m going too.”

  “Very well.” The Captain nodded. “Roscoe, Betty―I’d like you with me. We’ll take the Rolls.” He glanced down at Felix. “Son, you may accompany us, but I want you on your best behavior. I don’t have to tell you the importance of this meeting.” He glanced at Wooster and Angel. “
I’ll need you men to stay here and create a secure base of operations. Scan the surrounding area, prepare our equipment and weapons, and wait for us to return. Hopefully, it won’t take long.” He walked back to the Rolls, straightening his tie and vest as if preparing for a business meeting. Felix and Betty followed him.

  Angel grinned at Roscoe. “The old man likes your idea. I think he sees you handling yourself well, and he likes that too.”

  “What does that mean?” Roscoe asked.

  Wooster chuckled. “Means he might want to make you trail boss, Roscoe.”

  “A leader?” Roscoe shook his head. “No way. I’m some punk hitman. I’m a torpedo who knows a thing or two about cars. I’m no―”

  “Roscoe?” The Captain called from the passenger seat. “I’d like you to drive.”

  “Sure, boss.” Roscoe climbed behind the wheel. He gunned the engine and they sped out from the parking lot, and turned down the street, headed back to the Strip―back to the neon maze with Townsend Mars and Dr. Bolton somewhere inside. Hopefully, they could get the kooky rocket scientist without trouble, but Roscoe had a feeling that was a sucker’s bet. And in this town? Sucker’s bets didn’t earn much.

  The lobby of the Sandpiper was all tan and gold, with a polished marble floor, mirrors for walls, and palm trees strung up with shining yellow lights. Tourists, families and couples, shoved their way through the lobby to get at the vast gaming hall, where slot machines sat in glittering rows and green felt card tables rested on little islands behind red velvet ropes. Showgirls strutted everywhere, carrying drinks and chatting to patrons. In the distance, some golden-throated lounge singer crooned his way through a lonely-hearts ballad, a haunting tune that mixed with the ringing of the slot machines. Roscoe kept his eyes to the edges of the gambling hall. The security men, all wearing dark maroon suits, stood discretely in the corners and watched everything., Frankie Fink was prepared for trouble.

  The Captain headed straight for the receptionist. She looked at him through her horn-rimmed glasses and they talked quietly while Felix, Roscoe, and Betty looked on. A few minutes later, the Captain returned to them as he slid a badge under his coat. “We’ve got an audience with Finkelstein. In his penthouse office.”

  “How’d you swing that?” Betty asked.

  “Old government credentials,” the Captain said. “They’re very useful for getting people’s attention.”

  The receptionist stepped out from behind her desk. “If you’ll follow me, please.” She walked across the marble lobby and headed for the gambling hall. They followed her. Felix stood between Betty and Roscoe, staring at the casino in amazement, eyes as wide as dinner plates. The kid had never seen anything like it, having spent most of his life in a quiet German estate, some Nazi dungeon, a government lab, and then peaceful La Cruz.

  He gazed back to Betty and Roscoe. “This is an American wonderland, yes? A playground where you enjoy yourselves and spend money and forget your troubles? Perhaps we need something like that in Europe.”

  “Don’t count on it, kiddo,” Roscoe said. “All the lights and colors mask some simple robbery―separating chumps from their money. It’s all a racket. Just look at the gangsters they got running the place. Then again, nothing’s more American than that.”

  Betty patted Felix’s shoulder. “And I don’t think you should gamble, Felix―not that much, anyway. It doesn’t seem to suit your temperament.”

  Felix looked solemn. “I will heed your words, Miss Bright.”

  She laughed. “Sure, honey. Now let’s go meet the guy who runs it all.”

  They receptionist brought them into a wide elevator at the back of the gambling hall. With its mirrored sides and glowing panel, it looked more like an odd spaceship than an elevator. The receptionist punched a key and the elevator silently rose all the way up to the top floor. Felix stared at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his tie and glasses. The elevator eventually came to a halt and the receptionist ushered them into a cream-colored waiting room, with a desk that looked like a hunk of obsidian. A ginger-haired woman in a showgirl’s outfit sat behind it. Roscoe and Betty sat and perused casino trade magazines and luxury automobile catalogues for a few minutes. Felix tapped his feet on the polished floor and the Captain sat motionless, staring dead ahead and waiting.

  The showgirl coughed slightly. “Mr. Finkelstein will see you now.”

  She stood and walked to the door at the far end, and ushered them inside. The office looked like some businessman’s den had suffered an explosion, spreading the bric-a-brac all over the walls. A drooping Marlin was mounted over the desk. Trophies and awards glistened on the walls, along with portraits of Frankie Fink shaking hands and grinning with every celebrity he could find. Frankie Fink sat behind his mammoth desk, smoking a fat cigar. A portly, stuffed sandpiper stood on the edge of the desk, watching Roscoe and his friends with marble eyes. Frankie Fink sported a checkered suit and a loud tie. His dark hair had started to thin and laugh lines appeared when he smiled, as he did when he stood up from his seat.

  He held out his hand. “Captain! I didn’t catch your name, actually. Welcome to Vegas!”

  “Mr. Finkelstein.” The Captain politely shook Frankie Fink’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is my driver, Roscoe, my assistant, Betty Bright, and my adopted son, Felix Tannenbaum.”

  Frankie Fink beamed at them. “You brought the whole family! That’s great. I love families.” He shook Roscoe’s hand and turned to Betty. “You got a pretty assistant, Captain. A hell of a dame.” Then his eyes settled on Felix. “And you―you a member of the tribe, kid?”

  “I am a Jew, yes, s-sir,” Felix answered.

  “Aces! I could tell from the name. Always good to meet a Landsman!” He pumped Felix’s hand, nearly knocking the boy down. Then he pointed to the fellow standing next to his desk. “I always try to employ my countrymen when I can. We gotta look out for each other, right? This guy, he’s as goyish as they come. An Okie, if you can believe it. His name’s Buzz Craddock. Say ‘hi,’ Buzz.”

  Buzz Craddock looked like a football player, with broad shoulders, a bullet head, and permanently glaring eyes lost within the bulldog wrinkles of his cheeks. He sported a maroon suit and deep red tie, a long-barreled revolver resting on his belt. “Hi, Buzz,” he drawled, shooting Frankie Fink an annoyed glare.

  “Buzz handles security for me. He should know a thing or two about it. He used to rob banks himself. Now he protects mine―and there’s no safer bank in the country.” Frankie Fink sat behind his desk. “Everyone knows what happens if you steal from me.” His eyes settled on the Captain. “So, are you enjoying Las Vegas? I want to make sure you have the best vacation possible. I understand what leisure time means to a gentleman like you and your family. Speaking of which.” He clapped his hands. “Ginger―drinks. And a Roy Rogers for my pal Felix.”

  The showgirl hurried to the cabinet in the back. “Right away, Mr. Finkelstein.” She busied herself. Ice clinked against glass and liquid sloshed. After a bit, she came back with a cocktail for each of them.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Felix accepted his drink.

  Ginger handed another drink to her boss. He sipped it as he looked at the Captain. “So, why do you want to see me? You said you were with the government?”

  “That’s right,” the Captain said. “I need to know about your relationship with a man named Townsend Mars. We have reason to believe―”

  “Hold on.” Frankie Fink raised a hand. He stood up and held up his drink. “Ginger?” he asked. “Do me a favor. Count the ice cubes in my drink.”

  Silence filled the room. Buzz Craddock let out a low sigh and turned away.

  Ginger stepped cautiously to the desk. “Sir? Would you like another or―”

  “Ginger, I’m asking you to count the ice cubes in my drink. Please count them.”

  She looked down at his glass. “Well, there’s three, sir.”

  “Three.” Frankie Fink looked at the glass himself. “That�
�s right. Three ice cubes. And you know what?” His hand shot out. He grabbed Ginger’s wrist, his fingers locking around her skin. He upended the drink in her face, drenching her. “That’s the wrong goddamn number! One ice cube, the drink doesn’t get cold. Two is the perfect number. Three―they melt and the drink gets watered down. Is this the kind of place that serves watered down drinks? Some goddamn dump? A back alley Brooklyn speakeasy? Is that what you think it is?”

  Ginger sobbed and Frankie Fink slammed her hand on the table. Betty covered her mouth with her hand and Felix’s face went pale.

  “Mr. Finkelstein, I’m s-s-s―”

  “You dumb dame, of course, you’re sorry! Now answer my damn question!”

  “No, Mr. Finkelstein!” Ginger cried.

  “That’s right.” He let go of her arm. “You’re fired. Get your stuff together and leave. You’re finished here. Go back to Iowa or wherever you came from.” He pounded the table. “Now!” Ginger raced out of the room, sobbing. Frankie Fink’s eyes swiveled back to the Captain. The smile returned to his face. His laugh lines deepened. “I apologize. I require perfection in my casino. Absolute perfection. Right down to the drinks.” He settled down in his desk. “But we’re finished on that subject. You want to know about Townsend Mars?”

  “Mr. Finkelstein,” Felix said. “You didn’t need to insult that p-poor woman or―”

  “Felix.” The Captain put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Yes, Townsend Mars. Is he here?”

  Frankie Fink stared at the Captain. For a second, his smile vanished and his lined and weary face emerged. Then the smile returned. “I do know Townsend. We’re old friends from my Hollywood days. He’s a weird fellow, I know―but he pays his debts. Of course, he’s not in town right now. I don’t know where he is.” He spoke too quickly, an obvious denial.

  Roscoe stepped closer. “You sure about that? You know, if we don’t get what we want, it may bring some trouble down on your casino. Mars is involved with weird stuff, as I’m sure you know. It could end up coming back to bother you.”