Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two

by Michael Panush

  The Captain nodded. “I think you’re right. What’s your plan, Wooster?”

  Wooster laid out his scheme. Roscoe listened, not meeting the eyes of his friends. Maybe this was the only way it could end―but he still didn’t exactly like it.

  oscoe went with Wooster and Angel the next morning. They took the Packard, now gleaming from a fresh paint job. They rolled around the fat, towering rectangle of gaudy cement that was the Sandpiper Hotel and Casino and drove to the employee lot in the back. A service entrance, a single unpainted set of stairs before an unmarked door, led inside. One of Buzz Craddock’s guards, a goon with a potbelly and a shotgun, sat there on a folding chair. Nobody said anything as they drove to a stop. Roscoe felt the first hints of tension, enough to make his heart release a single, pent-up beat. Wooster killed the engine and they got out.

  The guard looked up from his racing form and pushed up the brim of his fedora. Wooster, Angel, and Roscoe all wore gray coveralls, taken from Donovan Motors in La Cruz. Roscoe sported a baseball cap to hide his face, as he’d been seen around the Sandpiper yesterday. Wooster and Angel hadn’t visited the casino yet, and they walked straight up to the guard. All of them had bags of tools swinging from their shoulders. They certainly looked the part.

  Angel approached the guard. “How you doing, man? We’re from the plumbing company. Here to see about the toilet trouble.”

  “Toilet trouble?” The guard folded his newspaper. “I didn’t hear about it.”

  “Well, it ain’t the staff toilets that are having the trouble,” Angel said. “Guest bathrooms on the casino―you know, the places where the customers go? Apparently, they ain’t flushing. So the gamblers have to deal with the stink of their own crap in between rounds at the slot machines. We’re supposed to go in there and fix it.”

  Roscoe lowered his eyes, not looking at the guard. Wooster gripped the strap of the bag around his shoulder and said nothing. The guy at the door scratched the cleft of his chin. He looked at his clipboard. “I don’t got no plumbers written down. Not a thing about them.” He stared at Angel. “You sure you’re supposed to be here?”

  “Hey, I just go where the company tells me. They said the Sandpiper and we went to the Sandpiper.” Angel tapped the clipboard. “Maybe your boss forgot to write it down. You know, busy guy and all that? It’s easy to let little details slip through.”

  “Yeah,” the goon said. “I suppose so.”

  “So, we can wait here while you go in there, find your boss, tell him what happened, and he talks to his boss and so on and so on.” Angel rolled his eyes. “And meanwhile, the stink in the bathrooms will keep adding up. It’ll probably start seeping onto the casino floor. Frankie Fink will catch wind of it. I bet he’ll demand the plumbers get in there and fix it. Then they’ll find out that the plumbers are already here, but they were waiting on you to get permission to go inside and get to work.” Angel shrugged. “We can wait if you want. But I think it’ll be better if you just let us in and square it with your boss later.”

  The goon looked Angel over. He shrugged slowly, making a performance of rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.” He unlocked the door, and pulled it open to reveal a wide hall. “Main casino floor is dead ahead. Just go down there, ignore the staircase, and head through the double doors. You can’t miss it.”

  While he unlocked the door, Angel unzipped the messenger bag hanging on his shoulder. He drew out one of his pearl-handled automatics and thumbed back the hammer. The guard spun around. His eyes settled on the gun and he sighed, a low grumble, like the sound a cartoon dog would make after it couldn’t catch the cat. He didn’t even look surprised―merely disappointed. Angel jabbed the pistol in his nose, grabbed his shotgun, and tossed it back to Roscoe while Wooster approached. Roscoe ejected the shells and dropped the weapon, far out of reach of the guard. The goon scratched his cheek and lowered his head, looking saddened by his own credulity.

  Wooster pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back. “Sorry, brother. Just business is all.” He gestured for the fellow to put his hands behind his back. “You know what these are. Turn around, real slow.” The guard looked at Angel’s pistol and then did as he was asked. Wooster grabbed his hands and slapped on the cuffs. The clicking sounded strangely loud in the vacant lot. “Good. Now go on and lie down on your belly. Won’t be comfortable, but you won’t have to stay there long.”

  “I suppose not,” the guard murmured.

  He dropped down, resting his belly on the cement stairs. Angel pulled back the door, revealing the bare hall. Roscoe checked his wristwatch. Betty was going to play her part soon, and they would need to be there in time to meet her. He looked back at the parking lot, as the Rolls Royce pulled in. The Captain manned the wheel, while Felix sat in the passenger seat. Roscoe and Angel had parked in front of the Sandpiper. They had planned the placement of the cars perfectly. Putting Felix this close to the operation was the only part Roscoe didn’t like―but they couldn’t leave the kid alone. After the heist was finished, they had to leave Vegas quickly, and they wouldn’t have time to pick him up from the Oasis Motel.

  Roscoe held up his hand in greeting and Felix waved from the window. Wooster, Angel, and Roscoe entered and headed down the hall. Wooster dug into his satchel and pulled out his Thompson submachine gun. He let the bag dangle over his shoulder, carrying the Thompson in his meaty hands as he walked down the hall. Angel and Roscoe stayed ahead. Angel had his pistol at his side and Roscoe kept his hands free.

  The stairwell leading to the Sandpiper’s basement lay right before them, with three guards ready to protect it. They had the lean look of dogs who had been caged for a long time. One, a guy with a pencil-thin moustache, had a rifle leaning on the wall behind him. The other two packed shotguns. They had a small table out and were playing cards, a stack of money resting on the green felt. The cards fell and the money exchanged hands, but none of the guards paid much attention to the game. Roscoe and his friends wouldn’t get closer without attracting their attention.

  They all knew it. Wooster stopped walking, his boots pausing on the tiled floor. Angel and Roscoe waited. They couldn’t hang out in the hall forever. Roscoe checked his watch. His heart pounded, a single beat that sounded like cannon shot. Betty should have made her appearance a minute ago. Roscoe stared at Angel and pointed to his watch. Angel nodded. There wasn’t a thing they could do. Roscoe looked into his satchel, where his sawed-off rested. If they went loud now, it might summon more guards, and they wouldn’t be able to leave.

  The far door opened and Betty emerged. She’d dolled herself up for the role she had to play, now sporting a lime green cocktail dress with chiffon edges and extra lipstick. The guards stared at her. Betty pushed up her glasses and smiled as she approached. “Excuse me, fellows. I think I’m lost.” She rested a hand on her purse strap and walked down the hall. Her high-heeled shoes on the tile sounded like a metronome. “This doesn’t look like the way to the casino to me.”

  The guards stood. The largest, a fellow who looked like a football player mixed with a grizzly bear, held out his hands and spread his thick fingers. “That’s right, ma’am. This ain’t a place you should ought to be. You should turn around.”

  “Ma’am?” Betty asked. “I think ‘miss’ is more appropriate, buddy.”

  “All right, miss.” The one with the pencil moustache stood up. His cigarette moved up and down in his lips. “You say you’re lost? What are you looking for?”

  Betty walked over to them. She had their complete attention. “Well, I was thinking of going to the buffet. Grab a little bite to eat for breakfast. But maybe I ought to watch my figure more.” She folded her hands. “You guys seem to do a good job of that. You’re in great shape.” She smiled a debutante’s smile. A single bead of sweat glistened on her pale forehead. He knew she must be as scared as he was― she couldn’t keep this up.

  The guy with the pencil moustache tugged at his tie. “I don’t know. I like a dame with meat on he
r bones.”

  “Is that so?” Betty asked. “How interesting.”

  While Betty kept the guards distracted, Roscoe, Angel, and Wooster snuck down the hall. When they got closer, Wooster raised his Thompson. Nobody looked at him―until Wooster slammed the butt of his gun between the biggest guy’s shoulder blades. The guard let out a croak and fell. Wooster raised his weapon. The other two turned and stared at it, their eyes going straight to the muzzle of the machine gun.

  Wooster spoke quietly, with an edge to his voice. “Drop your goddamn heaters. You go for them, you die. I swear to Christ, I will paint these walls with your guts if you give me a reason. Now drop your guns.”

  They didn’t listen. The guard in the middle, a portly fellow with a porkpie hat, tried to raise his shotgun. Angel and Roscoe reached him first. Roscoe grabbed the gun and tugged at it, wrenching it away from the guard’s fingers. Angel whacked him with the butt of his pistol, planting the automatic right between the gunman’s eyes. They rolled back and he drooped. The fellow with the pencil moustache reached for his rifle, but Betty pulled her snub-nosed revolver from her purse and pressed the gun to his nose. He kept the rifle up for a second and then let it fall.

  “Please,” he said. “I didn’t―”

  “I told you not to go for your guns,” Wooster said. “You ought to know better.”

  He stepped next to the guy, grabbed his throat, and rammed his skull into the wall. The goon let out a slight, whistling moan and collapsed―out cold. Roscoe pushed aside their guns while Wooster rolled them over and put on the cuffs. Betty and Angel kept them covered with their pistols while Wooster and Roscoe worked.

  Roscoe glanced up at Betty. Her knuckles were white around the grip of her pistol and another bead of sweat had appeared. “It’s okay. You did good. The blonde ditz gag―it’s a good act.”

  “Thanks,” Betty said. “I’ve seen it often enough.”

  “Well, you pulled it off swell.” Roscoe stood. Now it was time for them to split up. “Everything copacetic for your job?”

  Angel pulled an electrician’s tool belt from his satchel and tugged it on. He was going to ask for directions to the casino’s power station, bluff his way in while pretending to be a maintenance worker, and pull his pistols on anyone there and cut the alarms. “It’s cool, man.” He let his automatic rest in his satchel. “The men they have here, they think they’re in some sort of gangster paradise, where they ain’t gotta worry about the law or rival crews or anything. It makes them complacent. I put a pistol in their face and they become real cooperative.”

  “Don’t take chances.” Roscoe patted Angel’s shoulder. “You’ve got ten minutes to do your job. That’s all we can spare.”

  “I’ll be quick.” Angel paused and looked over at his friends. “Good luck to you guys too.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Wooster said.

  “See you in a bit,” Betty added.

  Angel hurried down the hallway. Roscoe waited until he left, and led the group down the stairwell. They walked to the basement level, headed through the little corridor, and reached the vault door. It loomed over Roscoe, seeming even bigger than when he had seen it with his disembodied eye. Roscoe and Betty stared at the complex locks and spiked iron wheels, like the workings of some strange engine spread across a wall. It didn’t seem possible to remove.

  Wooster set down his satchel and got to work.

  “You can handle this?” Roscoe asked.

  “I surely can.” Wooster removed a pair of dynamite sticks and fuses. He went back to the door and set them up, and moved back for two more. He worked quickly, and soon had the entire door wired. “That’s what folks like Fink don’t understand. You can spend all the dough you want on a fancy security system, a big old expensive vault door, and plenty of guards. But a couple explosions in the right places and the whole thing goes tumbling down.” He grinned at Betty. Wooster was enjoying himself. “Ya’ll stand back now.”

  Betty took a few halting steps back. Roscoe joined her as Wooster unspooled a length of cord connected to the dynamite. He moved to join his friends at the end of the hall and snapped open the detonator.

  Roscoe checked his watch. “It’s been ten minutes. Angel should be done. Blow it now.”

  “You don’t want to wait longer?” Wooster asked. “What if he got delayed or something?”

  “The longer we wait, the greater the chance someone will discover one of the guards.” Roscoe pointed to the door. “Blow it now.”

  “Okay.” Wooster glanced at Betty. “Care to do the honors, little lady?”

  “Why not?” Betty leaned down and pressed the detonator.

  The sticks of dynamite blasted to life. Wooster always kept a little dynamite on him and he had primed them carefully the night before, after Roscoe did his best to describe the vault door to him. The explosions rippled across the surface, shattering a length of metal at one point, dislodging a cog in another, and blasting a chunk of metal in the center. The vault door creaked and groaned. Wooster stood and carefully approached it. No one said a word. They were waiting for the alarm to go off. They waited and waited. Roscoe’s heart beat again, but no alarm sang out. Angel must have done his job. Betty let out a slight sigh of relief. Wooster walked to the door and faced to his friends. Betty pulled her pistol, and Roscoe drew his sawed-off.

  Wooster grabbed the door and pushed it open. It swung wide on its hinges, making a slight creaking noise as it revealed the counting room. Wooster swept the room with his Thompson and Roscoe and Betty aimed their guns. About half-a-dozen guys in shirtsleeves sat at felt tables, counting money, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. All of them looked up in silent amazement. Angel was right. These guys weren’t expecting them. Roscoe could have been Santa Claus waltzing in―a creature out of a children’s story showing up in their normal place of business.

  Roscoe kept the sawed-off pointed at his target and walked inside. At the far end, sat the wooden door leading to the living quarters. “Stay where you are. Don’t move at all. Stay completely still and I promise you won’t be hurt.”

  The counters stayed still. They were glorified accountants; they weren’t hired for their muscle. They didn’t know what to do and so they stayed still, but their boss stood. He had a protruding gut and thinning hair, a cigar wedged between his fingers. He wore his vest unbuttoned, his tie a ragged flag drooping over his chest. He stepped in front of Roscoe. “You know who you’re stealing from? Do you know? You must know who owns this joint. It’s Frankie Fink, pal. You won’t make it out of the state. You won’t make it out of town. Take all the dough you want. You won’t get a chance to spend it.”

  “We’re not here for dough,” Roscoe said.

  “Doesn’t matter. This is the Fink’s casino, and you’re knocking it over.” This guy, maybe a pit boss doubling as the manager in the counting room, wouldn’t back down. He stepped closer to Roscoe, ignoring the sawed-off aimed at his chest. “The Fink’s got plenty of friends. He’s got armies at his command. He’ll get you and you’ll get it slow. You got me, pal? You’ll get it nice and slow.” His finger jabbed out, aiming for Roscoe. “Trust me, pal. You’re already dead.”

  “Got that right.” Roscoe slugged the guy, ramming a fist into his gut and tossing him back. He crashed into one of the tables. Money flew everywhere, thick clumps of green dollars wafting through the still, smoky air. Roscoe pointed to Wooster. “He’ll watch you while we get what we came for. He’s not patient and he’s part wolf. Don’t give him an excuse.” He glanced at Wooster. “You good?”

  “Yes, sir.” Wooster knelt, grabbed a clump of money, and tucked it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Just for the hell of it.” He flashed a savage smile.

  Now Roscoe knew he was enjoying himself.

  “Don’t have too much fun.” Roscoe nodded to Betty. “Let’s go.”

  They hurried to the door at the far end, leaving Wooster to keep the accountants covered with his tommy gun. Roscoe and Betty sprinted past the
room with the wire service and the chalkboards, to the living quarters. Roscoe kicked open the door and stepped inside the first chamber, keeping his sawed-off ready. Betty stood next to him, holding her pistol. Roscoe scanned the room, but didn’t see anybody. The air still stank of incense from Townsend Mars’s ritual. Betty walked onto the carpet and knelt. The crystal and candle remained, along with strange letters written in wax and blood.

  Betty looked it over. “A communication spell, I think. He was talking to something.”

  Roscoe edged into the room. The door at the other end creaked and slammed open. Mars rushed out, swinging his crystal cane high. He raced across the room, robes flying behind him like a pair of scraggly vulture’s wings. Roscoe faced him. He grabbed Mars’s thin, weathered wrist, halting his stabbing attack, and rammed his forehead into Mars’s face. The cult leader tumbled back and plopped onto the couch.

  He looked up at Roscoe, his eyes ablaze. “Heretic! Fiend! Dead man!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Roscoe pointed his sawed-off at Mars. “Now shut up and keep quiet.”

  “I do not fear death! I welcome it. I will join the Crystal Gods and we will bring forth a new world, where fear and hatred and greed do not exist!” His eyes darted to the door. “Clyde! Brother! Come forth and destroy my enemies!”

  Too late, Roscoe saw Dr. Bolton standing in the doorway. He looked like a mess, his unbuttoned shirt hanging over his trousers and stubble framing his wild and tired eyes. He carried a Mauser pistol and he pointed the gun straight at Roscoe. “D-don’t―” he started, stammering as he struggled to hold the pistol. “Don’t make me―”

  “You don’t have to,” Roscoe said. “Put the gun down, Dr. Bolton. There’s no need for this.”