The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (26 page)

“The old Packard wouldn’t be nearing empty this soon,” I muttered, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Had better mileage. Handled better too.”

Weatherby Stein, fourteen-year-old whiz kid with an attitude problem, stared out of the window at the passing plains. He may have been an expert on things that go bump in the night, but when it came to cars, he was totally in the dark. “I’m not sure I ascertain your meaning, Mort,” he replied. “But I do know you have whined ceaselessly about losing the Packard and I’m growing tired of it. This vehicle transports us safely and speedily from one point to another. That’s all that matters.”

“Sure,” I said. “Just like riding in the back seat of a hearse.” I looked at the side of the road. There was nothing but open plains, light brown dust topped with sprays of sage and tall grass. It extended endlessly into the distance, an ocean of dust. “We gotta stop for gas, kiddo,” I said. “And then look for somewhere to flop for the night. We can get back to California in the morning.”

“I don’t see what necessitated this journey across the country,” Weatherby replied. “We could have easily purchased a new automobile in California. The state seems to live perpetually in motorcars.”

“So will the whole country, kiddo, soon enough,” I said. “And buying a new boiler there was strictly out of our price range. Good thing I knew a couple of boys who were selling these Roadmasters for a steal.” A sign popped up on our right, zooming by as we rolled past. I read it aloud. “Plunket’s Gas and Entertainment – featuring the Route 66 Wild Man, Alive and Tamed for your Amusement.” I shrugged. “Looks like that’s our best offer.”

“Wonderful,” Weatherby muttered, slumping back in his seat.

I angled the car off the main road, turning onto a dusty patch of asphalt that led into the distance. It curved around like a convulsing snake, but brought me to a small patch of buildings, not too far from the desert. There was a small filling station, and a couple of sheds behind it. Garish faded signs advertised the Route 66 Wild Man.

I drove next to one of the pumps and stopped the car. An attendant hurried out to meet us. He had a peaked cap and a rubber bowtie, a small gut poking out from his dusty shirt. His hair was scraggly and going gray. I wondered how much business he got, all the way out here.

“Hello, folks!” he said. “Hello, hello! Going out to see our country? Getting a look at the finer parts of real America?”

“You hit the nail on the head,” I said. “Now fill up the car.”

“You got it, buddy. I’m Pete Plunket, by the way. I own this little piece of heaven.” He scrambled to grab the pump and started filling up the car, looking at me and Weatherby. “Um, you f-fellows, you don’t want to see the ’66 Wild Man, do you?”

I shrugged. “Ain’t exactly a priority.”

“Oh, thank God. Thank god for that.” Plunket leaned back against the pump. “Well, I got other things, if you want to see them. Will only cost you fifty cents to see my collection of pickled pig fetuses. They’re real impressive. And I got an honest-to-god Martian’s skeleton too. Looks like a cow’s skeleton, but it’s a Martian. I ain’t lying.”

Weatherby wiped his spectacles on his Victorian frock coat. “Pardon me, Mr. Plunket,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ve piqued my curiosity. Why exactly can’t we see the ’66 Wild Man?”

Plunket’s faced turned as red as my new car. “Well, the Wild Man, he, um, he ain’t exactly here no more. He broke out, you see. Last night. And then I saw the headlines in today’s paper.” He picked up a copy of some local Okie rag, resting on the folding chair next to the gas pump.

‘Family hacked to pieces in grisly slaughter’ the headlines read. I frowned at the splotchy pictures of the murdered tourists. “And you think your pet Wild Man’s responsible?” I asked. The detective in me was rising to the surface.

“Well, I don’t rightly know, mister,” Plunket explained. “I found the Wild Man when he weren’t much more than a babe. He’s a big fellow, and none too smart – or at least, he acts that way. But he’s nice. Never hurt no one, not in all the years I had him here. We even used to let him come out, and give the children piggy back rides. But maybe I was wrong, this whole time…” Plunket shivered, despite the heat.

“What do you intend to do now?” Weatherby wondered.

“I don’t rightly know,” Plunket repeated. “I’m no good at chasing people down, and I’m about as useless with my fists as a two-legged mule is at dancing the polka. I figure maybe I can hire someone to track the Wild Man down and bring him back, before he can do any more damage. I got a nice pile of dough squirreled away…”

Weatherby and I exchanged a glance. “Mr. Plunket,” I said. “My name’s Morton Candle, and this is my associate, Weatherby Stein. We’re detectives, we specialize in jobs like this, and most importantly, we’re hurting for a little cabbage. We’ll take your case and bring you back the Wild Man.”

“You would? Ah, gee, fellows, that sure is nice of you!” Plunket held out his hand. “I’ll give you a nice sum, fellows, I surely will! And this gas up’s for free, by the way.” He was suddenly full of motion. He danced back from the gas pumps to the small store across from our car. “I’d give you some photos of the Wild Man, but I don’t really have none. Better for publicity to keep it mysterious, you understand.”

I nodded. “I get the feeling it’ll be easy to pick the Wild Man out in a crowd,” I said. “But any idea where he’ll be heading?”

“Hold on a spell.” Plunket pulled a tattered Esso road map from the pocket of his coveralls and spread it out over the hood of the roadmaster. “Now, the ’66 Wild Man is just a little part of a whole mess of diners, museums, reptile shows, sideshows, zoos, emporiums, amusement parks, themed restaurants and various other attractions that decorate this little section of the old ’66. We call it the Roadside Line.”

“And you think the Wild Man won’t stray from the Roadside Line?” Weatherby asked.

“It’s the only thing he knows,” Plunket explained. He pointed to the end. “We’re here. The Easy Z’s Motor Lodge, where that poor family was killed, is right here. And next is—”

“Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs,” Weatherby read, the idiotic name sounding bizarre in his posh Teutonic and British accent. “So he’ll be heading here next.” He looked up at me. “And we can be there to meet him.”

“Sounds like a plan, kiddo,” I said. I pulled open the door to the Roadmaster. “Looks like she’s full. Let’s dangle.” Weatherby waited until Plunket took out the pump, and then joined me in the passenger seat. I gave Plunket a final nod and then slammed on the gas. The Roadmaster shot out from the gas station, down the swirling and back to Route 66 – right into another mystery.

We were quiet as I drove over to Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs. Weatherby had the windows rolled down, and stared out at the passing scenery. The signs started to pop up fast and thick as trees in a forest, advertising all varieties of food, entertainment and attractions. We passed a few other cars and trucks, all coursing down the road and occasionally pulling off, lured away by the siren song of the signs. I took the cigarette from my mouth and dropped it out the window, letting the wind of our passing carry it away.

“What a strange little world,” Weatherby said, examining the Esso map that Plunket had given him. “And yet it appears to have a bizarre grandeur, all of its own.”

“You kidding me? These joints would make a mousetrap look inviting. It’s like a circus sideshow, minus the dignity.”

“It’s their way of life, Mort,” Weatherby said. “And they persist in it – just as my family persisted in theirs.”

“Family, huh?” I asked. “You think the Wild Man’s mother is happy about him, performing for fat tourists and their bratty kids?”

“I’m certain it’s the only means of employment available to him,” Weatherby replied. “Kindly take the turn here, Mort. Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs is right ahead.” He reached into his coat as I made the turn, probably checking the handle of his large revolver. My own automatics were in my shoulder-holsters, in case the Wild Man didn’t want to come quietly.

Weatherby looked up at the long neck of some dinosaur, curing around one of the signs and gazing at the road like a leering serpent. “I must say, I don’t believe there is anything supernatural about this Wild fellow. I may be quite useless, if there is a fracas.”

I shook my head. “Nah, kiddo. You’re smarter than most, and that means I want you on my side. I got a feeling we may need that head on your shoulders soon enough, so try to keep it from getting knocked off.”

I started to slow the car as we reached Dinky Dave’s World of Dinosaurs. It was a series of large dinosaur statues, spread out in the desert like they had emerged from the sand. They were big, concrete statues, pitted and weathered by desert winds. A couple of gift shops and restaurants sat behind them in the shadows of the large reptiles. I drove next to the leg of some bipedal terrible lizard with big teeth and a long tale and parked the Roadmaster.

We stepped outside and looked around. Weatherby muttered to himself as the wind blew sand in our faces. He removed his glasses and started polishing them on his vest. I looked into the distance, one hand in my coat, scanning for any sign of the Wild Man. There was nothing but open ground, a couple of other cars near the gift shops, and a whole lot of dinosaurs. I looked up at the dinosaur above us, at his enraged red eyes and open mouth. He didn’t look too happy to be there and neither was I.

“Any sign of the ’66 Wild Man, Mort?” Weatherby asked, as he put his glasses back.

I looked into the distance and saw a trio of silver pick-up trucks headed our way. Each one had half a dozen men in the back, and I saw from far away that all of them were packing. They carried shotguns and rifles, nothing that heavy, but they could still fill us full of holes at any distance. “Nope,” I said. “But I see some trouble, coming our way. Put your hands up, kid. We don’t have any quarrels with anyone around here.” I didn’t say that they might have a quarrel with us.

The pick-ups screeched to a halt, right in front of us. Their doors snapped open, one after the other, and the fellows in the back got out. They were typical bumpkins, wearing plaid shirts, straw hats and fedoras, and sucking down cigarettes as they fingered their weapons. A few of them were a little stranger, and caught my eye.

One fellow was really a pair of them — Siamese twins held together at the shoulder. Each hand held a sawed-off shotgun in our direction. A couple midgets were there too, and a fellow with skin the same consistency of a cactus — and a similar color. They fiddled with their guns and waited as their leader pulled his bulk from the middle pick-up.

It was like a whale had decided to leave the sea and had grown legs to do it. He wore a collared shirt and suspenders, with an old fedora and an ivory pipe. He removed his sunglasses, revealing pink eyes in a flabby tanned face. The fat man pointed a finger like an overstuffed sausage in my direction. “Now,” he said. “You must be Morton Candle. You’re the shamus Old Pete Plunket hired, am I right?”

“You’re right, Big Daddy,” said a string bean of a man next to the obese leader. He wore an open crocodile-skin vest, and every inch of him of was covered in tattoos. The skin between the dark letters, dancing ladies, strange symbols and snarling animals was corded with lean muscle. “This fellow’s a flatfoot. I can smell it on him. Want me and the boys to leave them in a hole in the desert?”

“Not yet, Inky,” Big Daddy replied. “We ain’t even been introduced.” He held out his hand to me. “Name’s Big Daddy Bazzler. The painted man is Inky Abrams, my main lieutenant. And these boys are the ones who listen to my commands. You boys heard of us?”

“I don’t believe we have,” Weatherby said. The boy would be polite to his own executioner. “I’m Weatherby Stein and it appears you already know my partner. We’re working on a case, gentlemen. We have no wish to cause you trouble.”

“Good, cause you won’t.” Big Daddy extended a hand to his men. “I see you fellows are new to the Roadside Line. I run a little organization of fellows that the local yokels have dubbed ‘the Roadside Mafia.’ Frankly, there ain’t much goes on around here without me knowing about it – and giving the go-ahead. So when I hear some big city detective is poking his nose where it don’t belong, well, my ire becomes aroused.”

“He means you ought to get lost, or we’ll tear you apart!” Inky added.

I grinned at Inky. “Do bruises show up under that ink, Inky?” Before he could respond, I slugged him across the face, my knuckles slamming into his forehead and nose. He fell sputtering to the ground, reaching into his vest for a knife, but I kicked him in the chest and sent him back to the dust. The Roadside Mafia bristled, reaching for their weapons.

I looked up at them. “Find someone who stands a chance against me,” I suggested. “Then come back if you’ve got a problem with how I do business.”

Big Daddy pulled the pipe from his mouth and let out a cloud of smoke as Inky came shakily to his feet. “Oh, I got somebody,” he said. “Elkins! You put one in his shoulder! You clip him, just to show him we mean business?”

“Elkins?” I asked. The name surprised me, and I slowly smiled. I took off my fedora and turned around. Big Daddy had made another mistake. Depending on Bobby Lee Elkins’ mood, it might be his last. “Elkins? Is that you? You remember your CO, don’t you? Well, your sergeant wants to see you. Come on out!”