The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (28 page)

“Nope. Civil war. Between Big Daddy and Inky Abrams. Inky wants control of the Roadside Mafia, and Big Daddy ain’t exactly ready to retire. Inky’s fit for a straitjacket, though I’d bet he’d gnaw his way out. Normally, Big Daddy can handle things, but he’s been a little out of sorts lately.” He sighed. “And there’s the Wild Man.”

“Yeah.” I risked a bite of the onion rings. They tasted as bad as they smelled. “But here’s the thing – he didn’t seem like a dumb beast to me. His eyes were intelligent. It wasn’t animal stupidity that made him attack me. It was rage.” I nodded to Elkins. “And we both have experience with that.”

“It ain’t leaving me,” Elkins said slowly. “It just ain’t.”

I decided to change the subject. “The connection with Big Daddy is worth checking out,” I said. “The dirt’s there. You just need to know where to start digging. You know where Big Daddy makes his home?”

“Trailer park, not far from here,” Elkins explained. “You got a map? I’ll point it out for you.”

As I reached for my Esso map, I heard something moving across the polished wooden floor. Quite a few things, actually. I stood up and turned around, reaching for my pistols as I looked around to see who was sneaking up on me. It wasn’t a set of feet heading my way, but a bunch of coils. I looked down and saw half a dozen snakes, a mix of rattlesnakes, cobras, vipers, and asps, slithering towards us, hissing crazily. Footsteps pounded down the stairwell to the ground floor, doubtlessly whoever had set loose the snakes making their escape.

I stood up and overturned the table, sending the onion rings and cokes scattering to the ground. “Keep your distance!” I told Elkins and Weatherby. “Someone’s trying to bump us – and they picked snakes as their weapon!”

The serpents got closer, and there wasn’t anywhere to run. We couldn’t make it to the stairs, not without getting enough bites to kill an elephant. One cobra reared up, displaying its frill as it prepared to strike. I fired my automatic, blasting it in half. But the rest of the snakes were closing in. Weatherby stood up on his chair and Elkins did the same.

“Hold on, Mort!” Weatherby cried. “I may have just the means of dealing with these serpentine attackers!” He reached into his coat, fiddling with all the strange devices he held in its large pockets. “My father spent a small time among the Thuggee Death Cult of India. They knew how to handle snakes.”

“Mind sharing it with me, kiddo?” I asked. A rattlesnake’s tail started crackling away, an inch from my leg. I kicked it, driving the tip of my boot into its long neck and knocking it back.

I risked a glance at Weatherby and saw him holding out a thin clay flute. He raised it to his lips and started playing, his pale face going red with exertion as he coaxed out thin, reedy notes. It sounded like he was strangling a howler monkey, but the snakes liked it. Weatherby weaved back and forth on the chair and the snakes did the same, hypnotized by the noise and the movement. He gave me a quick nod and hopped down from the chairs. Elkins and I walked carefully through the snakes, along with Weatherby. We didn’t step on them, and they didn’t bite us. It worked out fine for everyone.

We reached the stairwell, and Weatherby let go of the flute and breathed in a long gasp of air. “Well,” he said. “I think I was a little out of tune, but it sufficed.”

“Strap me to a saddle and send me off a cliff!” Elkins laughed. “You are one smart cookie, Weatherby, and that’s a fact!”

Weatherby went bashful at the compliment. The guys in the platoon that had saved him were his heroes, and he saw them as something more than human. “Well, it wasn’t that much, Mr. Elkins,” he said. “I just used the proper techniques, passed down from Hindu snake-charmers for generations.”

“And it saved our behinds,” I said. But I had spoken too soon. A rifle shot blasted into the stairwell at my side. The bullet burned past my leg, knocking me onto the railing, over the side – and down into the alligator pool.

I splashed down hard, and filthy, pungent water filled my eyes and nostrils as I came to the surface of the shallow pool. I emerged and spat out a stream of green water, then remembered who else was sharing my tub. The alligators floated lazily around, watching me with wary green eyes. Weatherby and Elkins ran down to the ground floor and hurried to the edge of the floor.

“Easy, Mort!” Elkins cried. “I’ve seen these gators gobble down a whole cow carcass in two seconds flat!”

“Thanks for the comforting words, Elkins” I said. “You know just what to say to a guy who’s down on his luck.” I raised my arms and started wading to the edge of the pool. My trench coat was soaked, and my pistols would need to be stripped, cleaned and reassembled, but that didn’t matter at the moment. I took step after step, drawing to the edge as close as I could. One of the alligators slowly paddled in my direction, looking more like he was swimming over to visit the other side of the pool than to take a bite out of me.

But as soon as he drew clear enough, he lunged for me, nearly leaping out of the water with jaws open, big enough to munch my head in a single bite. I leapt out of the way, sending ripples through the water as the jaws snapped, inches from my face.

I slugged the alligator, driving the length of my fist into the underside of its jaw. It may have been big and scaly, but a good uppercut will give anyone pause. The alligator reared back and I punched it again, feeling my knuckles burn against the rough scales. Then I gripped the edge of the pool and pulled myself out, slamming both boots on the tiled floor.

Our waiter looked down at us from the upper story, while some of the other workers were capturing the snakes and putting them back in their cages. “Um, I’m gonna go ahead and waive the price for those onion rings!” he said.

“Thanks a bunch,” I told him. I looked back to Elkins and Weatherby. “No sign of the attacker?”

“He was using a long range rifle, after he let the snakes out,” Elkins explained. “Bet he skedaddled by now.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “Besides, I can probably guess. You got a place I can get dried off and lay low for a while?”

Elkins nodded. “You got it, Sergeant. I got a room at the Prairie Castle. It’s just down the road a ways.”

“Great. Lead on. This swamp water ain’t as comfortable as it looks.” I let the green water drip from my trench coat as we walked to the door. I had a feeling things were gonna get dirtier before the case was through. As usual, I was dead right.

I drove Elkins and Weatherby to the Prairie Castle, a rundown flophouse overlooking the winding road. Elkins led us up to his room. He had done okay for himself, with a refrigerator, a radio blasting Grand Ole Opry tunes, and a well-stocked cabinet for drinks. In the corner of his bedroom, I noted a dozen rifles leaning against the wall, ammunition stocked neatly by their side. Elkins always tried to be prepared. After a long shower, and giving my trench coat a quick wash, I felt a bit better. I joined Elkins and Weatherby in the living room and had a beer while I waited for it to get dark.

“So, what’s our plan of attack now, Mort?” Weatherby asked. He sat stiffly on Elkins’ couch, determined not to be a burden. “If you suspect it was Inky Abrams who attacked us, perhaps we can pay him a violent visit?”

“I need more evidence. I gotta get to the bottom of this thing,” I said, reaching for a cigarette. “I’ll wait until nightfall before I go snoop around Big Daddy’s trailer. Even his circus freaks can’t see in the dark.”

“And you believe you can sneak past any guards?” Weatherby asked. “It seems a difficult feat, Mort.”

“Hell, Weatherby, back in Germany, the sergeant here went under lengths of barbed wire, right next to some sandbagged machine gun emplacements, and past a whole mess of Hitler’s crack troops, just to get behind them so we could strike from both sides. They didn’t suspect a thing.” Elkins smiled as he reminisced.

“Better days?” I asked.

“Nope. They were goddamn horrible. Smoke and fire, like you wouldn’t believe. And the real horror, the absolute worst that man can do to his fellows, waiting for us in those camps. But I still miss them. Things were simpler then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna get some rest, Elkins. Keep Weatherby company. Wake me up when it gets dark.” I headed to the bedroom and slumped onto Elkins’ cot. I was asleep in seconds. I dreamed a little of the war, but mostly of the Wild Man. I didn’t fear him, even though he had lugged a car at me. I just felt sorry for the poor bastard. He was just another dumb lug, trying to do what he could to make a life for himself. And now he had a death sentence hanging over him.

Weatherby woke me up after a while, and I saw that the sky was dark outside. “Okay,” I said. “Time for me to leave, kiddo.” I slid into my shoulder-holsters and trench coat, grabbed my fedora, and walked into the living room. “Elkins, you give me a ride to the trailer park. I’ll go the rest of the way on foot. I’ll make my way back here around morning.”

“You know what you’re doing, Mort?” Elkins asked, standing up from the couch.

I shrugged. “No more than any of us did in Europe. And that worked out all right.”

“Not for some fellows.”

“Don’t remind me.” I put my hat on my head and looked down at Weatherby. “Try not to burn the joint down, kiddo. Me and Elkins will be back.”

“Good luck, Mort,” Weatherby said, in utter earnest. I gave him a quick smile, and followed Elkins out of the room.

We headed down the stairs and then to my Roadmaster. After we were speeding off down the darkened road, watching the pavement vanish under our hood in the small circle of light cast by the headlights, Elkins turned to me. “Why you going around with that kid anyhow?” he asked. “This ain’t the right kind of life for him.”

“He likes me,” I replied. “Even if he won’t admit it. And all that knowledge in his skull would mean a hell of a lot to the CIA, or any other intelligence or occult circle. I don’t want those damn spooks getting their hands on him.”

“It’s something more,” Elkins said. He smiled as he pointed at me. “I always figured you for the hardest of hard cases, sergeant. I figured you killed Germans, swallowed MREs, slept in weekends and not much else. But I think that’s not exactly true.”

“Sure it is,” I said. “And now it’s not just Germans I kill.” I looked out of the window, my eyes adjusting as best they could to the darkness. We passed the sign for the trailer park and I saw the tall fences surrounding it. “All right,” I said. “Cut the engine. This is where we part ways.”

“And you don’t want me to wait?” Elkins asked as he slowed, drove off the road and came to a stop. “You don’t need no getaway driver?”

“I don’t want to get away.” I opened the door and tipped the brim of my fedora to him. “I’ll just have a quick look around and head right back. I’m betting Big Daddy won’t expect any nighttime visitors, not when he’s so sure he controls every inch of the Roadside Line. Watch over Weatherby. He’s a good kid. But he’s got problems, just like any of us.”

“You got it, Mort,” Elkins agreed. He waited while I walked off towards the fences of the trailer park. After a while, I heard the light rumble of the engine as he started the Roadmaster again and began driving back.

I stayed still for a while, hugging the darkness as I did a little recon. There was a tall fence, and a pair of guards. Both were drunk, ambling back and forth like puppets with cut strings. This would be cake. I walked forward, staying low and sticking to the shadows. I made it to the fence and started climbing. It was tall, but with no barbed wire at the top, it was easy. After dropping quietly down, I started going to the middle of the trailer park.

The trailers were well furnished, clearly well-used to being stationary. Pink flamingos, bright faux gardens, plastic palm trees, and lawn chairs sprouted before each trailer. I spotted the middle mobile home. It was a dull pink, and had Big Daddy’s name scrawled above the entrance. I smiled as I started moving to the doors. He sure was confident.

I reached into my trench coat as I neared the small steps leading up to Big Daddy’s door. If he was inside, or had any bodyguards with him, I figured I could trounce them, get them to spill everything they knew, and be home before midnight. But as I was nearing the door, I heard footsteps to my side. I turned around slowly, letting some moonlight flash on my pistol.

“Drop the heater, buster!” ordered a harsh feminine voice. I turned around and saw a tall woman with hair like steel wool and a nose like a vulture’s beak. She had been pretty, a long time ago, and a little of that stayed with her. She carried a double-barreled shotgun under the crook of her arm. I lowered my pistol. I had no need to tangle with angry grandmothers.

“I’m just looking around,” I said. “You live here?”

“In this dump? I don’t think so, pal.” She gestured with her gun to Big Daddy’s trailer. “What you doing snooping around Big Daddy’s place of residence?”

“Easy, sister. I just want to ask him some questions.” I looked back at the trailer. “What’s he to you, anyway?”

“Nothing now. But way back when? Before the war? We was everything.” She lowered her shotgun. “Name’s Rose Rowan. What’s your handle?”

“Mort Candle. I’m a private eye.”