The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (10 page)

He set me down in one of the leather helicopter seats and then we sped away, over the neon lights and the crowded streets and the mobsters shooting at us and all the vice and sin and corruption that America needed to have a good time. We headed out over the bay, over the sea and back to the States. I didn’t mind, and I guess the others aboard didn’t mind either. They had ways to make more money and so did I.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the roar of the helicopter blades. After a while, I opened my eyes and looked at Weatherby. He was looking at Sly Baum and Henry Wallace. The boy was held in the strong arms of his father, and he was as content and felt as safe as if he was in his bedroom in some suburban neighborhood, and not in a helicopter screaming over the Caribbean, taking him away from gangster but not out of his father’s life of crime.

I had always felt sorry for Weatherby, but now I put my hand on his shoulder. “Weatherby,” I said. “You jealous?”

“A little.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess we’re all we’ve got, in that regard. But I hope it’s close enough.”

He turned to face me and smiled again. “You know, Morton,” he said. “Perhaps it is.”

I returned the grin as the helicopter sped onwards through the tropical night.

Weatherby Stein and I arrived early to the Shim-Shim-Shammy for a meeting that some anonymous caller said would be ‘worth our while.’ The Shim-Shim-Shammy was a rundown roadhouse a couple of miles from San Diego. Weatherby and I were staying in San Diego in between jobs. I spent money on booze and he spent his money on books. Whoever called knew who we were, but didn’t want us to know who he was. So we showed up to the meeting early, heeled and ready for trouble.

The Shim-Shim-Shammy was a dark structure of wood that could have been a barn in a previous life. There were peanut shells lying thick on the floor, and neon signs advertising the beer – and not the water that came with it. Weatherby looked at the musty bar as we sat down at a round back table, shaking his head with snobbish disdain.

“What a shabby little gin palace,” he said, kicking a pile of peanut shells away from his polished shoes. “Why must we always wander into the sleaziest locales in existence, Morton?”

“We’re detectives, kiddo.” I set my fedora on the table and looked at the Shim-Shim-Shammy’s usual clientele of boozehounds and bums. “It’s our natural element.” I blinked my eyes at the cigarette fumes as a waitress pushing forty and fat for her age waddled over to give us a pair of beers.

She pointed to a man in a dark leather trench coat at the bar. “He paid for it,” she said. She lowered her tired eyes. “I think he wants to talk to you.”

“Starting to look that way,” I agreed. I didn’t recognize the fellow, and I figured he’d introduce himself in time.

I didn’t touch my beer and neither did Morton. The waitress shrugged and shoved off, and then our mysterious benefactor headed over to meet us. He pulled his chair with him, and it scraped across the concrete floor with a noise like an animal’s shriek. He set the rickety chair next to us and leaned back in it, placing worn cowboy boots on the table and crossing his arms.

“Stein and Candle?” he asked, his voice a low drawl with a hint of the southern to it. He had a nose like a rodent’s snout, black curly hair that tangled over his forehead, and wore a bolo tie with a jade clasp. “Name’s Leon Strank. Now, I’m not so good putting names to people, but I’m gonna go ahead and guess which is which.” He pointed to me. “You look like Candle.” He pointed to Stein. “And you look like Stein.”

“Congratulations,” I said, reaching for a cigarette. Strank apparently enjoyed hearing his own voice. “What tipped you off?”

“Heh. I knew beforehand. I looked you guys up. Got a buddy in the state department who sent me your dossiers. Real impressive.” He pointed to me. “How many medals you win for killing krauts in Germany? More than there’s stars in the sky, I’d wager. And Weatherby Stein, your family’s been neck deep in the occult since the medieval ages. I bet you know all kinds of good little secrets about what goes on in Heaven and Hell.” I decided right then I didn’t like him.

“What’s the nature of this job?” I asked. Weatherby stared at Strank and said nothing. The kid liked being unknown, especially after what happened to his family when word got round about how much they knew.

Strank shrugged. “A little driving. A race, actually. You ever heard tell of the Morningstar Car Club? Nope? I wouldn’t expect you to. They’re one of them little driving outfits, run hot rod races up and down the coast. Except, they got connections to various other groups, which are much more connected to the kind of people that little Weatherby’s parents must have hung around with.”

“Sorcerers?” Weatherby asked, a little uneasily.

“Satanists,” Strank corrected. “Now, every couple years, they have a nice, leisurely race from Point Santos all the way to Crescent Bay. It’s got no cash prize, no reward of cars or engine parts – nothing like that. But there’s one racer — driving a black Cadillac with red flames on the side that’s faster than white lightning — who always enters the race and always wins. There’s something strange about this fellow, and I guess you can guess who he is.”

“The Devil himself,” Weatherby whispered. He shrugged when I stared at him. “Lucifer enjoys such contests of skill against mortals. My reading has unearthed several examples of the devil challenging mortals to various duels and challenges – fiddling contests, for instance.”

“Smart boy.” Strank nodded. “That’s right. Now, if you beat him, you get yourself a nice little wish. Anything you ask for will be yours. If you get third or fourth place, or dead last even, that’s okay too. You don’t lose nothing but your pride. But if you get second place — If you come in behind the devil – then you lose your soul.” A slow smile crept across his face. “I want you to enter that race. I want you to get first place. And I want your wish to be to get my soul out of the devil’s book.”

I considered it for half a second. “No dice, pal.” I stubbed the cigarette out on the table. A tiny line of smoke wove up towards the ceiling. “According to you, it’s hard to beat the devil at his own game. Coming in second place and falling into eternal damnation doesn’t seem too pleasant to me. So go find some other idiot who won’t recognize a sucker’s play.”

Strank shook his head. “Let me tell you what—”

“I don’t care how much dough you’re offering. I may have been bored out of my skull during Sunday school, but I’m smart enough to not lay my soul on the line in some damn automobile race.” I stood up. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s dangle.”

“Come outside to the parking lot.” Strank stood up, his pleasant tone vanishing. He spoke to Weatherby and not to me. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see.”

He turned on his heel and walked out. Weatherby followed him, and I followed Weatherby. He led us outside into the parking lot, to an old Ford sitting not far from the ditch on the side of the road. There were two people in the back seat. Weatherby recognized who one of them was and tried to run to the car, but Strank grabbed his shoulder and held the spindly kid back. I ran over to Weatherby, reaching for my pistols, but the kid shook his head vigorously.

“Oh God!” he cried. “Selena!” he called, sinking down to his knees like he had been slugged in the chest with a wrecking ball. “Don’t hurt her! For the sake of all the gods and devils, do not harm her!”

I looked into the car. A fat fellow in shabby white checkered suit sat in the back holding a straight razor to the throat of a pretty college-age girl. She wore a long earth-colored dress and a white sweater over her blouse, her neat short hair the same raven black as Weatherby’s. Her eyes were wide and she looked slowly over to Weatherby.

“Weatherby?” she asked, with the same hint of an English and German accent that her brother had. “Oh, Weatherby, don’t worry! I’ll be just peachy. Don’t let these men—”

“Shut up.” Strank’s friend struck her with the back of his hand. My guts felt cold as I realized what Strank’s game was. Selena was Weatherby’s older sister. He had mentioned once or twice that he had another relative in America, but didn’t want to bother her. That was the kind of chivalrous idiocy I expected from Weatherby. I had no idea he was talking about his sister. But Strank had apparently done the same research, and now she was his prisoner.

Weatherby came to his feet and turned to Strank. I thought for a few seconds that he would cry. “Don’t hurt her,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t hurt her.”

“I already told you what I want.” Strank smiled at Weatherby. “The Morningstar race starts tomorrow evening at Point Santos. You enter that race and you win it, and free my soul from the devil’s clutches. Then you’ll get your sister back.” He walked over to the car and opened the door.

“P-please,” Weatherby said, trying to follow Strank. “Can I talk to her?”

“You’ll get all the time you want to chat up old times, Weatherby, once you win the Morningstar race and I let her go. Of course, if you lose I’ll get Jimmy here to slit her throat and leave her in a ditch – after enjoying himself with her, of course – so, I suggest you win.” He slammed the door shut and started the engine. The flivver burned rubber as it backed out and shot into the road.

Weatherby ran after them for a few paces, before he realized the uselessness of it. He stood still and watched Strank and his sister speed into the distance and then turned to me. “What are we going to do, Morton?” he asked. “The bastard has my sister. Selena never had any of the wretched imprisonment that my family faced. She was in boarding school in America, and stayed there during the war. She’s in college now.”

“You kept in touch?”

“Through the occasional letter and nothing more. And after I left the care of the CIA, I stayed with her for a while. If she saw me any longer, she’d ask about the details of what happened in Castle Stein in the Black Forest. She’d hear about the death of father and mother, and she’d be torn apart with the guilt. I could not allow that to happen.” Every so often I forget that Weatherby was about fourteen-years-old and was still a child. Every so often, he reminded me. “And now she’s in the clutches of a psychotic Satanist! And it’s my fault.”

“Hey.” I put a hand on his shoulder and steadied him. “Weatherby, it ain’t nobody’s fault but Strank’s. And he’s got something coming for it, believe me. But in the meantime we gotta focus on getting into this Morningstar race, and maybe come up with a plan of attack.”

“A plan?” Weatherby asked. “Good heavens – he has my sister, man! And we can’t outrace the devil, not to mention all the other speedsters that will no doubt enter this little automotive challenge. How are we to go about stopping him?”

I considered the question. “For starters,” I said. “There’s a fellow we ought to go see.”

We headed over to the Packard to start the drive, leaving our drinks back on the table in the Shim-Shim-Shammy. We wouldn’t get to enjoy them, but I figured it wasn’t much of a loss.