The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (27 page)

As usual, I didn’t see Elkins until he wanted to be seen. I heard a slight rustling and turned around. Elkins was sitting on the head of some long-necked, four-legged dinosaur, a high-powered scoped rifle in his hands. He swung it over his shoulder, slid down the neck, hopped down and walked over to my side. He was grinning like an idiot, his freckled face split with a smile.

“Well, golly!” he said, standing by my side and clamping me on the shoulder. “If it ain’t Morton Candle! Holy Jesus!” He wore a short brown jacket and a battered Stetson, with an ever-present smile. I could never get used to how damn cheerful the bastard was. Elkins pumped my hand and then spotted Weatherby. “Rustle my rattlesnakes, you’re Weatherby Stein, ain’t you! Oh, I remember when you was knee-high, boy! You sure grew up!”

Weatherby nodded, a little taken aback. “You were one of the soldiers who saved me from the Nazis,” he said, almost to himself.

“That’s right. We played catch, you remember? While you was healing up? It’s good to see you, Weatherby. And you, Mort.” Elkins seemed to have forgotten all about Big Daddy, Inky Abrams and the rest of the Roadside Mafia. “I’m sorry about what happened, Weatherby. I truly am.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Elkins,” Weatherby said. “You saved my life. I cannot thank you enough for that.”

Big Daddy coughed. He was upset that we had forgotten about him. “Elkins?” he asked. “I’m the fellow paying your salary, and for your room in the Prairie Castle, and for all those brews you drink at the motel bar. I suggest you do what I say, even if you served with the detective or something.”

Elkins shook his head. “Sorry, Big Daddy – but this fellow saved my life a million and one times, and I won’t let him down. My employ with you is now over.”

Big Daddy breathed out a cloud of smoke. “You’re right about that, boy,” he said. He nodded to his men. “Rough them up good and leave them in the desert. They can all ride out of the Roadside Line together, and tell their pals what we do to folks who like sniffing around.”

The thugs of the Roadside Mafia started moving forward. I squared my fists, preparing to start leaving these circus rejects even more messed up than they were already. Elkins grabbed his rifle, holding up the butt to start smashing jaws. I had seen him crack a Kraut’s head open with his Springfield back in France, so I figured he could handle himself. Weatherby looked around, fumbling to draw the revolver from his coat. I didn’t think he’d last long in a fight.

But we never got our chance. Inky Abrams pointed into the distance, near the gift shop and a small herd of smaller dinosaurs. “Look there!” he cried. “On that big lizard with the spiky tail! It’s the Wild Man!”

We all turned to see. Sure enough, there he was. The Wild Man stood on the top of the dinosaur’s arched back, glaring at us with angry reddish eyes. He had a hunched back and wide shoulders, wearing only a worn pair of trousers. His hair was long and tangled, hanging down over his back. The Wild Man’s arms were as broad as telephone poles, with muscles shifting every time he moved. His chin was pointed, his forehead broad and his eyes dark. He looked like he could be every girl’s dream date – back in caveman times. He wore broken manacles on his arms and legs, the chains swinging with his every move.

Soon as they spotted the ’66 Wild Man, the Roadside Mafia sprang into action. They grabbed rifles and prepared to fire. I could have forgotten about them and split, but Pete Plunket had hired me to do a job, and a detective that lets his client down isn’t much of a detective at all. Inky was the first to take aim.

“All right now,” he said, looking down the sights. The Wild Man just sat on the back of the dinosaur, staring at us. I happened to look at Big Daddy Bazzler. The local bigwig wasn’t happy. His pinkish eyes were wide and his fat fingers were clasped together. Something was making him nervous.

“But the Wild Man’s currently not doing anything,” Weatherby pointed out. “He may have a fearsome appearance, but—”

“He’s a monster. You all saw what he did to that poor family,” Inky said. He worked the bolt on his rifle. “Got a shot,” he said. “I’m gonna take it.” He reached for the trigger.

But Big Daddy grabbed the barrel of the rifle and pushed it upwards. It fired into the sky, loud and clear. The Wild Man sniffed the air and scrambled down, running through the dinosaur statues to the main parking lot, between the little restaurant and gift shot.

Inky Abrams stared at Big Daddy. “You fouled up my shot,” he said.

“You hear me give the orders to fire? I don’t recall you hearing nothing and I’m the boss, am I right?”

“You’re right, Big Daddy,” Inky admitted.

I took off my trench coat, folded it over one hand and gave it to Weatherby. “You fellows stay here,” I said. “I’ll go and take care of the Wild Man. I’m working for Plunket, and he wants him brought back alive. You can figure out what he’s guilty of after I’m done.” I didn’t give them time to argue, just started walking across the flat ground to the Wild Man and the dinosaurs.

He looked down at me, and I gave him a grin. “Hey there, big man,” I said. The pistols in my shoulder-holsters were visible, but I was hoping I could end this without gunning anyone down. “You’ve stirred up some trouble, but I think we can calm things down.” I held out my hand. “Come on. Come down from that big lizard, will you? Let’s talk this over like civilized human beings. You don’t have to keep up this Tarzan act. I know you’re intelligent. I know you can change.”

I looked right into his eyes and I did see a spark of intelligence – along with a murderous hatred. I was right. Being shut up in a sideshow all his life hadn’t done much to improve his disposition.

He sniffed my hand and snorted. Then he leaned down, pulled back one of those big fists of his and hit me like a wrecking ball, square in the chest. I can dodge blows or take them, but this guy struck like a sledgehammer and moved faster than lightning. I stepped back, wincing as he prepared to strike again. This time I was ready. I sidestepped the blow and struck him. It was like punching a brick wall.

With a snarling roar, the Wild Man leapt off the dinosaur and ran for the parking lot. There were a score of tourists milling around the place, checking out the cheap wares in the souvenir shop, and they’d be prime meat for a killer like the ’66 Wild Man. I drew my pistols out and followed, ignoring the ache in my chest. “Don’t try running, big man!” I shouted. “You won’t get far!”

I fired a shot. It grazed his arm, drawing a trickle of blood and making him mad – but not much else. I kept running, weaving between the dinosaur statues. He was nearing the parking lot and the picnic tables, and I heard the patrons scream as they spotted him. They started running for their cars, grabbing their children and hats. They were smarter than I expected.

The Wild Man came to a stop and faced me. He let out a throaty roar, which ended abruptly when I raised both pistols and fired at his legs. I was hoping to send him to the ground. He leapt up into the air instead, and landed behind a wood-paneled station wagon. I thought he was gonna use the car as cover. But he had something else in mind.

He gripped the bottom of the car and lifted it into the air. Metal strained and whined like a frightened child, but then the tires left the pavement, and the whole car was held over his head. The Beast Man looked at me and I could swear he gave me a smile, showing teeth as big as tombstones. Then he let the auto fly.

I jumped backwards, throwing myself onto the pavement and crawling like crazy. I imagined doing this before, heading up some godforsaken hill with machine gun tracers making the air around me go white hot. I heard the car flying through the air like a comet and then crashing behind me. I rolled to the side as it flipped over, glass and metal shattering with the impact.

When I risked looking up, I saw the Wild Man was already running into the distance. He moved like an animal, in low, loping strides using his arms and legs. He kicked up dust behind him, and he slid into the maze of hills and vanished from view. I stood up, ignoring the soreness in my arms and legs.

A thin bespectacled tourist in a checkered suit was looking at me over the wreck of his automobile. “That was…that was my new ride…” he said, in equal parts sadness and disbelief.

I leaned forward and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Just be glad I didn’t end up on it as a new coat of paint.” I turned around and saw Weatherby, Elkins, Big Daddy and the rest of the Roadside Mafia hurrying over. I sighed. I had screwed up, and I was sure Big Daddy was gonna let me know about it.

But instead, he stood next to me and looked into the distance. “Did you hurt him?” he asked. “The Wild Man – you injure him, shoot or anything?”

I shook my head. “I drew some of his blood. It didn’t even slow him down.”

Inky stomped his foot on the ground. “You should have let me take the shot, Big Daddy!” he cried. “I had him, dead to rights, I had him!”

“I didn’t give the go-ahead, so you didn’t have nothing!” Big Daddy turned back to me after silencing Inky. “So, you’re trying to capture the Wild Man alive, is that it?”

“That is correct, sir,” Weatherby said. “Our employer, Mr. Plunket, would not pay very much for us to kill his star attraction.”

“Well, maybe that’s all right, then. But stay out of my way.” Big Daddy turned around. “Get moving, boys!” he ordered. “We’ll scour the hills for the Wild Man! We’ll find him, but nobody makes a move unless I say so. I’m the boss here, am I right?”

“You’re right, Big Daddy,” they all replied in weary unison.

They filed away, leaving me behind with Weatherby and Elkins. The sniper was fiddling with his rifle, adjusting the scope and cleaning the dust from the lens. “Mort Candle,” he said. “You sure do know how to bring a fellow some excitement. More than he can possibly bear, I sometimes think.”

“Private, we gotta talk,” I said. This whole case had been screwy from the start. The Wild Man didn’t attack any of the tourists at the souvenir stand. If he was a monster, that’s exactly what he would have done. But if he hadn’t hacked up that family previously, than who the hell did? And why was Inky so keen to kill him, while it seemed like Big Daddy wanted the Wild Man’s life preserved? Something about the ’66 Wild Man had set Big Daddy off, something stranger than any roadside attraction. I wanted to figure out what it was. “There some place where we can have a little unobserved chat?”

Elkins considered the question with pursed lips. “I think so,” he agreed. “There’s the old Reptile Show, down the road a ways. Give me a ride and I’ll point it out to you. Ain’t nothing there but crocodiles and snakes.”

“A reptile show,” I said. “Swell.” We started to my car, moving under the glaring eyes of the dinosaur statues, each one poised to reach down and gobble us up.

Weatherby stayed next to me, but spoke loud enough for Elkins to hear. He trusted the sharpshooter. “That tattooed thug is hiding something,” Weatherby said. “And the fantastically obese crime lord has similar secrets.” He shook his head. “And I thought this assignment would prove to be simplistic!”

“They never are, kiddo,” I replied, as we walked under painted eyes of another prehistoric giant. “They never are.”

After a short drive, we arrived at the reptile show. It was built in the frame of some Old West saloon and variety theatre, which had been gutted to make way for a large alligator pool on the first floor, a small restaurant on the second, and cages full of scaly critters all around.

We sat down at a round table on the top floor, looking down at the gator pool. It was full of algae, and the alligators inside floated like dead things in the fetid water. A bored attendant wearing a hat resembling a gator’s snout brought us a plate of onion rings and some coke bottles. Everything smelled like gator crap, and I wasn’t hungry.

“So, what are you fellows doing round these parts?” Elkins asked, cramming a handful of onion rings down his throat. “I mean, asides from solving mysteries and such.”

“We’re on our way back to California, Mr. Elkins,” Weatherby explained. “With a new car safely purchased – from less than legal purveyors, I might add.”

“It fell off a truck,” I said. “And that’s all we’re gonna say on the matter. What about you, Elkins? Why are you working for country fair scum like Big Daddy Bazzler?”

Elkins shrugged. “What the Hell else am I gonna do, Mort? Go to college on the goddamn G.I. Bill? I got all the education I’ll never need, busting slugs between the eyes of Nazis. Get some house in the suburbs, white picket fence and a wife that cooks and cleans? Hell, I drink corn whiskey every night until I pass out. Ain’t no one gonna want to spend time with me. So I came back here, after the war, but the dustbowl’s still kept everyone cleared out. Nothing here but these roadside nutjobs catering to folks heading somewhere else. So I hired on with them.”

I nodded. “Sorry about screwing up your job,” I said.

“Ah, I don’t mind. Needed a change of scenery anyhow.” Elkins remained happy, no matter what. “It’s not so bad, normally. But lately, things have changed. There’s a war coming. And I don’t want no part of it.”

“Some other outfit muscling in?” I wondered. I doubted any back east or out west gangs would want control of this strip of dusty entertainments.