The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (5 page)

“Sounds swell,” I said, as she wrapped her arms around my neck. “Except it ain’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“You knew right away Exham couldn’t pay me. You knew he was broke. And something else – Exham’s a wannabe royal. What does he know of world politics? Someone must have reached out to the Nazis, or given him the idea. I’m betting it was you.” I held the combat knife tightly in my hand. “And I got another feeling – I’m not gonna be around that long after I stop being useful.”

Suddenly her grip was stronger than a lover’s. She lunged for my throat, her lips curled back to reveal long white fangs. I pulled back my combat knife and stabbed forward. It was over in seconds. I felt the blade pressing through flesh, and then she was falling apart in my hands.

She was ash in seconds. I stepped back and brushed it away from me. “Sorry, sister,” I said. “But I didn’t want a bloodsucker’s goodbye.”

I looked up at the empty mausoleum. The grounds of Ravenwood manor were quiet now. The Bike Bats stood around, helping their wounded. Nails Kenzie and Weatherby walked over to me. Weatherby produced a few bandages and got to work on my cuts.

Nails smiled. “No hard feelings, eh, daddy-o?” he asked. He looked down at the suitcases. “This is quite a haul. You said we get half and you get half? That’s fine by me.”

“You can have it all,” I said.

Nails stared at me and so did Weatherby. “Seriously, man?”

“That stuff is soaked in blood and I’m no leech.” I patted Weatherby’s shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get back to the auto. We got places to go.”

Weatherby didn’t complain when I called him ‘kiddo.’ He even offered me a smile, and I returned it. We walked back to the Packard together.

We met with Sly Baum in the top story high-stakes room of the Poker Palace in downtown Havana. Baum didn’t own the Poker Palace, but because he brought in most of its business and took so much cash off the house, he might as well have. It was one of those American-owned gambling joints that had started flourishing in Cuba right when Prohibition went into effect, where the island rum flowed like a tropical sea. It stayed popular thanks to the efforts of El Presidente Batista and the Chicago Outfit in equal measure.

The high-stakes room was a sumptuous hole with a green-felt topped card table between blue walls adorned with prints of palm fronds and naked women. Sly Baum sat in one of the chairs at the corner. He wore a shining blue tuxedo, the bowtie undone, so he looked like he was trying to blend in with the wall. His dark hair was in unkempt strands and his eyes were darting around the room. He looked pathetic. Clearly, the ace gambler’s cards were all on the table.

“You just got here?” he asked, looking up at me and Weatherby Stein. “Oh, thank god. Thank god for that. Do you want anything? I can get Paco to mix you up a drink or—”

“I disdain alcoholic libations,” Weatherby announced. “I have no wish to become swept up by the endless Bacchanalia which pollutes this muddy strip of sand.”

He still wore his full Victorian suit and vest, despite Cuba’s dry heat. I had my trench coat draped over the chair, only wearing my shirtsleeves. That showed off my twin Colt automatics in crossed shoulder-holsters, but I don’t think Baum minded much. I shrugged. “Let’s just get down to business,” I suggested. “You called Stein and Candle, Mr. Baum. That means you got a problem the average private dick can’t help you solve. What is it?”

“It’s my son. My little boy. Jesus Christ, he’s about the only thing I care about. The only thing that matters.” He reached into his tuxedo jacket and set the picture on the table. “My Henry Wallace.”

I stood up and looked at Henry Wallace Baum. The kid was maybe ten or eleven, scrawny as a plucked chicken and smiling nervously at the camera. He had his father’s dark brown hair, but wore a pair of glasses that made him look owlish, and a white suit, bowtie and trousers. I looked up from the picture at Sly. “And what happened?”

“He’s been kidnapped. It happened while I was visiting Miss Rosa. I go once a week.” Miss Rosa was Rosa Dominguez, a high end mistress who had every gringo in Havana lusting for her. Baum was a concerned father, but he wasn’t a family man. “He was waiting downstairs, reading some comic books I had imported from the States for him, and then a bunch of masked men came in, held the bouncer at gunpoint and dragged him away.” Baum shook his head. “He’s my son, Mr. Candle. He’s been the only thing that’s good in this goddamn dirty world of mine.”

Weatherby looked down at the photograph. I saw the kid’s lips form a grim line. I had seen him worked up before, usually about the Nazi stooges that gunned down his parents in front of him, but not over someone else. “We’ll get him back, Mr. Baum,” Weatherby announced. “You have my word.”

“Did the kidnappers leave a note?” I asked. “And have you gone to the police?”

“Batista’s idiots are too busy looking the other way to be of any help,” Baum muttered. “And yeah, I got a note. I think the kidnappers might know me.” He pulled a crumpled lined piece of paper and set it on the table. Weatherby and I looked it over. “The dough they’re asking me to lay down – it’s almost the exact sum I owe to Don Vizzini.”

“Vito Vizzini?” I asked.

“Yeah. The bandaged don himself.” I had heard a little of Don Vizzini. Every wiseguy had. He was almost an urban legend, something crooks talked about to scare each other. He was supposed to be a Sicilian member of La Cosa Nostra who fell afoul of Mussolini during the early days of Fascism. Mussolini handed him over to the famed policeman Cesare Mori, who wanted an example made of him, and handed him to the Nazi SS. When he busted out of prison after the war, his entire body was covered in bandages, which he never seemed to remove. No one knew why. No one dared to ask. “And I owe him money, but now someone kidnapped Henry Wallace and is demanding a similar sum.”

“And you don’t have enough to pay both?”

Baum shrugged. “I’m a gambler. Sometimes you get a good hand. Sometimes you don’t. Normally, I can stay afloat long enough to take care of myself and my boy.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, fat with cash. “I’ll deal with Don Vizzini. Maybe I can ask for an extension, or maybe plead for mercy.” The chance of Vizzini letting someone owe him was pretty damn slim, but Baum didn’t care. “I pulled in every favor I could. I worked like a dog. But I did it. I got the ransom. If you find Henry Wallace’s captors, you give this to them and get him back, you understand?”

“Honestly, Mr. Baum, the kidnappers in most situations aren’t that trustworthy. Your son might not even be alive.” He flinched and the envelope shook in his hands. “I’m sorry,” I said, coming to my feet. “But that’s the way it is.”

“Just take it.” He pressed the envelope full of money into my hands and I pocketed it. “Do whatever it takes,” he said. “This town’s a cesspool and I’ve been swimming around in it. I should’ve known that it would get to my son sooner or later.”

Weatherby and I came to our feet. Weatherby Stein looked over his spectacles, staring at Sly Baum with his cold eyes. “We’ll do everything we can, sir,” he said. “Try not to fret. We’ll walk through Hell itself to return your child to his loving father.”

“Thanks,” Baum said. He turned away from us. “Paco! Get me a glass of tequila and leave the bottle.” He looked back at us. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“Sure,” I said. “I think we’ll go and pay a visit to Miss Rosa, see what she knows.” I nodded to Weatherby. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s make some tracks.”

We walked out of the high stakes room and down the stairwell to the casino floor. “Must you call me ‘kiddo’ you brick-headed buffoon?” Weatherby asked. “I find it quite irritating.”

I shrugged. “That, and everything else in the world.” We stepped into the street. The sun was a blistering punch of tropical light, right into the eyes. I blinked a few times. “You heeled?”

“I have my father’s revolver in my coat,” Weatherby said, his voice going low. “Do you think there will be an opportunity to use the weapon?”

“This is Havana, kiddo,” I replied. “Ain’t nothing here but opportunities.”

We caught a cab to Miss Rosa’s place, an upscale penthouse in the Flamingo Hotel. The cab driver knew just where to take us. I bet he had chauffeured more gringos to Miss Rosa’s bed than there were sands on the beach. He let us go with a smile, but then looked at Weatherby. “He’s kind of small, isn’t he, Senor?” he asked me. “You bringing him to see Miss Rosa?”

I smiled back as I stepped onto the curb. “Maybe he’ll wait outside.”

“What the devil are you jabbering out?” Weatherby demanded. “I’ll go inside, just like you.” The taxi drove off as we started walking down the curving sidewalk to the wide lobby doors. “Now, what exactly is Miss Rosa’s profession? Why did Mr. Baum care to visit her?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” I replied. Weatherby knew his Latin proverbs, kings of Teutonic states and occult facts by heart, but he was still about as naïve as they come.

We headed down the walkway and into the white and pink stucco hotel. A short elevator ride later, we had reached the top floor. The doors swung open and we walked into the hallway outside Miss Rosa’s door. It was locked, but I didn’t mind. I liked to make an entrance.

I smashed open the door and stepped inside. Miss Rosa’s room was smooth and slick, with three bubble chairs hanging down from the ceiling like fat white eyes and a wide couch next to a window overlooking the city. Everything was either silver or neon pink. Miss Rosa was seeing someone at the time, but I wasn’t in the habit of waiting my turn. They were both sitting on the couch, he in his undershirt with his belt unbuckled, and they turned to look at us.

I could see right away why Miss Rosa was the favorite flower of Havana. She was more Spaniard than native, with dirty blonde hair and flashing blue eyes. Her hair was in a short bob, the kind that was popular with American girls just before the war and she was wearing a white dress and a wide belt. She shut her red lips and glared at me like I was bad weather. I guess she was used to men barging in during working hours.

“W-what the h-hell?” Miss Rosa’s guest was a pimple of a back east investment banker, with thinning hair and a pudgy belly. He came to his feet, reaching for his fedora and sports coat. “Mister, I paid good money for this and—”