The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (7 page)

“He’s a frightened father trying to assure the safety of his young son,” Weatherby snapped. “And we’ll help him.”

Verona raised an eyebrow. “Ought to keep him on a shorter leash, Mort. Anyways, I got someone wants to talk to you.” He pointed to the limousine behind him. It was a hulking tank of a vehicle, armored and pearl white with black tinted windows. The door was open. “Come on in,” he said, tucking both pistols into his coat. “We’ll give you a ride.”

I couldn’t win a shootout with that many wiseguys. I nodded to Miss Rosa and Weatherby. We got inside. Don Vizzini was in there waiting for us.

The inside of the limousine was cavernous and well lit. Don Vito Vizzini sat on a plush leather seat, opposite us. He wore a red satin robe and held a cane between his thin knees. Every inch of him was swathed in white bandages. I could see his eyes peeking out through holes in the surgical strips, almost detached from everything around him. He extended a hand to me.

“Please,” Don Vizzini said, his voice relaxed and even. “Come in.”

Weatherby and Miss Rosa sat down next to me, and Joey Verona slammed the door shut. The limousine started speeding away. I wondered if Vizzini was being foolish, not bothering to take my heaters and being alone in his car with us. I quickly realized that he didn’t care. He knew we’d be dead in a dozen ways if we made a move against him, and let that fear keep him safe.

“Mr. Candle,” he said, once the limo started rolling. “I hear you are in the business of investigation.” He had a faint Italian accent and spoke slowly.

“That’s right,” I said. “And I heard you’re the most feared gangster to ever step out of a hut in Sicily.”

“I am the son of peasants,” he replied. “Now I help run the world. I did not get where I am without the will to be ruthless.”

I leaned back, trying my best to remain unflappable. Weatherby tried and failed, shivering in his vest and frock coat and fiddling with his fingers, while Miss Rosa stared out of the window and looked at passing Havana. This was her city and she was looking at one of its rulers. I wondered how she felt.

“Look, Don Vizzini,” I said. “My partner and I are just trying to make a buck and help a father get his son back. I know Sly Baum owes you money, and after we get back his son, you’ll get it.”

“I have heard such things from him many times.” Don Vizzini’s bandaged hands wrapped around the top of the cane, like it was a neck he wanted to snap. “Baum wins money from our casinos and spends it, and when we finally manage to beat him, we find that he does not have the necessary funds to pay us back. He pleads for more time. He begs. And he does not pay.”

Apparently, Baum was the worst kind of the gambler – the kind that was always winning. No wonder Don Vizzini and the other Havana mobsters were pissed at him. “Circumstances have—”

“And now he declares that his son has been kidnapped.” Vizzini shook his head. “Just before it was time for me to collect. Perhaps he had the child kidnapped himself, to provide a plausible excuse.” His eyes flashed to me and Weatherby. “Perhaps that is all you are – a very expensive alibi.”

“That’s not true, sir,” Weatherby replied. “I know the terror of a family torn asunder and Mr. Baum fully expressed it.”

Don Vizzini didn’t seem to hear Weatherby’s words. “I have cleared everything with the Commission on the mainland. For too long, Baum has sucked our blood and grown fat on it. Sly Baum must die.” He looked straight at me. “And anyone caught taking his cause will die as well.”

The threat was understated, but it was real as could be. I considered my options, remembering the envelope of cold cash tucked into my coat. It was supposed to be paying Henry Wallace Baum’s ransom. But if he was in the clutches of a bunch of communist guerillas, then I doubted they’d be up for negotiation. After they got their pay-off, it would be a bullet for me, a bullet for Weatherby, a bullet for Henry Wallace and then a verse of the Internationale before they tramped back into the Sierra Maestras for lunch.

I took out the cash. “Don Vizzini,” I said. “This is from Sly Baum. It’s what you owe him.”

His eyes widened between the bandages. “He…he has the money?” He shook his head.

“That’s right,” I said. “He did everything but sell the shirt from his back, but he got the money.” Don Vizzini still hadn’t taken it. I waved it in his direction. “What’s a matter?” I asked.

He grabbed the envelope from my hands and stared looking through it. He muttered in Italian. I recognized the words as curses. “What’s a matter?” I repeated. “You wish it was scraps of paper? You prefer that Baum tried to rip you off?”

“Of course not.” Vizzini tapped his cane on the glass behind him. “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

Miss Rosa spoke. “The mountains,” she said, and named a nearby road. She looked over at me, her hands balling into fists. “And now we must go and beg the Escopeteros do give the Baum boy back, out of the kindness in their hearts.”

I shrugged. “Don’t sweat it, sister,” I said, as I reached for a cigarette. “I can be real persuasive.”

We sped down the street. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Don Vizzini was pissed off at being paid. Maybe he was looking forward to whacking Sly Baum and didn’t like it when the chance was taken away. Something told me this case was deeper than the tropical ocean in Havana harbor – and was about to get a whole lot bloodier.

After Don Vizzini dropped us off, Miss Rosa led Weatherby and me up a secluded mountain trail. The hills around Havana were muddy and green, with tall tropical trees closing in on all sides, and a narrow trail winding between them. The air was humid and the leaves seemed slick, like even the plants were sweating. I tramped along in front of Rosa Dominguez. She didn’t seem too tired.

“You don’t mind the heat?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Just a little further and we’ll reach their camp. But I don’t want to be there when they put you in front of a firing line. These are hardened rebels. They won’t even give you a cigarette and blindfold.”

“Fine by me. I brought my own smokes and I want to look the bastard who kills me in the eye.”

Weatherby caught up to me. He was faring the worst of all of us. His pale face was beat red and his face was streaked with sweat. Even his tie was askew. “Can you stop your jabbering?” he asked. “For God’s sake, a child’s life is at stake.”

I paused and looked at Weatherby. This whole case seemed to rub him the wrong way, making him even more irascible than usual. “What’s got your fuse burning, kiddo?” I asked. “We dealt with nasty stuff before. But you seem wrapped up in this one like a casing around a bullet.”

Weatherby paused. He put his hands in his pocket and lowered his head. “I knew my parents were endangered, and they knew I was, as well, and our sorrows were truly great and terrible. I don’t want anyone else to be forced into that dismal situation.”

“Fair enough,” I said. The path led up a steep slope, which leveled out into a jungle clearing. It was then I felt something cold run down my spine. I raised my hand. “Hold on,” I said. “A pair of eyes are on me. And they ain’t as pretty as yours, Miss Rosa.”

I reached into my coat and drew one of my automatics. Someone dropped down from the trees, and I pointed my pistol in his face. He raised his eyebrows, but not his hands. He had an automatic in his hands, but he lowered it when he saw me. “Mort Candle,” he said. “Didn’t know you were still burning.”

“Bobby Belasco,” I replied. I looked him over. He had a month’s growth of bristly stubble on his smiling face, and had unkempt curly brown hair. “You’re looking crazier than ever.” Back in the war, Belasco had been the OSS liaison with my paratrooper unit. He wore a rumpled Hawaiian shirt, red with redder flowers, and combat belt containing a machete and other survival gear. “What are you doing here?”

“You first,” I said.

“I’m hiding out from the Commies. Stomping them down over here, before going back to Latin America and stomp on them some more.” He pointed up to the trees, where I saw a small nest. “I’ve been here for about a month. Camouflaged.”

I pointed to his shirt. “Why are you wearing red? There’s none of that around here.”

He kept on smiling. “There will be,” he said. “Gallons of it.” I guessed the tropical sun hadn’t been good for his mind. He turned to face my friends. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. Here’s how it goes – in the beginning, god made man, man made the CIA, and the CIA made me. And here I am.”

“This is Weatherby Stein and Miss Rosa Dominguez,” I explained. “I think we’re hunting the same kind of animal.” I pointed down the trail. “The Escopeteros.”

Belasco smiled. “Is that so?” He holstered his pistol as he looked over Stein and Miss Rosa. “And why ever would that be, huh? You never were much of a patriot, Candle.”

“Neither were you. You just like the spy game.”

“Too true, too true, ha-ha!” His merriment suddenly vanished, like it was never there. “But seriously, why are you here?” I remembered why I didn’t like Belasco.

Weatherby told him. “We are here to rescue a child from the clutches of these peasant guerillas. His name is Henry Wallace Baum, he appears to be eleven-years-old at most, and he is in grave danger. His father, noted gambler Sly Baum, is—”

“You’re working for Baum?” Belasco shook his head. “Uh-uh. You don’t want to do that. Why don’t you go back to Havana, get a few girls, a couple drinks, and forget all about it?”

“Why, exactly?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just don’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Now my curiosity was piqued. “I already got a pretty girl,” I said, pointing to Miss Rosa. “And I don’t feel like getting soused. So we’re going to rescue the Baum boy. And you’re coming with us.” I grabbed his shoulder. “You’re gonna lead us to their base, you slimy spook, and maybe help with some gun-fighting when it all hits the fan. Consider it payback for all the horror you sent me and the boys into, during the war.”

He winced. “Sure, Mort! You got it. Just follow my lead.” Belasco pulled away, stretching his arms up as he headed down the dirt path.

We followed him, away from his cockamamie little camp and deeper into the jungle. Weatherby hurried to my side. “Do we trust this fellow?” he demanded.

“Not now,” I said. “Not ever.”

We kept on walking in silence for another half hour. Between Miss Rosa and Bobby Belasco, we made good time. Still, it wasn’t easy going. I ditched my coat and suit jacket, going on in my shirtsleeves. Weatherby refused to take off his frock coat, struggling on in silence as sweat streaked his forehead and face. They brought us up to a clearing that topped a jungle-clad hill overlooking the coast, right where the rebels made their base.

It was a small band of Castro’s guerillas, just a couple tents, some sandbagged emplacements and around three score soldiers in olive green fatigues and soft caps. If I had my Screaming Eagles with me, we could have busted the place open in a matter of seconds. But I didn’t, and it presented a little more of a problem.

We crouched down in the undergrowth, surveying the enemy camp. “No sign of the Baum kid,” I said, looking at the tents and the passing soldiers.

“He could be held a prisoner within one of those tents,” Weatherby suggested.

“Or he could be making the acquaintance of maggots in some ditch.”

“Don’t say that. We don’t know that for sure, so cease your morbid speculation!”

Before I could cease morbidly speculating – or do anything else – Bobby Belasco went and ruined everything. He stood up, his pistol held in both hands. A couple of the Escopeteros turned to look at him. They seemed almost amused. “Die, Commie scum!” Belasco shouted, and started shooting. Two of the guerillas went down, but the rest scrambled for cover, and started shooting back.

I grabbed Belasco and slammed him down to the dirt as the air went hot and burnt around us. “You goddamn idiot!” I shouted. “You gone nuts or something?” I already knew the answer to that question. “You’re gonna get us all killed!”

Rifle shots burned through the air around us. The rebels had us pinned, and more were running about to bring in the big guns. I drew out both of my automatics and tried to lay down a little suppressing fire, but their bolt-action bullets kept me down in the dirt. Leaves tumbled down from the trees above us, as bullets cut grooves in jungle wood. The gunshots kicked up dirt as we tried to get to cover. I figured we could wait them out, get them to reload while I doubled back and put some hurt on them. But that’s when I saw them wheeling in a heavy machine gun, a goddamn .50 cal they must use to keep Batista’s planes off of them.