The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (9 page)

Mama Le Croix put her hand on Henry Wallace’s shoulder. “We gonna get you home, child. But it’s gonna be real bad and noisy for a while. You gotta promise to stay with us and just look at me, and don’t you go looking back or looking around, cause you won’t like what you see. You promise me that?”

Henry Wallace nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What exactly are you going to do?”

Mama Le Croix picked up a clay jar and carefully removed the lid. A thin gray dust was inside, a little bit lighter than gunpowder. “I’m gonna make the dead dance,” she said, holding it high. “Mr. Candle, you ready?”

I drew out both of my automatics and Weatherby took out his large revolver. “Yup,” I said.

“Good. May the Loas guide us.” Mama Le Croix kicked open the door and hurled out the clay jar.

It shattered on the sand and the gray powder was caught up by a sea breeze. The rebels raised their rifles, trying to aim through the smoke. It sunk slowly down, falling like evening mist on the sand. Nobody moved. The Commie guards didn’t shoot, and though we were in the doorway and stepping out onto the beach, we didn’t move either. All of us seemed to be under Le Croix’s spell.

And then it went into effect. More hands than I could count reached out of the sand. They were black and weathered, skinless and rotten, and grabbed for the Escopeteros like drowning men trying to get out of the water. Screams of terror ran through the Commie ranks, followed by a torrent of gunfire. If we waited for a better distraction, we’d be there until judgment day.

“Get moving!” I shouted. I started firing as I dashed for the nearest jeep. More zombies came rearing out of the ground, tearing into the guerillas with everything they had. I pounded across the beach, Weatherby, Henry Wallace and Mama Le Croix close behind.

The Cubans that weren’t fighting the zombies started tossing lead at us, and the sand was kicked up at my feet. The jeep drew nearer, and I raised my pistols as the gunner swung his .30 cal our way. He reached for his trigger as I pulled mine.

He pitched backwards, a slug squarely planted in his upper chest. I ran to the jeep and got behind the wheel. Weatherby picked up Henry Wallace and deposited him in the back, then raised his revolver and emptied its six chambers. He missed six times. “What about Miss Rosa and the CIA man?” he asked, as I slammed on the gas.

“We’ll get them,” I said. “Hang on.” I spun the wheel and sent the jeep squealing into the Cuban ranks. The rebels scattered. A zombie didn’t, and went under our wheels. Its skull cracked against our bumpers and sent rotten brains onto the windshield. I tried to look through it.

I held the wheel with one hand and fired my pistol with the other as I neared the prisoners. Their captors went down and they started heading my way. “Rosa! Belasco!” I shouted. “Get moving!”

They made their way through the zombies and rebels, kicking aside the dead heads at their heels. Belasco leapt into the back and looked up at me. “Howdy, howdy,” he said. “Thanks for the save.” Miss Rosa followed him, squeezing neatly into the rear seat next to Mama Le Croix.

I slammed down the gas again and turned the jeep away from the beach. It was an all-terrain vehicle and I made the most of it. It sped up the hill, grass and dirt spraying from behind its wheels, and then I looked back at my passengers. They were a little cramped, but none of them were dead, and I think they were grateful for that. Behind us, the rebels finished off the attack zombies. I could hear gunshots echoing up the hillside, all the way until we reached a hillside road leading back to Havana.

Henry Wallace looked around. “Are we all right?” he asked. “We made it, didn’t we?”

“Sure did,” I said. “Mama Le Croix summoned some zombies and they provided a good distraction.”

“Zombies? Wow. That’s swell. And now we can go back to see my dad, right?” Henry Wallace had all the optimism of a child.

“Right,” I said. I looked at Bobby Belasco and nodded to Weatherby. He slid another round into his revolver and then placed the gun against Belasco’s temple. “But first, let’s get a little bit of the truth. Belasco, I suggest you come clean. Even Weatherby can’t miss at this range.”

Belasco’s smile didn’t vanish. I guess he was used to having guns pointed at his head. “Come on, Morty,” he said. “It’s just part of the old game. I went over to Baum and asked him to help me out. A couple card rooms being bugged, a few games played wearing a wire, and we’d have vital info about the movers and shakers of Cuba. But he disagreed.”

“So you arranged to have his ten-year-old son kidnapped by a bunch of bloodthirsty rebels so he’ll be killed by maniac mobsters?”

“And the next idiot I approach won’t make the same bad decision. It’s simple tradecraft. And I’m on your side now, ain’t I?”

Henry Wallace looked away. “I’ll be eleven next month, actually,” he pointed out, quietly correcting me.

We drove on in silence. As much as I wanted to order Weatherby to blast out Belasco’s brains, he was right. His boneheaded play had pissed off the Commies and now he was on our side. He knew Cuba – and his precious tradecraft – better than a pig knows the sty he wallows in. I hoped he’d be useful.

We drove on, back to Havana, to return a little boy to his loving father. For once in my life, I was looking forward to reaching my destination.

We got there in the early evening. The sun was just setting over Havana, bathing everything in reddish gold. The streets were filled up with nightly revelers, as we drove under the palm trees and the neon glow of a thousand times, straight to the Poker Palace. I got the feeling we were being watched. Mixing with pink Cadillacs and silver Rolls Royces in a battered and bullet-ridden jeep, it would be hard to stay unseen.

When we arrived at the Poker Palace, I stopped the jeep and stepped outside. Henry Wallace scrambled out of the truck and he and Weatherby moved inside at an excited dash. The rest of us followed, and walked in through the swinging doors to the empty casino floor. Sly Baum was there, embracing his son.

“Oh, my boy, my boy,” he said, lifting Henry Wallace off of the ground and then kissing his forehead. “My beautiful boy. You’re all right.” He looked up at me and Weatherby as he motioned for one of the waiters to bring us and his son some water. “You’ve done an excellent job. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s our pleasure, sir. Our absolute pleasure.” Weatherby was beaming. That was an expression I never expected him to make.

Sly Baum noticed Miss Rosa was with us, and lowered his eyes. “Oh. You’re here.”

“You don’t blame me?” she said.

“There’s nothing to blame you for.” Baum was overjoyed, swimming in happiness and relief. He looked up at Belasco and Mama Le Croix. “And I don’t know who you are, but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. With your help, everything worked out A-Okay.”

And for just a second, I thought it had. We had returned the young Henry Wallace to his father. We had paid off Don Vizzini. It seemed like everything had worked itself out. And the very fact that I could think that told me that things were gonna get bad. I was right, but as usual, I wasn’t happy about it.

A gunshot cracked into the window, turning it into a spider-web of glass. Sly ran to his son’s side and pulled him to the ground as another bullet cut through one of the card tables. I ran to the door as I drew my automatics. I looked outside and wished I hadn’t.

Don Vizzini’s gangsters had surrounded the joint. They had parked their autos around the Poker Palace and were using them for cover. Sniper rifles in the back, tommy guns in the front meant that there was no outfighting them. I bet they had a couple of pineapple grenades and Molotov cocktails too. They’d be burning their way in soon enough. Joey Verona was leaning his back against one of the cars, and Don Vizzini stood with him.

“Vizzini, you scum!” I shouted. “I paid you! Baum scraped together the sum to pay you and you took it!”

“This is so.” Don Vizzini held up the envelope of money. Sly Baum came to my side and watched it. “But he has taken so much money from the Commission that the bosses have grown tired of losing. I am tired of losing. This isn’t about money any more, Mr. Candle.” He produced a lighter and flicked it open. The envelope of dough – a fortune in white paper – caught fire. “This is personal. Now come outside or die with him.”

I didn’t want to hear any more. I stepped back and slammed the door, then looked at my friends. All of them had heard Don Vizzini’s ultimatum.

Sly turned to face me. “You don’t got to do it, Mr. Candle. I’ve been pushing the buttons of the wiseguys for too long. Just take Henry Wallace with you.”

“Call me an idiot, but I don’t feel like going through all that trouble to get you back together, only to walk outside and let the mob slaughter you.” I pointed upstairs. “That’s the most defensible position. We’ll head there, get any heaters you got in this joint, and hold them back there. And I don’t think we’ve got much time.”

The mobsters outside had the same idea. They started firing away with everything they had, emptying their drum magazines into Poker Palace. The felt tables were turned to scrap. Decks of card fluttered through the air, and roulette tables rang and shattered. I hit the ground and started crawling for the stairs. Belasco and I were used to this kind of thing. Weatherby and the rest weren’t but they did okay. Mama Le Croix had a bit of trouble, but she made it to the stairs right after Baum and his boy did.

The door cracked open and Joey Verona stepped inside, both pistols blazing. I poured some fire at him and kept him back, then ran to the stairs. I reached the high stakes room and threw lead behind me. The gangsters hurried inside and two of them tried to make it up the stairs. I gunned them down before they got halfway.

“Anyone got any ideas?” I asked, as I struggled to reload my pistols. I was running low on ammo, and couldn’t last long. Weatherby had his revolver out, but he was as useful as a pineapple to a toothless man. I looked at Mama Le Croix. “More zombies, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I have just a little zombie powder left. Not enough to summon my undead servants.”

“Just a pinch, eh?” Belasco asked. “Well, how about a deal?” He pulled out the radio from his belt. “I know my bosses in the Company would kill – and I do mean that literally – for a little of that zombie powder. It’d make wetwork way easier. Give me that, and I’ll summon a helicopter to get us out of here.”

“But the mobsters will kill you too. Call up your helicopter, in the name of reason!” Weatherby cried.

“Will they? Or will I slip away like I weren’t even here?” The mobsters started throwing lead up the stairwell from cover. A bullet crossed my shoulder and I ducked down. “Tick-tock, tick-tock,” Belasco said. I looked up at Mama Le Croix. It was her decision.

She nodded and untied a tiny cloth bundle from her dress. She handed it to Belasco, who reached for his radio. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, and started fiddling with the dials. “I hope you guys like Miami. That’s where were going.”

Blood was flowing freely down my shoulder. A bullet must have ripped past it. I hardly noticed. Time seemed to slow down, passing in a slideshow of bullet-ridden moments. A grenade landed next to my shoe and I kicked it back down the stair. The explosion knocked dust from the ceiling, and then Weatherby was grabbing my shoulder, screaming at me and pointing to a stairwell in the corner.

I forced myself to stand and started running. Mama Le Croix went first, and then Sly Baum, who was holding tightly to Henry Wallace. I had to lean on Weatherby, and I felt a sting in my left leg that had to be another bullet crossing my flesh. A sub-gun opened fire behind us. I turned and fired. A lucky shot crumpled the gangster against the wall.

And then we were up, onto the stairwell and up into the cool Havana night. Belasco stared up into the sky like the crazy kook he was. Miss Rosa stood next to Sly and Henry Wallace. They made a cute couple, I thought. Mama Le Croix looked at Belasco sourly.

I stood on the roof and looked down at the city. The sea of neon glared up at me, shot through with moonlight. A couple of the Mob’s snipers started firing in our direction. One of their shots struck the main neon sign of the Poker Palace, sending up a spray of sparks.

“Point me in their direction,” I hissed to Weatherby through gritted teeth. “And let me loose.”

“No, Morton, I shall not allow you to die,” Weatherby replied.

“Why the hell not?”

“For the same reason that Sly Baum desires the safety and well being of his son.”

I stared at him. For some reason, I focused on his words and not the whine of bullets. “You saying we’re family, kiddo?”

“We’re something close to it,” was Weatherby’s reply.

And then I heard some growing roar, like a storm crackling into existence overhead us. I looked up and my eyes went wide. A large helicopter, a great glass bubble of an aircraft with several seats in the back, swung down low over the rooftop. The copilot had already tossed down a rope ladder, which swayed back and forth as the helicopter got closer.

Belasco waved to them. “All aboard who’s going aboard!” he shouted.

We ran for the rope ladder. Sly made sure Henry Wallace was the first to start heading up the rungs and then we followed. I went last. The bullet in my shoulder was really aching now, throbbing with each movement of my arm. Bullets whizzed around us, as the gangsters tried to blast the helicopter out of the sky. I bit down and kept climbing, and then Weatherby reached down to help me up.