The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3) (19 page)

I selected a small café across the street from some run-down flophouse. It was the kind of place that catered to teenagers, which sold two straws in each milkshake so young lovers could share. I didn’t like it, but it looked quiet and was mostly empty. I parked the Roadmaster and we headed inside and got a seat at a booth in the back.

The waitress stared at Adam. I didn’t blame her. He took up the whole side of the booth by himself, while Chad, Selena, Weatherby and I crammed into the other. “What’ll it be, handsome?” the waitress asked, her voice a dull drawl.

Adam’s eyes flashed to the menu. He could read. I was impressed. He turned to me and I nodded. I’d pay for his meal. “Four chili cheese burgers, everything on them. Three milkshakes. Strawberry. Six orders of fries. Two hot dogs.” He lowered his voice. “Please.”

The waitress hurried to scribble it down, and then turned to our side of the table. “And for you?”

“Just coffee,” Selena said politely. “And one chocolate milkshake for Weatherby.”

The waitress dashed off the get the food ready. Chad stared at Adam. “Man alive, you are one big eater.” He shrugged. “I guess you’re a big guy, so that makes sense. What do you live on normally, brother? Cows?”

“Shut up, Chad.” I looked back to our new pal. “All right, Adam. I’m paying for a feast. I want a good story.”

“It is not a good story.” Adam rested his thick hands flat on the linoleum of the table. “In the late 1700s, Johan Stein lost his family to a plague. He desired to defeat death. He ransacked graveyards, finding pieces of soldiers from the Seven Years War, and put them together. He used lightning and magic to give them life.” His growling voice got low. “He created me.”

Weatherby and I exchanged a glance. It was a story straight out a comic book or a B-movie – and it all made horrible sense. “I take it he wasn’t a good parent?” I asked, reaching for a cigarette.

Adam looked up at me, letting me see every miserable contour of his face. “With a child like this, how could he?” he asked. “He took one look and ran. I smashed my way out of the prison and hid in the woods. I lived off of stolen sheep and cattle, taken from the peasants. I learned to speak by watching them teach their children. But they became aware of me, and the men of the village took their pitchforks and torches to destroy me. And I slaughtered them all.”

Selena breathed in sharply. She pulled Weatherby close. His eyes were wide and frightened. “What about Johan?” Weatherby asked. “He just abandoned you?”

“He tried to kill me.” The waitress started bringing the food over. Adam took massive bites, polishing off burgers in two chomps. “Once he had found out what I had done, he came down from his castle and tried to stop me. We fought. I triumphed. I begged him to take me, to teach me how to be a good man, to let me live like anyone else on this planet. He had one more pistol, and killed himself, rather than follow that plan.” He paused, a large gray tongue leaving his mouth to lick up chili sauce on his lips. “And since then I have wandered. I have been a mercenary, a warrior, a torpedo. I have killed men and given others nightmares. That is all I care for in life.”

It was a hell of a story. Weatherby sat behind his chocolate milkshake, the drink untouched. He reached out, putting a hand on Adam’s arm. “I know I can’t make up for what my ancestor did to you,” he said gently. “But I apologize. On behalf of my mother and father, all the Steins of my line. And on my soul and on the graves of my mother and father, I swear that I’ll do everything I can to help you. We’ll help you get out of the city and to safety.”

Adam stared at Weatherby like the kid had stopped speaking English. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. Adam was a killer – a monster cobbled together from spare parts and put on the world to cause terror and death. But Weatherby wanted to befriend him.

Before Adam could respond, Weatherby’s milkshake shattered. Chocolate spilled onto the table. “Oh, sorry!” Weatherby cried. “My clumsiness can really be so irksome and—” He was thinking what I was thinking. He hadn’t touched that glass. We looked to the window. There was a spider web crack in the glass.

“Kiss the floor!” I shouted, throwing myself from the booth. I pushed down Selena, Chad and Weatherby, as the sniper fired again. His shot cracked into the seat where Selena had been seconds ago, bursting through the red leather. We stayed under the table. I looked through the window, watching the flophouse. Some mob toady must’ve seen us and squealed and then Wagner and Vizzini got a shooter in position.

I reached for my automatics as the diner emptied, the few other customers pounding outside into the gray fog. “Okay,” I said. I turned to Chad. “I got a plan to get us out of here. But you’re gonna have to man up. Can I trust you?”

“Sure,” Chad said. He was holding Selena close to him. “What’s the score?”

I waited for the sniper to fire again. He was using a silencer, but I saw the muzzle flash coming from a window on the sixth floor. I memorized the location. “I’m going to go across the street, get up to that building and nail that sniper. You’re gonna take Weatherby and Selena and King Kong here and get to the car.” I tossed him the keys. “Drive around a little. Get out of here if more heat shows up.”

I stood up, preparing my legs for the coming run. I had done this a ton of times in France and Germany, dashing across some field or some rubble-strewn town square, a Kraut sniper’s crosshairs following me. But as I moved to go, Adam stood up. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

There wasn’t time to argue. “Then try to keep up.” I dashed for the door, raising my pistols and opening fire. Chad, Selena and Weatherby followed. Like I planned it, my suppressing fire kept the head of the sniper down. We hurried across the street. Chad made for the Roadmaster, holding tightly to Weatherby and Selena’s hands.

“Mort!” Weatherby called back to me as I pounded across the street. Adam was close behind. “Be careful!”  It was good advice. I should have followed it.

We reached the double doors of the flophouse and dashed inside. The place was a dump, with peeling paint on the banana yellow walls and more roaches than working toilets. A flash of my heaters to the bum behind the desk told him to shut up. Adam and I ran up the crumbling staircase, heading to the sixth floor. He hadn’t said a word since he asked to come with me and I didn’t mind.

Soon enough, we got to the right door. I stopped running, sucking in breath as I approached. I raised both my pistols, than looked at Adam. “You want a cannon, big man?” I wondered. He grunted out his answer. I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t need guns. Those fists of his were as deadly as atom bombs.

Once I had caught my breath, I kicked open the door and stepped inside. I started shooting. I figured the sniper would be panicked, making them stupid and easy pickings. I was wrong. The sniper was hiding next to the doorway, a baseball bat in his hands. He cracked the bat into my chest and I hit the ground.

I felt like my guts had turned into liquid. I rolled over and raised my pistols at my attacker. The sniper had done the same, pointing a long-barreled automatic in my direction. I looked at his face. It made me wish his baseball bat had knocked out my eyes. I recognized the yellowed skin, the drooping eye, the steel gray hair and the hateful look. This was Joey Verona, mob hitman without scruples or sanity. And he had it in for me. But now he wore a crisp purple suit, matching the one worn by Wagner Stein and his goons. That’s when I saw Wagner and two skeletons himself standing behind Verona, cane in his hands, and I knew the bad times hadn’t even started.

“Morty!” Verona made my name a curse. “How are you?”

My ribs burned and my fingers felt weak, but they still held to their automatics. “Could be better,” I muttered. “Yourself?” I looked at Adam. He stayed in the hall, going motionless, waiting to see what would happen. I couldn’t let Wagner get his hands on the patchwork palooka.

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged. “I got booted out of even the minor league mobs for screwing up the Ben Blemmy thing in Tahoe. But guess what? I found myself a new employer.” He extended a hand to Viscount Wagner Stein. “Ain’t he a peach?”

“I am indeed, Verona.” Wagner pointed his cane at me. “Now, I’m afraid your wick is going to burn down, little Candle.” I had a gun pointed at Verona, but Wagner was talking like he held all the cards. For all I knew, he did. “Now, where is Adam? We saw him cross the street with you.” Wagner looked into the hallway, his cold eyes scanning the dirty carpet and yellow wallpaper. Adam wasn’t there. The giant must have stepped back, pressing himself against the wall to hide from Viscount Wagner’s view. Adam was smarter than he looked. “Come now, I grow tired of games. Where is he?”

“Right here.” Adam punched straight through the wall. He tore through it like it was paper, slamming a fist onto Wagner and sending him sprawling. Adam leapt through the door, as Verona turned to shoot him. Adam delivered a backhanded blow that sent Verona spinning across the room.

The skeletons raised their pistols. I started shooting back, but I was still breathing heavy from getting walloped with a baseball bat, and I shot wide. Then Adam grabbed my shoulder. He pointed to the open window. The implication was clear.

“Just try to make sure I don’t land on my face,” I said.

“I’ll try.” Adam hoisted me up and we leapt through the open window together. He was holding me close me to him, his hands rough as sandpaper. We plummeted down, the wind tearing at me as we fell six stories and landed on a car. Adam’s back took the blow, crumpling steel. He pushed me off and I hit the sidewalk. It took me a while to come to my feet. Adam didn’t bother to help me up.

I looked back up at the room we had just left. Joey Verona and Wagner Stein were scrambling to stop us. I saw the sniper rifle, swinging down in Verona’s hands, ready to finish us both off. Adam was swaying on his feet. Even he couldn’t fall six stories and come out whistling a merry tune. I raised my automatics and started shooting. I was firing blind and Verona knew it. The bastard could take his time, get a bead on me, and blow out my brains.

The honk of a car horn and the sudden squeal of burning rubber distracted me. I saw the Roadmaster squealing down the road toward us, Selena behind the wheel. She rolled to a stop right in front of us.

Weatherby leaned out of the passenger window. “Mort! Adam! Get inside and hurry!” he cried.

I patted Adam’s shoulder as Chad opened the rear door. “Looks like our ride’s here, big man,” I said, pushing him into the back of the car. I sat on the other side of him and Selena started the car again. She roared back on the street, as Verona fired another bullet at us.

Selena turned back to me and Adam. “Are you all right?” she asked, real panic in her voice.

Adam grunted. “I’ve survived worse.”

I let out a dry laugh. “You should have seen him in action, sister. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be bumped off for sure. But at least now I know Joey Verona is batting for Wagner’s team.” I looked out the window at the passing homes, fat cylindrical houses beside foggy streets. “Don Vizzini must have spies all over the town. We can’t just drive away. He’ll have men watching the streets, waiting for us. This auto won’t survive another ambush. I don’t think we will either.”

“So what should we do, Mort?” Weatherby asked. “What exactly is your plan?” He was sure I had one. The kid trusted me, and I didn’t want to let him down.

I leaned back. “Take us to Little Osaka.”

“Japantown?” Chad asked. “Who are you gonna see there, man?”

I was banking on a hunch, from a few words Chad had said earlier. “The devil himself,” I replied. “And we’re gonna ask him for help.”

Little Osaka was one of the few places in San Francisco that Don Vizzini’s mobsters didn’t patrol.  That’s because the choked streets below the stately towers belonged to something other than the Mob. The Yakuza controlled this piece of the city, an extension of an organization stretching all the way back to Japan. And Weatherby and I were lucky enough to know the guy running it.

Selena drove the auto to Little Osaka, and it didn’t take long for me to spot the Yakuza hangout at the local watering hole. It was a small gin mill, but the place was full of Japanese hoodlums, their collars buttoned up to hide their curling, colorful tattoos.

I had Selena park outside, and then we headed into the bar. I brought Adam along, figuring that he’d get their attention. I was right. Every thug in the joint looked up at us, hands sliding into their coats. I guessed Boss Yamoto had put the word out. I raised my hands, and Weatherby did the same. But I still opened my coat a little so they could see the handles of my .45s. No need to give them a false impression.

Adam looked around. “Your plan is stupid,” he said.

“Give it time.” I smiled at the Yakuza boys. “I want to see Boss Yamoto. I just want to have a nice peaceful chat. And let me tell you, boys, I represent a big investment for your little syndicate. So go and get him, or he’ll get angry, and then I don’t think you’ll be keeping your pinkies for long.”

One of the Yakuza stood up and headed to the door in the back, without saying a word. He left the room, and all of the other gangsters inside kept watching us. Chad moved to the bar, raising a hand. “Can I get a sake?” he asked. “On the rocks?” He looked back at Selena and me, his face a sad smile. “What? I dig Oriental drinks. I think they’re really classy and—”