The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3) (21 page)

“He did the same for me.” Adam looked back at Weatherby and Selena, who were following us. Weatherby slipped on the slick pavement, and Selena steadied him. “He did it because they care for me and he cares for them. And like he said, they are worth defending. The Stein family has changed, Mort. They are good now, it seems.”

“They are that,” I agreed. “And the best thing I ever did was pull that poor kid out of Europe and take him under my wing. It hasn’t been easy and it ain’t much, but for a guy like me, it’s a regular ticket to heaven.” I stared at his weathered face. “What about you, big man? You done much good for this miserable world of ours?”

“No,” Adam replied. He patted the tommy guns at his side. “But I will.”

Just like Joey Verona had said, the warehouse was nestled between the hills out of San Francisco. It was just some run-down steel grey industrial structure that had gone belly-up in the Great Depression and been rotting ever since. We slipped in through a gap in the rusted fence, and approached the wide steel doors. I saw a variety of automobiles parked outside – including my red Roadmaster. The mobsters must have taken a liking to the car. Maybe we could ride it back – if we ever left that goddamn warehouse alive.

Weatherby and Selena pushed open the door, while I stood behind Adam, both pistols jabbed in his back. The trench coat was draped over him, hiding the tommy guns. I didn’t know how long Wagner Stein would buy the ruse. Adam moved in front of me, in slow and weary steps.

Inside the warehouse, a small army of mobsters awaited our arrival. Don Vizzini stood in the corner, surrounded by gunmen. It was clear that Wagner was running the show. The ancient necromancer and wizard stood in the middle of the room, his cane between his hands. Joey Verona was next to him. He was close to Chad with the point of his switchblade at the beatnik kid’s throat. More skeletal mugs in matching purple suits than I could count on the fingers of two hands stood behind them, their guns aimed at us.

Wagner Stein’s smile grew, a pearly white monster stepping into the light. “Well, Weatherby and Selena, my dear little children, it appears you made the correct decision. After all, this brute is nothing to you, while the bewhiskered fellow is everything.”

“That’s right, Wagner,” Selena agreed. “You’re absolutely right.” She took a step toward Chad. We had to get him away from the line of fire, before Adam blasted the whole place to Hell.

But Wagner blocked her. He looked down at her, a predator from the past, savoring his prey. “Indeed I am, my dear,” Wagner said. Selena stayed still. She shivered, but didn’t run, even as Wagner ran a hand along her cheek. “You know, your little brother is a runt, but you are not. Come and live with me, darling Selena, and together we shall lay waste to the world.” He grabbed her shoulders. “Who knows?” he asked. “You may grow to love me, in time.”

“That’ll never happen.” Selena grabbed his lapels and drove her knee into his crotch. She pushed him aside, knocking him into Verona and sending them both to the ground. Chad ran to her, and they hurried back to our side, holding hands.

“You harpy!” Wagner screamed. “You’ll pay! Your brat brother will pay! This whole accursed age shall pay!” His skeletons swung their weapons to face us. Vizzini’s mobsters did the same.

“No.” Adam flexed his shoulder. “They have a protector.”  My trench coat fell to the ground, revealing the two tommy guns in Adam’s hands. It had taken some effort to get his thick fingers into the trigger guards, but Adam had managed it. He opened fire, both guns spitting rapid-fire death into the ranks of the skeletons and the gangsters. Adam didn’t bother with bursts. He leaned on the triggers, blasting off limbs and ripping bodies and bones to shreds. Bellies were ripped open. Guts spilled. Blood flowed in rivers.

I spotted Verona grabbing Wagner and pulling him to cover, as Don Vizzini ducked into the back. They were too smart to die here, which was the fate of everyone who tried to stand against Adam. The mobsters hurling lead his way didn’t last long. They sunk a few shots into his shoulders and chests, but Adam didn’t stop shooting – not until both drum magazines were empty and we were the only things living in the warehouse.

But that wasn’t enough for him. He tossed down the tommy guns, squaring his fists. “Wagner Stein!” he snarled. “Don Vizzini! I’ll finish you!”

“Adam!” I grabbed his shoulder, trying to get through his rage. “We don’t have time! They must have reinforcements. It’s time to dangle! Come on, we’ll get to my car!”

Adam wasn’t listening. He pushed past me, shrugged me off like I wasn’t even there, and strode into the warehouse. He would have chased Wagner, Verona and Vizzini to the ends of the earth. But Weatherby broke away from Selena and Chad. He ran in front of Adam, blocking the hulking bruiser’s movement.

“Please,” Weatherby pleaded, holding out his hands. “We have to leave, Mr. Adam. We don’t have time for your rage. Not right now.”

With a glowering gaze, Adam stopped. He nodded slowly, and followed me, Selena and Chad out of that warehouse turned into a blood-slick slaughterhouse, and into the sunlight. We ran to my car, Chad tossing me my keys. I thanked him quickly, and got into the driver’s seat. Adam took the passenger seat, letting Chad, Weatherby and Selena share the back.

“Thanks, guys,” Chad said. “Sorry I got nabbed. I was pretty scared, but I knew you’d come and bail me out.” He grinned at Selena. “I hate to say it, honey, but your ancestor is one scary, weird and absolutely crazy messed-up cat.” He paused to look at Weatherby and me. “But the rest of your family – and even your square friend – well, they’re A-Okay.”

“They certainly are,” Selena agreed, ruffling Weatherby’s hair. He gave her a look something between deep fondness and total annoyance.

As I drove away, I noticed Adam watching them. I’d never think I’d run into a guy who had less of a family than me. But I guess I did, and I felt sorry for him.

About an hour or two after we rode away from San Francisco, Adam had us stop the car on the side of the road. “Better to split up,” he explained. “I can travel to LA. I have contacts there. You should go somewhere else. To New York, maybe. Put as much distance between Wagner Stein and yourself as possible.”

“You won’t stay with us, sir?” Weatherby asked, as Adam opened the door and stepped out into the dirt on the side of the road. “We can protect you, as well as ourselves.” I wasn’t so sure about that, but I didn’t say anything.

“No,” Adam answered. “My place is not with you. I am a solitary creature, for better or worse.” He paused. “You know, since I was created by Johann Stein, maybe I could count as his son. I’ve never bothered with that, but perhaps now I will.” He grunted and stroked his chin. “Adam Stein,” he said. “Could I call myself that?”

“I would be honored to share that name with you,” Weatherby replied. He turned to Selena. “Maybe you could give him your address, so Adam can stay in touch?”

Adam was agreeable to that. “Yes.  Give me the address. I’ll send you an address of my own. If you need help, contact me. I will come and help you.”

Selena nodded, scrawling down the address of the apartment she and Chad had just purchased, and handed it to Adam. The giant slipped it into the pocket of his rumpled zoot suit. He shook hands with Weatherby and Selena. Then he turned around and started into the hills, his stocky legs pumping and carrying him over the dirt like a beast chasing down prey. He ran up the hills and vanished from our view.

We watched him go and then I started the car. “He’s a swell guy,” Chad said, as we roared down the open road and into the distance. “Adam is, I mean. I’m glad you guys are related to him, you know.”

“I am, as well.  It’s comforting to feel that you are not alone in the world,” Weatherby agreed. Before I could start driving, he opened the door and dashed around to the passenger seat, sliding in next to me. He buckled his seat belt as I rolled back onto the open road. “But I never had reason to feel that.” He smiled at me. “I was never alone.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” I said. I gunned the engine and we roared forward, driving into the fading afternoon light.

Big City Showdown, Part One

W
henever I was in New York and had dough to spare, I stayed at the Hotel Grande. It’s a classy joint, catering to guests who wanted to stay on the QT, like presidents and visiting royalty. Your name didn’t show up in any guest books and there was little chance of some newshound snoop finding out where you were. Plus, they made an excellent rib eye steak.

So when Weatherby and I came back from visiting his sister Selena and her boyfriend Chad in their new apartment, and we saw the door wide open and no maid’s trolley in the hallway, we knew something was up. Someone with connections and the right kind of skills was pulling a B and E on our room. Silently, I raised my hand to motion Weatherby back and reached for an automatic. He nodded, staring into the darkness of our room and following me inside.

I switched on the light, swinging my .45 to cover the room. The light showed on soft red velvet couches, a television, a mahogany desk – and a big armchair in the corner. Someone was sitting in the armchair. A fat Cuban cigar smoldered in his fingers. A dozen more lay stomped out on the carpet. He was wearing a loud crimson Hawaiian shirt, and had a manila folder on his legs. His scruffy face split in a grin when he saw me and Weatherby.

“Mort! Weatherby!” Bobby Belasco stood up, tucking the folder under his arm. “Great to see you, great to see you! You fellows are looking swell. Weatherby, are you taller? Morty, have you lost weight? Be honest with me now.”

I kept my pistol leveled at him. “You’re gonna get the hell out of our room, Belasco,” I said. “Either by the elevator or the open window, you’re gonna leave.”

He raised his hands, a gesture of supplication. “That’s no way to talk to an old pal. And that’s all I want to do – just talk. I figured out where you were, snuck in and picked the lock. I’ve spied on Khrushchev from his closet before, so it wasn’t really that hard.” He pointed to the bar, his grin remaining like a mask he had taped on. “I helped myself to the bar while I was here. Hope you don’t mind. And they had a great selection, if I do say so myself.”

Weatherby sighed. “Mr. Belasco,” he muttered. “Please just tell us why you are here.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He opened the folder and dumped their contents onto the coffee table. I started looking at them, my eyes moving over the glossy pictures and pages of scribbled surveillance notes. Weatherby sat down on the couch and sifted through the pictures. His eyes got wide and frightened.

“Now am I wrong?” Belasco asked. “Or do you not know these individuals?”

He wasn’t wrong. The clown in the purple suit and with the thin moustache, peacock feather in his fedora, was Viscount Wagner Stein. He may have dressed like Liberace, but he was as dangerous as the Bubonic Plague. He had busted out of his ancient tomb, and quickly established himself as a counterculture drug pusher and dope guru, nicknamed Dr. Twist.  Weatherby saw it as his fault that Wagner was walking free – and his responsibility to shut Wagner down.

The guy next to him, in some isolated Manhattan parking lot, was none other than Count Dracula. The most lethal vampire on the planet wore a slick black double-breasted business suit, looking just like any other Wall Street wolf on the prowl. His dark hair was slicked back, and his red eyes were hidden by square sunglasses. We had been involved in his resurrection too.