Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One (7 page)

Madam Strang’s Far Sight and Fortunes stood in a sleepy patch of fog-shrouded Santa Monica, a couple blocks from the piers and beach. Sandwiched between an ice cream parlor and a curio shop, it was strictly tourist country. The place was packed with beachgoers. They strolled along in Hawaiian shirts and sundresses, their kids spilling ice cream on the sidewalk as they filed back into their station wagons. Angel found a parking space near the fortuneteller’s shop. Wooster stayed in the Packard and cruised the block, patrolling in a circle.

On the way, they had stopped for cheeseburgers. Roscoe mopped grease, ground beef, and mustard from his lips with a napkin as they headed into the fortuneteller’s store. It had large glass windows and statues of Chinese dogs guarding the door.

A bell rang as they entered a small waiting room. It contained only a single untended desk, a few ancient magazines, and some geometric black leather chairs missing their backs. Angel and Roscoe sat. A rear door opened. “Welcome, my friends―to the beyond.” Madam Strang, a middle-aged woman with hair in tangled curls tinted the shade of a crimson Christmas tree ornament, emerged. Her lips matched, and she wore an oversized red dress and bright red headband. She looked Roscoe and Angel over. “Have you come for a reading?”

“Information, actually,” Roscoe said. “About the past. Not the future. This is Angel Rey and I’m Roscoe. It won’t take long.”

“Hmmm.” Madam Strang formed her fingers into a steeple. “Step into the chambers of divination. We will talk there.” She pointed to the door in the back. Roscoe and Angel followed her inside. She led them into a circular room with a glowing crystal ball and a table of blonde wood. The walls had been decorated with bits of shining dust, so it looked like they sat in a field of stars. Madam Strang sat and looked up at Roscoe and Angel. “What about the past do you wish to know?”

“Dr. Clyde Bolton,” Angel said. “We heard you used to be an item.”

“Ah. Clyde.” Madam Strang settled into her seat. She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. Roscoe snapped a lighter to life and leaned forward. “Did you get to meet him? Is he in trouble?”

“He is,” Roscoe said. “We’re trying to help him out.”

Madam Strang sighed. “Ah. I should’ve known.” The mystic airiness dropped out of her voice, replaced by a hard edge. “I liked Clyde. I liked him a lot, so I’ll help you. I don’t know how well you know him, but he’s a good guy. I knew him a bit right after the War and I can’t think of a kinder, nicer man. It’s his past. It’s what he’s done that ruined him.”

“What did he do?” Roscoe asked.

“The bomb.” Madam Strang pressed the cigarette into her mouth and puffed smoke. It seemed to make the stars glow more. “He was part of the team that created it. The Manhattan Project. A lot of weird people were involved with that, and Clyde was right in the middle of it. They recruited him right out of school, and he built their bomb for them, and then came the worst part.” She leaned closer. “They sent him to Japan after it was dropped. He had to go to Hiroshima and see firsthand the damage that the atomic bomb did. One night, after we had too much to drink, he told me about it. I had to hold him through the night. He wouldn’t stop crying.”

“
Dios
,” Angel whispered.

Roscoe leaned closer. “Is that what drove him to the occult?”

“Yup. Pure guilt. He started hitting up the séances and parties that I would attend, which is how we met. He was a sweet guy and we hit it off―but guilt ain’t the right foundation for love. He would bottle it up inside of him. Refuse to talk about it and spend his time going through occult texts instead. Eventually, he heard about Cassius Craul and became seriously obsessed with the guy.” She spread her hands, happy to share gossip. “Now, I don’t want to point fingers. I’ve done some odd stuff in my time. But this Craul guy? He’s a nut.”

“Not like you?” Roscoe asked.

Madam Strang shook her head vigorously. “Jesus no. I don’t worship the devil. I don’t summon demons in my spare time and try to bring about the end of the world. I don’t have pentagrams tattooed on my―well, I don’t have any pentagram tattoos. But Clyde loved Craul. Fell for him hook, line and sinker. He would even attend his annual Infernal Masquerade parties at his mansion in Silver Lake. Craul’s dead now, of course, but they say he still shows up at the Infernal Masquerade.” She reached under the table and withdrew a notebook. “Matter of fact, there’s one going on tonight. Real wild parties. You know who else was a regular?”

“Townsend Mars?” Angel asked.

“What are you, psychic?” Madam Strang grinned. “Yeah. Dr. Bolton became pals with him too.” She pulled a scrap of paper, an invitation, from the notebook and handed it to Roscoe. “You can go to the Infernal Masquerade tonight. They use some old mansion up in Silver Lake, in the hills. I don’t know who owns it now that Craul’s gone, but the place is isolated and has got a big garden.”

“Thanks.” Roscoe pocketed the invitation. “So what happened between you and Dr. Bolton?”

“It wasn’t his fault. Maybe it wasn’t mine either.” Madam Strang slumped down behind the crystal ball. It made her face look like it was consumed by fog. “It was the guilt over what he did. He kept bottling it up, seeking a cure in magic without ever wanting to talk about it. He didn’t trust me enough―or maybe I didn’t earn his trust. Either way, he went off into the deep end and I didn’t follow him. I regret it to this day.”

Roscoe stared at her. He could imagine it―the guilt and shame driving someone deeper and deeper into darkness, while they refused to discuss what was happening. He looked at his dead hands, bloodied when he was alive and bloodied when he was dead, and knew exactly what Madam Strang meant.

“When we find him,” he said, “and he’s done his time, would you like us to get in touch?”

Madam Strang shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It can’t hurt.” She sank lower into her seat, rendered despondent by the memory of the past.

Roscoe had the feeling that she didn’t want to answer any more questions or have to think about Dr. Bolton. He didn’t want to press her.

“We’ll tell him where you are then,” Angel said.

Roscoe had the same idea. “Thank you very much for your help. We’ll get Dr. Bolton back and help with the trouble he’s in. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Madam Strang said quietly.

They left the fortune-telling room and stepped outside into the waiting area. Another car sat next to the entrance, parked in the spot adjoining Angel’s scarlet Caddie. The Lincoln had a dull black paint job, somewhat shiny, which matched its tinted windows. Four men stepped out of the car and approached the doorway. They didn’t look like they had come to hear their fortunes told. Each wore an identical black suit, the folds of their jackets and the knot of their ties as neat as possible. Their hair had been smoothed into place, each given the exact same part. They walked to the door and their leader held it open.

Angel turned to Roscoe. “Trouble?”

“Yeah.” Roscoe folded his arms as the bell in the door rang.

The leader of the guys in black suits entered the store. “Is Miss Strang in?” he asked, his voice weary and calm. He had a lean look about him, like the flesh around his cheeks had been filed down. His face looked strangely pale, as if he had never been outside a day in his life, and his dark hair seemed stiff and dead. His sunglasses remained on, even inside. “I would like to talk to her for a minute.”

“Who wants to know?” Roscoe asked. He didn’t move.

“Agent Dodd.” He reached into his coat, snapped out a badge and flashed it at Roscoe, then hid it away in the same motion. Roscoe only got to look at the badge for half a second. “I’m with the government. Now, is Miss Strang in?”

“I didn’t get a good look at the badge,” Roscoe said. “Want to show it to me again?”

Dodd drew closer to Roscoe. He reached to his sunglasses and slid them down, slowly. He made a performance out of it, like a curtain parting. When the glasses reached the tip of his nose, he stopped. Roscoe could see his eyes―dead and white. Roscoe’s own eyes looked the same. “I don’t care to,” the agent said. “Not to greaser trash like you. Now leave.”

“Miss Strang don’t want to be disturbed, man,” Angel said. “She’s busy right now. You better come around another time, or me and Roscoe gonna make your lives hard.”

“Angel’s right,” Roscoe said. “Beat it.”

Now Agent Dodd fixed his gaze on Angel. “I don’t know who you are. But I bet you’ve got a record. Both of you do. I can find it out very soon. I can look you up and ruin your lives.” He pointed to Angel. “How’d you like an extended stay in Quentin? How’d you like to visit a prison that doesn’t officially exist, where they don’t need to feed you? How’d you like to leave this place in the back of my trunk?”

It was time to call this goon’s bluff. “You know a lot. You know the Captain? From La Cruz?”

That made Dodd pause. “I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s our employer,” Angel said. “And he’s got friends in the government. So how about you drive away? Your threats don’t mean a damn thing.”

“Okay. That’s fine.” Agent Dodd stepped back and then spread his arms, letting his coat fall open. An automatic rested in a shoulder holster. “So you know the Captain. Well, what if the Captain never knew where you went? You didn’t come back from your mission. You just disappeared. I can arrange that. This gun has a silencer. Nobody would ever know. There wouldn’t be any bodies to find.”

“You threatening me?” Roscoe asked.

“I’m making a prediction, pal,” Dodd replied. “Care to test it?”

“Maybe I do.” He had his sawed-off shotgun in his own coat, but didn’t want to get into a gunfight against four trained government agents. Even if he and Angel could take them, there would probably be fallout from murdering a couple men like Dodd. Besides, Roscoe hoped he could bluff his way out of this without violence. He pointed out the window. Wooster’s Packard rested on the street, opposite the fortuneteller’s store. “But if I get involved, my man Angel’s gonna draw on you too. And you see that Packard out there? Fellow in there has a tommy gun sitting in the passenger seat. He sees it going off in here, he’ll grab the chopper and spray. Right into the back of your men. I got a feeling that you don’t want that.”

Agent Dodd shifted his gaze to the door. His fellow agents stood stiff, staring at Angel and Roscoe. He examined the Packard; Wooster sat inside, tobacco making his cheeks bulge as he chewed. As Agent Dodd watched, Wooster let a large stream of red spittle fly from his mouth and splash across the sidewalk.

“Okay.” Dodd took a step back. “We’ll leave. But Roscoe? Angel? I’m going to keep following my case. Next time, you’ll stay out of my way.”

Roscoe didn’t say anything. He stared back.

“All right.” Dodd waved to his men. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Sir?” one of the goons asked.

“I said we’re leaving.” Agent Dodd didn’t raise his voice. He flashed his teeth, square and clean and blinding white, and walked out the door. His fellow agents filed after him. They got into the Lincoln and sped away, zooming past the Packard. Wooster gave them a wave. If Roscoe could sweat, he would have needed to wipe his forehead. He was glad the government men were gone.

Angel let out a sigh of relief. “Those
cabrones
would’ve killed us.”

“You think they were FBI?”

“Hell no. G-Men, they’re sort of scary―but they like to spend time letting you know it. Proving how scary they are. These guys? They had nothing to prove.” Angel pointed to the door. “Come on. We better go if we’re gonna make it to Silver Lake in time for that party.”

They headed to their parking spot. Wooster waved from his Packard and Roscoe returned it. They got in the Caddy and Angel started the engine. He pulled out and headed down the open street. Wooster followed, a few car lengths behind.

“Why you think they were there?” Roscoe asked. “Dr. Bolton?”

“Got to be. He must have several masters. Major Raskin and Special Agent Pruitt work for one set. Agent Dodd and his pals work for another.”

“So what do you think we ought to do about it?” Roscoe already knew the answer.

“We finish our mission. Go to this party in Silver Lake, see what information we can find about where Townsend Mars and Dr. Bolton might be, and then we head back to La Cruz and report. See what the Captain will do.” Angel shrugged. “He’ll have the right idea. He always does.”

Roscoe had to agree. No matter how confusing things seemed, no matter what threats came against the drivers, they could always trust the Captain. Roscoe leaned back in his seat and tried his best to relax. Dodd’s coldness reminded him of the way he could be when he threatened someone. It was enough to make his heart beat involuntarily. He forced it to stop and looked back down the cluttered road, watching the amusement park on its projecting pier and the wide, crowded beach. They still had a while to go.

They hit Silver Lake in the early evening, as the sun started to set and the sky went all pink and purple, like it had been worked over enough to raise a bruise. They scoured the streets for the address mentioned on the pamphlet. That was all it had, actually―an imprint of a pentagram and the house number. Angel found the place easily enough. It rested atop a secluded hill, a garden spilling out behind it with a stairway connecting the two. A variety of vehicles, ranging from ancient Town Cars straight out of the Prohibition Era to sleek new Italian models, clustered around the entrance to the house. Torchlight glimmered from the garden. The only spot Angel could find to park was a bit down the block. Wooster kept circling in his Packard, still blasting twanging country hits and munching his tobacco. Roscoe and Angel stepped out, walked down the long sidewalk, and finally reached the building.