Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One (8 page)

The front entrance was a double set of steel doors. The joint had been built in some mix of an ultra-modern style, blending California ranch house with Gothic cathedral. It had a square, sloping roof that twisted down at an angle, white adobe walls, a single parapet, and gargoyles flanking the entrance and glowering at the street. Roscoe gave the door a knock.

A guy in a blue, shimmering tuxedo and a pig mask opened the door. The mask belonged to a cartoon character―with an oversized forehead and little ears of faded pink plastic. “Hello there,” he said. “You gentlemen are here for the Infernal Masquerade?” He sounded like a salesman offering them a good deal, eager to invite them in.

“Yeah.” Roscoe held out his invitation. “Is this a costume party sort of event?”

“We didn’t really bring anything,” Angel added. “Sorry, man.”

“Oh no―it is quite all right.” The pig-headed fellow stepped back and opened the door. “A zoot suit and a black leather jacket? Those are just perfect costumes. Please come inside and I’ll show you around.”

They followed him in, their shoes sinking into the plush white carpet. The house was filled with elegant, slim furniture and framed etchings of goat-headed demons from old occultist books. The guests stood around, sipping tall glasses of champagne, or sitting in circles and chanting. They sported a mix of fancy evening clothes and dark robes over naked bodies. Most people wore masks, probably so they couldn’t be identified by any snooping reporters. Roscoe couldn’t imagine how much scandal could come from this, though. It looked like a Satanist gathering put on by a Rotary Club.

Their guide pointed out the highlights of the party. “Now, there’s a bit of banquet going on outside. We’ve got roast pork on a spit over an open fire, and there’s some lovely fruit salad. We’ve got wine in the kitchen―red, of course―but feel free to make yourself something stronger, if you’d like. After that, we’re going to try summoning some demons out of an old grimoire and we’re planning on some ritual dancing around a bonfire outside.”

“Sounds fun,” Angel muttered.

“Oh, definitely,” the pig-headed guy said. “You guys need anything else?”

“I think we’ll be okay,” Roscoe replied.

“Excellent. I’ve got to go to the door. You know, watch out for police.” He winked and puttered off.

Roscoe and Angel scanned the house. They watched a masked guy in a seersucker suit stumble up the stairs leading to the backyard. He reeled back and forth, like a sailor on stormy seas, slumped on a chair, and fell asleep. Roscoe could smell the booze from several feet away.

“We better split up,” Roscoe said. “I’ll go to the bar, and you can head outside and check the buffet. Start pumping these clowns for any info about Dr. Bolton and Mars.”

“Got it.” Angel looked over the guests again and shook his head. “White people, man,” he muttered and headed to the stairs leading outside.

Roscoe made his way to the bar. He busied himself making a quick martini, even though booze didn’t really affect him anymore, and walked back through the house. He passed a few bedrooms with locked doors, the sounds of chanting slipping through the walls, and then wandered into a sunroom. A single man sat on the chesterfield in the center of the room, so still that Roscoe at first thought he was one of the decorations. He wore a pure black robe, the collar pulled close so that none of his skin was visible, and the bottom reaching down to cover his legs completely. His mask covered the entirety of his head―a devil’s face with red pointed horns reaching up toward the ceiling, narrow eye slits, and barely any other features. It looked like it had been made of wood or maybe painted metal, something solid that couldn’t be yanked away. He swiveled his head slowly to look at Roscoe.

“Good evening,” he said, his accent pure British aristocracy.

“Good evening.” Roscoe held out the martini. “You want a drink?” He couldn’t see any mouth holes in the mask―barely any holes at all, actually―but it was worth a shot.

“Thank you, no.” He kept his hidden eyes focused on Roscoe. “You are a dead man, are you not?”

For some reason he couldn’t place, Roscoe didn’t feel like lying to the devil. “Yeah. Cursed, you know. I’m a zombie, I guess. I can’t die. I can feel okay, but it comes and goes. It ain’t that bad.”

“Death rarely is what we think it will be,” the devil said.

“That’s true.” Roscoe paused and looked at the devil again. “Say… Are you Cassius Craul?”

“Cassius Craul is dead.” The devil seemed to think that answered the question. “I do not think you are here for the party. You do not believe in the power of the devil―even though you have seen it firsthand. No. I think you are here for another reason.”

“How can you tell?”

“You do not look like the usual guests who come here.” The devil sighed. “Oh, if only you had come back in the golden age of devil worship. In the Twenties, when tradition had died on the bloody fields of France and no one trusted the angels anymore, those were grand times. In the Thirties, after the Stock Market Crash forced so many into debt and despair, they turned to the devil then as well. You should have seen the rituals we conducted. The beings we summoned across the black gulfs of space and time. My boy, that was the proper time to be a decadent.”

“You didn’t happen to meet a guy named Mars during those times?” Roscoe asked. “Townsend Mars?”

“Townsend….” The devil repeated the name softly. “Yes. I knew him. A weak man. A frightened man, seeking answers as so many did in those days. Now? They do not seek answers. They want new cars. Better refrigerators.” He scoffed. “Truly, we dwell in wretched times.”

“What about Dr. Bolton?” Roscoe asked. “They said he liked your writings quite a bit.”

“Another weak man,” the devil said. “It seems that is all there is, these days.”

Roscoe had a feeling that this line of questioning wouldn’t work. It was time to get more exact. “Do you know where they might go―Mars especially―if things got too hot for them in LA? Do they have any friends out of the city? Safe houses? That sort of thing?” The devil stared at him. “Look… I was hired to find Dr. Bolton. Mars snatched him and split. I’m trying to track him down before Mars does something crazy.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. End the world?”

The devil laughed. “Would he have to work so hard? U.S. and Soviet Russia fill their silos with nuclear missiles. At a moment’s notice, they will let them fly. The fires will come―pillars of fire, as it says in Revelations―and all will be wiped away.” He leaned back in his seat. “That is enough to make the devil laugh. That it is god-fearing men, content in their nations and their faith, who will end the human race.”

“Yeah.” Roscoe wasn’t laughing. “Hilarious.”

“But I think I know what you ask,” the devil said. “In the old days, before and during the War, Mars’s followers started traveling to Mexico to study the ruins. Have you ever seen them? The Aztec and Mayan pyramids. Brilliant monuments to their blood hungry gods, built of solid stone and stretching up to the heavens.”

“I’ve seen some of the Aztec pyramids,” Roscoe said. “During trips to Mexico. Impressive stuff.”

“And of deep mystical significance.” The devil held up a hand. He wore a glove, so that Roscoe still couldn’t see his skin. “Their artifacts, their very stones, sing with magical power. Mars brought back several artifacts himself, and then dispatched his followers to do the same. It seemed simple enough. Hand a few dollars over to some poor Mexicans and smuggle the artifacts north. Mars’s followers, clean cut Americans that look like missionaries, received little scrutiny at the border.” He folded his hands, his fingers intertwining. “Now you tell me, Roscoe, what else can be smuggled out of Mexico and brought into this fine country?”

Roscoe knew the answer right away. “Dope.”

“Exactly. That brings us to a man who became Townsend Mars’s dear friend―a common criminal named Frankie Finkelstein. ‘Frankie Fink’ to his friends. They moved in the same circles. Mars provided spiritual relief to the celebrities of Hollywood in the Thirties. Fink provided them with narcotics and smuggled goods. Then Mars and Fink met, and they became friends. Mars smuggled dope along with his Indian artifacts from Mexico, and Fink paid him. Their respective businesses boomed.”

That wasn’t exactly heartening news. Roscoe had heard of Frankie Fink. He had come over from New York after Prohibition, a back alley Jewish hood from Brooklyn turned into organized crime’s representative on the West Coast. Fink was ruthless, violent, and had a notorious temper. He’d ruled in LA for a while, but moved to a new project around the time of the war. And that was where he was now.

“You know where he is, don’t you?” Mars asked.

“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Las Vegas.” The city that Frankie Fink, organized crime, and pure greed had built. “I know.”

“The Sandpiper Hotel and Casino.” The devil smoothed down his robes. “Go there, Roscoe. You will find Mars. You will find Dr. Bolton.”

“Got it.” Roscoe raised the martini glass to his mouth and drained it. Bitterness slithered down his throat.

The devil reclined. “But do you think it will matter? When the world is so close to war already?”

“It’ll matter,” Roscoe said.

“So say the angels, when the fires of Hell rise to the gates of Heaven.”

“I’m no angel.” Roscoe set the empty martini glass down on nearby table and took two steps away. He had to find Angel and get out of there. “So long, Mr. Craul. Until we meet again.” He walked down the hall, leaving the devil where he rested on the couch.

He stepped back into the hallway and walked to the main room. A couple of guests in rabbit masks walked by, tugging a goat on a rope collar. The goat didn’t seem keen to go with them. It snorted and shook its horns, but they hauled it outside anyway. Roscoe had the feeling that they were planning to sacrifice the poor animal. He spotted Angel sitting on the patio, sipping beer from a bottle. Roscoe waved to Angel, who came in to join him. He skirted around the goat and walked over to stand next to Roscoe on the carpet.

He didn’t look happy. “I hope you got more than me, man. I’ve been talking to this stockbroker who makes his purchases based on the blood pouring down from these sacrifices he does. Spends his time reading chicken blood and apparently makes a fortune. He was trying to sell me on it, telling me how much money I could make. I told him I had to freshen my drink and left. What’d you find out? Recipes for Jell-O or some other useless crap?”

“Nope,” Roscoe said. “But I found out where Mars probably went to.”

“Seriously? Where?”

“Las Vegas. The Sandpiper Casino.” Roscoe took Angel’s beer and had a quick sip before handing it back. “Seems that Mars was once best friends with Frankie Fink. He helped Fink smuggle dope from Mexico, and I can’t think of a more secure place for him to hide out with Dr. Bolton than Vegas.”

“You trust the guy who told you that?” Angel asked.

Roscoe nodded. Somehow, he knew the devil didn’t lie. “Yeah. So now, I guess we gotta decide what our next move is. We ought to go back to the Captain, tell him the score and―”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The pig-headed door greeter scrambled into the room, arms flailing. “Cops!” he cried. “A Lincoln pulled up! LAPD cruisers are behind! They’re raiding the place!” He let out a squeal that matched his costume and then ran away. Outside, Roscoe could hear sirens whining. The cops must’ve kept them quiet right until they rolled up. And the Lincoln? It sounded like Agent Dodd. No doubt about it, he was after the same quarry they were. Roscoe didn’t want to face him again.

He turned to Angel. “We gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “Fast.”

It seemed every guest at the Infernal Masquerade had the same idea. They scrambled from the backyard and out of every room, running with bloody sacrificial knives and sticks of incense still in hand. Women tripped over their evening gowns and had to be helped up, their jewelry clicking as they hurried away. The goat broke free of its captor. It galloped around the room, waving its horned head and knocking over tables and chairs as guests scrambled to get away. Roscoe didn’t see the devil fleeing with the others. He could probably turn into a cloud of smoke and float out the chimney. Roscoe and Angel ran as well.

They reached the door, pushing their way through the crowd as they struggled out. A portly guy in a rubber gorilla mask elbowed Roscoe, trying to push him out of the way. Angel grabbed his shoulder and tossed him back, hurling him into the drinks cabinet. They sprinted through the door and out onto the lawn. The gargoyles glared at them, still snarling, as they joined the crowd scrambling toward their cars. A thin line of maybe half-a-dozen uniformed cops tried to intercept the guests and handcuff them, but they weren’t having much luck. One guest sporting a giant deer’s head had managed to get his mask switched the wrong away around, and he stumbled straight into the wall and crashed into a flowerbed. The cops sprang on him, but he reared up and pushed them back with his antlers. It was a mess―with enough chaos for Roscoe and Angel to escape.

They didn’t bother with the sidewalk. Instead, Roscoe and Angel headed straight down the open street. Their shoes clattered on the pavement, clicking in unison. Roscoe looked over his shoulder.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “It’s Dodd. He can’t take a hint.”

Agent Dodd sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln. He revved the car to life and it shot into the road, speeding after Angel and Roscoe. He didn’t slow as he drew closer. Roscoe knew what he was going to do―ram into them, run them down, and then pop out and detain them, or just shoot them each twice in the head and be done with it. Judging by the way his face shifted in a cold scowl behind his sunglasses, it would have to be the latter.

Roscoe and Angel ran. Roscoe’s legs ached from the crash he had taken earlier, but he still scrambled down the street. Angel panted and gasped, but didn’t slow. The Lincoln rolled closer and closer, gaining speed. Its yellow headlights painted the street before them gold. The engine roared. Roscoe could hardly believe it. He’d called Dodd’s bluff and the government man seemed perfectly willing to play for blood. Up ahead, Angel’s Cadillac rested on the curb. A couple more steps and they’d reach it―but the Lincoln’s bumper would reach them first, and there wasn’t time to dash to the lawns or the curb.