The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (30 page)

“Do we have a plan?” Weatherby asked.

“Remember what I said about plans?” I asked, as I clawed a cigarette out from the package. I still felt like hell, and I certainly wasn’t up to what was going to happen.

“But Big Daddy and Inky Abrams have a goddamn army on their side!” Elkins pointed out.

“Yeah? Well, we’ve got something stronger – the truth.” I leaned back in my seat. “I’m gonna rest my eyes, kiddo,” I said, my words slurring. “Let me know when we get there.”

The ride didn’t last nearly long enough. Soon, Weatherby was shaking my shoulder and I opened my eyes. I looked out the window at the Mystery Beast Preserve. It was a couple of enclosures of rusty bars, all surrounded by tall signs and statues of the eponymous Mystery Beast – which appeared to be a small dog, dyed purple and outfitted with fake butterfly wings. A few of the Mystery Beasts were lying lazily in their cages, unconcerned about the hell breaking loose right next to them.

The pick-up trucks of the Roadside Mafia were parked near the edge of the Preserve, and their passengers stood in a large crowd in the center, right before the ’66 Wild Man. Big Daddy was carefully approaching his monstrous son, both flabby arms outstretched. I saw that the hick army was now prepared, with weighted nets as well as firearms. Inky Abrams stood with them, armed with a long rifle and waiting for his chance.

Elkins hit the brakes and leapt out, running towards Big Daddy’s gang, just as he gave the order. The nets were hurled through the air, followed by an occasional gunshot. The Wild Man tried to get away, but a net covered him. He started biting through the net, and Big Daddy watched silently as the Roadside Mafia ran forward and started hitting him with the butts of their rifles. The Wild Man didn’t go down, lashing out with heavy fist or a pounding kick to send his attacker’s flying. He fought like a cornered beast, and I doubted they’d take him alive.

“He’s innocent!” I called out, nearing the edge of the crowd. “Inky’s the killer and the Wild Man’s nothing but a patsy!”

That got their attention. They turned to look at me and I saw Inky’s eyes widened in disbelief. Elkins smiled at him. “You try and kill a man, you ought not to forget about his friends,” he explained. He nodded to Big Daddy. “Mort’s right, Big Daddy. Inky let your boy out, murdered a whole mess of innocent folks – including your girl Rose – so he can take over the Roadside Line.”

Big Daddy turned to Inky. His thugs stared at each other, unsure of what to do. “Is this true?” Big Daddy whispered. “Inky, you’re my lieutenant. You can’t betray me, am I right?”

“Ah, what does it matter?” Inky demanded. “I’m your lieutenant, and you care more about that brainless freak than me! I can see it in your eyes, right now! You’re gonna have him inherit the Roadside Mafia, ignoring all the work I did, all the heads I busted for you!” He raised his rifle, taking aim at the subdued Wild Man.

“My son!” Big Daddy stepped in front of Inky, just as the rifle cracked. I saw Big Daddy’s sunglasses fall to the ground, and then he sank down to join them. He lay on his side like a beached whale, breathing raggedly as a red mark spread through his white shirt.

Inky stood over him. “He went mad, trying to save his killer son,” Inky said. “And now he’s dead. So I’m in charge.”

The gang didn’t make any move to acknowledge his authority. They stared at the Wild Man, who was roaring and thrashing about in the weighted net. The Wild Man was roaring some incomprehensible cry of grief, with slowly morphed into a single word, repeated endlessly. “Faw-thuh! Faw-thuh!”

Then he ripped through the net, and sprang for Inky. The tattooed killer swung the rifle to face the Wild Man, but it might as well have been a stick, for all the good it did him. The Wild Man tackled Inky, tore the rifle from his hand and snapped it half with a loud, clear crack. Then he started bringing those wrecking ball fists down on Inky’s head. I didn’t make a move to put the poor bastard out of his misery. Inky’s screams ended in a choking gasp.

Soon enough, the remains of Inky’s skull were sinking into the dirt. The Wild Man looked up at glared at the Roadside Mafia. Nobody said much.

“D-did Inky really do the killing?” one puffy-faced Okie asked in a reedy voice.

“Look what we found in his car!” Two other members of the Roadside Gang approached, holding up the bloody hatchet. Inky had been too stupid or confident to remove the weapon, proving his guilt.

Weatherby smiled. “His guilt is assured,” he said. “So what does that mean for the leadership of this sorry little criminal enterprise?”

The Wild Man stood up on his hind legs. He reached down grabbing the fedora from Big Daddy’s head. He placed the makeshift crown on his own head. “I…am…heir,” he announced. “I roool.” He looked over the gangsters, and saw them bow their heads respectively. “I will be good roooler. I will be fair. But I will mash any who…don’t like it.”

Everyone liked it just fine. I stood next to Weatherby and Elkins, still swaying on my feet, and saw the ’66 Wild Man turn to face me. He pointed his finger at me like it was a cannon. “You…” he said. “You found..troooth.”

“I kind of stumbled into it, but yeah, I suppose I did,” I agreed.

“Yooo will get payment.” The Wild Man nodded to his men, naming a sum that sounded very nice to my ears. They hurried off to fetch it.

“Thanks, Wild Man,” I said. “Billy, I mean. I guess Plunket won’t really have you back in his enclosure.”

“Tired of that…anyway,” the ’66 Wild Man replied. “Needed to…change.”

While they were fetching our dough, Weatherby, Elkins and I walked back to the Roadmaster. “Need a lift anywhere?” I asked Elkins. “We’ll be going west, back to California.”

“Nah. Figure I’ll head back east. Maybe get a job with the Chicago Outfit, or the families in New York. I figure they’ll be somebody who will pay good money for a good sniper.” Elkins bowed his head, almost ashamed at his plans.

“You don’t have to still be a soldier,” Weatherby pointed out. “The Wild Man, he’s changing from a sideshow freak to a powerful crime lord. We can change our ways, Mr. Elkins, and you deserve better than to be some mere underworld assassin.”

“You’re a sweet kid, little Weatherby,” Elkins said, his usual optimism washing away. “But you don’t know me.” He turned to me. “You’re still fighting a war, Mort. And you’ve dragged this poor child into it.”

I shrugged. “We’re like you, private. We don’t change.” But then I looked at the Wild Man, his massive arms folded as he looked out over his new mob. “But sometimes, even monsters like us can catch a break.”

The first thing I noticed about Hawaii was the heat. It boiled into me, wrapping around my skin, sliding into my nostrils and down my throat. I stepped down the walkway from the plane, looking out at the airport’s landing strip in Honolulu. It was a small airport in a small town on a small island – but all that was going to change. Tourists liked the heat, they liked the tropics and they liked not having to leave the United States to visit some place exotic. All of that meant Hawaii was as profitable to businessmen as a corpse was to vultures.

And just like it is when the carrion birds have a buffet, business was always accompanied by death. That’s why my teenage partner Weatherby Stein and I had flown out to Hawaii from our hideout in California. Hotel magnate Horace Pepperdine had died a strange death, and no one investigates strange deaths better than Morton Candle and Weatherby Stein, private dicks with too much experience in bizarre cases.

I blinked in the sunlight as I walked down the runway. The sky was bright blue, and the growing buildings raced up to fill the sky like steel skeletons. Palm trees swayed slightly in an island breeze. I wiped sweat from my forehead as Weatherby stood next to me. The kid had been fidgeting during the flight. Something was bothering him.

“What’s eating you, kiddo?” I wondered.

“Nothing really, Mort,” Weatherby replied evenly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. We walked through the airport lobby and out to the street. I moved to wave down a bright yellow cab, but Weatherby shook his head. “No need to do that, actually,” he said. “You see, I have already, well, arranged us conveyance to the Grand Tiki Hotel.”

“Conveyance?” I asked.

A wood-paneled automobile, a broad-nosed Buick, slid to a stop by the curb. A good looking college-age girl was at the wheel, and she gave me a polite smile. She had short dark hair, coming just over her ears, and the same shade as Weatherby’s. Her eyes were bright, and her fingers were thin. She wore a crisp white shirt and jeans, as well as a pair of round sunglasses for the tropical glare. Selena Stein opened the car to embrace Weatherby.