The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (6 page)

“Afraid you’re time with the missus is over, pal,” I said. I walked over to him and grabbed his arm, then slammed him against the window. His nose started bleeding. Miss Rosa screamed. “Now listen to me real good, buddy. You’re gonna reach the ground floor. You can take the elevator, or the stairs, or maybe I’ll toss you out this window and you’ll reach the bottom a lot quicker. What’s it gonna be?”

His manner softened. I pointed him in the direction of the door and let him go, and his feet did the rest. I looked back to Miss Rosa as I reached for a cigarette. “How you doing, sister?” I said. “Sorry about interrupting the day’s business, but I got a few more questions to ask you.” I stabbed the cigarette in the corner of my mouth.

“You bastard,” she said. “He didn’t pay me yet.”

“Always get paid before, not after,” I said. “I thought you’d know that. But I wouldn’t be that upset about your finances. After all, I’m sure you collected some real coin on the Baum deal. How much was it, sister? How much did it cost for you to sell out his son?”

She came to her feet and walked slowly towards me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Her voice went soft and slow. “You come in here, asking questions. I don’t even know your name. Why don’t we get better acquainted?” She looked over Weatherby. He quaked like paper in a wind under her gaze. “You and your young friend there, I mean. And then we can talk like people instead of animals.”

“My name is Morton Candle. His name is Weatherby Stein. We’re detectives.”

“Weatherby.” He was the weak link and she knew it. She turned to look at him. “Such a nice name. Such a well-dressed young man.” She took a step towards him, a boxer sizing up a foe.

But Weatherby shook his head. “Madam, I’m afraid we don’t have time to get to know you better. A child’s life is at stake. Now, we have no wish to harm you, but we have to know everything about the kidnapping of young Henry Wallace Baum. My partner seems to believe you had a hand in it. Is that so?” His voice cracked. “Please, if you could just help us, Miss Rosa.”

She was expecting a tough guy response, and when she didn’t get it, it made her confused. “I don’t—” Miss Rosa started. “I mean, I can’t—” She stepped backwards, moving towards the couch.

My hand shot out and grabbed her thin arm. I held it tightly. “Can’t what, sister?” I asked. “Can’t talk? You scared of something?” I pulled her arm up, and she stood on her tiptoes. She didn’t panic. I’d have to do something about that. “You knew when Sly Baum would be coming up to see you. You knew the best way to snatch his kid. You had to be involved in the caper.” I tightened my grip.

“I was!” she admitted. “Dios! Let me go!”

I let go. “All right, sister,” I said. “Let’s hear it – top to bottom, front to back, beginning to end. Start with who hired you.”

“They didn’t hire me,” she said. “And they said they’d kill me if I talk.”

Weatherby walked a little closer to her. “I understand it may have been under duress,” he said. “But we will defend you from them, whoever they are. We have several weapons, and my partner is greatly skilled in their use. We can keep you safe, if you help us.” He spoke clearly and calmly and she nodded. “Was it the Mafia?” he asked. “And Don Vizzini?”

“No. It was the guerillas. The rebels.”

Things had just gotten a lot more interesting. “Castro’s boys,” I muttered, turning to the window. “Those Bolshevik nutjobs have been wreaking havoc from the Sierra Maestras ever since old Fidel got back here from Mexico. Baum’s dough would certainly help their cause.”

“The Escopeteros threatened me,” Miss Rosa explained. “They said I was very pretty. They said I would not be pretty after they finished with me, unless I helped them.” She looked up at me and I suddenly felt a little sorry for her. “I do this to make a living. I need the money, in the same way you do. And so I work. I did not want anything bad to happen to Baum’s son. I did not mean the boy any harm.”

“No,” I said. “You’re a coward, not a killer.”

“But you will protect me?”

“The only way I know how. I’m gonna put an end to this whole rotten business, sister. And you’re along for the ride.” I turned away from her and started to the door. “You know the way to the rebel camp? They must have the kid stashed away nearby, somewhere in the mountains.”

“They took me to it. I can remember the way.”

“Good. Get your hat and coat. We’re gonna pay them a visit.”

Just then, the telephone rang. Miss Rosa picked it up and listened to it. Her eyes looked into mine. “Some men are in the lobby. They want to see me. I think they are with the mob.”

So the mob was involved. That didn’t matter. I’d mashed uglier things than gangsters under my fists. “So move fast,” I said. I flicked away my cigarette into the wastebasket as she hurried to grab her things.

So far, this job was going pretty well. But as it always was with one of my cases, that just meant things were about to get weird.

We took the elevator halfway down and then the fire escape the rest of the way. It deposited us in a back alley, a dirty stretch of cobblestones that ran between the upscale hotels, casinos and trendy restaurants. Miss Rosa stayed between me and Weatherby. She was scared, but I was certain she was tougher than she looked. We started moving down the alley. I hoped to reach the street, catch a taxi to the outskirts of Havana, and hitch a ride or go on foot from there.

The sun blazed down at us, and I felt sweat on the back of my neck and on my forehead. I wiped it away with my sleeve as we moved between dumpsters and lumps of garbage, all the stinking detritus from a gringo’s exotic playground. A dozen or so drunks lay slumped in the alley, nestled together on both sides like rats in a hole.

As we moved past them, one of their arms reached out and grabbed Miss Rosa’s leg. She didn’t scream, but tried to shake it off. “Let go, hijo de puta!” she hissed. “Let go, or I’ll cave your face in!”

The drunk was wearing a panama hat and a suit that had looked good a decade ago. He looked up, and I saw his face. That’s when I smelled them – the kind of rot that doesn’t come from anything but human corpses, made even worse by the tropical sun. These men were dead, but they were still moving.

“Zombies!” Weatherby cried, as a rotting corpse in a straw hat lurched towards him. He reached into his coat, fumbling for his pistol as Miss Rosa tried to break free. He managed to get the large pearl handle of the revolver out, just before the zombie tackled him to the ground. I would have helped him, but I had three of the bastards weighing me down and forcing me to the filthy wall of the alley. There wasn’t a single drunk sleeping one off in that alley. They were all dead – and they were all hungry. Now they stood up and we had a dozen zombies coming after us.

I scrambled for my automatic as skeletal hands scratched at my flesh, and teeth reached for my face. Their smell struck me like a physical blow. I had seen firsthand the terrible things human weapons could do to flesh and blood in the fury of the Second World War, and I’m not exactly squeamish. But something about these zombies – the smell, their gait, their damn similarity to normal folks – made me want to slither out of my skin.

“Suck on this, dead man!” I shouted, finally freeing one of my automatics and cracking the handle against the nearest zombie skull. It knocked him back, then he opened his mouth and I put the muzzle of my pistol between his teeth. I fired, and then pushed forward with all of my weight, knocking him into his pals. The other two dead men hit the ground. I blew out their brains before they could stand.

Miss Rosa had pressed herself against the wall, the zombie still hanging onto her leg. She swung her purse down and I heard a sound like dry wood snapping. That flimsy bone was broken, but the zombie’s hand still hung onto her leg like a fleshy, rotting spider. I wrenched it off and hurled it against the wall.

“Weatherby!” I turned down the alley, just in time to see the kid deal with the zombie attacking him.

The dead man had him pinned to the ground, two of his buddies closing in. Weatherby had his dad’s revolver, and it seemed bigger than an artillery piece in his small hand. He fired the revolver, the bullet grazing the front of the zombie’s face and sending its nose to topple onto Weatherby’s chest.

“Hold your arm steady!” I cried. “Take a breath and put it down!” I ran towards Weatherby, both automatics in my hands. But I couldn’t reach him in time and I couldn’t get a clear shot. This would have to be his kill.

Weatherby fired again, and this time he didn’t miss. His shot took off the upper half of the zombie’s head, sending a shower of brains and bits of skull into the alley. Weatherby spun around and fired again, tearing off another zombie’s leg and then blasting apart its face in three badly aimed shots. I helped him up, as more zombies came from both ends of the alley.

“You want to pack a cannon like that, you’re gonna have to work on your aim,” I suggested.

He looked at the revolver and shivered. “Beastly things,” he said. “I have no desire to ever become familiar with such brutal, savage tools.”

All around us, on both sides of the alleys, the zombies were closing in. There was no escape. Now it was more than a score of them, made up of the dregs of Cuba’s dead, lurching towards us, clouds of flies and the scent of rot following them like a comet’s trail. They must have been laying in wait in the other alleys and dumpsters around Rosa’s hotel, set there for an ambush.

“I don’t know,” I said, raising both of my automatics. “They seem to come in handy from time to time. Now use that big brain of yours and tell me what the hell these living dead dummies are.”

I started firing, and Weatherby waited for a gap in my shots to give me an answer. “They’re zombies,” he explained. “The dead given motion, some agency and a boundless hunger by a Voodoo priest known as a houngan or mambo. They seek only to feed, and serve their master while appeasing their hunger.”

“And how do we stop them?” I turned both pistols on the nearest zombie and put round and round into his chest. Soon he had hamburger under the chin and he was still coming.

“Put a bullet in their head. Destroy the brain and end the spell.”

“Thanks for that info.” I turned the guns on the zombie’s head, and after the Colts had done their job, he toppled over backwards. Unfortunately, his pals didn’t seem to notice, and kept right on coming. I started reloading the automatics, while Weatherby did his best to fire at the zombies with his revolver. He wasn’t very good. “Be careful, Weatherby,” I told him. “You almost hit that one.”

“I’m trying my best! I was raised to be the greatest occult and scientific genius of Europe, not some mindless marksman at a target range!” he snapped back. “Do you have any other means of egress? We are soon to be overwhelmed.”

He wasn’t kidding. Weatherby, Miss Rosa and I stood together, while the zombies marched in from both sides of the alley. I finished reloading my automatics and blazed away, but they were too many of them and they were too close. I reached into the pocket of my trench coat and plucked out a pineapple grenade. I always carry a pair. I’ve found it pays to be prepared.

“Cover your ears,” I said. “It’s gonna be loud. When the pineapple’s popped, start running.”

I popped the pin and set it rolling down the alley, under the legs of the zombies. They didn’t notice it, not until the explosion had ripped up their limbs, tossed them in the air, and turned their guts into wallpaper.

I started dashing down the alley, blowing out the brains of a zombie that tried to grab my leg as I reached the street.

Someone had sent these zombies to get us off the case by putting us inside their stomachs. That meant we were looking the right way, even if the case was becoming more and more complex by the minute, especially with good old black magic involved. But when Weatherby, Miss Rosa and I reached the end of the alley and the street, I realized that the bad times had yet to begin.

An old acquaintance of mine by the name of Joey Verona stood on the sidewalk, a dozen mobsters in perfectly creased cream-colored suits standing next to him. I knew Verona from New York. He was a top dollar button man, a mob enforcer who had iced unfortunates and buried bodies from Las Vegas to Miami. He was a thin man with slicked black straw colored hair and a salmon pink suit. A long-barreled pistol was in each of his hands. His narrow nose and streamlined hair gave him the appearance of a bullet, just fired from a gun.

“Morty!” he said, like we were old pals. “You and your buddies get to the side a little. We’ll take care of the mooks following you.”

Their guns were leveled at us, and they gave us just enough time to get out of the way before they started shooting. The zombies behind us went down in the storm of lead. The mobsters had a couple of sub-guns, and those fat .45s tore through the living dead with ease.

When it was finished, Verona sauntered over to me, smiling at Miss Rosa. “Mother Mary,” he said. “That’s one fine looking chippy, Morty. Mind if I get me a little bit of that sweet Cuban—”

“I’m working a case, Verona,” I said.

He looked like a dog being denied a walk. “Well, I guess I am too. Word is, Baum hired you. Christ, Morton, you oughtn’t to be working for a prick like that.”