Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two (3 page)

“What sort of scoop?” the Captain asked.

“A source who―for a small fortune―agreed to show me something inside Fink’s private vault. Something, which according to him, I wouldn’t believe. I shelled out gracious greenbacks for an ‘out of this world’ opportunity. He’s set to meet me in the lobby.”

“Something you wouldn’t believe?” Betty asked. “Is Townsend Mars involved?”

“How’d you know?” Filigree raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, he nodded and smiled, like he’d just understood the punch line to a joke. “Oh, I see. We’re both hunting the same big-gossip game. Townsend Mars’s kooky cult, mixed up with mobster Frankie Fink, equals the story of the century. You’re here to see what this peculiar partnership has produced.”

“Yeah. And I think we could make a deal.” Betty looked at Roscoe and the Captain. They both nodded their agreement. “You bring us along when you go into the Sandpiper and, in return, we’ll give you access to whatever dirt we stir up in our operation.”

Filigree considered it. “Nix,” he finally said. “I love the idea, my beautiful Betty―but I can’t smuggle you along with me into the casino. The deal with my contact was one person only. I bring along a pal and it’s no dice.”

“Wait.” Roscoe stepped closer to Filigree. He reached a finger into his eye socket. Pain lanced through his skull, but he ignored it. He worked his way in until the eyeball came loose―it felt like a dried-out grape. He faced the other way, so Betty and Felix couldn’t see, and pulled until something snapped. The eyeball came free. Roscoe held it between thumb and forefinger and spun it around. The connection remained. He looked at himself looking at himself for a little, pulled open Filigree’s breast pocket and slid the eyeball in. He placed it snugly in the tabloid hound’s coat so a little of it peeked out, but it wouldn’t be noticed.

He patted Filigree’s shoulder. “Bring that with you.”

“The perfect bug,” Filigree said. “I like it.”

“Well, I can’t hear a thing―only see,” Roscoe said. “And something else―you better bring the eye back.”

“Absolutely,” Filigree said.

Felix winced. “It does not hurt, Mr. Roscoe?”

“Only when I want to wink.” Roscoe covered the empty socket and pointed to the door. “Get moving, Filigree. Go and get your story.”

“With pleasure!” Filigree puttered off and hurried to the casino.

Betty stared at Roscoe. “Are you sure that was a good idea? What if he gets caught with your spare eyeball? How’s he gonna explain that?”

“He’s a pro,” Roscoe said. “He won’t get caught. And it’s the best option we have.” He covered his other eye, the one remaining in his skull. “Now please be quiet, sister. Let me concentrate on what I’m seeing.” He stared out from the eye in Filigree’s breast pocket, and let the silent images wash over him.

Filigree walked into the lobby, and headed over to the gaming hall. Roscoe felt like a button on the tabloid hound’s shirt. Filigree moved past the banks of slot machines and their occupants. It was weird to see the one-armed bandits plying their trade, their panels rolling as their levers cranked, and not hear any of the whirring sounds or the clank of coins. He moved past all of them, over to one of the gambling tables. He approached a dealer, a fellow in a red vest and bowtie with a broken nose and dark hair split down the middle. They played a few hands of Blackjack. Filigree pushed constantly and always lost. Roscoe waited as the gambling continued for a while. Eventually, the dealer nodded toward the far wall.

Felix’s voice interrupted the little drama. “Mr. Roscoe? What is happening?”

“Something interesting―finally,” Roscoe said. “Hold on, kiddo. Let me see how this plays out.”

The dealer left from the table, waving to someone else to replace him. Filigree played a single hand with the new dealer before he walked. He went to the bathroom and met his friend again. They talked. Roscoe had a front row seat to a view of the dealer’s chest. They talked for a while. Filigree handed over a fat bundle of cash and the dealer pocketed it. The dealer motioned for Filigree to follow him. They left the bathroom and entered a long hallway. It wound away from the gambling hall, eventually coming to the kitchens. Filigree and the dealer passed chefs in their whites, hacking up turkey and steak for the buffet before going through another door into a featureless gray hallway.

This was the behind-the-scenes part of the Sandpiper, where tourists didn’t go. At the end of the hall, a small stairwell led to the bottom floor. Two of Craddock’s men, gorillas in suits, sat at a small table by the stairwell, playing cards and smoking cigarettes. The dealer walked up to them and said something, then pointed down the hall. The gorillas got up, left their card game half-finished, and raced down the hall.

Filigree and the dealer headed down the stairs. They stopped at a cement hallway before a massive vault door―like something that belonged in a bank. The dealer walked over to the door and knocked on it in a careful pattern. A few second later, the door slid open. Filigree and the dealer went inside―this was the money room, the place where the Sandpiper Casino counted up its green. The stacks of dough rested on long tables, set in a wide, barren room with smaller safes in the walls. Men in shirtsleeves counted the money and tallied it up. A goon in a maroon suit overlooked them. He made a beeline straight for the dealer, who spread his hands and talked, distracting the boss. While his attention was elsewhere, Filigree slipped out.

He walked past the counting room and entered the next chamber. This place looked like it belonged to a bookie. Chalkboards stood in the corners, with the names of horses, fighters, and sports teams written out next to odds. Telephones rested in neat rows by folding chairs. Nobody was home, and Filigree moved on. He came to another room, the door ajar.

Filigree entered. Roscoe realized he was breathing, his chest rising and falling with subconscious interest. Filigree entered and shut the door behind him. This place looked like an outlaw’s pad, richly furnished in red velvet, with leafy plants placed in the corners. It seemed like an entire set of apartments, with doors in the back leading to other hallways. Roscoe imagined Frankie Fink had built the place for his outlaw pals to hide out when the heat forced them from Los Angeles, Chicago, or the big cities back east. This room had a single occupant: Townsend Mars.

He sat in the center of the room, completely naked, with his arms and legs, his eyes glazed. Complicated occult tattoos curled around Mars’ body. Strange hieroglyphics―maybe the language discovered by Sir Caleb Craul―covered his chest in rows. Candles flickered around him, their smoke rising in long, straight lines, forming a prison around Mars. A single chunk of crystal, no bigger than a billiard ball, rested in front of him on the carpet. Filigree walked closer. He waved his hand over the cult leader’s eyes. No response. Roscoe didn’t have any idea what the man was doing.

Filigree jumped back, as if startled. He turned around and there was Dr. Bolton, wearing only a shirt and tie. Dr. Bolton pointed to the corner, his eyes wild and drool slipping over his mouth. He looked like a prisoner recently hauled out of solitary and allowed to see light for the first time. He sprang on Filigree and grabbed his shoulder, then tugged him through the room. Filigree managed to pull away. Dr. Bolton continued to point madly toward the corner, to a waiting door. Dr. Bolton led Filigree over and pushed it open.

A single chair rested in the center of the room, occupied by a being he couldn’t call human. Filigree inched closer. The figure sitting there looked about half the size of a man, with spindly arms and a fat belly. Its skin, chalky and gray, scarred and stained with red desert dirt. A dingy set of boxer shorts formed its only clothing. The creature’s head looked like an inverted teardrop, big and round with tall, almond-shaped oval eyes and tiny dots for nostrils. Its mouth consisted of a straight lipless line. Thick cords around its body bound it to the chair.

“Holy God,” Roscoe murmured.

“What is it?” Betty asked. “What do you see?”

“Space alien,” Roscoe said. “Mars and Frankie Fink have got a space alien down there.”

It was too much for Filigree. He pulled away from Dr. Bolton and scrambled outside, ran past the oblivious Mars, and raced through the bookie room and into the chamber with the stacks of money. He ran to his dealer friend, still chatting with the guard, and got his attention. They raced up the stairs, down the hall, and back into the casino room. Roscoe opened his other eye, looking at the interior halls and the sidewalk at the same time. A few moments later, Freddy Filigree burst out of the front doors and rushed over to the drivers.

Filigree panted for breath. “You saw? I ain’t the only one?”

“I saw,” Roscoe said. “Give me my eye back.”

“You got it.” Filigree reached into his pocket and handed Roscoe back his eye. Roscoe popped it into his socket. He pressed it down with his thumb and blinked a few times. The wound would heal. “I don’t really want to write a scoop about this. Martians? Little Green Men? That’s your line of work. Freddy Filigree will stick to the fantastic flubs of the fortunate and the famous.” He grinned weakly. “I think I’ll slip away right now, if you don’t mind.”

The Captain shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Filigree.”

“And we’ll see what scoop we can get you,” Betty added. “If you’re up for it.”

“We’ll see.” Filigree handed Betty his card. “Bye-bye, beautiful Betty. Until we meet again.” He stepped onto the street and headed off, quickly breaking into a run and racing away into the crowd.

Felix waved after him. “Goodbye, sir!” he called. “Thank you!” He glanced to the Captain. “What shall we do now?”

“Go back to the motel,” Roscoe said. “And decide our next move.”

“A good plan,” the Captain said. “We’ll take the Rolls.” They headed down the sidewalk to the Sandpiper Casino’s parking lot, where the car waited. Roscoe stared at the sidewalk, feeling a dull ache behind his eye. This business with aliens, cults, and gangsters was too big for Filigree. Maybe it was too big for him, too. He didn’t know―but he was sure about one thing: he and his friends couldn’t back out now.

They got back to the Oasis Motel in the early evening and headed to their rooms. The fading sun bathed the parking lot, making all the shadows grow long. The Captain knocked at the door and Angel opened it. He looked them over and pointed to Roscoe. “Got a bit of a lazy eye there, man.” Roscoe used his thumb to adjust the eye. Angel pulled open the door. “We unpacked everything and have been sitting tight. But Captain? We got some visitors.”

The Captain led them inside. The motel room had the kind of perfunctory comforts that Roscoe expected from a joint one step up from a seedy flop house―a bed with a coffee table in front of it, an icebox in the corner, a tiny TV, and a few couches and chairs. Snowball had a place in the corner, with plenty of cushions and a fat bone to gnaw on. Wooster sat on the bed, his fingers playing with the handle of his Bowie knife. He stared hard at Special Agent Pruitt and Major Raskin, who occupied the chairs pressed against the wall. Special Agent Pruitt stared back, daring Wooster to blink. Major Raskin couldn’t meet Wooster’s eyes. Both of the government men looked up as Roscoe and his friends walked inside.

“Gentlemen,” the Captain said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got an update on the situation. It appears to be far worse than we originally thought.”

Major Raskin perked up. “How so?”

“Space aliens,” Betty said. “Mars has one stashed in the basement of Frankie Fink’s casino.”

Angel’s eyes widened. “An alien? Seriously?”

“Saw it with my own eye.” Roscoe tapped the side of his head.

“We need to conduct an operation to rescue the alien,” the Captain said. “He is apparently restrained against his will and is in some pain.”

“He was scarred. That means they’ve been hurting him, sir,” Felix added. “We must save him.”

Major Raskin and Special Agent Pruitt exchanged a glance. “I’m afraid that anything pertaining to the Dr. Bolton case is no longer your concern,” Major Raskin said. “We’ve received word, you see, that we are to cease operations immediately.”

Wooster glared at them. “Word from who?”

“That’s not your concern,” Special Agent Pruitt replied.

“Word from who?” Wooster repeated, standing.

“They’re called Task Force X,” Major Raskin said. “They’re an organization that handles situations like these. They operate out of a place called Area X, located in the Nevada desert. They’re experts at this sort of this thing, and they’ll solve the problem with minimal trouble.”

“They employ a maniac like Agent Dodd?” Roscoe asked.

Special Agent Pruitt coughed. “I can’t confirm or deny any of their personnel.”

“Well, put them in contact with me,” the Captain said. “We’ll conduct a joint operation and rescue the alien.”

“That’s not how it works,” Special Agent Pruitt said. “Look―we hired you. Now we’re telling you that the job is off.” He stood. “You’re a bunch of punks with cars. You’re not government employees. You’re American citizens―of dubious loyalty―and you need to listen to our orders and stay away from this case.”

“But the poor alien prisoner,” Felix said hesitantly. “He needs to be―”