Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two (5 page)

“I gotta say,” Roscoe said. “I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think you’d let them walk away.”

“Would you?” Wooster asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Roscoe hadn’t really considered it.

“Well, maybe I’m trying to turn over a new leaf―same as you are,” Wooster said. They walked down the darkened sidewalk together, nearing the bulky form of the Packard. “Showing a little mercy, doing things the peaceful way. Maybe I can handle it.”

“I am certain that you can, Mr. Stokes,” Felix said. “And your tact has assured that there will be a peaceful solution. Mr. Craddock will tell Mr. Finkelstein of the situation, and the alien will be freed. Then we can return to La Cruz. I am certain that my friends will be amazed by my stories of visiting Las Vegas, meeting the boss of a casino, and encountering an extraterrestrial being. It will be a most―”

The roar of a motor cut off Felix’s words. Roscoe looked down the street. A powder blue Buick, polished to a bright shine, rumbled down the street. It sped toward the sidewalk, blazing over the open road. Roscoe knew what this was. He’d been on the opposite side of a drive-by hit plenty of times, back when his name was Carmine Vitale. He glanced at Wooster, who had the same open-mouthed look of horror.

“Felix!” Roscoe cried. “Get down!” He dropped to his knees, grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and pulled him back. The bags of food spilled on the ground. One burger fell from its cardboard box, straight onto the sidewalk. Felix yelped in panic as the Buick roared by and guns blazed.

Craddock leaned out of the passenger seat with a Thompson. In the back, one of his men toted another sub-gun. Bullets cracked the pavement, kicking up sparks. More blasted holes in the metal of Wooster’s Packard. The air tasted burnt. Roscoe found himself taking in shallow breaths again. Felix had his eyes closed, mumbling quietly to himself in German. He’d been in this position before.

Wooster tossed Roscoe the keys, as Roscoe was closer to the car. Roscoe reached up. The tommy gun kept chattering―Craddock packed a big drum magazine―but Roscoe ignored it. He pulled open the Packard’s door. His sawed-off shotgun rested under the seat, right where he had left it. Roscoe grabbed the gun and stood. A burst from the Thompson took him in the side, gouging out a chunk of flesh. He fired both barrels, one after the other, into Craddock’s car. Glass shattered and metal bent. The engine boomed again.

The car gained speed, as Wooster stood. He pulled his revolver and fired all six shots, fanning them off as he walked into the street after the speeding automobile. He pumped bullets into the back of the Buick as it sped away.

“Goddamn you, Craddock!” Wooster cried. “We were friends! We took down scores together! Shooting at a kid like Felix after I let you go―you’re asking for it now, and you’ll get it―you hear me, boy!”

The Packard zoomed away and squealed around the nearest corner, vanishing from sight.

“What’re you thinking?” Roscoe tossed the sawed-off into Wooster’s car and helped Felix up. Together, they gathered the food and put it inside the vehicle. Felix stumbled shakily into his seat and snapped into the seatbelt.

“We’re gonna rob that casino.” Wooster started the car. “I’ll tell my plan to you when I tell it to the Captain. Now get in and let’s go before the cops arrive.”

Roscoe hurried into the passenger seat. The two-tone Packard creaked down the street, breaking the speed limit as it pulled away from the diner and drove back to the Oasis Motel. It had taken a line of bullet holes, but the hulking Packard could still navigate. Wooster gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Felix’s breath came in ragged gasps. The poor kid was still terrified. Roscoe felt his own heart beating, stirred to life by fear. He forced it to go silent and reached back to grab a burger from the bag. He had a feeling he’d need to heal quickly.

They arrived at the Oasis Motel and headed inside. Angel, the Captain, and Betty looked over maps of Las Vegas, spread out on the bed. They looked up when Roscoe, Wooster, and Felix came inside.

Betty looked worried. “Oh, god,” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Craddock paid us a visit,” Roscoe said. “He tried brawling and when that didn’t work, ran a drive by on us.” “We did get the grub, though.” His words sounded pathetic. “I guess a peaceful solution is off the table.”

Felix set the food down on the little coffee table, and hurried to stand beside the Captain, who patted the kid’s shoulder. The boy seemed to have calmed down a little.

“Yeah. And I got me another idea.” Wooster reached into the bag and withdrew the bottle of beer. He used his Bowie knife to pop the cap, letting it fall onto the carpet. “I know armed robbery. I know it well. Roscoe knows the layout of the place, from when he saw the alien. So he’ll tell me and then we’ll think of a plan.”

“A plan to do what, man?” Angel asked.

“Rob them,” Wooster said. “Steal that alien right out from under them. Maybe take some of their money too. See what Craddock and Frankie Fink think of that.”

Silence filled the motel room.

The Captain’s eyes moved to Roscoe. “What do you think?”

“This wasn’t going to end peacefully, Captain.” Roscoe felt a little like he was surrendering, giving up somehow―or giving in. But Wooster was right. There was no other way. “I say we listen to Wooster, hit the casino tomorrow morning, rescue the alien, and talk to it to find out what Mars is planning and why he snatched Dr. Bolton. Then we put a stop to it.”

The Captain nodded. “I think you’re right. What’s your plan, Wooster?”

Wooster laid out his scheme. Roscoe listened, not meeting the eyes of his friends. Maybe this was the only way it could end―but he still didn’t exactly like it.

oscoe went with Wooster and Angel the next morning. They took the Packard, now gleaming from a fresh paint job. They rolled around the fat, towering rectangle of gaudy cement that was the Sandpiper Hotel and Casino and drove to the employee lot in the back. A service entrance, a single unpainted set of stairs before an unmarked door, led inside. One of Buzz Craddock’s guards, a goon with a potbelly and a shotgun, sat there on a folding chair. Nobody said anything as they drove to a stop. Roscoe felt the first hints of tension, enough to make his heart release a single, pent-up beat. Wooster killed the engine and they got out.

The guard looked up from his racing form and pushed up the brim of his fedora. Wooster, Angel, and Roscoe all wore gray coveralls, taken from Donovan Motors in La Cruz. Roscoe sported a baseball cap to hide his face, as he’d been seen around the Sandpiper yesterday. Wooster and Angel hadn’t visited the casino yet, and they walked straight up to the guard. All of them had bags of tools swinging from their shoulders. They certainly looked the part.

Angel approached the guard. “How you doing, man? We’re from the plumbing company. Here to see about the toilet trouble.”

“Toilet trouble?” The guard folded his newspaper. “I didn’t hear about it.”

“Well, it ain’t the staff toilets that are having the trouble,” Angel said. “Guest bathrooms on the casino―you know, the places where the customers go? Apparently, they ain’t flushing. So the gamblers have to deal with the stink of their own crap in between rounds at the slot machines. We’re supposed to go in there and fix it.”

Roscoe lowered his eyes, not looking at the guard. Wooster gripped the strap of the bag around his shoulder and said nothing. The guy at the door scratched the cleft of his chin. He looked at his clipboard. “I don’t got no plumbers written down. Not a thing about them.” He stared at Angel. “You sure you’re supposed to be here?”

“Hey, I just go where the company tells me. They said the Sandpiper and we went to the Sandpiper.” Angel tapped the clipboard. “Maybe your boss forgot to write it down. You know, busy guy and all that? It’s easy to let little details slip through.”

“Yeah,” the goon said. “I suppose so.”

“So, we can wait here while you go in there, find your boss, tell him what happened, and he talks to his boss and so on and so on.” Angel rolled his eyes. “And meanwhile, the stink in the bathrooms will keep adding up. It’ll probably start seeping onto the casino floor. Frankie Fink will catch wind of it. I bet he’ll demand the plumbers get in there and fix it. Then they’ll find out that the plumbers are already here, but they were waiting on you to get permission to go inside and get to work.” Angel shrugged. “We can wait if you want. But I think it’ll be better if you just let us in and square it with your boss later.”

The goon looked Angel over. He shrugged slowly, making a performance of rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.” He unlocked the door, and pulled it open to reveal a wide hall. “Main casino floor is dead ahead. Just go down there, ignore the staircase, and head through the double doors. You can’t miss it.”

While he unlocked the door, Angel unzipped the messenger bag hanging on his shoulder. He drew out one of his pearl-handled automatics and thumbed back the hammer. The guard spun around. His eyes settled on the gun and he sighed, a low grumble, like the sound a cartoon dog would make after it couldn’t catch the cat. He didn’t even look surprised―merely disappointed. Angel jabbed the pistol in his nose, grabbed his shotgun, and tossed it back to Roscoe while Wooster approached. Roscoe ejected the shells and dropped the weapon, far out of reach of the guard. The goon scratched his cheek and lowered his head, looking saddened by his own credulity.

Wooster pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back. “Sorry, brother. Just business is all.” He gestured for the fellow to put his hands behind his back. “You know what these are. Turn around, real slow.” The guard looked at Angel’s pistol and then did as he was asked. Wooster grabbed his hands and slapped on the cuffs. The clicking sounded strangely loud in the vacant lot. “Good. Now go on and lie down on your belly. Won’t be comfortable, but you won’t have to stay there long.”

“I suppose not,” the guard murmured.

He dropped down, resting his belly on the cement stairs. Angel pulled back the door, revealing the bare hall. Roscoe checked his wristwatch. Betty was going to play her part soon, and they would need to be there in time to meet her. He looked back at the parking lot, as the Rolls Royce pulled in. The Captain manned the wheel, while Felix sat in the passenger seat. Roscoe and Angel had parked in front of the Sandpiper. They had planned the placement of the cars perfectly. Putting Felix this close to the operation was the only part Roscoe didn’t like―but they couldn’t leave the kid alone. After the heist was finished, they had to leave Vegas quickly, and they wouldn’t have time to pick him up from the Oasis Motel.

Roscoe held up his hand in greeting and Felix waved from the window. Wooster, Angel, and Roscoe entered and headed down the hall. Wooster dug into his satchel and pulled out his Thompson submachine gun. He let the bag dangle over his shoulder, carrying the Thompson in his meaty hands as he walked down the hall. Angel and Roscoe stayed ahead. Angel had his pistol at his side and Roscoe kept his hands free.

The stairwell leading to the Sandpiper’s basement lay right before them, with three guards ready to protect it. They had the lean look of dogs who had been caged for a long time. One, a guy with a pencil-thin moustache, had a rifle leaning on the wall behind him. The other two packed shotguns. They had a small table out and were playing cards, a stack of money resting on the green felt. The cards fell and the money exchanged hands, but none of the guards paid much attention to the game. Roscoe and his friends wouldn’t get closer without attracting their attention.