The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (23 page)

“Just for a day,” Selena repeated. She took off her coat. “But what exactly are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Weatherby muttered. “I’ll think of something.” He reached down to his suitcase, and grabbed his clothes, then hurried to the little bathroom to change. When he got back out, Selena was gone. Weatherby pulled his frock coat tightly around him and stepped out into the cold.

For a long time, he just walked and thought. He didn’t know where he was going, and didn’t really care. He spent a nickel on the subway and rode to Central Park, where he walked along the green fields and the trees, and felt the fading morning sunlight on his pale skin. He headed to the Lower East Side next and ambled down the crowded sidewalk, his eyes on his shined dress shoes and his head held low.

He thought about Selena and his place in the world. He was the man of the family – the only one left. It was not Selena’s duty to care for him. He couldn’t impose on her, not ever for a second. He couldn’t be a burden. Even if she said she didn’t mind, even if he loved her company and she loved his, even if she was the only thing he had left in the world, he couldn’t be a burden to her. But he couldn’t think of any way to help.

After a while, a rumbling in his stomach told him that he was hungry. He had missed breakfast, and checked the coins in his pocket as he eyed a nearby diner. He had just enough. Weatherby hurried inside. It was cream-colored and warm, and that was all Weatherby wanted.

A plump waitress eyed him carefully as he sat down in a booth in the back. “Going to a party, young man?” she asked.

“Not really,” Weatherby replied. He looked at the menu, and then at the handful of change in his pocket. “I’ll have a milkshake, please. The chocolate one looks delectable.” He handed her his last penny, and smiled politely. She hurried away, leaving him alone in the booth. After a while, she brought him the milkshake. It was in a tall glass, and was cool to the touch. He thanked her, put the straw between his lips, and had a quick sip.

Weatherby looked up, staring at the other patrons of the diner. One was directly across from him, a solid, stocky man in a trench coat, a fedora low over his eyes. The stranger looked up from his coffee, a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth. Their eyes met. Weatherby recognized him.

“Mr. Candle!” he cried, standing up suddenly. His troubles – and the milkshake – were forgotten instantly. He left his booth, scrambling across the tile floor to Morton Candle. The former paratrooper stood up to greet Weatherby. “Mr. Candle!” Weatherby repeated, as he sat down across from his old friend. “It’s been, well, it’s been a long time.”

“It sure has, kiddo.” Morton Candle leaned back in his booth. He was broad-shouldered, a solid brick of a man. His jaw was square and his arms were thick. He wore a trench coat, vest and loosely knotted tie. He could have been a boxer, or a longshoreman, or a gangster. But Weatherby knew that he was a soldier, and the most heroic man he had ever met.

“Holy Christ,” Morton whispered. “Little Weatherby. Not so little now, I guess.”

Weatherby nodded. “Yes. I am no longer a child.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that.” Morton stubbed out his cigarette. “Bring your milkshake over here, kiddo. It’s damn good to see you. We ought to talk.”

“Yes, of course.” Weatherby stood up and hurried back to his booth. He brought the milkshake back with shaking hands. “Are you still with the army? Are you still a sergeant?”

“Nah. Honorably discharged. I don’t want any more of that.” Morton shrugged. “It got bad after you left, Weatherby. There was the Bulge, and the final push to Berlin. The OSS thought we did such a bang-up job busting you out of Castle Stein that we became their go-to guys for any spooky business. I tell you, I’ve seen enough of the War to last me a lifetime. I still keep in touch with some of the other guys in the squad, but we’ve drifted apart. I’ve been busy.”

“What exactly have you been doing, Mr. Candle?” Weatherby asked.

Candle shrugged. “It ain’t important. Not worth bending your ear about, that’s for sure. What about you, kiddo? Did Belasco take good care of you?”

“Not really. They only wanted me for my occult knowledge. I’m through with them now, for good.” He rested his hands on the table, and looked at the worn linoleum on the floor. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I stayed with a sister, for a little bit. But she doesn’t have the money, and I have no desire to impose. I’m forcing her to give up her education – her very dreams – for my wellbeing.” He looked up at Mort, his eyes wide. “I won’t have that.”

“Pretty damn noble of you.”

“Well, with my father’s death, I’m the heir and scion of the Stein Family. I have certain duties, to Selena, and to the world, that I must fulfill.” He had no trouble talking to Mort. The soldier was his savior, and he trusted him completely. “But I shouldn’t bother you, sir. You’ve helped me enough in the past, Mr. Candle.”

“Call me Mort, kiddo.”

“Call me Weatherby, please. ‘Kiddo’ is a childish term of endearment, and I—”

“Weatherby, you’ve grown like a weed, but I’ve still got scars older than you. You’re a kid, and I’ll call you what I want.” Mort’s smile faded. “And you don’t want to hear my troubles.”

Weatherby shook his head. “Please, Morton. Maybe there’s some way I could help.”

“Yeah. I kind of doubt that.” Mort reached for his pack of cigarettes. “I got the same headache as you– I’m light in the pockets. I had a lot trouble trying to get a stable job after the War. Pushing pencils or shoveling crap – it ain’t for me. I tried my chances at the tables. And wouldn’t you know it? The old Mort Candle luck didn’t change. I got in deep with Tony ‘Bones’ Scellone, a Brooklyn hood with a bad attitude and a bunch of leg-breakers on his payroll.”

“Good Heavens,” Weatherby cried. “You’re in mortal danger?”

“Well, I’m pretty handy with my fists and a heater. If Scellone’s trouble boys come around, I bet I can give as good as I get. But that’ll just lead to more bad blood, and I don’t really want to find out how long I can live after screwing with Brooklyn’s top mobster. So I went to talk with him. We made a deal.”

“A fair one?”

“Fair enough. Tony Scellone’s got troubles of his own. His wife, Wanda, was kidnapped, just last week, and there’s been no ransom note, no word of any kind from the kidnappers, who put her guards in the goddamn hospital. Scellone hired me to find her. He promised to erase my debts and even pay me if I do.” Mort licked his lips. “And the damn case is screwy as a nuthouse. I heard the story from Wanda’s bodyguards of what attacked them, took her and put them in intensive treatment. I don’t believe them. But if they’re pulling an act, it’s a damn convincing one.”

Hearing about the case took Weatherby’s mind off of his own difficulties. “What exactly did they say, Mr. Candle?”

“Mort, kiddo – call me Mort. Morton sounds like some lousy insurance accountant.” Mort cleared his throat. “Okay. They said they got attacked by a trio of Chinamen. These guys were straight out of a comic book apparently, with thin white beards, round hats, jewelry, big colorful robes – all done up just like Fu Manchu. But here’s where it gets real screwy – according to the bodyguards, the Chinamen were dead and rotting. But it didn’t slow them at all. They moved like acrobats and struck like artillery. Slashed the poor bastards to ribbons. They had giant tongues too. Now tell me that doesn’t sound crazy.”

“It doesn’t.” Weatherby smiled, thinking back to his father’s lesson. “What they encountered is known as a Jiang Shi, or Hopping Corpse. It’s a Chinese variety of undead, animated by dark magic and filled with a malicious hatred of the living.”

Mort stared at Weatherby. “How the devil did you know that?”

“My father taught me about many supernatural and occult subjects. He had a keen interest in preparing me for dealing with the dark strangeness that fills this world – and the others.”

“Well, he sure as hell did a good job.” Mort stroked his chin. “Chinese dead men, huh? Makes some sense. The Gold Dragon Tong and Scellone’s mobsters have been fighting over the Mott Street rackets for years. I guess the Chinamen make a play for more turf, and sent their living dead torpedoes to snatch Scellone’s wife. That would set this whole city on fire.”

“Well, the Tongs may not be the culprits. Hopping Corpses are created by Chinese occultists, but they can be controlled by anyone,” Weatherby explained. “It’s just a matter of procuring them, and learning the proper spells of animation.”

“I’m impressed.” Mort stood up. “Tell you what, kiddo – I’ll give you half of any coin I make off of this case. I get the feeling you’ll need the dough, and you’ve done me a big favor, just by bumping your lips.”

“Half? For telling you common knowledge? No, sir.” Weatherby shook his head. “I won’t take your charity, Mr. Candle. I won’t stoop so low. Besides, you do not know the necessary methods to defeat Jiang Shi in combat. If they’re serving Mrs. Scellone’s kidnappers, you will need someone who is an expert in such matters.”

“And you’re up for it?”

Weatherby nodded. “I volunteer my services.”

“Look, kiddo – this case is gonna take me down some dark roads that you don’t want to travel. I’m gonna be rubbing elbows with mobsters, Tong hatchetmen, career killers, and all the slime and sleaze and corruption that controls things in this country. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be dangerous. And I don’t want some scrawny little pipsqueak getting in my way and slowing me down. I don’t want to babysit when I’m breaking down doors and people, you understand?”

“You can’t have a hope of success if you don’t understand the forces you are dealing with!” Weatherby cried. His anger rose inside of him, a flame that flickered to life and reached out through his body. His face got red. “Mr. Candle, Hopping Corpses are deadly fiends, and you can’t defeat them if you have the intelligence of a common baboon!”

Mort cracked a smile. “You’re calling me a baboon?”

“Yes. Or a gorilla, I suppose, would be more accurate given your size.” Weatherby lowered his eyes, staring at his friend. “God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I should not call you names.”

“The boy I met in Europe – the one I pulled out of a war zone – he wouldn’t dream about cracking wise at someone else’s expense. What happened to you, Weatherby?”

Weatherby considered his answer for a few seconds. “I grew up,” he finally said.

“Yeah. Maybe you did.” Mort Candle tossed a crumpled dollar bill on the table. “Come on, kiddo,” he said. “My car’s outside. Chinatown’s waiting.”

They left the diner and drove directly to Mott Street – and New York’s mysterious Chinatown. The buildings seemed closer together, looming like trees in a dark jungle. Paper lanterns hung thick in the air, and the sidewalks were packed with vendors, pedestrians and street performers, fighting for space and hawking their wares and their worries for all to hear. Altars of smoldering joss sticks and leering statues of guardian dragons and lions flanked the street, and Weatherby felt like he was riding into another world. He sat in the passenger seat of Mort Candle’s powder blue Packard, and watched the crowded city with amazement.

As they fought for space in the crowded thoroughfare, Weatherby risked a look in the backseat, at the piles of guns and ammunition. “Mort?” he asked. “What exactly are you doing with all of these firearms?”

“Insurance.”

“Insurance?” Weatherby looked at Mort.

“Yeah. Life insurance. Most of its army surplus, but I keep in touch with a couple of mugs around town, who always got some rods for sale. The guns come in handy – especially for this line of work.” Mort reached back, and grabbed the barrel of a Thompson submachine gun. “You don’t approve?”

“Not in the slightest. Violence is the domain of idiots and barbarians. A true gentleman should have no need for such devices.”

Mort laughed. “Kiddo, I ain’t a gentleman.” He stopped the car before a towering tenement, and squeezed it into a spot on the curb. Mort Candle opened the door and stepped outside, the tommy gun hidden under his coat. “And neither is anyone else in this business.” He pointed to a set of steps leading under the tenement. Thin wafts of smoke drifted up, like the tentacles of a hidden, lurking beast.