The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (24 page)

They walked down the steps, to a rickety set of wooden doors. A Chinese bouncer with a scarred face stood at the door, his arms folded. He wore a neat Western pinstriped suit, the handle of a curved dagger reaching up from his belt. He glared at Weatherby and Mort. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Not to kick the gong around, that’s for sure.” Mort leaned forward, opening his coat to let the bouncer get a look at the tommy gun. “We want to bump gums with Uncle Wu. So why don’t you get out of our way?”

“Uncle Wu doesn’t want to speak with you,” the bouncer replied.

“Yeah? Well, you better hope he changes his mind – or this round-eyed devil will raise the cannon and blast you to rags. He’ll keep shooting until every addict in your opium den is full of lead, and then he’ll go and do the same to Uncle Wu. So why don’t you get out of our way?”

The bouncer stared at the tommy gun. “Follow me,” he said, and turned to open the door.

“Was that really necessary?” Weatherby hissed to Mort as they walked inside the smoky basement room.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Mort replied.

“True, but a polite request might have also worked, and would have been infinitely more agreeable!” Weatherby sighed. “You are a hero, Morton. But I am beginning to find your manner intolerable.”

“You and the rest of the world, kiddo. Now close your face and stay close.”

They entered a warren of underground chambers, full of terribly sweet smoke and an uncomfortable heat. Opium addicts lay sprawled on cramped pallets in the first several chambers, clay pipes resting comfortably in their hands. Their eyes were like frosted glass. Weatherby stared at them in disgust and horror, and felt a sudden shiver pass over him. Mort put his hand on his shoulder, and Weatherby smiled silently. He was glad to have the big man by his side.

The bouncer led them to a final chamber, behind closed wooden doors at the end of a dark hall. Flickering torches lit the room, and it was full of Tong gangsters. They wore dark leather trench coats or blue traditional robes, all topped by carefully creased fedoras. Many wore shoulder-holsters, or carried long knives or even swords at their sides. They sat at round tables, smoking or playing card games, while they talked in profane English or rapid Chinese.

At the center of the room, sitting silently in an old wooden throne, was Uncle Wu. When he sat up, every conversation in the underground room ended. Uncle Wu had a tanned and wrinkled face and deep, cold eyes. He wore a dark tuxedo, with a jewel-handed dao broadsword lying across his legs. He looked up at Candle, his eyes flashing to the tommy gun. “You bring a weapon?” Uncle Wu asked, with barely a hint of an accent. “Into my house?” His hand tightened on the sword.

Instantly, the Tong soldiers sprang into action. Steel flashed in the darkness, and a dozen large blades were held inches away from the throats of Mort and Weatherby. The boy felt his throat go dry, staring at the tips of the large curved swords. He looked back at Uncle Wu.

“Please,” Weatherby said. “We just want to talk!”

Wu stood up. He looked down at Weatherby. “Why did Scellone send the boy?” he asked. “Or are all of the Guinea’s men that short?”

“There’s no need for racial epithets,” Weatherby said.

Mort stared at the blades pointed his way. “I’m Morton Candle and this is Weatherby Stein. We’re working for Scellone, but not as torpedoes. We’re detectives. We just want to ask you a few questions, and I bet it would go easier if these swords weren’t in our faces.”

Uncle Wu looked almost amused. His lips curled back, in something that could be mistaken for a smile. “Well, shamus, what are you doing with one so young?”

“He’s my partner,” Mort explained. “He’s a regular walking library of helpful information. Kiddo, tell him the score about the leaping dead men.”

“I believe that several Jiang Shi, also known as Hopping Corpses, are currently active in New York City. They kidnapped Mrs. Wanda Scellone, and God only knows what other devilry they have been up to.”

Slowly, Uncle Wu lowered his saber. The other Tong gangsters did the same. “You know of the Hopping Corpses? How does a Westerner know of such things?”

“Well, I-I’m well educated, I suppose.” Weatherby allowed himself a small smile. “But do you know about them? Did you send them to abduct Mrs. Scellone?”

“I am a godly man. I would never endanger my soul by working with the Hungry Ghosts.” Uncle Wu sat back in his chair. “But there have been reports throughout Chinatown that something strange is happening. A ship arrived from the home countries full of nothing but bones, and they vanished before they could be examined. Mold grew on the shrine at our temple this morning, though no one knows why. The wise men talk about the Hopping Corpses, and now it seems they are here…” He looked into Weatherby’s eyes. “Do you know how to stop these creatures?”

“I h-have some idea, sir.” Weatherby reached into the pocket of his frock coat. His thin fingers moved between talismans, intricate jeweled amulets and ancient coins, and came to a roll of yellow paper. “Yes,” he agreed. “I think I could put them down.”

“Then I do not envy your task,” Uncle Wu replied. “I will tell my own people to prepare, but that is all the help I can give you.” He looked to Mort. “And you, Mr. Candle, tell Scellone that I did not kidnap his wife. If he wishes war with the Gold Dragon Tong, he must come up with another excuse.”

“He might not believe you.” Mort shrugged. “Hell, Scellone’s already getting ready to hit the mattresses. I’ll tell him, but unless I come up with his wife, the Big Apple’s gonna have itself a gang war. That ain’t good for anybody.”

“Then good luck,” Uncle Wu replied. “And I suggest you try and find Mrs. Scellone quickly.”

“Good advice.” Mort turned around, the tommy gun held in one hand. “Come on, Weatherby,” he said, motioning to the exit. “Let’s go and take the air. It’ll take a while to get the scent of opium out of our nostrils.”

They headed for the exit without another word. After they left the tunnels, crossed the sidewalk, and sat inside the powder-blue Packard, Weatherby leaned back in the seat and allowed himself a small smile. “That went rather well,” he said.

“Sure,” Mort replied. “Except now my prime suspect’s gone.” He started the automobile, and peeled away from the curb and into traffic. “But at least we didn’t get hacked to bits. So, any other ideas to pull out of your fortune cookie?”

“Well, who would desire a war between the Gold Dragon Tong and Scellone’s mafia?” Weatherby wondered.

Mort considered the situation. “You know,” he said. “I think I might have an idea. Art Bava, Scellone’s consigliore, has been pressing for war for a long time. Bava’s a real piece of work, a nightmare for any wiseguy that crosses him. He’s got that nasty combination of being ruthless, smart and just plain mean.” Mort Candle spun the wheel around, making a hasty turn. “Hold tight, kiddo,” he said. “We’re going to Brooklyn.”

The drive was short and cold. Weatherby wrapped his father’s frock coat around him, leaning back against the wind. He looked up at the dim sun, and saw it sinking lower and lower, wrapped in a thick jacket of gray clouds. He thought about Selena. She would expect him back by now. But there was no time to stop and phone her up. He’d have to wait until the day was finished, and then he could go home.

But then again, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to face her. Weatherby had told her he would think of a way out of their problems. While he had some money coming in from solving the case, it would only be a temporary solution. He closed his eyes and breathed in, thinking of Selena’s expectant face and the warmth in her voice.

“Say, Weatherby,” Mort said, as he slowed the Packard. “Are there many other people like you – who know about mumbo-jumbo, bumps in the night, ghouls and goblins and all that business?”

“No, Mort. Not at all, and I think I am quite unique for my age.” He lowered his voice. “There are few others like me.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mort agreed. “And that uniqueness may just be the key to making some major profits in the private dick business.”

“The CIA used that argument with me,” Weatherby replied. “They found little success. I shall not sell my ideas to the highest bidder, empowering evil for a monetary gain.”

“I didn’t say that. I was thinking of going into the detective business, and having an occult expert like you as my partner would corner the market on supernatural problems. Think about it – folks can’t exactly call the cops if a ghost or a vampire is giving them problems. So they could hire us, and we’d sniff around and put an end to their troubles – for the right price, of course.”

“Candle and Stein Detective Agency…” Weatherby said the words softly, testing the sound.

“Stein and Candle,” Mort corrected. “Your name goes first, because you’re what makes it unique. I’m just some mug who doesn’t mind taking a beating or giving one out.” He shrugged as he pulled in behind a tall apartment building at the end of the narrow street. “A dime a dozen.”

Weatherby looked at Morton. “That’s not true, sir,” he said. “You possess bravery, heroism, and martial skills far beyond those of any other. You are a hero, Mr. Candle. You could win any fight, and defeat any foe, no matter the odds.”

Mort cracked a smile. “Sure, kiddo,” he said, as he parked the car. “Sure.”

Two men in identical black pinstriped suits stood in the lobby, bulges under their arms. They wore sunglasses and fedoras, their hands folded. One jabbed a finger at the elevator, and the other nodded. Mort and Weatherby walked past them into the elevator. It sped to the top floor, the penthouse apartment with a view of the whole misty city. There were more thugs outside, but they recognized Mort and let him and Weatherby pass.

Soon they stood inside the penthouse apartment, looking down at a wide red velvet couch that stretched between polished marble walls. A coffee table stood before the couch, with a disassembled tommy gun lying between tall bottles of wine and a golden box of cigars. A fat man sat on the couch, leaning back and smiling at his opulent room and everyone in it. He had a red face and a fat gut, with the remains of a haircut smoothed back on his forehead. He smiled broadly as he held out a cigar to Mort.

“Morty!” he cried. “Come on in! You want some smokes? Booze? Take whatever you want. Who’s your pipsqueak friend? You babysitting or something?!” He smiled at his joke and slapped his knee. “You get it? Babysitting?”

“Sure, Mr. Scellone,” Mort said, taking the cigar. “This is Weatherby Stein. He’s my partner.”

“What exactly is his purpose?” This came from a rail thin man who stood behind the couch, his hands folded. He wore a gray double-breasted suit, his dark hair slicked back to reveal squinting penetrating eyes. His nose was a downturned beak and his waxed moustache was thick and black. “We don’t want you to be wasting Mr. Scellone’s time, Mr. Candle.”

“Who said anything about that? We’re all pals here, ain’t we, Morty?” Scellone asked. “Art, I’m sure he’s got a perfectly good reason for having the boy around.”

“Then let’s hear it.” Art Bava, the consigliore, had a quiet, precise voice. He spoke clearly and calmly, like he had rehearsed each word before a mirror the night before.

“He’s an expert on occult matters. He identified the monsters that snatched your wife, Mr. Scellone.” Mort nodded to Weatherby, who was feeling heat in his forehead and dryness in his throat. “Go on and tell them, kiddo,” Mort suggested. “Tell them what you told me.”

“R-right.” Weatherby cleared his throat. “Mr. Scellone, I think your wife was abducted by a number of Jiang Shi, or Hopping Corpses. The descriptions your bodyguards gave Mort—I mean, Mr. Candle—clearly match that particular oriental monster.”

“Oriental? You mean the Chinamen did it?” Scellone’s good nature seemed to flow out of him. He smile died slowly, and he stubbed out the cigar on the arm of his couch. “Just what I thought. Uncle Wu and those slanty-eyed bastards of his have been bothering me for a long time. They just went a little too far.”

“It might not be them, sir!” Weatherby cried. He knew that a gang war would tear New York apart if he failed, and did his best to explain. “We just visited Mr. Wu, and he explained that he knew the Hopping Corpses were present, but he did not use them. He is a religious man, and would not associate with unholy undead.”

Scellone considered Weatherby’s words. “So he denies it?” he said. “Interesting. What do you think, Art?”

“He’s lying. He’s laughing in your face.” Bava leaned down. “We must strike first. Give the order. It’s time to hit the mattresses.”

Mort shook his head. “You don’t want to go war over nothing, Mr. Scellone. Give me a little more time. I’m still getting the facts. I’ll chew them up, spit out the gristle – and get you back your wife. Then you can start all the wars you want.”

Bava bristled. “You do not run this Thing of Ours, Mr. Candle.”

“And neither do you, Art – so clam up.” Scellone shrugged. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Now blow, all of you. And don’t you come back, Morty, unless you got Wanda with you. Bring me my wife, or I’ll remember all the dough you owe me. Capisce?”

“Capisce,” Mort agreed. He turned back to the elevator, and Weatherby followed him.