The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (25 page)

Mort didn’t say a word as the elevator sped downwards and they got out, or as they left the lobby and walked back to his Packard. Only when he was behind the wheel did he turn to Weatherby. “Bava’s up to something,” he said. “My detective’s instincts are screaming at me. When I suggested holding off on the Chinamen, he acted like I had tossed a firecracker into his trousers. He’s hiding something.”

“So what should we do?” Weatherby wondered.

“Wait for him to come out. Then we follow him – and see where he’s hiding it.” Mort leaned back in his seat. He pushed the brim of his fedora low over his eyes. “Let me know when you spot him, kiddo.” He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

Weatherby watched the lobby carefully. His mind wandered, and he thought a little about Morton Candle’s business proposition. He would have to leave New York, traveling with Mort across the world, to deal with a wide variety of bizarre cases. But he liked Mort’s company – despite the crudeness of his character. Danger didn’t bother him, not with Mort Candle at his side. But he’d be away from Selena – his only family – and he’d toss away any chance for a normal childhood.

“Well, that’s finished anyway,” Weatherby told himself. And as for Selena – it was more important for her to finish her schooling, follow her dream, and live her life than for Weatherby to be close to her. He’d be following his father’s wishes, and using his knowledge to help people, all over the world. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what his parents and Selena would want for him, but it seemed good enough.

A gray suit and homburg in the lobby caught his attention, ending his thought. He shook Morton awake. “Mr. Candle! Mr. Candle!” Weatherby cried. “Bava’s leaving!”

“I told you, kiddo.” Mort started the car. “Call me Mort.” He sent the Packard rocketing off from its parking place, and sliding across the street. He spun around Scellone’s apartment building, one eye on Bava. Mort slid the car into traffic, waited until Bava left in a silver Rolls Royce, and then spun around to follow him. He drove carefully and skillfully, always staying a block or two behind Bava’s auto.

They drove through Brooklyn, and Mort nodded to himself. “Ain’t hard to see where he’s going,” he said. “Red Hook – the docks. And from my experience, nothing good ever happens at the docks.” He slammed down the gas pedal, turning the corner to avoid being spotted. After making a right and then a left, he was back on the consigliore’s trail.

They followed Bava to a selection of old wharves in the corner of Red Hook. Most of the docks were crumbling into the greasy, black waters below, but one wharf stayed strong. The Rolls Royce screeched to a halt, and Bava hurried out. Four dockside toughs, big men in worn sweaters and flat caps, strode over to meet him. Mort watched carefully, and nodded again when money exchanged hands between Bava and the men. They led Bava to a small shack, perched in the center of the remaining wharf. Light filled the little shack.

After a while, Bava left. He hurried into the Rolls, took one more look around, and sped away. Mort watched him go. “All right,” he said, reaching for the door of the Packard. “Let’s have us a look.”

“What about the rather large waterfront rowdies left as guards?” Weatherby asked, staying close to Mort as they left the car.

“What about them?” Mort raised his voice, so that the four dock thugs could hear him. “Fellows!” he called. “You might want to consider a new line of work. Whatever Bava’s paying you, it ain’t enough.”

Bava’s guards turned to face them. One grabbed a crowbar and swung it idly, a batter prepping for his swing. A broad-shouldered man with mustard stains on his shirt put his hands on his hips. “He’s paying us plenty!” he called.

“What for?” Mort asked. “It certainly ain’t for your looks. Or your brains. Or your personalities.” Weatherby watched the bruisers getting angrier with each word. He realized Mort was inspiring them to make the first move. “In fact, if Art Bava wanted to hire a couple of ugly, stinking, dirty scumbags, I don’t know why he didn’t just make do with a couple of wharf rats. At least he could have paid them in cheese.”

The guy with the crowbar attacked, swinging his makeshift weapon at Mort’s head. Mort ducked the swinging steel club, and then rammed his head into the underside of his attacker’s chin. Weatherby saw the man go backwards, gurgling as Mort swung with both fists and pounded him in the mouth. Teeth fell in a rain to the worn wood of the boardwalk. As he went down, Mort grabbed the crowbar from the goon’s hands. He faced the other two guards.

“Still think he’s paying you enough?” He asked, holding the crowbar in one hand as he opened his coat to reveal twin .45 automatics in crossed shoulder-holsters. Weatherby gasped at the guns – and at the natural way that Mort Candle wore them. The two dock wallopers had enough. They turned to run, dashing past Mort and Weatherby as they pounded down the pier. They were soon gone from view.

Weatherby turned to Mort. “I suppose you removed them with the minimum of bloodshed, for my sake?” he asked.

“Something like that. Come on. Let’s go see what Bava’s so excited about.”

The two of them walked down to the shack. Mort knocked on the door and a woman’s voice came from inside, bubbly and full of delight and expectation. “Arty, baby! You’re back so soon!” Mort stared in surprise at Weatherby as he opened the door and stepped inside.

A neat little room had been set up, with a bed opposite a couch and a radio turned to some station that played mambo and nothing else. A woman sat on the bed, her high heels swinging back and forth like she was a bored child. She had blonde hair falling over her shoulders, and a ready smile. She wore a black dress that clung tightly to every inch of her, and went down just past her knees.

She smiled at Mort “You’re not Arty,” she said, sound pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah. And you’re Wanda Scellone.” Mort turned to Weatherby and closed the door. “You’re a lot younger than Mr. Scellone. And a lot prettier.”

“Arty, baby…” Weatherby repeated her words. “That’s a term of endearment.”

“That’s right. This ain’t no kidnapper’s hideout.” Mort glanced around the room. “This is a love nest.” He looked down at Wanda. “I’m Mort Candle and this is my partner, Weatherby Stein. Mrs. Scellone, your husband hired me to find you. He thought you were kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? No. Arty would never do that! He just wanted me by himself, so we faked it, with a couple of his Chinese buddies for versatility’s sake.” Wanda’s voice had a squeak of false innocence, and she shook her head vigorously with each word.

“You mean ‘veracity’s sake,’ ma’am,” Weatherby corrected politely. “But from Bava’s cold manner, it seems a little unlikely that he placed you here out of affection.”

“W-what do you mean?” Wanda demanded. “He told me he loved me!”

Mort snorted. “You got played, sister – same as your chump husband.” Mort paced around the room, hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat. “Art wants a war with the Gold Dragon Tong. It’s not hard to see why – a war will weaken both gangs, but probably end in a bloody stalemate. The Gold Dragons are weakened, Scellone’s mob is weakened – and Bava can put his connections to work and take over both.”

Wanda shook her head. “Arty would never do that! Would he?” She looked up at Mort and smiled. “You’re real big and strong, mister.” She hopped off the bed and approached him. Weatherby felt warmth creeping into his cheeks as he watched her. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Wanda Scellone saw it and gave him a smile that could excite a dead man. “And your little pal’s real cute too.”

“Don’t try anything, Mrs. Scellone,” Mort said. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Come on. We’re taking you back to your husband.”

“You won’t—you won’t tell him, will you?” Wanda asked, clinging to Mort’s arm as they left the house. “If Tony knew, well, I just don’t know what he’d do! You can’t tell him! You gotta promise me!” She suddenly wrapped her arm around Mort’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him about me and Arty. Don’t tell him about me and you!”

Weatherby forced himself to look away. He tried to focus on the slow rise and fall of the oily waters, or the ships slipping in from the mist, or the large truck sliding to a stop before the docks. It was an old truck, black paint peeling over dark steel. It came to a halt, and its rear door rolled open with a creaking groan. Weatherby felt a chill running electric down his spine. Darkness lurked inside. Something stirred.

“Morton!” Weatherby cried. “I believe Bava’s agents have arrived.”

Mort was trying pull Wanda Scellone off of him. “What? You mean, the goddamn—”

“Yes.” A bare foot reached out from inside one of the cars, and rested on the dock. “The Hopping Corpses are here.”

In the next second, the Hopping Corpses leapt out of their transport and faced their prey. They were lean corpses, dressed in robes of Qing dynasty finery and round jeweled hats. Their beards were long, thin and white, drooping down to their waists. Their fingernails were black claws, curved like ceremonial daggers. They opened their mouths, and tongues like black worms the size of pythons snaked out. They leapt for the little shack, speeding through the air with impossible speed.

“Son of a—” Mort cried as he drew his automatic. The blast of gunfire blared out his last word. He let go of Wanda, and she tumbled to the ground. “Weatherby!” he cried. “Get her to the car! I’ll cover you!” His first shot missed, and his second knocked a chunk of flesh from a Hopping Corpse’s chest, but the undead monster kept coming.

Weatherby grabbed Wanda’s arm and pulled her up, as he dug a hand into his pocket. He reached for the yellow paper, and felt his fingers closing around the precious scrap. “You can’t defeat these monsters with conventional weapons, they require—” Something thick and slimly wrapped around his leg and pulled. Weatherby hit the ground, crying out loud as harsh wood slammed against him. A Hopping Corpse had grabbed his leg with its tongue and was reeling him in.

“Mort!” Weatherby pulled out a fistful of yellow papers, each one carefully inscribed with a Chinese spell. The Hopping Corpse’s tongue tightened like a noose, and the shadow of the dead man fell over Weatherby. He saw one of its claws rising to strike.

Then Mort’s automatic cracked. The bullet split the tongue, sending black blood oozing across the wharf. Weatherby stood up and raised a yellow square of paper. He slammed it into the chest of the Hopping Corpse. Instantly, the dead man stiffened, his dark eyes growing white and still. The legs of the Hopping Corpse buckled, and it collapsed onto the ground, rot and decay boiling through its body and causing it to melt away into nothingness.

The smell was overpowering. Weatherby’s leg was bleeding and his back ached. He wanted to fall down and not get up, but he heard Mort gurgle in panic behind him, and Wanda scream. He turned around and ran to them, scrambling to grab another Chinese spell from his pocket.

The Hopping Corpse stood over Mort, its tongue wrapped around the detective’s neck. “Unhand him, you fiend!” Weatherby cried, raising the spell paper high. He tried to press it against the Hopping Corpse’s skin, but the cadaver swerved to the side, and slashed the boy with its long claws. Weatherby winced as he felt the sudden dull sting in his shoulder, and then something wet seeping into his shirt. The Hopping Corpse struck again, and Weatherby slammed the paper onto its outstretched hand before the claw could reach him.

The corpse opened its mouth and stepped backwards, lines of black rot running through its white face. It shook and decayed, until a bullet through the skull put a sudden end to its silent scream. Mort stood up, rubbing his neck. “Christ,” Mort cried. “The dock’s lousy with the dead bastards. We gotta dangle – and fast.”

“But I don’t understand!” Wanda whined. “Arty said they was friends of his!”

“They are – coming to kill you, and blame it on the Tong. That’ll stop any the gang war from ending. And I think it might have already started.” Mort drew out a second automatic. “We’ve got to get her back to Scellone.” They looked down the pier. Between them and Mort’s Packard, a dozen Hopping Corpses squatted silently, their tongues waving expectantly through the air. They were preparing to attack.

Weatherby swallowed his fear and pain. “W-what exactly do you recommend?”

“Same thing I always do when my back is up against the wall.” Mort squared his shoulders. “Charge forward and give them hell.”

He ran for his car, the pistols clattering away in his hands. Wanda and Weatherby followed him, and Mort barreled straight into the middle of the Hopping Corpses.

The battle was fast and bloody. A thin claw struck Weatherby’s arm, drawing blood, and he hurled a yellow paper its way. A Hopping Corpse’s tongue snaked out towards Wanda, until Mort blasted the dead man’s head into decomposing chunks. Another Hopping Corpse leapt for Mort. He dropped his pistols, pulled a long knife from his boot, and plunged it into the zombie’s chest, skewering it until Weatherby finished it off with another spell.

Wanda reached the auto first, with Weatherby close behind. Weatherby got the door for her. “Just sit inside there, Mrs. Scellone,” he said, as she stepped inside. “And don’t mind the weapons. We’ll depart shortly.”

“Cute and polite!” Wanda gave him a wink. “Ain’t you just a little gentleman!”

“I’m not that little…” Weatherby muttered, as Mort staggered to the door.

The Hopping Corpses were coming after them, moving in swift bouncing leaps that sent them soaring over the docks. Mort slammed open the door and slumped inside, starting the engine as Weatherby scrambled into the car. Mort sent the Packard roaring backwards, spinning the wheel madly to turn it around. A Hopping Corpse lunged for them, landing on the hood of the car and reaching a claw to the windshield.

With one hand on the wheel, Mort raised his pistol and fired. “I just bought this ride!” he cried. “And you won’t screw with it!” He shot through the windshield, shattering glass and pounding a bullet into the throat of the Hopping Corpse. The living dead man fell off the hood. Mort started the auto and sent it screeching down the street.

They gained speed with each second, the engine of the Packard roaring like an angry beast set free. Weatherby risked a glance in the rear view mirror. The Hopping Corpses were close behind, leaping along the street, jumping from buildings and streetlights, and always staying within sight. They didn’t tire and they didn’t scare. Weatherby felt his wounds. They would heal – if they had the chance.