The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (26 page)

“Where to now?” he asked, his voice a nervous gasp.

“Let’s see what the radio has to say.” Mort switched it on and listened, hearing the static edged out by a burst of local news.

The reporter’s brassy voice came fast and thick. “Reports of gang violence along Chinatown’s Mott Street have been confirmed by the police. Citizens are urged to stay out of the area, and remain indoors. Police units are on their way, and will put an end to the violence as soon as possible. The combatants are allegedly notorious racketeer Tony ‘Bones’ Scellone and the Gold Dragon Tong, an oriental organization noted for violence and brutality. City hall declared that—” The radio buzzed out as Mort switched it off.

“So,” he said. “Looks like we’re going back to Chinatown.” He kept the gas pedal down, weaving through traffic as the Hopping Corpses followed. They leapt on the roofs of cars, causing motorists to honk and swerve in panic. Mort did his best to keep the Packard driving straight, as they sped out of Brooklyn and to Chinatown – and the middle of an impending gang war.

When they reached Mott Street, the place was deserted. The police were nowhere to be found, and Mort nodded like he expected it. “Scellone paid them off,” he told Weatherby as he sent the Packard speeding down the empty street, under the swinging paper lanterns. “That’s one thing you ought to know about America, kiddo – look hard enough, and you’ll always find the rot and corruption under the shine. They act like it’s not there in New York. I don’t know why they bother pretending.”

Weatherby kept an eye on the Hopping Corpses behind them. “So where is Mr. Scellone?” he wondered. “And the Tong?”

Wanda leaned forward. “There’s Arty!” she cried, as Mort rolled around the corner. “Arty!” she cried. “It’s me, Arty, baby! It’s Wanda!”

They saw a large convoy of gangsters, all wearing Scellone’s uniform of dark pinstriped suits and fedoras. Scellone stood at the beginning of their column, his tommy gun resting on his shoulder. Art Bava stood next to him, carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Scellone narrowed his eyes at the Packard. He seemed to recognize Mort, Weatherby, and his wife. Bava did too.

Bava raised his sawed-off, swinging it around to face Mort’s auto. Mort’s eyes widened and he spun the wheel. “Christ!” Mort cried. “Get down, kiddo! Get down or that lead will take off your face!”

He ducked low as the shotgun thundered. Weatherby did the same. The remaining glass in the windshield shattered. The Packard kept speeding along with no hand on the wheel, until a brick wall stopped its advance. The crash shuddered through Weatherby’s body, knocking him hard against the dash board.

Mort moved quickly, grabbing a pistol and kicking open the door. He grabbed Weatherby and pulled him clear. His vision a fuzzy blur, Weatherby looked behind his shoulder and saw the pack of Hopping Corpses closing in. They were like hounds that never lost a scent, and they were nearly upon them. Weatherby reached into his coat, trying to find more of the magic yellow paper. His pocket was empty. They were defenseless.

“No,” Weatherby whispered. “I can’t… I can’t defend us. They’ll tear us apart.” He looked at Mort, his voice breaking. “I can’t do anything. I’m useless. Just like at Castle Stein. Just a useless little boy, cowering in fear as the monsters approach.”

“Don’t say that.” Mort squared his shoulders and aimed both pistols towards the Hopping Corpses. “You’ve done a crackerjack job cracking this case. You’re the bravest guy I know. Don’t go to pieces now.”

As the Hopping Corpses approached, the windows of the tall tenement buildings suddenly opened. Weatherby looked up at the windows on both sides of the street. He saw Tong soldiers leaning down, composite crossbows held tightly in their hands. The Hopping Corpses didn’t notice. They were intent on their prey.

Then the crossbows opened fire, sending a flurry of arrows hurtling down in the street. Each arrow had a piece of yellow paper covered in Chinese writing tied to it. The shafts struck deeply into the bodies of the Hopping Corpses, until each one was a pincushion. The decay spread through them quickly, and bits of them fell away, their white flesh going black as it turned into charnel dust and spilled across the pavement in a rotting blizzard. In seconds, the Hopping Corpses were gone.

Mort looked up at the windows. “Uncle Wu,” he said. “Thanks a million!”

Scellone hurried forward, Bava close behind him. “Morty!” he cried. “What the hell happened? Who were the dead Chinamen? Why did the Tong kill them?”

“They were working for Bava, Mr. Scellone.” Mort pointed to the consigliore. “He’s trying to stab you in the back. He kidnapped your wife – just to force you into a war with the Tong. And it looks like it’s working.”

Bava shook his head. “He’s lying,” he said. “Wanda, tell him he’s lying! You tell him he’s lying or I’ll tell him that you’ve been—”

“He kidnapped me! The bum kidnapped me and sent his Japanese zombies to kill me!” Wanda’s shrill voice shrieked. “Kill him, Tony! Kill him for me!”

“You got it, babe.” Scellone swung the Thompson to face Bava. The consigliore tried to talk his way out of it, before a rain of bullets cut him down. The heavy slugs of the tommy gun chewed into him, splattering his flesh on the street and sending him down. He let out a final gasp, and then lay still. Weatherby looked away from the carnage, feeling sick to his stomach.

Wanda ran to her husband and clung to him. She buried her head in his shoulder, and he glared up at Mort. “What was Art gonna say before I whacked him, Morty?” he asked. “You got any ideas?”

Weatherby turned to Morton. It was clear what would happen if Scellone found out about his wife’s affair. There’d be another burst of lead, and she would join Bava on the bloody street. Weatherby closed his eyes and waited for Mort to tell the truth, and the inevitable burst of gunfire. But it never came.

“I don’t know what the lying bum was trying to say,” Mort said. “But he was a traitor, Mr. Scellone. He was probably just playing some angle.” He looked down at the corpse. “For all the good it did him.”

“That’s right.” Tony Scellone smiled. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “All right, Chinamen!” he called. “You’re off the hook – for now! I’m going back to Brooklyn, and my boys are going with me! You fellows don’t like it, you still want to play rough – come and look me up sometime! I’ll be waiting!” He turned around, and then looked at Mort like he had forgotten him. “Oh, and Morty, here’s a little extra something for your trouble, besides the canceling of your debt.” He reached into his coat and tossed Mort an envelope thick with cash. “You done good.”

“Thanks, Mr. Scellone. You’re a life saver.” Mort pocketed the cash and walked back to his car, Weatherby staying close to him.

They hurried into the Packard and sped away from Chinatown, driving over the rotting remains of the Hopping Corpses as they left Mott Street. Mort handed Weatherby the envelope. There were more bills crammed inside than the boy could count. “Half of that dough’s yours, kiddo,” Mort said. “You sure as hell earned it.” He paused, staring forward as he turned the corner. “You thought about my little business proposition?”

“A bit,” Weatherby replied. “Morton? Why exactly did you lie to Mr. Scellone about the faithlessness of his wife?”

“He would have killed her. He would have shot her dead sure as the moon follows the sun into the sky. And I didn’t want a woman’s blood on my hands. She screwed around a little, but who hasn’t, in this day and age? It certainly wasn’t worth seeing her die.”

Weatherby nodded. “You’re a good man,” he said softly. “You may think otherwise, but you possess the spirit of a hero.” He smiled. “Yes, Morton Candle. I’ll be your partner in the detective business. With my knowledge and your strength, we can do a great deal of good for the world.”

“And make a heap of cash in the process,” Mort agreed with a smile. “I’m staying at a flophouse in the Lower East Side. I figure I’ll go there, pack up, and then leave. There are some lines out already, looking for people like you and me to come out and solve mysteries. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. You want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“At my sister’s dorm,” Weatherby agreed. “Just for a little.” He gave Mort the address, and looked away, watching the street as they drove towards Selena’s place. This was the part he was dreading, which he feared even more than the long tongues and claws of Hopping Corpses. This was where he had to say goodbye to Selena.

After an hour or so of driving, they got there. It was already late evening. Weatherby headed to the building he shared with Selena and her roommates and crept carefully into their room. He opened the door slowly, and peered inside. The living room was dark, and Selena lay on the couch. She was asleep. Weatherby realized that she must have grown tired waiting for him to come back. He felt awful.

He picked up his suitcase and closed it, and looked down at Selena. He didn’t want to wake her up, partly for fear of bothering her, and partly for fear of facing her. Instead, he grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the kitchen, and wrote a quick note to leave on the coffee table.

He didn’t know exactly what to say, so he wrote quickly, putting down whatever words came to mind. His note was short and to the point.

Dear Selena,

I believe I have discovered a solution to our problem. I encountered an old friend, Mr. Morton Candle, who was the leader of the squad of brave paratroopers which saved me from the Third Reich during the War. Mr. Candle has courage, goodness and a rare knowledge of the way this country works. He is going into the detective business, and asked me to join him. I am to be his expert on occult matters, and together we will solve problems that the police and normal private investigators cannot handle. The payment should be acceptable. Regrettably, this occupation will take me away from your side.

I will do my best to contact you. I even intend to send you money, so that you can support yourself and continue your education. You were untouched by the evil that reached into Castle Stein, and I would not change that for the world. Please, continue going to school and pursuing your dreams. I will support you in every way I can. I know mother and father would want that.

You believe I am still a child and perhaps that is true. But I fear my world is no place for children, and so I will have to grow up quickly. If you see this as a tragedy, then I urge you not to cry. We have troubles enough, without stopping to lament my situation.

I will remember our time together with great fondness. I will remember it as the first time since mother and father’s deaths that I felt undeniable happiness. I know I will return and see you again soon, and look forward to it with all of my heart.

Your Loving Brother,

Weatherby Ignatius Stein

P.S. The money is payment of our first case. I hope it will make up for what you spent on my well-being during my time here. Do not sell mother’s necklace. Do not lose any memories of them.

Weatherby stood up. He set the note on the coffee table, and placed several large bills in a neat stack next to it. He looked back at Selena, leaned down and kissed her softly on the forehead. Then he headed for the door. He took one last look at his only remaining family, before he walked out of her dorm and into his new life.