Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two (2 page)

“Roscoe?” The Captain called from the passenger seat. “I’d like you to drive.”

“Sure, boss.” Roscoe climbed behind the wheel. He gunned the engine and they sped out from the parking lot, and turned down the street, headed back to the Strip―back to the neon maze with Townsend Mars and Dr. Bolton somewhere inside. Hopefully, they could get the kooky rocket scientist without trouble, but Roscoe had a feeling that was a sucker’s bet. And in this town? Sucker’s bets didn’t earn much.

The lobby of the Sandpiper was all tan and gold, with a polished marble floor, mirrors for walls, and palm trees strung up with shining yellow lights. Tourists, families and couples, shoved their way through the lobby to get at the vast gaming hall, where slot machines sat in glittering rows and green felt card tables rested on little islands behind red velvet ropes. Showgirls strutted everywhere, carrying drinks and chatting to patrons. In the distance, some golden-throated lounge singer crooned his way through a lonely-hearts ballad, a haunting tune that mixed with the ringing of the slot machines. Roscoe kept his eyes to the edges of the gambling hall. The security men, all wearing dark maroon suits, stood discretely in the corners and watched everything., Frankie Fink was prepared for trouble.

The Captain headed straight for the receptionist. She looked at him through her horn-rimmed glasses and they talked quietly while Felix, Roscoe, and Betty looked on. A few minutes later, the Captain returned to them as he slid a badge under his coat. “We’ve got an audience with Finkelstein. In his penthouse office.”

“How’d you swing that?” Betty asked.

“Old government credentials,” the Captain said. “They’re very useful for getting people’s attention.”

The receptionist stepped out from behind her desk. “If you’ll follow me, please.” She walked across the marble lobby and headed for the gambling hall. They followed her. Felix stood between Betty and Roscoe, staring at the casino in amazement, eyes as wide as dinner plates. The kid had never seen anything like it, having spent most of his life in a quiet German estate, some Nazi dungeon, a government lab, and then peaceful La Cruz.

He gazed back to Betty and Roscoe. “This is an American wonderland, yes? A playground where you enjoy yourselves and spend money and forget your troubles? Perhaps we need something like that in Europe.”

“Don’t count on it, kiddo,” Roscoe said. “All the lights and colors mask some simple robbery―separating chumps from their money. It’s all a racket. Just look at the gangsters they got running the place. Then again, nothing’s more American than that.”

Betty patted Felix’s shoulder. “And I don’t think you should gamble, Felix―not that much, anyway. It doesn’t seem to suit your temperament.”

Felix looked solemn. “I will heed your words, Miss Bright.”

She laughed. “Sure, honey. Now let’s go meet the guy who runs it all.”

They receptionist brought them into a wide elevator at the back of the gambling hall. With its mirrored sides and glowing panel, it looked more like an odd spaceship than an elevator. The receptionist punched a key and the elevator silently rose all the way up to the top floor. Felix stared at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his tie and glasses. The elevator eventually came to a halt and the receptionist ushered them into a cream-colored waiting room, with a desk that looked like a hunk of obsidian. A ginger-haired woman in a showgirl’s outfit sat behind it. Roscoe and Betty sat and perused casino trade magazines and luxury automobile catalogues for a few minutes. Felix tapped his feet on the polished floor and the Captain sat motionless, staring dead ahead and waiting.

The showgirl coughed slightly. “Mr. Finkelstein will see you now.”

She stood and walked to the door at the far end, and ushered them inside. The office looked like some businessman’s den had suffered an explosion, spreading the bric-a-brac all over the walls. A drooping Marlin was mounted over the desk. Trophies and awards glistened on the walls, along with portraits of Frankie Fink shaking hands and grinning with every celebrity he could find. Frankie Fink sat behind his mammoth desk, smoking a fat cigar. A portly, stuffed sandpiper stood on the edge of the desk, watching Roscoe and his friends with marble eyes. Frankie Fink sported a checkered suit and a loud tie. His dark hair had started to thin and laugh lines appeared when he smiled, as he did when he stood up from his seat.

He held out his hand. “Captain! I didn’t catch your name, actually. Welcome to Vegas!”

“Mr. Finkelstein.” The Captain politely shook Frankie Fink’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is my driver, Roscoe, my assistant, Betty Bright, and my adopted son, Felix Tannenbaum.”

Frankie Fink beamed at them. “You brought the whole family! That’s great. I love families.” He shook Roscoe’s hand and turned to Betty. “You got a pretty assistant, Captain. A hell of a dame.” Then his eyes settled on Felix. “And you―you a member of the tribe, kid?”

“I am a Jew, yes, s-sir,” Felix answered.

“Aces! I could tell from the name. Always good to meet a
Landsman
!” He pumped Felix’s hand, nearly knocking the boy down. Then he pointed to the fellow standing next to his desk. “I always try to employ my countrymen when I can. We gotta look out for each other, right? This guy, he’s as goyish as they come. An Okie, if you can believe it. His name’s Buzz Craddock. Say ‘hi,’ Buzz.”

Buzz Craddock looked like a football player, with broad shoulders, a bullet head, and permanently glaring eyes lost within the bulldog wrinkles of his cheeks. He sported a maroon suit and deep red tie, a long-barreled revolver resting on his belt. “Hi, Buzz,” he drawled, shooting Frankie Fink an annoyed glare.

“Buzz handles security for me. He should know a thing or two about it. He used to rob banks himself. Now he protects mine―and there’s no safer bank in the country.” Frankie Fink sat behind his desk. “Everyone knows what happens if you steal from me.” His eyes settled on the Captain. “So, are you enjoying Las Vegas? I want to make sure you have the best vacation possible. I understand what leisure time means to a gentleman like you and your family. Speaking of which.” He clapped his hands. “Ginger―drinks. And a Roy Rogers for my pal Felix.”

The showgirl hurried to the cabinet in the back. “Right away, Mr. Finkelstein.” She busied herself. Ice clinked against glass and liquid sloshed. After a bit, she came back with a cocktail for each of them.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Felix accepted his drink.

Ginger handed another drink to her boss. He sipped it as he looked at the Captain. “So, why do you want to see me? You said you were with the government?”

“That’s right,” the Captain said. “I need to know about your relationship with a man named Townsend Mars. We have reason to believe―”

“Hold on.” Frankie Fink raised a hand. He stood up and held up his drink. “Ginger?” he asked. “Do me a favor. Count the ice cubes in my drink.”

Silence filled the room. Buzz Craddock let out a low sigh and turned away.

Ginger stepped cautiously to the desk. “Sir? Would you like another or―”

“Ginger, I’m asking you to count the ice cubes in my drink. Please count them.”

She looked down at his glass. “Well, there’s three, sir.”

“Three.” Frankie Fink looked at the glass himself. “That’s right. Three ice cubes. And you know what?” His hand shot out. He grabbed Ginger’s wrist, his fingers locking around her skin. He upended the drink in her face, drenching her. “That’s the wrong goddamn number! One ice cube, the drink doesn’t get cold. Two is the perfect number. Three―they melt and the drink gets watered down. Is this the kind of place that serves watered down drinks? Some goddamn dump? A back alley Brooklyn speakeasy? Is that what you think it is?”

Ginger sobbed and Frankie Fink slammed her hand on the table. Betty covered her mouth with her hand and Felix’s face went pale.

“Mr. Finkelstein, I’m s-s-s―”

“You dumb dame, of course, you’re sorry! Now answer my damn question!”

“No, Mr. Finkelstein!” Ginger cried.

“That’s right.” He let go of her arm. “You’re fired. Get your stuff together and leave. You’re finished here. Go back to Iowa or wherever you came from.” He pounded the table. “Now!” Ginger raced out of the room, sobbing. Frankie Fink’s eyes swiveled back to the Captain. The smile returned to his face. His laugh lines deepened. “I apologize. I require perfection in my casino. Absolute perfection. Right down to the drinks.” He settled down in his desk. “But we’re finished on that subject. You want to know about Townsend Mars?”

“Mr. Finkelstein,” Felix said. “You didn’t need to insult that p-poor woman or―”

“Felix.” The Captain put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Yes, Townsend Mars. Is he here?”

Frankie Fink stared at the Captain. For a second, his smile vanished and his lined and weary face emerged. Then the smile returned. “I do know Townsend. We’re old friends from my Hollywood days. He’s a weird fellow, I know―but he pays his debts. Of course, he’s not in town right now. I don’t know where he is.” He spoke too quickly, an obvious denial.

Roscoe stepped closer. “You sure about that? You know, if we don’t get what we want, it may bring some trouble down on your casino. Mars is involved with weird stuff, as I’m sure you know. It could end up coming back to bother you.”

“You think I can’t handle myself?”

“Not against this,” Roscoe replied.

Betty stepped in. “We’re also looking for Dr. Clyde Bolton. Mars kidnapped him and fled. We think both of them might be in town.”

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Frankie Fink replied. “But I don’t know any Dr. Bolton.” He patted the desk. “Now, why don’t you head back downstairs and enjoy a turn at the slot machines and the tables. Please enjoy your stay, and if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Roscoe’s fingers tensed. “You’re making a mistake, Frankie Fink.”

“What’d you call me?” Frankie Fink squinted at Roscoe. “You know what that word means, ‘fink’? It means a rat. I’ve never been a rat. It means someone who’s a back-stabber, and I’ve always done right by my pals.” He slammed his fist down on the table. “You want to come here and insult me? Threaten me in my own joint? I’ll smash your goddamn head open with a claw hammer. I’ll break your goddamn bones, you greaser piece of garbage.”

Felix raised his hands. “Please, Mr. Finkelstein, we did not mean―”

“You shut up, you little kraut.” Frankie Fink glared at Felix and the boy stepped back. “I’ll work you over with a baseball bat. Teach you some goddamn respect for your elders.” His face changed, the smile forgotten now. He waved his hand at the Captain. “Get out of my joint. You’re done here. You’re through. You ever come back again, I’ll take you out to the desert and leave you there. I’ll throw the sand on top of you myself, you understand?” He pointed to Craddock. “Buzz, throw them out!”

Buzz Craddock stepped in front of the desk. He folded his arms. Brass knuckles glittered on each hand. “You heard the man. You gonna go quietly, or we gonna have to mess this office up?”

The Captain seemed to consider the situation. Roscoe balled his hands into fists and waited, but the Captain shook his head. “We’re leaving. Let’s go.” He walked to the door, Betty and Felix following him closely. Roscoe stayed behind for a second, watching the fuming Frankie Fink, then left the room as well. They headed straight for the elevator and didn’t stop until they hit the lobby and walked outside.

They stood in the crowd of tourists heading in and out of the Sandpiper.

Betty sighed. “That went well.”

Roscoe shook his head. “Sure. And next time me and the Fink sit down, it’ll go even better.”

“Well, Mars is not with him,” Felix said. “Mr. Finkelstein explained that he isn’t really there.” As usual, the kid was as trusting as a pup with its mother. “And Dr. Bolton is not there either. So, we really have no reason to bother him. Right?”

“He was lying, son,” the Captain said.

“Through his teeth,” Roscoe added.

Betty put her hands in her pockets. “Well, it doesn’t matter if he told the truth or not―he still threw us out. How are we gonna get back in?”

Before anyone could reply, a man shouted. “Roscoe! And Miss Bright! How’s my diligent, doomed driver and his college cutie companion? Stirring up sin in a sinner’s city? Inquiring minds want to know!”

Freddy Filigree, a tabloid newshound for Naked Truth Weekly, hurried across the street. Sweat beaded on his pointed nose, above a sandy moustache. His head looked like a round light bulb, poking up from his collar. “Come on, how about dishing out a little dirt to your favorite devotee of derangement?”

They glared at Filigree, who straightened his white suit.

“What are you doing here?” Roscoe asked.

“Seeking scoops. What else?” Filigree slipped around them. His eyes settled on the Captain. “Maybe you’d like to supply a statement, sir―strictly off the record, of course. Is there bad business brewing in Vegas? Perhaps involving big Frankie Fink?” He nodded to Roscoe. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Celebrity sleaze gets the gossip gourmands hungry―but they crave criminal capers. Any ink on the Fink’s suspicious stink will make my issues of Naked Truth Weekly va-va-voom off the news stand.” He leaned closer. “And I got an inside scoop.”