Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two by Michael Panush Page B

no―”
    “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