The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) by Michael Panush

street, where one of those little diners was open for business. It was the kind of cheap coffee-and-pie place that cropped up on the sides of roads like rot on corpses. “Tell you what – go over there and get some breakfast, for me and Dutch as well as yourself. I got something else to do.”
    “What exactly are you planning, Morton?” Weatherby wondered.
    I smiled. “I’m gonna go to church,” I said. “There’s an old mission not far from here. It’s mostly a museum, but there’s still a few priests hanging around.”
    “Now does not seem to be a decent time to be getting religion,” Weatherby pointed out.
    “You just worry about getting breakfast. Be back soon.” I doffed my fedora and started down the street, leaving Weatherby alone on the sun-blasted pavement. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna say to the priests. Most of men of the cloth were friendly enough, and always up for talking to a lost soul. But for what I had in mind, they might need just a little more convincing.

    I returned in the afternoon, with what I wanted set carefully in a long wooden case at my side. I walked to the garage and found my Packard lying stripped and naked on the pavement. Dutch was taking a smoke break, munching on a sandwich Weatherby had brought him. He nodded to the long case I carried.
    “What’s that?” he asked.
    “Insurance.”
    “Well, I hope it’s got a good payoff, because you’re gonna need it.” He nodded to my car. “This baby will be ready to roll in an hour or two. She’ll be able to outrace a cheetah, and ram a rhinoceros.” He set his sandwich down and nodded to Weatherby. The kid was standing on the edge of the sidewalk, staring into the distance. “So, you taking care of him or something?”
    “Or something,” I replied.
    “I’ll bet.” Dutch grinned. “You’d never admit it, you bastard, but out of all of us, you had the biggest heart.”
    “Sure, Dutch. And what about you? You seeing some lovely lady?”
    Dutch shrugged. “I don’t know. Women are confusing. That’s why I like cars.”
    “Cause they don’t talk back?”
    “No. They do. And they say all the right things, telling you just what they need. A broad, though, they’ll get you going the wrong way, drain you of gas and blow out your engine before you know what happened.” He patted the top of my Packard. “And people like you and me – what we’ve been through – how we supposed to talk about anything normal, with normal people?” He shook his head. “It’s a machine I can’t fix, Mort.”
    “Yeah.” I reached for my cigarettes and offered him one. “You take care of yourself, Dutch. We’ll be leaving, soon as this thing is ready.”
    “I know.” Dutch took the cigarette, set down his sandwich and grabbed his wrench. “Be careful out there. And keep the kid safe.”
    “Don’t worry,” I agreed. “I intend to.”
    I got out of his way and let him work. After looking over the bootlegger roads he had outlined on a state map, I ambled into his living quarters and had a nap on his couch. I didn’t dream of the war, but of poor little Selena Stein. I wondered what it must have been like for her – stuck in some upper crust boarding school and reading the newspaper every day with terror in your heart, dreading what you’d find. And afterwards, finding out that her brother had turned from, by all accounts, a sweet little boy to a cranky bastard in a teenager’s body – I wondered how she’d feel about that.
    I woke up just before nightfall, and the Packard was ready to go. The tires were big and white, some European model that should do wonders on the back roads. Dutch had swapped out the engine and put a couple of armored plates along the side. When I put my foot on the gas pedal, I could feel the raw power of the vehicle, a wild animal tugging at its chains, roaring to be let loose.
    I grinned up at him. “You’re a regular wizard,” I said.
    Weatherby clasped his hands and bowed before Dutch.