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

“I thank you, Mr. Dutch,” he said. “With all of my heart.”
    Dutch grinned and patted Weatherby’s thin shoulder. “Just go out there and come back alive,” he said, waving a grease-stained rag like a patriot with a flag. “Take care, boys! Don’t go down no road you can’t handle!”
    “You got it,” I said, backing up the auto as Weatherby hurried inside. I got the Packard into the street and then cut loose. Point Santos wasn’t far away, but I didn’t want to be late to the race.
    I used the opportunity to put the car through its paces. Dutch had done an excellent job. It handled like a dream and gobbled down miles like a starving man at a buffet. Of course, for what I planned, she’d need to.

    We reached Point Santos a couple minutes before the Morningstar Club was to begin their race. Point Santos was a small village, a collection of cottages down the winding road from the lighthouse. The road hugged the cliffs and led straight out into the horizon, two lanes of asphalt that would soon be a battlefield.
    The racers themselves were setting up in the middle of the road, and I drove over to join them. I parked the Packard and stepped outside. There was time to enjoy a cigarette and eyeball the other competitors before the race started. Weatherby joined me and we looked over the others cars and drivers. We didn’t like what we saw.
    These were the wild ones, the mad ones, the crazy bastards who lived on the edge and liked it. Their cars were hot rods and muscle cars, sleek, bulky, smooth machines decorated with flames and in a mad rainbow of neon colors. The drivers leaned on their cars, drinking and smoking and laughing with each other about the danger they’d soon be faced with.
    I recognized several of them, and the rest seemed keen in getting acquainted. Soon as I popped out, a tall busty woman with flowing dark hair and a striped shirt revealing her belly walked over to me slowly. She leaned forward, giving me the kind of show any fellow would enjoy. She smiled slowly, a predator’s grin.
    “That’s a big car, mister,” she said, slurring her words. “Real big. But you know what they say – it ain’t the size, but how you handle it.” She put her hand on the hood of the Packard. “Can you handle it, big man?”
    “I can handle plenty,” I replied. “But maybe not you.”
    “Name’s Vette Veaux,” she explained. She stepped back and waved her arms in a slow circle in the air. Weatherby’s eyes were glued to her. I didn’t blame him. “I do go-go dancing during the day, and drive at night.”
    “And spend Sundays in church?” I grinned as I stepped back.
    Behind her, a pack of yokels arrived in a sleek silver painted station-wagon with a Confederate battle flag stenciled on the hood. They wore worn overalls and straw hats, and smoked large hand-rolled cigars. I didn’t let the hillbilly act fool me. These were the Crabbpatches, a clan of moonshine-brewers who had outraced revenue men for generations. They were Kentucky cutthroats who ruled their patch of the woods through numbers and brutality. They pulled up next to our car and started whistling at Vette.
    I waved to them. “You fellows entering in this race?”
    The driver smiled at me. He had a crocodile skin jacket and a grin to match. “That we are. Aiming on winning it too.”
    Vette tore away from me and approached the Crabbpatches. “I don’t think you got what it takes. I drive real fast. Try and keep up.”
    I looked at the car on the other side of us. I recognized the driver of this one, a tight coupe without markings or a license plate. He had slicked back hair, an opened collared shirt and a canary yellow blazer, with a thick gold medallion resting in a nest of his chest hair. This was Buck Beltz, a notorious getaway driver for independent heist crews. We exchanged a nod. I figured I could knock him out first, if necessary.
    The driver in the car in front of me turned around. He was a good lucking towheaded kid in