Free Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One by Michael Panush

Indian artifacts from Mexico, and Fink paid him. Their respective businesses boomed.”
    That wasn’t exactly heartening news. Roscoe had heard of Frankie Fink. He had come over from New York after Prohibition, a back alley Jewish hood from Brooklyn turned into organized crime’s representative on the West Coast. Fink was ruthless, violent, and had a notorious temper. He’d ruled in LA for a while, but moved to a new project around the time of the war. And that was where he was now.
    “You know where he is, don’t you?” Mars asked.
    “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Las Vegas.” The city that Frankie Fink, organized crime, and pure greed had built. “I know.”
    “The Sandpiper Hotel and Casino.” The devil smoothed down his robes. “Go there, Roscoe. You will find Mars. You will find Dr. Bolton.”
    “Got it.” Roscoe raised the martini glass to his mouth and drained it. Bitterness slithered down his throat.
    The devil reclined. “But do you think it will matter? When the world is so close to war already?”
    “It’ll matter,” Roscoe said.
    “So say the angels, when the fires of Hell rise to the gates of Heaven.”
    “I’m no angel.” Roscoe set the empty martini glass down on nearby table and took two steps away. He had to find Angel and get out of there. “So long, Mr. Craul. Until we meet again.” He walked down the hall, leaving the devil where he rested on the couch.
    He stepped back into the hallway and walked to the main room. A couple of guests in rabbit masks walked by, tugging a goat on a rope collar. The goat didn’t seem keen to go with them. It snorted and shook its horns, but they hauled it outside anyway. Roscoe had the feeling that they were planning to sacrifice the poor animal. He spotted Angel sitting on the patio, sipping beer from a bottle. Roscoe waved to Angel, who came in to join him. He skirted around the goat and walked over to stand next to Roscoe on the carpet.
    He didn’t look happy. “I hope you got more than me, man. I’ve been talking to this stockbroker who makes his purchases based on the blood pouring down from these sacrifices he does. Spends his time reading chicken blood and apparently makes a fortune. He was trying to sell me on it, telling me how much money I could make. I told him I had to freshen my drink and left. What’d you find out? Recipes for Jell-O or some other useless crap?”
    “Nope,” Roscoe said. “But I found out where Mars probably went to.”
    “Seriously? Where?”
    “Las Vegas. The Sandpiper Casino.” Roscoe took Angel’s beer and had a quick sip before handing it back. “Seems that Mars was once best friends with Frankie Fink. He helped Fink smuggle dope from Mexico, and I can’t think of a more secure place for him to hide out with Dr. Bolton than Vegas.”
    “You trust the guy who told you that?” Angel asked.
    Roscoe nodded. Somehow, he knew the devil didn’t lie. “Yeah. So now, I guess we gotta decide what our next move is. We ought to go back to the Captain, tell him the score and―”
    He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The pig-headed door greeter scrambled into the room, arms flailing. “Cops!” he cried. “A Lincoln pulled up! LAPD cruisers are behind! They’re raiding the place!” He let out a squeal that matched his costume and then ran away. Outside, Roscoe could hear sirens whining. The cops must’ve kept them quiet right until they rolled up. And the Lincoln? It sounded like Agent Dodd. No doubt about it, he was after the same quarry they were. Roscoe didn’t want to face him again.
    He turned to Angel. “We gotta go.”
    “Yeah,” Angel said. “Fast.”
    It seemed every guest at the Infernal Masquerade had the same idea. They scrambled from the backyard and out of every room, running with bloody sacrificial knives and sticks of incense still in hand. Women tripped over their evening gowns and had to be helped up, their jewelry clicking as they hurried away. The goat broke free of its captor. It