Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two Read Free Page A

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.”
    “What sort of scoop?” the Captain asked.
    “A source who―for a small fortune―agreed to show me something inside Fink’s private vault. Something, which according to him, I wouldn’t believe. I shelled out gracious greenbacks for an ‘out of this world’ opportunity. He’s set to meet me in the lobby.”
    “Something you wouldn’t believe?” Betty asked. “Is Townsend Mars involved?”
    “How’d you know?” Filigree raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, he nodded and smiled, like he’d just understood the punch line to a joke. “Oh, I see. We’re both hunting the same big-gossip game. Townsend Mars’s kooky cult, mixed up with mobster Frankie Fink, equals the story of the century. You’re here to see what this peculiar partnership has produced.”
    “Yeah. And I think we could make a deal.” Betty looked at Roscoe and the Captain. They both nodded their agreement. “You bring us along when you go into the Sandpiper and, in return, we’ll give you access to whatever dirt we stir up in our operation.”
    Filigree considered it. “Nix,” he finally said. “I love the idea, my beautiful Betty―but I can’t smuggle you along with me into the casino. The deal with my contact was one person only. I bring along a pal and it’s no dice.”
    “Wait.” Roscoe stepped closer to Filigree. He reached a finger into his eye socket. Pain lanced through his skull, but he ignored it. He worked his way in until the eyeball came loose―it felt like a dried-out grape. He faced the other way, so Betty and Felix couldn’t see, and pulled until something snapped. The eyeball came free. Roscoe held it between thumb and forefinger and spun it around. The connection remained. He looked at himself looking at himself for a little, pulled open Filigree’s breast pocket and slid the eyeball in. He placed it snugly in the tabloid hound’s coat so a little of it peeked out, but it wouldn’t be noticed.
    He patted Filigree’s shoulder. “Bring that with you.”
    “The perfect bug,”