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

bet a lot did. We needed defending. But I got the feeling that a lot of them just liked fighting. If the sailors weren’t there, they would have picked fights with someone else.”
    Roscoe stared at Angel. “You looked up to them.”
    “I was a kid, man. Of course I looked up to them. They were heroes. But now I’m older. Wiser. And I think that maybe heroes are people who get into fights that maybe they should avoid.” He stared down at his red zoot suit and sighed. “I’m getting to think I fall into that category too.”
    The Cadillac sped on. Roscoe wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Next stop was Santa Monica, and Madam Strang’s Far Sight and Fortunes. They were closing in on Dr. Bolton, Townsend Mars, and the end of the case. It was easy so far, but that was usually when their fortunes changed. All Roscoe could do was prepare.

    Madam Strang’s Far Sight and Fortunes stood in a sleepy patch of fog-shrouded Santa Monica, a couple blocks from the piers and beach. Sandwiched between an ice cream parlor and a curio shop, it was strictly tourist country. The place was packed with beachgoers. They strolled along in Hawaiian shirts and sundresses, their kids spilling ice cream on the sidewalk as they filed back into their station wagons. Angel found a parking space near the fortuneteller’s shop. Wooster stayed in the Packard and cruised the block, patrolling in a circle.
    On the way, they had stopped for cheeseburgers. Roscoe mopped grease, ground beef, and mustard from his lips with a napkin as they headed into the fortuneteller’s store. It had large glass windows and statues of Chinese dogs guarding the door.
    A bell rang as they entered a small waiting room. It contained only a single untended desk, a few ancient magazines, and some geometric black leather chairs missing their backs. Angel and Roscoe sat. A rear door opened. “Welcome, my friends―to the beyond.” Madam Strang, a middle-aged woman with hair in tangled curls tinted the shade of a crimson Christmas tree ornament, emerged. Her lips matched, and she wore an oversized red dress and bright red headband. She looked Roscoe and Angel over. “Have you come for a reading?”
    “Information, actually,” Roscoe said. “About the past. Not the future. This is Angel Rey and I’m Roscoe. It won’t take long.”
    “Hmmm.” Madam Strang formed her fingers into a steeple. “Step into the chambers of divination. We will talk there.” She pointed to the door in the back. Roscoe and Angel followed her inside. She led them into a circular room with a glowing crystal ball and a table of blonde wood. The walls had been decorated with bits of shining dust, so it looked like they sat in a field of stars. Madam Strang sat and looked up at Roscoe and Angel. “What about the past do you wish to know?”
    “Dr. Clyde Bolton,” Angel said. “We heard you used to be an item.”
    “Ah. Clyde.” Madam Strang settled into her seat. She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. Roscoe snapped a lighter to life and leaned forward. “Did you get to meet him? Is he in trouble?”
    “He is,” Roscoe said. “We’re trying to help him out.”
    Madam Strang sighed. “Ah. I should’ve known.” The mystic airiness dropped out of her voice, replaced by a hard edge. “I liked Clyde. I liked him a lot, so I’ll help you. I don’t know how well you know him, but he’s a good guy. I knew him a bit right after the War and I can’t think of a kinder, nicer man. It’s his past. It’s what he’s done that ruined him.”
    “What did he do?” Roscoe asked.
    “The bomb.” Madam Strang pressed the cigarette into her mouth and puffed smoke. It seemed to make the stars glow more. “He was part of the team that created it. The Manhattan Project. A lot of weird people were involved with that, and Clyde was right in the middle of it. They recruited him right out of school, and he built their bomb for them, and then came the worst