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

part.” She leaned closer. “They sent him to Japan after it was dropped. He had to go to Hiroshima and see firsthand the damage that the atomic bomb did. One night, after we had too much to drink, he told me about it. I had to hold him through the night. He wouldn’t stop crying.”
    “
Dios
,” Angel whispered.
    Roscoe leaned closer. “Is that what drove him to the occult?”
    “Yup. Pure guilt. He started hitting up the séances and parties that I would attend, which is how we met. He was a sweet guy and we hit it off―but guilt ain’t the right foundation for love. He would bottle it up inside of him. Refuse to talk about it and spend his time going through occult texts instead. Eventually, he heard about Cassius Craul and became seriously obsessed with the guy.” She spread her hands, happy to share gossip. “Now, I don’t want to point fingers. I’ve done some odd stuff in my time. But this Craul guy? He’s a nut.”
    “Not like you?” Roscoe asked.
    Madam Strang shook her head vigorously. “Jesus no. I don’t worship the devil. I don’t summon demons in my spare time and try to bring about the end of the world. I don’t have pentagrams tattooed on my―well, I don’t have any pentagram tattoos. But Clyde loved Craul. Fell for him hook, line and sinker. He would even attend his annual Infernal Masquerade parties at his mansion in Silver Lake. Craul’s dead now, of course, but they say he still shows up at the Infernal Masquerade.” She reached under the table and withdrew a notebook. “Matter of fact, there’s one going on tonight. Real wild parties. You know who else was a regular?”
    “Townsend Mars?” Angel asked.
    “What are you, psychic?” Madam Strang grinned. “Yeah. Dr. Bolton became pals with him too.” She pulled a scrap of paper, an invitation, from the notebook and handed it to Roscoe. “You can go to the Infernal Masquerade tonight. They use some old mansion up in Silver Lake, in the hills. I don’t know who owns it now that Craul’s gone, but the place is isolated and has got a big garden.”
    “Thanks.” Roscoe pocketed the invitation. “So what happened between you and Dr. Bolton?”
    “It wasn’t his fault. Maybe it wasn’t mine either.” Madam Strang slumped down behind the crystal ball. It made her face look like it was consumed by fog. “It was the guilt over what he did. He kept bottling it up, seeking a cure in magic without ever wanting to talk about it. He didn’t trust me enough―or maybe I didn’t earn his trust. Either way, he went off into the deep end and I didn’t follow him. I regret it to this day.”
    Roscoe stared at her. He could imagine it―the guilt and shame driving someone deeper and deeper into darkness, while they refused to discuss what was happening. He looked at his dead hands, bloodied when he was alive and bloodied when he was dead, and knew exactly what Madam Strang meant.
    “When we find him,” he said, “and he’s done his time, would you like us to get in touch?”
    Madam Strang shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It can’t hurt.” She sank lower into her seat, rendered despondent by the memory of the past.
    Roscoe had the feeling that she didn’t want to answer any more questions or have to think about Dr. Bolton. He didn’t want to press her.
    “We’ll tell him where you are then,” Angel said.
    Roscoe had the same idea. “Thank you very much for your help. We’ll get Dr. Bolton back and help with the trouble he’s in. I promise.”
    “Thank you,” Madam Strang said quietly.
    They left the fortune-telling room and stepped outside into the waiting area. Another car sat next to the entrance, parked in the spot adjoining Angel’s scarlet Caddie. The Lincoln had a dull black paint job, somewhat shiny, which matched its tinted windows. Four men stepped out of the car and approached the doorway. They didn’t look like they had come to hear their fortunes told. Each wore an identical black suit, the folds of their