The Devil's Graveyard (12 page)

Sanchez had done some pretty stupid – yeah, okay, some dam’ stupid – things in his time. Usually they had involved women or gambling. His latest involved both, although the woman concerned was not of the sort that usually induced an act of stupidity. The women over whom he usually made an asshole of himself tended to be young, attractive and devious. The Mystic Lady was old, ugly and stupid, in Sanchez’s eyes at least. What in the hell had he been thinking?

The twenty thousand dollars from the brown envelope was now gone. Blown in a moment of madness that had seen him lump the whole lot on
red
at the roulette wheel. All because he’d listened to that mad old hag Annabel de fuckin’ Frugyn
. Some fuckin’ fortune teller she’d turned out to be
. If she ever decided to set foot in Sanchez’s bar in Santa Mondega, the Tapioca, she’d be getting another sample of his famous homebrew. Useless old bitch.

So now he was faced with an awkward predicament. He had to take the envelope and hand it in at reception, ripped open at one end and minus the twenty thousand dollars. He should have told Elvis about the money straight away, when he first saw it at the bottom of the envelope. They could have split it between them, and then he’d have had Elvis on his side if anyone came looking for it. It was too damned late now to admit to Elvis he’d held out on him. He wasn’t even sure if taking the envelope and handing it in at the reception desk was a good idea. If the intended recipient showed up asking for it and found it opened and the money missing, he would probably come looking for Sanchez. The only positive thing that he could see in this goddam mess was that handing in the envelope would ensure that the receptionists might also come under suspicion.

The alternative – not handing in the envelope – would most likely result in its intended recipient tracking down Sanchez anyway. If the envelope was found in his hotel room, he’d be in all kinds of trouble. So he had convinced himself that handing it in to the reception desk kind of made sense.

He was relieved to see that the hordes of visitors checking in had now gone. The oval-shaped reception hall was fairly quiet. He circled it a few times, still wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing, but by the time he’d strolled nonchalantly past the desk four or five times he reckoned it was beginning to look like he was stalking the receptionist. And since that was the one and only Stephie, whom he had earlier called a bitch, he guessed he was starting to look creepy. So eventually, before she reached for some kind of panic button, he approached the desk. It was definitely the right thing to do, not least because he’d promised Elvis he would hand in the envelope, and right now he wasn’t keen on pissing the King off too much. Elvis was his only ally.

‘Hi again,’ he said, offering Stephie a disingenuous smile.

The receptionist had seen him strolling back and forth, occasionally staring over at her, and was understandably creeped out by it. The very large number of guests arriving had meant that she’d had a busy morning; physically and mentally drained, she was not in the right frame of mind to take any shit from Sanchez.

‘I really,
really
hope you’re not about to ask me out,’ she said, looking at him with barely concealed contempt.

Bitch
, he thought, but he forced his best smile and slapped the envelope down on the reception desk.

‘Found this in the room you kindly got for me. Thought I oughta hand it in, y’know? – case the guy it was meant for shows up lookin’ for it.’

Stephie looked down at the envelope in front of her. ‘Oh sure,’ she said sarcastically, ‘Though I see you’ve opened it.’

‘Nah. It was like that when I found it.’

‘Of course.’ She snatched it up and stood, tutting quietly under her breath just loud enough for him to hear. ‘I’ll go stick this in a safe-deposit box out back, just so it doesn’t open itself again.’

‘Uh, thanks,’ said Sanchez, maintaining his horrible fake smile. ‘Oh, and er, like, if the guy does come lookin’ for it…’

‘Claude Balls.’

‘’Scuse me?’

‘Claude Balls. The man whose room you took.’

‘Yeah, him. If he comes lookin’ for it, mebbe you could give me a call in my room? Just so I’ll know he got it okay? It’ll help me sleep better.’

‘I’ll bet.’ Throwing him one last disapproving look, Stephie disappeared with the envelope through a door at the back of the lobby. One of the other female receptionists passed her on the way. She was a short, rotund woman in her fifties with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. She took up a place at the desk next to Stephie’s and smiled at Sanchez. Time to make a hasty retreat, he figured. Elvis was shortly due onstage for his audition for the
Back From the Dead
contest. Sanchez wanted to be sure he was there so that he could win some credit with the King by applauding loudly afterwards and complimenting him on his performance.

As he headed to a set of glass doors that led out of the lobby and down towards the theatre, he heard a booming voice from the lobby behind him. It sounded like it belonged to a very large and domineering man.

‘Hello, miss,’ it said, politely enough. ‘Do you have a room reserved for me? Name of Claude Balls.’

Sanchez felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Please
, he thought.
Don’t let this man look as nasty as he sounds.

Dreading what he might see, he turned around. His worst fears had been realized. For there, standing at the reception desk, was an absolute giant of a man. He stood around six five, and wore a long grey trench coat. His thick, unwashed red hair was dragged back into a ponytail that reached down below his shoulder blades. He had a goatee to match, hanging down almost to his chest in a thin plait. Beneath the coat, he was wearing what looked to Sanchez like military gear. A former soldier, perhaps? A deadly assassin? Judging by the contents of the envelope Sanchez had opened, most definitely.

The worried bar owner would not have been reassured to learn that the man claiming to be Claude Balls was actually a well-known hitman round those parts. In fact, he was better known as Invincible Angus because of his incredible endurance. He’d been stabbed, shot, maimed, maced, bludgeoned, you name it, but he always got back up. And he always got his man.

Sanchez didn’t need to stare at him for long to know that it was time to get going before one of the receptionists told their latest guest about the envelope that had been tampered with. Just then, sensing that he was being watched, Invincible Angus looked over at Sanchez and gave him an evil glare.

‘The fuck you lookin’ at, fatso?’ he snarled.

There was no need for a response. Sanchez simply turned and rushed off to find Elvis.

Over the years, Luther’s impersonation of Otis Redding had earned him many admirers. But it was the approval of the three judges in the
Back From the Dead
competition that could make or break his future. If he won this competition, he would get a contract with the casino and he’d never have to do ‘real’ work again. As a travelling performer working the night-club circuit he barely made enough money to scrape by from week to week. This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity could change all that. As long as he kept his cool.

The first thing a tribute act would be judged on was its appearance. And Luther had taken great care to look his best. First impressions were crucial, and he wasn’t about to let any stone go unturned in his search for fame. He had had an eye-catching shiny black suit and a sharp red shirt made especially for this show. The suit had the name Otis stitched in gold on the left breast pocket, and across the back in much larger letters.
Tacky?
Well, maybe slightly, but important?
Absolutely.
Being instantly recognizable as the performer in question was vital. Luther had learned that lesson early in his career. It helped him to create the illusion that he really was Otis Redding.

As he strode out on to the stage he saw himself on a huge television screen set above a raised area at the back of the stage. Because of that, the entire audience would be able to see every bead of sweat on his brow.

Standing up onstage in front of an audience of thousands in the hotel’s main hall was the most nerve-racking moment of his career to date. In front of him, the auditorium looked absolutely huge, bigger than any other he had ever performed in. The rows of seats went back at least a hundred deep, rising all the way to the back, and were split into three sections. The middle segment spanned thirty seats across and the two side sections had another fifteen seats in each row. And right now every one of the seats was filled.

Up above was a gallery that ran from each edge of the stage to the centre, where there was a glass-walled sound booth. A deejay, who also doubled as the lighting engineer, sat inside it. Luther glanced up and saw the deejay picking his nose. He immediately looked away and tried to erase the image from his mind.

The auditions for the final had been under way for half an hour. The early contestants were the real hopefuls, the ones who had no idea that the show was rigged and had travelled from miles around in the hope that their dreams would be realized. Some were exceptionally good, undeniably worthy of a place in the final. Others were pitifully bad. But now, half an hour into the show, Otis, the first of the five contestants who had been secretly pre-selected for the final, was up to perform. All he had to do was make sure his performance didn’t suck.

On the stage directly in front of him he could see the panel of three judges watching his every move. It felt as if they were checking his temperament, watching for weaknesses. He could feel their eyes burning into him even more fiercely than the bright lights from above. He only recognized one of the judges. The panel was composed of a black woman, a white woman and, seated between them, a man with skin tanned a curious shade of orange. This was Nigel Powell, the head judge, and the deviser and owner of the competition.

They sat behind a silver-panelled desk that ran along the front of the stage with their backs to the audience and the orchestra pit below them. Before each of them was a glass of water and a pen and notepad, should they decide to make any notes.

As the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell upon him, making the watching audience virtually invisible to him, Luther felt a sudden last-minute surge of confidence. He was going to be incredible. He was certain of it.

After briefly introducing himself and being quizzed by the show’s host, Nina Forina, he mentally braced himself and prepared to sing. Feeling more nervous than he really needed to, he waited until the orchestra began the introductory bars, took a deep breath and launched into the opening line of ‘These Arms of Mine’. It felt odd, singing in front of such a large audience without a backing track, but he nailed it. The crowd below showed their immediate approval by applauding loudly, which boosted his confidence even further. For the next ninety seconds, until Powell called for him to stop, he owned the stage. None of the singers who had gone before him had been allowed to sing for more than thirty seconds, but to make sure the audience remembered Luther’s performance it had been secretly agreed that he would be allowed to sing for longer. By the time he had finished his audition he was receiving a well-earned standing ovation from the crowd, and even a pair of oversized white panties from one of the women near the front.