The Devil's Graveyard (5 page)

‘Aw, come on, I gotta practise. I’m gonna sing “Earth Song” for my audition in the show. Wanna hear it?’

The Kid tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘You sing so much as one word a that song, I’ll make sure the screamin’ part in the chorus goes on for a long long time.’

‘I see. I could do “Smooth Criminal” if you prefer?’

The Kid hit the brakes. Tyres smoking and squealing, the Firebird fishtailed to a halt. ‘Get out,’ its driver rasped.

Even Jacko could see he meant it.

‘But there’s a couple more turns still to take from here,’ he protested. ‘You could get lost without me.’

The Kid took some more deep breaths as he deliberated on whether or not to pull out a weapon and kill his travelling companion. Eventually he decided, Yeah, the guy deserved to die, but what to kill him with? Bare hands? A blade? Or a beating over the head with a gun butt? As he was reaching inside his jacket for his pistol, his passenger made a wise decision.

‘Let’s not talk any more. I’ll just give directions. How’s that?’

‘You’ll live longer.’

‘Cool.’

The Kid put his foot down on the accelerator and the car sped off again down the dusty highway, kicking up another cloud of dust, sand and smoke behind as it went.

‘There’s a fork in the road ’bout two miles from here,’ said Jacko. ‘You wanna kinda hang a right when you get to it.’

They carried on down the highway for another couple of minutes until the fork in the road came into view. The Kid did as suggested and headed off down the road on the right. The peace and quiet in the car suited him just fine, but he could sense that his passenger was finding the silence uncomfortable. The knowledge that this imbecile might start jabbering again was enough in itself to irk him. Eventually, just as the Kid expected, Jacko spoke again.

‘You gotta radio in this car?’

‘Can’t get no tee-vee or radio or cell-phone signals in this shithole desert. Place is totally cut off. Just how I like it.’

‘Well, I could whistle some tunes. Y’know, keep us entertained for the rest of the journey.’

‘Not with a broken neck you couldn’t.’

Jacko opened his mouth as though about to respond, but, suffering a sudden attack of common sense, decided against it. The two men didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, other than one last direction Jacko offered when he advised the Kid to turn left at a T-junction. Half an hour’s silence later, the black Pontiac Firebird pulled into the long concrete driveway that led from the road up to the Hotel Pasadena. There were surprisingly few other cars around as he cruised up to the front of the hotel. A young valet with thick dark hair greeted them at the foot of the steps that led up to reception. People were busily hurrying back and forth outside, and there were a lot of rich-looking people visible in the foyer through the glass double doors at the hotel entrance.

As the car came to a stop right outside the front of the hotel, the valet approached. He was in his early twenties, and his uniform consisted of a white shirt with a red vest and black pants. The Kid looked over at Jacko, who was reaching for the door handle to get out of the car.

‘You. Stay in the car. Make sure the valet doesn’t crash into anything.’

Jacko nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘And hand me a pack of cigarettes.’

Jacko reached into the glove box and pulled out one of the packs of cigarettes he had tossed in there earlier. He threw it over to the Kid who caught it and tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. As he opened the driver’s side door, he issued one last instruction to his passenger. ‘When the valet’s finished parking the car, make sure you squeeze his knee.’

‘’Scuse me?’

‘Squeeze his knee, just once. It’s a custom in this place. You don’t do it, they get really offended.’

Jacko looked baffled. ‘Jeez, thanks. I had no idea.’

‘Sure.’ The Kid stepped out of the car and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his hip pocket. He slipped it into the valet’s right hand. The young Latino’s face lit up.

‘Say, thanks, mister.’

The Kid nodded at Jacko in the passenger seat. ‘See him?’ he asked.

The valet peered into the car and saw Jacko with his tightly permed black hair and his red leather suit, grinning back at him. ‘Yeah. I see him all right.’ He sounded wary.

‘He touches your knee, punch him in the goddam face.’

As he walked up the steps to the hotel’s front entrance, the Kid had a feeling he would see Jacko again before the day was through. His instincts were telling him that there was something about the Michael Jackson impersonator that wasn’t quite right.

He just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

The Hotel Pasadena was as impressive up close as it had looked from afar. The desert sun glinted from the many windows on the forty-storey building, giving the impression from a distance that they were approaching a giant mirror. The closer the bus got to it the more magnificent it looked. The bus took a right turn off the highway through a sturdy set of solid iron arched gates set into a white concrete wall that ran along the perimeter of the hotel’s grounds. There was a sign across the top of the gateway with a name in bright red metallic lettering.

HOTEL PASADENA

No shit
, thought Sanchez.

A smooth concrete driveway almost a quarter-mile long led up to the front of the hotel. As the bus headed round to the back, Sanchez stared open-mouthed at the sheer magnificence of the place. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad deal after all. In Santa Mondega there wasn’t a single building that could even come close to matching it. The local museum was impressive, but looked old and decrepit in comparison to this brash beast of a building.

The bus parked up at the rear of what was already an extremely busy parking lot, in contrast to the marked lack of cars at the front. After grabbing his luggage from the trunk of the bus, Sanchez headed quickly (by his standards) round to the lobby at the front of the hotel before Annabel the Mystic Lady could latch on to him. Four wide white marble steps led up to a set of large glass double doors. Sanchez took them two at a time before darting through the automatic doors, which parted for him as he reached the top step.

The lobby was vast, too. The ceiling was almost forty feet high, and at its centre hung a magnificent chandelier, light gleaming from its thousands of cut-glass pieces. The floor was made up from polished squares of alternating grey and black marble, and made Sanchez feel that he should remove his shoes to avoid scuffing it.

But, boy, was it busy. Half the free world appeared to have just checked in. Everywhere there were people with suitcases, making all kinds of noise. Sanchez wasn’t overly fond of other people at the best of times, and after a long journey spent sitting next to someone whom, in his more charitable moments, he considered to be a demented old crone, meant that he was feeling particularly intolerant. The constant bustle before him made his heart sink. About a hundred people were milling back and forth around him in the lobby. It was plenty big enough to accommodate everyone, but its circular shape meant that every sound bounced off the creamy white walls and straight into Sanchez’s ears.

Fortunately, Sanchez saw, there were plenty of porters, busboys and receptionists to deal with the guests as they all jostled for attention. Which was just as well, since checking in was one of his least favourite activities in life. It ranked right up there with having his thigh squeezed by a repugnant old fortune teller.

He quickly realized that to waste time gawping at the sheer size and opulence of the place would likely cost him his chance of being served quickly. Already a few people had darted past him towards the reception desk. Seeing this, Sanchez shifted up a gear and headed for one of the six female receptionists. They were sitting in a row behind the chest-high oak desk, each with a monitor on in front of her. Five of them were already busy, but fortunately the best-looking one seemed still to be free.

Sanchez scuttled over to her and set his large brown suitcase down on the floor. Grinning like a fool, he peered over the desk at her. A quick glance down the line at the others confirmed he had struck gold. Undoubtedly he’d picked the best-looking one. This was only fair, of course. A man of his distinction and sophistication shouldn’t have to waste his charms on just anyone. She was a petite young woman in her early twenties with long dark hair scraped back into a ponytail that had been brought forward to hang down over her left shoulder. Like each of the other receptionists, she wore a smart vest in some shiny red cloth, with a pristine white blouse underneath. The vest had a gold emblem sewn on to the left breast. Staring at it for an inappropriately long time, Sanchez worked out that it was some kind of a fork.
Odd choice for an emblem,
he thought.
But hell, there ain’t no accountin’ for taste.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ the receptionist asked, in an accent that betrayed her origins in the Deep South.

‘Sure. Sanchez Garcia. I won this competition.’ Sanchez fumbled around in the inside pocket of his brown suede jacket for a few seconds, before finally pulling out the now somewhat tatty letter confirming he had won a stay at the hotel hosting the rather exciting sounding
Back From the Dead
singing contest. He handed it over to the receptionist who took a look at it and began tapping away on a keyboard in front of her. As he waited for her to confirm his stay and offer him his room key, he heard the voice of Annabel de Frugyn behind him. He prayed she wouldn’t spot him and come hovering round, giving the receptionist the false impression that they were together.

‘Ah, there you are, Sanchez, I thought I’d lost you.’ There was a horrible cooing tone to her voice, somehow.

Fuck!
He turned round and saw the ludicrously badly dressed, silver-haired old witch standing behind him with a luggage cart on which her three suitcases had been piled.

‘Yeah. We seemed to get split up back there,’ he said. ‘Figured I’d look for you here.’

‘Well I’m here now.’ She smiled, in what she fondly imagined was a coquettish manner. Fondly, but inaccurately; the effect was, in fact, nothing short of grotesque.

‘Maybe we should split up again? I was enjoyin’ the thrill of lookin’ for you everywhere.’

Annabel gave him a playful shove in the back and rolled her eyes at him.

‘Why, Sanchez! You’re such a tease.’

The receptionist next to the girl serving Sanchez had just finished with her latest customer and called over to Annabel, ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

‘Yes. You surely can, young lady. Annabel de Frugyn. I won this competition.’

Sanchez, relieved to see Annabel head over to the other receptionist, turned his attentions back to the young woman dealing with his arrival. She was regarding him with an apologetic ‘I’m sorry, sir’ look on her face. A look Sanchez had seen far too many times in his life, especially from pretty girls. Something was wrong. He could sense it.

‘I’m sorry, Mister Garcia,’ she said, ‘but we seem to have no record of you on our computer.’

‘
What
?’

‘For some reason we don’t have a room reserved for you. Your letter is definitely valid, but we don’t actually have a room booked in your name.’

‘But you have spare rooms, right?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. The hotel is fully booked.’

Sanchez could feel himself grinding his teeth. ‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do? This is the only fuckin’ hotel around.’

‘Sir, could you please refrain from swearing?’

‘If you can refrain from being an unhelpful bitch.’ His voice was rising, too, in both pitch and volume.

A hush descended upon the lobby as it became evident that there was a dispute in progress, one with every chance of escalating. To add to Sanchez’s discomfort, Annabel leaned over from her place at the desk next to him and whispered in his ear.

‘You can always share my room with me, if you want?’

‘Bite me,’ he snarled back.

The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid that will be your only option.’ She paused before drawling an insolent ‘sir.’