The Devil's Graveyard (6 page)

Sanchez sighed and ran his left hand through his greasy dark hair, squeezing a clump of it tightly as if he was about to pull it out. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. This just ain’t happening.’

Just when it appeared that all was lost and that he was going to be forced to agree to share a room with an elderly fortune-telling sex pest, a voice he recognized spoke out from behind him.

‘Yo, Stephie. Guy’s a good friend a mine. Get him a room.’

Sanchez’s eyes lit up and he released his grip on his hair. He turned, and was overjoyed to see the coolest guy he knew. Coolest guy on the planet. It was Santa Mondega’s most feared hitman, Elvis. Whether or not Elvis was his real name was unknown, but he travelled by that name and dressed accordingly at all times. Today he was wearing a sharp, bright gold suit jacket with black pants and a black shirt that was buttoned up only about halfway. As always he was wearing his trademark supercool gold-rimmed shades, and had his thick, dark hair slicked up and back from his forehead, Presley-style.

Sanchez loved this guy, and was always pleased to see him. Which, given that Sanchez was almost never pleased to see anyone, was a pretty big social advance for the Tapioca’s owner. Elvis had a knack for showing up at just the right time, too. One notable incident, exactly ten years earlier, had seen Elvis arrive in time to gun down a gang of vampires that had swooped on Sanchez and a bunch of other innocent folk during a church service. The King had been booked to perform a song-and-dance routine for the churchgoers, but when the vampires had started terrorizing the congregation, he’d begun swivelling his hips and pointing his guitar at them, firing silver darts into their black hearts from the end of it. All while singing James Taylor’s ‘Steamroller Blues’. So it was understandable that Sanchez now greeted the King with a beaming smile.

‘Hey, Elvis. Like, whatcha doin’ here?’

‘Here for the
Back From the Dead
competition, man.’

‘You’re singin’ in it?’

‘You bet your ass I am. Million-dollar first prize, ain’t it? Couldn’t pass up the opportunity, now could I?’

‘Cool,’ said Sanchez. His vacation was picking up at last. ‘So, can ya get me a room here? Some shit ’bout how I ain’t on the goddam computer.’

‘Sure. Stephie will sort it out, won’tcha, Steph?’

The pretty receptionist didn’t look overly enthused about the idea. On the other hand, the look in her eye suggested that she was quite smitten by Elvis. The guy had a way with women. They just seemed to melt when he looked at them. And he had virtually hypnotic powers for getting them to do things to please him. A skill in which Sanchez was severely lacking.

‘He just called me a bitch,’ she pointed out, nodding sulkily at Sanchez.

Elvis pursed his lips. ‘
What?
Sanchez, you didn’t call her a bitch, didja?’

‘Uh – I guess I may have.’

Elvis slapped Sanchez across the back of the head. ‘Well, ya’d better dam’ well apologize, an’ if you’re lucky Stephie might just find ya a room.’

Sanchez ventured what he thought was an apologetic smile at the receptionist. The effect was of a corpse suddenly grimacing. ‘I’m sorry I called you a bitch,’ he offered in a surly mumble.

Stephie faked a smile back. ‘Don’t mention it. Okay, there is one room. A guy called Claude Balls was due yesterday, but he hasn’t shown up yet. You can have that one.’

‘Uh, thanks. Thank you very much.’ Aware that he had just been reprieved from a night with Annabel de Frugyn, his gratitude was at least sincere.

While Stephie began completing the paperwork and locating a room key for him, Sanchez turned back to his friend. ‘Thanks, Elvis. Really appreciate it.’

‘Don’ worry about it.’

‘Well, I’m definitely in your corner for the singin’ contest. What time are you onstage?’

Elvis appeared not to hear him. ‘Hold up. See that guy?’ he said, pointing at a man in his early forties, wearing a white suit. ‘That’s the hotel owner, Nigel Powell. Chief judge in the competition. An’ a multi-millionaire, too.’

Powell strode confidently over towards the reception desk, with two heavily built security guards following closely behind. Beneath his bright white suit jacket, he wore a black T-shirt, which succeeded in giving off the rather outdated
Don Johnson, Miami Vice
look. He had slicked-back black hair, improbably white and even teeth, and a fake orange tan that positively glowed against his white suit. The two security guards wore identical black suits with black T-shirts beneath. Both had short military flat-top haircuts, and both looked to be the kind that follows orders without question. Everyone in the lobby watched in a kind of awe as the trio made their way up to the second desk at reception and came to a stop behind Annabel.

‘Miss de Frugyn?’ Powell asked politely, his voice, deep and resonant.

Annabel’s body language suggested that she thought she’d been caught checking in with a stolen credit card (which was not altogether unlikely). She turned slowly to face the manager and his two heavies.

‘Yes,’ she trilled nervously. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Miss de Frugyn, my name is Nigel Powell. I have the honour to be the owner and manager of this hotel. Might I have a word with you?’

‘Why – certainly.’ Her body language spoke now of the startled jackrabbit.

Reaching out, Powell took a hold of Annabel’s hand and politely shook it. ‘My colleagues here will take your things to your room for you. Please, come this way.’

Sanchez and Elvis watched as the multi-millionaire led Annabel away through a set of glass double doors on the right-hand side of the circular lobby. Although they didn’t know it, he was taking her to a private area of the hotel.

‘Was that the Mystic Lady?’ Elvis asked Sanchez.

‘Yeah. Been sat next to her on the plane and the goddam bus. Fuckin’ useless annoyin’ old hag,’ Sanchez muttered.

‘Hear she’s kinda good at foreseein’ shit.’

‘Nope. She’s kinda good at talkin’ shit.’

‘No, man. I reckon she could probably predict who’s gonna win this show.’

‘You sure got high hopes,’ said Sanchez sarcastically.

Elvis smiled. ‘You like a gamble, don’tcha, Sanchez?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, there’s more’n just the singin’ contest goin’ on this weekend. They also gotta casino on the lower ground floor here. Reckon ol’ Mystic could be a useful friend to have in a place like that.’

Sanchez contemplated what the legendary hitman was saying. The Mystic Lady might actually be a useful ally in a casino. Except that, if the management knew of her alleged skills, they might not want her around.

Maybe that’s why she had been escorted elsewhere by the hotel’s owner?

Emily was not overly thrilled at having to share a dressing room with four men. Still, she kept reminding herself that it was only for one day, and the possible reward at the end of it would be life-changing.

She was one of the five singers Nigel Powell, chief judge of the
Back From the Dead
singing contest had pre-selected as finalists. Emily was a little uncomfortable that the public auditions hadn’t taken place yet, and that all of the other hopefuls who were now showing up at the hotel remained oblivious to the fact that the five finalists had already been chosen. But then she remembered every dive bar she’d ever had to perform in, the years of struggle, what this meant to her and to her mother. For the reality was this: they were the five finalists because they were the best tribute acts on the club circuit. So what if the show was rigged? Wasn’t everything nowadays? That, at least, was what she kept telling herself, anyway.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d won yet. She still had to beat the other four.

The five contestants sat in a row at individual dressing tables, each with its own mirror lit by small bulbs around the top and both sides. The dressing room was fairly poky, being about thirty feet long but only about eight feet wide. The walls were a calming pink colour, as were the tables. Emily’s was the only one that had any make-up on it. She had spent some time making sure she looked exactly how she wanted, whereas the guys had mostly sat around scratching themselves. Typical.

The four guys were all sitting at the tables to Emily’s left. Nearest to her was the Otis Redding impersonator. Aside from being black, he didn’t really look much like the late singer at all, but he had a magnificent voice, and was wearing what looked like an extremely expensive black suit with a red silk shirt beneath it. He was, Emily thought, liable to be quite a threat in the final.

Next to him was Kurt Cobain. He not only looked very much like the real Cobain, he potentially smelled a lot like him, too. He had on a grubby grey pullover and ripped jeans. His hair was blond and greasy, the lower half of his face was covered in two-day-old stubble and, to round off the grungy image, he appeared to have avoided soap for a few weeks. Maybe he was trying to smell like teen spirit. The resulting stink was more like teen jockstrap.

To his left sat Johnny Cash. Emily had figured out early on that this guy was taking things very seriously. He had changed his name legally to Johnny Cash, and did his best to live his life exactly as the much lamented singer had done. On his tribute tour, he’d played in almost all the same venues as his idol. His outfit consisted – to no one’s surprise – of a black shirt and black pants, and his black hair was greased up in a quiff. Without a doubt he had the most charisma of all the male contestants, and Emily had already decided that if she didn’t win the competition, then she would rather he won it than any of the others. But she really didn’t want to lose.

The final contestant, sitting at the far end nearest the door, was the James Brown impersonator. Unquestionably an oddball, he wore a purple suit with a blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned, underneath it, showing off a smooth brown chest and a chunky gold cross that hung from a chain around his neck. A permanent white smile beamed brightly across his face, and he sported the same wavy, unstyled hair that the Godfather of Soul had worn in his later years.

It was deathly quiet in the dressing room. Only the sound of Kurt Cobain’s nasal breathing broke the monotony. Emily decided to break the ice.

‘Does my hair look okay, do you think?’ she asked Otis Redding.

His response was instant. ‘Oh yeah, baby, you look fine,’ he said, with a reassuring nod. Johnny Cash, who had been busy preening his own hair in the brightly lit mirror before him, leaned round to get a look at Emily’s hair.

‘He’s right. You look right on the money,’ he said with a smile and a wink.

‘Thanks,’ said Emily, smiling back at him. Encouraged by their friendliness, she said, ‘Guess I’m starting to get seriously nervous now. How’s everyone else doing?’

Relieved that the silence had been broken, the four men spoke almost together. The general consensus was that they were indeed all nervous. James Brown summed it up perfectly. ‘Reckon I’d be less nervous if I didn’t know I was already through to the final,’ he said standing up from his chair. ‘Now we got all this pressure of knowin’ that, even if we suck in the heats we’re still gonna be put through by the judges, an’ everyone will know that the show is rigged.’

Emily nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘Definitely. I barely slept last night, worrying about fluffing the audition stage. Seems to me there’ll be less pressure in the final.’

Johnny Cash spoke again. ‘Yeah. Truth is, though, I’d sooner earn my place in the final legitimately. This feels like cheating really, don’t it? Whyn’t they just allow us to try an’ get through on our own merits?’

Otis Redding was the only one to reply. ‘’Cause it’s only a one-day competition.’

‘Yeah? An’ what difference does that make?’

‘Well, numbnuts, when you get to the final you’re not gonna be standin’ there singin’ on your own. You’re gonna have the house orchestra playin’ along to your song.’

‘So?’

‘So the orchestra needs to know days in advance what music they’re gonna be performin’, don’t they? If a fuckin’ Jimi Hendrix impersonator gets through to the final – unexpected, like – and says he’s gonna sing “Voodoo Chile”, I betcha anythin’, the orchestra’d be fucked. Imagine trying to learn how to play that and four other songs in about an hour.’