The Book With No Name (9 page)

‘Where the hero was black, right?’ Somers had thought to touch a nerve, but he misjudged his mark.

‘True, but that’s not why I like them. Tony directed
True Romance,
too, and that was a good movie that didn’t have a black hero.’

‘Fair enough,’ sighed Somers. ‘I’d still have to go with Ridley, though, on account of the fact that Tony was responsible for that dumbass horror movie
The Hunger.
Probably the worst vampire film I’ve ever seen.’

‘Okay, so it’s not
The Lost Boys.
’

‘Damn right it’s not,’ said Somers. Tiring of the discussion, he went on, ‘Look, let’s just find something we do agree on, and then you can tell everyone we’ve bonded. Here’s an easy one: Robert Redford or Freddie Prinze Junior?’

‘Redford.’

‘Thank you. Now that we’ve found something in common, have we got a deal, partner?’

‘A deal? How do you mean?’

‘I mean, I’ll take on board all your supernatural theories and help you all I can, but you gotta do the same for me. You take on board my Bourbon Kid theory, and we take each other seriously. God knows, no one else in this police department is going to.’

‘You got your deal, Detective Somers.’

‘Good. So do you wanna see what the Kid did to these five new victims?’

Miles nodded. ‘Go on.’

Somers pulled open the desk drawer on his left and produced a clear plastic folder. He flipped it open and slung a bunch of five-by-seven photographs down on the desk. Jensen got up from his seat, picked up the first glossy print and took a long hard look at it. What he saw appalled him. He wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. Then he looked down at the others on the desk. After scanning them all for a few seconds he looked back at Somers, who was nodding his head. The photos were more hideous than anything he had ever seen, and Miles Jensen had seen some really hideous things.

‘Is this for real?’ he asked quietly.

‘I know,’ said Somers. ‘What kind of sick bastard could do that to another human being?’

It was late morning when the man they called Elvis strutted triumphantly into the Tapioca. He moved like he was jiving across a stage to the beat of ‘Suspicious Minds’, not just today, but always. It was as if he had an invisible set of headphones that constantly played the tune over and over in his head. Sanchez loved this guy and was kind of excited to see him. Not that he would show it. It wouldn’t do to let Elvis know that he liked him. Elvis was too cool, and he’d make the bartender feel like a fool if it became obvious that Sanchez kind of – sort of – you know – idolized him.

Elvis looked cool, too. Well, he looked cool for someone who was always dressed as Elvis Presley. A lot of people think Elvis impersonators look ridiculous, a total embarrassment to themselves, but no one thought that about this guy. He reminded people of just how cool the King really was, before he wasn’t.

On this particular morning Elvis was wearing a lilac-coloured suit. It had slightly flared trousers with a row of black tassels running all the way up the outside of the legs, and a perfectly fitted jacket with wide black lapels. These were matched by a flimsy black shirt buttoned up only halfway to show off his bronzed hairy chest and a chunky gold TCB (‘Taking Care of Business’) medallion hanging from his neck on a heavy gold chain. Although it might have looked tacky to some, Sanchez actually thought the medallion was pretty cool. Elvis had the long black sideburns and very thick (just about due for a cut) black hair. To top things off, he always wore the trademark thick gold-rimmed sunglasses, too. He
didn’t even take them off when he sat himself down at the bar, ready to discuss business with Sanchez.

It didn’t bother Elvis that the Tapioca was moderately busy, and it didn’t bother Sanchez. If Elvis wanted to chew the fat with Sanchez for half an hour, then none of the other customers would order a drink. Elvis was respected, feared and, strangely enough, liked by just about everyone in town.

‘Hear y’had some pretty shitty news,’ said the King, with a knowing nod of the head.

Sanchez picked up a bottle and, unasked, began to pour him a glass of whisky. ‘Shit travels fast when you throw it around,’ he said, slowly sliding the drink over the bar to Elvis.

‘Shit like yours creates quite a stink, too,’ the other remarked. His voice was a deep drawl.

Sanchez smiled for the first time that morning. It was only half a smile, but being in the presence of greatness had dragged him out of the depths of sorrow he had been wallowing in since finding his brother dead. God bless the King.

‘So, Elvis, my friend, what do you know about this particular shit?’

‘You’re looking for the driver of a yellow Caddy, right?

‘That’s right. Y’seen him?’

‘I seen him. Want me to kill him for ya?’

‘Yeah. Kill him,’ said Sanchez. He was pleased Elvis had offered because he had been a little nervous about actually asking him out loud. ‘Make him suffer, then kill him again. If that don’t work, just torture him ’til he’s dead.’

‘Kill him more than once, huh? Normally that’d cost extra, but I like you, Sanchez, so I’ll kill him the second time for nothin’.’

This was music to Sanchez’s ears. It felt like he could suddenly hear ‘Suspicious Minds’ blaring away in the corners of his mind.

‘So how much d’ya want for the job?’ he asked.

‘A thousand up front. Then when he’s dead I want ya to pay to have his car resprayed. I’ve always wanted a pink
Cadillac. Kinda rock ’n’ roll, don’t ya think?’

‘Right.’ Sanchez agreed. He picked up the whisky bottle and topped up Elvis’s glass. ‘I’ll go get you the first instalment. Watch the bar for me a minute, would ya?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Elvis spent a minute gazing into his glass, checking out his reflection, while Sanchez disappeared out back to get the money. It wasn’t just the money and the car that Elvis was after. Rumour had it that the driver of the yellow Cadillac also had a precious blue stone. Piece like that could be worth a fortune. Elvis knew nothing about jewellery, but he did know that women liked the stuff. Gifts like that were the perfect way to a lady’s heart, and Elvis loved the ladies.

Sanchez reappeared with a greasy brown envelope loaded with cash. Elvis took it and held it open. Then he flicked through the notes, not to count them, just to make sure they were all genuine, though he trusted Sanchez – insofar as he trusted anyone. Satisfied that everything was in order he folded the envelope in half and tucked it inside his jacket. Then he tossed back his drink, finishing it in one quick gulp, pulled off a quick spin move on his stool, stood up, and headed for the door.

‘Hey, Elvis, wait up,’ called Sanchez. The King stopped, but didn’t look back.

‘Yeah, man, what is it?’

‘The name.’

‘The name?’

‘Yeah, what’s the name of this guy you’re gonna kill for me? Do I know him?’

‘You might. He’s from outta town. He’s a bounty hunter.’

‘So what’s his name? And why did he kill my brother and his wife?’

Sanchez had not initially planned to ask Elvis these questions, but now that the hitman had accepted the job and was off to carry out his instructions he was overcome with a desire to know more about the mysterious driver of the yellow
Cadillac.

Elvis turned round and peered back at Sanchez over the top of his sunglasses.

‘You sure you wanna know now? Wouldn’t you rather know after the job’s done? Y’know, so’s you don’t change your mind?’

‘Nah, just tell me – who the fuck is he?’

‘Some mean dude, goes by the name of Jefe. Don’t you fret, though. By this time tomorrow he’ll be known as “Jefe the Corpse”.’

Before Sanchez could warn him how dangerous Jefe was, Elvis was already gone. Not that it would matter. Elvis would deal with Jefe. That sonofabitch was due to meet one hell of a violent death at the hands of the King.

Detectives Miles Jensen and Archibald Somers both recognized the handiwork they saw before them. Jensen looked over at Somers, who was no doubt thinking the same thing. Two more dead bodies, both ruthlessly murdered like the five in the photos Somers had shown Jensen earlier. These two unfortunates were Thomas and Audrey Garcia. No doubt their dental records would confirm this later. Until then, the identification was just a fairly safe assumption.

They had arrived at the large farmhouse on the outskirts of town long after the first policemen had shown up in response to a call from a relative of the victims. There was a long dirt track that wound all the way up to the front porch. Jensen’s battered old BMW saloon had just enough about it to get them over the rocks and potholes in once piece. This was a farmhouse that had been around for many years, suffering whatever the elements threw at it. It didn’t take a great detective to see that much.

Within seconds of entering the kitchen at the front of the house Jensen was envying Somers, who had had the forethought to bring a handkerchief with him to cover his nose and mouth. The stench rising from the bodies was overwhelming, and Jensen was the only person in the room who didn’t have anything to mask the smell that assailed them. There were five other police officers scattered around the kitchen. Two of them were using a tape measure to work out distances from the bodies to various other areas of the kitchen. Another had a Polaroid camera and was busy taking photos. Every now and again the camera made a whirring noise and spat out a
print just like the ones Somers had of the previous five victims. One of the other officers appeared to be dusting for prints, an unenviable task, given that just about every inch of the room was covered in blood. The fifth and final cop was Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs. He was clearly the ranking officer because he was doing nothing other than looking over the shoulders of his colleagues to make sure they were doing their jobs properly.

Scraggs was wearing a stylish dark blue suit. It wasn’t exactly an official uniform, but it looked as though he wanted it to be. He wore a neatly pressed, spotless white shirt under his suit jacket, and a plain navy-blue tie. It made sense that he should look like a man who took great care in his appearance, because attention to detail was an all-important part of being in his team. ‘His’ forensics team. They weren’t exactly the pride of the Santa Mondega Police Department, but Scraggs was doing his utmost to change that.