The Devil's Graveyard (21 page)

Elvis nodded. ‘’Fraid so. You get used to it.’

‘What?’ asked Sanchez. ‘What’s going on?’

‘He’s killing off his henchmen to show how evil he is,’ said Elvis. ‘Guy’s a walkin’ cliché. Ain’t you noticed?’

‘Point of fact, that ain’t what I’m doin’ at all,’ Angus protested. ‘Those guys didn’t know who I am. Thought I was helpin’ out their boss. But I got more important business than that. I’m here to kill off some of the contestants in the singin’ contest.’

Elvis was not done with goading Angus. ‘See, Sanchez? I toldja he was a cliché. He’s now tellin’ us all the intricate details of his evil plot before he kills us off. Put a grey suit on him, shave his hair off an’ you’ve got Doctor Evil right there.’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Angus snapped.

Elvis ignored him. ‘What next?’ he asked. ‘You gonna leave us in some trap, then head off back to the hotel and just
assume
we’ll die?’

Angus’s face started to twitch as Elvis’s baiting began to turn his irritation to rage. ‘You listen to me, and listen good,’ he growled, aiming his pistols at their chests. ‘You two got a choice. One of you can live by tellin’ me where my twenty grand is.’

‘Shit, man. We don’t know,’ said Elvis. ‘There weren’t no twenty grand in the envelope, I swear.’

‘He’s right,’ Sanchez agreed shakily. He didn’t know which frightened him more: Angus thinking he knew where the money was, or Elvis finding out that there had been twenty grand in the envelope all along.

‘Okay,’ said Angus. ‘In that case, start diggin’ the goddam hole. But when one of you two works out how to get me my twenty grand back, feel free to smack your buddy over the head with your shovel. That happens, then whoever’s still standin’ gets to come back to the hotel with me to give me my money after we’ve buried the loser.’

Sanchez looked suspiciously at Elvis. Would the King turn on him? Should Sanchez discover some guts and strike first? Or did Elvis really have a plan to get them out of their dangerous situation?

‘Guess we start diggin’, then,’ Elvis suggested. For a man who was probably going to die real soon, he seemed remarkably unconcerned.

Hampered by their tightly bound wrists, both men awkwardly thrust their shovels into the ground and began scooping up dirt to make a hole. Angus tucked one of his pistols back inside his trench coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As he was taking one out of the packet with his teeth, Sanchez whispered to Elvis.

‘Seriously, you got a plan, right?’

‘Somethin’ll happen, man.’

‘How d’ya know?’

‘Somethin’ always happens.’

‘That’s it?
Somethin’ always happens?
That’s your plan?’

‘Got a better one?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then quit bitchin’.’

‘You quit bitchin’.’

Angus had put away the pack of cigarettes and was now lighting his cigarette with a gunmetal Zippo. That done, he took a long drag and tucked his lighter back inside his coat. He looked just about ready to make a decision about who should die first.

‘Hey, less talk, more diggin’,’ he called out, exhaling a lungful of smoke through his nostrils.

The two captives both thrust their shovels into the grave slowly forming in front of them. They continued to dig for several minutes, eyeing each other suspiciously. Elvis was having the most success with his digging, so his end of the grave was a few inches deeper than Sanchez’s. When Elvis’s side was almost a foot deep, the alarm on his wristwatch went off, signalling that it was nine o’clock. It was a gentle beeping sound, but it resonated clearly in the silent, wide-open expanse of the desert. Sanchez watched as his friend dropped his shovel into the grave they were digging.

‘Hey,’ shouted Angus, pointing his pistol at Elvis. ‘Pick that up and carry on diggin’, you sonofabitch.’

Elvis shook his head. ‘Can’t,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Somethin’s just happened.’

The Bourbon Kid wasn’t generally in the business of saving lives. Emily-the-Judy-Garland-impersonator probably didn’t deserve to have her life saved, come to that. But he wasn’t about to stand by and put himself through torture, by letting someone who reminded him of Beth sell her soul to the Devil. And the only way the Kid knew how to deal effectively with any kind of problem was by killing. Which was quite a dilemma.

He had had no problem with killing the other contestants. As far as he was concerned, they had all been willing to sell their souls to the Devil in exchange for fortune and fame, whether they knew it or not.
Losers.
Julius-James Brown was just another desperate wannabe. He was different only because he wanted to win more desperately than the others. Added to that, the Kid didn’t like him, so if he won the contest and sold his soul to the Devil, then fine. There was a major stumbling block, though.

Julius wasn’t good enough to beat Emily. Not in a million years.

Her Judy Garland impression would wipe the floor with his James Brown routine. Someone had to be found who could beat Emily and so save her from selling her soul to the Devil, assuming that really
was
the fate that befell the winner (he only had Julius’s word on that). If someone better than her could be found, then it would screw up Julius’s plan and teach the little fuck a lesson for refusing to pay up after the Kid had killed three of his rivals. Normally the Kid would have killed someone over such a matter, but Julius had a little more to him than met the eye. If there really was some undead action to be had at this hotel, then it was Julius who knew the truth about it all. That fact would keep him alive for a little while longer. But it wouldn’t help him win the million-dollar prize money and the alleged contract with the Devil. The Kid would rather see that go to someone else. And he knew exactly who that should be.

He found Jacko in the casino area, sitting at a roulette table. The Michael Jackson wannabe stood out like a sore thumb in his ridiculous red leather suit. The casino was fairly quiet because most people were in the concert hall, watching the last few performers in the auditions going through the motions and being abused accordingly by Nigel Powell. The few people standing in between the Kid and Jacko were quick to get out of his way as he strode over to the roulette table. He was still wearing his shades so no one could see his eyes. Not that anyone wanted to.

There were four players seated on stools at the roulette table. Jacko, who was sitting at the end nearest to the Bourbon Kid, had placed a single chip on the number thirteen. A desperate man’s bet indeed. The croupier, a silver-haired man probably no older than forty, spun the roulette wheel and then sent a small ball rolling around the rim in the opposite direction to the wheel’s spin. Jacko watched intently, but before he had a chance to see the outcome, the Kid placed a hand on his shoulder and twisted him round to face him, eye to eye. Jacko looked surprised to see him again, but greeted him with an enthusiastic smile.

‘Hi, man. How ya doin’?’ he asked.

‘Listen to me, you piece o’ shit.’

‘Nice to see you again too,’ said Jacko reproachfully, looking around at the three other players at the table. They all looked a mite shocked at the Kid’s rough manner and uncouth language. But wisely, everyone (including the croupier) chose not to comment and quickly refocused their attention on the roulette wheel.

‘You had no intention of entering this singing competition, did ya?’ the Kid asked.

‘What? Sure I did, man.’

‘Bullshit. You just wanted a ride here.’ The gravelly tone in the Kid’s voice that Jacko had noticed before was back. With a vengeance.

‘No way, man. Swear to God. I tried to enter, but it turns out the organizers only allow one person to impersonate a singer. There’s already another Michael Jackson here, and he performed before I had a chance to sign up. It just means I can enjoy the show, an’ maybe next year I’ll get a chance.’

‘You’re entering this contest. I didn’t bring you here just so you could sit in the casino playing roulette with –’ he looked at the other players – ‘a bunch of ugly losers.’ The losers in question bridled, but said nothing. One look at the Kid told them that they were likely to come off worst in any altercation.

Jacko sighed. ‘Ain’t you heard me? Michael Jackson’s already been done. He sang “Beat It”. Did good, too.’

‘What outfit was he wearin’?’

‘Huh?’

‘What outfit?’

Jacko seemed surprised by the question. ‘Uh – I dunno, it was, uh, the same outfit that Jacko wore in the video.’

‘Right. Makes sense, don’t it?’

‘Yeah. We done?’ Jacko asked, turning back to the table to see if he’d won.

At that moment the ball dropped into a pocket in the spinning wheel and the croupier announced the winning number. Black thirteen. Jacko’s eyes lit up and he let out a jubilant cheer. He’d placed a chip on number thirteen and had won a tidy sum as a result. As the croupier began scooping in the losing bets and paying out chips to the winners, the Kid grabbed Jacko’s shoulder again and turned him round to face him once more. This time there was a considerably higher level of aggression in the way he spun him round.

‘You told me earlier you were gonna sing “Earth Song”.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why the red leather outfit from the
Thriller
video?’

‘I just like it, is all.’

‘Bullshit.’

Jacko looked uneasy. He swallowed hard and said, ‘Jeez, man, what
is
your problem?’

‘You’re goin’ onstage in the next twenty minutes or I’m gonna make your life worse’n a livin’ hell.’

‘Fucksakes, buddy. How many times I gotta tell ya—’

‘You’re gonna be John Belushi.’

‘
What?
’

‘John Belushi.’

Jacko looked confused. ‘He’s a comedian, ain’t he?’

‘Was.’

‘Well, I ain’t doin’ stand-up.’

‘He was a singer, too.’

‘John Belushi?’ Jacko considered what the Kid had said for a second. Then the light seemed to dawn. ‘Oh, yeah, he was in the Blues Brothers, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Man, are you stupid? John Belushi was a white guy!’

‘So was Michael Jackson.’

‘Maybe so. But I can’t do no Blues Brothers number dressed like this.’ He gestured at his outfit. ‘An’ besides, I ain’t had time to rehearse.’

‘You won’t need to.’

The Kid took off his sunglasses and handed them to Jacko. ‘Put these on and head to the stage area. I’ll meet you there in five minutes with the rest of your costume.’ He waited to see if that had sunk in, before adding in characteristically gravelly tones, ‘You don’t show, I’ll find you and make your nose look like the real Michael Jackson’s.’

Having made his feelings clear, and having convinced himself that Jacko understood, the Kid turned and headed back out of the casino. Once again the other customers drew back out of his path. This time they could see his eyes. It wasn’t an improvement.

Jacko called after him. ‘I’m gonna need more than a fucking’ costume to qualify for the final, ya know that?’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ was the Kid’s parting comment as he vanished from sight behind a crowd of people.