The Devil's Graveyard (23 page)

His night of killing was about to get interesting.

Back down the highway, the body of the man he’d shot lay cooling where it had fallen, the back of its head blown out, its dark uniform dusty and stained with blood.

So ended the life and all too brief police career of Patrolman Johnny Parks.

Jacko watched from the side of the stage as a Frank Sinatra impersonator was given a thorough roasting by the judges. Sinatra’s performance had started off shaky and simply gotten worse as it went on. He’d hit a bad note early on while incorrectly singing the line ‘I know the end is near
’
during his rendition of ‘My Way’. After that, his voice (and his recollection of the correct lyrics) had completely deserted him. At times he howled like a drowning cat, and in one truly excruciating moment he had started singing in what sounded like Flemish. He finally finished off his performance with an appalling fit of coughing.

Jacko had entered his name with the show’s organizers just ten minutes before Sinatra had gone onstage. They had agreed to let him perform last on the condition that he acquired a better outfit than the red leather suit he was wearing. It had been difficult to convince them he was planning to perform a Blues Brothers song, particularly because he didn’t even know what song he was going to sing. But they had allowed him to enter, most likely because they figured he’d be one of the entertaining ‘freaks’.

Since he had arrived at the area off the stage where the Bourbon Kid was supposed to meet him, he’d seen three performances. They had all been awful. But now, as he witnessed Frank Sinatra being taken apart by the judges, he was the only contestant still to go. He was due onstage within the next two minutes and he still didn’t have the Blues Brothers outfit that the Bourbon Kid had promised him. The Kid’s efforts to find a suit were taking longer than Jacko had expected, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If the Kid didn’t show up with the outfit, he had the perfect excuse not to go up and perform. As things stood currently, he might be going onstage dressed as Michael Jackson wearing a pair of sunglasses. And that, as Blues Brothers outfits went, was somewhat lacking in authenticity.

He hurried back down the steps that led to the stage and walked round to take one last look up and down the passageway to see whether the Kid was on his way. He checked both ways three times before deciding that he was going to have to make a run for it. Eventually, just when he had given up hope, he saw the darkly dressed killer appear at the end of the corridor, coming from the lobby. He was carrying a black suit and white shirt in one hand and a smart slim black clip-on tie in the other. He jogged down the hall to where Jacko was waiting.

‘You think you could have cut it a bit finer?’ the anxious singer snapped sarcastically. ‘I don’t even know what fuckin’ song I’m s’posed to be singin’, and let’s face it, at this rate I wouldn’t have time to learn the words to “The Chicken Dance”.’

‘Shut the fuck up and put this on,’ growled the Kid. He threw the suit and shirt at Jacko who caught them, then laid them down on the carpet. Then he reluctantly took off his red leather jacket and held it out for the Kid to take. When the latter made no attempt to take it, Jacko eventually dropped it on to the floor at his feet.

‘This is a shit plan, you know?’ he complained. ‘I’m due on in about thirty seconds an’ I don’t have an act.’

‘That’s okay,’ said the Kid, pulling a small silver object from his hip pocket. ‘You got an angle.’

‘Yeah? An’ what’s that?’ Jacko asked as he picked up the white shirt and began slipping his arms into the sleeves.

‘I got you this.’ The Kid held out the six-inch-long silver object he’d drawn from his pocket. Jacko took one look at it and shook his head.

‘Oh no. Oh no no no. You surely don’t think I’m goin’ out there with a harmonica, hopin’ to win?’

‘Figure you’ll be the novelty act. No one else has played an instrument. It’ll get you noticed.’

‘It’ll get me laughed at, is what it’ll do.’

‘That’s a chance I’m willing to take.’ The Kid’s voice sounded like gravel crunching underfoot.

‘Yeah, I’ll bet. An’ what if I say no?’

‘You don’t wanna know what I’ll do to you if you say no.’

‘And what if I suck? I still ain’t got a goddam song.’

‘You won’t. You go onstage and you tell the judges that you’re dedicating the song to your wife who died recently. Tell ’em her name was Sally. Then you sing “Mustang Sally”. It’s a singalong chorus. The audience will sympathize with you even if you’re crap. Try an’ encourage them to sing along. Then you can play the harmonica and get them to do most of the singing for you.’

Jacko buttoned up the top button on the white shirt and sighed. ‘Shit, man. Where did you find this plan? In a box of fuckin’ cornflakes?’

The Kid stepped forward, reached out one hand and grabbed him round the throat. ‘I’ll have a better plan if you get to the final. Which you better had. This was short notice.’ With that he let go of Jacko’s throat, clipped the black tie he had been holding on to the collar of the shirt, and set it straight.

Jacko went to pick up the suit jacket from the floor. ‘So where’d’ya find this outfit, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Some guy in the lobby was wearing it.’

‘What’s he wearin’ now?’

‘Body bag, more’n likely.’

‘Nice. A dead guy’s suit. An’ it’s still warm. Just what I always wanted.’

As he began putting on the jacket he heard the announcer call his name. Time to get moving. The Kid hustled him back to the area at the side of the stage. As they arrived, the Frank Sinatra impersonator walked out into the corridor, looking close to tears. He put on a brave face as he drew level with them and nodded at Jacko.

‘Good luck, man. They’re pretty brutal out there.’

Jacko watched the dejected singer walk off towards the elevator at the end of the passageway. The Kid allowed him to get about ten yards before calling out to him, ‘Yo, Sinatra. C’mere.’

Sinatra turned around. He had allowed a small tear to trickle down his right cheek. He was only a young fellow, maybe in his late teens, and rejection, with its shock and disappointment, was probably a new experience for him. In need of some comfort, he started walking back towards Jacko and the Kid, hoping they might be about to offer him a few words of encouragement.

‘Whassup, man?’ he asked, stopping a yard in front of the Bourbon Kid.

The Kid punched him on the chin. The blow knocked him out cold on his feet. He wobbled for a second with a dazed look on his face before falling backwards. As he fell towards the floor the Kid reached out and grabbed hold of his black fedora by its brim. There was a loud thud as Sinatra’s head smacked down on to the carpeted floor.

Unconcerned, the Kid turned and placed the hat on Jacko’s head, stepped back, then reached out and tilted it slightly to one side. The transformation from Michael Jackson to Blues Brother was almost complete.
Apart from the pants.
Time had run out and Jacko was going to have to go onstage with the red leather pants on. Still, the change had taken place in less than ninety seconds.

‘Yeah, you look okay, man,’ said the Kid. ‘’Cept we really need to do somethin’ about those fuckin’ red pants for the final.’

‘I reckon,’ said Jacko, shrugging. ‘They, like, don’t really go with the outfit, do they?’

‘They don’t go with any fuckin’ thing. You look a prick in them at any time.’

‘Thanks. Wish me luck, huh?’

‘You don’t need luck.’ The Kid handed him the harmonica. ‘Go strut your stuff.’

Jacko took a deep breath and then, with his new outfit on and a harmonica in his hands that he’d never played before, he hurried back to the side of the stage. Once there, he paused for a few seconds to catch his breath, then walked onstage and into the lights. His impersonation of the Blues Brothers might turn out to be disastrous, but at least he sort of looked the part from the waist up. Plus, he had a gimmick. None of the other contestants had played an instrument. If he could show the judges he could play the harmonica half decently, he might just sneak his way into the final.

Sanchez wasn’t sure what to make of Elvis’s sudden decision to drop his shovel. He was even less sure what to make of his friend’s gnomic remark that ‘somethin’’ had ‘happened’. What was the meaning of it? It had to be part of a plan, but what kind of plan? One that involved both of them escaping, he hoped. He certainly wasn’t happy about the possibility that Elvis might be planning to double-cross him.

Yet if the plan was to confuse Invincible Angus, then it was definitely working. The hitman looked genuinely unsettled by Elvis’s sudden claim that something had happened. The right side of his face was twitching and he was visibly grinding his teeth. The man was wound up tight as a coilspring and his self-control pushed to its limit. His eyes opened wide and he pointed his pistol at Elvis’s head.

‘Pick up that goddam shovel and start diggin’ again or I’ll blow a fuckin’ hole through your fuckin’ head right now,’ he ordered menacingly.

Elvis showed little concern, and even less interest. He seemed somewhat distracted. ‘Look, Twitchy, we need to get the hell out of here,’ he said. In the moonlight, the King’s face revealed a growing sense of anticipation. Sanchez was as confused as Angus.
What was Elvis up to? And was Sanchez supposed to be in on it?

‘I’m gonna count to three,’ said Angus. ‘And if you ain’t holdin’ that shovel and diggin’, you’ll leave me with no choice. One…’

Sanchez decided it was time to take a part. Elvis had played a hand and might well be relying on him to come up with something ingenious. Looking towards Angus, he called out, ‘Look behind ya,’ pointing to the ground behind the hitman’s left leg.

‘
Oh fer Chrissakes!
’ Angus shook his head and looked at Elvis. ‘Is this guy for real? That’s, like, the oldest trick in the book. How in the hell is
he
supposed to be a world-famous hitman?’

‘Okay,’ said Elvis. ‘Then look behind me.’

At that point even Sanchez was confused. Whatever their plan was supposed to be, it appeared to be incredibly lame. ‘Look behind you’ was bad enough, but if Elvis was now playing along by telling everyone to look behind him, then they really were clutching at straws. Even so, Sanchez decided to go along with it, hoping to God it really was all part of a plan. Still holding his shovel awkwardly in his bound hands, he turned round to take a look behind his friend. At first, he was unable to see much in the dark, other than the dark shapes of the two dead security guards on the ground. Then, in the graveyard quiet that had followed Elvis’s suggestion, he suddenly heard something.