The Devil's Graveyard (7 page)

The light finally dawned in Johnny’s brain. For all his charisma, charm and talent, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. ‘I get it,’ he said slowly. ‘I never thought of that. So that’s why they wanted to know in advance what song I’m gonna sing?’

‘Yeah. That’s why.’ The ‘Bozo!’ Otis added was just loud enough to be heard by them all

Emily smiled. She’d figured it out fairly quickly. Truth was, there were a number of things to consider about the competition, none of which had probably occurred to Johnny. One in particular had been preying on her mind for a few days. Now seemed a good time to air it.

‘I wonder,’ she mused, ‘what would happen if one of us five fell ill, so that one of the other contestants made it into the final?’

James Brown had stood up from his seat and was heading for the door, but as he reached out for the door handle he turned back to answer Emily’s question. ‘I’m sure they’d just go with four finalists.’

‘Maybe,’ Emily said carefully. ‘But what if something happened to three or four of us? Say we all got food poisoning and couldn’t perform. What then?’

Brown opened the door of the dressing room, ready to walk out into the hall. ‘Well now, that would make for a real interestin’ final, I reckon,’ he said.

‘Where you goin’, man?’ Johnny Cash called after him.

‘Goin’ outside to the parkin’ lot for some fresh air. Smells like somethin’ died in here.’

Instinctively, everyone glanced at Kurt Cobain. He picked up on their unwelcome glances and blushed a little. Then he aimed a defiant comment at Brown as he walked out into the hall.

‘Watch out for speedin’ buses in the lot, man. Be a shame, you got squashed and there was only four of us in the final.’

More than ever, Sanchez was rooting for Elvis to win
the Back From the Dead
show. Not only had his friend come through for him by persuading the receptionist to give him a room originally reserved for someone else, but now the King was carrying Sanchez’s suitcase up to the room. They had taken the elevator to the seventh floor and then walked down a long corridor for about fifty yards. The corridor was wide enough for six people or so to stand next to each other. Its walls were covered in cream-coloured wallpaper, and there was a thick, soft, green carpet underfoot. It was evident that the owner of this hotel took great pride in the place. By comparison, Sanchez’s bar, the Tapioca, looked kind of shitty when you walked in, but once you were past the slightly shitty area, you found yourself in the very shitty part. This place was smart all the way through.

‘This is it,’ said Sanchez, pointing to a door on the left-hand side. It was painted white, with small black numbers at eye level reading 713.

‘Fer fuck’s sakes open it, then. This fuckin’ suitcase weighs a ton,’ Elvis snapped.

Mumbling an apology, Sanchez pulled a key card from his shorts and slipped it into the card reader on the door. A tiny red light on the reader turned green and a gentle click followed. He turned the handle on the door and pushed it open.

A very spacious room greeted them, with a double bed standing at its centre. There was a wooden dressing table on the far side and another small table beside the bed with a lamp on it. Over in the far left-hand corner was a door that led through to the bathroom. Sanchez was pleased with what he saw. Place was better than home. He was so struck by its cleanliness that he didn’t pay much attention to where he was walking. As he gazed around the room his right foot trod on something lying on the carpet. He heard a crumpling noise and looked down. Beneath his right foot was a large brown envelope, an ordinary-looking thing measuring about twelve inches by eight. He stooped to pick it up and walked over to the bed. In the meantime, Elvis, who had followed him in, was closing the door behind them. By the time he’d turned round Sanchez was sitting on the bed, picking at one corner of the envelope.

‘What the fuck you got there?’ demanded Elvis.

‘Ain’t sure.’

‘So open it up.’

‘I am, goddammit!’

Sanchez’s chubby fingers were pawing at the sealed end of the envelope. The flap had been stuck down with Scotch tape, with more tape used to seal the sides of the flap. He ripped the tape off, then tore off the end of the envelope. He peered into it. There were a few Polaroid-sized photographs inside, and something else, bulkier, tucked right down at the bottom of the envelope.

‘What the fuck is it?’ asked Elvis.

Sanchez frowned. ‘Looks like photos.’ Gripping the end of the envelope tightly to stop the item at the bottom from falling out, he tipped it up and allowed the contents to slide out on to the bed. Elvis dropped Sanchez’s suitcase to the floor and walked over to take a closer look at the photos. Sanchez picked up the photo nearest to him and took a look at it. It was a five-by-four-inch colour photo of an unshaven white guy with greasy blond hair.

Elvis peered over his shoulder. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ he asked.

‘Dunno.’

‘What’s that piece of paper?’

‘Where?’

‘There.’ Elvis pointed at a small square of white paper that had slipped out of the envelope with the photos. Sanchez picked it up with his other hand and took a look at it. Written on it in blue ink was a list of four names. He compared the names with the photo in his hand.

‘What’s it say, man?’ Elvis asked.

‘I think this guy is Kurt Cobain,’ said Sanchez, waving the photo at him. He then flicked through the other three. ‘These are photos of four of the contestants in the show, I reckon.’

‘Gimme that,’ said Elvis, snatching the piece of paper out of Sanchez’s hand. He took a look at the list of names and then peered down at the photos Sanchez had spread out on the bed. ‘This is bad,’ he remarked, after a long pause.

‘I don’t get it. The fuck’s this all about?’ Sanchez pondered out loud.

‘You know what I do, right, Sanchez? Like, for a job?’

‘Yeah. I know. Everyone knows. You’re a hitman.’

‘Right. And this, my fat friend, is a
hit list
. Guy who was meant to be stayin’ in this room was s’posed to get this envelope. Then these four singers were gonna get wasted.’

‘Holy shit!’

Sanchez had little enthusiasm for the idea of staying in a hotel room that had been reserved by someone who planned to carry out four killings. If the guy showed up, there could be trouble. For Sanchez.

Elvis thought for a moment, then offered his advice. ‘I was you, I’d take this here envelope down to reception an’ leave it there for whoever the guy is, in case he shows up later.’

‘Shouldn’t I give it to the police?’

‘
Well, that’s one idea, yeah. Personally, though, I reckon if someone is plannin’ on killing off these four singers, then it’ll boost my chances of winnin’ the goddam show.’

‘That’s kinda harsh, ain’t it?’

‘Always look for the positives in any given situation, Sanchez. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t no police in the Devil’s Graveyard.’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Sanchez sat on the bed and thought about what to do. He could see the sense in Elvis’s plan. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll try an’ reseal the envelope, an’ then take it down to reception.’

‘Cool.’ The King glanced at his watch. ‘Look I better get goin’, buddy. I’m due onstage for my audition in about half an hour. Make sure you’re in the audience. I need all the support I can get.’ He grinned, and added, ‘Even though I’m fuckin’ brilliant.’

‘Yeah, sure. Catch you later, man. Good luck, an’ thanks again for carryin’ the case for me.’

Elvis folded the piece of paper with the four names on it, handed it back to his friend and walked out. Once the King had closed the door behind him, Sanchez took another look inside the envelope to check out what he thought he’d seen. Sure enough, tucked inside at the bottom was a thick wad of cash. He had kept a tight hold of it to stop it falling out when he had emptied out the other contents. After all, if Elvis had seen it he might have wanted a share. And since the envelope had been in Sanchez’s room, technically that meant it was his. Sanchez pulled out the money and, with his stubby finger trembling, counted it out on the bed. Hundred-dollar bills. Two hundred of them.

Twenty grand.

Time to head to the casino.

Annabel de Frugyn was shepherded into Nigel Powell’s private office. It was a smart room with a thick, springy royal-blue carpet and plain white plastered walls. There was a large wooden desk at the far end of the room, set in front of windows concealed behind a pair of bright red curtains that clashed horribly with the carpet. Powell gestured for her to seat herself in a small black leather-upholstered chair at the desk. He walked round and sat behind the desk in a much larger chair, also in black leather. On the desktop was a fairly organized jumble of stationery and framed photos, the latter all facing Powell. There was also a large white, rather old-fashioned telephone on the desk just to the left of his chair.

One of the two security guards who had escorted the hotel owner to the lobby earlier had followed them into the office. He took up a place standing at the door, which he had closed behind him. Still standing, she smiled her hideous smile at him, but in true military fashion he stared straight ahead, ignoring her. Unfazed, she sat herself down in the chair opposite Powell. In her lap she held, tightly, the handbag that she carried with her everywhere. She may have allowed the hotel security to take her luggage to her room, but no one was getting their hands on her dirty old brown leather handbag.

‘So, Miss de Frugyn, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,’ Powell began, sitting back in his chair, smiling.

She couldn’t help but smile back at him. The man had a devilish charm, and clearly took great care of his appearance. Despite being in his early forties he didn’t have a wrinkle on his face. No doubt the result of plastic surgery and regular injections of Botox.

Annabel’s smile was the complete opposite and revealed a vast number of lines and creases on her face. ‘You want me to use my psychic powers for something, don’t you?’

‘Very good. Impressive. And absolutely correct. I’ll be honest with you, Annabel, if I may call you that?’ She simpered back at him, a sight, if anything, even more revolting than her hideous smile. ‘It’s no accident that you’re here at this hotel. I kind of rigged it so that you would win a ticket to the show.’