The Devil's Graveyard Read online

  Powell shook his head, wagging a finger at Angus. ‘No deal. You kill this Sanchez guy and whomever else he’s got with him. Do it however you like. All I ask is that you do it outside of my hotel. I don’t need any more dead bodies turning up. Find ’em, catch ’em, then take ’em out to the desert and kill ’em. Then bury the fuckers out there. When you get back, there’ll be fifty grand waiting for you. And I want a Polaroid.’

  ‘An’ I want twenty now.’

  ‘No deal. It’s not like you won’t be able to find me when the job’s done.’

  The refusal to pay anything up front, however small the amount, was Powell’s way of establishing who was boss. Angus might well be a man to be feared. But if he was going to do a job for Nigel Powell, then he would be treated like any other member of the hotel staff. He would have to earn the money first.

  The hitman obviously didn’t like it. And he made his dissatisfaction clear by the way he stubbed his cigar out on the antique oak desk. Even after it was extinguished he continued twisting it down hard between his fingers, eyeballing Powell the whole time. His face twitched down one side as if he had a fishhook caught in the corner of his mouth, pulling at it. Once he’d regained control of his face he stood up, and his new employer finally understood what Tommy had meant about him being a big scary guy. The man was a fucking giant.

  Whoever this Sanchez Garcia guy was, he was in big trouble.

  Twenty

  The last time Sanchez had found himself huddled out of sight, scared shitless, while Elvis saved the day, he’d been in a church, using a school kid as a human shield while his friend shot down the bad guys with a weapon shaped like a guitar. That was exactly ten years ago. This time round, the King simply used his fists. Inside ninety seconds, the brawny security guards were sprawled on the tile floor of the washroom, unconscious and bloody. He’d saved Sanchez’s ass once again.

  With a combination of speed, skill and brute force, the King had disarmed and knocked out the two security guards, Sandy and Tyrone. Sanchez had stayed in the stall with his eyes closed through most of the assault, although he had already conjured up an exaggerated version of events to tell everyone when he got back to the Tapioca. The important thing was that Elvis had done the job, and done it in style. When the noise of the fight finally came to an end, Sanchez opened one eye and then the other. Elvis was standing just outside the stall with his back to him.

  The security guards were splayed across the floor, in the pool of blood still seeping out from stall two. It was hard to tell whether any of the blood staining their black suits was their own. The side of the nearest security guard’s head was pressed to the floor tiles, dribbling blood from a nasty nosebleed. The other guy’s head was out of Sanchez’s view from where he was cowering.

  ‘C’mon, Sanchez! For fuck’s sake gimme a hand moving these two, will ya?’ Elvis yelled at him. He had begun dragging the nearer of the security guards towards the third stall, but it was clear he needed some help if he was to get the job done quickly, before anyone else showed up.

  ‘Wow. You really took ’em both out, huh?’ Sanchez said redundantly, failing to mask a note of surprise in his voice.

  ‘What the fuck didja expect?’

  ‘Well – y’know. They were armed.’

  Elvis threw the first unconscious guard on to the floor of the stall at Sanchez’s feet and then threw a disapproving look at Santa Mondega’s most cowardly bar owner.

  ‘Yeah, an’ you an’ me will both be armed in a minute, Sanchez. We got two handguns now. Sure hope we don’t have to fuckin’ use ’em, ’cause my instincts are tellin’ me you couldn’t even hit your own ass.’ He paused, then added, ‘An’ Lord knows, it’s a big enough target.’

  Sanchez ignored the comment. Instead, he grabbed the guy Elvis had dropped under the armpits and dragged the body into the corner of the stall next to the toilet, where he did his best to sit it upright. He was becoming a pro at this.

  ‘Uh – like, maybe it’d be best if you had both guns?’ he suggested. Elvis was probably a better shot with his weaker hand than Sanchez would ever be with his stronger right hand. And on top of that, he had nerve enough to shoot someone without question or hesitation. Sanchez was liable to flinch if faced with a situation that required him to fire a weapon at someone.

  Elvis didn’t reply immediately. He was backing into the stall, dragging the second security man with him.

  ‘No chance,’ he said, letting the unconscious man slump to the floor. ‘It’s one each. If we get separated an’ you’re on your own, you’re gonna need a piece, even if it’s just for show.’

  The two of them shoved the second guy into the corner on the other side of the toilet from his colleague. When they were done, Sanchez took a look at the two unconscious guards and had a rare idea. It had dawned on him that he and Elvis weren’t exactly going to be hard to spot if anyone was looking for them. He was wearing his loud red Hawaiian shirt, while the King sported a bright gold jacket and a pair of large gold-rimmed sunglasses.

  ‘We could swap clothes with these guys, couldn’t we?’ Sanchez suggested. ‘Reckon we could sneak out easily then.’

  Elvis looked hard at Sanchez and sighed. Then he shook his head disapprovingly. ‘You are pretty fuckin’ dumb, Sanchez, ya know that? These guys both just ended up in all that blood on the floor. It’s all over the backs of their jackets and their pants. You wanna walk out of here in a black suit that’s covered in blood ’cause you reckon it’d be more discreet, then be my guest. Personally, I’d rather just have a gun and a pair of cojones.’ He held out one of the pistols that he had taken from the security guards. ‘Here, take it. Now all you need are some cojones.’

  Sanchez took the gun tentatively. He looked like he was holding the tail of a snake while trying to avoid being bitten by it. Elvis shook his head again, failing to conceal his disgust.

  ‘Aw, fer fuck’s sake! Just tuck it in the back of your pants and cover it with your shirt. You can find some room for it in those pants of yours, can’t you?’

  Sanchez ignored the latest reference to the size of his butt and did as he was told. The gun fitted tightly in the waistband, the cold steel of the barrel wedged nicely between the sweaty cheeks of his ass. Time was short. They needed to get out of the washroom as soon as possible.

  ‘So, what now?’ he asked.

  ‘We get the fuck outta here. Prob’ly best if we avoid the lobby – too many people around who might spot us. My guess is, if we take a left turn outta here, we’ll be headin’ towards the back of the hotel. There’s bound to be a fire door there. We can head out through that an’ into the parkin’ lot. Then I reckon we got about two minutes to get to my car and get the fuck outta here.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Sanchez. ‘You’re leadin’ the way, right?’

  ‘Right. We hit any trouble, you point that gun at the bad guys and fire, okay.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘You cool?’

  ‘Cool as I’ll ever be.’

  Elvis grimaced. ‘Yeah. Right. Follow me. Reckon we’re already short of time.’

  He tucked his gun down the back of his black pants, where it was hidden by his shiny gold jacket. It looked like it fitted a lot snugger than Sanchez’s did. He led the way to the door and pulled it open slightly. He peered carefully one way down the corridor. Sanchez watched over his shoulder. There seemed to be no one in sight. Satisfied, Elvis took a step out and turned to check the passageway in the other direction.

  THUD!

  Before Sanchez could react, a tall man in a long grey trench coat stepped into view. He had blindsided Elvis with a blow to the back of the neck that had sent him crashing to his knees. The man loomed over him and hit him again on the back of the head, even harder this time, with the barrel of the pistol he was holding. Elvis slumped to the floor in a heap, out cold.

  Shit! thought Sanchez. Grab your gun and fire.

  Knowing that time wasn’t on his side, he pulled the gun out of the back of
his pants. It came out much easier than it had gone in, mostly because it was now slightly lubricated by the sweat from his ass. Fumbling for the safety catch, he took aim at the man standing over Elvis. He recognized the guy straight away. It was the giant hitman whose room and twenty grand he had taken.

  Invincible Angus didn’t flinch as he turned and saw the bar owner aiming a gun at him. Sanchez was doing all the flinching. He closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger, wincing at the knowledge that there was a loud bang on the way.

  A loud bang did indeed follow.

  Unfortunately, Sanchez had only succeeded in firing the gun at the ceiling. The force of the recoil sent him flying backwards, banging his head against the wall behind him. The blow hurt like hell, and was swiftly followed by the world blurring out of focus as he slid down the wall.

  He was unconscious by the time he slumped to the floor.

  Twenty-One

  Julius finished off his performance of ‘Get Up I Feel Like Being A Sex Machine’ with a trademark James Brown ‘heh!’ noise. He’d attempted the splits at the end of the dance routine, but had barely made it a third of the way down. Now he stood motionless in a sort of half-squat with one arm outstretched, pointing at the judges.

  Even so, the audience loved it and the judges (knowing that he was on their shortlist of five to appear in the final) showered him with gushing praise, particularly Nigel Powell, who congratulated him on being the most energetic performer in the show so far.

  Julius’s exertions had put a great strain on his tight purple suit. The pants had come close to ripping at the back after his attempt at the splits and the resultant half-squat. He now found himself lapping up the adulation from the crowd while feeling greatly relieved at having escaped the embarrassment of splitting his pants in two.

  After suitably outstaying his welcome, he headed off via the side of the stage, waving vigorously at the audience as he went. On his way out to the corridor, he strutted past the remaining contestants who still had to audition. What a bunch of suckers. The poor saps had no idea that they hadn’t a chance of winning. They parted for him like the Red Sea, and many congratulated him on his performance. But now that it was over, he just wanted to be away from the others. They would all be eliminated from the contest soon, so being polite to them offered little benefit. His chances of winning the competition were high after his great performance. All he needed to know now was whether the Bourbon Kid had done his part. Had – uh – disposed of the other four finalists.

  Julius was positively bouncing along the beige carpet in the yellow corridor as he made his way to the elevator at the end. By the time he reached it, he was just starting to come back down to earth after the high of performing for the judges. There wasn’t another person in sight, most likely because almost all the guests were crammed into the concert hall watching the show. He reached out to the button on the wall and pressed it to call the elevator. The shiny silver doors opened straight away and he stepped inside. As he went to press the button for the eighth floor he noticed flecks of blood on the keypad. He looked down and saw a small pool of blood. The sight of it brought a smile to his face. This was probably the Bourbon Kid’s handiwork. Someone had been seriously wounded, at the least, in this elevator. Killed, with any luck. He pressed the button for floor eight, then turned and faced out into the corridor he had just left.

  To be greeted by the sight of his new accomplice.

  The Bourbon Kid was walking along the corridor towards the elevator, looking as sinister as ever. The dark hood on his jacket was up over his head and beneath it Julius could see that he was still wearing his dark shades. Indoors. The funereal outfit really did mark him out as a fearsome prospect. The man exuded evil without even trying. Great guy to have on your side when you need to kill four innocent people, Julius thought to himself. He pressed another button on the elevator’s keypad to keep the doors open and let his hired gun join him inside. In doing so he managed to get a patch of sticky blood on the end of his finger. He quickly wiped it on his pants leg.

  ‘Eighth floor okay with you?’ Julius asked as the Kid stepped in.

  ‘Makes no difference.’

  The doors closed in front of them and the elevator began to move upwards. As soon as it did, Julius breathed a huge sigh of relief and pulled the thick dark wig off his head. His bald head was sweating after his time under the spotlight, and it was pleasing to feel some cool air on it at last.

  ‘This fuckin’ thing’s itchy as hell, y’know,’ he said, shaking the wig as if it were riddled with insects.

  ‘Quit your fuckin’ moaning,’ replied the Kid.

  ‘What’s with you?’ Julius paused. ‘Actually, never mind. Like I care. Is it all done?’

  ‘I’m all done.’

  ‘So they’re all dead? Already?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Who’s still alive?’

  ‘Dorothy.’

  ‘Who the fuck is Dorothy?’

  ‘Judy Garland.’

  ‘What happened? She get away from you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t kill Dorothys.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  ‘I don’t kill Dorothys.’

  ‘Bullshit. You kill anything.’

  ‘Not Dorothys.’

  ‘Why not? What fuckin’ difference does it make?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’

  Julius stood in the elevator looking at his reflection in the metal doors. His bright purple James Brown costume still looked the business. Next to his reflection was that of the dark and shady figure of the Bourbon Kid, who was also staring straight ahead at the silver elevator doors. With his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses, his face betrayed not an ounce of emotion.

  Julius couldn’t conceal his frustration, or his bewilderment at this sudden turn of events. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, his voice close to shaking with fury. ‘You kill anyone and anything, no matter what age, race or sex, but when it comes to Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, you suddenly get a conscience?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yeah. You gotta problem with that?’

  ‘’Course I gotta fuckin’ problem with that!’ Julius, realizing that he was raising his voice, chose to lower it slightly before continuing. ‘She’s the main threat to me winnin’ this competition. If she’s in the final that’s it. Game over. I have to win this show, and she’s the only one left in it that can sing better’n me.’

  ‘I got another plan.’ The Kid’s voice was deepening with every syllable.

  ‘Well now, that’s somethin’, I guess. What is it?’

  ‘Learn to sing better.’

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened. As he stepped out, Julius rounded angrily on the other man. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, you know that?’

  The Kid pressed the button for the ground floor and stepped back to the centre of the elevator.

  ‘Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?’ Julius asked.

  ‘My work is done.’

  As the elevator doors began to close Julius took a step forward and reached his left hand out to hold the doors open.

  ‘You know you don’t get paid for killin’ three of them, right? The job was for all four,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Don’t care.’

  ‘Well, that’s real good – ’cause I’m gonna have to pay the whole fifty grand to someone else, and all they’ll have to do is kill Judy Garland.’

  The Kid shook his head slowly. ‘No one touches her. Not today.’ The sound of his voice was pure gravel.

  ‘Sorry buddy, but she’s history. Even if I have to get the fuckin’ Wicked Witch of the West to kill her. No way’s she winnin’ this goddam competition.’

  ‘She might not win it, but she’s gonna be in the final.’ The Kid gestured with a nod of his head to indicate that Julius let go of the elevator d
oor.

  The singer took one last look into the dark sunglasses and shook his head in exasperation. ‘I shoulda known not to count on you. You goddam fuckin’ idiot!’

  The Kid reached inside his leather jacket. Julius considered the consequences of what that might mean. Cigarettes, maybe. Or a weapon. Most likely a weapon. With that in mind he wisely let go of the door, allowing it to close.

  All the exhilaration had now left Julius, evaporated like dew in the desert. Even though his wigless head had cooled, he began to sweat. Shit! Fuckin’ godamighty shit! He realized that things had now taken a disastrous turn for the worse. The Judy Garland impersonator was still alive – for now, at least. But Julius needed her out of the picture before the final started.

  ‘Out of the picture’ meaning ‘dead’.

  Twenty-Two

  Sanchez’s eyelids felt as though they had been stuck together with peanut butter. He opened them slowly, one after the other, and blinked a few times. Did he have a hangover? No. But someone had just slapped him around the face. He recognized that feeling. He was kinda used to it. This was a slap from a man, though. He knew that, because his left cheek was stinging a little more than it usually did after a slap. Of greater concern, though, was a throbbing pain at the back of his head. He vaguely remembered now. It was from the selfinflicted blow he’d received when he’d hit it against the wall of the passageway outside the men’s washroom. That must have been a while earlier. He blinked again, trying to clear his vision, but it wasn’t working. This was in part because he had only just regained consciousness. But it was also because he was bobbing up and down on a pull-out bed in the back of a large and well-appointed camper van of some kind. The bed was fixed to the side wall, and the van was being driven somewhere at high speed.

  ‘Where the fuck am I?’ he groaned, having exhausted his powers of observation and deduction.

  ‘Devil’s Graveyard,’ a voice responded. ‘In about ten minutes that pain in your head’ll be gone.’