The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  Valerie interrupted by placing a bottle of Shitting Monkey beer on the bar in front of Julius. She cleared her throat and stammered ‘That’s twelve dollars, please sir.’ She looked at him pleadingly. For Chrissakes don’t start another incident, she thought, desperately hoping that, somehow, the advice would penetrate his brain. Before a bullet did.

  Julius pulled a twenty-dollar bill from the hip pocket of his purple pants and placed it on the bar. ‘Keep the change,’ he said with an increasingly confident smile.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she blurted, picking up the note and scurrying to the till at the other end of the bar.

  Still grinning like a politician at a photo opportunity, Julius turned back to the Bourbon Kid, whose patience was by now on the verge of snapping. ‘I have a job offer for you. How’d you like to earn yourself fifty grand for a day’s work?’

  The Kid took another drag on his cigarette and then picked up his half-pint glass of Sam Cougar. He poured damn near half the contents down his throat in one swig, then placed it back on the bar.

  ‘Gimme the money now.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t have it yet.’

  ‘I want it now.’

  ‘I know that, but I already paid another guy up front and he hasn’t showed up. So you’re my plan B.’

  ‘I’m plan B?’

  ‘Hey, if I’d known you were gonna be here you’d have been plan A, but you’re a hard fella to track down. So I went with another guy.’

  The Kid’s eyes were still hidden behind his sunglasses, which made it difficult for Julius to gauge what kind of impression he was making. He ploughed on regardless.

  ‘Look, I’m in this singing contest today. You know the one? The Back From the Dead show?’

  ‘I’m aware of it.’

  ‘Well, I have to win it. You help make that happen, you get fifty grand out of the prize money.’

  ‘How much is the prize money.’

  ‘A million dollars.’

  ‘Then I’ll take half.’

  Julius shifted uncomfortably on his stool. ‘Look. If you knew the reasons behind why I have to win this competition you’d do it for free.’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You know, there’s a lot more at stake than just a million dollars here. People’s lives are in danger.’

  ‘People’s lives are always in danger.’ There was an extra rasp to the gravel now. Julius was uncomfortably aware that he probably counted as ‘people’.

  Julius picked up the bottle of Shitting Monkey and took a sip. He swilled the drink around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing hard and placing the bottle back down on the bartop. ‘All right, listen up. Here’s the thing. I’ll tell you the whole story, but you ain’t gonna believe it because it’s kinda out there.’

  ‘Yeah?’ A world of indifference permeated the word.

  ‘Yeah. But this is so outrageous you’ll probably think I’m makin’ it up. It involves, like, supernatural stuff an’ all sorts.’

  The Kid blew another lungful of smoke in Julius’s face. ‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘ten years ago today my mother turned into a vampire and tried to kill me. I doubt anything you say is gonna shock me as much that, so why doncha just get the fuck on with it?’

  Julius fiddled with the beer bottle on the bar, turning it around until the label with its picture of a defecating monkey was facing him.

  ‘Okay. Well, you know that guy, Nigel Powell, owns this hotel?’ He spoke in a hushed voice, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘D’you know how he got to be the owner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He signed a contract with the Devil.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, well – this hotel is built over the gateway to Hell.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Powell sold his soul to the Devil. In exchange, the Devil gave him this hotel and all the wealth that came with it.’

  The Bourbon Kid took a much smaller sip of his bourbon before responding. ‘Sounds like a sweet deal.’

  ‘Sure. But here’s the thing. No deal with the Devil is ever gonna be that cut-and-dried. This is kinda like a rolling one-year contract. Every year on Halloween, Powell has to get someone new to sell his or her soul to Satan. A different person every year. If he fails to do that, then he’s broken his contract.’

  ‘Meanin’ he goes straight to Hell for all eternity, I suppose?’

  Julius shook his head. ‘Worse’n that. This whole hotel will crumble and sink into the depths of Hell at the end of the witchin’ hour tonight if he doesn’t get someone new to sell their soul to the Devil and take his place.’

  The Kid sighed. ‘I don’t believe a fuckin’ worda this shit. Why’n’t you admit it: you just wanna win the show, doncha?’

  ‘You interested, or what?’

  ‘Just tell me who you want dead.’

  ‘I’m one of five singers liable to win this competition. I need the other four eliminated. Way it is, the winner of this contest gets a million-dollar contract from Powell. But that contract is not with Powell, it’s with the Devil. If the winner signs it, they will have sold their soul to Satan.’

  The Kid looked at Julius suspiciously. ‘I ain’t buyin’ any of this bullshit. You just said you want me to help you win the show. Why’d you want to win and sell your soul to the Devil?’

  Julius had a smug look on his face. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘Fair enough. Be simpler, though, if I just threaten this Nigel Powell an’ make him let you win.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause that’d let him off easy.’

  The Kid shook his head. ‘Yeah? I can make these things real unpleasant when I’m in the right mood.’

  ‘Listen, mister, just trust me on this. All you gotta do is kill off my four main rivals in the show. That will leave me as the only singer in the final who’s practised his song with the house orchestra. I’ll be nailed-on favourite to win.’

  The Bourbon Kid raised an eyebrow and looked at Julius to see if he was serious. It seemed he was. ‘So this whole fuckin’ show is rigged?’

  ‘Well – yeah. Ain’t they always?’

  The Kid took one last long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the bartop. ‘I s’pose. And what happens when you’ve won?’

  ‘I give you your fifty grand.’

  ‘Five hundred grand.’ The gravel suddenly sounded as though it had been flash-frozen.

  ‘Sure, whatever. If you’re as good at killing as people say you are, it’ll be money well spent.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘So we have a deal?’

  ‘We have a deal. But hear this: you break it, I’ll break your neck.’

  Though the Kid had made up his mind that he’d take the job, he was still suspicious of Julius’s motives. The guy was liable to try and weasel out of paying up when all this was done. He was definitely not to be trusted.

  Julius reached inside his jacket and pulled a small brown envelope from one of the inside pockets. He placed it on the bar and looked at it for a moment, then slid it along the polished wooden surface towards the Kid.

  ‘The details of the job are in there. Four names. I need them dead. Real quick,’ he said, nodding at it.

  The Kid picked up his glass of Sam Cougar and downed the rest of it. He then pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pants pocket and tossed it on to the bar next to the butt of his extinguished cigarette. Turning to face Julius, he picked up the envelope and stood up from his stool, ready to leave.

  ‘One other thing gotta you know,’ said Julius.

  ‘Yeah?’ The Kid sighed. There was always one other thing.

  ‘One of ’em’s a woman. You okay ’bout killin’ women?’

  ‘I killed my mother, didn’t I?’

  With that unanswerable remark floating in the air, the Bourbon Kid walked off, leaving the James Brown imp
ersonator in the purple suit to finish his beer alone.

  Twelve

  Sanchez had done some pretty stupid – yeah, okay, some dam’ stupid – things in his time. Usually they had involved women or gambling. His latest involved both, although the woman concerned was not of the sort that usually induced an act of stupidity. The women over whom he usually made an asshole of himself tended to be young, attractive and devious. The Mystic Lady was old, ugly and stupid, in Sanchez’s eyes at least. What in the hell had he been thinking?

  The twenty thousand dollars from the brown envelope was now gone. Blown in a moment of madness that had seen him lump the whole lot on red at the roulette wheel. All because he’d listened to that mad old hag Annabel de fuckin’ Frugyn. Some fuckin’ fortune teller she’d turned out to be. If she ever decided to set foot in Sanchez’s bar in Santa Mondega, the Tapioca, she’d be getting another sample of his famous homebrew. Useless old bitch.

  So now he was faced with an awkward predicament. He had to take the envelope and hand it in at reception, ripped open at one end and minus the twenty thousand dollars. He should have told Elvis about the money straight away, when he first saw it at the bottom of the envelope. They could have split it between them, and then he’d have had Elvis on his side if anyone came looking for it. It was too damned late now to admit to Elvis he’d held out on him. He wasn’t even sure if taking the envelope and handing it in at the reception desk was a good idea. If the intended recipient showed up asking for it and found it opened and the money missing, he would probably come looking for Sanchez. The only positive thing that he could see in this goddam mess was that handing in the envelope would ensure that the receptionists might also come under suspicion.

  The alternative – not handing in the envelope – would most likely result in its intended recipient tracking down Sanchez anyway. If the envelope was found in his hotel room, he’d be in all kinds of trouble. So he had convinced himself that handing it in to the reception desk kind of made sense.

  He was relieved to see that the hordes of visitors checking in had now gone. The oval-shaped reception hall was fairly quiet. He circled it a few times, still wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing, but by the time he’d strolled nonchalantly past the desk four or five times he reckoned it was beginning to look like he was stalking the receptionist. And since that was the one and only Stephie, whom he had earlier called a bitch, he guessed he was starting to look creepy. So eventually, before she reached for some kind of panic button, he approached the desk. It was definitely the right thing to do, not least because he’d promised Elvis he would hand in the envelope, and right now he wasn’t keen on pissing the King off too much. Elvis was his only ally.

  ‘Hi again,’ he said, offering Stephie a disingenuous smile.

  The receptionist had seen him strolling back and forth, occasionally staring over at her, and was understandably creeped out by it. The very large number of guests arriving had meant that she’d had a busy morning; physically and mentally drained, she was not in the right frame of mind to take any shit from Sanchez.

  ‘I really, really hope you’re not about to ask me out,’ she said, looking at him with barely concealed contempt.

  Bitch, he thought, but he forced his best smile and slapped the envelope down on the reception desk.

  ‘Found this in the room you kindly got for me. Thought I oughta hand it in, y’know? – case the guy it was meant for shows up lookin’ for it.’

  Stephie looked down at the envelope in front of her. ‘Oh sure,’ she said sarcastically, ‘Though I see you’ve opened it.’

  ‘Nah. It was like that when I found it.’

  ‘Of course.’ She snatched it up and stood, tutting quietly under her breath just loud enough for him to hear. ‘I’ll go stick this in a safe-deposit box out back, just so it doesn’t open itself again.’

  ‘Uh, thanks,’ said Sanchez, maintaining his horrible fake smile. ‘Oh, and er, like, if the guy does come lookin’ for it…’

  ‘Claude Balls.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  ‘Claude Balls. The man whose room you took.’

  ‘Yeah, him. If he comes lookin’ for it, mebbe you could give me a call in my room? Just so I’ll know he got it okay? It’ll help me sleep better.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Throwing him one last disapproving look, Stephie disappeared with the envelope through a door at the back of the lobby. One of the other female receptionists passed her on the way. She was a short, rotund woman in her fifties with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. She took up a place at the desk next to Stephie’s and smiled at Sanchez. Time to make a hasty retreat, he figured. Elvis was shortly due onstage for his audition for the Back From the Dead contest. Sanchez wanted to be sure he was there so that he could win some credit with the King by applauding loudly afterwards and complimenting him on his performance.

  As he headed to a set of glass doors that led out of the lobby and down towards the theatre, he heard a booming voice from the lobby behind him. It sounded like it belonged to a very large and domineering man.

  ‘Hello, miss,’ it said, politely enough. ‘Do you have a room reserved for me? Name of Claude Balls.’

  Sanchez felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Please, he thought. Don’t let this man look as nasty as he sounds.

  Dreading what he might see, he turned around. His worst fears had been realized. For there, standing at the reception desk, was an absolute giant of a man. He stood around six five, and wore a long grey trench coat. His thick, unwashed red hair was dragged back into a ponytail that reached down below his shoulder blades. He had a goatee to match, hanging down almost to his chest in a thin plait. Beneath the coat, he was wearing what looked to Sanchez like military gear. A former soldier, perhaps? A deadly assassin? Judging by the contents of the envelope Sanchez had opened, most definitely.

  The worried bar owner would not have been reassured to learn that the man claiming to be Claude Balls was actually a well-known hitman round those parts. In fact, he was better known as Invincible Angus because of his incredible endurance. He’d been stabbed, shot, maimed, maced, bludgeoned, you name it, but he always got back up. And he always got his man.

  Sanchez didn’t need to stare at him for long to know that it was time to get going before one of the receptionists told their latest guest about the envelope that had been tampered with. Just then, sensing that he was being watched, Invincible Angus looked over at Sanchez and gave him an evil glare.

  ‘The fuck you lookin’ at, fatso?’ he snarled.

  There was no need for a response. Sanchez simply turned and rushed off to find Elvis.

  Thirteen

  Over the years, Luther’s impersonation of Otis Redding had earned him many admirers. But it was the approval of the three judges in the Back From the Dead competition that could make or break his future. If he won this competition, he would get a contract with the casino and he’d never have to do ‘real’ work again. As a travelling performer working the night-club circuit he barely made enough money to scrape by from week to week. This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity could change all that. As long as he kept his cool.

  The first thing a tribute act would be judged on was its appearance. And Luther had taken great care to look his best. First impressions were crucial, and he wasn’t about to let any stone go unturned in his search for fame. He had had an eye-catching shiny black suit and a sharp red shirt made especially for this show. The suit had the name Otis stitched in gold on the left breast pocket, and across the back in much larger letters. Tacky? Well, maybe slightly, but important? Absolutely. Being instantly recognizable as the performer in question was vital. Luther had learned that lesson early in his career. It helped him to create the illusion that he really was Otis Redding.

  As he strode out on to the stage he saw himself on a huge television screen set above a raised area at the back of the stage. Because of that, the entire audience would be able to see every bead of sweat on his brow.<
br />
  Standing up onstage in front of an audience of thousands in the hotel’s main hall was the most nerve-racking moment of his career to date. In front of him, the auditorium looked absolutely huge, bigger than any other he had ever performed in. The rows of seats went back at least a hundred deep, rising all the way to the back, and were split into three sections. The middle segment spanned thirty seats across and the two side sections had another fifteen seats in each row. And right now every one of the seats was filled.

  Up above was a gallery that ran from each edge of the stage to the centre, where there was a glass-walled sound booth. A deejay, who also doubled as the lighting engineer, sat inside it. Luther glanced up and saw the deejay picking his nose. He immediately looked away and tried to erase the image from his mind.

  The auditions for the final had been under way for half an hour. The early contestants were the real hopefuls, the ones who had no idea that the show was rigged and had travelled from miles around in the hope that their dreams would be realized. Some were exceptionally good, undeniably worthy of a place in the final. Others were pitifully bad. But now, half an hour into the show, Otis, the first of the five contestants who had been secretly pre-selected for the final, was up to perform. All he had to do was make sure his performance didn’t suck.

  On the stage directly in front of him he could see the panel of three judges watching his every move. It felt as if they were checking his temperament, watching for weaknesses. He could feel their eyes burning into him even more fiercely than the bright lights from above. He only recognized one of the judges. The panel was composed of a black woman, a white woman and, seated between them, a man with skin tanned a curious shade of orange. This was Nigel Powell, the head judge, and the deviser and owner of the competition.

  They sat behind a silver-panelled desk that ran along the front of the stage with their backs to the audience and the orchestra pit below them. Before each of them was a glass of water and a pen and notepad, should they decide to make any notes.

  As the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell upon him, making the watching audience virtually invisible to him, Luther felt a sudden last-minute surge of confidence. He was going to be incredible. He was certain of it.