by AnonYMous
Sanchez sat up straight. Then he realized he couldn’t move his hands. He glanced down, and in the darkness could just make out that his wrists were bound together by thick silver-grey duct tape. Looking up again, he saw two security guards from the hotel sitting across from him on the seat that ran along the opposite side of the van. Both men were wearing the standard black suits issued by the hotel. The one directly opposite Sanchez had dark spiky hair and a face only a mother could love. His name badge, which Sanchez could read now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light, declared that he was Tommy Packer, Head of Security. The other guy was a shaven-headed military type. Both were pointing pistols in his direction. The one who had spoken was the dark-haired one, Tommy. The other said nothing, but looked wary. And ready to use his gun.
‘You okay, Sanchez?’ asked a more familiar voice. Sitting on his left was Elvis.
‘My fuckin’ head hurts,’ Sanchez complained, looking to his friend for some sympathy.
‘Yeah. Seems you knocked yourself out.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re a fuckin’ moron.’
‘Oh. That again.’ Forgetting for a moment that his wrists were bound together in front of him, Sanchez had an overwhelming desire to rub the back of his head. His attempt was futile, the best he could do was rub the top of his head with the tape binding his hands together. Further inspection showed that Elvis was in a similar predicament. Sanchez looked back at Tommy for an explanation.
‘So what’s happenin’ now?’ he asked.
‘You’re being taken out to the desert, where you’re going to be executed and buried.’
Sanchez gulped. ‘Uh, like – is that really necessary? I mean, this is all a big misunderstanding. You told them that, right Elvis?’
‘I told ’em, but they don’t wanna hear it, man.’
‘Oh.’ Sanchez couldn’t mask his disappointment. Or his alarm. ‘You gotta plan to get us out of this?’ he asked Elvis hopefully.
‘Yeah.’
‘Cool. What is it?’
‘Well, I ain’t gonna tell you the plan while Bert and Ernie are sittin’ over there, am I? Ya dumb fuck. Who d’ya think I am? You?’
‘Oh yeah. Right. Ow, my fuckin’ head.’
The van came to a stop at the roadside and Sanchez heard the driver up front climb out. He wasn’t visible from the seat in the back, but Sanchez heard him walk round to the double doors at the back of the van, his shoes crunching on the gravel-strewn highway. A moment later the doors were pulled open. Sanchez was disappointed to see Invincible Angus standing there holding two shovels.
‘Right, hustle. Everybody out!’ the big man ordered.
Sanchez peered out of the open doors. It was dark out on the highway, with the only light coming from the full moon. The desert was a shithole at the best of times, now it was a dark, cold shithole with a chilling breeze. Where there had been only dust, sand and dying plants during the day, there were now rustling noises, squeaks and howls from unseen animals, and flickering shadows.
The two security guards waved their pistols in the direction of the double doors, gesturing for Sanchez and Elvis to exit the van. Elvis got up and jumped out of the back on to the deserted highway outside. Sanchez duly followed, albeit with great trepidation. It was pretty dark in the back of the van and as he jumped out he succeeded in tripping himself up on something and flying face first into Invincible Angus’s left shoulder, before crashing to the ground in a heap.
‘Nice try,’ said Angus laconically. ‘Typical hitman. Always tryin’ to make a move.’
The two security guards followed Sanchez out. Tommy leaned down, grabbed the bar owner under his right armpit and pulled him up off the ground.
‘You sure this guy’s a hitman?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. This guy’s lethal. The whole bumbling-idiot thing is all for show,’ said Angus coldly.
Elvis protested. ‘Are you for real?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Sanchez is a fuckin’ bartender, not a goddam hitman.’
Angus shook his head. ‘Nah. No bartender could’ve executed three men, then taken out two security guards with his bare hands.’
‘You dumb fuck. He didn’t do any of that.’
‘So who did? You?’ Angus mocked.
‘Well, I didn’t kill no one, but I did take out the two security guys, seein’ as you ask.’
Angus smirked. ‘You think I’m stupid? Tell you what, though. I’ll give you two a chance to prove which of you is the hitman.’ He threw the two shovels down on the ground. ‘There ya go, ladies. Grab these an’ follow me.’
Sanchez looked down at the shovel. ‘Great,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Buildin’ goddam sandcastles in the desert now, are we? Must be my lucky day.’
Until then, Angus had sounded almost jovial. Now he was irritated. ‘You know, sarcasm is a very unattractive feature. And lookin’ the way you do, you might wanna tone it down, fatboy.’
Sanchez and Elvis both stooped and, reaching down with their tightly bound wrists, managed to pick up a shovel each. The two security guards watched them warily to make sure neither made any sudden movements.
‘Go on,’ Tommy ordered, shoving his pistol into Sanchez’s back. ‘Follow him.’ Sanchez and Elvis trailed Invincible Angus off the highway and into the desert with the two security men following behind, occasionally prodding their pistols into their captives’ backs.
Angus strode on a good five yards ahead, making his way through a mixture of straggly, scratchy sagebrush and juniper plants that grew to a height of about a foot above the ground. He was heading towards a particularly desolate-looking area twenty yards or so further into the desert. Sanchez took the opportunity to quiz Elvis about how they were intending to escape.
‘So what’s the plan?’ he whispered.
‘We wait.’
‘Wait? Wait for what?’
‘Somethin’ to happen.’
‘Great plan. Did it take you long to come up with it?’
‘Actually, yes.’
Up ahead of them, Invincible Angus came to a halt in an area of soft dirt and sand, clear of the stunted vegetation. He pointed at the ground.
‘Okay, so here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You two start diggin’. I want a hole big enough to bury one of you. See, fellas, I’m a reasonable guy. I wanna know which one of you is the hitman who took my twenty thousand dollars.’
Elvis shook his head. ‘What the fuck you talkin’ about, man?’
‘There was an envelope with twenty thousand dollars in it. Someone took the twenty thousand out and returned the envelope to reception. Which one of you did it?’
Even the security guards weren’t sure what Angus was talking about. Only Sanchez knew that there had been twenty grand in the envelope, because he’d stolen it. And spent it. Tommy spoke up from his spot behind Sanchez.
‘What are you talkin’ about, man? What twenty grand? Ya gonna get it from Mister Powell when ya’ve done the job. More than, matter o’ fact.’
Angus reached both hands inside his trench coat and pulled out two pistols. He gestured with his head at Tommy and the other guard.
‘Step aside.’
Tommy and the other guard stepped back out of the way. Then much to Sanchez’s surprise, Invincible Angus fired twice, a single shot from each pistol. The curious thing was, he wasn’t aiming at Sanchez and Elvis. Brief yelps were heard from the two security men, followed by the sound of them falling to the ground, courtesy of a bullet in the head from Angus.
‘I knew this guy was on our side!’ said Sanchez gleefully.
Angus looked over at Elvis. ‘Is your friend always this stupid?’
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.’
Twenty-Three
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.’
