The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  ‘Mystic Lady?’

  ‘Yes yes. Mystic Lady.’ The Chinese woman nodded vigorously and pointed at an elderly, grey-haired woman seated at the roulette table. She appeared to be the only person playing, but she had a mountain of chips in front of her, and everyone’s eyes were on her. ‘She see future. Make big wager. Win huge!’

  Julius threaded his way through the crowd until he was just behind the Mystic Lady person. She had placed a stack of yellow chips on red. The crowd fell silent as the rather depressed-looking croupier spun the wheel. Once it had completed its first full revolution he took a deep breath, nodded at the Mystic Lady and then with a deft flick of his hand, cast the small white ball into the wheel, against the direction of rotation. Julius leaned over her shoulder to watch the outcome. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, so that all that could be heard was the rattling of the ball as it ran round the wheel. Eventually the wheel began to slow and the ball dropped down to nestle in one of the numbered pockets. When the wheel had slowed sufficiently, there were gasps from the watching audience, followed by cheers as the croupier called out wearily, ‘Red, number twelve!’ The ball had settled in the number twelve pocket, which just happened to be red, exactly as the Mystic Lady had predicted.

  While the croupier was counting out yet more chips to add to her pile, the old woman turned around on her stool and looked directly at Julius. She stared hard at him for a few seconds. He wasn’t sure what her reasons were for staring, but he decided to break the silence.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, intending to comment politely on her good fortune.

  ‘Julius?’

  It shocked him that she should know his name because he didn’t recall ever having met her before. Maybe she really did have mystical powers and could see the future, as the bruised Chinese woman had suggested.

  ‘Yeah. How d’ya know my name?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re coming for you.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Them.’ The Mystic Lady nodded at the casino entrance behind Julius. He turned and looked. Four burly men in black suits had come down the stairs from the hotel and were looking around the casino. It was obvious they were members of the security team. They must have seen him on CCTV. He needed to get out before they spotted him in the crowd. He looked back at the Mystic Lady to see if she knew what else was coming his way.

  ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re a James Brown impersonator.’

  ‘No! Not, what do I do. I mean how do I get outta here?’

  ‘Stairs, elevator. Your choice. And now, if you don’t mind,’ she added primly, ‘I’ve a roulette wheel to play.’ With that, she swivelled on her stool until she was facing the table again.

  Julius looked around for an exit. The Mystic Lady was right. Stairs or elevator. The four security men were standing just inside the casino’s entrance, itself just a few yards from the foot of the stairs, which ruled that option out. It would have to be the elevator, over on the far wall. He hadn’t been spotted yet, so he began edging his way over to it, trying to keep the people crowding round the roulette table between him and the entrance.

  The nearer he got to the elevator, the thinner the crowd and the greater the chance that he’d be seen and recognized. In the end he had to make a break for it, but without drawing attention to himself by looking as though he was making a break for it. So he settled for walking at a brisk pace in mincing steps, which probably looked ridiculous, although that was the least of his concerns. When he reached the metal doors, he pressed the button on the wall to call the elevator. He didn’t dare look back to see whether he’d been spotted by the security guards.

  The elevator seemed to take an eternity to arrive. He kept pressing the button, muttering ‘C’mon, c’mon!’ under his breath. He could hear the machinery churning away behind the wall. It sounded worn out, but eventually the grinding noise came to an end. An extremely loud pinging sound followed, and the metallic-silver doors slid slowly open. Julius darted inside and reached for the keypad on the wall. He pressed the first button that his fingers reached, which was for the tenth floor. Then he stood as close as possible to the side wall to avoid being seen by the four heavies from security.

  After what seemed like another eternity, the doors began to close slowly. He felt growing relief with every inch that it moved. He was going to make it. But when the doors were just an inch or two away from meeting the frame, a hand appeared in the gap. A large hand with coarse black hairs covering the back of it. He was doomed. The doors reopened and a large, crop-headed white man wearing a black suit stepped into the elevator.

  ‘Julius, I assume?’ he said.

  Julius didn’t respond. Three other security guards stepped into the elevator with him. The first guy reached over to the keypad and pressed the button for the ground floor. Then he looked down at Julius and smiled.

  ‘I sure hope you got your bucket and spade with you, pal. We’re takin’ you on a trip out to the desert. Kinda sandy there.’

  As the doors slid shut behind the four men, Julius’s heart sank. The guy who had pressed the button for the ground floor put an arm around his shoulder and gripped him tightly, pulling him into the middle of the elevator.

  ‘Why so down, buddy?’ he asked. His three companions sniggered. Julius contemplated his fate. How in hell, he wondered, was he going to get out of this mess?

  The elevator moved smoothly up to the ground floor, issuing its obligatory pinging noise as it reached its destination. The doors slid open and Julius saw a man standing in the corridor right outside. He was facing the elevator with his head bowed. His clothing was dark and he had a hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face. Even so, Julius had no difficulty in recognizing him.

  One of the security guards stepped out of the elevator and into a world of trouble. The Bourbon Kid grabbed him and in an instant spun him round and drove his right arm up behind his back. A loud crack followed. Before the guard could make a noise, the Kid spun him back and smashed the heel of his free hand into his captive’s forehead, jolting his neck back sharply.

  Another, much louder, crack followed.

  The Kid dropped the man’s body to the floor. Then he looked up at the three other guards in the elevator carriage. All their swagger and bravado had evaporated.

  ‘Anyone else gettin’ off on this floor?’ he asked in his usual unpleasant, grating tone.

  Julius watched all three of his captors step back and hold their hands up in surrender. One of them reached forward and began tapping on the buttons to make the doors close. Pussies.

  So the Bourbon Kid was watching his back after all, Julius thought. He stepped out of the elevator and turned back to face the three surviving security guards.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling. ‘That was fun. We should do it again some time.’ The doors closed and the elevator resumed its ascent. Julius turned back to the Bourbon Kid.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. God will reward you for this. You just went halfway to being absolved of your sins.’

  The Kid lowered the hood on his jacket, reached out his left hand and grabbed Julius’s face, squeezing his cheeks hard. ‘I ain’t on your side, fuckwad.’

  ‘Maybe you are and you just don’t know it.’

  ‘Nope. Pretty dam’ sure I ain’t.’

  ‘But secretly you wish you were?’

  The Kid squeezed Julius’s face even harder, then raised his arm and lifted him off his feet, hauling him away from the elevator doors. The two of them were now in the middle of the corridor, looking at each other eye to eye, although Julius’s feet were about six inches off the ground.

  ‘Listen, fuckwit,’ said the Kid. ‘I wanna know the exact truth ’bout you and why you wanna win this contest so bad. I’ve seen the zombie muthafuckers that used to be singers hoverin’ around outside, an’ I reckon you know what that’s all about. Where do you fit in? An’ can you really beat Judy Garland?’

  ‘Okay… ’ Juliu
s began. Before he could continue, the Kid raised the index finger on his right hand to silence him.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said in his gravelly voice. ‘You say one word I don’t think is one hundred per cent true, I’ll break your goddam neck. You think about that ’fore you say anythin’. One word.’

  Julius swallowed hard. He was just about to open his mouth to speak when the elevator made its pinging noise again. He glanced to his left and saw the metal doors opening once more. The three security guards had come straight back down and were about to exit the carriage. Their faces revealed identical looks of shock at the sight of Julius and the Kid still present in the corridor, with the corpse of the fourth guard at their feet. The Kid turned his head slowly to look at them. There was an awkward moment as the three of them stared back, realizing they had come back down a touch too hastily. The one nearest the keypad promptly pressed one of the buttons and the doors slowly closed again.

  The Kid turned back to Julius and pulled his face in close. ‘You wanna be in that final, start talkin’.’

  Fifty-Two

  Nigel Powell was finally starting to enjoy himself. Emily’s performance of ‘Over The Rainbow’ was even better than the one she had given in the auditions. With the orchestra behind her she excelled, growing in confidence with every word she sang.

  There wasn’t an empty seat in the auditorium. No one slipped out to the washrooms. No one sneaked off to the bar for a late drink. No one ducked out for a snatched cigarette. The entire audience remained absolutely silent throughout the song, not wanting to miss – or, worse, spoil – a second of it. Unlike the boisterous performances of the other contestants, which had brought the mass of people to their feet, singing along and dancing in the aisles, this was something to be savoured. Awed, the crowd simply sat and enjoyed the beauty of Emily’s voice. Her elegance and grace shone through in a contest which, in Powell’s view, had been marred by a series of tasteless lapses. Janis Joplin’s swearing, Elvis’s gyrating, Jacko’s song-and-dance nonsense, and Julius’s attempts to have all the other finalists killed, among other things. At last the stage had been graced by someone who had no gimmicks and no angles, just talent.

  When the last notes of Emily’s song died away, the audience rose as one and applauded loudly. Cameras flashed, people cheered and whistled, the entire orchestra jumped to their feet crying ‘Brava! Brava!’ Even the three members of the judging panel stood up, clapping wildly. To his left and right Nigel saw tears shining on both of his colleagues’ cheeks. If this girl didn’t win, something was wrong.

  As, old-fashionedly, Emily curtsied to the audience, Nigel felt a great wave of relief. This would, he hoped, be the last performance of the evening. Julius would by now have been escorted from the hotel by security, soon to be digging his own grave in the Devil’s Graveyard. Happy times indeed.

  When the applause finally died down, Emily stood shyly before the judges, who had sat down again, and waited for their assessment. Candy was the first to speak up. Wiping tears from her eyes, she half gulped, half sniffed out the words, finding her breath as best she could.

  ‘Brilliant! Just brilliant! Best performance of the night,’ she gushed tearfully.

  Lucinda was equally flattering. ‘A star is born! You were awesome, baby. You couldn’a done more. No one could, you ask me. Congratulations, honey – an’ then some.’

  And finally a deathly hush fell all around as Powell took his turn to speak. For once he got to his feet, looked directly at the anxious singer, and said smoothly, ‘Emily. That, my dear, was just incredible. I don’t know of anyone in the world who could have sung that better than you.’ He paused, then added, ‘And I include the late Miss Garland.’

  At once the crowd started shouting out every kind of support. Initially, just one or two drunken fans yelled out their appreciation, but soon the whole audience was screaming like a crowd at a football game. Powell continued paying Emily compliments, but the huge noise drowned him out until he gave up and just waved her offstage with a gleaming smile and a kiss blown from his outstretched hand.

  With a spring in her step, Emily left the stage. Nina Forina returned to her place in the spotlight and addressed the audience.

  ‘Okay, everyone! Quiet please!’ she shouted. She had to wait for another thirty seconds for the crowd eventually to quieten down enough for her to continue. ‘It’s time for our final contestant, the absolutely last finalist in the Back From the Dead show. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the Godfather of Soul – Ja-a-a-a-a-mes Brown!’

  Powell watched with interest as the James Brown fans in the audience began clapping and cheering. Would Julius show up? He thought not. He certainly hoped not.

  Nina was looking around, expecting the last finalist to appear from the side of the stage. She looked both ways, and her face beginning to betray a feeling of mild concern. Powell waited for her to realize that Julius wasn’t going to show. When, some seconds later, she duly did, she looked to him for a signal as to what she should do. Smiling in an especially self-satisfied way, he leaned forward to speak into his microphone. It was time to tell the audience to start voting for their favourite acts using the keypad on their seat. James Brown wasn’t going to appear.

  And then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, Julius bounded out on to the stage. He flashed his enormous smile at the judges and then walked over to join Nina.

  Nigel Powell was inwardly fuming. How had this devious bastard managed to make it onstage? Security would be held accountable for this. Yet knowing that his face was visible on the giant screen, he had to watch on with a forced smile as Nina skipped back into the shadows and Julius stepped up to the mike.

  ‘Heh! Is everybody ready to party one more time?’ he yelled into the mike.

  The audience roared back an emphatic ‘YEAH!’

  The show wasn’t over yet.

  Fifty-Three

  Sanchez was more uptight, more on edge than any of the finalists. Only minutes earlier, he had locked a psychotic, ginger-haired, pony-tailed gunman in a walk-in freezer. And that psycho was liable to reappear at any moment, bent on exacting his revenge. There was, too, the small matter of the zombies in the desert now heading towards the hotel with the intention of eating everyone alive.

  If he believed everything that he had been told, then his hopes of getting out alive rested entirely on the shoulders of Julius, a James Brown impersonator – and possible thirteenth Apostle. If Julius won the show, then – allegedly – some kind of curse would be broken. Even so, Sanchez still hadn’t forgotten that Gabriel had made some passing remark about the hotel sinking into the pits of Hell if Julius signed the contract. Whichever way he looked at it, none of it was good. And all the answers were due in the next half-hour.

  By the time he heard Nina Forina announce that the last singer was due onstage, his nerves were absolutely fried. It didn’t help that the singer in question, Julius, took an age to show up. But just when it looked like he’d bugged out, he appeared from the wings, grinning like a fool.

  Sanchez was hanging with Elvis and the other singers at the side of the stage, eagerly anticipating Julius’s performance. He didn’t disappoint. His song of choice was ‘I Got You (I Feel Good)’. Like the Blues Brother and Emily, he had the advantage of backing from the orchestra. Jacko had got the musicians warmed up with his rendition of ‘Sweet Home Chicago’, and Emily’s sublime singing had lifted their playing to new heights. Now, brimming with confidence, they offered very able support to Julius.

  Where Emily had her beautiful voice, Elvis his charisma, Janis her amusingly inappropriate swearing, the Blues Brother his guitar and Freddie Mercury his uncanny resemblance to the late subject of his impersonation, Julius had some fantastically energetic dance moves. During his routine he covered every inch of the stage. By the time he was halfway through the song he was sweating liberally. He did the splits a few times, bouncing right back up each time without using his hands to help him. He strutted around,
banging his head with his hands in time to the music, and when he wasn’t singing, he filled his performance with shrieks and screams. Every ‘Heh!’ or ‘Ooow!’ he yelled seemed to excite the audience further. As they had been with several of the other performances, they were up on their feet in the aisles, banging their heads and dancing along to the music. It wasn’t just the audience, either. The brass section of the orchestra seemed really to have entered into the spirit of the performance.

  Sanchez kept half an eye on the judges, trying to gauge their reactions. Lucinda Brown was swaying and clapping in time to the beat, clearly enjoying herself. Beside her, Nigel Powell was giving little away. His face didn’t move much at the best of times, but if his body language was a guide then he didn’t seem to be too impressed. He sat with his arms folded and his lips pursed tightly together. On the other side of him, Candy Perez was smiling and waving first one and then the other arm up and down in the air, in some sort of dance move that made her look as though she was climbing an invisible ladder. Sanchez watched intently as the movement of her arms made her tightly constrained breasts move up and down one at a time. Jesus! he thought to himself. One of ’em’s gonna pop out any minute!’

  As he studied the gap at the top of her tight, partly zipped-up jacket, he was convinced that he could see a nipple popping out over the top. He opened his eyes wide and started nudging Elvis, who was standing on his right.

  ‘Shit, man – look!’ he whispered. ‘Reckon I can see one a Candy’s nipples!’

  He expected his friend to thank him for the heads-up. Instead he heard a woman’s voice. ‘Thanks, that’s nice,’ it said, rather coolly.

  At once Sanchez realized that it wasn’t Elvis he’d been nudging, but Emily. He looked around and saw Elvis behind him talking with Janis Joplin. He felt his cheeks redden slightly with embarrassment.

  ‘Uh – sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Emily with a chuckle.