The Book With No Name

by AnonYMous

  Jessica took a look at the dirty white mug of coffee and sniffed it after Sanchez slid it across the bar to her.

  ‘Hmmm. I hope coffee isn’t the lifeblood of this place.’

  That’d be whisky and tequila.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Sanchez was beginning to take a very slight dislike to Jessica. Her manner disappointed him, because over the last five years he had imagined that, when she finally regained consciousness, she would see him as her saviour, a man she could trust. He wasn’t about to give up on her just yet, but her early attitude hadn’t exactly endeared her to him.

  ‘So, what’ve you been up to, Jessica?’

  She took a sip of the coffee.

  ‘Why should you care so much, huh? Can’t a girl come in and have a coffee without the bartender hitting on her?’ She favoured him with a contemptuous glare.

  ‘I ain’t hittin’ on you.’

  There was a certain defensiveness in the way Sanchez responded to the suggestion that he was hitting on her. Even he noticed it, and it made him blush a little. Of course, once he felt himself doing so it just set him off and he went the whole way and turned crimson. He needed to quit the room before any of the other customers noticed and began to jeer. The Tapioca’s regulars were always quick to jump on any sign of weakness. He turned on his heel and headed out back to find Mukka the cook. It was about time the big lump did a half-hour shift behind the bar. Goddam women, making him blush. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? He was only being friendly. Bitch.

  About two minutes passed before Mukka came out and took over behind the bar, and the first customer he had to serve was a big, angry-looking bastard named Jefe.

  ‘Bartender. Where the fuck is that scumbag Marcus the Weasel?’ he growled.

  ‘Marcus the Weasel? I don’t know who that is,’ the cook replied politely.

  Jefe pulled a sawn-off shotgun from inside his black sleeveless jacket and pointed it at Mukka’s head. Now Mukka was a pretty big guy himself, but he was only twenty years old. He hadn’t really filled out yet, and he wasn’t very brave. One day he’d be a tough bastard, but that day was a few years off yet, and besides, he didn’t have a gun. He had a wooden spoon that he’d brought with him from the kitchen.

  ‘Er, I still don’t know who Marcus is,’ he said nervously.

  ‘You got three seconds. Three … Two …’

  ‘Woah! Hold on!’ said Mukka, shaking his spoon at Jefe. ‘The boss, Sanchez, he’s bound to know who Marcus is. He’s just out back. I can go get him for you.’

  ‘Go get him then. But just remember this: I’m gonna be pointin’ this gun at you when you come back, and if you’re carryin’ anything other than that fuckin’ spoon, I’m gonna shoot you in the nuts. You got that?’

  ‘Uh, nuts. Yeah, got it.’

  Mukka made his way rather apprehensively out back. Sanchez was sitting in the kitchen, watching the news on the portable TV in the corner.

  ‘Hey Sanchez, there’s some nasty-looking guy out here pointing a shotgun at me and asking about a guy called Marcus the Weasel.’

  ‘Tell him you don’t know anyone called Marcus the fuckin’ Weasel.’

  ‘I did, so he pointed the gun at my head and started counting down from three.’

  Sanchez let out a deep sigh and pulled himself up out of his chair. His mood wasn’t getting any better. All the customers were getting on his nerves again today. Scum, every goddam one of them.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ he muttered under his breath as he walked back out to the bar. It came as the day’s second great surprise to Sanchez when he saw Jefe. He was expecting Elvis to have blown the bounty hunter away by now. In fact, for a second he wondered if maybe the hitman had tried and failed, and that Jefe was now here to issue some payback. As always, though, he didn’t let his feelings betray him (apart from the embarrassing blushing incident of a few moments earlier).

  ‘Jefe, ain’t it? Whadda ya want?’ He was relieved to see that the other was no longer wielding the shotgun that Mukka had mentioned.

  ‘I want that fuckin’ weasel Marcus. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Last time I saw him he was with you.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t with me no more. And my wallet and that expensive neck chain I was wearin’ last night ain’t with me, neither.’

  ‘Bummer! I s’pose he stole that nice car o’ yours, too, huh?’

  ‘Now what nice car would that be?’ asked Jefe, more than a little curious as to how a bartender would know what car he drove.

  ‘The yellow Cadillac. You got a nice yellow Cadillac, ain’t that right?’

  ‘How d’you know so much, bartender?’ asked Jefe menacingly, looking like he was about to pull his gun again and aim it in Sanchez’s direction.

  ‘Oh, I just overheard someone say that you drove a real nice yellow Caddy, is all.’

  ‘Well I don’t. I traded it a while back and bought a shit-hot Porsche, not that it’s any of your goddam business. Now, you seen Marcus, or what?’

  ‘No, I ain’t, but I’ll keep an ear out for you. He’s liable to come in here most nights, but if he’s ripped you off I guess he’ll stay away for a while.’

  ‘Know where he lives?’

  ‘Yeah, in the gutter with the rest of the local rodents,’ Sanchez replied. Then, unable to let the matter go, he asked, ‘So when did you sell the Caddy?’

  His question went unanswered. Until now, Jessica had remained very quiet. Sanchez had noticed that she hadn’t even reacted in the slightest when he’d mentioned the yellow Cadillac. Maybe she hadn’t seen it at the farmhouse? Or maybe she had, but didn’t remember? Either way, she had been sitting quietly on a barstool, taking in the entire conversation between bartender and bounty hunter.

  From her perch at the bar, Jessica had been particularly impressed by Jefe’s lack of tolerance for just about everything and everyone. Now seemed like the ideal time to make her presence known to him.

  ‘How much did this Weasel guy steal from you?’ she butted in, killing Sanchez’s question about the Cadillac stone dead.

  Until then Jefe hadn’t even noticed her. He was about to tell her to mind her own fuckin’ business when he realized how pretty she was. ‘A few thousand,’ he said airily. ‘But don’t worry, little lady, he left me more than enough to buy you a drink.’ The spectacle of Jefe suddenly turning on what he imagined to be charm was, to Sanchez, an awesome one, if somewhat nauseating. On demand, he served Jefe with a glass of whisky and topped up Jessica’s mug with more coffee from the loathsome jug. Jefe casually threw him a bill and turned back to the girl.

  For the next twenty minutes Jefe did his best to hit on Jessica, and in return she did her best to be hit on. Sanchez might as well have been invisible to them. Typical. All women seemed to be interested in was men with money, or arrogant men with no respect for them. Jefe was both of these things, although by the sound of it he might not be all that well-heeled any longer, thanks to Marcus the Weasel.

  After watching the pair of them flirt with each other like a couple of high-school kids with out-of-control hormones, Sanchez was relieved when Mukka poked his head round the corner to tell him that Elvis was on the phone. Leaving Mukka in charge of the bar again, he went out back to take the call from the King. Sitting himself down in his favourite leather chair in his office just off the kitchen, he picked up the handset and spoke into it.

  ‘Hi, Elvis.’

  ‘Hey, man. I got some good news for you. That Jefe guy is dead. I offed him this morning. Killed him real bad, too. Your momma’d be proud.’

  This is more than a little odd, Sanchez thought. Elvis would never lie to him about something like this. The man had too much pride. But he was clearly mistaken, because Jefe was right there in the Tapioca, standing by the bar and hitting on Jessica.

  ‘Okay, Elvis, so tell me this: how come Jefe is standing in my bar drinking whisky right now?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Elvis, Jefe don’t own the ye
llow Cadillac. I just heard he sold it recently and bought a Porsche – least, that’s what he says.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Elvis sounded confused.

  ‘It don’t matter, so long as you killed the guy with the yellow Caddy, right?’

  ‘Shit, I dunno, man. This guy wasn’t driving anything. He checked into a hotel under the name of Jefe. Clerk at the desk told me what room he was in, and everythin’.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t kill Jefe. I’m tellin’ you, the sonofabitch is in here now.’

  ‘So who the fuck did I kill, then?’

  ‘Shit, I dunno. Might’ve been a guy name of Marcus the Weasel. He stole Jefe’s wallet last night.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

  Sanchez was struck by a thought. ‘Hey, wait a second. Did the guy have a necklace with him with some kinda blue stone on it?’

  ‘Nah, man, this guy didn’t have shit on him. No wallet, no gun, no nothin’.’

  ‘Shit, that’s a damn shame … So what did he look like?’

  ‘Greasy, unshaven pisshead. A half-naked, gutless freak who kept lookin’ at me funny. He was a real pussy – no fuckin’ self-respect. Sonofabitch would’ve traded in his own mother to save his ass.’

  ‘Hmm, yeah. That’s Marcus the Weasel, all right. You sure he didn’t have the necklace on him anywhere?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. There was a cheap silver necklace in the room, but it didn’t have no blue stone on it, just a shitty little curly pendant.’

  It was time, Sanchez thought, to fill Elvis in on the latest news. ‘Well, he stole a blue diamond or some such from Jefe last night, and it’s worth a ton of money.’

  ‘Blue diamond? Ah, now you’re talkin’, I heard about this. How valuable are you sayin’, exactly?’

  ‘I reckon it’s worth a lot to this Jefe guy who’s hangin’ in my bar. We could split the money right down the middle, fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I wanna give you half, Sanchez? If I find the goddam thing I can sell it to him myself. Besides, don’t you still want me to kill him?’

  ‘Fuck no. I want you to kill the bastard who was driving that yellow Cadillac. It wasn’t Marcus, and seems it wasn’t Jefe, neither. If you can’t find the driver of the yellow Caddy then just get me the necklace instead. We’ll split it fifty-fifty and you can forget about offin’ the driver of the Cadillac … Leastways, for now.’

  Elvis let out a deep sigh of frustration. ‘Fucksakes! Okay, you got a deal. I’ll head back to the hotel and see what I can dig up.’

  ‘Thanks, Elvis. Call me later. I’ll see if I can set a price with Jefe.’

  Elvis grunted something under his breath and hung up. He wasn’t one for goodbyes. Time was all important in the quest to make a few bucks.

  Like most other locals, Sanchez knew a little about the history of the blue stone known as the Eye of the Moon. He knew that some people believed that it granted invincibility to anyone who carried it about their person. There were many others, however, who didn’t believe such nonsense: all they knew was that El Santino had offered Ringo round about a hundred thousand dollars for it five years ago. Unfortunately for Ringo, he had been shot down and killed by the Bourbon Kid before he had a chance to collect on the deal. Chances were high that Jefe was looking to sell the stone to El Santino, and probably for more than the hundred thousand Ringo had been asking five years earlier. It was this knowledge that Sanchez intended to use to his advantage.

  He made his way back out to the bar and headed straight for Jefe. The bounty hunter was making Jessica laugh, impressing her with stories of his many adventures hunting down idiots who had been foolish enough to have messed around with someone sufficiently rich to put a price on their head. Sanchez saw this as a perfect opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘Hey Jefe, you want me to put the word round that you want that necklace back? I know people who specialize in finding things like that.’

  Jefe managed to snarl and sneer at Sanchez at the same time. He clearly didn’t appreciate the interruption, or the generous offer of help.

  ‘I don’t need some punk bartender helping me. You just want a reward, is all. I’ll spread the fuckin’ word myself.’

  ‘I could tell El Santino that you’ve lost it, if you want. He knows people who can find things like that.’

  This was as close as Sanchez was ever likely to come to threatening a man like Jefe. El Santino had most likely hired the bounty hunter to steal the stone, and if he found out that Jefe had lost it, he would be pretty pissed. Jefe recognized the subtlety of the threat, as he also understood the need to keep El Santino out of the situation. If anyone else were to get his or her hands on the necklace and sell it to El Santino, Jefe would get nothing, other than a visit from the Grim Reaper.

  ‘Okay,’ he said wearily. ‘Get me the stone back and I’ll give you ten thousand.’

  ‘Sure. But it’s ten for me, and another ten for the friend I know who can get it for you.’

  Jefe stared hard at Sanchez. The bartender was pushing his luck, but he was a well-informed bartender with a lot of connections, and he knew how badly Jefe needed that blue stone back.

  ‘You got yourself a deal, barkeep.’ Inwardly, Sanchez felt a wave of relief run over him.

  Jessica, who had been listening intently to this exchange, was clearly impressed.

  ‘Wow! You’ve got twenty thousand dollars spare to buy me a diamond necklace?’ she asked, her face a parody of wide-eyed innocence.

  Jefe raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Ha ha. That’s kinda funny, you know? But no, it ain’t a diamond, and it ain’t for you, sweetness. I got something better in mind for you.’

  ‘Oooh! I can’t wait,’ said Jessica, favouring him with a filthy smile.

  ‘Well, you’re gonna have to. I gotta find a guy name of Marcus the Weasel first. He’s due to meet up with the Devil.’

  Sanchez overheard what Jefe said about finding Marcus, but chose not to voice his suspicion that the Weasel was already dead. The bounty hunter would find that out for himself soon enough.

  Seventeen

  The call had come through to Archibald Somers and Miles Jensen at around 6 p.m. Another body had been reported, this time at the Santa Mondega International Hotel. They had made their way there in double quick time. Somers had driven like a maniac in an attempt to get there and seal off the surrounding area, just on the off chance that the killer might still be around. Unfortunately, word had spread like wildfire, so that by the time they reached the hotel half the residents of the city were hanging around outside, waiting to see a body brought out.

  Somers parked up on the street about fifty yards from the hotel and the two detectives made their way through the crowd of onlookers to the hotel entrance. After flashing their badges at the two officers stationed outside the main entrance, they left the crowd behind them and set foot in the hotel lobby. Jensen was impressed by the smart appearance of the place. From the inside, this looked like the most modern building in Santa Mondega. The carpets were a smart beige colour and there were some very stylish, almost regal, scarlet sofas for visitors to sit on. Behind the reception desk was a young man who made eye contact with Jensen for a split second before looking away again and trying to give the impression he was busy.

  ‘I caught that,’ Somers muttered to his partner. ‘You go on upstairs to the crime scene. I’ll question our little porter friend over there.’

  ‘You got it. I’ll see you there in a minute.’

  Jensen took the stairs to the seventh floor, where the body of the latest murder victim had been discovered. It didn’t take a great detective to spot the room where the murder had taken place. The door was hanging off its hinges, and there was a uniformed officer standing outside. Jensen approached him and held up his badge.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Jensen.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the officer. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Through here, Detective.’

  The cop gestured through the shattered doo
rway and Jensen nodded politely at him as he walked in. There was a foul stench in the room – a familiar stench to the nostrils of Miles Jensen, but foul nonetheless.

  He was no stranger to dead bodies, but he had never seen any as gruesome as those that he had witnessed during his first twenty-four hours in Santa Mondega. This latest victim had been identified as a local punk and all-round scumbag named Marcus the Weasel. He had booked into the hotel under an alias, presumably because he felt his life was in danger. Which it obviously had been.

  One thing stood out to Jensen from the second he laid eyes on the corpse. This murder was a little different to the others. Marcus’s eyes hadn’t been gouged out. His tongue had not been ripped from his throat, either, although it had been sliced in half. His stomach had also been cut open and – according to one of the forensics guys working the room over – he had been dragged around the room by his guts. There had also been reports of gunshots from other guests at the hotel. That would explain the shattered kneecaps, although no bullets had been found yet to confirm this.

  Room 73 was a real bloody mess. It had no doubt been just a plain mess before this latest murder, as it was clear that there had been a lot of alcohol consumed from the minibar. Bottles were strewn all over the floor, mixing beer and whisky stains with those of the blood on the carpet. The door of the minibar was open, and all that remained inside it were a few bottles of water and a small glass bottle of orange drink lying on its side. The forensics team were doing their usual routine of inspecting and recording everything in the place, so Jensen was careful not to touch anything.

  ‘You know Lieutenant Scraggs is in the bathroom back there?’ said one of the forensics guys, who was on his hands and knees picking up bits of Marcus the Weasel’s stomach from the floor with a pair of tweezers.