The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  The lobby was vast, too. The ceiling was almost forty feet high, and at its centre hung a magnificent chandelier, light gleaming from its thousands of cut-glass pieces. The floor was made up from polished squares of alternating grey and black marble, and made Sanchez feel that he should remove his shoes to avoid scuffing it.

  But, boy, was it busy. Half the free world appeared to have just checked in. Everywhere there were people with suitcases, making all kinds of noise. Sanchez wasn’t overly fond of other people at the best of times, and after a long journey spent sitting next to someone whom, in his more charitable moments, he considered to be a demented old crone, meant that he was feeling particularly intolerant. The constant bustle before him made his heart sink. About a hundred people were milling back and forth around him in the lobby. It was plenty big enough to accommodate everyone, but its circular shape meant that every sound bounced off the creamy white walls and straight into Sanchez’s ears.

  Fortunately, Sanchez saw, there were plenty of porters, busboys and receptionists to deal with the guests as they all jostled for attention. Which was just as well, since checking in was one of his least favourite activities in life. It ranked right up there with having his thigh squeezed by a repugnant old fortune teller.

  He quickly realized that to waste time gawping at the sheer size and opulence of the place would likely cost him his chance of being served quickly. Already a few people had darted past him towards the reception desk. Seeing this, Sanchez shifted up a gear and headed for one of the six female receptionists. They were sitting in a row behind the chest-high oak desk, each with a monitor on in front of her. Five of them were already busy, but fortunately the best-looking one seemed still to be free.

  Sanchez scuttled over to her and set his large brown suitcase down on the floor. Grinning like a fool, he peered over the desk at her. A quick glance down the line at the others confirmed he had struck gold. Undoubtedly he’d picked the best-looking one. This was only fair, of course. A man of his distinction and sophistication shouldn’t have to waste his charms on just anyone. She was a petite young woman in her early twenties with long dark hair scraped back into a ponytail that had been brought forward to hang down over her left shoulder. Like each of the other receptionists, she wore a smart vest in some shiny red cloth, with a pristine white blouse underneath. The vest had a gold emblem sewn on to the left breast. Staring at it for an inappropriately long time, Sanchez worked out that it was some kind of a fork. Odd choice for an emblem, he thought. But hell, there ain’t no accountin’ for taste.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the receptionist asked, in an accent that betrayed her origins in the Deep South.

  ‘Sure. Sanchez Garcia. I won this competition.’ Sanchez fumbled around in the inside pocket of his brown suede jacket for a few seconds, before finally pulling out the now somewhat tatty letter confirming he had won a stay at the hotel hosting the rather exciting sounding Back From the Dead singing contest. He handed it over to the receptionist who took a look at it and began tapping away on a keyboard in front of her. As he waited for her to confirm his stay and offer him his room key, he heard the voice of Annabel de Frugyn behind him. He prayed she wouldn’t spot him and come hovering round, giving the receptionist the false impression that they were together.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Sanchez, I thought I’d lost you.’ There was a horrible cooing tone to her voice, somehow.

  Fuck! He turned round and saw the ludicrously badly dressed, silver-haired old witch standing behind him with a luggage cart on which her three suitcases had been piled.

  ‘Yeah. We seemed to get split up back there,’ he said. ‘Figured I’d look for you here.’

  ‘Well I’m here now.’ She smiled, in what she fondly imagined was a coquettish manner. Fondly, but inaccurately; the effect was, in fact, nothing short of grotesque.

  ‘Maybe we should split up again? I was enjoyin’ the thrill of lookin’ for you everywhere.’

  Annabel gave him a playful shove in the back and rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘Why, Sanchez! You’re such a tease.’

  The receptionist next to the girl serving Sanchez had just finished with her latest customer and called over to Annabel, ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes. You surely can, young lady. Annabel de Frugyn. I won this competition.’

  Sanchez, relieved to see Annabel head over to the other receptionist, turned his attentions back to the young woman dealing with his arrival. She was regarding him with an apologetic ‘I’m sorry, sir’ look on her face. A look Sanchez had seen far too many times in his life, especially from pretty girls. Something was wrong. He could sense it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mister Garcia,’ she said, ‘but we seem to have no record of you on our computer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For some reason we don’t have a room reserved for you. Your letter is definitely valid, but we don’t actually have a room booked in your name.’

  ‘But you have spare rooms, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. The hotel is fully booked.’

  Sanchez could feel himself grinding his teeth. ‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do? This is the only fuckin’ hotel around.’

  ‘Sir, could you please refrain from swearing?’

  ‘If you can refrain from being an unhelpful bitch.’ His voice was rising, too, in both pitch and volume.

  A hush descended upon the lobby as it became evident that there was a dispute in progress, one with every chance of escalating. To add to Sanchez’s discomfort, Annabel leaned over from her place at the desk next to him and whispered in his ear.

  ‘You can always share my room with me, if you want?’

  ‘Bite me,’ he snarled back.

  The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid that will be your only option.’ She paused before drawling an insolent ‘sir.’

  Sanchez sighed and ran his left hand through his greasy dark hair, squeezing a clump of it tightly as if he was about to pull it out. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. This just ain’t happening.’

  Just when it appeared that all was lost and that he was going to be forced to agree to share a room with an elderly fortune-telling sex pest, a voice he recognized spoke out from behind him.

  ‘Yo, Stephie. Guy’s a good friend a mine. Get him a room.’

  Sanchez’s eyes lit up and he released his grip on his hair. He turned, and was overjoyed to see the coolest guy he knew. Coolest guy on the planet. It was Santa Mondega’s most feared hitman, Elvis. Whether or not Elvis was his real name was unknown, but he travelled by that name and dressed accordingly at all times. Today he was wearing a sharp, bright gold suit jacket with black pants and a black shirt that was buttoned up only about halfway. As always he was wearing his trademark supercool gold-rimmed shades, and had his thick, dark hair slicked up and back from his forehead, Presley-style.

  Sanchez loved this guy, and was always pleased to see him. Which, given that Sanchez was almost never pleased to see anyone, was a pretty big social advance for the Tapioca’s owner. Elvis had a knack for showing up at just the right time, too. One notable incident, exactly ten years earlier, had seen Elvis arrive in time to gun down a gang of vampires that had swooped on Sanchez and a bunch of other innocent folk during a church service. The King had been booked to perform a song-and-dance routine for the churchgoers, but when the vampires had started terrorizing the congregation, he’d begun swivelling his hips and pointing his guitar at them, firing silver darts into their black hearts from the end of it. All while singing James Taylor’s ‘Steamroller Blues’. So it was understandable that Sanchez now greeted the King with a beaming smile.

  ‘Hey, Elvis. Like, whatcha doin’ here?’

  ‘Here for the Back From the Dead competition, man.’

  ‘You’re singin’ in it?’

  ‘You bet your ass I am. Million-dollar first prize, ain’t it? Couldn’t pass up the opportunity, now could I?’

  ‘Cool,’ said Sanchez. His vacation was picking up
at last. ‘So, can ya get me a room here? Some shit ’bout how I ain’t on the goddam computer.’

  ‘Sure. Stephie will sort it out, won’tcha, Steph?’

  The pretty receptionist didn’t look overly enthused about the idea. On the other hand, the look in her eye suggested that she was quite smitten by Elvis. The guy had a way with women. They just seemed to melt when he looked at them. And he had virtually hypnotic powers for getting them to do things to please him. A skill in which Sanchez was severely lacking.

  ‘He just called me a bitch,’ she pointed out, nodding sulkily at Sanchez.

  Elvis pursed his lips. ‘What? Sanchez, you didn’t call her a bitch, didja?’

  ‘Uh – I guess I may have.’

  Elvis slapped Sanchez across the back of the head. ‘Well, ya’d better dam’ well apologize, an’ if you’re lucky Stephie might just find ya a room.’

  Sanchez ventured what he thought was an apologetic smile at the receptionist. The effect was of a corpse suddenly grimacing. ‘I’m sorry I called you a bitch,’ he offered in a surly mumble.

  Stephie faked a smile back. ‘Don’t mention it. Okay, there is one room. A guy called Claude Balls was due yesterday, but he hasn’t shown up yet. You can have that one.’

  ‘Uh, thanks. Thank you very much.’ Aware that he had just been reprieved from a night with Annabel de Frugyn, his gratitude was at least sincere.

  While Stephie began completing the paperwork and locating a room key for him, Sanchez turned back to his friend. ‘Thanks, Elvis. Really appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’ worry about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m definitely in your corner for the singin’ contest. What time are you onstage?’

  Elvis appeared not to hear him. ‘Hold up. See that guy?’ he said, pointing at a man in his early forties, wearing a white suit. ‘That’s the hotel owner, Nigel Powell. Chief judge in the competition. An’ a multi-millionaire, too.’

  Powell strode confidently over towards the reception desk, with two heavily built security guards following closely behind. Beneath his bright white suit jacket, he wore a black T-shirt, which succeeded in giving off the rather outdated Don Johnson, Miami Vice look. He had slicked-back black hair, improbably white and even teeth, and a fake orange tan that positively glowed against his white suit. The two security guards wore identical black suits with black T-shirts beneath. Both had short military flat-top haircuts, and both looked to be the kind that follows orders without question. Everyone in the lobby watched in a kind of awe as the trio made their way up to the second desk at reception and came to a stop behind Annabel.

  ‘Miss de Frugyn?’ Powell asked politely, his voice, deep and resonant.

  Annabel’s body language suggested that she thought she’d been caught checking in with a stolen credit card (which was not altogether unlikely). She turned slowly to face the manager and his two heavies.

  ‘Yes,’ she trilled nervously. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Miss de Frugyn, my name is Nigel Powell. I have the honour to be the owner and manager of this hotel. Might I have a word with you?’

  ‘Why – certainly.’ Her body language spoke now of the startled jackrabbit.

  Reaching out, Powell took a hold of Annabel’s hand and politely shook it. ‘My colleagues here will take your things to your room for you. Please, come this way.’

  Sanchez and Elvis watched as the multi-millionaire led Annabel away through a set of glass double doors on the right-hand side of the circular lobby. Although they didn’t know it, he was taking her to a private area of the hotel.

  ‘Was that the Mystic Lady?’ Elvis asked Sanchez.

  ‘Yeah. Been sat next to her on the plane and the goddam bus. Fuckin’ useless annoyin’ old hag,’ Sanchez muttered.

  ‘Hear she’s kinda good at foreseein’ shit.’

  ‘Nope. She’s kinda good at talkin’ shit.’

  ‘No, man. I reckon she could probably predict who’s gonna win this show.’

  ‘You sure got high hopes,’ said Sanchez sarcastically.

  Elvis smiled. ‘You like a gamble, don’tcha, Sanchez?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, there’s more’n just the singin’ contest goin’ on this weekend. They also gotta casino on the lower ground floor here. Reckon ol’ Mystic could be a useful friend to have in a place like that.’

  Sanchez contemplated what the legendary hitman was saying. The Mystic Lady might actually be a useful ally in a casino. Except that, if the management knew of her alleged skills, they might not want her around.

  Maybe that’s why she had been escorted elsewhere by the hotel’s owner?

  Six

  Emily was not overly thrilled at having to share a dressing room with four men. Still, she kept reminding herself that it was only for one day, and the possible reward at the end of it would be life-changing.

  She was one of the five singers Nigel Powell, chief judge of the Back From the Dead singing contest had pre-selected as finalists. Emily was a little uncomfortable that the public auditions hadn’t taken place yet, and that all of the other hopefuls who were now showing up at the hotel remained oblivious to the fact that the five finalists had already been chosen. But then she remembered every dive bar she’d ever had to perform in, the years of struggle, what this meant to her and to her mother. For the reality was this: they were the five finalists because they were the best tribute acts on the club circuit. So what if the show was rigged? Wasn’t everything nowadays? That, at least, was what she kept telling herself, anyway.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d won yet. She still had to beat the other four.

  The five contestants sat in a row at individual dressing tables, each with its own mirror lit by small bulbs around the top and both sides. The dressing room was fairly poky, being about thirty feet long but only about eight feet wide. The walls were a calming pink colour, as were the tables. Emily’s was the only one that had any make-up on it. She had spent some time making sure she looked exactly how she wanted, whereas the guys had mostly sat around scratching themselves. Typical.

  The four guys were all sitting at the tables to Emily’s left. Nearest to her was the Otis Redding impersonator. Aside from being black, he didn’t really look much like the late singer at all, but he had a magnificent voice, and was wearing what looked like an extremely expensive black suit with a red silk shirt beneath it. He was, Emily thought, liable to be quite a threat in the final.

  Next to him was Kurt Cobain. He not only looked very much like the real Cobain, he potentially smelled a lot like him, too. He had on a grubby grey pullover and ripped jeans. His hair was blond and greasy, the lower half of his face was covered in two-day-old stubble and, to round off the grungy image, he appeared to have avoided soap for a few weeks. Maybe he was trying to smell like teen spirit. The resulting stink was more like teen jockstrap.

  To his left sat Johnny Cash. Emily had figured out early on that this guy was taking things very seriously. He had changed his name legally to Johnny Cash, and did his best to live his life exactly as the much lamented singer had done. On his tribute tour, he’d played in almost all the same venues as his idol. His outfit consisted – to no one’s surprise – of a black shirt and black pants, and his black hair was greased up in a quiff. Without a doubt he had the most charisma of all the male contestants, and Emily had already decided that if she didn’t win the competition, then she would rather he won it than any of the others. But she really didn’t want to lose.

  The final contestant, sitting at the far end nearest the door, was the James Brown impersonator. Unquestionably an oddball, he wore a purple suit with a blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned, underneath it, showing off a smooth brown chest and a chunky gold cross that hung from a chain around his neck. A permanent white smile beamed brightly across his face, and he sported the same wavy, unstyled hair that the Godfather of Soul had worn in his later years.

  It was deathly quiet in the dressing room. Only the sound of Kurt Cobain’s nasal breathin
g broke the monotony. Emily decided to break the ice.

  ‘Does my hair look okay, do you think?’ she asked Otis Redding.

  His response was instant. ‘Oh yeah, baby, you look fine,’ he said, with a reassuring nod. Johnny Cash, who had been busy preening his own hair in the brightly lit mirror before him, leaned round to get a look at Emily’s hair.

  ‘He’s right. You look right on the money,’ he said with a smile and a wink.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Emily, smiling back at him. Encouraged by their friendliness, she said, ‘Guess I’m starting to get seriously nervous now. How’s everyone else doing?’

  Relieved that the silence had been broken, the four men spoke almost together. The general consensus was that they were indeed all nervous. James Brown summed it up perfectly. ‘Reckon I’d be less nervous if I didn’t know I was already through to the final,’ he said standing up from his chair. ‘Now we got all this pressure of knowin’ that, even if we suck in the heats we’re still gonna be put through by the judges, an’ everyone will know that the show is rigged.’

  Emily nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘Definitely. I barely slept last night, worrying about fluffing the audition stage. Seems to me there’ll be less pressure in the final.’

  Johnny Cash spoke again. ‘Yeah. Truth is, though, I’d sooner earn my place in the final legitimately. This feels like cheating really, don’t it? Whyn’t they just allow us to try an’ get through on our own merits?’

  Otis Redding was the only one to reply. ‘’Cause it’s only a one-day competition.’

  ‘Yeah? An’ what difference does that make?’

  ‘Well, numbnuts, when you get to the final you’re not gonna be standin’ there singin’ on your own. You’re gonna have the house orchestra playin’ along to your song.’