by AnonYMous
‘So?’
‘So the orchestra needs to know days in advance what music they’re gonna be performin’, don’t they? If a fuckin’ Jimi Hendrix impersonator gets through to the final – unexpected, like – and says he’s gonna sing “Voodoo Chile”, I betcha anythin’, the orchestra’d be fucked. Imagine trying to learn how to play that and four other songs in about an hour.’
The light finally dawned in Johnny’s brain. For all his charisma, charm and talent, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. ‘I get it,’ he said slowly. ‘I never thought of that. So that’s why they wanted to know in advance what song I’m gonna sing?’
‘Yeah. That’s why.’ The ‘Bozo!’ Otis added was just loud enough to be heard by them all
Emily smiled. She’d figured it out fairly quickly. Truth was, there were a number of things to consider about the competition, none of which had probably occurred to Johnny. One in particular had been preying on her mind for a few days. Now seemed a good time to air it.
‘I wonder,’ she mused, ‘what would happen if one of us five fell ill, so that one of the other contestants made it into the final?’
James Brown had stood up from his seat and was heading for the door, but as he reached out for the door handle he turned back to answer Emily’s question. ‘I’m sure they’d just go with four finalists.’
‘Maybe,’ Emily said carefully. ‘But what if something happened to three or four of us? Say we all got food poisoning and couldn’t perform. What then?’
Brown opened the door of the dressing room, ready to walk out into the hall. ‘Well now, that would make for a real interestin’ final, I reckon,’ he said.
‘Where you goin’, man?’ Johnny Cash called after him.
‘Goin’ outside to the parkin’ lot for some fresh air. Smells like somethin’ died in here.’
Instinctively, everyone glanced at Kurt Cobain. He picked up on their unwelcome glances and blushed a little. Then he aimed a defiant comment at Brown as he walked out into the hall.
‘Watch out for speedin’ buses in the lot, man. Be a shame, you got squashed and there was only four of us in the final.’
Seven
More than ever, Sanchez was rooting for Elvis to win the Back From the Dead show. Not only had his friend come through for him by persuading the receptionist to give him a room originally reserved for someone else, but now the King was carrying Sanchez’s suitcase up to the room. They had taken the elevator to the seventh floor and then walked down a long corridor for about fifty yards. The corridor was wide enough for six people or so to stand next to each other. Its walls were covered in cream-coloured wallpaper, and there was a thick, soft, green carpet underfoot. It was evident that the owner of this hotel took great pride in the place. By comparison, Sanchez’s bar, the Tapioca, looked kind of shitty when you walked in, but once you were past the slightly shitty area, you found yourself in the very shitty part. This place was smart all the way through.
‘This is it,’ said Sanchez, pointing to a door on the left-hand side. It was painted white, with small black numbers at eye level reading 713.
‘Fer fuck’s sakes open it, then. This fuckin’ suitcase weighs a ton,’ Elvis snapped.
Mumbling an apology, Sanchez pulled a key card from his shorts and slipped it into the card reader on the door. A tiny red light on the reader turned green and a gentle click followed. He turned the handle on the door and pushed it open.
A very spacious room greeted them, with a double bed standing at its centre. There was a wooden dressing table on the far side and another small table beside the bed with a lamp on it. Over in the far left-hand corner was a door that led through to the bathroom. Sanchez was pleased with what he saw. Place was better than home. He was so struck by its cleanliness that he didn’t pay much attention to where he was walking. As he gazed around the room his right foot trod on something lying on the carpet. He heard a crumpling noise and looked down. Beneath his right foot was a large brown envelope, an ordinary-looking thing measuring about twelve inches by eight. He stooped to pick it up and walked over to the bed. In the meantime, Elvis, who had followed him in, was closing the door behind them. By the time he’d turned round Sanchez was sitting on the bed, picking at one corner of the envelope.
‘What the fuck you got there?’ demanded Elvis.
‘Ain’t sure.’
‘So open it up.’
‘I am, goddammit!’
Sanchez’s chubby fingers were pawing at the sealed end of the envelope. The flap had been stuck down with Scotch tape, with more tape used to seal the sides of the flap. He ripped the tape off, then tore off the end of the envelope. He peered into it. There were a few Polaroid-sized photographs inside, and something else, bulkier, tucked right down at the bottom of the envelope.
‘What the fuck is it?’ asked Elvis.
Sanchez frowned. ‘Looks like photos.’ Gripping the end of the envelope tightly to stop the item at the bottom from falling out, he tipped it up and allowed the contents to slide out on to the bed. Elvis dropped Sanchez’s suitcase to the floor and walked over to take a closer look at the photos. Sanchez picked up the photo nearest to him and took a look at it. It was a five-by-four-inch colour photo of an unshaven white guy with greasy blond hair.
Elvis peered over his shoulder. ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ he asked.
‘Dunno.’
‘What’s that piece of paper?’
‘Where?’
‘There.’ Elvis pointed at a small square of white paper that had slipped out of the envelope with the photos. Sanchez picked it up with his other hand and took a look at it. Written on it in blue ink was a list of four names. He compared the names with the photo in his hand.
‘What’s it say, man?’ Elvis asked.
‘I think this guy is Kurt Cobain,’ said Sanchez, waving the photo at him. He then flicked through the other three. ‘These are photos of four of the contestants in the show, I reckon.’
‘Gimme that,’ said Elvis, snatching the piece of paper out of Sanchez’s hand. He took a look at the list of names and then peered down at the photos Sanchez had spread out on the bed. ‘This is bad,’ he remarked, after a long pause.
‘I don’t get it. The fuck’s this all about?’ Sanchez pondered out loud.
‘You know what I do, right, Sanchez? Like, for a job?’
‘Yeah. I know. Everyone knows. You’re a hitman.’
‘Right. And this, my fat friend, is a hit list. Guy who was meant to be stayin’ in this room was s’posed to get this envelope. Then these four singers were gonna get wasted.’
‘Holy shit!’
Sanchez had little enthusiasm for the idea of staying in a hotel room that had been reserved by someone who planned to carry out four killings. If the guy showed up, there could be trouble. For Sanchez.
Elvis thought for a moment, then offered his advice. ‘I was you, I’d take this here envelope down to reception an’ leave it there for whoever the guy is, in case he shows up later.’
‘Shouldn’t I give it to the police?’
‘Well, that’s one idea, yeah. Personally, though, I reckon if someone is plannin’ on killing off these four singers, then it’ll boost my chances of winnin’ the goddam show.’
‘That’s kinda harsh, ain’t it?’
‘Always look for the positives in any given situation, Sanchez. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t no police in the Devil’s Graveyard.’
‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Sanchez sat on the bed and thought about what to do. He could see the sense in Elvis’s plan. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll try an’ reseal the envelope, an’ then take it down to reception.’
‘Cool.’ The King glanced at his watch. ‘Look I better get goin’, buddy. I’m due onstage for my audition in about half an hour. Make sure you’re in the audience. I need all the support I can get.’ He grinned, and added, ‘Even though I’m fuckin’ brilliant.’
‘Yeah, sure. Catch you later, man. Good luck, an�
� thanks again for carryin’ the case for me.’
Elvis folded the piece of paper with the four names on it, handed it back to his friend and walked out. Once the King had closed the door behind him, Sanchez took another look inside the envelope to check out what he thought he’d seen. Sure enough, tucked inside at the bottom was a thick wad of cash. He had kept a tight hold of it to stop it falling out when he had emptied out the other contents. After all, if Elvis had seen it he might have wanted a share. And since the envelope had been in Sanchez’s room, technically that meant it was his. Sanchez pulled out the money and, with his stubby finger trembling, counted it out on the bed. Hundred-dollar bills. Two hundred of them.
Twenty grand.
Time to head to the casino.
Eight
Annabel de Frugyn was shepherded into Nigel Powell’s private office. It was a smart room with a thick, springy royal-blue carpet and plain white plastered walls. There was a large wooden desk at the far end of the room, set in front of windows concealed behind a pair of bright red curtains that clashed horribly with the carpet. Powell gestured for her to seat herself in a small black leather-upholstered chair at the desk. He walked round and sat behind the desk in a much larger chair, also in black leather. On the desktop was a fairly organized jumble of stationery and framed photos, the latter all facing Powell. There was also a large white, rather old-fashioned telephone on the desk just to the left of his chair.
One of the two security guards who had escorted the hotel owner to the lobby earlier had followed them into the office. He took up a place standing at the door, which he had closed behind him. Still standing, she smiled her hideous smile at him, but in true military fashion he stared straight ahead, ignoring her. Unfazed, she sat herself down in the chair opposite Powell. In her lap she held, tightly, the handbag that she carried with her everywhere. She may have allowed the hotel security to take her luggage to her room, but no one was getting their hands on her dirty old brown leather handbag.
‘So, Miss de Frugyn, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,’ Powell began, sitting back in his chair, smiling.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him. The man had a devilish charm, and clearly took great care of his appearance. Despite being in his early forties he didn’t have a wrinkle on his face. No doubt the result of plastic surgery and regular injections of Botox.
Annabel’s smile was the complete opposite and revealed a vast number of lines and creases on her face. ‘You want me to use my psychic powers for something, don’t you?’
‘Very good. Impressive. And absolutely correct. I’ll be honest with you, Annabel, if I may call you that?’ She simpered back at him, a sight, if anything, even more revolting than her hideous smile. ‘It’s no accident that you’re here at this hotel. I kind of rigged it so that you would win a ticket to the show.’
‘I sensed something was amiss when I received the letter telling me I had won.’
‘Really? Your psychic powers told you that?’ Powell sat up straighter, suddenly more alert.
‘Yes. That and the fact I hadn’t entered the competition to win a ticket in the first place.’
He smiled politely. ‘Let me cut to the chase. I’ve heard many good things about you. A friend of mine recommended you after visiting you for a reading once, a few years back.’ He paused, assuming a more solemn look. ‘And today I need your services for a matter of grave importance.’
‘You want me to tell you who will win the singing contest?’
‘No. It’s more important than that.’
The Mystic Lady was determined to divine what he wanted before he told her. ‘You wish to know what you’re getting for your birthday?’ she ventured.
Powell threw a look over her shoulder at the security guard by the door. A look that suggested he wasn’t wildly impressed by Annabel’s mystical powers. She still had to convince him she was worthy of the title ‘Mystic Lady’.
Sensing his scepticism, she tried to reassure him ‘I work a lot better when I have my crystal ball,’ she told him.
‘Ah. I see. And do you have it with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please do get it out.’ There was the hint of an order behind the suave delivery.
Annabel unzipped her handbag, but before reaching inside she frowned. ‘Wait,’ she said with a gasp. ‘I’m seeing something.’
‘What is it?’
‘I see you handing me five hundred dollars.’
Powell sighed. Annabel never worked for free, and she made sure that everyone knew it. Her reputation had spread far from Santa Mondega, so Powell had known what to expect. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick brown leather wallet. Opening it, he counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. Then he slipped three of them over the desk to Annabel, who snapped them up and quickly concealed them somewhere about her person.
Powell kept one finger on the two remaining bills on his side of the desk. ‘Three hundred now,’ he said coldly. ‘Two hundred more if you tell me what I need to know.’
Annabel pretended to contemplate his offer. In truth, though, there was no way she was going to refuse. Normally some haggling would take place, but her request for five hundred up front had been a somewhat optimistic one. The fact that he was willing to pay the whole five hundred made the three hundred up front more than acceptable to her. So, with another nightmarish smile, she delved into her bag and pulled out a small crystal ball, an object far cleaner than the dirty receptacle that held it. She set it down on the desk in front of her and looked up at the man sitting opposite her.
‘So tell me what you want to know.’
‘Well, Annabel,’ he said, leaning over the desk and offering his own dazzling smile, ‘a few weeks ago I was approached by a rough-looking Mexican fellow named Jefe. Claimed to be an assassin or bounty hunter of some sort.’
‘I think I know him,’ said Annabel.
‘You should do,’ said Nigel. ‘He’s the one who recommended I speak to you.’
‘About what?’
‘He told me he’d been offered a substantial sum of money to kill some of the contestants in this year’s show. He had accepted the job via a third party, only then to be told that the contract had been given to someone else.’
‘I see. And you want to know who that someone else is?’
‘Yes. I also want to know who it is who’s hiring these people, and why.’
‘Jefe didn’t know?’
‘No, but he said you might be able to help with that. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘That will do for now. Think you can manage it?’
‘Well, let’s see, shall we? Can you dim the lights?’
‘Sure. Tommy, dim the lights, please.’
The black-suited security guard turned a switch by the door and dimmed the overhead lighting until it was sufficiently dark to see that Annabel’s crystal ball was beginning to glow a gentle white colour. This was her cue to lean forward and begin waving her hands over the enigmatic sphere. After a few seconds, a swirling white mist appeared inside it. Powell had the good sense to remain quiet as she went through some rather dubious gesticulating with her arms. Eventually, after staring unblinkingly into the glowing glass ball and concentrating hard for just under a minute some insight seemed to come to her.
‘The man you seek,’ she intoned, ‘is in the hotel already. He has a list of people he plans to kill.’
‘Can you see what he looks like?’
‘I see two men together. One of them is a contestant in the show. The other is a merciless killer. They plan to kill off their main rivals so they can win the show.’
Powell reached a hand up to his chin and began rubbing it as if he had an infuriating itch.
‘Who are they?’ he demanded.
‘Wait. I’m seeing something. It’s – it’s a room number.’
‘Go on.’
‘This room is on the seventh floor.’ Annabel, star
ing fixedly into the crystal globe, was beginning to sweat with the effort of concentrating. Powell, too, was staring into it, but could see nothing other than the white mist swirling around inside. Again the old woman spoke, her voice now a monotonous drone, her words interspersed by short pauses.
‘It’s room number – thirteen on the – seventh floor. That’s where – you’ll find the – assassin you’re looking for.’
‘Wow!’ said Powell, sounding surprised. He was impressed in spite of himself. ‘That’s very precise. Do you have a name for the occupant?’
Annabel slowly shook her head. ‘No. There’s confusion over this man’s name. I can’t work out why.’ Her speech was beginning to sound normal again.
Shit! thought Powell, but he kept it to himself. ‘Okay,’ he said gently. ‘Can you see anything else?’
‘Yes, there is one thing. But I suspect you already know this.’ She sounded hesitant now.
Powell raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘And what is that?’
‘This show is cursed.’
‘Excuse me?’ If he was surprised, he did a remarkable job of concealing it.
‘There’s some kinda curse on this show. I can’t figure out exactly what it is, but if I was a contestant, I don’t think I’d want to win.’
The show’s owner and promoter waved a dismissive hand and smiled at her. ‘I’m not worried about curses. Or what happens to the person who wins the show. I just want to be sure the show goes ahead without any glitches.’
‘It’s your call,’ said Annabel. ‘But I reckon a more appropriate name for your show would be The Hex Factor.’
Powell sighed. ‘I think we’re done here. Tommy, turn the lights back up, please.’ The white mist within the crystal ball began to dissipate and Annabel sat back in her chair, looking a little tired, and, if anything, even older. The security guard turned up the lights again and Annabel watched with unconcealed pleasure as Powell tossed the remaining hundred-dollar bills over the desk to her.
‘Thank you, Annabel. You appear to have done well.’ He looked across at her and added, ‘Of course, if we need you again for any reason, we know your room number.’ There was a note of subtle intimidation in his voice, and Annabel had no doubt that if even one of her predictions proved false, then her five hundred dollars might just be repossessed. She snagged the two hundred-dollar bills and quickly concealed them within her clothing with the other three, then picked up her crystal ball and placed it back in her bag.