by AnonYMous
After briefly introducing himself and being quizzed by the show’s host, Nina Forina, he mentally braced himself and prepared to sing. Feeling more nervous than he really needed to, he waited until the orchestra began the introductory bars, took a deep breath and launched into the opening line of ‘These Arms of Mine’. It felt odd, singing in front of such a large audience without a backing track, but he nailed it. The crowd below showed their immediate approval by applauding loudly, which boosted his confidence even further. For the next ninety seconds, until Powell called for him to stop, he owned the stage. None of the singers who had gone before him had been allowed to sing for more than thirty seconds, but to make sure the audience remembered Luther’s performance it had been secretly agreed that he would be allowed to sing for longer. By the time he had finished his audition he was receiving a well-earned standing ovation from the crowd, and even a pair of oversized white panties from one of the women near the front.
But it was the judges’ acclaim that counted. The first judge to speak was Lucinda Brown, a successful singing coach from Georgia who had trained many soul singers in her time. She was a slightly overweight black woman wearing a low-cut, yellow silk dress. Her dark hair was tied up in a mad ‘bird’s nest’ style on top of her head. Her most positive quality was undoubtedly her natural warmth. She probably knew exactly what the contestants were going through, as she’d undertaken numerous auditions herself in her younger days. Certainly she looked the most sympathetic of the judges, and seemed immediately to be trying to put Luther at ease.
‘Honey, how old are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m twenty-five,’ Luther answered. He was now more nervous than he had been in the build-up to performing. All of a sudden the fear that he might have taken his place in the final for granted was gnawing at him. He started taking deep breaths to calm himself, anxiously awaiting any criticism or praise that might be coming his way. He could feel a bead of sweat sliding down his forehead as he melted under the heat of the lights, but he dared not reach up to wipe it away. All he could concentrate on was his breathing.
‘Child,’ the yellow-clad judge began, ‘if Otis Redding coulda sung like you when he was twenty-five, you can bet the sweet Lord Jesus that God wouldn’t have allowed him to die in any ol’ plane crash. Boy, you was good. If ol’ Otis is watchin’ from up above, I bet he’s sayin’, Please Lord, I have been reborn!’ She paused, before adding, ‘You own this place.’ She was wagging the index finger on her right hand vigorously as she spoke, which helped enormously in exciting not only herself but also the watching audience.
Lucinda’s praise was all that was needed to send the crowd wild. Many of them jumped to their feet and clapped excitedly. Luther just breathed a huge sigh of relief. He knew he’d sung brilliantly, but he also knew that judges could be idiots. But he had done exactly as Powell had asked. He’d performed a song to the best of his ability, and he looked good.
So, yeah – Lucinda, the first judge, had taste.
On to the second.
The white-suited man in the centre nodded to his left to signal that the other female judge should offer her opinion next. She was a Barbie-doll clone in her early forties named Candy Perez, and her claim to fame was that she had once had a top-ten hit in Mexico with a catchy summer pop song that was more famous for the gimmicky dance that went with it than for any singing ability that its performer might have had. Now she smiled broadly at Luther. The smile didn’t create a single wrinkle on her face, despite the fact that she would never see thirty, or even forty, again. Like Nigel Powell, the woman was all Botoxed-up, and dam’ proud of it. She had big curly blonde hair and wore a classy white leather jacket that was halfway zipped up, squeezing her ample breasts into an impressive cleavage. She didn’t appear to be wearing anything beneath the jacket, so it had to be hoped for her sake that the zip could take the considerable pressure.
‘Luther, I thought you were great.’ She turned a dazzlingly white and entirely insincere smile upon the anxious singer. ‘The best I’ve seen so far. Congratulations. I think you’ve got a real chance of winning this competition. You done real good, sweetie.’
As more wild applause filled the auditorium, Luther wanted to punch the air and shout ‘YESSS!’ but chose instead to show some dignity and restraint.
‘Thanks – uh, thank you so much,’ he muttered humbly.
And so to the third judge. The one whose opinion really mattered. Nigel Powell.
Powell knew how to work the audience, and he was in any case the undoubted star of the show. Being the show’s deviser, owner and chief judge meant that his opinion mattered above everyone else’s. And he loved to be noticed. That much was obvious from his outfit. The smart black shirt underneath the pristine white suit was fairly tasteless, but it got the man noticed. And the women in the audience loved him. He knew it and they knew it, all of them. Every woman he met seemed to fall under his spell. The man oozed charm, but he also exuded an aura of money and power. So Luther needed him on side, not just to grant him safe passage to the final, but to convince the audience that he could win it when he got there.
The chief judge was milking the crowd too. His body language gave nothing away about his thoughts on Luther’s performance, but after solemnly pretending to ponder his response for a while he eventually spoke up. His voice was deep and measured, and his tone verging on the serious.
‘Luther,’ he said, nodding confidently to himself, but always maintaining eye contact with the now suddenly nervous Otis Redding impersonator. ‘Luther – tell me, how much do you want to win this competition?’
‘It means everything to me.’ The singer’s nerves turned his reply into a hurried squeak.
‘Really? And do you think you’ve got what it takes?’
‘Yes.’ The questioning was nerve-racking, even though the answers were obvious. It felt like Powell was testing the character of his contestant, just to show off.
‘And do you think you could get up and perform like that five nights a week? In my hotel? And be that good every time?’
‘Yes, Nigel, I know I could. If you just give me the chance. I’ll do whatever it takes. This means so much to me.’
Powell sat back in his seat and smiled his bright white smile at Luther.
‘Good, because I think you’ve got a great chance of winning this whole thing. I see real star quality in you. I’m pretty sure we’re going to be seeing you again in the final later on. Well done.’
The audience began whooping and cheering, now not just standing on their feet, but literally bouncing up and down while applauding. The emphatic ovation went on for quite some time and was still going strong as Luther made his way offstage via a set of steps on his left that led backstage. The applause was still echoing in his ears as he headed into the waiting room set aside for the contestants who had yet to perform. His four dressing-room companions had all gathered there, and were the first to greet and congratulate him.
‘Well done, man,’ said Johnny Cash, slapping him on the back. ‘Great fuckin’ vocals, y’know? Reckon you’ll definitely make it to the final.’
‘Thanks.’
The compliment was all for show, of course. A few other contestants, unaware that Luther’s place in the final was already guaranteed, also wished him the best of luck. He did feel a slight twinge of guilt, knowing that a bunch of people whose hopes and dreams were resting on their success in this show had no idea it was rigged. The feeling soon passed, however.
Glad to have finally gotten his first performance out of the way, he left the large backstage waiting room and stepped out into the corridor, where he headed to the elevator at the end of the hall. He was looking forward to getting back to the dressing room on floor eight and having it all to himself for a while. He felt that, really, he ought to stay to support the other four, but they had all been given instructions earlier in the day to head straight back to their shared dressing room once their performances were over.
When he finally ma
de it to the end of the long yellow-walled corridor his legs were just beginning to regain some of the strength that had been drained out of them during the judge’s comments. Even so, his heart was still pounding heavily in his chest as he reached out one hand and pressed a small, round, grey plastic button on the pale yellow wall next to the elevator. To his relief, the silver doors opened straight away and, with no one waiting to come out, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button marked ‘8’ on the keypad to his right.
Before the doors could close, a man dressed entirely in black, wearing sunglasses and with the dark hood on his jacket pulled up over his head, appeared from around the left side of the entrance. He stepped into the elevator and stood beside Luther, staring back out into the corridor.
‘What floor?’ Luther asked.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ The voice was not exactly a growl – more a rasp, like gravel being stirred.
The singer wasn’t quite sure what to make of the stranger’s response. Maybe the guy just liked riding in elevators? Then the doors closed and, with a slight lurch, the elevator carriage began to move upwards.
Luther was dead before he reached floor two.
Fourteen
Sanchez weaselled his way through the backstage area and stepped on to a part of the stage behind the performers. He found a vantage point just behind a large, heavy red curtain that ran from floor to ceiling. He’d made it there just a minute or two before his friend was due to perform.
In the show, Elvis had the misfortune to be scheduled to appear after the highly impressive Otis Redding impersonator. A tough act to follow. Sanchez kept his fingers crossed that his buddy wouldn’t hit any bum notes. Then, when the performance finished, he applauded vigorously, and loudly enough for the King to hear him and know that he had watched and approved.
Elvis had performed an excellent rendition of ‘Kentucky Rain’ and the audience showed its approval with wild applause and more than a few wolf whistles. Everyone – young, old, male, female – seemed to love him. The guy just had charisma. To Sanchez, he was the coolest dude on the planet. Not that he’d ever admit that to him. That would be uncool.
The three judges hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic about Elvis’s performance as Sanchez or the rest of the audience. In fact, their comments seemed to be designed to temper the enthusiasm of the watching fans. Sure, Sanchez was biased, but he had Elvis down as being every bit as good as the Otis Redding impersonator who had gone before him. Elvis thought so too. But the only judge to offer any real praise was Candy Perez. Elvis gave her a wink and kept his cool, carefully avoiding calling the two other judges dumbass muthafuckers.
In high style and with great dignity he strutted offstage towards Sanchez, waving to the audience and blowing kisses as he went. As soon as he was out of sight of them, the smile on his face turned to a scowl. Sanchez, seeing his friend’s face, reckoned some reassurance was required.
‘Yo, Elvis! You were great, man. Reckon you’re a dead cinch to make it to the final,’ he blurted out. He meant it, too.
‘Bull-shit! Fuckin’ show’s rigged, man,’ Elvis snarled. He wasn’t a man to take criticism lightly. Or at all. And in this instance he had a point. He knew how to work a crowd, and he had his impersonation off to perfection. Anyone who said otherwise was a fuckin’ liar.
‘Yeah? You really think it’s rigged?’ Sanchez asked.
‘Sure. Didn’t you see the way the judges gave that Otis Redding guy great comments, even though he wasn’t anythin’ special? Anyone can do fuckin’ Otis Redding,’ he added dismissively.
‘You were better than him, that’s for certain.’
Elvis nodded his agreement. It was clear that despite his almost super-human self-confidence, a few compliments from Sanchez were more than welcome.
‘Thanks, Sanchez. ’Preciate it. Still reckon I’m fucked though. An’ you know somethin’ else? When I was out there – singin’, you know – somethin’ hit me.’
‘Shit, man. I didn’t see anythin’.’
‘No, numbnuts. I mean somethin’ dawned on me. That Otis Redding impersonator? Well, he was one of the guys in the photos you had in that envelope, wasn’t he?’
Sanchez thought for a moment. He had only caught the last few seconds of Otis Redding’s performance. Most of what he’d seen was the back of the singer’s head as he received from the judges’ compliments. But he had got a look at his face as he’d walked past to the backstage area. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but yeah – Elvis was right.
‘Shit, yeah. So, maybe that wasn’t a hit list? Maybe someone was tryin’ to bribe one of the judges to get the people in the photos in to the final?’
Elvis peered over his sunglasses to look Sanchez in the eye. ‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘So if it was a bribe, where was the fuckin’ money?’
Sanchez felt his cheeks reddening a little. ‘Er, oh yeah,’ he blustered. ‘Must have been a hit list.’
‘That’s my reckoning,’ the King said wearily. ‘Though, even a hit list often has a deposit of cash with it.’ He paused for a moment, before adding, ‘There’s definitely some strange shit goin’ down here today. An’ I don’t like it.’
‘Me either.’
‘Lucky you took that goddam envelope back to reception.’ He paused again, as if suddenly remembering that Sanchez was a serial liar, and just as likely to have thrown the envelope in a trash can somewhere. ‘You did take it back, didn’t ya?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Oh yeah. Sure. ’Course I did. Mind you, wasn’t a minute too soon. As I was on my way here, that guy Claude Balls who was supposed to have my room showed up at reception.’
‘Did he make you?’
‘Nah! I got the fuck outta there. Guy was huge.’
‘Big fucker, huh?’
‘Yeah. An’ ugly. Looked like he’d make a good hitman.’
‘That bein’ the case, Sanchez, I suggest you clear your suitcase outta the room before he goes up there lookin’ for you.’
‘Yeah. I kinda thought that’d be a good idea.’ He looked round nervously, then added, ‘Thing is, I don’t much fancy goin’ up there on my lonesome, though. If you know what I mean.’
Elvis shook his head and sighed. Sanchez’s cowardice, like his untruthfulness, was legendary back home in Santa Mondega. The King knew perfectly well that his friend didn’t have the guts to go on his own. But for all his friend’s character failings he had always been generous, standing Elvis many a free drink in his bar, the Tapioca, over the years. For good reason, mind.
‘Ten years today since I saved your sorry ass from those vampires in church, ain’t it?’ Elvis said.
‘Yeah. I ain’t forgotten that, neither. But that whole experience always makes me a bit edgy on Halloween. It’s kinda why I took this trip. Thought it’d be nice to get out of Santa Mondega, what with all the undead an’ that.’
‘Come on then,’ growled Elvis, heading out into the corridor. ‘Let’s go get your bag. You can bunk with me, if we can’t find ya somewhere else.’
‘Thanks, man.’ Sanchez, following, was properly grateful.
They reached the elevator at the end of the corridor and Elvis pressed the grey button set in the wall to call it. They waited for little more than a few seconds before the car arrived and the silver doors opened. It looked empty and both men stepped inside. Sanchez turned to his left to press the button for his floor, to be confronted by an unpleasant sight. Slumped in the corner underneath the keypad was the body of a black man in his mid-twenties.
‘Jeez-uss Christ!’ Sanchez shrieked like a girl as he jumped back in shock.
‘What floor’s your room on, Sanchez?’ Elvis asked coolly. He’d seen the corpse too, but reacted in a much calmer fashion than his friend.
‘Fuck! Fuck, man! Look, he’s…’
‘What fuckin’ floor?’
‘Seven.’
Ignoring the body, Elvis reached over to press the button for the seventh floor. As the doors closed and the eleva
tor began moving up, Sanchez regained a little of his composure. He had a dead black guy at his feet. He’d seen plenty of dead people before, most of them in his bar, but the sight of one crumpled up in an elevator had shocked him, as though he’d been confronted by a spider a second after switching on the bedroom light.
Taking a deep breath and ignoring his pounding heart, he looked a little closer at the corpse, which was half-propped against the wall of the car. The guy was wearing a shiny black suit with a red shirt underneath.
‘Oh my God! It’s Otis Redding!’
‘No shit.’ Elvis sounded unconcerned, but Sanchez rattled on: ‘That Claude Balls guy must have killed him.’
‘Or paid someone else to.’
‘Jeez.’ Wincing with distaste, Sanchez leaned forward to get a better look at the body. ‘I reckon his neck’s bin broken.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Smells like he’s been shittin’ on the dock of the bay too.’
‘That ain’t funny, man. Matter of fact, it don’t even make sense.’
‘Short notice. Best I could come up with.’
Elvis shook his head. ‘You know, right now jest ain’t the time to be thinkin’ up wisecracks. When we get to your room, be an idea to walk right past it. This Balls guy might be in there. Jest follow my lead from here.’ Elvis was showing an impressive clarity of thought, given the circumstances. ‘An’ if anyone else tries to get in this elevator we’re gonna have to stop them.’
‘Because of the smell?’
‘Nah, asshole. ’Cause if anyone sees us in here with this corpse we’re gonna be prime suspects for killin’ him.’
‘Aw shit. Muthafucker.’
There was a pinging sound as the elevator reached the seventh floor. The doors slid apart. Immediately Sanchez saw four armed security guards in black suits and all with military haircuts, standing at the end of the passageway. In front of his room. Preparing to bust down the door and barge in.