by AnonYMous
At that moment, Valerie arrived at the table, stopping short at Angus’s shoulder. Leaning over him, she placed a small round silver tray on the table. It had his double Scotch-and-ice on it. The ice was melting fast, and making light crackling and hissing sounds that punctuated the silence between the two men.
‘I’ll get this,’ Julius offered generously. His expression managed to combine insouciance with insincerity.
‘Did it look to you like I was gonna pay?’
Julius leaned across the table and handed ten dollars to Valerie with a friendly smile. She took the money and placed it in a black pouch on the front of her skirt. Then she had the good sense to beat a hasty retreat back behind the bar.
‘Thanks,’ said Angus grudgingly, picking up the glass and taking a sip. The ice cubes rocked forward and pressed against his goatee. He wiped his mouth dry with the back of one hand as he put the glass back down on the tray. ‘So – what the fuck happened to my twenty grand? Reckon you owe me that at least, for draggin’ me all the way out here.’
‘I don’t know what your game is, Mister Balls,’ – Julius stressed the name with heavy sarcasm – ‘but the twenty grand was in the envelope. Leastways, it was when I slipped it under your room door. Way I see it, you now owe me twenty grand.’
‘Go fuck yourself. Girl on the desk told me the room was given to a guy name of Sanchez Garcia. Why the fuck’s he here?’
For the second time Julius looked genuinely surprised. ‘Who’s he?’
‘That’s what I wanna know. He the man you gave the job to?’
‘Shit, I don’t know the actual name of the guy I gave the job to. Only that he’s known to most people as the Bourbon Kid. He doesn’t tend to give his real name out.’
‘The Bourbon Kid, huh? That muthafucker. Well, has he done the job yet? ’Cause I’m here now and I’m ready to get started.’
Julius sighed, then shrugged his shoulders carelessly. ‘If his reputation is anythin’ to go by, the job will be done in about ten minutes.’
‘Well, we’ll just see about that.’ Angus picked up his Scotch and downed the rest of it, taking in the ice cubes and crunching them hard between his teeth, as though trying to impress Julius with his tolerance of cold temperatures. Then he slammed the glass back down on the tray and stood up.
‘I’ll find this Sanchez Garcia guy and get my twenty grand back. Then I’ll finish the job I came here to do.’ There was considerable menace in the way he said the word ‘finish’.
‘Good luck with that.’
Angus shook his head at Julius. Little prick wasn’t even bothered. His suspicions that this man wasn’t worth getting mixed up with had been confirmed. He wasn’t exactly sure with whom he should be angriest as he turned and stormed off back to the lobby. But taking out his fury on Julius seemed like a waste of time. Sanchez Garcia was a better target for his frustration.
It was time to come up with a new plan.
Seventeen
Sanchez was overwhelmed by the foul smell coming from Otis Redding’s corpse. The sight of the body had already made him nauseous, and the stench in the confined space of the elevator only made it worse. And the corpse appeared to be staring right at him. Freaky bastard eyes it had, as well. He tried to look anywhere but at those eyes, but no matter where he looked he could see them staring at him, feel the glare burning into him. And every time he glanced back, the eyes seemed to have opened even wider. He felt an overwhelming urge to slap Otis round the face and yell at him to stop staring, but he had a feeling Elvis wouldn’t approve.
He also tried to remind himself that there were more serious matters to be concerned about at the current time.
As the elevator car descended to the ground floor Sanchez hoped and prayed that Elvis had a plan to get them out of their predicament. When it came to disposing of dead bodies or distancing oneself from a murder, surely Elvis was extremely well qualified? After all, he did this for a living. There had to be a textbook method of dealing with this kind of situation.
‘Fuck, man. The fuck we do now?’ Sanchez asked. He couldn’t hide his desperate need for Elvis to take control of things.
‘Help me lift him up,’ said Elvis. He reached down, dug a hand under the corpse’s right armpit and hauled one side of it up.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sanchez grabbed the left arm and pulled. ‘What we doin’?’ he asked.
‘You seen that film, Weekend at Bernie’s?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, we’re doin’ that.’
‘We’re takin’ him water skiing?’
‘No, dumbass. We’re just gonna pretend like he’s drunk and we’re carryin’ him round. Then we’ll dump his body where no one’ll find it. If there ain’t no dead body we can’t be accused of killing him. Right now, those security guys who saw us don’t know he ain’t just drunk. If we can hide the body before they find us, we just tell ’em he was some drunk guy in the elevator an’ he got off on the second floor.’
Sanchez loved Elvis. The King’s plan was pretty shit, but it was way better than anything he could have come up with himself in such a short space of time. And since right now all Sanchez could think about was slapping the corpse around the face, it was a relief to know his buddy was in control. Elvis was just so damned cool, and he never panicked over anything. He wasn’t especially clever or cunning, but he was incredibly confident and had all the qualities of a born leader. Everyone he met warmed to him at once, and nearly all of them would do anything to make him like them. His approval and friendship were the two things about him that most people coveted, no one more so than Sanchez.
Once they had lifted Otis Redding to his feet, they each wrapped one of his arms around their shoulders to give the impression of a drunk being supported by two friends. It was a blessing that he wasn’t visibly bleeding from anywhere. He seemed to just have a broken neck and a big mess in his pants. The injury added to his drunken look, because the slightest movement from Sanchez or Elvis caused his head to sway one way or the other. Of course, the first thing that happened was that the head lolled over to rest on Sanchez’s right shoulder, the sightless eyes staring up at the bar owner. Bastard.
The elevator reached the ground floor and the door slowly opened, with a slight grating noise. It sounded deafening to Sanchez and he prayed no one was around. No such luck. There were two people waiting in the corridor outside, an elderly couple, probably both in their seventies and both smartly dressed, as if they were heading to church. The man wore a well-cut grey suit and his wife had on a conservative blue dress. No doubt their stay in the hotel was a big deal to them and they wanted to look their best. At first they looked shocked at the sight of Elvis and Sanchez manoeuvring Otis Redding out of the elevator. The corpse’s feet were dragging along the floor. As they passed the old couple Elvis winked at the woman.
‘It’s okay, ma’am,’ he said reassuringly, his rich, deep voice adding warmth to his smile. ‘He just kinda overdid the booze.’
The old woman smiled, both she and her husband laughed politely as they stepped into the elevator. They stood and watched Sanchez and Elvis dragging Otis Redding down the corridor while they waited for the doors to close. Such a charming young man. And what a good friend to his incapacitated companion. Then the smell hit them.
Sanchez and Elvis passed a few more hotel guests as they headed in the direction of the lobby. Elvis was always quick to tell everyone they met that Otis was just drunk. He succeeded in convincing them and even making most of them laugh, albeit quietly so they didn’t wake up what they thought was a drunken Otis Redding impersonator.
‘Where we goin’, man?’ Sanchez asked, his voice taking on a whining tone. ‘This dude is gettin’ fuckin’ heavy!’
‘In there,’ said Elvis, pointing at a door on the right-hand side of the corridor. It was a grey door with a small plate on it showing a black stickman, signifying that it was the men’s washroom. Sanchez, as always, didn’t quite catch on to the plan.
> ‘What? You need a piss?’ he asked.
‘No, Sanchez,’ his friend said wearily. ‘We can stash him in one of the stalls. No one’ll find him for hours.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Good plan. What with him smellin’ of shit an’ all.’
They dragged the corpse over to the door and then Sanchez backed into it, leading the way in. Otis and Elvis followed, the latter checking up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching them. It seemed that they had timed it well, for their curious entry went unnoticed.
Sanchez was relieved to see that the washroom appeared to be empty. It was a large room, about forty feet long by fifteen wide. On the wall to the left was a line of eight urinals, and on the opposite side was a row of six toilet stalls. At the far end of the room were three washbasins with mirrors above them.
Sanchez was relieved to see that there wasn’t anyone in there taking a piss and, from the lack of noise, it seemed a safe bet that no one was taking a shit in any of the stalls, either. There was a shitty smell in the air, but he was pretty sure they had brought that in with them.
‘Which stall we goin’ ta put him in?’ he asked.
‘First one. You think I want to carry this guy any longer’n I have to?’
Sanchez led the way, backing into the door of the first stall they came to. Elvis followed and then held Otis Redding up on his own while Sanchez pulled the toilet lid down so that they could sit the corpse on it. Elvis manhandled the body on to the lid and then the two of them spent about a minute trying to position the corpse so that it would sit upright and not fall to one side. Eventually, after both had stood carefully for about twenty seconds with their hands at the ready in case it slipped, they decided the body was secure and would only fall if nudged.
‘Hoo!’ sighed Sanchez. ‘I could use a piss after all that.’
‘Good. You go take a piss and I’ll lock this door from the inside and climb out over it.’
‘Cool.’
Sanchez walked out of the stall and went over to the nearest urinal on the opposite wall. He heard Elvis bolt the door shut behind him, and then heard him mumble something that sounded like Shit! I didn’t think this through.
As he began pissing into the urinal, it occurred to Sanchez that in order to climb out of a stall the first thing a person would do was stand on the toilet. Elvis wouldn’t be able to do that because Otis Redding was sitting on it. He heard a fair bit of noise as his friend attempted to climb out over the door. The crashing and rattling sounds were accompanied by a fair amount of cussing, too.
Eventually Sanchez finished, zipped up his pants and turned to see Elvis jump to the floor behind him and begin dusting his gold jacket off, checking it for any stains on the shoulders. Sanchez headed over to the three washbasins at the far end of the room, turned on the faucet on the middle one and began rinsing his homebrew off his hands.
‘Sanchez,’ Elvis called out from back down the room. Sanchez looked up into the mirror above the basin and saw Elvis looking into the second stall, next to the one in which they had stashed Otis Redding.
‘Yeah. Whassup?’
‘Guess you need to take a look at this.’ Elvis was staring into the second stall.
‘The fuck is it? A giant turd?’
‘Worse’n that.’
There was, surprisingly, a note of concern in Elvis’s voice, so Sanchez turned off the faucet and shook his hands dry. Then he walked over to Elvis. Before he’d even reached the second stall, he saw that they had a new problem.
‘Hey, what’s that on the floor?’ he asked.
‘Blood,’ said Elvis.
‘Blood? From Otis Redding?’
‘Nah.’
There was a small pool of blood seeping out from underneath the door of the stall, which was half open. Slowly but steadily, the pool was growing with each passing second. Sanchez walked a little more tentatively towards Elvis, and when he reached him, he peered around the door.
‘Holy fuckin’ shit!’
What Elvis had discovered was two more corpses. A guy who looked like a hobo was propped up against the wall at the side of the toilet. The other guy, dressed all in black, was lying flat on his back on the floor with his feet up on the toilet seat. Blood was weeping out from a wound at the back of his head, which accounted for the expanding pool that had spread to outside the stall.
‘Fuckin’ blood wasn’t there just now, when we came in,’ Sanchez pointed out, shakily. The feeling of nausea had come back with a vengeance.
‘Reckon I knocked one o’ these guys over as I was climbin’ out the stall.’
‘Shit. What the fuck is goin’ on in this place?’ Sanchez was used to seeing murders in his bar, the Tapioca, but an expensive, respectable hotel ought to have been different. There were corpses everywhere you looked in this place.
The dead guy up against the wall was wearing a scruffy blue sweater and ripped jeans. His face was covered in blood, which appeared to have come mostly from a broken nose and some missing teeth. His greasy blond hair was also stained with streaks of dark red, clotting it together. The gruesome sight was made worse by the fact that his eyes, although open, had rolled up in his head, showing only the whites. Still, at least he wasn’t a gawper like Otis Redding. Sanchez didn’t waste too much time looking at him. The other guy on the floor was a little older with a head of thick dark hair. His eyes had rolled up in his skull too, and his hair was a mess. As Sanchez was looking down at him, Elvis placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Figured out who they are?’
‘Huh?’
‘Kurt Cobain an’ Johnny Cash. Two of the guys on that hit list you had.’ Of course he was right. Sanchez couldn’t believe he hadn’t spotted it sooner.
‘Shit. That Balls fella must have offed these guys too. Wow.’
‘Yeah. We need to get the fuck outta here, Sanchez. We’re now in a washroom with the first three victims from the hit list. Anyone finds us in here, specially after we just been seen draggin’ ole Otis around, we’re gonna be in deep shit.’
Right again. This wasn’t the best place to be hanging around in, and although they were innocent of any wrongdoing, they were prime suspects. What with Elvis being a professional hitman, and that.
But before they had a chance to make an exit, they heard the door to the washroom open. Elvis grabbed Sanchez by the arm and dragged him into stall three. He pulled the door shut behind them and pushed the other man back towards the toilet. The terrified bar owner knew not to say anything, but even so Elvis put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Sanchez found this annoying. He knew to stay quiet. He started to say so, but just then they heard the sound of two men’s footsteps on the tiled floor of the washroom. As he heard them walk towards the urinals, Sanchez hoped their visitors wouldn’t see the blood seeping out from stall two and decide to investigate.
Eighteen
Emily had spent years building up to this, her big moment: the chance to make a name for herself and earn a contract to perform as a star at the Hotel Pasadena. She wished her mother were with her to share the excitement. Having her around would have helped to control her nerves too.
Her mother, Angelina, had been a successful travelling cabaret performer for many years, and Emily’s earliest memories were of wanting to be just like her, to command an audience the way her mother did. As a young girl, she had seen a lot of the world thanks to her mother’s travelling. They had spent months at a time on cruise ships, or settled in at a hotel or casino for a season. It had been a wonderful upbringing during which she had met thousands of interesting people from all walks of life. She had fond memories of hanging out with hotel staff and seeing how impressed they were by her mother’s singing. Angelina sang beautifully and had a wonderful vocal range. This versatility enabled her to perform many old classic songs in a voice almost identical to the original artist’s, no matter how difficult. In venues where she was allowed more freedom, however, she was more than capable of singing her own interpretation of a song.
She had encouraged Emily from childhood to follow in her footsteps, and had been an assiduous tutor. Above all, Emily remembered how she would stand in the wings, watching her mother sing, and wishing she could be just like her. Now was her chance.
Their time on the road together had come to an end two years ago. Angelina had fallen sick with what at first was thought to be a throat infection, but turned out to be far worse. After months of trying to sing, but either being unable to, or putting in substandard performances, she discovered she had cancer of the throat. She was forty-seven. Both of them were devastated.
Emily immediately took over as the breadwinner, but almost every cent she earned ended up being spent on caring for her mother. And it just wasn’t enough. Worse still, her own singing career was badly curtailed because Angelina was too sick to travel. So for the last year, Emily had worked every dive-bar singing contest east of Little Rock in hope of securing that elusive big break. And when she wasn’t singing, she worked in fast-food joints to help make ends meet.
With hope born of desperation, Emily knew that now was her chance to prove she had what it took to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Almost better than that, if she could win the Back From the Dead contest, then their money worries would be over. And she’d be a star. Just like Mom. Her mother had been rock-like in her support, urging her to go for it, and with that in mind, and despite her nervousness, she felt an enormous sense of pride as she waited for her turn onstage. The feeling was tempered by her sadness at knowing her mother would not see her perform.
She watched sympathetically from the wings at one side of the stage as a John Lennon impersonator murdered ‘Imagine’. She couldn’t have hoped for a better act to follow, even though, she did genuinely feel bad for him. She’d seen how nervous he had been before he went onstage. He had obviously let his nerves get the better of him, because he hit a bum note in the first line of the song. There had been some dire performances during the show, but his was possibly the worst. Nor was he helped by the fact that the judges let him carry on singing long after they should have called an end to his performance. Many better singers had been stopped after twenty or thirty seconds. This poor hopeful got to sing for almost as long as Otis Redding, just so the audience could enjoy his misery for a little longer than was necessary.