The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ her voice echoed out round the auditorium once more. ‘Please put your hands together for our fourth performer in the final. Singing “Mustang Sally”, it’s… the Blues Brother!’

  The crowd afforded Jacko a very substantial round of applause, and even a few wolf whistles. His earlier performance with the harmonica had been extremely well received, particularly because he had managed to get some audience participation going. So when he walked onstage with a black guitar hanging from a strap around his shoulders, the applause doubled in volume and the whistles were drowned out by cheers and foot-stamping. Watching Jacko while a technician hooked his guitar up to an amp, Emily guessed that if he had felt under pressure before, then it must be ten times worse now. Even if he had told her earlier that he wasn’t nervous, surely he had to be? Everyone was before a big performance, and this one was a potential career-changer.

  The sound of applause eventually died away, to be followed by – silence. The expected backing track never arrived. The speakers all around the auditorium remained dead.

  Jacko stepped up to the microphone in the spotlight at centre stage and spoke softly into it. ‘Uh – like, at the last minute I’ve kinda decided to do a different song.’ He cleared his throat as a low muttering began to rise from the crowd in front of him. ‘I’m goin’ without a backin’ track too, but’ – he looked down at the orchestra pit below him – ‘if anyone in the band wants to join in as the song goes on, then be my guest.’

  Emily’s mouth fell open. Had he lost his mind? The crowd seemed to echo her thoughts. The muttering in the audience grew louder, and in the orchestra pit in front of the stage the musicians looked quizzically at each other, readying themselves to play in case a chance to join in should arise.

  And then Jacko began to play his guitar.

  He looked nervous, and was clearly deep in concentration as he plucked slowly at the strings. And what the hell was he playing?

  Emily found herself joined by the other surviving finalists, each as curious as she was. It made fascinating viewing. Was this guy, this Blues Brother, throwing away his chances of winning? Or was this an exceptionally cunning ploy to win over the audience, and maybe the judges too?

  After playing a few fairly decent chords to the stunned audience before him, Jacko launched into the first lines of the song.

  ‘Come on

  Yo people, we’re all gonna go… ’

  Emily recognized the tune, although she found herself, and not for the first time during the show, unconvinced that the lyrics were correct. She’d heard the tune played many times in various bars, usually by Blues Brothers tribute bands. It was ‘Sweet Home Chicago’. Jacko confirmed it for her as he hit the end of the first verse.

  ‘Back to that dirty old place

  They call Chicago… ’

  Whatever else Jacko may have lacked, it wasn’t nerve. He carried on playing away on his guitar and singing reasonably competently. He wasn’t generating the same level of enthusiasm from the audience as he had with his earlier performance of ‘Mustang Sally’, however. But this crowd liked him, if only for his eccentricity; they weren’t going to boo him unless he did something really stupid.

  Freddie Mercury seemed to speak for everyone when he whispered loudly, ‘What the fuck’s he doin’?’

  ‘That’s “Sweet Home Chicago”,’ said Emily.

  ‘Shit, I know that, but it’s just him an’ a guitar. What was he thinkin’? Guy’s blown it.’

  Emily looked around at the other finalists, wondering what they thought. They were all there except for James Brown. He’d disappeared off somewhere again, thank God, and was still missing. Elvis and Janis were still there, although they weren’t really paying too much attention. They seemed more wrapped up in each other than in anything that was happening onstage. Elvis was whispering something in Janis’s ear and she was looking back at him and frowning, as though she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Eventually he sighed, drew a breath and shouted out loud: ‘I said, d’ya wanna go somewhere for a fuck!’ Emily watched Janis nod her head frantically, beaming a wide smile back at the King. Then the two of them swiftly disappeared in the direction of the backstage area. Emily chuckled to herself before turning back to watch Jacko committing ‘competition suicide’ onstage.

  He was about a minute into his act when something unexpected happened. From the orchestra pit below, the drummer began to add a little backing beat, tapping on the snare drum. It served as a catalyst for the other orchestra members to pluck up the nerve to join in. After the disappointment of learning that they would only be playing for two of the finalists, Jacko’s invitation for them to play along had lifted their spirits. The pianist began tickling the ivories on his grand piano, then one of the saxes joined in, followed by the other guitarist, Pablo, and even a couple of the violinists. Gradually the sound came together and swelled, echoing Jacko’s guitar and harmonizing with his singing. Within seconds, the entire orchestra was playing along with considerable verve.

  The introduction of the orchestra suddenly brought the crowd to life and they were once more back on their feet, clapping and swaying to the music. Emily looked on in wonder as Jacko’s confidence grew. He started to strum away vigorously on his guitar, his hips began to swivel and his voice became stronger and more self-assured. As the song slid into its long musical solo he began to act as conductor for the orchestra below, nodding at whomever he wanted to take on the meat of the tune. One minute it was the saxophones and trumpets, then the pianist, then back to Jacko, now wailing away on the stolen Fender.

  And the audience loved it.

  Emily found herself tapping her feet to the music. She too was enjoying herself. The thought crossed her mind that Jacko might actually be one heck of a tough act to follow, but she sternly reminded herself that she could only do her best and hope that it would be enough.

  As the Blues Brother’s and the orchestra’s performance began to reach a crescendo that no doubt signalled the song’s climax, Emily felt someone grab her right arm. Startled, she turned round to see the Bourbon Kid, who had a tight grip on her.

  ‘Wanna word with ya,’ he said baldly.

  ‘Uh, sure.’

  He nodded at Freddie Mercury. ‘In private.’

  The Kid had most probably saved her life earlier, so it was only fair that she should indulge him with a minute of her time. Maintaining his grip on her arm, he led her down the steps and through the door into the corridor behind the stage. Then he led her a few feet along the corridor, out of the sight and hearing of anyone in the backstage area.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Listen, if you figure you’re gonna win, can’t you just hit a bum note, or somethin’? Know that you coulda won, but choose not to?’ His voice was as gravelly as ever, but now it carried a note of urgency.

  Emily shook her head. ‘We’ve already been through this. I’m sorry. I need the money. And I also need to know that I’m good enough to win this. I told you before, this isn’t just for me. My mother’s sick. I need the prize money.’

  ‘Okay, then how ’bout this? If you win, you just don’t sign the contract. They’ll give it to someone else. I’ll kill whoever that is an’ get you the money that way.’

  Emily shivered. ‘I’m sorry. No. I want to know that I’m good enough to win this, and I don’t want anyone else to die in order for me to get the money. In fact, I don’t want anyone else to die, whatever the reason. There’s been too much killing already. And besides, I wouldn’t accept a prize I hadn’t won, nor money stolen from someone who’d been… who’d been— ’

  The Kid squeezed her arm a little tighter. ‘I got one bullet left in my gun. Don’t make me use it on you. I wouldn’t wanna do that.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘I’ll let you sing. But I can’t let you win.’

  Emily stepped back away from him, shrugging her arm free of his hand. ‘Well, that’s up to you,’ she said. She remembered everything
she’d talked about with Jacko and knew she had to do this. Then she turned her back on the Kid and headed back to the stage to prepare for her final performance of ‘Over The Rainbow’.

  As she walked away, she wondered if the Kid’s last bullet was about to slam into her back.

  Fifty

  Sanchez was breathing pretty heavily as he made his way to the stage area to find Elvis. His escape from Invincible Angus had taken its toll. His lungs weren’t used to the effort required for running, and his legs felt like jelly. Normally he would have had to sit down and take a breather after expending so much energy. On this occasion, though, fear-fuelled adrenalin kept him on his feet. The knowledge that the hitman might already have shot his way out of the freezer kept his heart pounding and his feet moving.

  Ahead of him, as he hurried down the corridor that led to the entrance at the back of the stage, he saw the Judy Garland impersonator engaged in what looked like a heated conversation with a shady-looking fella in a hooded leather jacket. Their argument came to an end when Emily turned away and walked back towards the stage area, and the man stormed off past Sanchez towards the lobby. The guy looked familiar, but Sanchez didn’t have time to dwell on whether he knew him or not. He was so out of breath he was practically seeing double. And he had more important things to worry about than checking out some other creep in a hotel stiff with them. He turned left through the doorway to the stage area and saw Emily climbing the steps up to the side of the stage.

  ‘Is the final over yet?’ he asked breathlessly as he caught up with her.

  Surprised, she turned and smiled at him. ‘Oh, hi. No, not quite. The Blues Brother has just finished and I’m up next.’

  ‘Great. How’d ol’ Elvis do?’

  ‘He did good. I reckon he’s in with a chance.’

  ‘Cool. What about the others? How’d they all do?’

  ‘Yeah, everyone did okay.’ After her run-in with the Bourbon Kid, she didn’t have the energy to explain about Janis Joplin.

  What Sanchez really wanted to know was how Julius had got on in the contest. Was the thirteenth Apostle going to win and save the day? Or what?

  ‘An’ James Brown? How’d he do?’

  ‘He hasn’t been up yet. Powell changed the order of the show at the last minute, so he’s going up last now.’

  ‘Yeah? Why the change?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea. But it means I’m on a bit sooner, which is fine with me. I’m getting pretty nervous.’

  Dimly, Sanchez realized that he needed to find something encouraging to say. The girl was okay, so he tried to stifle his usual negative attitude and find something to say that would reassure her.

  ‘Well, best of luck when you’re up there,’ he piped, offering a sickly smile. ‘Just make sure you beat that smug asshole Freddie Mercury.’

  Emily prodded Sanchez in the arm and nodded her head towards the curtain by the side of the stage. Freddie Mercury was standing there, just within earshot. It looked like he hadn’t heard what Sanchez had said because he smiled at them both as they approached him.

  ‘Hey, Emily, c’mon,’ Freddie said. ‘We was beginning to think you were goin’ to miss the final. You’re up in a minute, girl.’

  ‘Shush,’ said Emily, pointing at the stage.

  Freddie Mercury turned and looked where Emily was pointing. Sanchez peered round him. On the stage, Jacko was standing before the judges. Lucinda gave her opinion of his performance first.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said. ‘Man, that was somethin’ else! I ain’t seen nothin’ like that in years! Boy, you a star!’ From behind her, the crowd vociferously endorsed her approval. Then Candy passed judgement. ‘Well now, Mister Blues Brother, that was brilliant. Just brilliant. I wasn’t sure where you were going with it to start with, but in the end you gave what was without doubt my favourite performance of the evening. Congratulations!’

  Finally, from his seat in between the two female judges, Nigel Powell offered his all-important opinion.

  ‘Let me just say,’ he began dismissively, ‘that first up, I don’t approve of your changing the song at the last minute.’ The audience immediately began booing and Powell quickly gestured with his hands for them to quiet down. ‘No, wait. Seriously,’ he went on, ‘it isn’t fair on the other contestants when you play fast-and-loose like that. And I don’t remember you asking anyone’s permission to play your guitar in the final.’ The booing from the auditorium became louder and more aggressive. Powell remained unflustered by it. ‘But,’ he said, raising his voice above the din, ‘I’ve got to admit – you were excellent.’ The boos changed to cheers and whistles in an instant. Up on the giant screen Powell looked like he had more to add, but he quickly thought better of it and waved Jacko off the stage.

  The young singer departed to a standing ovation far greater than that accorded to any of the previous contestants. He reached the side of the stage and ducked behind the red curtain, to be greeted by Emily and Freddie Mercury. Emily gave him an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Wow! I only hope I can do half as well as that,’ she said generously. ‘You were awesome. Really you were. Well done.’

  Sanchez watched from a few feet away, wondering what this would mean for the competition. Even Freddie Mercury was looking seriously troubled by the reception the Blues Brother had been accorded. Julius was going to have to do exceptionally well if he was going to beat the rest, and Judy Garland, the favourite, hadn’t even been up yet. And where in the hell was Elvis?

  The answer was not long in coming. ‘Yo, Sanchez, you’re back,’ Elvis’s voice called out from behind him. Sanchez turned and saw his friend walking towards him with his arm around Janis Joplin’s waist. Her hair was a mess and her clothing somewhat disarranged. They had clearly, and recently, just engaged in frantic sex.

  ‘Yo, Elvis,’ Sanchez whispered back, anxious not to draw too much attention to himself. ‘That Invisible Angus guy? He’s back.’

  Elvis took his arm from Janis’s waist. ‘Where ya been, man?’ he asked, walking over with a frown on his face.

  ‘The guy just chased me all round the fuckin’ hotel. I locked him in some kinda goddam freezer, but when I left he was tryin’ to shoot his way out of it.’

  ‘Good. Let him. He comes anywhere near me again an’ I’ll kick his fuckin’ ass.’ He rubbed the back of his head where Angus had cold-cocked him earlier ‘Sonofabitch has got it coming.’

  ‘He’s got a gun,’ Sanchez pointed out. ‘Mebbe two.’

  ‘I don’t fuckin’ care. Fuck him. And the horse he rode in on.’

  Janis Joplin stepped forward and joined them. ‘Yeah, fuck him. Fuckin’ muthafuckin’ asshole bastard.’

  Sanchez smiled politely at Janis. ‘Ya kinda have trouble controllin’ that, don’cha?’

  ‘That ain’t the Tourette’s,’ said Janis. ‘If Elvis don’t like the guy, I don’t fuckin’ like him either. Muthafucker.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the voice of Nina Forina announcing Emily. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ she boomed. ‘Singing the classic song “Over The Rainbow”, h-e-e-e-e-ere’s Judy Garland!’

  There was another massive round of applause and cheers from the crowd. Sanchez watched Emily take a deep breath. Then she bounded on to the stage.

  Show time.

  Fifty-One

  Julius felt uneasy. Rigging the Back From The Dead show so that he won had been a lot harder than it should have been. First, Angus hadn’t showed up on time. Then the Bourbon Kid had taken on the job, but, after a bright start, had refused to kill the Judy Garland impersonator. For personal reasons. What were the chances of that? And then Gabriel had turned up to save the day.

  That hadn’t worked out either. Emily was still alive and Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. Julius had a horrible feeling that the Bourbon Kid had carried out his thinly veiled threat to protect Emily. In which case, it was entirely probable that Gabriel was dead. And if that were the case, Julius reflected, there was
a distinct possibility that his plans had been compromised.

  The schedule for the final had initially earmarked him to perform fourth out of the six, but word had filtered through backstage that he was now due on last. No explanation had been given for this. As soon as he’d heard the news, delivered to him by some junior nobody from the show’s production team, he became paranoid that his plot might have been discovered. When, seconds later, he overheard two burly security guards asking the Blues Brother whether he’d seen ‘that scumbag James Brown anywhere’ he decided to make a hasty exit from the backstage area. His plan had been compromised, he was certain of it.

  So, in the interests of keeping his plan (and himself) alive, Julius had headed down to the casino in the lower floor of the hotel shortly after Janis Joplin had performed. His intention was to hang out down there until the last possible minute before his performance. He hadn’t told a soul where he was going, and he hoped to God that he could avoid being spotted by any CCTV cameras. That wouldn’t be easy for someone walking around in a purple suit with wide-flared pants. To give himself a slightly better chance of going unrecognized, he took his black wig off and tucked it inside his shirtfront. Tufts of it poked out, giving the impression that he had the world’s hairiest chest.

  Once inside the casino, he looked for the busiest area where he could go and mingle with the crowd. One roulette table stood out from the rest. There was a bunch of people gathered around it, making a lot of noise. He headed over to it and wormed his way into the middle of the crowd.

  ‘What’s goin’ on here?’ he asked a small Chinese woman sporting a black eye.

  ‘Mystic Lady. She win thousands of dollars!’ the woman replied.