The Book With No Name

by AnonYMous

  Despite a deeply misanthropic view of people in general, a tendency never to involve himself in others’ troubles, and a habit of offering strangers shots of piss as refreshment, Sanchez was not without good qualities. Alas, speed of movement was not among them. In short, he was not the quickest of cats. By the time he had thudded downstairs, hurdled the dead body of his brother and peered out of the front door, all he could see was the back end of what looked like a yellow Cadillac racing into the distance down the dirt track towards Santa Mondega.

  Sanchez was not an aggressive man, but he knew plenty of people in town who were. He knew whom to ask if he wanted vengeance wreaked upon the owner of the yellow Cadillac. In fact, he knew enough people that it wouldn’t take him long at all to find out who had killed Thomas and Audrey, and what had happened to Jessica. Even if there had been no witnesses, he knew he could find out exactly what had happened.

  Whoever had been responsible for the killings and Jessica’s abduction, they would pay. Because one thing was for sure: if Sanchez knew people who could find out what had happened, he also knew people who could do something about it. People who would exact revenge on his behalf. He’d have to pay them, of course, but that wasn’t a problem. Pretty much everyone liked his bar. They might not like him, but if they liked a drink, then they liked to drink in the Tapioca. A year’s supply of free booze would be incentive enough for any man in Santa Mondega to help out Sanchez in his hour of need.

  As it happened, Sanchez didn’t want just any man. He wanted the King. The best hitman in town. The man they called Elvis.

  Eight

  Archibald Somers looked exactly as Jensen had expected him to look. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and he looked like a game-show host. Slicked-back silver hair, smart pressed grey trousers and a white shirt with thin brown stripes running vertically down it. He had a pistol in a shoulder holster that hung down the left side of his ribcage, and he was in reasonably good shape for a man of his age. No unsightly beer belly, and no ‘nipple-high’ trousers. Jensen would be quite content to be in similar shape when he reached that age. For now though, he was a super-fit thirty-something, and happy with that.

  The office they now shared was hidden away off a dark corridor on the third floor of the headquarters building. All the other rooms along the corridor were of similar size. One was a broom cupboard, another a first-aid room, and then there were the toilets. Jensen didn’t know what exactly their room had been before it had been converted into the office they were now sharing, and he didn’t want to. It would not have been glamorous, that was for sure. It did have a certain charm to it, however, the dark, varnished wooden door and antique-style desks lending it more character than the partitioned cubicles in the main office. It was the prison-pale-green walls that let the place down.

  Somers had eventually arrived in the office at midday. Jensen had already worked out that the main desk in the centre of their newly converted office belonged to Somers, so he had taken the smaller desk in the corner where the light was bad and begun unpacking his few personal effects.

  ‘You must be Detective Somers. Pleased to meet you,’ he said, standing up and extending his hand in the other man’s direction as he walked in.

  ‘Miles Jensen, right?’ said Somers taking his hand and shaking it firmly. ‘You’re my new partner, huh?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Jensen smiled. So far Somers didn’t seem all that unpleasant.

  ‘Everyone’s told you I’m an asshole, right?’ said Somers, making his way round to the chair behind his desk.

  ‘It was mentioned, yeah.’

  ‘Yeah. No one likes me round here. I’m “old school”, see. Most of these other guys out here, they’re all about their careers and promotion. They don’t give a shit about the old ladies that get robbed by con men. They only want to hear about cases that can be solved quickly and filed away. You know this town’s got the highest missing-persons rate in the civilized world, right?’ Jensen, hoping Somers wasn’t going to finish everything he said with the question ‘Right?’ grinned back at him.

  ‘Yeah, although I didn’t know Santa Mondega was considered civilized.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, my friend.’

  Jensen sat himself back down on the wheeled swivel chair at his own desk. As first impressions went he had a feeling he was going to get along fine with Somers. Just first impressions, of course.

  ‘So – they tell me you’re obsessed with finding the Bourbon Kid. Why would that make them all hate you?’

  Somers smiled. ‘That’s not why they hate me. They hate me because I want them to hate me. I make a point of pissing them all off every chance I get. None of them ever wanted to help out with a case they couldn’t resolve in less than a week. That’s why the Bourbon Kid case got closed. I was the only one still following up on it. But they managed to get rid of me because the budgets wouldn’t allow us to keep on investigating the case when there was a possibility that the Kid was already dead. Well, they’re sure regretting that now, aren’t they? I warned the Mayor he would come back, but he listened to all these other idiots.’

  ‘So the Mayor’s to blame?’

  ‘Nah,’ Somers shook his head. ‘The Mayor’s basically a good guy, but he had a lot of advisers who wanted the Bourbon Kid story to be nothing but a distant memory. They forgot about all the women who were widowed by that bastard. He’s never gone away. He’s been killing people every day for the last five years, but it’s only now that he’s decided to let us start finding the bodies again. He’s building up to another massacre. You and I, Jensen, are the only people who can prevent that from happening.’

  ‘You do know I’m not exactly here just for the Bourbon Kid, though?’ Jensen asked, hoping he wasn’t about to offend Somers, who was clearly a passionate man when it came to his work.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ Somers said, smiling broadly. ‘You think that there’s supernatural activity going on and that there’s probably some sort of Satanic cult behind these new murders. I won’t lie to you, I think that’s a crock of shit, but as long as you’re on my side, and as long as your investigation only helps me to prove that it’s the Bourbon Kid committing these murders and not Jar Jar Binks, then we don’t have a problem.’

  Perhaps Somers was a touch cynical, as well as somewhat overly focused on his one and only theory that the Bourbon Kid was behind pretty much everything, but he wasn’t the absolute asshole that Jensen had been led to believe. With a bit of careful diplomacy this cynical old cop could be won over and made use of. He certainly didn’t seem to be lacking in motivation.

  ‘Jar Jar, huh? You a movie buff?’

  ‘I dabble.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t picture you as a Star Wars fan, though.’

  Somers ran his long fingers through his shiny silver hair and took a deep breath.

  ‘Well, I’m not. I prefer something that stimulates my mind as well as my eyes, and I appreciate good acting. Half the top actors these days are picked for their looks, not their acting ability. That’s why most of them are all washed up by the time they’re thirty-five.’

  ‘Right … so you’re a fan of Pacino and DeNiro, then?’

  Somers shook his head and sighed. ‘Nope, they’re both one-dimensional has-beens living off the glory of the seventies and eighties gangster flicks they were typecast in.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘No, give me Jack Nicholson every time. There’s a guy who can play any part in any movie. But if you really want to impress me with your movie knowledge, Jensen, then answer this one,’ he said, raising a Nicholson-esque eyebrow. ‘Directors: the Scott brothers – Ridley or Tony?’

  ‘No contest. Tony, every time.’ Jensen didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure, Ridley had a strong case with Blade Runner and Alien, but Enemy of the State and Crimson Tide aren’t to be lightly dismissed. Good intelligent films.’

  ‘Where the hero was black, right?’ Somers had thought to touch a nerve, but
he misjudged his mark.

  ‘True, but that’s not why I like them. Tony directed True Romance, too, and that was a good movie that didn’t have a black hero.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ sighed Somers. ‘I’d still have to go with Ridley, though, on account of the fact that Tony was responsible for that dumbass horror movie The Hunger. Probably the worst vampire film I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Okay, so it’s not The Lost Boys.’

  ‘Damn right it’s not,’ said Somers. Tiring of the discussion, he went on, ‘Look, let’s just find something we do agree on, and then you can tell everyone we’ve bonded. Here’s an easy one: Robert Redford or Freddie Prinze Junior?’

  ‘Redford.’

  ‘Thank you. Now that we’ve found something in common, have we got a deal, partner?’

  ‘A deal? How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I’ll take on board all your supernatural theories and help you all I can, but you gotta do the same for me. You take on board my Bourbon Kid theory, and we take each other seriously. God knows, no one else in this police department is going to.’

  ‘You got your deal, Detective Somers.’

  ‘Good. So do you wanna see what the Kid did to these five new victims?’

  Miles nodded. ‘Go on.’

  Somers pulled open the desk drawer on his left and produced a clear plastic folder. He flipped it open and slung a bunch of five-by-seven photographs down on the desk. Jensen got up from his seat, picked up the first glossy print and took a long hard look at it. What he saw appalled him. He wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. Then he looked down at the others on the desk. After scanning them all for a few seconds he looked back at Somers, who was nodding his head. The photos were more hideous than anything he had ever seen, and Miles Jensen had seen some really hideous things.

  ‘Is this for real?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I know,’ said Somers. ‘What kind of sick bastard could do that to another human being?’

  Nine

  It was late morning when the man they called Elvis strutted triumphantly into the Tapioca. He moved like he was jiving across a stage to the beat of ‘Suspicious Minds’, not just today, but always. It was as if he had an invisible set of headphones that constantly played the tune over and over in his head. Sanchez loved this guy and was kind of excited to see him. Not that he would show it. It wouldn’t do to let Elvis know that he liked him. Elvis was too cool, and he’d make the bartender feel like a fool if it became obvious that Sanchez kind of – sort of – you know – idolized him.

  Elvis looked cool, too. Well, he looked cool for someone who was always dressed as Elvis Presley. A lot of people think Elvis impersonators look ridiculous, a total embarrassment to themselves, but no one thought that about this guy. He reminded people of just how cool the King really was, before he wasn’t.

  On this particular morning Elvis was wearing a lilac-coloured suit. It had slightly flared trousers with a row of black tassels running all the way up the outside of the legs, and a perfectly fitted jacket with wide black lapels. These were matched by a flimsy black shirt buttoned up only halfway to show off his bronzed hairy chest and a chunky gold TCB (‘Taking Care of Business’) medallion hanging from his neck on a heavy gold chain. Although it might have looked tacky to some, Sanchez actually thought the medallion was pretty cool. Elvis had the long black sideburns and very thick (just about due for a cut) black hair. To top things off, he always wore the trademark thick gold-rimmed sunglasses, too. He didn’t even take them off when he sat himself down at the bar, ready to discuss business with Sanchez.

  It didn’t bother Elvis that the Tapioca was moderately busy, and it didn’t bother Sanchez. If Elvis wanted to chew the fat with Sanchez for half an hour, then none of the other customers would order a drink. Elvis was respected, feared and, strangely enough, liked by just about everyone in town.

  ‘Hear y’had some pretty shitty news,’ said the King, with a knowing nod of the head.

  Sanchez picked up a bottle and, unasked, began to pour him a glass of whisky. ‘Shit travels fast when you throw it around,’ he said, slowly sliding the drink over the bar to Elvis.

  ‘Shit like yours creates quite a stink, too,’ the other remarked. His voice was a deep drawl.

  Sanchez smiled for the first time that morning. It was only half a smile, but being in the presence of greatness had dragged him out of the depths of sorrow he had been wallowing in since finding his brother dead. God bless the King.

  ‘So, Elvis, my friend, what do you know about this particular shit?’

  ‘You’re looking for the driver of a yellow Caddy, right?

  ‘That’s right. Y’seen him?’

  ‘I seen him. Want me to kill him for ya?’

  ‘Yeah. Kill him,’ said Sanchez. He was pleased Elvis had offered because he had been a little nervous about actually asking him out loud. ‘Make him suffer, then kill him again. If that don’t work, just torture him ’til he’s dead.’

  ‘Kill him more than once, huh? Normally that’d cost extra, but I like you, Sanchez, so I’ll kill him the second time for nothin’.’

  This was music to Sanchez’s ears. It felt like he could suddenly hear ‘Suspicious Minds’ blaring away in the corners of his mind.

  ‘So how much d’ya want for the job?’ he asked.

  ‘A thousand up front. Then when he’s dead I want ya to pay to have his car resprayed. I’ve always wanted a pink Cadillac. Kinda rock ’n’ roll, don’t ya think?’

  ‘Right.’ Sanchez agreed. He picked up the whisky bottle and topped up Elvis’s glass. ‘I’ll go get you the first instalment. Watch the bar for me a minute, would ya?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  Elvis spent a minute gazing into his glass, checking out his reflection, while Sanchez disappeared out back to get the money. It wasn’t just the money and the car that Elvis was after. Rumour had it that the driver of the yellow Cadillac also had a precious blue stone. Piece like that could be worth a fortune. Elvis knew nothing about jewellery, but he did know that women liked the stuff. Gifts like that were the perfect way to a lady’s heart, and Elvis loved the ladies.

  Sanchez reappeared with a greasy brown envelope loaded with cash. Elvis took it and held it open. Then he flicked through the notes, not to count them, just to make sure they were all genuine, though he trusted Sanchez – insofar as he trusted anyone. Satisfied that everything was in order he folded the envelope in half and tucked it inside his jacket. Then he tossed back his drink, finishing it in one quick gulp, pulled off a quick spin move on his stool, stood up, and headed for the door.

  ‘Hey, Elvis, wait up,’ called Sanchez. The King stopped, but didn’t look back.

  ‘Yeah, man, what is it?’

  ‘The name.’

  ‘The name?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s the name of this guy you’re gonna kill for me? Do I know him?’

  ‘You might. He’s from outta town. He’s a bounty hunter.’

  ‘So what’s his name? And why did he kill my brother and his wife?’

  Sanchez had not initially planned to ask Elvis these questions, but now that the hitman had accepted the job and was off to carry out his instructions he was overcome with a desire to know more about the mysterious driver of the yellow Cadillac.

  Elvis turned round and peered back at Sanchez over the top of his sunglasses.

  ‘You sure you wanna know now? Wouldn’t you rather know after the job’s done? Y’know, so’s you don’t change your mind?’

  ‘Nah, just tell me – who the fuck is he?’

  ‘Some mean dude, goes by the name of Jefe. Don’t you fret, though. By this time tomorrow he’ll be known as “Jefe the Corpse”.’

  Before Sanchez could warn him how dangerous Jefe was, Elvis was already gone. Not that it would matter. Elvis would deal with Jefe. That sonofabitch was due to meet one hell of a violent death at the hands of the King.

  Ten

  Detectives Miles Jensen and Archibald Somers
both recognized the handiwork they saw before them. Jensen looked over at Somers, who was no doubt thinking the same thing. Two more dead bodies, both ruthlessly murdered like the five in the photos Somers had shown Jensen earlier. These two unfortunates were Thomas and Audrey Garcia. No doubt their dental records would confirm this later. Until then, the identification was just a fairly safe assumption.

  They had arrived at the large farmhouse on the outskirts of town long after the first policemen had shown up in response to a call from a relative of the victims. There was a long dirt track that wound all the way up to the front porch. Jensen’s battered old BMW saloon had just enough about it to get them over the rocks and potholes in once piece. This was a farmhouse that had been around for many years, suffering whatever the elements threw at it. It didn’t take a great detective to see that much.

  Within seconds of entering the kitchen at the front of the house Jensen was envying Somers, who had had the forethought to bring a handkerchief with him to cover his nose and mouth. The stench rising from the bodies was overwhelming, and Jensen was the only person in the room who didn’t have anything to mask the smell that assailed them. There were five other police officers scattered around the kitchen. Two of them were using a tape measure to work out distances from the bodies to various other areas of the kitchen. Another had a Polaroid camera and was busy taking photos. Every now and again the camera made a whirring noise and spat out a print just like the ones Somers had of the previous five victims. One of the other officers appeared to be dusting for prints, an unenviable task, given that just about every inch of the room was covered in blood. The fifth and final cop was Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs. He was clearly the ranking officer because he was doing nothing other than looking over the shoulders of his colleagues to make sure they were doing their jobs properly.