The Book With No Name

by AnonYMous

  ‘Yeah, what do you know about the yellow Caddy?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘You mentioned it earlier when you were talking to Jefe, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw it drivin’ away from my brother’s place after I found him dead. Do you know who was driving it? Did you see them?’

  ‘Oh my God! It’s coming back to me. There were two men. They killed your brother and his wife. I saw it. Least I think I did. No, wait a second … ‘

  ‘What? What, for Chrissakes?’

  ‘No, they weren’t dead. The two men were beating them. They were trying to get information.’ She stopped for a half second, then suddenly gasped.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘“Oh shit” what?’

  ‘Oh shit, they were looking for me!’ She looked at Sanchez, wide-eyed and clearly upset.

  ‘Well, didn’t they see you?’ he asked.

  ‘No. No, for some reason they couldn’t see me. So I sneaked out, and that’s when I saw the yellow Cadillac.’

  ‘So what happened then?’ the bartender was frustrated, disappointed that she recalled so little, but he did his best to keep his tone even.

  ‘I just ran. I don’t know how long I ran for, but I just kept running and then eventually I ended up here.’ She paused in thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember anything else. Not at the moment, anyway.’

  She picked up her drink and sucked on the straw again. This time she finished the entire contents of the glass. It took her about ten seconds. Sanchez didn’t really know what to ask next, and his opportunity for further questioning ended a moment later when Jefe burst into the barroom through the street door. The big bounty hunter made straight for the bar and took up a seat on the stool next to Jessica, so that she was now between him and Sanchez.

  ‘Whisky for me, and another drink for the lady,’ he ordered, staring up at Mukka, who had moved from the back of the bar where he’d been lurking.

  The young cook-cum-barkeep, remembering Jefe’s last visit, jumped into action, putting a nearly full bottle of whisky and a glass down on the bar for him. Sanchez leaned across Jessica, picked up the bottle and twisted the cork out then poured a generous measure of the whisky into the glass. He thought Jefe looked a little shaken, which he guessed was unusual. He found it disconcerting. Men like Jefe weren’t supposed to look shaken.

  ‘Are you okay, man?’ he asked.

  ‘I will be once I’ve had a drink. You might want one yourself, too, when you hear what I’ve gotta say.’

  ‘That so? Why?’

  Jefe picked up the glass of whisky that Sanchez had poured him and downed it in one. Then he set it back on the bar, ready for a refill. He stared past Jessica at the bartender.

  ‘Your fuckin’ man Elvis is dead, Sanchez,’ he said. ‘Someone messed him up real bad. I mean real fuckin’ bad.’

  Twenty-Two

  Jefe and Jessica stayed in the bar, drinking, for several hours. The bounty hunter succeeded in polishing off two whiskies, eight beers and three tequilas. After the first couple of drinks he was soon back to his usual arrogant self. Jessica, with a score of five Bloody Marys, was a little more reserved. The more they drank, the better the pair of them seemed to get along, much to Sanchez’s annoyance. He couldn’t help noticing that Jessica seemed to be genuinely impressed by Jefe. He told her tales of his escapades as a bounty hunter, and how he had captured and sometimes killed men for money. He had hunted down notorious wanted men in areas all over the world. From the deepest jungles to the highest mountains, there was nowhere Jefe wouldn’t go to track and capture his prey.

  Although he was careful not to name any names, he dropped a few hints that insinuated he had been responsible for the deaths of a number of powerful and famous people who were thought to have died in accidents. It was a reasonably clever ruse on his part, because the stories couldn’t be verified by anyone. Not that anyone was going to argue with him, in any case, because everyone knew just how good he was at his job. If the people paying the money wanted a murder to look like an accident, then that’s what Jefe would make it look like.

  Sanchez could not compete with such dramatic fare, and he was not surprised when Jessica, slightly the worse for wear, left with Jefe about an hour before closing time. The pair of them leaned against each other for support as they staggered out of the bar and into the street. Once outside in the cool night air they started singing some sort of nonsensical song, the words of which Sanchez couldn’t quite make out. Then they were gone.

  The Tapioca was almost empty apart from a small group of regulars playing cards at a table in one corner, and two hooded men sitting at another table closer to the bar. Sanchez had not paid much attention to them earlier. Mukka had done most of the serving behind the bar, while his boss had flitted around the place, occasionally chatting to a regular and trying his best to catch Jessica’s eye.

  Now, there was a rule (albeit an unwritten one) in the Tapioca forbidding people in the bar from wearing their hoods up. Sanchez had introduced it shortly after the Bourbon Kid incident five years ago. The Lunar Festival’s fancy-dress party was still a few days away, but these two men appeared to have dressed for it in advance, seemingly as Jedi Knights. Each wore a long brown robe over loose-fitting, rather baggy white trousers made from a thick cloth. Sanchez now found himself in a dilemma: whether or not to approach the two men and ask that they lower their hoods. Truth was, he was tired, and the news about Elvis had shocked him. Not wanting any more hassle, he decided to let the matter go on this occasion.

  As it happened, the two men were about to lower their hoods voluntarily. Suddenly they both got up from their chairs and came over to where Sanchez was leaning against the bar. One man walked behind the other with his head bowed, as if he was less confident than his companion. When they were close enough to Sanchez to make him feel just a little uncomfortable, they threw back their hoods to reveal their faces. He recognized them straight away. The two monks. From having looked rather sinister with their hoods pulled up, they now looked like the same apparently timid fools who had been in the bar a couple of days before.

  ‘What the fuck do you two want?’ Sanchez asked belligerently. It was bound to be more trouble, he thought to himself, sighing wearily.

  ‘The same thing as everyone else round here seems to want,’ replied the one at the front (which happened to be Kyle). ‘We want to get our hands on the Eye of the Moon. We want to do that, because it is rightfully ours.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, will you? I’m not in the fuckin’ mood.’ Sanchez wanted them to know he was irritated by their presence. These two clowns had created a helluva mess on their last visit, and in the light of that he had hoped they would have had the good grace to stay away from the Tapioca. His unwelcoming attitude towards them was wasted, however. The two monks were entirely oblivious to it.

  ‘We’ve been in here most of the day,’ said Kyle. ‘We’ve been listening to what goes on. El Santino offered you fifty thousand of your dollars if you found the stone for him. We will give you a hundred thousand if you can just tell us who has the stone. You don’t need to get it for us. We can do that ourselves. You just point us in the right direction. Once we have the stone one hundred thousand dollars is yours. Now, I would be very surprised if you were to receive a better offer than that.’

  Kyle had put forward a very good offer, it had to be said. So Sanchez said it.

  ‘That’s a very good offer,’ he replied.

  ‘I know. So do we have a deal? Or not?’

  Sanchez rubbed his chin for a while as though mulling the offer over, which he quite clearly wasn’t. This was a great deal. A no-lose situation. The monks were holy men, and that meant they were probably men of their word, too. If he could get his hands on the stone he could sell it to them for a hundred grand, then tell Jefe and El Santino that the monks had it and collect a few thousand more from each of them.

  ‘Okay. It’s a deal,’ he said at last. ‘I find out who’s got the stone a
nd send ’em your way. You give me a hundred grand and everyone’s happy, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kyle. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Sanchez was surprised that shaking hands was a custom the monks were familiar with. Maybe they had picked up a few things about local culture? Or maybe they were planning on throwing a few of their karate moves on him as soon as he offered his hand? Either way, for a hundred grand he was only too happy to shake hands with the pair of them. It was a risk worth taking, so he shook hands with them and discovered to his faint disgust that both had very limp handshakes, suggesting that it was a custom they had seen but had never taken part in before.

  ‘We will be in touch again very soon,’ said Kyle, with a nod of his head. ‘Please make sure you have some good news for us.’

  With that, both monks turned and headed for the exit. Sanchez was intrigued by the change in their manner since their previous visit. On this occasion they had seemed much more composed and far more confident, and they had demonstrated at least some signs of trying to fit in.

  ‘Hey, monks,’ he called out after them. ‘One question. You have a car, by any chance?’

  Kyle stopped, causing Peto to walk into the back of him, slightly ruining their cool. He didn’t look back at Sanchez, but answered him anyway.

  ‘No. We don’t have a car. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. Carry on. I’ll see you guys later.’

  Twenty-Three

  When Jensen arrived in the office at 10 a.m., Somers was where he always was, sitting behind his desk. He was doing what he always seemed to be doing, looking at Polaroids of dead bodies.

  ‘I swear this town is full of liars and scumbags,’ Jensen complained. He took off his brown suede jacket and slung it across the office. It hit the back of his chair and slid down on to the floor. ‘There’s not a single decent person here,’ he continued. ‘I’ve questioned known associates of this Elvis guy all night and not one person has given me a single bit of information that wasn’t obviously a lie. Did you know Elvis died three years ago? He also emigrated to Australia four months ago. And last I heard, he was out of town for the weekend visiting Priscilla. Lying bastards, all of them.’

  ‘Jensen, the King is dead,’ said Somers.

  ‘Don’t you fuckin’ start.’

  ‘I’m not. Elvis was found dead in a shitty bedsit three hours ago.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘Nope. He lost his eyes and his tongue just like all the others, apart from Marcus the Weasel who, let’s face it, was probably killed by Elvis anyway.’

  ‘Are those the photos you’ve got there?’ Jensen asked, eyeing the prints in Somers’s hand.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I see ‘em?’ Jensen leaned over the desk, reaching out a hand. Somers handed him the set of seven-inch-by-five-inch black-and-white photos.

  ‘They look just the same as all the others, Jensen. You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Dammit, Somers! This guy was our best lead.’

  ‘Not necessarily … There is another.’

  ‘What are you, Yoda now?’

  Somers took no notice of Jensen’s irritated remark and instead shoved his little notebook in his partner’s direction. The page at which it was open had a few words scribbled on it in pencil. Jensen picked it up and read aloud what was written there: Dante Vittori and Kacy Fellangi. Good-looking young couple.

  ‘What’s this? You joined a swingers’ club, or somethin’?’ he asked sarcastically. Even though it was still early, his day had already proved so frustrating that he had little or no patience left for games.

  ‘Dante Vittori,’ Somers said quietly, ‘was the night porter at the Santa Mondega International Hotel. Kacy Fellangi is his girlfriend. She was a chambermaid there.’

  ‘Right … and?

  ‘And they both disappeared just after Marcus the Weasel was killed. Elvis was found dead in their apartment.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jensen, putting the notebook and the set of photos back down on the desk. ‘What does that mean?’

  Somers reached over and picked up the little book, which he dropped into the breast pocket of his white shirt.

  ‘It means that for some reason Elvis went looking for them after he killed Marcus the Weasel.’

  ‘So they must have seen him kill the Weasel, right?’ Jensen thought out loud. ‘And he had to bump them off because they could identify him?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Then I don’t get it. Why else would he go after them? Or were they working with him?’

  ‘Nah. Don’t think so. Elvis works alone. He’s a solo artist. The Beatles worked as a group, Elvis was always his own man. No, I think they had something he wanted, and whatever it was, the Bourbon Kid wanted it too. That’s why Elvis is dead. Him and the Kid must have bumped into each other in this couple’s apartment. Only problem being, our friends Dante and Kacy packed up all their stuff long before Elvis or the Kid got there, and left the building. Still owe on the rent, too.’

  Jensen walked over to where his jacket was lying on the floor and picked it up. He dusted it off, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down. He looked at Somers, who was waiting for him to calm down and start piecing together the clues. The older man was obviously some way ahead of him, as he’d had a three-hour start in which to process the details of Elvis’s death.

  ‘So,’ Jensen sighed. ‘Elvis was hunting around in their apartment looking for somethin’ when our killer …’

  ‘The Bourbon Kid.’

  ‘Right. The Bourbon Kid. Now he turns up looking for … let’s say the Eye of the Moon, and he finds Elvis there. And naturally, being a complete psycho …’

  ‘And possibly a vampire …’

  ‘He kills Elvis, but then he says “Shit!”?’

  ‘Really? He actually stops and says “Shit!”?’

  ‘Yeah, he stops and says “Shit!” because he realizes the King doesn’t have what he’s looking for.’ Jensen paused for a minute, because at this point even he was unsure where his theory was heading. He continued with less certainty, ‘But why would he think these two kids Dante and Kacy have it?’

  Somers held up a hand to suggest that Jensen might like to shut up and pay attention.

  ‘Wanna hear my theory?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘My theory is this: we know that Marcus the Weasel was an expert thief, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, let’s suppose Marcus had the Eye of the Moon in his possession. He then gets a taste of his own medicine and is robbed by these two kids, Dante and Kacy. They take the Eye and make tracks. Now – and this is the bit I’m not sure about – maybe these kids can identify Elvis as Marcus’s killer, so Elvis decides to bump them off, just in case. He goes to their apartment, but so too does the Bourbon Kid, who’s looking for the Eye of the Moon. The two of them cross paths. BAM! The King is toast.’

  ‘You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?’ Jensen remarked, picking up on the excitement in Somers’s voice.

  ‘Well, let’s face it, whoever killed Elvis is the same person that murdered our other victims, ’cept Marcus. We know that because of the eyes and tongue thing.’

  Jensen pondered the theory for a few moments, then said, ‘It’s pretty thin, but I actually kinda like it. You might be on to something there. One thing you haven’t mentioned, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ His partner raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Now, I know you think the Bourbon Kid is behind this, and you’re probably right, but what if it was the guy Dante who killed Elvis and all the others?’

  Somers shook his head vigorously, then leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Are you determined not to believe me when I tell you it’s the Bourbon Kid doing almost all these killings? How many times are we going to have to go over this? I mean, will you just trust me?’

  ‘You’
re missing my point,’ said Jensen, this time holding his hand up to signal that Somers should let him finish. ‘I do believe the Bourbon Kid is behind virtually all these murders – leastways, the ones you got Polaroids of.’

  ‘So what’s your goddam point, then?’

  ‘My point,’ said Jensen, looking hard at the other man, ‘is that this kid Dante might actually be the Bourbon Kid.’

  Twenty-Four

  Dante wasn’t keen on fortune tellers. They had a habit of bringing bad news. It seemed like they gave everyone else good news, but when it came to him, he’d always get some sort of warning that bad things were on the horizon. He hadn’t actually visited many fortune tellers in his time, but Kacy felt some sort of affinity with them, so every once in a while he would accompany her on one of her many visits.

  The last time they had visited a Tarot-card reader she had told Kacy all kinds of good news, but when Kacy asked her to look into Dante’s future as well, nastiness of various kinds was predicted. The woman foretold the death of Dante’s dog, Hector, which then actually did die no less than three weeks later. He knew that Kacy realized that he was a touch sensitive about being asked to accompany her on a visit to the latest fortune teller she’d found, but after her heroic antics in the Santa Mondega International Hotel when she had robbed the drunken lowlife he figured it was the least he could do. Besides, he wanted to prove that he still didn’t believe in any of this fortune-telling crap. His beloved hound had died, sure, but that was just coincidence.

  The House of the Mystic Lady had a kind of familiar look to it, as though Dante had seen it before in a dream. Yet he felt sure he’d never been there before – or not in this life, anyway. It was situated on the promenade down by the harbour. From the outside it looked very like an old gypsy trailer that had been converted into a small house. The roof was low and arched, and the outside was painted red, with yellow borders around the poky little windows. There were steps leading up to the front door that looked as if they could be folded up and packed inside the house if the Mystic Lady ever decided she wanted it towed away.