The Devil's Graveyard (19 page)

The last time Sanchez had found himself huddled out of sight, scared shitless, while Elvis saved the day, he’d been in a church, using a school kid as a human shield while his friend shot down the bad guys with a weapon shaped like a guitar. That was exactly ten years ago. This time round, the King simply used his fists. Inside ninety seconds, the brawny security guards were sprawled on the tile floor of the washroom, unconscious and bloody. He’d saved Sanchez’s ass once again.

With a combination of speed, skill and brute force, the King had disarmed and knocked out the two security guards, Sandy and Tyrone. Sanchez had stayed in the stall with his eyes closed through most of the assault, although he had already conjured up an exaggerated version of events to tell everyone when he got back to the Tapioca. The important thing was that Elvis had done the job, and done it in style. When the noise of the fight finally came to an end, Sanchez opened one eye and then the other. Elvis was standing just outside the stall with his back to him.

The security guards were splayed across the floor, in the pool of blood still seeping out from stall two. It was hard to tell whether any of the blood staining their black suits was their own. The side of the nearest security guard’s head was pressed to the floor tiles, dribbling blood from a nasty nosebleed. The other guy’s head was out of Sanchez’s view from where he was cowering.

‘C’mon, Sanchez! For fuck’s sake gimme a hand moving these two, will ya?’ Elvis yelled at him. He had begun dragging the nearer of the security guards towards the third stall, but it was clear he needed some help if he was to get the job done quickly, before anyone else showed up.

‘Wow. You really took ’em both out, huh?’ Sanchez said redundantly, failing to mask a note of surprise in his voice.

‘What the fuck didja expect?’

‘Well – y’know. They were armed.’

Elvis threw the first unconscious guard on to the floor of the stall at Sanchez’s feet and then threw a disapproving look at Santa Mondega’s most cowardly bar owner.

‘Yeah, an’ you an’ me will
both
be armed in a minute, Sanchez. We got two handguns now. Sure hope we don’t have to fuckin’ use ’em, ’cause my instincts are tellin’ me you couldn’t even hit your own ass.’ He paused, then added, ‘An’ Lord knows, it’s a big enough target.’

Sanchez ignored the comment. Instead, he grabbed the guy Elvis had dropped under the armpits and dragged the body into the corner of the stall next to the toilet, where he did his best to sit it upright. He was becoming a pro at this.

‘Uh – like, maybe it’d be best if you had both guns?’ he suggested. Elvis was probably a better shot with his weaker hand than Sanchez would ever be with his stronger right hand. And on top of that, he had nerve enough to shoot someone without question or hesitation. Sanchez was liable to flinch if faced with a situation that required him to fire a weapon at someone.

Elvis didn’t reply immediately. He was backing into the stall, dragging the second security man with him.

‘No chance,’ he said, letting the unconscious man slump to the floor. ‘It’s one each. If we get separated an’ you’re on your own, you’re gonna need a piece, even if it’s just for show.’

The two of them shoved the second guy into the corner on the other side of the toilet from his colleague. When they were done, Sanchez took a look at the two unconscious guards and had a rare idea. It had dawned on him that he and Elvis weren’t exactly going to be hard to spot if anyone was looking for them. He was wearing his loud red Hawaiian shirt, while the King sported a bright gold jacket and a pair of large gold-rimmed sunglasses.

‘We could swap clothes with these guys, couldn’t we?’ Sanchez suggested. ‘Reckon we could sneak out easily then.’

Elvis looked hard at Sanchez and sighed. Then he shook his head disapprovingly. ‘You are pretty fuckin’ dumb, Sanchez, ya know that? These guys both just ended up in all that blood on the floor. It’s all over the backs of their jackets and their pants. You wanna walk out of here in a black suit that’s covered in blood ’cause you reckon it’d be more discreet, then be my guest. Personally, I’d rather just have a gun and a pair of
cojones
.’ He held out one of the pistols that he had taken from the security guards. ‘Here, take it. Now all you need are some
cojones
.’

Sanchez took the gun tentatively. He looked like he was holding the tail of a snake while trying to avoid being bitten by it. Elvis shook his head again, failing to conceal his disgust.

‘Aw, fer fuck’s sake! Just tuck it in the back of your pants and cover it with your shirt. You can find some room for it in those pants of yours, can’t you?’

Sanchez ignored the latest reference to the size of his butt and did as he was told. The gun fitted tightly in the waistband, the cold steel of the barrel wedged nicely between the sweaty cheeks of his ass. Time was short. They needed to get out of the washroom as soon as possible.

‘So, what now?’ he asked.

‘We get the fuck outta here. Prob’ly best if we avoid the lobby – too many people around who might spot us. My guess is, if we take a left turn outta here, we’ll be headin’ towards the back of the hotel. There’s bound to be a fire door there. We can head out through that an’ into the parkin’ lot. Then I reckon we got about two minutes to get to my car and get the fuck outta here.’

‘Cool,’ said Sanchez. ‘You’re leadin’ the way, right?’

‘Right. We hit any trouble, you point that gun at the bad guys and fire, okay.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘You cool?’

‘Cool as I’ll ever be.’

Elvis grimaced. ‘Yeah. Right. Follow me. Reckon we’re already short of time.’

He tucked his gun down the back of his black pants, where it was hidden by his shiny gold jacket. It looked like it fitted a lot snugger than Sanchez’s did. He led the way to the door and pulled it open slightly. He peered carefully one way down the corridor. Sanchez watched over his shoulder. There seemed to be no one in sight. Satisfied, Elvis took a step out and turned to check the passageway in the other direction.

THUD!

Before Sanchez could react, a tall man in a long grey trench coat stepped into view. He had blindsided Elvis with a blow to the back of the neck that had sent him crashing to his knees. The man loomed over him and hit him again on the back of the head, even harder this time, with the barrel of the pistol he was holding. Elvis slumped to the floor in a heap, out cold.

Shit!
thought Sanchez.
Grab your gun and fire.

Knowing that time wasn’t on his side, he pulled the gun out of the back of his pants. It came out much easier than it had gone in, mostly because it was now slightly lubricated by the sweat from his ass. Fumbling for the safety catch, he took aim at the man standing over Elvis. He recognized the guy straight away. It was the giant hitman whose room and twenty grand he had taken.

Invincible Angus didn’t flinch as he turned and saw the bar owner aiming a gun at him. Sanchez was doing all the flinching. He closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger, wincing at the knowledge that there was a loud bang on the way.

A loud bang did indeed follow.

Unfortunately, Sanchez had only succeeded in firing the gun at the ceiling. The force of the recoil sent him flying backwards, banging his head against the wall behind him. The blow hurt like hell, and was swiftly followed by the world blurring out of focus as he slid down the wall.

He was unconscious by the time he slumped to the floor.

Julius finished off his performance of ‘Get Up I Feel Like Being A Sex Machine’ with a trademark James Brown ‘heh!’ noise. He’d attempted the splits at the end of the dance routine, but had barely made it a third of the way down. Now he stood motionless in a sort of half-squat with one arm outstretched, pointing at the judges.

Even so, the audience loved it and the judges (knowing that he was on their shortlist of five to appear in the final) showered him with gushing praise, particularly Nigel Powell, who congratulated him on being the most energetic performer in the show so far.

Julius’s exertions had put a great strain on his tight purple suit. The pants had come close to ripping at the back after his attempt at the splits and the resultant half-squat. He now found himself lapping up the adulation from the crowd while feeling greatly relieved at having escaped the embarrassment of splitting his pants in two.

After suitably outstaying his welcome, he headed off via the side of the stage, waving vigorously at the audience as he went. On his way out to the corridor, he strutted past the remaining contestants who still had to audition
. What a bunch of suckers. The poor saps had no idea that they hadn’t a chance of winning.
They parted for him like the Red Sea, and many congratulated him on his performance. But now that it was over, he just wanted to be away from the others. They would all be eliminated from the contest soon, so being polite to them offered little benefit. His chances of winning the competition were high after his great performance. All he needed to know now was whether the Bourbon Kid had done his part. Had – uh –
disposed of
the other four finalists.

Julius was positively bouncing along the beige carpet in the yellow corridor as he made his way to the elevator at the end. By the time he reached it, he was just starting to come back down to earth after the high of performing for the judges. There wasn’t another person in sight, most likely because almost all the guests were crammed into the concert hall watching the show. He reached out to the button on the wall and pressed it to call the elevator. The shiny silver doors opened straight away and he stepped inside. As he went to press the button for the eighth floor he noticed flecks of blood on the keypad. He looked down and saw a small pool of blood. The sight of it brought a smile to his face. This was probably the Bourbon Kid’s handiwork. Someone had been seriously wounded, at the least, in this elevator.
Killed
, with any luck. He pressed the button for floor eight, then turned and faced out into the corridor he had just left.

To be greeted by the sight of his new accomplice
.

The Bourbon Kid was walking along the corridor towards the elevator, looking as sinister as ever. The dark hood on his jacket was up over his head and beneath it Julius could see that he was still wearing his dark shades. Indoors. The funereal outfit really did mark him out as a fearsome prospect. The man exuded evil without even trying.
Great guy to have on your side when you need to kill four innocent people
, Julius thought to himself. He pressed another button on the elevator’s keypad to keep the doors open and let his hired gun join him inside. In doing so he managed to get a patch of sticky blood on the end of his finger. He quickly wiped it on his pants leg.

‘Eighth floor okay with you?’ Julius asked as the Kid stepped in.

‘Makes no difference.’

The doors closed in front of them and the elevator began to move upwards. As soon as it did, Julius breathed a huge sigh of relief and pulled the thick dark wig off his head. His bald head was sweating after his time under the spotlight, and it was pleasing to feel some cool air on it at last.

‘This fuckin’ thing’s itchy as hell, y’know,’ he said, shaking the wig as if it were riddled with insects.

‘Quit your fuckin’ moaning,’ replied the Kid.

‘What’s with you?’ Julius paused. ‘Actually, never mind. Like I care. Is it all done?’

‘I’m all done.’

‘So they’re all dead?
Already?
’

‘No.’

‘No? Who’s still alive?’

‘Dorothy.’

‘Who the fuck is Dorothy?’

‘Judy Garland.’

‘What happened? She get away from you?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘I don’t kill Dorothys.’

‘’Scuse me?’

‘I don’t kill Dorothys.’

‘Bull
shit
. You kill anything.’

‘Not Dorothys.’

‘Why not? What fuckin’ difference does it make?’