The Devil's Graveyard (20 page)

‘I have my reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘None of your fuckin’ business.’

Julius stood in the elevator looking at his reflection in the metal doors. His bright purple James Brown costume still looked the business. Next to his reflection was that of the dark and shady figure of the Bourbon Kid, who was also staring straight ahead at the silver elevator doors. With his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses, his face betrayed not an ounce of emotion.

Julius couldn’t conceal his frustration, or his bewilderment at this sudden turn of events. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, his voice close to shaking with fury. ‘You kill
anyone
and
anything
, no matter what age, race or sex, but when it comes to Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
, you suddenly get a conscience?’

‘That’s about the size of it, yeah. You gotta problem with that?’

‘’Course I gotta fuckin’ problem with that!’ Julius, realizing that he was raising his voice, chose to lower it slightly before continuing. ‘She’s the main threat to me winnin’ this competition. If she’s in the final that’s it. Game over. I
have
to win this show, and she’s the only one left in it that can sing better’n me.’

‘I got another plan.’ The Kid’s voice was deepening with every syllable.

‘Well now, that’s somethin’, I guess. What is it?’

‘Learn to sing better.’

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. As he stepped out, Julius rounded angrily on the other man. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, you know that?’

The Kid pressed the button for the ground floor and stepped back to the centre of the elevator.

‘Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?’ Julius asked.

‘My work is done.’

As the elevator doors began to close Julius took a step forward and reached his left hand out to hold the doors open.

‘You know you don’t get paid for killin’ three of them, right? The job was for all four,’ he pointed out.

‘Don’t care.’

‘Well, that’s real good – ’cause I’m gonna have to pay the whole fifty grand to someone else, and all they’ll have to do is kill Judy Garland.’

The Kid shook his head slowly. ‘No one touches her. Not today.’ The sound of his voice was pure gravel.

‘Sorry buddy, but she’s history. Even if I have to get the fuckin’ Wicked Witch of the West to kill her. No way’s she winnin’ this goddam competition.’

‘She might not win it, but she’s gonna be in the final.’ The Kid gestured with a nod of his head to indicate that Julius let go of the elevator door.

The singer took one last look into the dark sunglasses and shook his head in exasperation. ‘I shoulda known not to count on you. You goddam fuckin’ idiot!’

The Kid reached inside his leather jacket. Julius considered the consequences of what that might mean. Cigarettes, maybe. Or a weapon. Most likely a weapon. With that in mind he wisely let go of the door, allowing it to close.

All the exhilaration had now left Julius, evaporated like dew in the desert. Even though his wigless head had cooled, he began to sweat.
Shit! Fuckin’ godamighty shit!
He realized that things had now taken a disastrous turn for the worse. The Judy Garland impersonator was still alive – for now, at least. But Julius needed her out of the picture before the final started.

‘Out of the picture’ meaning ‘dead’.

Sanchez’s eyelids felt as though they had been stuck together with peanut butter. He opened them slowly, one after the other, and blinked a few times. Did he have a hangover? No. But someone had just slapped him around the face. He recognized that feeling. He was kinda used to it. This was a slap from a man, though. He knew that, because his left cheek was stinging a little more than it usually did after a slap. Of greater concern, though, was a throbbing pain at the back of his head. He vaguely remembered now. It was from the selfinflicted blow he’d received when he’d hit it against the wall of the passageway outside the men’s washroom. That must have been a while earlier. He blinked again, trying to clear his vision, but it wasn’t working. This was in part because he had only just regained consciousness. But it was also because he was bobbing up and down on a pull-out bed in the back of a large and well-appointed camper van of some kind. The bed was fixed to the side wall, and the van was being driven somewhere at high speed.

‘Where the fuck am I?’ he groaned, having exhausted his powers of observation and deduction.

‘Devil’s Graveyard,’ a voice responded. ‘In about ten minutes that pain in your head’ll be gone.’

Sanchez sat up straight. Then he realized he couldn’t move his hands. He glanced down, and in the darkness could just make out that his wrists were bound together by thick silver-grey duct tape. Looking up again, he saw two security guards from the hotel sitting across from him on the seat that ran along the opposite side of the van. Both men were wearing the standard black suits issued by the hotel. The one directly opposite Sanchez had dark spiky hair and a face only a mother could love. His name badge, which Sanchez could read now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light, declared that he was Tommy Packer, Head of Security. The other guy was a shaven-headed military type. Both were pointing pistols in his direction. The one who had spoken was the dark-haired one, Tommy. The other said nothing, but looked wary. And ready to use his gun.

‘You okay, Sanchez?’ asked a more familiar voice. Sitting on his left was Elvis.

‘My fuckin’ head hurts,’ Sanchez complained, looking to his friend for some sympathy.

‘Yeah. Seems you knocked yourself out.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re a fuckin’ moron.’

‘Oh. That again.’ Forgetting for a moment that his wrists were bound together in front of him, Sanchez had an overwhelming desire to rub the back of his head. His attempt was futile, the best he could do was rub the top of his head with the tape binding his hands together. Further inspection showed that Elvis was in a similar predicament. Sanchez looked back at Tommy for an explanation.

‘So what’s happenin’ now?’ he asked.

‘You’re being taken out to the desert, where you’re going to be executed and buried.’

Sanchez gulped. ‘Uh, like – is that really necessary? I mean, this is all a big misunderstanding. You told them that, right Elvis?’

‘I told ’em, but they don’t wanna hear it, man.’

‘Oh.’ Sanchez couldn’t mask his disappointment. Or his alarm. ‘You gotta plan to get us out of this?’ he asked Elvis hopefully.

‘Yeah.’

‘Cool. What is it?’

‘Well, I ain’t gonna tell you the plan while Bert and Ernie are sittin’ over there, am I? Ya dumb fuck. Who d’ya think I am?
You?’

‘Oh yeah. Right. Ow, my fuckin’ head.’

The van came to a stop at the roadside and Sanchez heard the driver up front climb out. He wasn’t visible from the seat in the back, but Sanchez heard him walk round to the double doors at the back of the van, his shoes crunching on the gravel-strewn highway. A moment later the doors were pulled open. Sanchez was disappointed to see Invincible Angus standing there holding two shovels.

‘Right, hustle. Everybody out!’ the big man ordered.

Sanchez peered out of the open doors. It was dark out on the highway, with the only light coming from the full moon. The desert was a shithole at the best of times, now it was a dark, cold shithole with a chilling breeze. Where there had been only dust, sand and dying plants during the day, there were now rustling noises, squeaks and howls from unseen animals, and flickering shadows.

The two security guards waved their pistols in the direction of the double doors, gesturing for Sanchez and Elvis to exit the van. Elvis got up and jumped out of the back on to the deserted highway outside. Sanchez duly followed, albeit with great trepidation. It was pretty dark in the back of the van and as he jumped out he succeeded in tripping himself up on something and flying face first into Invincible Angus’s left shoulder, before crashing to the ground in a heap.

‘Nice try,’ said Angus laconically. ‘Typical hitman. Always tryin’ to make a move.’

The two security guards followed Sanchez out. Tommy leaned down, grabbed the bar owner under his right armpit and pulled him up off the ground.

‘You sure this guy’s a hitman?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. This guy’s lethal. The whole bumbling-idiot thing is all for show,’ said Angus coldly.

Elvis protested. ‘Are you for real?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Sanchez is a fuckin’ bartender, not a goddam hitman.’

Angus shook his head. ‘Nah. No bartender could’ve executed three men, then taken out two security guards with his bare hands.’

‘You dumb fuck. He didn’t do any of that.’

‘So who did?
You?
’ Angus mocked.

‘Well, I didn’t kill no one, but I did take out the two security guys, seein’ as you ask.’

Angus smirked. ‘You think I’m stupid? Tell you what, though. I’ll give you two a chance to prove which of you is the hitman.’ He threw the two shovels down on the ground. ‘There ya go, ladies. Grab these an’ follow me.’

Sanchez looked down at the shovel. ‘
Great,
’ he said sarcastically. ‘Buildin’ goddam sandcastles in the desert now, are we? Must be my lucky day.’

Until then, Angus had sounded almost jovial. Now he was irritated. ‘You know, sarcasm is a very unattractive feature. And lookin’ the way you do, you might wanna tone it down, fatboy.’

Sanchez and Elvis both stooped and, reaching down with their tightly bound wrists, managed to pick up a shovel each. The two security guards watched them warily to make sure neither made any sudden movements.

‘Go on,’ Tommy ordered, shoving his pistol into Sanchez’s back. ‘Follow him.’ Sanchez and Elvis trailed Invincible Angus off the highway and into the desert with the two security men following behind, occasionally prodding their pistols into their captives’ backs.

Angus strode on a good five yards ahead, making his way through a mixture of straggly, scratchy sagebrush and juniper plants that grew to a height of about a foot above the ground. He was heading towards a particularly desolate-looking area twenty yards or so further into the desert. Sanchez took the opportunity to quiz Elvis about how they were intending to escape.

‘So what’s the plan?’ he whispered.

‘We wait.’

‘Wait? Wait for what?’

‘Somethin’ to happen.’

‘Great plan. Did it take you long to come up with it?’

‘Actually, yes.’

Up ahead of them, Invincible Angus came to a halt in an area of soft dirt and sand, clear of the stunted vegetation. He pointed at the ground.

‘Okay, so here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You two start diggin’. I want a hole big enough to bury one of you. See, fellas, I’m a reasonable guy. I wanna know which one of you is the hitman who took my twenty thousand dollars.’

Elvis shook his head. ‘What the fuck you talkin’ about, man?’

‘There was an envelope with twenty thousand dollars in it. Someone took the twenty thousand out and returned the envelope to reception. Which one of you did it?’

Even the security guards weren’t sure what Angus was talking about. Only Sanchez knew that there had been twenty grand in the envelope, because he’d stolen it. And spent it. Tommy spoke up from his spot behind Sanchez.

‘What are you talkin’ about, man? What twenty grand? Ya gonna get it from Mister Powell when ya’ve done the job. More than, matter o’ fact.’

Angus reached both hands inside his trench coat and pulled out two pistols. He gestured with his head at Tommy and the other guard.

‘Step aside.’

Tommy and the other guard stepped back out of the way. Then much to Sanchez’s surprise, Invincible Angus fired twice, a single shot from each pistol. The curious thing was, he wasn’t aiming at Sanchez and Elvis. Brief yelps were heard from the two security men, followed by the sound of them falling to the ground, courtesy of a bullet in the head from Angus.

‘I knew this guy was on our side!’ said Sanchez gleefully.

Angus looked over at Elvis. ‘Is your friend always this stupid?’