The Devil's Graveyard (36 page)

As Boris attempted to step out of the way to allow him to pass, the man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

‘Hey, you,’ he said in a gravelly voice.

‘Yeah, uh – hi,’ Boris replied. Something about the man made him feel nervous.

‘Bin lookin’ for you.’

‘
Me?
Why?’

‘Guy up in the booth wants a word with you.’

‘’Bout what?’

‘The fuck would I know?’

‘Well, I’m supposed to be doing the show any minute.’

‘It’s
about
the goddam show, man. Guy wants you to do a big solo, or somethin’.’

Boris’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah?’ But his initial excitement was quickly replaced by suspicion. This was more than likely a practical joke. ‘You just said you didn’t know what it was about,’ he said warily.

‘That’s ’cause it’s a surprise. I didn’t wanna ruin it for you.’

‘Oh. Right. What’s the solo for?’

‘Hey, man, I’ve said way too much already. It’s up this way.’ He pointed to a stairway running off the corridor on the right, which Boris had passed moments earlier. Not wanting to be forgotten by his fellow orchestra members, he yelled out to them.

‘Catch up with you guys, yeah?’

If any of them heard him, they gave no sign of it. They all carried on walking, before turning right through a door that led into the lower area of the auditorium, where the orchestra pit was located.

Boris followed the hooded man over to the stairway. The stranger gestured for him to go up first. The stairway consisted of no more than ten steps but it was unlit and that made it difficult to see where it led. When he reached the top, he found himself in another corridor and began walking along it. Halfway along was a door on the left on which was a plaque bearing the words ‘SOUND BOOTH’. As Boris approached the door the hooded man brushed past him.

‘In here,’ he grunted, pushing the door open.

Boris walked in as the man held the door open. Inside, sitting at a mixing desk in front of a large plate-glass window that looked down on the auditorium below, was the show’s deejay. He was a short, fat, balding white guy in his late thirties, wearing a blue tracksuit with white stripes down the sleeves and legs. His ears were covered by some really serious-looking brown headphones, which probably explained why he didn’t appear to have heard the two men come in. Boris called over to him. ‘Yo, Harry! You wanted to see me?’

Startled, Harry turned and looked at him, pushing the headphones down off his ears, his blotchy red face revealing a look of puzzlement. He shook his head.

‘Boris? Nah. Don’t think so. Ain’t you s’posed to be playin’ in the pit?’

Boris turned to the hooded man for an explanation, in time to see a fist coming right at his face. Instinctively he closed his eyes as the full force of the blow crashed into his nose. The last thing he heard was a horrible crunching noise as his nose shattered.

The Bourbon Kid picked up Boris’s feet and dragged his unconscious body into the corner of the sound booth. He lifted the young man’s guitar from where it had fallen and took a good look at it. It seemed to be in reasonably good shape. There were no visible scratches on it, and no blood from the injury he had inflicted upon the guy’s nose. The deejay, who had not stirred from his seat, appeared to be watching with interest, waiting for an explanation.

‘Uh, like, what’s goin’ on, man?’ he asked.

‘Needed a guitar.’

‘Ya couldn’t’ve just asked him if he’d lend it t’ya?’

‘I could.’

‘But you chose not to?’

‘That’s right. I want somethin’ from you, too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A Blues Brothers CD. You got one?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Give it to me.’

‘Will I get it back?’

‘No.’

Harry couldn’t hide the look of disappointment on his face. But he also seemed to have a keen understanding of what would happen to him if he didn’t do as the Kid asked. He leaned down and started sifting through a large black case of compact discs on the floor by his right foot. After a few seconds he hooked out a Blues Brothers album and tossed it over to the Kid.

‘There y’are. Anythin’ else?’

‘Yeah. You in charge of the backing music for the finalists?’

‘A few of ’em, yeah. House orchestra is playin’ two of the songs. I’m puttin’ on backing tracks for the other four.’

‘Don’t play a track for the Blues Brother when he’s up.’

Harry looked baffled. ‘Huh? I’ve been told to. I’m playin’ “Mustang Sally” for him to sing along to. I’ve downloaded the track from the Internet.’

The Kid stood his newly acquired guitar against the wall by the door, reached into his jacket and pulled out a dark grey pistol. He waved it at Harry. ‘You play that backing track for him, I’m gonna shoot you in the face with this.’

Harry made his mind up very quickly. ‘Okay. It’ll kill his chances of winnin’, though.’

‘That’s my problem.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Okay
.
Whatever. Is that all?’

‘No. I’ll be back in five minutes. And I’m gonna want your seat.’

‘Great. Look forward to it.’

‘Yeah?’ A very faint smile appeared on the hooded face. Harry shrank from the sight.

The Kid slid the pistol back into his jacket, picked up the guitar again and reached for the door handle to head out of the sound booth. As he did so, Harry pressed a button on the CD player on his mixing desk. The song ‘That’s Not My Name’ by The Ting Tings began playing.

The Kid stopped on his way out the door.

‘You choosin’ the music?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Cool song this, huh? Really catchy.’

‘You takin’ requests?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No. ’Fraid not, buddy. I got a set playlist worked out.’

‘Takin’ orders?’

‘Er – what d’ya have in mind?’

‘“Live and Let Die”. Get me in the right frame of mind for later.’

‘What’s happenin’ later?’

‘I’m gonna kill someone.’

Harry inhaled sharply and, for a man who normally had a very red face, turned a little pale. He had the good sense not to keep the Kid waiting, however. He spun his chair round and, with the speed inherent in people who don’t want to be future murder victims, bent down to the case of CDs on the floor and began frantically rifling through them.

But by the time he’d found the Paul McCartney CD the Bourbon Kid was gone.

Knowing that there was a horde of partially decomposed undead creatures heading towards the hotel, Nigel Powell made damn sure that the final started as soon as possible. First, and most importantly, he had to ensure that the orchestra knew what songs the finalists were going to perform. There had been some grumbling among the musicians, but Powell had no the patience for it and had made it very clear that what songs were played wasn’t up for debate. As things now stood, the orchestra would perform only the songs for Judy Garland and James Brown.

It truly was turning into the most stressful of days. The
Back From The Dead
show was always a nerve-racking time for him, but this year had been a disaster from the start, and now he had the Godfather of Soul running around trying to kill as many of the finalists as he could. So far, Powell hadn’t worked out how to make sure the murderous little jerk didn’t make it to the final.

After taking care of the music issues and a few other last-minute details, he headed back to the stage area and gave the nod to the stagehand in charge of the curtains. The song “Live and Let Die” by Paul McCartney was playing, but on a signal to the deejay the music was faded out. Once the auditorium was silent again, the curtains parted and Powell appeared onstage to a roar of approval from the watching audience. Without milking the applause as much as usual, he quickly made his way over to his seat on the panel between Lucinda and Candy, who had been waiting patiently for his return. As he sat down he leaned over and whispered in Lucinda’s ear.

‘I can’t wait for this all to be over for another year. This one’s really been a show to forget.’

‘Sure has,’ she mumbled back

‘At least things can’t get any worse.’

‘Oh, they can.’

‘I doubt that,’ Powell muttered under his breath. He was struggling to hide just how stressed-out the event had made him feel. ‘At least it’s nearly over now.’

Lucinda shook her head as if she disapproved of something he’d said. Before he had a chance to ask her what she meant by that, his face appeared on the giant monitor at the back of the stage and he thought better of it.

When the crowd had calmed down, Nina Forina stepped into the spotlight centre stage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen – the final is about to begin!’ she exclaimed, with not altogether forced enthusiasm. The crowd clapped, wolf-whistled, stamped and cheered back at her. After teasing them for a few more seconds, she made the announcement for which they had all been waiting. ‘You’re a great crowd,’ she yelled. ‘So please put your hands together for our first finalist, singing “Piece Of My Heart”… Here’s
Janis Joplin!’

As more cheers followed and Nina stepped away out of the spotlight, the Janis Joplin impersonator appeared from the wings. She walked timidly to the centre of the stage in her garish green dress and white sneakers. Then she stood and waited beneath the spotlight for the deejay in the booth to put on the backing track for her song.

A brief pause, then a drum beat started, followed by a guitar playing the opening bars of the song. The singer began to wiggle her shoulders and hips. Her movements were not particularly in time to the music, and when she began to sing it became obvious why. Her voice was deep and full of aggression as she practically shouted out the first few lines.

‘Didn’t I fuckin’ make you feel like you were the only fuckin’ muthafucker, yeah?

An’ didn’t I fuckin’ give you everythin’ that a whore really could, you fuckin’ asshole?

Honey, you fuckin’ know I did!’

The audience laughed and cheered. The aggressive swearing ruined the song for some, but enhanced it for others. Not having seen her audition, Nigel Powell was the only person surprised by the performance. He leaned over and whispered in Lucinda’s ear once more.

‘What just happened?’

‘We tried to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘She has Tourette’s.’

Powell began rubbing his forehead in despair. ‘Oh, brilliant. That’s just perfect. Of
course
she has. Why wouldn’t she? I mean, come
on
– if you have Tourette’s and it’s this bad, you enter a singing competition, don’t you?’

‘It’s worse when she sings, apparently.’

‘You have
got
to be kidding me!’

‘Shhh,’ Lucinda snapped. ‘She’s getting to the chorus. This is the best bit.’

Powell made a point of ostentatiously covering his ears with his hands, so that no one in the audience would be in any doubt about his disgust at the performance. For the next few minutes what was almost certainly the worst tribute ever to the late Janis Joplin energetically murdered ‘Piece Of My Heart’, littering it with foul-mouthed obscenities.

When at last she was finished she stood shyly in the spotlight, awaiting the judges’ comments. These were somewhat varied.

‘I loved it,’ said Lucinda enthusiastically. ‘But it’ll be a tragedy if you win, honey, ’cause the others are all better’n you.’

The most positive thing that Candy could find to say was ‘Nice outfit, terrible singing!’

Powell was blunt. ‘You suck,’ he said. ‘You’re a disgrace, and I have no idea how or why we put you into the final. Please go away.’

He was quite right, of course. Now that the Tourette’s-suffering singer had performed in the final, however, would the audience decide to vote for her en masse, just for her sheer entertainment value? Here was yet another irritation to add to the ever-growing list. At the top of that list was Julius.

In the silence that followed the dejected Janis Joplin impersonator as she slouched offstage, Powell spotted one of his security guards at the side of the stage, trying to catch his attention. It was Sandy. The hotel owner nodded at him, harbouring the cryptic thought,
He knows what needs to be done.