The Devil's Graveyard (38 page)

‘Sure,’ said Emily, withdrawing her outstretched hand. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ She gestured to the chair opposite him.

‘Sure.’ Jacko placed his paper plate, now empty except for a few gnawed bones, down on the coffee table between them and picked up a napkin to wipe his hands.

Emily sat down. ‘You nervous?’

Jacko shrugged. ‘Not really. You?’

‘A little.’ She wished she could see his eyes. ‘You did a great job earlier.’

‘Thanks. You too. Been singin’ a long time, I bet.’

‘Yeah. Got the bug from watching my mom sing in clubs when I was a kid.’

Jacko half-smiled. ‘You never lose the scent that fills your nostrils, that first time you watch someone great perform in a club, do ya? If they put you under their spell, you’ll never get rid of the urge to do it yourself, to feel it in your lungs, that scent from the club, the one that reminds you of the performance, huh?’

‘That’s it exactly.’

‘Yeah. I know. Shame people like Nigel Powell will never get that. He’s just a suit, trying to recreate that scent and sell it. This show, it ain’t got that scent. What they got here is a smell that came straight out of a can.’

‘Yeah, I guess. But it’d be cool to win, though, wouldn’t it?’

‘You think?’

‘Well, yeah. Don’t you?’

‘Hey, it’s always nice to win. But it ain’t the end of the world if you don’t.’

Emily really couldn’t figure this guy out. ‘’Kay then, what about the money? The money’d be nice, right?’

Jacko finished wiping his hands and put the napkin back on the coffee table. ‘That why you’re here? The money?’

‘Well, no. Not just the money.’

‘Fame too, huh?’ There was nothing aggressive about the way he spoke. He just somehow made it sound as though Emily’s pursuit of fame and fortune was rather shallow.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said defensively. ‘The recognition would be nice, but the money is important. It’s for my mother. She’s real sick, and the money would really help.’

Jacko smiled and nodded. ‘Sure. Know what you mean. Family’s important. Gotta take care of ’em, even if it means compromisin’ your values, right?’

‘How do you mean, compromising my values?’ She could feel the beginnings of a blush warming her cheeks.

Jacko airily waved a hand around the space, somehow indicating the entire auditorium and everyone and everything in it. ‘Is this really why you started singin’?’ he asked. ‘So you could win a talent show and make easy money?’

‘You’re kinda direct, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t mean to offend. Just wonderin’ if this is what you got into music for?’

‘Well, it’s either this or touring round the bars and clubs, earning just enough to get by, isn’t it?’

Jacko took off his sunglasses. ‘It’s an honourable way to make a livin’,’ he said, smiling.

‘Yes, it is. But it won’t make you rich, will it?’

‘So, it’s just about the money, then?’

Emily shook her head and smiled. He was quite a tease, this Jacko fella. ‘It does seem like it sometimes,’ she admitted softly. ‘But in all honesty I just love to perform in front of an audience. What’s your excuse? Why are you singing?’

Jacko stared up at the ceiling. ‘I lost my way. Forgot all about why I got into music in the first place. This here, this show, it’s just a shortcut to money and adulation. Not exactly payin’ your dues, is it?’

‘So it’s kinda like selling out, huh?’ Emily said dryly.

‘That’s exactly what it’s like.’

‘So you’d rather be out working the club circuit?’

Jacko sighed. ‘Yeah. I’d love to go back to the club circuit. Smoky bars, that’s where the magic really happens. Performin’ just so you can pay for your next meal, knowin’ that if you suck, your audience’ll let you know about it.’ He pointed in the direction of the auditorium. ‘That audience out there, they’d cheer a monkey with a banjo if it had a sob story. Playin’ in clubs, now that’s really livin’.’

He was right, and Emily knew it. ‘I agree with you,’ she said. ‘Those were some of the happiest times of my life, working the club circuit. I’d love to go back to it one day and just sing my own stuff, you know? Not be impersonating someone else. That would be awesome. Maybe if I do well here, I’ll get that opportunity. At the moment though, people want to hear me do Judy Garland.’

‘So you’re sellin’ out.’

‘We all are, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, we are. But you can only sell the family gold once.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Once you sell out, there’s no goin’ back. You can’t buy back your credibility if you never had it in the first place.’

‘I paid my dues in the clubs,’ Emily said defensively.

‘Me too, but now look at us. Performin’ as other people. It ain’t how I saw my career pannin’ out. I mean, look at me. I’m the ultimate loser. The Blues Brothers were little more than a tribute band themselves, and here I am impersonatin’ a tribute act. That’s about as low as it gets, ain’t it?’

He sounded genuinely regretful about the way things had worked out for him. For the first time, Emily began to reflect on the fact that she’d passed up her dream of being a singer in her own right, to chase the dollar as a Judy Garland impersonator. If she won this competition, that was how she’d always be known. If she made it big as a reality-show star, she’d never have credibility as anything else. She would always be known as the girl who sang like Judy Garland. But that was the price she would have to pay for the success she wanted. There was no sense in getting down about it.

‘It’s not all bad, Jacko,’ she said, trying to sound optimistic. ‘If you win, you can make all your dreams come true. You could go back to singing in the clubs and you wouldn’t have to worry about money any more.’

Jacko slipped his sunglasses back on. ‘Y’know, dreams do come true, Emily,’ he said, standing up. ‘But they don’t come for free.’ He smiled down at her and said, ‘I gotta go freshen up, I’m on in a minute. Nice talkin’ to you.’

Emily thought back to her earlier conversation with the Bourbon Kid. He’d talked about how the winner of this show would be selling his soul to the Devil. Now she understood what he meant. It was metaphorical, obviously.

Wasn’t it?

Elvis stood before the panel, eyeing the three judges in turn. He had just given his all-time best performance of ‘You’re The Devil In Disguise’ and was waiting for their reaction. He was probably as anxious as he ever got. Which was not very.

The plan had been to underperform the song a little to give Julius a better chance of winning the show with his James Brown routine, but when it came to the crunch
, he’d thought, Fuck Julius
. Elvis didn’t even know the guy. Why should he give a fuck just because the guy was supposedly the thirteenth Apostle and was going to rid the place of all the goddam flesh-eating zombies outside? Hell, the other finalists weren’t going to make it easy for him, so why should the King? And besides, if the undead did swarm into the hotel, Elvis was one of those most likely to make it out in one piece. In his time he’d seen vampires, werewolves and now zombies and survived ’em all, baby. Still in one piece, and still cool.

Like the pro he was, Elvis had given his performance everything. The vocals had been spot on, the swivelling hips had sent the women in the audience crazy and the sneer – well, that was all his own. Candy was the first judge to pass comment. She leaned forward, squeezing her breasts together so tightly that there was almost a race on to see which would pop out first: Elvis’s eyes, or her nipples.

‘Elvis honey, I think I’m in love with you. That was just awesome. I gotta tell you, those dance moves got just about every woman in here goin’ weak at the knees. Congratulations. I reckon you’ve just put yourself in contention to win this competition!’ The crowd cheered and stamped, the noise only fading as Lucinda began to pass judgement.

She was equally enthusiastic. ‘You da man, Elvis.
You da man!’
she yelled, jigging her head from side to side and pointing randomly around the stage. Again the audience bayed their approval.

It was perhaps inevitable that the only negative comments should come from Nigel Powell, who was making a very good job of looking deeply underwhelmed. ‘Well, it was
okay
,’ he began, inducing jeers from the audience. ‘Well, it
was.
Elvis impersonators are two-a-penny on the nightclub circuit. It was good, sure, but I don’t think it was good enough to win the whole show. Truth is, you don’t really deserve to be on this stage with the other finalists. Good luck, though.’

Elvis headed off to the side of the stage with his usual panache, waving at the audience and blowing kisses at any of the prettier women with whom he could make eye contact. When he made it offstage to the side area behind the curtain he was slightly surprised, if not disappointed, to see that Sanchez had disappeared.
Had the fat bastard even seen him sing? Or had he slunk off somewhere for an enchilada?

He decided to hang around behind the giant red curtain to wait for Sanchez to return. Freddie Mercury was announced, and bounded onstage enthusiastically for his performance. Just then, the Judy Garland impersonator sidled up alongside Elvis and briefly touched his right arm to gain his attention.

‘Hi, I’m Emily. I just wanted to say I thought you were great,’ she said. ‘Really strong vocals and your dance moves were so-o-o cool. Are they off the cuff? Or do you rehearse a lot?’

Elvis shrugged nonchalantly. ‘All improvised,’ he said.

‘Well, you know who really thinks you’re cool?’ Emily said, tapping his arm again.

‘Who?’ On the whole, Elvis believed that everyone thought he was cool. On the whole he was right, too.

‘Janis Joplin,’ she whispered.

‘Huh?’

‘I think she kinda likes you.’

‘Yeah? Where is she?’

‘Backstage. Why don’t you go back and say hi?’

‘You kiddin’ me?’

Emily laughed. ‘No, but she’s kinda nervous about approaching you herself. Because, well, you know, she’s got that problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘The Tourette’s. She’s not great at meeting new people. She even called me a – ’ Emily blushed ‘ – an extremely unladylike word when I congratulated her on her performance.’

‘Oh yeah. That. Actually, I kinda like a woman with a dirty mouth.’ Behind them, they heard Freddie Mercury begin belting out an impressive rendition of the Queen song ‘Who Wants To Live Forever?’

‘Cool,’ said Emily. ‘Why don’t I introduce you?’

‘Sure thing. Bring her up here.’

Emily disappeared backstage and left Elvis alone to watch the guy impersonating the late lead singer of Queen. By the time he had finished his performance and was standing before the judges, Emily had returned with a rather nervous-looking Janis Joplin. Elvis liked the look of Janis. She was kinda kooky and despite seeming rather timid, he knew that once she opened her mouth she was liable to start spouting all kinds of filth.
Just his kind of chick.

‘Hi again, Elvis,’ said Emily smiling. ‘What’s your real name, by the way?’

‘Elvis.’

‘Wow. That’s sort of handy, isn’t it?’

‘Guess so.’ There was no doubt: the man oozed nonchalant cool.

‘Well. I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Janis Joplin.’

Elvis could see that Janis was extremely nervous about meeting him. But being as confident with women as he was in everything else, he reached out and took hold of her left hand. He lifted it to his mouth and gently kissed the back of it.

‘Pleased ta meetcha, Janis. What’s your real name?’

‘CUNT!’ yelled Janis.

Elvis frowned. ‘That’s kinda misfortunate. What were your folks thinkin’ when they came up with that?’

‘No no, sorry,’ Janis stammered. ‘My real name is Janis. I didn’t mean the… the – that. It’s just a nervous reaction I have.’

‘Well, I’m mighty pleased to meetcha,’ said Elvis, looking her right in the eye.

‘Pleased to meet ya too, SHITHEAD!’

Emily intervened in the blossoming courtship. ‘Ssshhh,’ she whispered. ‘The judging panel’s giving Freddie Mercury his comments.’

All three judges gave Freddie the thumbs up, Powell even going so far as to tell him he’d been the best performer so far.