The Devil's Graveyard (40 page)

Jacko was backstage, taking deep breaths in readiness for his imminent performance of ‘Mustang Sally’. He was wearing the Bourbon Kid’s dark sunglasses, the Frank Sinatra impersonator’s hat, and a suit that had belonged to someone who was probably dead. He was alone in the backstage area now. Everyone else had moved off to better positions in order to watch the finalists perform. With the seconds ticking down before he was due onstage, the Bourbon Kid finally reappeared through a door at the back of the room.

‘I was beginnin’ to think you’d gone home,’ said Jacko. The Kid walked up to him holding a smart black Fender guitar in his right hand.

‘Here,’ he grated, holding the instrument out. ‘Use this.’

Jacko took the guitar in both hands. ‘You’re kiddin’, right?’

‘You can play this in the final.’

‘But there ain’t no need. They got a karaoke track for me to sing along to this time. I don’t even need the harmonica.’

‘You ain’t singin’ “Mustang Sally” this time.’

‘Yeah I am.’

‘Try it. See how long ya live.’ The voice chipped at Jacko’s nerves like gravel on new paint. He stood the guitar up on the floor and allowed the neck to rest against his left leg to keep it from falling over. Then he took the sunglasses off and looked the Kid in the eye. ‘Like, I thought you wanted me to win this? I almost know half the words to “Mustang Sally”. Why’d I sing somethin’ different now? Shit, man, I’m due on in about a minute!’

‘I cancelled the karaoke track. You’re gonna play a guitar solo this time.’

Jacko tucked the sunglasses away in the breast pocket of his black suit jacket and picked the guitar up to take a good look at it.

‘This thing even tuned?’ he whined.

‘How the fuck would I know?’

Jacko grabbed the black strap on the guitar and lifted it over his head, allowing it to rest around his shoulders. Then he strummed a chord and began twiddling the machine heads on the headstock at the end of the neck.

‘See? You’re a goddam natural,’ said the Kid, patting him on the shoulder.

Jacko groaned. ‘This is, like, the worst plan ever, man.’

‘Maybe. But if it works out you’ll be signin’ your name on that winner’s contract later on.’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What if I lose?’

‘I’ll kill you.’

‘Right. No pressure, then?’

‘Put the shades on. You’re due on in a minute.’

Jacko pulled the sunglasses back out of his jacket pocket and slipped them on.

‘So, what am I gonna sing now? I already told the organizers I was doin’ “Mustang Sally
”
again.’

The Kid reached inside his jacket as if to pull out a gun. Only this time he drew out a CD.
The Blues Brothers Greatest Hits
. He held it up in front of Jacko’s face and pointed to the track listing on the back of the case.

‘Track three.’

Jacko ran his eyes down the listing, stopped at track number three, and slowly read what it said. Then he peered over his dark glasses at the Kid.

‘
You sonofabitch
.’

‘Yeah.’

Emily was itching to get out onstage and perform. Jacko was due up next, then her, and last of all would be James Brown for the finish. She felt confident that she could outperform the three singers who had already been up. Janis Joplin had been an out-and-out disaster. Elvis and Freddie Mercury had both been impressive, but if she was on form she was sure she would beat them. James Brown would no doubt be a danger to her chances of winning, though not necessarily because of his singing. The Godfather of Soul was super-bad and liable to pull a weapon on her. Not the kind of guy she wanted to bump into in a dark corridor. The unknown quantity was the Blues Brother, Jacko, now only seconds away from performing. In fact, Nina Forina was standing centre stage, ready to announce him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ her voice echoed out round the auditorium once more. ‘Please put your hands together for our fourth performer in the final. Singing “Mustang Sally”, it’s…
the Blues Brother!
’

The crowd afforded Jacko a very substantial round of applause, and even a few wolf whistles. His earlier performance with the harmonica had been extremely well received, particularly because he had managed to get some audience participation going. So when he walked onstage with a black guitar hanging from a strap around his shoulders, the applause doubled in volume and the whistles were drowned out by cheers and foot-stamping. Watching Jacko while a technician hooked his guitar up to an amp, Emily guessed that if he had felt under pressure before, then it must be ten times worse now. Even if he had told her earlier that he wasn’t nervous, surely he had to be? Everyone was before a big performance, and this one was a potential career-changer.

The sound of applause eventually died away, to be followed by – silence. The expected backing track never arrived. The speakers all around the auditorium remained dead.

Jacko stepped up to the microphone in the spotlight at centre stage and spoke softly into it. ‘Uh – like, at the last minute I’ve kinda decided to do a different song.’ He cleared his throat as a low muttering began to rise from the crowd in front of him. ‘I’m goin’ without a backin’ track too, but’ – he looked down at the orchestra pit below him – ‘if anyone in the band wants to join in as the song goes on, then be my guest.’

Emily’s mouth fell open. Had he lost his mind? The crowd seemed to echo her thoughts. The muttering in the audience grew louder, and in the orchestra pit in front of the stage the musicians looked quizzically at each other, readying themselves to play in case a chance to join in should arise.

And then Jacko began to play his guitar.

He looked nervous, and was clearly deep in concentration as he plucked slowly at the strings. And what the hell was he playing?

Emily found herself joined by the other surviving finalists, each as curious as she was. It made fascinating viewing. Was this guy, this Blues Brother, throwing away his chances of winning? Or was this an exceptionally cunning ploy to win over the audience, and maybe the judges too?

After playing a few fairly decent chords to the stunned audience before him, Jacko launched into the first lines of the song.

‘Come on

Yo people, we’re all gonna go… ’

Emily recognized the tune, although she found herself, and not for the first time during the show, unconvinced that the lyrics were correct. She’d heard the tune played many times in various bars, usually by Blues Brothers tribute bands. It was ‘Sweet Home Chicago’
.
Jacko confirmed it for her as he hit the end of the first verse.

‘Back to that dirty old place

They call Chicago… ’

Whatever else Jacko may have lacked, it wasn’t nerve. He carried on playing away on his guitar and singing reasonably competently. He wasn’t generating the same level of enthusiasm from the audience as he had with his earlier performance of ‘Mustang Sally’, however. But this crowd liked him, if only for his eccentricity; they weren’t going to boo him unless he did something really stupid.

Freddie Mercury seemed to speak for everyone when he whispered loudly, ‘What the fuck’s he doin’?’

‘That’s “Sweet Home Chicago”,’ said Emily.

‘Shit, I know that, but it’s just him an’ a guitar. What was he thinkin’? Guy’s blown it.’

Emily looked around at the other finalists, wondering what they thought. They were all there except for James Brown. He’d disappeared off somewhere again, thank God, and was still missing. Elvis and Janis were still there, although they weren’t really paying too much attention. They seemed more wrapped up in each other than in anything that was happening onstage. Elvis was whispering something in Janis’s ear and she was looking back at him and frowning, as though she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Eventually he sighed, drew a breath and shouted out loud: ‘I said, d’ya wanna go somewhere for a fuck!’ Emily watched Janis nod her head frantically, beaming a wide smile back at the King. Then the two of them swiftly disappeared in the direction of the backstage area. Emily chuckled to herself before turning back to watch Jacko committing ‘competition suicide’ onstage.

He was about a minute into his act when something unexpected happened. From the orchestra pit below, the drummer began to add a little backing beat, tapping on the snare drum. It served as a catalyst for the other orchestra members to pluck up the nerve to join in. After the disappointment of learning that they would only be playing for two of the finalists, Jacko’s invitation for them to play along had lifted their spirits
.
The pianist began tickling the ivories on his grand piano, then one of the saxes joined in, followed by the other guitarist, Pablo, and even a couple of the violinists. Gradually the sound came together and swelled, echoing Jacko’s guitar and harmonizing with his singing. Within seconds, the entire orchestra was playing along with considerable verve.

The introduction of the orchestra suddenly brought the crowd to life and they were once more back on their feet, clapping and swaying to the music. Emily looked on in wonder as Jacko’s confidence grew. He started to strum away vigorously on his guitar, his hips began to swivel and his voice became stronger and more self-assured. As the song slid into its long musical solo he began to act as conductor for the orchestra below, nodding at whomever he wanted to take on the meat of the tune. One minute it was the saxophones and trumpets, then the pianist, then back to Jacko, now wailing away on the stolen Fender.

And the audience loved it.

Emily found herself tapping her feet to the music. She too was enjoying herself. The thought crossed her mind that Jacko might actually be one heck of a tough act to follow, but she sternly reminded herself that she could only do her best and hope that it would be enough.

As the Blues Brother’s and the orchestra’s performance began to reach a crescendo that no doubt signalled the song’s climax, Emily felt someone grab her right arm. Startled, she turned round to see the Bourbon Kid, who had a tight grip on her.

‘Wanna word with ya,’ he said baldly.

‘Uh, sure.’

He nodded at Freddie Mercury. ‘In private.’

The Kid had most probably saved her life earlier, so it was only fair that she should indulge him with a minute of her time. Maintaining his grip on her arm, he led her down the steps and through the door into the corridor behind the stage. Then he led her a few feet along the corridor, out of the sight and hearing of anyone in the backstage area.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Listen, if you figure you’re gonna win, can’t you just hit a bum note, or somethin’? Know that you coulda won, but choose not to?’ His voice was as gravelly as ever, but now it carried a note of urgency.

Emily shook her head. ‘We’ve already been through this. I’m sorry. I need the money. And I also need to know that I’m good enough to win this. I told you before, this isn’t just for me. My mother’s sick. I need the prize money.’

‘Okay, then how ’bout this? If you win, you just don’t sign the contract. They’ll give it to someone else. I’ll kill whoever that is an’ get you the money that way.’