The Devil's Graveyard (43 page)

At once the crowd started shouting out every kind of support. Initially, just one or two drunken fans yelled out their appreciation, but soon the whole audience was screaming like a crowd at a football game. Powell continued paying Emily compliments, but the huge noise drowned him out until he gave up and just waved her offstage with a gleaming smile and a kiss blown from his outstretched hand.

With a spring in her step, Emily left the stage. Nina Forina returned to her place in the spotlight and addressed the audience.

‘Okay, everyone! Quiet please!’ she shouted. She had to wait for another thirty seconds for the crowd eventually to quieten down enough for her to continue. ‘It’s time for our final contestant, the absolutely last finalist in the
Back From the Dead
show. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the Godfather of Soul –
Ja-a-a-a-a-mes Brown
!’

Powell watched with interest as the James Brown fans in the audience began clapping and cheering. Would Julius show up? He thought not. He certainly hoped not.

Nina was looking around, expecting the last finalist to appear from the side of the stage. She looked both ways, and her face beginning to betray a feeling of mild concern. Powell waited for her to realize that Julius wasn’t going to show. When, some seconds later, she duly did, she looked to him for a signal as to what she should do. Smiling in an especially self-satisfied way, he leaned forward to speak into his microphone. It was time to tell the audience to start voting for their favourite acts using the keypad on their seat. James Brown wasn’t going to appear.

And then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, Julius bounded out on to the stage. He flashed his enormous smile at the judges and then walked over to join Nina.

Nigel Powell was inwardly fuming. How had this devious bastard managed to make it onstage? Security would be held accountable for this. Yet knowing that his face was visible on the giant screen, he had to watch on with a forced smile as Nina skipped back into the shadows and Julius stepped up to the mike.

‘Heh! Is everybody ready to party one more time?’ he yelled into the mike.

The audience roared back an emphatic ‘YEAH!’

The show wasn’t over yet.

Sanchez was more uptight, more on edge than any of the finalists. Only minutes earlier, he had locked a psychotic, ginger-haired, pony-tailed gunman in a walk-in freezer. And that psycho was liable to reappear at any moment, bent on exacting his revenge. There was, too, the small matter of the zombies in the desert now heading towards the hotel with the intention of eating everyone alive.

If he believed everything that he had been told, then his hopes of getting out alive rested entirely on the shoulders of Julius, a James Brown impersonator – and possible thirteenth Apostle. If Julius won the show, then – allegedly – some kind of curse would be broken. Even so, Sanchez still hadn’t forgotten that Gabriel had made some passing remark about the hotel sinking into the pits of Hell if Julius signed the contract. Whichever way he looked at it, none of it was good. And all the answers were due in the next half-hour.

By the time he heard Nina Forina announce that the last singer was due onstage, his nerves were absolutely fried. It didn’t help that the singer in question, Julius, took an age to show up. But just when it looked like he’d bugged out, he appeared from the wings, grinning like a fool.

Sanchez was hanging with Elvis and the other singers at the side of the stage, eagerly anticipating Julius’s performance. He didn’t disappoint. His song of choice was ‘I Got You (I Feel Good)’. Like the Blues Brother and Emily, he had the advantage of backing from the orchestra. Jacko had got the musicians warmed up with his rendition of ‘Sweet Home Chicago’, and Emily’s sublime singing had lifted their playing to new heights. Now, brimming with confidence, they offered very able support to Julius.

Where Emily had her beautiful voice, Elvis his charisma, Janis her amusingly inappropriate swearing, the Blues Brother his guitar and Freddie Mercury his uncanny resemblance to the late subject of his impersonation, Julius had some fantastically energetic dance moves. During his routine he covered every inch of the stage. By the time he was halfway through the song he was sweating liberally. He did the splits a few times, bouncing right back up each time without using his hands to help him. He strutted around, banging his head with his hands in time to the music, and when he wasn’t singing, he filled his performance with shrieks and screams. Every
‘
Heh!’ or ‘Ooow!’ he yelled seemed to excite the audience further. As they had been with several of the other performances, they were up on their feet in the aisles, banging their heads and dancing along to the music. It wasn’t just the audience, either. The brass section of the orchestra seemed really to have entered into the spirit of the performance.

Sanchez kept half an eye on the judges, trying to gauge their reactions. Lucinda Brown was swaying and clapping in time to the beat, clearly enjoying herself. Beside her, Nigel Powell was giving little away. His face didn’t move much at the best of times, but if his body language was a guide then he didn’t seem to be too impressed. He sat with his arms folded and his lips pursed tightly together. On the other side of him, Candy Perez was smiling and waving first one and then the other arm up and down in the air, in some sort of dance move that made her look as though she was climbing an invisible ladder. Sanchez watched intently as the movement of her arms made her tightly constrained breasts move up and down one at a time.
Jesus!
he thought to himself.
One of ’em’s gonna pop out any minute!’

As he studied the gap at the top of her tight, partly zipped-up jacket, he was convinced that he could see a nipple popping out over the top. He opened his eyes wide and started nudging Elvis, who was standing on his right.

‘Shit, man – look!’ he whispered. ‘Reckon I can see one a Candy’s nipples!’

He expected his friend to thank him for the heads-up. Instead he heard a woman’s voice. ‘Thanks, that’s nice,’ it said, rather coolly.

At once Sanchez realized that it wasn’t Elvis he’d been nudging, but Emily. He looked around and saw Elvis behind him talking with Janis Joplin. He felt his cheeks redden slightly with embarrassment.

‘Uh – sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Emily with a chuckle.

‘YO, ELVIS!’ Sanchez shouted over the music to his friend. ‘QUICK! I RECKON I CAN SEE OL’ CANDY’S NIPPLE!’

Ditching Janis in mid-conversation, Elvis came over. He peered over Sanchez’s shoulder, squinting at Candy to see for himself whether his friend was right. After a few seconds he nodded his head.

‘Nice.’

Whether or not Julius’s performance was good enough to win the show, Sanchez would never know. He and Elvis spent the last minute or so of the song with their eyes glued to Candy’s protruding nipple.

Sanchez had been a big fan of Candy Perez since she had topped the charts with a song called ‘I Love Chubbies’. He had once tacked a poster of her up on the wall in the Tapioca. It had stayed up for nearly an hour before someone stole it. He’d been very bitter about the theft at the time, but now all was forgiven. Whoever had stolen it could keep it, for all he cared. He had something far better now: the sight of Candy’s nipple for ever stored in his photographic memory. Just thinking about it was making him light-headed. With all that had gone on during the day, he hadn’t had time to eat, and the food craving, coupled with the sight of Candy, was making him feel dizzy.

When Julius finished his performance and everyone (including Candy) stopped jigging up and down, Sanchez felt a twinge of disappointment. But he applauded and cheered louder than he had done for any of the previous acts.

‘Didja see that?’ he said, nudging Elvis again. ‘Fuckin’ awesome. Practically saw her whole tit, man! Awesome!’

‘Elvis is back there,’ Emily replied.

‘Uh? Oh.’ He felt his cheeks reddening again. Elvis was back talking to Janis Joplin. ‘Sorry. Thought you were him.’

‘I know.’

‘Didja see that, though? Amazin’, wasn’t it? She’s got fantastic tits.’

‘Elvis is still back there.’ A distinctly frosty note had crept into Emily’s voice.

‘Yeah, I know. But I gotta share this with someone, so just pretend you’re a guy for a minute, will ya? Jeez, it ain’t too much to ask, is it?’

Emily laughed. ‘You want me to act like a guy? Okay.’ She stood deep in thought for a moment, before piping up. ‘You know I saw her in the shower earlier?’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. She was, like, totally naked, and with another woman. They were making out.’

Sanchez heard what Emily said and started to feel even dizzier. His legs went weak and suddenly, although he could still distantly hear Emily’s voice, he couldn’t see her.

‘Sanchez? I was just kidding. I made that up. I was just trying to be a guy for a minute, like you asked. Sanchez?
Sanchez?
’ She repeated his name several times before suddenly raising her voice and calling out, ‘Hey, can someone get a paramedic? I think this guy’s fainted.’

The bar had been empty for most of the last hour. The young bartender, Donovan, had had very little to do other than clean glasses and stack them on shelves. The rest of the bar and kitchen staff had vanished. He was the poor sucker left behind to mop the floors and wipe down the tables.

The only excitement had occurred a half-hour or so earlier, when, after hearing a shot some distance away, he had allowed a short, fat, Mexican-looking fella through to the kitchen area. A few moments later he had waved a gunman through after him. He wasn’t quite sure what had gone on in the kitchen, but the tubby little fella had come rushing back out a few minutes later and run off in the direction from which he had come. The angry-looking dude in the trench coat had yet to reappear.

When the grim-faced man in the black hooded leather jacket approached the bar, Donovan recognized him straight away. He was smart enough, too, just to hand over an unopened bottle of Sam Cougar and a shot glass, without even waiting to be asked. He had been watching from the back of the bar earlier when the Kid had killed Jonah Clementine, so he knew not to be awkward.

The Kid looked at Donovan. The guy was too terrified to mess with him. He was just the kind of bartender needed at the current time. He’d serve the drinks and then get the fuck outta sight. The Kid appreciated that kind of service. He accepted the bottle and glass with a nod, and perched himself on a high stool at the bar. By way of payment, he decided not to kill Donovan. Instead, he reached into his jacket, took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one free. He placed it between his lips and drew on it. The bartender watched in horrified admiration as the end of the cigarette glowed and lit.
How fuckin’ cool is that?
he thought, before busying himself with wiping glasses well away from the bartop.

The Kid sat and drank the bourbon. It was good stuff; in fact, it was so good that he probably drank a little more than he should. Then he dropped the remains of his cigarette on the floor, slipped off the stool and began making his way back to the reception area. He carried the bottle along with him, trailing it loosely in one hand and taking occasional swigs on the way. He had a lot on his mind. Like whom he was about to kill with his last bullet. The decision was dependent on a number of factors, but with only one shot at his disposal, his decision about whose brains to blow out was going to have to be dead right. And his aim was going to have to be good.