The Devil's Graveyard (11 page)

‘You can’t bring that back here!’ she moaned. ‘It ain’t hygienic!’

The security officer at the back holding Clementine’s legs shrugged. ‘Gunther’s orders. Wants the body hidden away until the ambulance gets here.’

‘Well stash it in the kitchen, then. I don’t want it back here.’

‘That’s what we’re tryin’ to do. If you could just get the fuck outta the way, it’d help. Look now – there’s blood spillin’ all over the goddam floor.’

Valerie stepped aside and watched as they struggled through the door at the back of the bar through which all her colleagues had disappeared a short while earlier.

‘An’ don’t expect us to clear the blood up after you,’ she yelled. ‘You can do that yourselves!’

From his seat at the bar, the Bourbon Kid heard one of the security guys shout back
‘Aw, go fuck yourself!’
from the kitchen. Neither of them had dared to take a look at him on their way past him, but they were quite happy to mouth off at a young barmaid. In their defence, they wouldn’t want to piss him off. There had been enough about him on the news in recent times for people to have learned that it was wise to avoid him. He killed without motive whenever it suited him. And he didn’t care who he killed, man, woman or child. At least, that’s what the news reports were saying. Who would want to put that theory to the test? Sure there were bigger guys than him – tough guys, too – staying in the hotel, but the aura of evil and unpredictability that surrounded him ensured that no one, no matter how big, would deliberately set out to antagonize him.

Valerie was desperately looking for an excuse to duck out into the kitchen area. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the Bourbon Kid, but unfortunately she was the nearest person to him. Until, that is, a lone figure walked into the bar. A man brave enough to sit with the Kid. He had been passing through the main hall adjacent to the bar and had caught sight of the people hurrying out. Valerie saw him stop on his way in and quiz a young couple about what had happened. She pretended to be busy wiping down the bar, but watched as the couple nodded towards the Kid, obviously explaining to the man what they had seen unfold when the Bourbon Kid had met Jonah Clementine. Then, apparently undaunted, this man sauntered into the place and headed over to the corner of the bar where the Kid was sitting.

The Kid had just finished his third glass of bourbon. The man approaching him had chit-chat in mind, the kind that he hoped might interest the killer. Valerie recognized him as one of the singers from the
Back From The Dead
show. His name was Julius and he was a fairly innocuous-looking middle-aged black man with a smooth bald head like a pool ball. At full height he was no more than about five-feet eight-inches tall, but he was slenderly built and extremely light on his feet. The pomp in his walk and the suit of purple velvet made him look a little like a pimp, ready to offer the Kid one of his whores.

In fact, he was a James Brown impersonator, in the hotel to win the singing contest. The single-breasted purple suit jacket he wore hung open to reveal a bright blue shirt underneath. His pants were flared below the knee, giving the suit a very seventies look. He took up a place at the bar on a stool just a yard to the left of the Bourbon Kid. Once he’d made himself comfortable he called out to Valerie.

‘Yo Valerie!’

She had been doing her best to stay away from that end of the bar, hoping that it would encourage any new customers to walk down to the other end. But now Julius was sitting there right next to the man who was causing Valerie (along with everyone else) to steer well clear.

‘A beer for me, and whatever my friend here is drinkin’.’

The Kid responded immediately in his usual grating, gravelly tone. ‘I ain’t your fuckin’ friend,’ he growled, not even looking over at his new companion.

‘You could be,’ Julius suggested with a smile, which was ignored.

‘But I won’t be.’

Valerie picked up the bottle of Sam Cougar from the back of the bar and made her way over to where the two men were sitting. She filled the Kid’s empty glass. Straight to the top. Without being asked.

You had to hand it to the guy, for Julius was clearly undeterred by the Kid’s unpleasant manner. ‘I know who you are,’ he said.

Valerie’s hand was shaking as she replaced the lid on the bottle of Sam Cougar, and she was relieved that she had to return it to its place on a shelf at the back of the bar. After setting it down next to a bottle of vodka, she took a deep breath and headed off to a fridge at the far end to fetch the beer that Julius had ordered.

The Kid took a drag on his cigarette and finally turned to look at the black man with the beaming white smile who had seated himself next to him at the bar.

‘You know who I am, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You’re the Bourbon Kid.’

‘So they say.’

Julius continued smiling like someone who’d just won big in the casino. Then he let out a small laugh. ‘Oh, you don’t disappoint. Do you know who
I
am?’

The Bourbon Kid took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke into Julius’s face. ‘Let me guess. You’re Gandhi, right?’

‘Hey! That’s funny. You’re a funny guy, y’know that?’

‘You do know I’m about to kill you, don’t you?’

Valerie interrupted by placing a bottle of Shitting Monkey beer on the bar in front of Julius. She cleared her throat and stammered ‘That’s twelve dollars, please sir.’ She looked at him pleadingly.
For Chrissakes don’t start another incident,
she thought, desperately hoping that, somehow, the advice would penetrate his brain. Before a bullet did.

Julius pulled a twenty-dollar bill from the hip pocket of his purple pants and placed it on the bar. ‘Keep the change,’ he said with an increasingly confident smile.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she blurted, picking up the note and scurrying to the till at the other end of the bar.

Still grinning like a politician at a photo opportunity, Julius turned back to the Bourbon Kid, whose patience was by now on the verge of snapping. ‘I have a job offer for you. How’d you like to earn yourself fifty grand for a day’s work?’

The Kid took another drag on his cigarette and then picked up his half-pint glass of Sam Cougar. He poured damn near half the contents down his throat in one swig, then placed it back on the bar.

‘Gimme the money now.’

‘I can’t. I don’t have it yet.’

‘I want it now.’

‘I know that, but I already paid another guy up front and he hasn’t showed up. So you’re my plan B.’

‘I’m
plan B?
’

‘Hey, if I’d known you were gonna be here you’d have been
plan A
, but you’re a hard fella to track down. So I went with another guy.’

The Kid’s eyes were still hidden behind his sunglasses, which made it difficult for Julius to gauge what kind of impression he was making. He ploughed on regardless.

‘Look, I’m in this singing contest today. You know the one? The
Back From the Dead
show?’

‘I’m aware of it.’

‘Well, I
have
to win it. You help make that happen, you get fifty grand out of the prize money.’

‘How much is the prize money.’

‘A million dollars.’

‘Then I’ll take half.’

Julius shifted uncomfortably on his stool. ‘Look. If you knew the reasons behind why I have to win this competition you’d do it for free.’

‘No. I wouldn’t.’

‘You know, there’s a lot more at stake than just a million dollars here. People’s lives are in danger.’

‘People’s lives are always in danger.’ There was an extra rasp to the gravel now. Julius was uncomfortably aware that he probably counted as ‘people’.

Julius picked up the bottle of Shitting Monkey and took a sip. He swilled the drink around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing hard and placing the bottle back down on the bartop. ‘All right, listen up. Here’s the thing. I’ll tell you the whole story, but you ain’t gonna believe it because it’s kinda
out there
.’

‘Yeah?’ A world of indifference permeated the word.

‘Yeah. But this is
so
outrageous you’ll probably think I’m makin’ it up. It involves, like, supernatural stuff an’ all sorts.’

The Kid blew another lungful of smoke in Julius’s face. ‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘ten years ago today my mother turned into a vampire and tried to kill me. I doubt anything you say is gonna shock me as much that, so why doncha just get the fuck on with it?’

Julius fiddled with the beer bottle on the bar, turning it around until the label with its picture of a defecating monkey was facing him.

‘Okay. Well, you know that guy, Nigel Powell, owns this hotel?’ He spoke in a hushed voice, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘D’you know how he got to be the owner?’

‘No.’

‘He signed a contract with the Devil.’

‘And?’

‘And, well – this hotel is built over the gateway to Hell.’

‘And?’

‘Powell
sold his soul
to the Devil. In exchange, the Devil gave him this hotel and all the wealth that came with it.’

The Bourbon Kid took a much smaller sip of his bourbon before responding. ‘Sounds like a sweet deal.’

‘Sure. But here’s the thing. No deal with the Devil is ever gonna be that cut-and-dried. This is kinda like a rolling one-year contract. Every year on Halloween, Powell has to get someone new to sell his or her soul to Satan.
A different person every year.
If he fails to do that, then he’s broken his contract.’

‘Meanin’ he goes straight to Hell for all eternity, I suppose?’

Julius shook his head. ‘Worse’n that. This
whole
hotel will crumble and sink into the depths of Hell at the end of the witchin’ hour tonight if he doesn’t get someone new to sell their soul to the Devil and take his place.’

The Kid sighed. ‘I don’t believe a fuckin’ worda this shit. Why’n’t you admit it: you just wanna win the show, doncha?’

‘You interested, or what?’

‘Just tell me who you want dead.’

‘I’m one of five singers liable to win this competition. I need the other four eliminated. Way it is, the winner of this contest gets a million-dollar contract from Powell. But that contract is not with Powell, it’s with the Devil. If the winner signs it, they will have sold their soul to Satan.’

The Kid looked at Julius suspiciously. ‘I ain’t buyin’ any of this bullshit. You just said you want me to help you
win
the show. Why’d you want to win and sell your soul to the Devil?’

Julius had a smug look on his face. ‘I have my reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘Fair enough. Be simpler, though, if I just threaten this Nigel Powell an’ make him let you win.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause that’d let him off easy.’

The Kid shook his head. ‘Yeah? I can make these things real unpleasant when I’m in the right mood.’

‘Listen, mister, just trust me on this. All you gotta do is kill off my four main rivals in the show. That will leave me as the only singer in the final who’s practised his song with the house orchestra. I’ll be nailed-on favourite to win.’

The Bourbon Kid raised an eyebrow and looked at Julius to see if he was serious. It seemed he was. ‘So this whole fuckin’ show is rigged?’

‘Well – yeah. Ain’t they always?’

The Kid took one last long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the bartop. ‘I s’pose. And what happens when you’ve won?’

‘I give you your fifty grand.’

‘Five hundred grand.’ The gravel suddenly sounded as though it had been flash-frozen.

‘Sure, whatever. If you’re as good at killing as people say you are, it’ll be money well spent.’

‘No shit.’

‘So we have a deal?’

‘We have a deal. But hear this: you break it, I’ll break your neck.’

Though the Kid had made up his mind that he’d take the job, he was still suspicious of Julius’s motives. The guy was liable to try and weasel out of paying up when all this was done. He was definitely not to be trusted.

Julius reached inside his jacket and pulled a small brown envelope from one of the inside pockets. He placed it on the bar and looked at it for a moment, then slid it along the polished wooden surface towards the Kid.

‘The details of the job are in there. Four names. I need them dead.
Real
quick,’ he said, nodding at it.

The Kid picked up his glass of Sam Cougar and downed the rest of it. He then pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pants pocket and tossed it on to the bar next to the butt of his extinguished cigarette. Turning to face Julius, he picked up the envelope and stood up from his stool, ready to leave.

‘One other thing gotta you know,’ said Julius.

‘Yeah?’ The Kid sighed. There was always one other thing.

‘One of ’em’s a woman. You okay ’bout killin’ women?’

‘I killed my mother, didn’t I?’

With that unanswerable remark floating in the air, the Bourbon Kid walked off, leaving the James Brown impersonator in the purple suit to finish his beer alone.