hitman.’
‘Right. And this, my fat friend, is a hit list . Guy who was meant to be stayin’ in this room was s’posed to get this envelope. Then these four singers were gonna get wasted.’
‘Holy shit!’
Sanchez had little enthusiasm for the idea of staying in a hotel room that had been reserved by someone who planned to carry out four killings. If the guy showed up, there could be trouble. For Sanchez.
Elvis thought for a moment, then offered his advice. ‘I was you, I’d take this here envelope down to reception an’ leave it there for whoever the guy is, in case he shows up later.’
‘Shouldn’t I give it to the police?’
‘ Well, that’s one idea, yeah. Personally, though, I reckon if someone is plannin’ on killing off these four singers, then it’ll boost my chances of winnin’ the goddam show.’
‘That’s kinda harsh, ain’t it?’
‘Always look for the positives in any given situation, Sanchez. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t no police in the Devil’s Graveyard.’
‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Sanchez sat on the bed and thought about what to do. He could see the sense in Elvis’s plan. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll try an’ reseal the envelope, an’ then take it down to reception.’
‘Cool.’ The King glanced at his watch. ‘Look I better get goin’, buddy. I’m due onstage for my audition in about half an hour. Make sure you’re in the audience. I need all the support I can get.’ He grinned, and added, ‘Even though I’m fuckin’ brilliant.’
‘Yeah, sure. Catch you later, man. Good luck, an’ thanks again for carryin’ the case for me.’
Elvis folded the piece of paper with the four names on it, handed it back to his friend and walked out. Once the King had closed the door behind him, Sanchez took another look inside the envelope to check out what he thought he’d seen. Sure enough, tucked inside at the bottom was a thick wad of cash. He had kept a tight hold of it to stop it falling out when he had emptied out the other contents. After all, if Elvis had seen it he might have wanted a share. And since the envelope had been in Sanchez’s room, technically that meant it was his. Sanchez pulled out the money and, with his stubby finger trembling, counted it out on the bed. Hundred-dollar bills. Two hundred of them.
Twenty grand.
Time to head to the casino.
Eight
Annabel de Frugyn was shepherded into Nigel Powell’s private office. It was a smart room with a thick, springy royal-blue carpet and plain white plastered walls. There was a large wooden desk at the far end of the room, set in front of windows concealed behind a pair of bright red curtains that clashed horribly with the carpet. Powell gestured for her to seat herself in a small black leather-upholstered chair at the desk. He walked round and sat behind the desk in a much larger chair, also in black leather. On the desktop was a fairly organized jumble of stationery and framed photos, the latter all facing Powell. There was also a large white, rather old-fashioned telephone on the desk just to the left of his chair.
One of the two security guards who had escorted the hotel owner to the lobby earlier had followed them into the office. He took up a place standing at the door, which he had closed behind him. Still standing, she smiled her hideous smile at him, but in true military fashion he stared straight ahead, ignoring her. Unfazed, she sat herself down in the chair opposite Powell. In her lap she held, tightly, the handbag that she carried with her everywhere. She may have allowed the hotel security to take her luggage to her room, but no one was getting their hands on her dirty old brown leather handbag.
‘So, Miss de Frugyn, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,’ Powell began, sitting back in his chair, smiling.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him. The man had a devilish charm, and clearly took great care of his appearance. Despite being in
‘Right. And this, my fat friend, is a hit list . Guy who was meant to be stayin’ in this room was s’posed to get this envelope. Then these four singers were gonna get wasted.’
‘Holy shit!’
Sanchez had little enthusiasm for the idea of staying in a hotel room that had been reserved by someone who planned to carry out four killings. If the guy showed up, there could be trouble. For Sanchez.
Elvis thought for a moment, then offered his advice. ‘I was you, I’d take this here envelope down to reception an’ leave it there for whoever the guy is, in case he shows up later.’
‘Shouldn’t I give it to the police?’
‘ Well, that’s one idea, yeah. Personally, though, I reckon if someone is plannin’ on killing off these four singers, then it’ll boost my chances of winnin’ the goddam show.’
‘That’s kinda harsh, ain’t it?’
‘Always look for the positives in any given situation, Sanchez. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t no police in the Devil’s Graveyard.’
‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Sanchez sat on the bed and thought about what to do. He could see the sense in Elvis’s plan. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll try an’ reseal the envelope, an’ then take it down to reception.’
‘Cool.’ The King glanced at his watch. ‘Look I better get goin’, buddy. I’m due onstage for my audition in about half an hour. Make sure you’re in the audience. I need all the support I can get.’ He grinned, and added, ‘Even though I’m fuckin’ brilliant.’
‘Yeah, sure. Catch you later, man. Good luck, an’ thanks again for carryin’ the case for me.’
Elvis folded the piece of paper with the four names on it, handed it back to his friend and walked out. Once the King had closed the door behind him, Sanchez took another look inside the envelope to check out what he thought he’d seen. Sure enough, tucked inside at the bottom was a thick wad of cash. He had kept a tight hold of it to stop it falling out when he had emptied out the other contents. After all, if Elvis had seen it he might have wanted a share. And since the envelope had been in Sanchez’s room, technically that meant it was his. Sanchez pulled out the money and, with his stubby finger trembling, counted it out on the bed. Hundred-dollar bills. Two hundred of them.
Twenty grand.
Time to head to the casino.
Eight
Annabel de Frugyn was shepherded into Nigel Powell’s private office. It was a smart room with a thick, springy royal-blue carpet and plain white plastered walls. There was a large wooden desk at the far end of the room, set in front of windows concealed behind a pair of bright red curtains that clashed horribly with the carpet. Powell gestured for her to seat herself in a small black leather-upholstered chair at the desk. He walked round and sat behind the desk in a much larger chair, also in black leather. On the desktop was a fairly organized jumble of stationery and framed photos, the latter all facing Powell. There was also a large white, rather old-fashioned telephone on the desk just to the left of his chair.
One of the two security guards who had escorted the hotel owner to the lobby earlier had followed them into the office. He took up a place standing at the door, which he had closed behind him. Still standing, she smiled her hideous smile at him, but in true military fashion he stared straight ahead, ignoring her. Unfazed, she sat herself down in the chair opposite Powell. In her lap she held, tightly, the handbag that she carried with her everywhere. She may have allowed the hotel security to take her luggage to her room, but no one was getting their hands on her dirty old brown leather handbag.
‘So, Miss de Frugyn, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,’ Powell began, sitting back in his chair, smiling.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him. The man had a devilish charm, and clearly took great care of his appearance. Despite being in
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