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sorry, Mister Garcia,’ she said, ‘but we seem to have no record of you on our computer.’
    ‘ What ?’
    ‘For some reason we don’t have a room reserved for you. Your letter is definitely valid, but we don’t actually have a room booked in your name.’
    ‘But you have spare rooms, right?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, sir. The hotel is fully booked.’
    Sanchez could feel himself grinding his teeth. ‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do? This is the only fuckin’ hotel around.’
    ‘Sir, could you please refrain from swearing?’
    ‘If you can refrain from being an unhelpful bitch.’ His voice was rising, too, in both pitch and volume.
    A hush descended upon the lobby as it became evident that there was a dispute in progress, one with every chance of escalating. To add to Sanchez’s discomfort, Annabel leaned over from her place at the desk next to him and whispered in his ear.
    ‘You can always share my room with me, if you want?’
    ‘Bite me,’ he snarled back.
    The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid that will be your only option.’ She paused before drawling an insolent ‘sir.’
    Sanchez sighed and ran his left hand through his greasy dark hair, squeezing a clump of it tightly as if he was about to pull it out. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. This just ain’t happening.’
    Just when it appeared that all was lost and that he was going to be forced to agree to share a room with an elderly fortune-telling sex pest, a voice he recognized spoke out from behind him.
    ‘Yo, Stephie. Guy’s a good friend a mine. Get him a room.’
    Sanchez’s eyes lit up and he released his grip on his hair. He turned, and was overjoyed to see the coolest guy he knew. Coolest guy on the planet. It was Santa Mondega’s most feared hitman, Elvis. Whether or not Elvis was his real name was unknown, but he travelled by that name and dressed accordingly at all times. Today he was wearing a sharp, bright gold suit jacket with black pants and a black shirt that was buttoned up only about halfway. As always he was wearing his trademark supercool gold-rimmed shades, and had his thick, dark hair slicked up and back from his forehead, Presley-style.
    Sanchez loved this guy, and was always pleased to see him. Which, given that Sanchez was almost never pleased to see anyone, was a pretty big social advance for the Tapioca’s owner. Elvis had a knack for showing up at just the right time, too. One notable incident, exactly ten years earlier, had seen Elvis arrive in time to gun down a gang of vampires that had swooped on Sanchez and a bunch of other innocent folk during a church service. The King had been booked to perform a song-and-dance routine for the churchgoers, but when the vampires had started terrorizing the congregation, he’d begun swivelling his hips and pointing his guitar at them, firing silver darts into their black hearts from the end of it. All while singing James Taylor’s ‘Steamroller Blues’. So it was understandable that Sanchez now greeted the King with a beaming smile.
    ‘Hey, Elvis. Like, whatcha doin’ here?’
    ‘Here for the Back From the Dead competition, man.’
    ‘You’re singin’ in it?’
    ‘You bet your ass I am. Million-dollar first prize, ain’t it? Couldn’t pass up the opportunity, now could I?’
    ‘Cool,’ said Sanchez. His vacation was picking up at last. ‘So, can ya get me a room here? Some shit ’bout how I ain’t on the goddam computer.’
    ‘Sure. Stephie will sort it out, won’tcha, Steph?’
    The pretty receptionist didn’t look overly enthused about the idea. On the other hand, the look in her eye suggested that she was quite smitten by Elvis. The guy had a way with women. They just seemed to melt when he looked at them. And he had virtually hypnotic powers for getting them to do things to please him. A skill in which Sanchez was severely lacking.
    ‘He just called me a bitch,’ she pointed out, nodding sulkily at Sanchez.
    Elvis pursed his lips. ‘ What?