Free The Book With No Name by Anonymous

eyebrow. ‘Directors: the Scott brothers – Ridley or Tony?’
    ‘No contest. Tony, every time.’ Jensen didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure, Ridley had a strong case with Blade Runner and Alien, but Enemy of the State and Crimson Tide aren’t to be lightly dismissed. Good intelligent films.’
    ‘Where the hero was black, right?’ Somers had thought to touch a nerve, but he misjudged his mark.
    ‘True, but that’s not why I like them. Tony directed True Romance, too, and that was a good movie that didn’t have a black hero.’
    ‘Fair enough,’ sighed Somers. ‘I’d still have to go with Ridley, though, on account of the fact that Tony was responsible for that dumbass horror movie The Hunger. Probably the worst vampire film I’ve ever seen.’
    ‘Okay, so it’s not The Lost Boys. ’
    ‘Damn right it’s not,’ said Somers. Tiring of the discussion, he went on, ‘Look, let’s just find something we do agree on, and then you can tell everyone we’ve bonded. Here’s an easy one: Robert Redford or Freddie Prinze Junior?’
    ‘Redford.’
    ‘Thank you. Now that we’ve found something in common, have we got a deal, partner?’
    ‘A deal? How do you mean?’
    ‘I mean, I’ll take on board all your supernatural theories and help you all I can, but you gotta do the same for me. You take on board my Bourbon Kid theory, and we take each other seriously. God knows, no one else in this police department is going to.’
    ‘You got your deal, Detective Somers.’
    ‘Good. So do you wanna see what the Kid did to these five new victims?’
    Miles nodded. ‘Go on.’
    Somers pulled open the desk drawer on his left and produced a clear plastic folder. He flipped it open and slung a bunch of five-by-seven photographs down on the desk. Jensen got up from his seat, picked up the first glossy print and took a long hard look at it. What he saw appalled him. He wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. Then he looked down at the others on the desk. After scanning them all for a few seconds he looked back at Somers, who was nodding his head. The photos were more hideous than anything he had ever seen, and Miles Jensen had seen some really hideous things.
    ‘Is this for real?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘I know,’ said Somers. ‘What kind of sick bastard could do that to another human being?’

Nine
    It was late morning when the man they called Elvis strutted triumphantly into the Tapioca. He moved like he was jiving across a stage to the beat of ‘Suspicious Minds’, not just today, but always. It was as if he had an invisible set of headphones that constantly played the tune over and over in his head. Sanchez loved this guy and was kind of excited to see him. Not that he would show it. It wouldn’t do to let Elvis know that he liked him. Elvis was too cool, and he’d make the bartender feel like a fool if it became obvious that Sanchez kind of – sort of – you know – idolized him.
    Elvis looked cool, too. Well, he looked cool for someone who was always dressed as Elvis Presley. A lot of people think Elvis impersonators look ridiculous, a total embarrassment to themselves, but no one thought that about this guy. He reminded people of just how cool the King really was, before he wasn’t.
    On this particular morning Elvis was wearing a lilac-coloured suit. It had slightly flared trousers with a row of black tassels running all the way up the outside of the legs, and a perfectly fitted jacket with wide black lapels. These were matched by a flimsy black shirt buttoned up only halfway to show off his bronzed hairy chest and a chunky gold TCB (‘Taking Care of Business’) medallion hanging from his neck on a heavy gold chain. Although it might have looked tacky to some, Sanchez actually thought the medallion was pretty cool. Elvis had the long black sideburns and very thick (just about due for a cut) black hair. To top things off, he always wore the trademark thick gold-rimmed sunglasses, too. Hedidn’t even