at Sanchez and gave him an evil glare.
‘The fuck you lookin’ at, fatso?’ he snarled.
There was no need for a response. Sanchez simply turned and rushed off to find Elvis.
Thirteen
Over the years, Luther’s impersonation of Otis Redding had earned him many admirers. But it was the approval of the three judges in the Back From the Dead competition that could make or break his future. If he won this competition, he would get a contract with the casino and he’d never have to do ‘real’ work again. As a travelling performer working the night-club circuit he barely made enough money to scrape by from week to week. This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity could change all that. As long as he kept his cool.
The first thing a tribute act would be judged on was its appearance. And Luther had taken great care to look his best. First impressions were crucial, and he wasn’t about to let any stone go unturned in his search for fame. He had had an eye-catching shiny black suit and a sharp red shirt made especially for this show. The suit had the name Otis stitched in gold on the left breast pocket, and across the back in much larger letters. Tacky? Well, maybe slightly, but important? Absolutely. Being instantly recognizable as the performer in question was vital. Luther had learned that lesson early in his career. It helped him to create the illusion that he really was Otis Redding.
As he strode out on to the stage he saw himself on a huge television screen set above a raised area at the back of the stage. Because of that, the entire audience would be able to see every bead of sweat on his brow.
Standing up onstage in front of an audience of thousands in the hotel’s main hall was the most nerve-racking moment of his career to date. In front of him, the auditorium looked absolutely huge, bigger than any other he had ever performed in. The rows of seats went back at least a hundred deep, rising all the way to the back, and were split into three sections. The middle segment spanned thirty seats across and the two side sections had another fifteen seats in each row. And right now every one of the seats was filled.
Up above was a gallery that ran from each edge of the stage to the centre, where there was a glass-walled sound booth. A deejay, who also doubled as the lighting engineer, sat inside it. Luther glanced up and saw the deejay picking his nose. He immediately looked away and tried to erase the image from his mind.
The auditions for the final had been under way for half an hour. The early contestants were the real hopefuls, the ones who had no idea that the show was rigged and had travelled from miles around in the hope that their dreams would be realized. Some were exceptionally good, undeniably worthy of a place in the final. Others were pitifully bad. But now, half an hour into the show, Otis, the first of the five contestants who had been secretly pre-selected for the final, was up to perform. All he had to do was make sure his performance didn’t suck.
On the stage directly in front of him he could see the panel of three judges watching his every move. It felt as if they were checking his temperament, watching for weaknesses. He could feel their eyes burning into him even more fiercely than the bright lights from above. He only recognized one of the judges. The panel was composed of a black woman, a white woman and, seated between them, a man with skin tanned a curious shade of orange. This was Nigel Powell, the head judge, and the deviser and owner of the competition.
They sat behind a silver-panelled desk that ran along the front of the stage with their backs to the audience and the orchestra pit below them. Before each of them was a glass of water and a pen and notepad, should they decide to make any notes.
As the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell upon him, making the watching audience virtually invisible to him, Luther felt a sudden last-minute surge of confidence. He was going to be incredible.
‘The fuck you lookin’ at, fatso?’ he snarled.
There was no need for a response. Sanchez simply turned and rushed off to find Elvis.
Thirteen
Over the years, Luther’s impersonation of Otis Redding had earned him many admirers. But it was the approval of the three judges in the Back From the Dead competition that could make or break his future. If he won this competition, he would get a contract with the casino and he’d never have to do ‘real’ work again. As a travelling performer working the night-club circuit he barely made enough money to scrape by from week to week. This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity could change all that. As long as he kept his cool.
The first thing a tribute act would be judged on was its appearance. And Luther had taken great care to look his best. First impressions were crucial, and he wasn’t about to let any stone go unturned in his search for fame. He had had an eye-catching shiny black suit and a sharp red shirt made especially for this show. The suit had the name Otis stitched in gold on the left breast pocket, and across the back in much larger letters. Tacky? Well, maybe slightly, but important? Absolutely. Being instantly recognizable as the performer in question was vital. Luther had learned that lesson early in his career. It helped him to create the illusion that he really was Otis Redding.
As he strode out on to the stage he saw himself on a huge television screen set above a raised area at the back of the stage. Because of that, the entire audience would be able to see every bead of sweat on his brow.
Standing up onstage in front of an audience of thousands in the hotel’s main hall was the most nerve-racking moment of his career to date. In front of him, the auditorium looked absolutely huge, bigger than any other he had ever performed in. The rows of seats went back at least a hundred deep, rising all the way to the back, and were split into three sections. The middle segment spanned thirty seats across and the two side sections had another fifteen seats in each row. And right now every one of the seats was filled.
Up above was a gallery that ran from each edge of the stage to the centre, where there was a glass-walled sound booth. A deejay, who also doubled as the lighting engineer, sat inside it. Luther glanced up and saw the deejay picking his nose. He immediately looked away and tried to erase the image from his mind.
The auditions for the final had been under way for half an hour. The early contestants were the real hopefuls, the ones who had no idea that the show was rigged and had travelled from miles around in the hope that their dreams would be realized. Some were exceptionally good, undeniably worthy of a place in the final. Others were pitifully bad. But now, half an hour into the show, Otis, the first of the five contestants who had been secretly pre-selected for the final, was up to perform. All he had to do was make sure his performance didn’t suck.
On the stage directly in front of him he could see the panel of three judges watching his every move. It felt as if they were checking his temperament, watching for weaknesses. He could feel their eyes burning into him even more fiercely than the bright lights from above. He only recognized one of the judges. The panel was composed of a black woman, a white woman and, seated between them, a man with skin tanned a curious shade of orange. This was Nigel Powell, the head judge, and the deviser and owner of the competition.
They sat behind a silver-panelled desk that ran along the front of the stage with their backs to the audience and the orchestra pit below them. Before each of them was a glass of water and a pen and notepad, should they decide to make any notes.
As the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell upon him, making the watching audience virtually invisible to him, Luther felt a sudden last-minute surge of confidence. He was going to be incredible.
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