Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (11 page)

“She’s worried about Eddie. Thinks he’s under too much pressure, depressed… Says he’s tryin’ to keep up a good front, but she can tell he’s miserable. The kids are out of control. The marriage is in trouble, so she says.”

“Ewww. I get such darkness from that whole situation,” Endora said. “Is he still in the Big Apple?”

“Yeah. And I’ve got a feeling he’s into some stuff he shouldn’t be.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but there’s no way they could afford all they have without some kind of extra income. She’s a spender,” I said. “And he’s under the gun to keep up with her pocketbook.”

“They’ve probably got a ton of debt.”

“Yeah, and he won’t accept anything from me.”

“When I think of Eddie, I think anxiety…fear. A tight a grip on everything. It’s all high-tension.”

“He’s a wheeler-dealer. Who knows what he’s into now. I talked to him a couple weeks ago. He let his guard down a little. He was stressed. In a big hurry, as usual. David, his youngest son, is driving now; he’s a wild thing.”

“Like you?”

I ignored that.

“What about the older boy?” she asked. “What’s his name?”

“Wesley.”

“What’s he like?”

“A hell-raiser. Eddie says he’s probably into drugs. Maybe even selling. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

“Weren’t you supposed to go skiing with the boys and their dad somewhere?”

“Lake Placid a couple months ago. It never happened. I had to bail.”

She shrugged, sipping her drink. “That’s life in the fast lane.”

“I paid their way,” I said, momentarily trying to cover the guilt. “It’s not the first time I’ve let ’em down.”

“The boys look up to you, don’t they?”

“Yeah, and they shouldn’t.” I shook my head. “They’ll get what I got for lookin’ up to my old man. Emptiness…scars.”

“You Lester children inherited a lot of your father’s baggage, you know?” She stirred the drink with her straw. “He was chronically depressed. He was a womanizer. A drinker. He had a temper—”

“That’s enough.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” She reached toward my hand. “But you’re always going to be battling that stuff. You know? It’s hereditary.”

I nudged her hand away with the back of my fork hand. “Doris doesn’t sound good.”

Endora didn’t inquire further.

“She coughs constantly,” I said. “Sounds weak.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“She’s young,” Endora said.

“Doesn’t sound young.”

“She misses your old man.”

“He was her life.”

The Hispanic couple stood. The slightly overweight, dark-complected man clapped the crumbs off of his hands and walked toward us timidly. His wife stood back at the table, watching.

“Hi,” he said, smiling and nervous. “I couldn’t help but notice you, Mr. Lester. Our son is a huge DeathStroke fan. His name is Hector. I was wondering—”

“I was wondering where you learned your manners,” Endora butted in, her head going back and forth with every word. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a meal?”

“Oh, well, I…I’m sorry. I was just wondering if you could sign a napkin for my son, Mr. Lester.”

“You’re not understanding me, are you, Mister?” Endora said, practically standing up. “Some—other—time. Comprendé?”

I was too ashamed to look up at the man. But as he walked dejectedly back to his wife, I took a snapshot of her face in my mind. It was one of embarrassment and sympathy for her husband.

“Endora,” I whispered through clenched teeth, “sometimes you need to
chill.
”

“You taught me everything I know.”

I kept my head down.

“Oh, come on, Everett. You should be so pumped! This
Freedom
album is going to give DeathStroke a huge second wind. It has the makings of a chart buster.”

“That used to motivate me.” I wiped my mouth with the thick white cloth napkin.

“You just need some time off, baby,” she said in a raspy tone, lighting another cigarette. “Once we get you finished in the studio and wrap this tour up, you can take off a couple months and relax.”

That meant nothing to me. “I miss Liza.”

“I know.”

“Why did I wait till she was gone to realize?”

As she stirred her drink, the long cigarette between her fingers, I could tell she was scheming.

“Liza was the one. I really believe that now. I wish I would have known.”

“It’s not too late,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

I stared at Endora.

“We can communicate with her,” she said, moving closer.

8

FIVE MINUTES BEFORE LEISURE
time ended at the detention center, a shrill bell chirped off three loud, quick shots. Orange jumpsuits buzzed about like horseflies, as inmates finished up what they were doing and headed for their cells.

After five minutes, the bell sounded one long, stark ring that lasted about ten seconds. One minute later, every cell door in the place automatically lurched forward, clinking, gliding, and banging shut.

Before leisure ended I was in my cell, lying faceup on the cot reading. The meeting with Zaney shook me.

It was 8:40 p.m.

A small black guard named Rockwell ran his billy club along the chipped white bars of my cell. “Evenin’ Lester.” He stopped at the cell door. “I heard there was a little commotion earlier, and you were at center stage.”

“Yeah.” I sat on the edge of the cot, my untied generic blue tennis shoes hitting the green linoleum floor. “Some wild man named Zaney introduced himself.”

“Zane Bender. Hasn’t been in long, but he’s making a name for himself.”

Rockwell cracked my cell door hard and loud three times with his stick. “Your attorney’s here,” he said, as the barred door unlocked with a loud echo and jerked open.

Rockwell and I walked side by side up the same steps where Zaney accosted me earlier. At the second story, there was a line of blue metal doors every eight feet or so marked B-1, B-2, B-3, and so on.

Attorneys and clergy were allowed to visit any time, around the clock. Other than that, inmates could have two half-hour visits from civilians during the week and two on weekends. Children were only allowed on Sundays.

We stopped at B-4, and Rockwell opened the door. “Thirty minutes.”

I closed the door and turned to face Brian Boone, who was seated and still in the same suit he wore at today’s trial. The knot in his tie was completely undone, his tortoiseshell reading glasses rested atop his head, and he looked tired but upbeat.

My side of the visitation room was about four feet by five feet, with a cheap, rust-colored plastic chair and a blue metal desk attached to the thick glass partition that separated us.

The desk looked like my body, much of it scarred with etchings. Only these carvings were from prisoners. There were names, stick drawings, Bible verses, hearts, and profanities. Boone’s side of the room was identical to mine.

We smiled at each other beneath the faded yellow light. He leaned into the desk speaker. “How ya holding up?”

“Making it.” I nodded.

“I’ve got questions about Twila Yonder.” Brian pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and turned back five or six pages of his white legal pad.

“She’s a surprise to me.”

“And her allegations—?”

“False, of course,” I cut in. “I was messed up back then, but not
that
messed up.”

“She’s a very good liar.”

“Maybe she’s not lying,” I said, looking into his heavy eyes. “Maybe Endora really did tell Twila we were having an affair. Twila is simply repeating what she thinks is true.”

“Why?” Boone smacked his pad onto the desk, threw his hands up in the air, then locked them behind his head. “Why would she do that?”

“To make me look bad. When Endora changed sides near the end, it was war. I’ve told you that. She would have done anything to trash my name.”

“Go on.”

“It was like she
knew
something heavy was going to come down.”

“We’ve talked about this before, but I need you to rack your brain.” He leaned onto the metal table now. “Can you think of any other land mines we’ll run into with upcoming witnesses? Another Twila Yonder?”

“Brian, it’s possible. I’ve thought and thought. But again, my memory is fried, dude. A lot of the testimony so far has shocked me. I guess the drugs have taken their toll.”

I thought I heard tap
ping far away.

But without opening my eyes, I just rolled my pillow into a ball and plunged my throbbing head back in.

It’s hot.
I writhed in the unfamiliar bed, sheets strewn everywhere.
What is so…confining?

Squinting, I looked at the digital clock far across the king-size bed. Ten-forty.

Bright white light sliced through the two-inch opening in the plastic aqua-colored curtains.

Lying there, I noticed the four-inch-wide spiked bracelet still on my left arm. Then I realized my clothes were still on from the concert the night before. Black leather pants and vest. Even my black knee-high boots.

That ticked me off.

Somehow, I swayed myself over to the edge of the bed.

My head reeled.

I rose, took one step, and the legs gave out.

Managing to tear my boots off, I crawled dizzily along the dark green carpet, making it to the bathroom and pulling myself up onto the toilet. My head was drenched in sweat. I was so light-headed it felt as if I had just given ten pints of blood.

It took everything in me just to reach up and rip a large towel from the rack above my head. I wrapped it around my neck and dried my face and forehead. Black makeup smeared everywhere.

I turned to look in the mirror. Ink renderings of spiders and snakes, crosses and daggers, skulls and bones covered my skin.

Wrinkles and creases. Bloodshot eyes surrounded by black.

Long, brown hair, snarled and oily. Earrings and chains.

Waste.

Disgusting waste.

My head dropped into my hands, and black sweat ran to the toilet and floor.

I let my body collapse onto the cold tile, where I curled up and allowed sleep to come again.

It started again. This time, louder.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Pause.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Someone’s going to die!” I picked myself up from the floor and staggered to the bed, where I flopped down, still fully clothed.

A muffled female voice called my first name from the other side of the door. My people knew better than to allow visitors without my permission, no matter what hotel or city.

“Go away!” I looked for the clock, which read 1:38.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Evie…it’s Mary. Open up.”

I lay still for a moment, my eyes open wide now.

“It’s Mary,” said my sister. “Let me in, Everett.”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Coming,” I groaned, making it to the bathroom, head still pounding. I threw a washcloth in the sink, soaked it, and rubbed the mascara off my face; then I worked a brush through my matted hair. That would have to do.

I took a deep breath, made my way to the door, and pulled it open.

There stood Mary in a full-length denim coat, with a big leather purse over her shoulder and a newspaper under her arm. Her brown hair was as short and sassy as I’d ever seen it, and her crystal clear eyes, white teeth, and glossy smile shone with radiance.

The smile quickly left as I noticed her shiny brown eyes track up and down me. But she walked toward me, and we hugged. She was slender and firm. I opened the door further, and she followed me into the dark room.

“When I heard you were playing Dayton, I made up my mind I was coming to see you. Can I turn a light on?”

“Sure,” came my low response.

She turned on a standing lamp, whose faint light revealed empty beer and booze bottles strewn about and cigarette butts on the floor and furniture.

“How’d you get past security?” I asked, coughing.

“Gray let me through.” She sat down on the red couch. “I was here at about ten-thirty, but I guess you were still sleeping.”

“Hmm.” I sat at the other end of the couch. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

“No, that’s okay. I was just concerned I would miss you before you went to Cincinnati.”

“Are we in Cinci…tonight?”

“Everett,
yes
,” she said, impatiently. “What time do you leave?”

“Heck, I don’t know, Mary. I’m like an animal in a circus. They’ll put me in a limo when it’s time. Get the spectacle to the next show.”

She gave a half smile, squinted, and shook her head.