Lovers and Gamblers (32 page)

One moment Al was on stage singing his guts out to an ecstatic, screaming audience of thousands. The next he was being dragged off stage by Luke and Paul, whilst pandemonium raged below.

The bomb, a small one, had been placed beneath a seat. It killed two people, mutilated seven, injured fifteen. By the time police and security guards were able to gain control of the panicking crowds five people had been trampled to death in the rush to leave the stadium. Fifty-eight people had been injured, and hundreds were in shock.

It was an Al King concert many would never forget.

Why? was the question everyone asked. How could anyone be so twisted and deranged as to want to kill innocent people?

If a man with a gun had got up and shot Al it would have been understandable. After all any public figure from a politician to a rock star knew he lived under constant threat of assassination. That was one of the hazards of making it in the envy-ridden sixties and seventies.

But to maim and injure like this…

Two seventeen-year-old girls killed. A boy with his leg blown off. A woman without a foot… The list of horrors was endless.

Bernie thought of the voice on the phone and shuddered.

Fortunately he had reported the threats to the police. But there had been no telephoned threats in Chicago. No sick and twisted voice telling him what was going to happen…

The police questioned him at length. They took charge of the hate mail Al received. They questioned everyone connected with the tour. They even questioned Al.

By the time they were finished it was four a.m. and Bernie felt drained and exhausted. He collapsed into his bed at the hotel, not even bothering to remove his clothes. Fuck it. He needed sleep. The next morning he would have the world press to deal with. He had already spoken to the overseas news agencies. This kind of publicity… Who needed it? It would either make or break the tour. People were funny, if they got scared… Jesus – what the fuck. He swigged from a bedside bottle of scotch and then let his bulk sag onto the bed. His eyes closed, only for a minute it seemed, because immediately the phone was ringing. He snatched it up – ‘Bernie Suntan,’ he said quickly.

‘I told you,’ the voice whispered, ‘I warned you. I gave you a chance to stop him from performing his vile obscenities. God will punish sinners. This is just the first of many.’

The line went dead.

Wearily Bernie struggled awake and called the police. Why did this maniac, whoever he was, have to pick on him to confide in?

* * *

Lying in bed Al could not sleep at all. If it were not for him none of this would have happened. If he had not been appearing at the concert the crowds would not have been there – the bomb would not have been placed – the people would not have been killed and maimed. Once before, early in his career, something dreadful had happened. As he was escaping from a theatre one night a girl had somehow or other got enmeshed under the wheels of his car. She had not been killed, but crippled for life. He had not been driving, it was not his responsibility. But he had never forgotten that girl, and over the years he had sent her a continual stream of money and gifts.

Guilt money.

In a way he did feel guilty that he had so much. But Christ knows he worked hard enough for it. Each show he did seven pounds of sweat rolled off him. Hard physical work. It was harder than digging ditches.

He thought of phoning Edna to let her know that he was OK. A news flash had probably reached England by now. But would she care? It was Evan
she
cared about.

Evan was asleep in his own room somewhere in the hotel. Thank God he had not wanted to attend the concert that night. It had been a good idea of Paul’s to suggest that he didn’t keep him in the suite. They had been too much on top of each other, that’s why the boy had been getting on his nerves. Now things seemed much better. He gave Evan money and told him to go out and enjoy himself. Evan had not objected.

Evan, in fact, was quite enjoying it. He had amassed one hundred and sixty dollars from the money his father threw his way. And he was free to buy girlie magazines and candy, and sit in his room and enjoy them.

He put on the colour television and hardly budged from his room. Nobody bugged him. Occasionally Al would call him on the house phone and ask him if he wanted to come up to the suite. He always had an excuse.

He had been watching a repeat of
Kojak
when the news came through about the bomb at Al’s show. For one icy, hopeful moment he thought that maybe his father had been killed. But no such luck. He listened with fascination to the reports of the bomb. Then anxious to see for himself, he left the hotel and took a cab over to the stadium.

He couldn’t get anywhere near because of ambulances and fire trucks. He tried to push through, suddenly thinking of Nellie, but he got shoved back along with the rest of the ghouls who had come to watch.

Surprisingly there appeared to be an air of cheerfulness amongst the crowds. Smiling, happy faces, hoping to get a glimpse of someone else’s misery.

A television crew roamed around, sticking microphones in front of people’s faces to get their comments.

‘Why did you come here?’ a girl reporter asked a woman carrying a baby.

‘Better than television,’ the woman laughed, ‘like it’s real drama – y’know. Wouldn’t wanna miss it.’

‘Were you at the concert?’

‘Naw – jest came over when I saw the news.’

Evan realized there was nothing to see. He had missed all the good bits. He looked around for a cab, but there were none about. He had no idea how to get back to the hotel, but he started to walk anyway, hunching his shoulders into his denim jacket, cursing the fact that he had not chosen to attend the one concert where something decent had happened.

He did not notice the group of boys following him, boys about his own age.

He did not notice them closing in on him, surrounding him, jeering.

He stopped, unable to proceed anyway. Fright made him go cold.

‘Hey, asshole!’ screamed the tallest boy. ‘You got any money, honey?’ They all laughed, circling him.

‘W-w-what?’ stammered Evan.

‘Green sticky stuff, asshole. Give it –
now!’

Terrified, Evan groped into his pockets, found some change, handed it over.

‘Wowee – fifty fuckin’ cents! We found ourselves a real rich little motha!’

Evan thought quickly of the one hundred and sixty dollars in twenties stuck in the back pocket of his jeans. They wouldn’t get that.

‘I haven’t got any more money,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking.

‘What’s with that accent, asshole?’ questioned the leader, ‘You foreign or sumpin’? Jeeze! Now listen, prick…’

‘Pigfuckers!’ yelled one of the boys, and they melted away into the night as if they had never existed in the first place.

Relieved, Evan ran over to the patrol car cruising by. He informed them who he was, where he was staying, and what had happened.

They told him off for walking around alone at night, shoved him in the car, and took him back to the hotel.

In exchange he had to promise to produce Al for them to meet with their wives next morning. He had no idea how on earth he’d fix
that
.

Safe in bed, his hundred and sixty dollars in a neat pile on the bedside table, he relived the scene. All of a sudden he was the hero of the piece. He had told
them
. Oh boy – he couldn’t wait to tell Nellie all about it. Maybe now she would like him. Maybe now he could ask her out.

He fell asleep and dreamed that he was Al King. A far brighter star than the original.

When Al found out about Evan’s adventure the next day he was pissed off to say the least. He posed with the policemen and their wives because he could hardly do anything else. But it was the last thing he needed. There was so much else going on. A trip to the hospital to visit the victims. Interviews to keep the world press happy. Television appearances.

Marjorie Carter came to the hotel with her camera crew. She was a professional to her fingertips. The interview was real human interest stuff. How did he
feel?
What would he
do?
Did this tragedy change his plans for the future?

Neither of them mentioned the night they had spent together. They were both excruciatingly polite.

The concert that evening was cancelled in deference to the victims, but Al promised that he would return to do another show sometime in the future.

He had no intention of ever setting foot in Chicago again.

He bawled Evan out. Why had he come running over to the stadium? Why was he so fucking stupid that he walked the city’s streets alone at night? Didn’t he know people could get
killed
that way?

Evan was contrite. He had only come because he was worried about Al. He had only hurried over to see if he was all right.

Al felt a sudden rush of warmth and love towards the boy. He wasn’t such a bad kid after all.

Van Valda sent a long and tearful letter of regret that such a thing could have happened in Chicago. He seemed to have forgotten all about Al’s insults on the night of the party. ‘Please come back and stay with us at Macho Mansion,’ he begged.

Al threw the letter away.

Edna phoned, absolutely hysterical. Al calmed her down. Assured her that he and Evan were okay. Assured her there was no further danger, and wished he could be sure of that fact himself.

By six o’clock the entire Al King entourage was aboard his private plane, and without a backward glance they took off into the cloudy skies. None of them was sorry to leave.

Dallas had been working on
Man Made Woman
for a week, and it couldn’t be going better.

The crew were friendly. The director, Chuck, was interesting and sharp. His wife, a striking black girl called Kiki, was designing the clothes, and some of the outfits were incredible.

Cody arrived every day to have lunch with her. He seemed to have gotten over his recent strange mood. Dallas had put it down to the fact that maybe he had been having problems with his girlfriend. She had been surprised when he had turned up that day with Irene. Funny, but she had never really thought about him having another life away from her. He had spent so much time with her. He had always been available. The fact that he suddenly produced a girlfriend had been something of a jolt. She had complained to Linda.

‘Hey,’ Linda had pointed out, ‘the guy’s normal. What did you think? That he jerked off in a closet?’

‘Just didn’t think about it.’

‘Well, you should have. He’s a sweet guy, he’s probably got lots of girlfriends.’

‘But I… Oh shit, forget it.’

She didn’t want to talk about Cody’s love life. She didn’t want to admit that she was secretly annoyed that he wasn’t waiting patiently in the wings for her. After all she had offered herself to him. And what was it he had said – in the nicest possible way of course – he had said that they shouldn’t complicate their business relationship. Terrific. The one guy she would sleep with didn’t want to.

More and more her mind flicked over the possibility of calling Diamond and asking for the services of her boyfriend. What was there to lose? Maybe she would enjoy it. Maybe she should at least give it a chance…

Linda had left. Dashed off at the first news of the bomb in Chicago. As Paul’s girlfriend she was anxious to be by his side. As a photographer she was desolate that she had missed the event.

Dallas couldn’t help wondering how Al must feel. She had even tried to call him in Chicago to offer a few words of sympathy, but he had already checked out of the hotel.

Every time she thought about Al, she got that feeling. It swept over her leaving her in a state of agitation. It didn’t please her. She, who had always been so much in control.

She knew that she needed a man. Her skin was breaking out, and she was becoming irritable for no reason. Several guys at the studio would be happy to oblige, but they were all your usual macho merchants, horny studs looking to screw anything that crossed their paths.

Lew Margolis had not intruded on her personal life since the one night with Diamond. She had seen him once when he turned up to view the week’s taping. He had barely nodded in her direction.

She was prepared for him. The negatives locked securely in her safety deposit box at the bank. The photos hidden beneath her bed.

She dreaded a confrontation, but it had to come, and the longer it took, the better.

Meanwhile she was working hard, doing her best, and enjoying every minute of it.

* * *

Cody kept a firm eye on things. The series was going to be as sensational as his every expectation. Dallas was positively glowing, and on camera she looked like a dream.

He had decided to swallow his feelings and devote himself entirely to looking after her again. She seemed to have no more secrets. She was open and warm with him. Perhaps that one night had been an exception. Everyone went a little wild on one occasion. He could remember the time when an early girlfriend had insisted that he tie her to a bed and beat her. He had done it, felt guilty but done it anyway, and the girl had been delighted in spite of her screams. Every time he had stopped she had screamed, ‘More! More! More! Harder! Harder! Harder!’

Now if anyone had witnessed
that
little scene… He shuddered to think about it.

After the lunch Irene had phoned him constantly. He knew it was over. Why didn’t she?

She sent him a pair of hand-knitted red socks, and when they had no effect she sent him a blue pair with his initials on.

He sent her back a potted plant with a please forgive me note.

She visited his apartment and scrawled ‘Bastard’ all over his front door in lipstick. He knew it was her because who else wore Crimson Pirate lipstick.

The new office was nice. He bought an old antique desk, a leather swivel chair, and hired a buck-toothed sixty-year-old secretary. They both sat back staring at each other, waiting for the phone to ring. It didn’t.

Becoming a hot agent and personal manager was not instant. It was obviously going to take a little hustling on his part. He had to let people know he was available, ready for new clients. They probably all thought he was too big time now.