Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Like what?” Turner asked.

  “You don’t see your families much. You live out of a suitcase for months on end. You practice from ten to twelve hours a day. You’re too exhausted to do anything after that. You don’t have much of a place to call home. Each of us dumped a girlfriend. Riveting Records didn’t care as long as we made them money. Lots of times they wouldn’t let us bring girlfriends along, or at least they wouldn’t pay for them to stay in the hotels with us.”

  “You were rich,” Turner said. “Why wouldn’t you guys just pay for them yourselves?”

  “Sometimes we did, but even the most desperate gold digger gets bored. When we were overseas, most of the time it was just the five of us with Jordan. You’d get girls sometimes, but it just never worked out. It’s not required, but it’s nice to speak the language of the person you’re with. Sex might be fun for a while—and it was—but we were there for months. I’d rather have a relationship, not just the sex.”

  “You could have almost any girl in the audience for the asking,” Fenwick said.

  “Got that right,” Galyak replied. “Any of us could. Roger always got the most.”

  “Was he cheating on Sherri Haupmin?” Fenwick asked.

  “I sure thought so,” Galyak said, “but I got no proof.”

  “Was Jason forced to have sex with Zawicki?” Turner asked.

  “He must have been,” Pappas said. “He never talked about it if he did.”

  Fenwick said, “We were told you had to make it with other executives in the company.”

  “I never did,” Pappas said.

  “Me neither,” Galyak said.

  “Did you force other people to make sacrifices for you?”

  “Hey, I’m not like that,” Galyak said.

  “Me neither,” Pappas said.

  “Was Roger, Jason, or Dexter?”

  Galyak said, “Dex? Ha! He was scared of his own shadow. I got free stuff and lots of sex. I didn’t have to hire anybody or force anybody. I was hot. The girls wanted me.”

  “Roger used people,” Pappas said. “I never thought much about the people and groups in our production company. That was a big deal to him. Maybe he did.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Galyak said, “He never told me he did anything like that.”

  “Was Roger going to leave the group?” Turner asked.

  Pappas answered. “He would have discussed it with us. He would never have left us.”

  Turner said, “Tomorrow morning Mr. Zawicki is going to announce his resignation as the head of the company.”

  Both boys looked startled. “What’s going on?” Galyak asked.

  “He’s not going to use his position to hurt people again,” Turner said.

  “He was always creepy,” Galyak said. “Who would want such a weird thing from straight guys? That was sick.”

  Pappas said, “That press conference was weird. We’ve had it drilled into us. Whenever anybody asks questions, everything was supposed to be perfect. Really it was. Mostly. Roger did always have big ideas and dreams. Things always had to be Roger’s way. Always. Then that bitch Haupmin showed up.”

  “Why not tell us this last night?”

  “Jesus, the guy was dead. How can you say bad stuff about him when he’s dead?”

  “What’s the difference now?” Fenwick asked.

  “Maybe we’ll say something that will help save Jason,” Pappas said.

  “You think he needs saving?” Fenwick asked.

  “I hope not.”

  Turner asked, “Why did you say Ms. Haupmin is a bitch?”

  “She is,” Pappas said. “She is a cross between a den mother on speed and the Wicked Witch of the West. When she was around, she didn’t want us messing with different girls. We were supposed to date them. We were supposed to be in at a certain time. We could laugh off that crap. We’re over twenty-one, but it was Roger who she changed. After he started with her, he’d never see any other girls on the road.”

  Galyak said, “That was okay, but then he’d get on our cases. That wasn’t bad really. He just kind of teased. It was band stuff that got tougher. We’ve had the same choreographer for our first three albums. All of a sudden, Roger had big questions. Our choreographer is really good. She has great ideas. She takes her time with us. She drives us hard, but we look great. She has a knack, but Roger would tell her we needed to do things differently.”

  “Did they fight?” Turner asked.

  “Not really,” Galyak said.

  Pappas said, “But they went after each other sometimes. It was like Roger would get stubborn. We knew it was Haupmin who was putting him up to this. Roger was a good dancer. He took lessons for years when he was little. We’d all make suggestions sometimes. Some stuff got pretty funny, especially when we’d first be learning something.”

  “It was so cool,” Galyak said. “The first time you did a routine to music and it worked. It was magical. It was like we were all brothers. It was neat.”

  “But Haupmin.” Pappas shook his head. “She wanted Roger to be more prominent in the routines, out front more often. Like the rest of us were backup singers. She wanted him to have more lines to sing. She wanted more for him. At least she claimed it was for him, but I think it was for herself mostly. She wanted to be the next Britney Spears. I think she was using Roger.”

  “Did you tell him this?” Turner asked.

  “Once,” Pappas said. “It did no good. He just kind of laughed and said I shouldn’t worry.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  Both boys shrugged. Galyak said, “In this business nothing is for sure. We made lots of money. We’d hate to see that come to an end. Somebody should do something to Sherri Haupmin. It would save everybody she comes into contact with for the next fifty or sixty years a lot of grief.”

  Pappas said, “We weren’t going to break up, though. That was not true. And killing Roger would for sure break us up. What would be the point?”

  What indeed, Turner thought. Who benefits from the kid dying? He asked, “Did you know Jordan Pastern was going to be fired before this happened?”

  “No way.”

  They both averred this was the first they had heard about it. The boys knew nothing more that was helpful and they left.

  Fenwick said, “I know I feel better that the boys in the band had some disagreements. If we could get them fighting constantly, I’d buy all their CDs.”

  “Seems like a pretty mild form of dissension. A lot of it centers on Haupmin, but she’s not dead. Roger is.”

  Turner and Fenwick talked to Devane’s and Stendar’s personal assistants. They could shed no light on what had happened.

  Before they left, they hunted for the diary. Clendenen’s hotel room yielded nothing. They tried the tour bus, which was a huge metro coach liner and a bus only in terms of its shape. Inside it was the epitome of luxury. All the sounds were muffled. Even the insulation and soundproofing must have been state of the art. The few seats in back of the driver were covered in soft, buttery leather. Through a doorway were deep plush couches, a fully stocked refrigerator and bar, an electronics area dominated by a sixteen-by-thirty-six-inch flat-screen television, individual sleeping quarters for five, phones covered in gold leaf, and much more. Turner thought the bus and its contents might be worth more than his entire home.

  The two detectives searched for nearly an hour. Nothing. They called the hospital and asked the nurse to check in Dexter’s room for the backpack. She found nothing.

  13

  Joan and Judy’s bar was on Halsted just north of Belmont. Everybody assumed it was named after Joan Crawford and Judy Garland. The owner was an old folk-music fan. He’d named it in honor of Joan Baez and Judy Collins, the greatest women folk singers who came out of the sixties. The interior was shabby linens and crushed velvet, lots of deep reds and brown leather. Photos on the wall above the bar were of folk concerts from the early sixties. As you walked in, the bar ran along the left-hand side
and stretched all the way to the back. The floor had elegant seating arrangements of comfy chairs and love seats with little cocktail tables in front of them. This establishment catered to an older crowd. A few twinkies would sometimes show up. Most were either trophies on a sugar daddy’s arm or hoping to be a twinky on a sugar daddy’s arm or paid-for twinkies on a sugar daddy’s arm. And as Paul’s friend Ian often said, if it’s a twinky on a sugar daddy’s arm, there is always a price to be paid. There were three pinball machines in back. The few times he had been here, Paul had never seen anyone playing them. Mostly men chatted amiably in the usually crowded living room area. The music ranged from blues, to mellow jazz, to big band, to fifties and early sixties rock, and, of course, any folk music from any era.

  Ian had his lanky frame sprawled on an overstuffed couch in a quiet alcove. His ever-present slouch fedora was pulled low over his eyes. The youngest-looking man in the bar sat chatting with him cheerfully. When Ian saw Turner and Fenwick and waved them over, the young man looked disappointed. He stood up and left. Turner and Fenwick sat on soft leather chairs opposite Ian.

  “You make a new friend?” Turner asked.

  “I’m the one in the place closest to his age. I think he was hoping I might be willing to afford him. ‘No’ didn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. I was attempting other one-syllable words to communicate ‘no.’ I wasn’t having a lot of luck.”

  A bartender in a tux took their drink order: soda for the detectives, lite beer for Ian.

  “So, what’s the deal on Stendar?” Ian asked. “Was he gay?”

  “Why does everybody thinks these guys are gay?” Fenwick asked.

  “They’re young, cute, and rich. For this community, I think it comes down to, if they’re gay, I can feel better about myself being gay.”

  “They all claim they’re not,” Turner said.

  Ian said, “They need to sit down with their wise, old, friendly, local gay reporter, and they would realize the error of their ways.”

  “They may not be gay,” Turner said, “but they were having sex with Jonathan Zawicki.”

  “All of them?”

  “All.”

  “Son of a bitch. Every queen’s wet dream. The slimy shit was living out the fantasy of half the gay teens in America and probably most of the girls. Zawicki’s got as much fame as anybody. He quietly gives to lots of gay causes, and supports gay politicians, but he’s never officially come out, which pisses off a lot of activists. The music industry seems to be gay-friendly, but only up to a point. The band members still need to be fairly discreet. Some second echelon band members have come out, but with the exception of Elton John, whose sales have plummeted since that Grammy fiasco with the Nazi, nobody really has. How did he convince them to have sex with him?”

  “To get in the band they had to let him fuck them,” Turner said.

  “Nobody told?” Ian asked.

  “Apparently not,” Turner said.

  Fenwick added, “They felt it necessary to make sacrifices for their art.”

  Ian said, “Art? Bullshit. They wanted to sacrifice for their ambition and to make tons of money. Not the first time in the history of the human race that’s happened. Are you saying somebody wants to tell now?”

  “Yeah. Me,” Turner said.

  “Ah, and you have come to enlist the support of your wise, old, friendly, local reporter from the gay press.”

  “Yes, but you’ll do,” Fenwick said.

  “That is a very old and not very funny joke,” Ian said.

  Fenwick leaned over closer to Ian and whispered. “Is that guy you were talking to when we came in making eyes at me?”

  Ian stared blatantly at the young man. “I do believe he is. Madge would be jealous.”

  Madge was Fenwick’s wife. She was one of Turner’s favorite people. Their families spent a great deal of time together.

  Fenwick said, “Madge would laugh her ass off at the very notion.”

  “Try not to break his heart,” Turner said.

  “I break their hearts whether they’re gay or straight,” Fenwick said. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Turner said, “I threatened to expose Zawicki if he didn’t quit as the CEO of Riveting Records. I’m afraid he’s going to call my bluff.”

  “Were you bluffing?” Ian asked.

  “That’s why I’m here. I can’t have the department doing this. Nobody would, even if I asked them, and I wouldn’t ask them.”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  Turner told him.

  Ian said, “What you really need is somebody to leak all of it to the press, a well-orchestrated smear campaign.”

  “After the press conference,” Turner added. “And only if it’s necessary.”

  “Not a lot of time to work with. Let me think. We can talk to Mickey, our music critic, while I mull it over.”

  “Can we trust this guy?” Turner asked.

  “I do.”

  “He’s not going to blab anything we might tell him about the band?” Fenwick asked.

  “He won’t even be tempted. He is discreet. I know. He’s worked for the paper nearly as long as I have. We share secrets. He is very good at keeping his mouth shut.”

  Turner accepted Ian’s word. His friend was an excellent judge of character.

  Mickey Pendyce was in his mid-thirties. He had the slender, muscular build of a tennis player. He wore a tight-fitting, pink thunder-and-lightning cowboy shirt and black jeans. He smiled as he swung a chair around to join them. Ian performed the introductions.

  Turner said, “First, I need some background on these people. I’ve only been part of their world for a little over twenty-four hours, and I don’t get it.”

  “Big egos? Lots of attitude?” Pendyce asked.

  Turner nodded.

  Pendyce smiled. “I’ve been in a couple of not very famous bands, and I’ve worked behind the scenes for others. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people in the music industry take themselves very, very seriously. Normally the band members who make it to the top actually have talent. The same percentage certainly have a high opinion of their ability to influence the world, especially, but certainly not limited to, the world of music. I can’t tell you how many press releases I’ve read where a publicist claims that some new CD will cause a rock or a pop or a hip-hop or a rap or a whatever revolution. Every band is on the cutting edge. Every band is the next incarnation of the Beatles. Every solo artist will sweep the world. So many of them think what they’ve got is on a par with the Second Coming. Their world is filled with reams of adjectives and mountains of adverbs that don’t add up to much of anything. To be fair it’s the same kind of hyperbole you see in a lot of the entertainment industry. After a while I suppose it’s hard not to believe your own press.”

  Fenwick said, “What I’ve seen mostly on television is the ability of the guys in all that makeup to stick their tongues out at cameras.”

  Pendyce laughed. “Think about it. These aren’t college professors. Most guys in bands didn’t attend college, many barely finished high school. A lot of them were involved in music from an early age. Most likely they spent a lot more time on music than they did on their studies. If you’re going to be at the top in any profession, you have to make sacrifices. Academics is often among the first to go, self-awareness the second. As for the tongue-sticking-out shtick…” He chuckled. “That’s mostly heavy metal silly nonsense. They like to emphasize their bad boy image. They like the world to think they’re tough. How being tough or rebellious or being your own boss became synonymous with sticking out your tongue, I don’t know. See, those guys claim they are doing what they want when they want. A continuous party with no one telling them what to do. Defiance as lifestyle. Defiance as myth. All bullshit. My opinion, I think they stick their tongues out because they’re inarticulate morons who have no other way of communicating their feelings of anger.”

  “But I don’t get it,” Fenwick said. “What are they angry about?”r />
  “Whatever they want to be angry about: growing up, being told what to do, having to get a job, breathing. Who knows? Some people say it’s sensuous, a sexual invitation.”

  “To who?” Fenwick asked. “Deranged morons?”

  “To anybody who thinks it is.”

  Fenwick said, “Didn’t I see on the Discovery Channel some kind of monkeys in Africa use tongue-sticking-out as a sign of sexual interest?”

  “You watch the Discovery Channel?” Ian asked.

  “In my secret life, I do. Or maybe I just think these guys are fucking morons.”

  Pendyce said, “I doubt if any of those activities apply to what you want to know. This is a boy band not normally associated with inarticulate anger. I was at their first concert this week. They were great. I enjoyed them. In a lot of ways they did fit the cliché of self-important jerks, but I got to talk to them a few years ago before they hit it big. They seemed to be regular guys who worked very, very hard to perfect what they were doing. Long hours of grueling practice for days on end is the rule, not the exception, if you want to get to the top. It is not easy to sing and dance at the same time. They weren’t just sashaying around that stage. They were moving, and they knew their moves. It wasn’t traditional ballet, but a lot of the time it was as good as any modern dance company. It was well choreographed and well scripted. It has to be. It’s a show. These guys were very, very good. They had talent, enough to spare. They could be at the top for as long as they wanted. Lots of critics put down these guys for being superficial and pandering to the masses. Blundlefitz, the critic for Hot Trends, is one of the most negative.”

  “What’s his story?” Turner asked.

  “A poster boy for Arrogant Shits Anonymous. You look up arrogant in a dictionary, you’ll see a picture of him. A bully, so, of course, a coward, but more dangerous than a frightened rat when cornered. I’ll give you one example of the kind of shit he is. He refuses to go to any concert by any local group.”

  “He can be a critic for a major Chicago magazine and get away with that?” Fenwick asked.