Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles)

by Creston Mapes

I had never seen feet and eyes so bright.

  Until that night, until that night…

  When I invited Him deep inside, deep inside,

  O Lord, look within, forgive my sin, fill my cup.

  Come deep inside, deep inside,

  Lord, make me new, tell me what is true, help me to follow You.

  Live deep inside, deep inside,

  Jesus, let me know, You overflow, I’ve nothing to fear, ’cause You are

  here…

  Everett noticed it happening three-quarters of the way through the song. Like children playing some sort of game on a massive playground, one by one, people all over the arena began dropping out of sight. Near and far. High and low. Each one seemed to disappear in an eerie silence that rested somewhere above the rhythm of the music.

  Looking closer, it began to dawn on Everett that people were kneeling, faces to the ground, some sprawled out prone in the aisles. And they were praying. They were repenting. Yes, they were inviting Christ to come deep inside, deep inside.

  It was the same in Boston, Montreal, Philly, and Baltimore. As word spread about what the media was calling the Living Water “revival,” several venues on the tour were proving too small. Half-mile lines were reported as much as twenty-four hours before some shows. By the time the tour reached Pittsburgh, it had become an international phenomenon.

  “I’m keeping a scrapbook of everything, all the magazine and newspaper clippings I can get my hands on,” Madison said after meeting up with Everett, Wesley, Karen, Jacob, and Sarah at Marriott City Center in downtown Pittsburgh. “The New York media is going absolutely nuts, Uncle Everett. You’re going to be mobbed when you get back home. Did you see yesterday’s USA Today? It said one to two thousand people are accepting Christ at each show. No one’s seen anything like it since the old revival days.”

  “To you I suppose that means the ancient Billy Graham crusades,” Everett teased.

  “Very funny.” Madison pretended to punch him.

  “You’re selling a lot of posters, aren’t you?” Everett laughed.

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, “I’ve decided I want you to keep the money we make from the posters—”

  “What?” Wesley broke in with a scowl. “Those things are gonna bring in a chunk of change.”

  “That’s going to be my donation for the tour.”

  “You’re crazy!” Wesley barked. “We’re gonna need that money. You know we’ve got big-time debt—”

  “Chill out!” she said. “What is your problem?”

  “Wait a minute.” Everett stepped in. “Madison, you don’t have to do that. But if you’re being led to, go for it. I think it’s beautiful. And Wes, I promised Madi the proceeds from the posters. You do what you want with your pay.”

  “My pay isn’t gonna compare to the stinkin’ money those posters bring in!” He tramped to the window of Karen and Everett’s room, put his hands on his waist, and stared across the street at sun-drenched Mellon Arena where the band was scheduled to perform that night, all the while mumbling something under his breath.

  Ingrate. Everett was mentally scripting a verbal lashing but caught Karen’s watchful eye and played the good boy.

  Madison stepped in and changed the subject. “No recent news on Dad?”

  “Nothing yet today,” Sarah said.

  Wesley fidgeted with the window locks, messed around with the heater controls, then made his way to the large entertainment center where he found the remote, flicked on the TV, and surfed till he stopped on Judge Judy.

  “Nancy Grace did a show last night about Dad and the tour,” Wesley said.

  “We saw it,” Sarah said.

  “She thinks he’s gone for good,” Wesley said. “She was all over Mendazzo, Badino—the whole clan. Aren’t you worried those mobsters might be after you?” Wesley looked over at Everett.

  “It’s crossed my mind.” Everett tried to chuckle but was confronted once again by his very real fears.

  “Nancy Grace made it sound like you’ve been leaking information to the FBI.”

  “I’ve told them all I know, because I want to find your dad,” Everett said. “Besides, those scumbags from the Mendazzo family belong behind bars.”

  “On a brighter note.” Madison crossed to Wesley, took the remote from him, zapped off the TV, and dropped the gadget on the couch. “I’ve got some good news.” She looked at her brother to make sure he was listening. “Mom started AA on Monday.”

  “That is great news,” Jacob said.

  Wesley pursed his lips, shook his head, and wandered in the direction of the bathroom.

  “She didn’t miss a meeting all week. Some days she even went twice. They hooked her up with a sponsor she really likes—”

  “Believe it when I see it.” Wesley scooped a clear cup into a plastic bucket of ice.

  “Hey, she’s trying!” Madison yelled.

  “That’s right,” Sarah said. “Poor thing has been through so much.”

  “She misses Daddy,” Madison said. “She told me she wants to be ready for him.”

  Karen pulled Madison close as her eyes filled with tears.

  For a moment, Wesley gazed at Karen and Madison. He seemed to be off in another world somewhere. Everett walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “No!” Wesley flinched, waking from his daydream with a start, and shaking Everett’s hand away. He checked his watch. “I need to get going…Gonna go crash for a while before tonight.”

  “Wesley,” Karen stepped toward him, “are you sure you don’t want a Coke or some pretzels—?”

  “No.” He headed for the door, wiping his lips hard with the back of his wrist. “I’ll meet up with you guys later. Call my room, would you, if there’s any word on the old man?”

  Everett and Karen looked at each other. After several seconds, she gave him a half smile, and he returned it. Nothing needed to be said. They knew this was the beginning of a long journey. Everett just hoped there wouldn’t be too much turbulence from Wesley along the way.

  37

  WESLEY WRITHED ON HIS hotel bed like a fish out of water. Though he wore only baggy gray boxers, his head was soaked in sweat. The irresistible, cursed cravings were coming in waves—heat waves. They’d crept up on him and begun to take over his body, threatening to obliterate his soul.

  Blinds drawn and sheets strewn, he sat up to the edge of the bed and slammed his head into his hands. Like a werewolf at full moon, he was morphing into another person, and there was nothing he could do about it. The drug called out to him like food to the starving.

  Leave me alone!

  Whacking things around on the nightstand, he found cigarettes. Lighting one, he flopped onto his back and exhaled straight up toward the ceiling.

  “Vengeance,” came the whisper.

  He scampered to the bathroom sink. Cigarette in fingers, he examined himself. Skinny white boy. Eyes sunken. Ugly.

  “Vengeance.”

  He jerked around, scanned the room, and ran to the far wall. Putting his ear up, he listened. But all he could hear were the hundreds of crawling creatures that seemed to invade his body. Scratching hard at his arms and scalp, he paced the room.

  “Now he’s brainwashin’ Madison… That money’s ours.”

  To the sink he went, throwing a small white towel in and turning on the cold water. Wringing it out, he smeared his face and ran it down his arms and legs. Ripping open a plastic cup, he slurped water, swished, and spit.

  “Mr. Jesus Man. Out to save the world…” He stomped to his brown suitcase, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out his little brother’s journal. Yanking the curtain open a foot to let some light in, he crossed the room with the little book open. “Didn’t save my little brother, though, did He?”

  Ripping through the pages, he stopped, scanned with shaking fingers, then tore through some more. “Ahhh!” He fired the book across the room, watching it bash a lampshade, ricochet into the wall,
and drop to the maroon carpet. Then he fell to the floor, too, chewing fretfully at his cuticles.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he wailed. “I don’t want to be this way. Stop! I’m better. I’m better. I’m better. I’m clean. I don’t have to listen to you, devil. I’m good, now. I can make it—”

  The voice came low and sweet. “Think about the high.”

  “No!” he cried with his face to the floor.

  “One bump. That’s all. Let it take you away.”

  Resting all his weight on his elbows and knees, Wesley looked up at the lampshade he’d just hit—it was askew. He got up and marched toward it. Unscrewing the top, he lifted the shade, dropped it in a chair, and stared at the bulb. Then he unscrewed it. “Seventy-five watts.” He could convert that thing into a meth pipe so fast…

  “You are going to get him back for what he did to David.”

  “No!” Wesley jerked. “You can’t make me. Please…don’t make me.”

  “I know you’ll do whatever I say.”

  His head snapped toward the talking wall. Then to the tapping—at the door.

  He tiptoed toward it. “Who is it? I’m just getting’ up from a nap. Not dressed yet.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Who is it?”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He shut one eye and peered through the peephole.

  Larger than life, there was the devilish face of Tony Badino, his right eye twitching.

  Everyone was snacking, sipping sodas, and doing their own thing in Karen and Everett’s hotel room to waste time before the afternoon sound check.

  Jacob looked up from his crossword puzzle. “I think that’s your phone, Ev.”

  He eased up from the bed, where Karen had dozed off, and moved quickly to grab the phone from the black leather shoulder bag in the corner.

  “Hello,” he whispered, heading for the bathroom.

  “Mr. Lester?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you.” The woman’s voice shook. “It’s Margaret Badino.”

  A sudden hollowness hit Everett’s gut. He closed himself in the bathroom and locked the door.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “I was just finding some privacy.” Everett’s breathing was labored. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s my son, Tony. He’s left; he’s not here.”

  “Mrs. Badino—”

  “I went up to his apartment early this morning. His garment bag’s gone.”

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t understand why you’re calling me.”

  “Where are you, Mr. Lester?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I found a scrap of paper in his wastebasket. It was burned, but I made out several flight numbers. I checked them on the Internet. Then I checked your concert schedule. Are you in Pittsburgh?”

  The word Pittsburgh seemed to zap half of Everett’s energy, and he debated whether to trust her.

  “I’m at a pay phone, and I have to hurry. Please…are you in Pittsburgh?”

  “Tell me what else you know.”

  “Oh my goodness, my husband’s due back any second. He thinks I’m in a bookstore.”

  “Please, Mrs. Badino…”

  “Tony had written down flight information for Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Detroit, and others I couldn’t read. Your website said—”

  “Those are the cities we’re playing next.”

  “That’s why I’m calling! You said to…if I suspected anything. He’s very confused, Mr. Lester. He’s just not right. Ever since Erica. I told you about his girlfriend, who died.”

  “She’d become a Christian.”

  “Yes, and he never has been able to live with the fact that God took her.”

  What are you trying to say? Everett waited.

  “He’s been meeting on and off with my husband lately. The police have been watching the house. I don’t know. I’m thinking all kinds of crazy things. I thought I should warn you. I see the good you’re doing—for God. It’s all over the news.”

  “You’re sure Tony’s gone?”

  “Yes. I even called the body shop where he works. They said he took some vacation time. They didn’t say how much.”

  “Please, can you call me if you find out anything else?” Everett said. “If he comes home…”

  “Of course. I’ve got to go now. Godspeed, Mr. Lester.”

  Click.

  Everett kept Mrs. Badino’s call to himself during the afternoon sound check on the sleek, silver stage inside Mellon Arena. But when he found himself taking a breather backstage next to Jacob on a black trunk during a break, he figured it was time to open up.

  “What’s it mean, Ev?”

  “We watch our backs.”

  “Yeah, but there are tons of people each night.” Jacob held up his arms and looked around the massive arena. “Badino could be anywhere.”

  Everett bent over. “Tell me about it.”

  This is nuts. Other people are gonna be in danger…

  “We need to let security know,” Jacob said. “Can we get a picture of this guy to circulate?”

  “Only way to do that is to call his mom.”

  “Let me meet with security first. They may be able to get one, if he has any kind of record.”

  “Listen.” Everett sat up and grabbed Jacob’s wrist, stopping him from standing. “If anything happens to me—”

  “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “But if it does—”

  “Stop it, Ev.” Jacob stood. “Just stop it. I’m going to find the head of security. You just rock on, man. Leave this to me. Okay?”

  Everett nodded. He trusted Jacob. But more than that, he focused on giving himself to God. Just relinquishing control. Falling into His hands.

  Jacob began to walk away, then turned around. “Hey, where do you want to go to dinner before the show? I need to book something. You know of any good places?”

  Everett chuckled at how nonchalantly Jacob had shifted gears. “There used to be a place that did great cheesesteaks. I think it was called the Upper Room or the Upper Deck, overlooks PNC Park—where the Pirates play.”

  “Sounds good.” Jacob walked around the corner. Everett lifted a bottle of spring water to his lips, drinking half of it. One of the arena workers—a tall, blond woman with red cheeks and freckles—approached him hesitantly.

  After being in the limelight for more than a decade, Everett could detect autograph seekers by their body language alone. This woman held out her Living Water poster.

  “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Beverly. My friends just call me Bev. But this isn’t for me; it’s for my son.”

  “I bet you didn’t know, Bev, that my niece did the watercolor on this poster. Her name is—”

  “Madison,” she interrupted, smiling. “I know. I read it on there, in the small print. Plus, my son already knew all about it. He knows everything about you. Chad’s his name.”

  Everett chuckled.

  “I just wanted you to know, too, that Chad was…well, he was a bad one. Oh, forgive me.” Her face scrunched up and turned red from the sentiment. “You…your music…he just loves you. And he loves God, because of you and what you stand for.”

  Words like that kept him going. “That means so much to me, Bev. Thanks for sharing that. Will Chad be here tonight?”

  “He sure will.” She grinned. “He’s meeting me down here later when he gets off work.”

  Just as Everett’s cell phone rang, he signed: “Dear Chad—thanks for your support. Together, let’s keep pressin’ on till Jesus comes. Your friend, Everett Lester. Matthew 11:28–30.”

  He answered the phone. “This is Everett.”

  “Hey, little brother.”

  “Hey, Mary.” He waved good-bye to Bev. “What goes on?”

  “Jerry and I can come to the show in Cinci!”

  “Ver
y cool.”

  “Can we meet and break bread and get backstage?” She giggled.

  “Love it. Let me have Jacob call you to let you know where we’re staying. He’ll get your passes and all that.”

  “You holding up?”

  “Doin’ okay.” He decided not to tell her about the call from Margaret Badino. “Can’t wait to get out there tonight. A lot of other chaos is swirlin’ around, but when I’m playing and sharing, that’s when I feel most in tune with God.”

  He stood and walked onstage, picturing the arena packed with people.

  “Ev, I had a dream last night. I’m not going to tell you what it was about, so don’t bother asking. But afterward, I got up and prayed. Then I couldn’t sleep, so I read for a while. Can I just share something with you, real quick?”

  “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  He envisioned a gunman in the front row, only five feet from the stage.

  “Okay, now remember, you know it’s not like me to go around plying people with Scripture and telling them, the Lord sayeth.”

  He offered a polite laugh. “I know. Come on. Give it to me.”

  “It’s in Psalm 140. Do you mind if we kind of say it like a prayer?”

  “That sounds good.” Everett walked farther onto the stage, crossed one arm, and closed his eyes.

  “‘Lord, deliver me from evil men,’” Mary’s voice was clear and strong. “‘Preserve me from the violent, who plot and stir up trouble all day long… Keep me out of their power… Let their plots boomerang. Let them be destroyed by the very evil they have planned for me. Let burning coals fall down upon their heads, or throw them into the fire, or into deep pits from which they can’t escape.’”

  The phone call ended, and Everett looked up. The gunman from his imagination was gone, and so were his fears. At least for now, anyway.

  “What the heck are you doin’ here?” Wesley opened the door slightly, and Tony barged into the room with a small leather bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Let’s get this party started!”

  “Dude,” Wesley closed the door and followed him in, “we got a show tonight. I told you—”

  “I know what you told me. And I also know what you want.” He spread the bag open on the bedspread and pulled out a small baggie full of yellowish crystal. “You wanna induuuuulge.”