My elbow was fixed on the table in front of me, my forehead resting in my hand. I shook my head. Where are You, God? Apparently Brian Boone wasn’t going to try and stop Mr. Dooley or Miss Yonder.
“Don’t worry,” Boone whispered to me while covering his mouth with a brown leather notebook. “We’ll weather this.”
“Endora told me over dinner that Mr. Lester had fallen in love with her,” Twila said, as the bad dream continued. “And according to Endora, he was very jealous, very domineering.”
I closed my eyes in hopes that when I opened them, I would have woken up.
“Did Endora mention whether Everett ever threatened her?”
“She said, just before she died, that if Everett Lester ever caught her with another man, he would kill her.”
The courtroom shook momentarily, until Sprockett pounded his gavel.
“How long was the relationship more than friends?” Dooley asked, as I squirmed in my seat.
“Several years, I believe.”
“To your knowledge,” Dooley asked, ever so strategically, “did anyone else know about this romance between Endora Crystal and Everett Lester?”
“No one but me,” she said quickly. “Endora assured me no one else knew.”
When I arrived at Endora’s private room on the second floor of Baptist Hospital of Miami the day after the incident in my high-rise, she was already sitting up in her bed, surrounded by colorful bouquets from friends and clients. Her makeup was just right, and the room smelled from the new coat of dark brown polish she was applying to her long, fake nails.
“How many times must I tell you,” she scolded the thin, shy-looking nurse who was on her way out as I entered, “I want chopped ice and cranberry juice, chopped ice and cranberry juice. A constant flow of it. Is that too much to ask, when it’s practically all I’m asking for?”
She turned to see me and feigned innocence, with her head lowered, eyes raised, and lower lip protruding.
“Everett, you’ve got to persuade the doctors to let me go, darling,” she insisted, her usual zeal intact. “I’m fine and I’ve got business to tend to in southern California. You remember, my niece’s wedding is in ten days. I’ve got to be there to help—”
“You know what the doctor said, lady,” I said, revealing a box of chocolate turtles that had been hidden behind my back. “He wants to make good and sure your heart is fine before sending you cross-country on a plane. Just relax. Enjoy the rest.”
“Pooh. Easy for you to say.” She smiled now at the sight of her favorite candy. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.” I removed the cellophane from the box. “Listen, Endora, I need to know what the heck went on at my condo, with the Love card, and your passing out.”
I figured enough time had passed. She seemed stable enough.
“To be honest with you, I really don’t want to talk about it,” she sassed, taking a bite of a turtle.
“I’m still paying your retainer, correct? You need to explain the Ace of Cups to me. What was it telling you?”
She slammed the bottle of polish down amid her other beauty tools on the bed beside her, then looked out the window.
Her wheels were turning.
“It was quite scary, actually,” she said, still staring out as if in a trance. “I was shown that someone is going to come into your life, posing as a new love—offering new life.”
Her head turned toward me, her eyes still in a daze. “But she will betray you. She will lead you down a path you do not want to travel, Everett. Do not follow her.”
“Who? Who is this person?”
She looked back down at her hands and newly polished nails, which now rested on her lap. “I’m not sure. I didn’t get that yet.”
“When will you know?”
“I’ll know when I know.” She shook her head and looked away again.
“What’s wrong, Endora?”
“It’s heavy, that’s all. Very heavy.”
“Why did the card heat up?”
“I told you, it was a warning! Listen to me, Everett. This is nothing to fool around with. Take heed.”
“Why? What kind of threat are we talking about?”
She glared out the window. All quiet.
I let her think.
“She will bring an end to your career. Possibly…an end to your life.” She finished the sentence in a mean, almost wicked whisper.
I stood and walked to the tinted window. The sun shone brightly on the plush lawn, palm trees, and sidewalks that curved amidst the well-manicured native greenery outside. After watching cars and people come and go for a few quiet moments, I crossed back to Endora, patted her shoulder, kissed the top of her head, and made for the door.
I turned to face her. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Do you believe me, Everett? Do you trust me on this?” She cradled the box of candy against her chest.
“I don’t know.” I reached for the silver door handle. “I just don’t know anymore, Endora. Liza was the only one. And she’s gone. I guess I’m still struggling with that.”
“Everett,” she said, raising her voice as I swung the door open, “I believe you and this individual have already made contact. Be careful.”
Confusion clouded the drive back to The Towers, even with the top down and the south Florida sun reflecting off of my slate blue Audi TT Roadster. I waved at the security guard, parked in the cool deck below the complex, and took the elevator up to the thirty-second floor.
The reading with Endora was still bothering me as I picked up a long FedEx package, which was leaning against my door, and keyed my way in. Walking over to the coffee table where we had been the night before, I noticed the tarot cards—exactly where they had been when Endora passed out, as were the candles that dotted the room.
Opening the shiny wooden box in which Endora stored the cards, I removed the purple silk cloth, set it on the table, and began picking up the cards. I shook my head as I recalled the reading and collected the cards in the order in which she had read them to me.
There was one more card still facedown on the table. It was the last in the series describing my future. Endora had never reached this one. Instinctively, I turned it over.
The Moon.
Its wicked-looking artwork resembled that on the other cards, but this one pictured a butter-colored moon shining down on an eerie, snakelike dragon which had wings and a hissing tongue.
My knee-jerk reaction was to call Endora and ask her what it meant, but something stopped me. Instead, I took the card, grabbed a Molson out of the miniature stainless steel fridge, and settled into the red leather chair in front of the computer at my mahogany desk.
Propping the card up next to the computer, I pulled the Internet menu down to Favorites, went to Google, and did a word search on moon, tarot cards.
Dozens of websites offered free psychic readings and others sold mystic paraphernalia. Then, bingo, I tracked down several sites that, among other things, defined the meaning of tarot cards.
“The moon card leads us into the mysterious realm of darkness…tends to show gloomy foreboding.” Another described the Moon card this way: “Another of the cards that is most often viewed negatively, the Moon represents confusion and illusion. Beware!”
The ring of the phone startled me.
“Hello,” I answered quickly, not wanting it to ring again.
“Everett, it’s Endora. Listen, dearie, I need to make sure you take good care of my cards. Are they still as we left them?”
Odd timing.
“Yeah…they’re here.” I squinted at the screen.
“Well, do me a favor. Just wrap them as they are in the purple cloth from my box, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” I read another description for the Moon card: “Beware of illusions of the unknown, deception…”
“And place them inside the box,” Endora continued. “Do you understand?”
“Sure. Ah…” I continued reading. “Lies, trickery.”
“Everett!” she yelled, then began coughing. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure, I got it. Do you want me to have them sent to you out west?”
“Oh no, dear. Never. I’ll send someone by to get them.”
Whatever.
I was so tired and confused. I hung up with Endora, shut down the PC, and took the card back out with the others, doing as Endora asked—all inside the purple silk and into the wood box.
Picking up the FedEx package, I wandered into the den. The box’s return label was from Jeff Hall, president of the DeathStroke fan club. Setting the package on the bar, I went behind the counter, threw away the empty Molson, and poured myself a tall scotch with ice.
Plopping down on my favorite leather chair, with the kind of worn brown leather you see on a pilot’s jacket, I opened the package. Inside was another long, narrow box wrapped in brown paper and labeled with my name and the address of our fan club. The return address simply read: Karen Bayliss—Topeka, Kansas.
The red rose inside was still fresh, thanks to the miniature water tube attached to its thorny stem. The note was written on several small pages of yellow stationery. The paper actually smelled fragrant; whether from the rose or Karen, I wasn’t sure. The slanted, bubbly handwriting had become all too familiar…
Dear Mr. Lester,
In case you didn’t know it, the yellow rose I brought you in Kansas City stood for friendship. I hope you will accept my friendship, even though we do not have a lot in common.
The red rose in this box stands for love. I sent it to remind you that while this world and the things in it give us no hope, Jesus gives us hope. Jesus loves you, Mr. Lester.
His blood is red like the rose. His blood ran down His arms and feet for you and me. He doesn’t want you to be without Him any longer. He stands at the door and knocks and assures you He will come in and comfort you and live inside you and give you peace if you’ll just cry out to Him, confess your sins, and believe in Him.
Today, Jesus is calling out to you. He wants you to understand, clearly, how much He loves you. His love is red like the rose.
My prayers go up to the Father many times each day for you…while I work, while I drive, and while I do chores around the house. It’s up to His Spirit to draw you, and I am confident He is doing that as you read this note.
May He bless you and keep you, until next time.
Sincerely,
Karen Bayliss
P.S. The small Bible in this box is for you. Check it out!
I just closed my eyes, shook my head, and smirked.
Unbelievable.
Carelessly, I picked through the tissue in the box till I found the palm-sized brown Bible, examining it for a good long while before opening it to see if she had written a note. Leafing through the first few pages, I found my name written in it, in Karen’s handwriting, along with this: John 10:27–28.
After a rather extensive, yet unsuccessful, search through the pages of the small book, I resorted to the table of contents, where I found a list of Old and New Testament books. Finding the page number for the book of John, I thumbed my way to the verses to which Karen had referred me.
“My sheep recognize my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them away from me.”
With my finger in the book I slumped into my favorite chair and stared off into nowhere for a long time. Then I read it again.
His sheep follow Him, I thought. They are well protected. And He gives them eternal life.
This was not the “Other Side” Endora was selling. I knew it in my bones.
This eternal life was something different. It was forever, with God. And it was for sheep, for those who would quietly follow Him. It was for people like Karen, the polar opposite of the Endoras and Everetts of the world. For Karen, who seemed bright and pure and innocent; who seemed to live so boldly, so cleanly, and with so much refreshing wind in her sails.
Although I wished it could be, this paradise was not for me. No, I would have to put my money on the Other Side. It was for all people, including reprobates like me.
The ice in the Scotch had melted. The tall glass was wet. And I sat in my chair until every last drop was gone.
6
GRAY HARRIS FUMED. So did the band. Dozens of business partners and thousands of DeathStroke fans were aggravated as well. My drug binge after Liza’s death had set us way behind on the recording of our latest album in California. And Endora’s unexpected collapse had forced me to cancel two shows on the Rowdy tour.
By the time I caught up with the band in Detroit, I was getting the cold shoulder from everyone. And no wonder. Gray had announced that on almost every one of the two- and three-day breaks that had originally been scheduled during the forty-eight-city Rowdy tour, the band would now be required to fly to the West Coast to wrap up the recording of our ninth album instead of jetting to our respective homes for much-needed rest—and time away from each other.
When our normally quiet bassist, Ricky Crazee, approached me as we convened for a sound check on the black and silver stage at The Palace in Auburn Hills, Michigan, I knew something was up. He zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile.
“You know what your problem is, Lester?” Ricky jabbed a finger into my chest, his redheaded temper flashing. “The only person you care about is you. It’s always been like that. What are you thinkin’ of, leavin’ us high and dry?”
The sudden loud rip of David Dibbs’s drums suggested he concurred with Ricky. And John Scoogs chimed in with an evil guitar riff that spoke louder than words.
Still buzzed from the gin I had consumed on the flight to Detroit and the upper I popped in the limo, I decided not to respond. I had heard it all before and was too high to care. Besides, Ricky could be one crazy cowboy. So, I spun away from him.
“Helloooooooooo Deeeetrooooit!” I yelled into the mike, nearly causing one of our roadies to fall from a catwalk above.
“You’re an idiot, Lester,” said Ricky, the strings on his bass reverberating as he stepped toward me again in his pointy gray boots and faded Levi’s. “We’ve all had it. You don’t care jack about us or our families, about Gray or Tina.”
“I DON’T CARE too much for money,” I sang into the mike, “cause money can’t buy me love. Can’t buy me lo–ove—”
“You don’t get it, do you, dude?” Scoogs said, cutting me off. “Everything you do dominoes. You mess up, you don’t show up. It affects every one of us, plus staff, crew, fans… We’re sick of it!”
“Well, what are ya gonna do, John? Fire me? Huh?” I yelled into the mike. “I made you, man. All of you.” My words echoed throughout The Palace, as the smattering of vendors and preshow guests froze, their eyes searching each other.
“How would you just like to do it without me, huh, Scoogs? What about you guys? You ready to break this party up once and for all? End the ride?”
“Man, that is not what we want.” Dibbs stood up from behind his huge drum kit, the large DeathStroke logo blazing bright behind him, generating heat from above.
“I don’t know, David.” Ricky pushed his suede cowboy hat up high on his red forehead. “Maybe it is time. This thing is wearin’ thin.”
Tina Drew scrambled off, probably to find Gray.
“You talk about not caring.” I slammed the mike stand onto the stage. “How much have you cared? Liza’s gone. Do any of you care? Have you said a word?” I was yelling.
“Dude, you weren’t even at her funeral!” Ricky shot, his small blue eyes locking in on me. “Me and Dibbs were there. Gray phoned her parents.”
“And I tried to make it, but I couldn’t get a flight out on time,” Scoogs added.
“Yeah, you know why you went to the funeral?” I laughed. “Publicity. PR. Lights, camera, action!”
“You are so messed up, Lester.” Ricky shoved me. “What are you on right now?” Shove. “Heroin?” Shove. “
Do you even know what you’re saying?” Shove, shove.
Gray practically came flying around the wall of amplifiers with Tina and a small entourage of staff members trailing six feet behind.
“Okay, okay,” he huffed, stepping between Ricky and me. “What is going on? Ricky?”
“What’s goin’ on,” I blurted, “is these losers are about to kiss their careers good-bye. They’re forgettin’ who brought ’em to this dance.”
“You are so full of it, Lester,” Scoogs yelled. “You’re blind. Look at what you’re doing to everybody around you. You’re cancer!”
“Ha. If I’m cancer, then everybody wishes they had it. You guys would be nothin’ without me. Nothin’!”
“Gray, we’ve had it.” Ricky turned away from me. “This is the crossroad, man.”
Gray looked at each band member, getting no argument from the others.
“Okay, look. You guys get the sound check started. Everett, let’s take ten.” He led the way offstage.
After Gray gave me his father-son speech behind several tall stacks of metal trunks backstage, I grabbed a beer from a barrel of iced beverages in the makeshift café and kicked and scuffed my way to the dressing room. I told him I was skipping the sound check. He said he would try to iron things out, as always, with the other band members.
Throwing myself down onto the reddish-brown couch, my head was floating. I was definitely not sober. But I wasn’t blitzed enough to pass out, either. I just felt kind of…there. If you’ve ever drank alcohol or taken drugs, you know what I’m talking about. It was that in-between stage. I either needed to sober up or get some more drugs or alcohol into my system. I chose the latter.
Sitting on the edge of the couch, I examined the room for my black leather shoulder bag, which I carried on trips. It contained my MP3 player, headphones, cigarettes, hairbrush, phone, and an assortment of prescription drugs, which were authorized by my physician and close friend, Dr. Jack Shea.
Finding the plastic orange bottle of Valium, I undid the lid, tapped two into my hand, and threw the bottle back into the black satchel. Then I stopped cold.
Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Page 6