Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol

by Creston Mapes

  “When I woke up in my hotel room, it was about 2:15 or 2:30 p.m. I ordered room service, watched TV, and ate alone. Then Gray Harris, David Dibbs, several staffers, and I played cards down the hall.

  “Limos took us to the arena for a sound check at 4:30. After ninety minutes at the venue, I met up with Charlie LaRoche, a friend and DeathStroke staff member, and we had a driver take us to some clubs in downtown Dayton, the names of which I can’t remember. From there, it was back to Dayton Arena for the concert.”

  Naturally, the investigators grilled me about my drug and alcohol consumption that day. Knowing every eye was on me in public, I told them the truth about drinking several beers and mixed drinks that afternoon and evening at the clubs. I did not mention, however, the excessive amounts of cocaine and marijuana Charlie and I had consumed during the hours before the show.

  Was I swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniels onstage during the concert that night in Dayton? I knew I couldn’t deny it, so I said yes. When the investigators—especially the strong, young black woman named Tammy—pressed me for details about the concert, I told them I only remembered bits and pieces. That was the truth.

  “What is the last song you remember performing the night of the concert?” she asked.

  “I just can’t remember,” I said, trying to comply. “It may have been ‘Souls on Fire,’ I’m just not sure.”

  “You did do that song, fourth in the set,” she confirmed. “Do you remember doing the new song, ‘Freedom’?”

  “No…I don’t.”

  “No recollection about your interaction with the crowd during that song…your making statements about your beliefs and the crowd chanting back?”

  “No.”

  “No recollection of talking about breaking free from bondage to God?” Her temperature seemed to rise with each word. “No recollection of having the audience repeat after you, something about a vow to lash out against Christians who forced their religion on you?”

  “No.” I laughed innocently. “I mean, I don’t remember that. You’ve got to understand how absolutely fatigued I was from all the travel and pressure—”

  “What we understand, Mr. Lester,” lead investigator Bernie Novak raised his voice, “is that you came into our city out of your mind on drugs, spewing your anti-religious mumbo jumbo. The next thing we know, a young girl is in critical condition from a blow to the head, fifteen others are transported to the hospital after almost suffocating to death, and dozens more go home with a newfound fear of crowds. Do you remember slinging the microphone stand into the audience?”

  “No.” I looked at Gray, then Boone.

  Novak eyed his colleagues and paused. “That’s all the questions we have for now, Mr. Lester.”

  The investigators remained seated as we stood and began shuffling out of the dark room, hoping no more would be said.

  “Mr. Lester,” came Novak’s deep voice.

  The three of us turned around.

  “We are going to do all in our power to put you behind bars for this heartless crime.”

  Gray put his arms around my waist and Boone’s and continued prodding us out the door.

  “Pray Olivia Gilbert doesn’t pass away, Mr. Lester.” Novak’s voice boomed as we rounded the corner. “Pray that little girl doesn’t die!”

  During an urgent late-night phone call to my attorney’s rental home in North Miami, I filled Brian in on my close encounter with one Zane Bender, aka Zaney. In the hundreds of hours of research Boone had done in the case thus far, Zaney’s name had not surfaced—until now.

  Boone said he would look into it.

  For a few minutes, I felt exceptionally good in courtroom B-3 this morning. Boone had brought me a large cup of Starbuck’s breakfast blend with just the right amount of cream and sugar—still hot. I could have kissed him.

  Unfortunately, the coffee buzz lasted only so long.

  My old pal Charlie LaRoche—with his patented five o’clock shadow and greasy jet-black hair—leaned coolly to one side of the witness stand, the same way he leaned while steering his old, rust-colored Impala.

  I used to call Charlie “Jewelry Man.” Straight from Queens, this guy was your stereotypical, tough-as-nails New Yorker. Thick gold and silver chains. Big, heavy rings. Shirt unbuttoned halfway to his belt. Lavender tinted glasses. Black leather jacket and shiny black shoes. He reminded me of one of John Travolta’s cronies in Saturday Night Fever.

  I warned Boone early on that Charlie’s testimony could be damaging, and Frank Dooley did his best to make sure of that.

  As it turned out, Dooley forced Charlie to reveal to the jury—and the world (the media hype surrounding the case was mounting daily)—that he was a paid employee of DeathStroke. Once Dooley stripped away the facade that Charlie was some kind of pyrotechnics consultant or special tour assistant, all that was left was the glaring truth.

  “And so, Mr. LaRoche,” Dooley said with his arms crossed, pacing in front of the jury in his shiny gray suit, “it was your job to score drugs for Everett Lester, mainly while DeathStroke was traveling—correct?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said nonchalantly, in his low New York accent. “And the other guys in the band who wanted ’em. Ricky didn’t do drugs; the others did.”

  “Why was this? Why couldn’t Mr. Lester and the other band members score their own drugs?”

  “One…they didn’t have time to be messin’ with that. Two…they couldn’t transport their own drugs from city to city while traveling by plane—airport security.”

  “And that’s where you came in.” Dooley made sure his silver cuff links were on snug and showing.

  “That’s right.” Charlie slid the palm of his hand through his shiny hair and exhaled loudly. “I was a step ahead of the band, scoring drugs in upcoming tour cities, providing whatever they wanted, and moving on to the next city to do it all over again. Whatever drugs they didn’t use in a given city, they were supposed to trash, so we wouldn’t leave a trail.”

  Charlie had barely made eye contact with me today, and the few times he had, it seemed to be with disgust.

  “What drugs did you supply to Everett Lester?”

  “Most of those mentioned already in this trial.”

  “Tell the court again, please, Mr. LaRoche,” Dooley said, tightening and straightening the small knot in his maroon tie.

  “Marijuana. Cocaine. Hash.”

  “Heroin?” Dooley asked.

  “Sometimes…when he was really depressed.”

  “Mr. LaRoche.” Dooley walked toward him. “Did you ever supply Mr. Lester with weapons?”

  Charlie paused from picking at his cuticles, raised his dark eyebrows, and searched the room with his eyes. “Weapons weren’t my specialty. But on occasion I would find him a gun if he felt he needed one or didn’t have access to one.”

  “You say, ‘If he felt he needed one.’ Would you describe Everett Lester as paranoid, Mr. LaRoche?”

  “He could get a little wigged out at times, kind of lookin’ over his shoulder a lot, but it never struck me as excessive.”

  “Did you know Madam Endora Crystal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you say you knew her well?”

  Charlie frowned. “Not really.”

  “Were you ever together with Madam Endora and Mr. Lester?”

  “Sure,” he said, suppressing a burp. “’Scuse me.”

  Dooley flashed him a look of distaste. “Did Endora use drugs?”

  “Sometimes. Not much.”

  “Of the times you were together with Endora and Everett, did the two ever argue?”

  “Frequently,” he said.

  “Did you ever see Everett threaten Endora in any way?”

  “Sort of. They were so close; it was like they had these little family squabbles. He would tell her to knock it off or shut up, you know, things of that nature. And she wouldn’t back down to him at all. She was a tough old gal.”

  “Did you see them hit each other?”
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  “There were little flare-ups,” Charlie said, bored. “He would push her arm away, she would slap him on the back of the head. Things like that.”

  “Mr. LaRoche,” Dooley said, turning to look directly at me, “do you believe Mr. Lester and Madam Endora were romantically involved?”

  Charlie froze sarcastically, staring straight ahead. “I don’t think so.” He laughed. “Then again, I guess that question did cross my mind over the years. It just seemed odd, with the age difference and all—and all the other women Everett had access to…”

  Charlie knew very well Endora and I weren’t involved romantically. He was trying to get back at me. But for what? We had been friends, or so I thought. Perhaps he just didn’t like the Everett Lester he was looking at across the courtroom today.

  “Mr. LaRoche,” Dooley said, sipping his water. “Can you tell the court, are there any other times when you saw or heard Everett Lester threaten the life of Endora Crystal?”

  He hesitated ever so slightly. “One time…Everett and I and the band were on a private jet headed from New York to Nashville for some TV interview. This was fairly close to the time of Endora’s death. Everett told me Endora was messing with his head. He said he was going to get rid of her, but he was afraid she wouldn’t leave him alone, wouldn’t go quietly.”

  I moved uncomfortably in my seat as the crowd whispered.

  “Okay, why did he want to ‘get rid of her’?”

  “I guess she had been trying to communicate, or whatever you call it, with people from his life who had died…like his old man and Liza Moon. He was sick of it. He felt she had just come way too far into his personal life. He didn’t say these words, but he implied he was being manipulated by her.”

  “So, Mr. Lester said he was going to ‘get rid of her,’” Dooley repeated. “‘But he was afraid she wouldn’t leave him alone, wouldn’t go quietly.’ What else did he say to that end?”

  One glance at me and Charlie looked down and spoke. “He said the relationship with Endora was going to end and that, lately, it had been like a bad dream. In fact, during that trip to Nashville, he told me they were on the outs. She had disappeared for a few days. He was scared, I think—”

  “Scared of what?” Dooley pressed.

  “I think he was apprehensive because he felt she had some kind of evil power that she might use against him. That’s just my opinion.”

  Dooley stood in silence, waiting, knowing a good witness for the prosecution when he had one in his clean, well-manicured hands.

  “On that flight I told you about, he told me he would do anything to end the relationship with Endora.” Charlie raised his head toward Dooley.

  “To the best of your recollection, what did Mr. Lester say about that, exactly?”

  “He said something like, ‘I’ve got to get rid of her. No matter what it takes…she’s gone.’”

  Clenching my teeth and closing my eyes, I lowered my head dejectedly—and prayed.

  14

  BY THE TIME EVERYONE met back at The Groove in Santa Clarita, several days after I was questioned by the Dayton police, almost every single person was high on something.

  The recording had dragged on for months, and the tension was as thick as the smoke floating in the studio.

  A few forged attempts at sympathy were made toward me, with the splint on my nose and the dark bruises beneath my bloodshot eyes, but mainly I felt resentment zeroing in on me from every direction—the band, Gray Harris, Tina Drew, Pamela McCracken, even the production staff.

  Maybe I was just paranoid, but it seemed like my performance in Dayton and the injuries that ensued, along with the concert cancellations, were just the latest cause for embitterment.

  Everyone sought their own way of escape. Even Gray Harris, our dependable leader, had begun to use cocaine to whiteout the dark and frantic strain of recent weeks.

  One of the few people not high was bassist Ricky Crazee, who had amazingly kicked his past addictions to drugs and alcohol several years earlier. He had done it cold turkey and was still clean.

  Ironically, Ricky was perhaps more miserable than any of us, as he attempted to lend soberness and leadership to the chaotic task of wrapping up the recording of Freedom. In his attempt to organize the final leg of the project, he was met by pride, stubbornness, and apathy from a bunch of people who were half stoned out of our minds.

  Me…I had decided to imbibe a slow, steady flow of Scotch and painkillers to extinguish the fiery darts of those around me. Alone in the dark, denlike studio lounge, which was lit by several mod lamps and decorated with a floor-to-ceiling rock waterfall, I poured myself a Dewar’s, settled into a comfortable recliner, and lit a Salem.

  Although the splint on my nose was a nuisance, the whiskey numbed the pain in my face and neck. Resting my head back and blowing smoke, my eyes fell to a black electric guitar that hung on the wall, a gift the band and I had signed and given to the owners of The Groove. It was one of many instruments, plaques, and framed records that hung neatly on the walls and glowed impressively beneath the low-lit track lighting.

  Then I thought about Olivia Gilbert in room 314. My mind kept returning to her—the tubes and tape and bandages and drainage device—and her mother Claudia rocking bemused by her bedside. Nor could I erase the memory of the days spent with Jerry Princeton and Mary—a time that had made me feel accepted, hopeful…refreshed.

  With the Scotch and cigarette in one hand, I casually fingered my way through a basket of mail that sat on a small table next to my chair. When I realized it was DeathStroke fan mail that had been forwarded from fan club manager Jeff Hall, I rocked the leg rest up on the recliner and sat forward in one motion.

  Setting my drink on the table and putting the basket in my lap, I picked through the stack letter by letter, searching for the familiar envelope, handwriting, and postmark from Topeka.

  There it is.

  Finding one envelope from Karen, I searched the remainder of the stack for others. There was only one.

  Rubbing the Salem out in the ashtray next to my chair, I set the basket of mail on the floor and gave the letter from Karen my full attention.

  Greetings Mr. Lester,

  Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve been extremely busy with my job and helping out with the youth group at my church. But I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

  What a surprise it was to hear your voice on my answering machine! I only wish I could have been there to speak with you. When you called, you sounded discouraged and confused. I am sorry.

  I read about Olivia Gilbert. The teens at our church are praying for her to pull through. It was kind of you to visit her at the hospital. I’m sorry about what happened to you there and hope you are healing quickly.

  Mr. Lester, I feel in my heart that there is a spiritual battle being waged over you right now—even as I write this letter. Each time I pray for you, tears come to my eyes because of the emotion bucking up inside me.

  Do you feel the battle going on in your life?

  I know the word Satan probably sounds ridiculous to you, but the Bible tells us he is real, and it warns that he is out to “kill, steal, and destroy” each of us. Satan will fight powerfully to stop you from believing in Jesus Christ. He will manifest himself to you in the allure of drugs, women, money, and power; he will make you feel like you’re not good enough to be God’s child; and he will use devastating circumstances and evil people to thwart you.

  But I sense God is calling you, Mr. Lester. Do you hear Him?

  He’s using me to call out to you, and probably others.

  Don’t ignore Him. Please! Call out to Him. Are you tired of your life? Fall into His arms of love. Open up to Him like a friend. He is waiting.

  When I first believed, I said a prayer, something like this: “Lord, I’m a sinner. I’ve done so much wrong. But I know the Bible says You died to forgive my sins. I repent of them. I turn away from them. And with Your strength—with the power that raised J
esus from the tomb—I vow to follow You, and to give the rest of my life to You. Amen.”

  I’ll be in touch again soon. Until then, warmest regards from Topeka!

  Karen

  Dropping back into the chair, I considered reading the prayer in Karen’s letter, saying it to God, just for the heck of it. What could it hurt?

  In fact, I did.

  Leaning forward, with my elbows resting on my knees and the letter there in my hands, I read the words to the prayer quietly, thoughtfully, sending them up…into the sky. “Amen.”

  Had I prayed?

  But I’m drunk. He won’t accept it.

  You didn’t just pray, something told me.

  Besides, you need to count the cost. What’s it going to cost you, Lester, to become a Christian? The music would have to go, the women, the drugs, and booze, the adoration, the money—anything I wanted, anytime.

  Forget it! Those things are my life. They are who I am.

  But…have they made you happy? Have they satisfied?

  They’re supposed to! Everyone who didn’t have those things thought they satisfied.

  But what about in your case, Lester?

  I looked down at the letter again, then closed my eyes.

  “I am a sinner, God. A messed-up sinner,” I whispered. “Karen says You’ll cleanse me. Is it true? Will You?”

  The familiar voice from behind scorched me like a flamethrower. “I suppose that’s from Karen Bayliss.”

  I turned my head to see the rage in Endora’s small black eyes…her silk jacket still on…keys in hand…out of breath.

  For a flash, I saw that she was taken aback by my damaged face. But she ignored the impulse to sympathize. She had come too far…“You lied to me!” She strutted toward me, ripping the letter out of my hands.

  Reading the words on the page, she sassed: “‘I’ll be in touch again soon…Karen.’ Why didn’t you tell me about Karen Bayliss? KB. Huh? This is the K that I warned you about!” She crumpled the letter.

  As I rose from the chair she shoved me as hard as she could back into it.