The Vampire Chase

by Stephen Mertz

  “Don’t give me that crap! You didn’t even pay the bill, you cheap bastard. I don’t know a soul in Miami Beach. What the hell was I supposed to do for money?”

  “Baby, don’t forget how I met you in Tulsa. What’s wrong with what you been doin’, bitch?’

  Madison spotted Connie Frazer through a sea of bobbing heads. She was beckoning him. With a final effort, he elbowed his way through to her.

  “They just got here,” she reported. “But no one can get through. Believe me, I tried. Even Arn’s name doesn’t help. The only person in or out is Lee Brocchi, and such a wall you never saw. Plus, he’s got two rent-a-cops on the door with him.”'

  Brocchi was the band’s road manager and bodyguard.

  “He knows you, doesn’t he?’ asked Madison.

  “Of course, he does. They all do, from the times they’ve been up to the office. But I guess the band decided to put themselves off bounds until after the show.”

  Madison moved past her.

  “Let’s try it again,” he said.

  “Steve, maybe we should wait until the party at the hotel to see them,” she said, keeping pace at his side. “We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves.”

  “Sure we do,” grinned Madison. “Follow my lead.”

  Then they were at the door of the dressing room. Madison had no trouble in getting one of the uniformed guards to fetch Brocchi.

  The Screaming Tree’s road honcho stood about five-nine, stockily built, with super-wide shoulders, a tanned complexion, and short hair and intense eyes that were both cold and dark. He didn’t look friendly.

  “You wanted something?” he asked Madison.

  “I want Mick, Jeremy and Keith,” Madison told him. “I’m supposed to be coordinating their publicity on this tour.”

  “So, coordinate. This is a gig. You’re not needed here.”

  He started to turn.

  Madison said, softly, “Just tell them one of the girls in Cleveland sent me with a message.” Brocchi’s body seemed to tighten.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just tell them, Lee.”

  “Tell which one?”

  “Hell, I don’t give a damn. Use your own judgment. You’re the man in charge here. There was a party last night in Cleveland, right? There were a lot of girls there. Just tell the guys what I said.”

  Their eyes locked and held for long seconds. Then Brocchi turned and disappeared back into the dressing room.

  Connie Frazer cleared her throat.

  “Thanks for hashing that one over with me the way you did, Steve. I’m glad we’re working together on this thing.”

  “I couldn’t have you running off to call Arn,” Madison said. “I needed to get this far.”

  The door opened. Brocchi stepped back into the corridor.

  “Alright, come on in,” he said curtly. “Say what you came for, and then get the hell out.”

  “One question, Lee,” said Madison. “Which one gave the high sign to let me in?’

  Brocchi paused, one hand on the doorknob. “What’s the difference?”

  “No difference. So why not tell me?”

  “So, it was Jeremy who said to let you in and the others said okay, too. Okay, question-man?”

  “Okay,” said Madison.

  He and Connie entered the dressing room. Brocchi stepped in behind them.

  Madison took the room and the people in it at a glance, registering as much as he could. The room was a microcosm of the rock insanity outside.

  The three members of The Screaming Tree, all in their early to mid-twenties, were done out head to foot in extravagant black leather jumpsuits, high-heeled platform boots, silver slashes or iridescent “lighting” lacing out across their costumes, and wild, darkly painted faces beneath frizzed-out, wildly dyed, sequined hair. Madison had seen their pictures often enough in the rock media not to need introductions.

  Jeremy Bates, vocal and guitar. A narrow-built guy with an almost boyish smile that somehow made it through all the layers of paint and makeup.

  A slender, gentle-looking lady, about the same age as Jeremy, balanced on one of his knees with her arm loosely around his neck. She had long dark hair and brown eyes and was dressed in faded Levis and a sweater. But somehow, she didn’t seem out of place with the wild man beneath her.

  Her eyes met Madison’s briefly, flickered, then looked away.

  She was Laura Bates. Mrs. Jeremy.

  Keith Terrance, powerhouse drummer, was slumped down in laid-back comfort on a plastic couch. He was a hulking six-feet-plus. Even in repose there was about him the aura of a timebomb waiting to explode. He watched Madison silently with lazy eyes that said nothing.

  Mick Adamson, lead vocals and bass, was another matter. The compact, wiry, rubber-lipped singer sat on the edge of the makeup table. He was high on something, or maybe he was just getting wound up for the show. There was a jerky, almost squirrelly manner about him. His white knuckles gripped the table’s edge.

  Jeremy Bates studied Madison from around his wife. His spacey, good natured smile was still in place.

  “And here’s the man with the message from Cleveland,” he said. He gave a wave to Connie Frazer. “Hey, Connie, how ’ya doing? Sorry about the blockade. Lee was just following orders. It’s kind of nice to be alone just before a gig and, uh, you know—” He held two fingers to his right nostril and sniffed loudly. “—get relaxed before we go on.”

  “Or whatever you wanna call it,” laughed Adamson.

  “I understand,” said Connie. “It’s just that I brought along a new face on the tour and Arn thought it might be good if I introduced him to you right away.”

  “And I was so anxious to meet the big stars myself, Connie, don’t forget that,” Madison added.

  He caught her warning glance but didn’t have time to acknowledge it. Hulking Keith Terrance climbed to his feet from the couch.

  “Is that supposed to be funny, man?’ he wanted to know. “Who the fuck are you, Johnny Carson?”

  Madison told him his name. “Sit down, Keith,” he added quietly. “Save it for the fans. I’m not into prima donna trips.”

  The timebomb exploded. Keith Terrance lunged forward, like some loping demon in his getup. A meaty, calloused hand plowed into Madison’s shoulder, jarring him back.

  “No one gives a shit what you’re into, man,” the drummer hissed. “You wanted to come back here so goddamn much. All right, you came back. You seen the stars. Now blow before I lay some real stars on you.”

  He laughed at what he thought was a joke. Jeremy Bates made a sound with his mouth that was half annoyance and half disgust.

  “Come on, Keith. Give the guy a break. You don’t have to prove anything.”

  From the makeup table, Mick Adamson laughed too, and the almost giggly nature of the laugh confirmed something Madison had guessed. The guy was wired out of his mind on something. Probably speed. “Come on yourself, Jeremy,” he snorted. “Go on, Keith. Give this bastard the bum’s rush.” He shifted his wild gaze and raped Connie Frazer with his eyes. “The lady can stay.”

  “You hear that, dude?” Terrance demanded. “It’s two to one and majority rules in this here band. Now buy a ticket the hell out of here while you can still walk.”

  “Jeremy’s right,” Madison said. “You don’t have to prove anything, Keith. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

  Keith Terrance did just what Madison wanted him to do. With an outraged roar he lunged forward again, both big hands coming up now and reaching for Madison’s throat. Madison jerked his own right hand up so quickly that the movement was a blur. He got the drummer’s right wrist between his thumb and first two fingers and gave a quick twist. It was a move he hadn’t used since Nam. Terrance screamed and spun away, his face contorted with pain. He fell to the couch holding his wrist between his legs, rocking like a man having a fit.

  Brocchi snarled something and darted forward, crouching down before Terra
nce and trying to get a look at the wrist.

  “My wrist!” Terrance was screaming to nobody in particular. “The bastard broke my goddamn wrist!”

  Terrance’s conniptions were too animated for Brocchi to get through. The road manager looked back Over his shoulder, his eyes blazing. “What the hell did you have to do that for?’ he demanded. “If Keith can’t play tonight, you’re dead, mister. I don’t care if you’re working for Jesus Christ.”.

  “Relax,” said Madison. “I just pinched a nerve to calm him down a little. I leave when I want to leave.” He looked at Jeremy Bates. “You didn’t ask which girl in Cleveland sent the message,” he said.

  Bates glanced at Keith Terrance and there seemed something like satisfaction in the smile he shot back at Madison.

  “You didn’t give me much time. Not that I’m complaining. Keith’s needed that for quite a while.”

  “Right. So, I’m giving you time now.” He pointedly ignored Mrs. Bates. “Not interested?”

  Bates flashed his good-natured smile again.

  “Not especially. I don’t even know any girls in Cleveland.” He gave the lady on his knee a hug. “My woman’s right here and she’s all I need. Mick and Keith didn’t seem to react so I figured it was some kind of hustle. Thought it might be interesting. So okay, man. Is it a hustle? Is there some girl in Cleveland with a message?’

  Madison gave the guy a smile in return.

  “I guess not. I guess I really did just want to meet the big stars.”

  On the couch, Keith Terrance had stopped making so much noise. But that didn’t help Brocchi’s mood any.

  “Well now that you’ve seen them, why don’t you take Keith’s advice and get the hell out of here,” he said tightly. “You’ve got a job to do and it damn well doesn’t include pushing these guys around.”

  Terrance looked at Madison. He was blinking away the last of his pain tears.

  “You’re lucky I’ve got a show to do, dude. You stay away from me on this tour. You even look at me the wrong way and I’m gonna use my knife.”

  Mick Adamson seemed oblivious to the drama before him. He was still undressing Connie Frazer with slightly out-of-focus eyes.

  “But you can stay, Connie,” he reminded her hotly. “This is a real fun band—and the fun don’t start until after the show, right Keith?’

  “Speaking of shows, maybe you’d better blow, Steve,” said Jeremy Bates. “There’s a few thousand people waiting for us out there. We’d better earn our bread.”

  “I’ll be at the party tonight,” Madison promised the room in general. “Let’s continue the party then, shall we? I’ll try not to scare myself to death worrying about Keith in the meantime.”

  Jeremy Bates chuckled at that. Laura Bates was looking blankly at the opposite wall, as if removing herself from everything. Terrance, Adamson and Brocchi just glared, waiting for the intruder to leave.

  Madison turned, and Connie followed him out into the crowded corridor. The door slammed behind them with finality. Madison clasped the lady’s hand and with some effort they navigated their way through the sea of craziness toward the Field once again.

  When they were back outside, she said, “You don’t believe much in making good first impressions, do you? Jesus! Arn would have a cardiac arrest if he saw you treating his stars like that.”

  “The only way to get things cooking is to turn on the heat,” Madison told her.

  “Well, I guess I’m in it with you now,” she sighed. “I convinced them we were bosom buddies the first time I tried to get in. I’m sure I’m on their hate list how, too. Thanks a lot.”

  “Bosom buddies, huh?”

  “So, since we’re in it, why don’t we discuss it,” she suggested. “It would be kind of unique keeping up with you for a change. You’ve met the band. Any ideas?”

  “It’s too early for ideas. The recipe calls for more stirring. I kind of hope it isn’t Jeremy, if it’s any of them.”

  “His wife sure gave you a funny look when we came in, Steve. Like she knew you.”

  “Must have been my potent virility. I’m a Taurus, you know.”

  “Must have been. Well, don’t pass Jeremy Bates by as a suspect just because of that nice-guy smile. He comes across like Mr. Mellow—but underneath he’s twice the sadistic bastard of those other two put together.”

  Madison arched an eyebrow.

  “Is that the voice of experience speaking?’

  “Uh-huh. Sometime, when we know each other a little better, I’ll show you the scars.”

  That was enough for Madison. He didn’t push it. There wasn’t time even if he’d wanted to. The stadium lights dimmed and three bright spotlights picked out three points on the stage. He and Connie moved in as best they could. An expectant hush had fallen over the crowd. It would be less than a minute to showtime.

  But Steve Madison wasn’t thinking about rock concerts at the moment. Not even this one. His mind was busy sorting and filing for future reference the kaleidoscope of impressions which he’d carried with him from The Screaming Tree’s dressing room. Not to mention the tidbit Connie Frazer had just tossed his way. But even all that took backseat to the biggest surprise he’d received.

  Connie Frazer was a sharp woman. She’d read the signals correctly. Laura Bates had recognized Steve Madison. And Madison had recognized her. Why shouldn’t he? He never forgot ex-lovers. Especially ones that had meant as much to him as Laura. Two summers ago, her name had been Laura Hagen...

  Then, abruptly, the show began. A near- hysterical announcer shouted the band’s name over the P A. Jeremy Bates, Keith Terrance and Mick Adamson charged onstage, Terrance to his drumkit and Jeremy and Mick to plug the cords of their guitars into their amplifiers.

  The rising roar of sixty thousand screaming, whistling fans crashed in over Madison like a breaking wave.

  4

  The post-concert party was just getting under way when Steve Madison and Connie Frazer arrived. Madison’s ears were still ringing. The Screaming Tree’s performance at Soldier Field had been a ninety-minute blitzkrieg upon the senses. An extravaganza of thundering music, exploding smoke-bombs and multi-colored strobe lights. Keith Terrance had propelled the group with his high-pressure drumming while Jeremy Bates and Mick Adamson had been all over the stage, Adamson screaming the occult-oriented lyrics, backed by the booming wall of sound, taking the crowd higher and higher until the show had climaxed with the Tree’s current hit, Lucifer’s Calling.

  Subtlety wasn’t the Tree’s thing. Their performance had been primal yet professional. Their commitment, apparently total. The audience had filed out looking exhausted, happy and satisfied. They’d gotten their money’s worth.

  Arriving back at the hotel, Madison made one short stop before he and Connie joined the festivities downstairs. He detoured into his room and slipped his shoulder holster on under his jacket. The holster was specially designed to be worn under casual clothes and held a heavy .44 Magnum with a six- inch barrel. Connie watched, saying nothing.

  Laura Bates was the first person Madison recognized upon entering the dining room where the party was being held. She didn’t see him. She and Lee Brocchi were standing at the far end of a long table lined with food and drink. They were discussing something in earnest. Brocchi’s face seemed etched with attentive concern.

  The party was being tossed by the local concert promoter. The Screaming Tree hadn’t shown up yet but the media people, the two warmup bands and their parties were all there in full force, enthusiastically imbibing of the provided freebies. The black musician and his lady friend from Soldier Field must have made up. They strolled up holding hands, smiling. A number of the rock press were busy earning their pay. Several interviews were in progress in various parts of the room while mellow jazz wafted from a hidden sound system. New faces were still arriving. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed against a constant backdrop of rippling conversation and clinking glasses.

  “What now, chief?’ asked Conn
ie after Madison had fetched them drinks.

  They stood by the wall nearest the doorway, across the room from Laura and Brocchi. “When the band shows up, we stay on top of them,” Madison replied. “Anyone leaves,' we follow.”

  “There are three of them and two of us. What if they all leave and split up? What if one of them leaves before coming down to the party?”

  “Then we ad-lib. And there aren’t three. There are four. You’re forgetting Brocchi.”

  “Lee?” She shook her head. “Come on, Steve. He’s the only normal one in the bunch. He was just coming on strong at the gig because you were. He is their bodyguard.”

  “Which means he was with them in every city where one of those girls died.”

  Across the room, Brocchi excused himself to Laura Bates. He finished his drink and left the room, passing Madison and Connie with a nod and said nothing. After he was gone, Laura surveyed the crowd for the first time since Madison had entered. Her brown eyes rested on him immediately. Then she got busy refreshing her drink.

  “Mrs. Bates seems strongly affected by that Taurian virility,” Connie commented.

  Madison laughed.

  “You don’t miss much, lady. Keep your eyes open. It’s time to play detective.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He edged his way through the crowd. Laura Bates saw him coming, but she was between the table and the wall with no place to go, and he was closing fast. Then he was beside her.

  “Hello, Laura.”

  “Steve—”

  “It was a surprise to run into you. I knew Jeremy was married, but that side was always played down in the publicity. How have you been?’

  She looked down.

  “It hurts to see you again, Steve. I don’t know why that is after all this time. It’s been nearly two years.”

  “It seems longer in some ways, and shorter in others,” said Madison. “You were the stringer for Rolling Stone and I was the hungry musician on his way up.”

  “I had to get away from the music for a while after we split,” she said. “It hurt too much to even think about it because then I’d think of you.”