The Vampire Chase

by Stephen Mertz

  Madison’s eyes were cold.

  “Everybody’s a somebody, Arn. It sounds like one of your boys deserves to have his head blown off.”

  Shapiro raised a hand.

  “Now don’t start talking like that again,” he said: “The only reason you got away with it in Nashville was because those bastards you blew away were pushers and the cops couldn’t do a thing to bust them anyway. They were glad to see the job get done.”

  “And you were glad when that singer of yours finally went up for the cure and RCA would talk to him again. What was the figure on that deal, Arn? About a quarter of a million, wasn’t it?”

  “This is different. It’s dynamite and we’ve got to keep it from going off. If something like this got out, the whole industry would suffer, not just me. Christ! a lot of us are feeling the inflation pinch the way it is. You know that. People don’t go to concerts like they used to.”

  “Sure. So, you’re going to have him locked up, right?”

  “We’ll decide what to do with him,” Shapiro said with exaggerated patience, "if we find out who he is.”

  “What difference will that make? I won’t be part of a coverup, Arn. I’ll fly around and get your boys and girls out of jams, but I won’t watch someone get away with murder. You should know that.”

  Shapiro leaned forward across the desk.

  “Look, Steve, don’t paint me as the villain of this piece. Don’t you think I lay awake nights, telling myself that the death of these last two girls rests on my soul? If I had just put the pieces of the puzzle together sooner. Or admitted the truth to myself sooner! Right now, I’m doing my best to make up for lost time. But we take it one step at a time.”

  “If you’re right about the killer being one of those boys in the Tree, we’re risking the life of every groupie that the band draws until we’ve got our nut tagged,” said Madison. “I hear those boys like their fun. Plenty of ladies.”

  “So, you get on the job today,” Shapiro said. “I’ve got you two seats booked on the eleven-thirty Continental flight to Chicago. You can join up with the tour at the hotel late this afternoon. The Tree is doing Soldier Field tonight.”

  “Why two seats on the plane? I don’t want any company.”

  Shapiro picked up the interoffice phone on his desk.

  “Connie, would you step in for a moment, please?” Replacing the receiver, he looked back at Madison. “I’m backing you on this one, Steve.”

  The door behind Madison opened. The receptionist from the outer, office stepped in.

  Connie Frazer had caught Madison’s eye on a number of previous visits to Arn’s headquarters. But the visits were always fast, like this one. There had been no time for dates or getting acquainted. But it had not been due to lack of interest or hormonal response. No, indeed.

  The lady was a fox.

  She was about twenty-three, feminine yet confidant and self-possessed, dressed tastefully in a light tan slacks-and-jacket combination that followed every curve just so. Clear, piercing blue-green eyes met Madison’s briefly. The only flaw in a lovely face of high, smooth cheekbones and aristocratically tilted nose was really no fault at all, as far as Madison was concerned. The lady’s lower lip was perhaps a bit too full aesthetically, the mouth curving into a slight natural pout that suggested a most sensual nature.

  “Yes, Arn?”

  “Connie, I’ve told Steve that you’ll be working this with him,” Shapiro said. “Ready to leave?”

  “I’ve got the tickets with me.”

  Shapiro turned to Madison.

  “Steve, you and Connie are hooking up with the tour in Chicago as publicity liaison with this office. The band doesn’t know that I’ve worked out the publicity with outfits in each of the cities, so you’ll be covered. All you have to do is stay on top of the boys in the group and get to the bottom of this thing. I figure four eyes are better than two, so Connie’s going with you.” He started to rise. “Well, I guess you two had better be on your way if you’re going to catch that plane. Connie was good enough to offer to drive to the airport, so—”

  Madison lifted a hand.

  “Whoa, Arn. Since when am I part of a team?” Shapiro gave the impression of being disconcerted “What’s Wrong, Steve? It’ll look a lot better if someone from the office is along. The guys have seen Connie when they were up signing contracts. You won’t have to worry about them finding out who you are.”

  “Wrong, Arn.” Madison’s eyes were narrow. The mouth was grim. “Let the word get out and they’d be the ones to worry. Maybe that’s what you should do. Put the heat on and watch things jump.”

  “No, dammit,” Shapiro almost snarled. “I told you I want you playing low-key on this one. You stay undercover until you’ve got something. Connie will keep your cover intact, that’s all.”

  “Then you mean we’re not working together, right? I want to make sure Connie’s got the game-plan straight.”

  Connie’s eyes flared. She was tired of standing on the sidelines.

  . “I think Arn’s taking me into confidence on this should account for something, Steve. We were going over the ‘game-plan’ while you were still on that flight from Denver. There will be a lot to keep an eye on if we’re going to crack this, and it could happen a lot sooner if we worked together. Please don’t go macho on us.”

  “I’ll explain it to you sometime,” Madison said, and ignored the even hotter flareup that brought. He looked back at Shapiro. “Let’s talk price, Arn.”

  “What’s wrong with the usual? Ten grand- plus expenses.”

  “Make it fifteen. I’ve got a feeling about this one. I think I’m going to earn it.”

  “Fifteen!?” Shapiro gasped. “Christ! No wonder you can afford a ranch in Colorado!”

  “You said the deaths of some of those girls were resting on your soul,” said Madison. “Maybe if they rested on your bank account, you’ll be a little quicker on the uptake next time.”

  Shapiro reached for a checkbook and scribbled in it.

  “Just what I need,” he grumbled. “A wiseass conscience.”

  He tore the check from the book and handed it to Madison. Madison stood, slipping the check into his wallet.

  “You’re trying to play slick with me, Arn. It was your idea to make this job different from the others. The price goes up accordingly.”

  “Are you saying this job is different,” asked Connie Frazer, “because Arn is sending someone along with you? Or because that someone is a woman?”

  “Forget it,” said Madison. “Arn’s paid for his mistake. Let’s book to the airport.”

  Shapiro’s face clouded.

  “Now remember, Steve. Very low profile, okay?”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Madison promised.

  He turned and left, not waiting for goodbyes or to make sure that the woman was behind him.

  3

  It was a warm, clear summer evening in Chicago. Soldier Field, on the city’s north side, was packed and still filling. Young people, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, were swarming through the turn-styles. A festive partying atmosphere was the order of the night. The early arrivals had commandeered the playing field itself with their blankets, crowding right up to the front of the elevated stage. Behind them, the stands too were nearly filled. The two lesser known warmup bands had come on and done their job, getting the audience excited and ready for the star attraction. Now a crew of roadies were busy hustling about the stage, getting the band’s heavy equipment ready for performance. The electricity of expectation coursed through the crowd. Only another twenty minutes, a half hour at most, and it would be showtime.

  The night, and the crowd, belonged to The Screaming Tree.

  Steve Madison stood on the fringe of the crowd below the bleachers, taking it all in. The scent of pot and hash was so thick in the air, he wondered why he wasn’t feeling-stoned just from walking around. But he was straight, and he planned to stay that way. Being stoned and working assignments fo
r Arn Shapiro just didn’t mix.

  The energy from the young crowd had an exhilarating effect on him. It was its own special kind of high. He’d experienced it for the first time as a high-school boy in I963 when he’d gone to see The Beatles on their first American tour. The British Invasion had followed. The Rolling Stones, The Animals, The Who and countless other young, angry, high-pressure Cockney bands. And Steve Madison, like most people of his age in America, had fallen totally, helplessly, happily in love with the sounds and lifestyle of rock ’n roll. In the years since, Madison, the world and his love affair with rock had all gone through many, many changes. But the love still burned.

  After high school had come a brief, unsuccessful shot at college, then the Army. Vietnam. Then, upon discharge, his own rock band. Scuffling, trying to make it, and realizing ultimately that those Chosen few who did make it to the top were from the hundreds of thousands who were trying, and that to make it, somewhere along the line something had to be sacrificed to the almighty god of success. Sometimes it was integrity; Sometimes it was your soul. Sometimes it was more. Janis and Jimi, among many others, had learned that the hard way. But whatever the price, Steve Madison had decided it was too high for success in such a mercurial profession. Some things weren’t worth giving up, even for love. So now he was trouble-shooter-on- call for Arn Shapiro. Still a functioning unit of the exciting world of rock music, but master of his soul, his integrity, his life.

  It was the only way Madison knew how to live.

  He’d come out front tonight, as he always did when his assignments for Arn took him to concerts, to experience, however briefly, the hubbub and commotion of the expectant audience; of those who shared his love. Soldier Field pulsed with the vibes of Now; with the throbbing intensity of life itself. The sense of oneness that resulted among all these people was as much a part of Rock as the music itself.

  Connie Frazer was backstage waiting for the Tree to arrive from their hotel. Madison had considered going directly up to their suite immediately upon his arrival in town and introducing himself under his cover as publicity coordinator. But after some more thought he’d decided against it, preferring instead to meet them this evening in a more casual, social setting at the gig where, as part of the flurry of everything else happening, he would draw less attention. This was The Screaming Tree’s only performance in the Windy City. There would be a party, probably a wild party, back at the hotel after the performance. There would be plenty of time and opportunity to start nosing around then.

  Onstage, most of the band’s equipment was in place and ready. The small red indicator lights of the warming amplifiers, indicating that the juice was running, surveyed the crowd like hungry eyes. Everything was set but, showbiz being what it is no matter what the format, the audience would be kept waiting at least another fifteen minutes to build the suspense even further and enhance the moment when the Tree at last burst forth. But they would have arrived at the Field by now, and that’s what Madison had been waiting for.

  He began navigating his way around the perimeter of the mob, toward the backstage area. He found himself thinking about Connie Frazer, and their flight from New York.

  It had been a generally pleasant flight. Pleasant because Connie Frazer was a lovely lady, and because the feminist chip she’d displayed on her shoulder in Aim’s office had not surfaced again. Their conversation during the first part of the flight had consisted primarily of social niceties and comparing tastes in music and film.

  It had taken her forty-five minutes to reach the bottom line.

  “You said something in Arn’s office that’s been bothering me ever since,” she’d said somewhere over Ohio.

  He’d been expecting this. It had only been a matter of time.

  “You mean about explaining my attitude?”

  “Yes. Steve, since we’ve left his office we’ve touched on more subjects than I can count and I haven’t discovered even a trace of male chauvinism.”

  “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

  “But when Arn told you I was coming along on this trip, you acted like the Threatened Male- incarnate.”

  “You just read the signs wrong, Connie,” he told her. “I just don’t like what Arn was trying to pull. I still don’t.”

  “You mean backing you up on this?”

  “It’s more than that. I could handle this one on my own and Arn damn well knows it.”

  “Then why am I along?” she asked. “I don’t like people playing games with me.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be working for Arn Shapiro. You really don’t know why he sent you along?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?’

  “Okay. Arn and I see eye-to-eye because I get results. He used to manage a band I was in and when I hung up my rock’ n roll shoes he offered me the job I’ve got now. On every assignment he’s tossed me so far, I’ve come up smelling of roses. But this job is different from the others. Way different. It’s not angling one of his acts out from under a sticky personal mess or a good talent being wasted by drugs. Like Arn said, it’s dynamite.”

  “What will he do if he’s right and someone in the Tree is involved in those murders?’

  “I don’t know. I don’t think Arn knows, himself. But whatever it is, he wants to make the decision.”

  Intelligent, feminine eyes glinted with awareness. “And that’s where I come in?’,

  Madison nodded. “You’re along to keep your eyes on yours truly as well as on the members of The Screaming Tree,” he said. “Arn wants to know if I start getting religion. If I start thinking about justice instead of his bank account.”

  “Arn wouldn’t let someone get away with murder.”.

  “Yeah, that’s what he says. What he’d probably like to do is have me find out who it is and then have the guy quietly whisked away into a mental institution. Arn’s afraid I might find out which one of the Tree is killing young girls and blow the guy’s brains out—and the whole thing sky-high at the same time.”

  “Would you?”,

  “I might, if I knew for a fact that I had my man.”

  Connie shivered. The rapport between them that had been building since Shapiro’s office was dying fast.

  “That’s pretty brutal, isn’tit?”

  “But effective.”.

  “But what gives you the right to take another man’s life like that?”,

  “What gives some man the right to kill those four girls? Or doesn’t that matter because they were dumb groupies and the man’s part of a million-dollar rock act?”

  Now the eyes glinted with something else. “You know that isn’t what I meant,” she said. “But the law—”

  “—will put him in the funny farm for a few years until he’s ‘sane’ again. If they work hard and get lucky and find all the proof they need, which they won’t. I couldn’t live with that, Connie. I value human life too damn much. Even a groupie’s life.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, Arn is right. He does need to watchdog you.”

  “No one’s going to stop me from doing what I have to do,” he told her.

  He’d said it firmly, but not as a threat or a promise… it was merely fact.

  It was also the end of the conversation. She hadn’t spoken again until they were approaching O’Hare, and then it was back to the niceties and pleasantries. The rapport had indeed been broken.

  Madison couldn’t blame her. He’d given Connie Frazer plenty to think about. He had his own share of food for thought, too. Such as: What if Shapiro was totally off-base about a connection between the murders and the band? And if he wasn’t, what would Madison do?

  Steve Madison knew he’d have to play it as he played life—as it came.

  The area surrounding the backstage entrance was crowded with milling kids, all trying to talk their way past the mountainous uniformed rent-a-cop who blocked the doorway with his arms folded. Some of the kids wanted back in a big way, to hobnob with the stars. One was saying he had designed some clothes he wanted t
o show to Mick Adamson, the lead singer. Another said he was Adamson’s brother: He was flashing a driver’s license. A young woman said she was one of Mick’s best friends. He’d asked her to come down but must have forgotten to leave word at the door. It all came at the rent-a-cop at once, part of the larger, constant barrage of the stadium. But he had his orders to keep everyone without a Stage Pass out. He only glanced away from the hassling kids for a moment to look at Madison’s I.D. His nod sent Madison on into the Fantasy World itself.

  The labyrinth of narrow, low-ceilinged corridors which led to The Screaming Tree’s dressing room was filled over capacity by members of the two warmup bands and their considerable assemblage of hangers-on. The place was wall-to-wall people, crackling with excitement. Madison brought his elbow into use and began plowing through. The closer he came to the dressing room, the thicker the crowd got.

  The reason these two bands were chosen to open the show was that they were nearly as apt to launch as The Tree themselves. It was like a circus back there. Like a gala masquerade party at some home for the incurably weird.

  One guy was stark naked, his body aglow with filled-in circles of loud paint and sparkling sequins pasted across his hips and penis. No one seemed to notice him. Every once in a while, someone clasping a guitar, or a set of drumsticks would stumble by, dripping with perspiration, chest pumping, winding down from the adrenaline rush that had kept him going for the last sixty minutes. Over in a comer, an angry white girl was screaming at one of the black musicians.

  “You bastard! No one leaves me stuck in a hotel room like that!”

  “Baby, you was out! I tried to wake you, I swear. But you wouldn’t move and the limos were leavin’.”