The Vampire Chase

by Stephen Mertz

  “Arn didn’t accuse Jeremy of anything to you,” said Madison. “We don’t know who it is. What do you think the chances are that it could be Mick or Keith?’

  “Christ! listen to what’s going down,” rasped Brocchi. “I’m rappin’ on dudes I’m supposed to be working with!”

  “If you’re sure it’s not Jeremy—” said Madison, and he let the sentence dangle.

  “That’s just as crazy,” said Brocchi. “Those two might be a little off the wall when it comes to all that occult crap, but don’t forget it’s earning them a few million dollars. I don’t call that crazy.”

  “Somebody’s killing somebody,” said Madison. “Arn didn’t make that up.”

  “The bastard was real generous with me,” Brocchi told him, a dash of self-pity eroding the tone of toughness. “He appealed to my sense of morality and justice to help apprehend a killer if there was one on the tour, or he advised me that I’d be blacklisted out of the business!”

  “Mick and Keith aren’t your buddies,” Madison reminded him coolly. “Last night at the party you told me that this was just a bread-and-butter gig.” Brocchi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re really down on those two, aren’t you?” Madison stepped back and rested against the arm of a chair. He was trying to read into the depths of Brocchi’s eyes, beneath the words, and he was coming up with nothing. The tour honcho would be sudden death at a poker table.

  “Where were you last night, Lee?’

  “You know damn well where I was,” snapped Brocchi. “You left me at the party when you took off after Keith.”

  “And you left a few minutes later. You and Mick.”

  Brocchi glanced at the bedroom door.

  “She’s the one who told you that. I thought you said she wasn’t in on this?’

  “She doesn’t have to be in on it to keep track of people for me,” said Madison. “That’s why she’s along. So, what did you and Mick do with yourselves alter you left?”

  Brocchi didn’t bat an eye.

  “We found a place up the street and had some drinks. We’ve all been partying pretty hearty since this tour kicked off. Mick felt like mellowing out and that sounded like a good idea at the time so I tagged along.” He bristled. “Why? Am I on the suspect list too? Arn didn’t get around to telling me that part.”

  Madison ignored the question.

  “If just goes to show how wrong a guy can be,” he said philosophically. “The way you were heating up when I cut out after Keith last night, I figured the first thing you’d do would be to find a phone and call Arn. Or follow me.”

  Brocchi’s eyes were twin points of steel.

  “I tried to reach Arn from the first bar we hit,” he replied with no trace of emotion. “I couldn’t get through until this morning. He had Led Zepplin playing the Garden and you know Shapiro when the stars are in town.”

  “But hell, Lee, I was walking out after one of your charges. You call that body guarding?”

  “I saw the chick Keith had with him and I knew damn well that he didn’t want a chaperone,” said Brocchi. He cocked his head slightly. “What about you? I haven’t seen Keith yet today? What happened? Does he know you followed him?”

  “I didn’t follow him.” Madison lied blandly. “My driver was a real ace. We lost your boy before we’d gone two blocks. So, you and Mick spent the night getting quietly blitzed, in a neighborhood tavern, is that it?”

  “That’s it, yeah.”

  “What did you talk about?’

  Brocchi’s body seemed to tighten like an overwound watch. He stepped forward, his knuckles white.

  “You know, Madison, I’ve got a real suspicious idea that I’m being used here. And I don’t like it worth a damn!”

  He was going to say more but was interrupted as the bedroom door opened.

  Both men turned as Connie Frazer entered the living room. She was dressed in Levis and a bright blue blouse. While it may have been humid in Chicago, the lady was looking cool and fresh. She’d come awake in a hurry.

  When she picked up the vibes in the room she stopped, then started to turn.

  “Oh...I didn’t know I was interrupting a business conference,” she said good-naturedly. “Sorry.”

  Madison rose from the chair arm.

  “Just monkey business,” he grinned. He turned back to Brocchi. “I guess that about ties things up for a while then, right, Lee?’

  Brocchi started to say something in anger but again caught himself. He executed an almost military about-face and stiff-legged it across to the front door. He yanked it open and stood with his hand on the knob. His eyes locked with Madison’s. His poker face was back in place.

  “I’m still thinking things over,” he said. “I told Shapiro that I’d keep my mouth shut and help you out with this thing. Now I’m starting to think the wrong people are getting the help. If you’re planning to railroad somebody just to keep Shapiro’s skirts clean—”

  “You know better than that, Lee.”

  “I’m still thinking it over,” Brocchi repeated.

  He slammed the door and was gone.

  The room was heavy with silence. Madison broke the hiatus with a heavy sigh not unlike that of a golfer who’s just sunk a particularly difficult hole- in-one. He looked back at Connie.

  “Good work,” he grinned. “If you’d stayed in there much longer he’d have thought you were listening.”

  She crossed to the armchair and half sat and half fell into it. Madison returned to its arm where he’d been sitting. He let his fingertips glide along the back of her neck. She purred just as she had in bed and reached up to entwine her fingers through his stroking ones. Her touch was electric. Then she remembered a thought and looked up at him.

  “I don’t understand why Lee told you he was with Mick last night, when you saw him at the house where that girl was killed,” she said. “Or why you didn’t call him on it when you knew he was lying.”

  “I think I know one of the reasons he lied,” said Madison. “But people can do things for more than one motive. I need to do some more checking today.”

  The warm feminine fingers slipped away from his own.

  “So, we’re back to cryptic word games,” she said. “Couldn’t last night at least change that? Or is trust too much of a commitment to ask?”

  Madison didn’t stop stroking her smooth neck. “I trusted you enough to want you to hear that whole conversation just now, didn’t I?’

  “Yes, and that’s something else I don’t understand. What was the scam about Brocchi not knowing that I was listening in? If he’s supposed to be working with us—”

  “If he has any reason to, he’ll see a chance to play us against each other,” said Madison. “If he wants that chance, let’s give it to him.”

  That broke the ice. She laughed despite herself. Her gentle fingers returned to his.

  “You are a Machiavellian bastard,” she said. “Do you think Lee knows about what happened to you last night? Was he part of it?”

  “I don’t know. If he was trying to set me up, maybe we can trick him into playing it so cagey that he’ll foul himself up and save us the trouble.”

  “But maybe he was just looking out for Keith like he says.”

  Madison grinned.

  “In which case, why should I put myself at the scene of a murder?”

  “So, if we hypothesize that Lee doesn’t know anything about the murder last night,” said Connie, “we also hypothesize that Keith wasn’t involved in what happened to you either. Lee and Keith were together for at least awhile after they split.” Her brow knit into a frown. “It would have to be like that. We aren’t talking about very much time. That means that it was either Mick or Jeremy who killed that girl.”

  The phone rang. Madison grimaced.

  “That’ll be Arn,” he said.

  It was.

  “I see you’re doing a real good job out there, Steve.”

  The voice dripped with sarcasm. Madison did his best to ignore it.<
br />
  “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “Someone tried to hang a frame on me last night. There’s been another killing in the market.”

  Shapiro’s explosion of breath sounded like a gunshot over the long-distance connection.

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah. It’s nothing we can talk about on the phone.”

  “Was it...just like the others?’

  “No,” said Madison, “and that’s what bothers me. Or maybe the whole number was just improvised on the spot and that accounts for it. I was supposed to take the fall, but it was too loose.”

  “For Chrissake, Steve, no one told you to join the tour and blow everything to hell! I just got off the phone with Brocchi about a half hour ago and he didn’t say anything about...this new one. Does he know?”

  “Uh-uh. Now it’s my turn to ad-lib and I’m keeping him in the dark for a while.”

  “Is there any way what happened last night can come home to roost?”

  “Don’t worry, Arn. I covered my tracks.”

  Shapiro snorted. “At least you’re starting to look after things in my interest for a change like you’re being paid to do!” Madison chuckled into the mouthpiece.

  “Or maybe I’m just waiting to get the guy in my own sights,” he needled. “Anything I felt about the bastard before goes double now. Now it’s personal. Our psycho tried to cook me last night, and I don’t like that.”

  “What’s the number with Brocchi?” the promoter asked. “You don’t think he had anything to do with those...jobs?”

  “The limos are leaving in about forty minutes, Arn,” said Madison. “And I’m still in my birthday suit, more or less. You wouldn’t want me to miss that flight to K.C., would you? I’ll get back to you when things start happening.”

  Shapiro didn’t think that was funny.

  “You stay on the line, goddammit!” he bellowed from New York. “You don’t need any forty minutes to get dressed. And what do you mean ‘when things start happening’? I’d say too damn many things have happened already!”

  Madison’s grin grew wider.

  “Now you’re the one who’s starting to come around,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.” He pushed the disconnect button with his index finger. When he released it the dial tone buzzed in his ear. He dialed the desk. “If I get any more calls, I’m not to be disturbed,” he said. “Under any circumstances.”

  He waited for the smart “yes, sir!” from the operator, then hung up. Once again, he seemed to glow with satisfaction. But Connie Frazer had been listening to the one-sided conversation with mounting perplexity and concern.

  “I think you just aced yourself out of a job,” she said, “and I don’t know whether to feel sad or relieved.”

  “Consider it academic,” said Madison. “I doubt if Arn will even bother trying to call back.”

  She worried her lower lip and shook her head as she appraised him unabashedly.

  “I don’t know, Steve. Sometimes I think you’re too damn sure of yourself. It’ll catch up with you someday.”

  Madison stalked over and stood facing her straight on in the chair.

  “Maybe you should learn the name of the game we’re playing,” he said evenly. “It’s called playing both ends against the middle. That’s what I’m doing with the guys in the band and that’s what Arn is playing with us. You heard what Brocchi told me. Arn made him think that you weren’t working on this with me. Now why do you think he did that?”

  Connie was staring at him like something under a microscope.

  “You guys are scary when you start playing games,” she said quietly, again in awe but with none of the good humor of before.

  “Don’t throw ethics at me,” Madison told her. “You’re taking a cut and you knew what you were getting into. You can bow out anytime you want if the job’s too much for you.”

  “I’ll be able to handle it, thanks,” she bristled. “I guess the scheming side of you was just one I hadn’t seen before. It’ll take some getting used to.”

  “It’s just another way l earn my pay,” said Madison. “And while you’re getting used to it, you can start thinking about Brocchi and how you’re going to handle him if he does decide to play us against each other. Because you’re the one he’ll go to.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  Madison’s grin slipped back into place. Morning always was his best time.

  “Me, I’ve had enough wheeling and dealing for a while,” he grinned. He leaned forward and delivered a chaste kiss to her forehead which failed to register any response whatsoever. This didn’t seem to faze him in the least. He straightened and started toward the bedroom. “I should just have time for a quick shower,” he said. “Then we’d better get down to the loading zone. I’ve got a feeling Brocchi isn’t going to look around too goddamn hard for us if we’re not there when the cars pull out!”

  8

  If you’re a rock star, there is a form of fatigue which hits at about mid-point on tour that is like no other. For nearly two weeks now your life has been the hotel and motel rooms, the limos, the airplanes, constant movement. Always something to do, something happening, someone around. Many, many someones. It’s a transient existence. There is no place, nothing, to call your own. Your world is a numbing flow of sensation and experience seemingly without beginning or end. It’s up at nine or earlier and you’re rushed to the airport. Then the flight to the next city on the tour. Just enough time to check into your room—plastic, aseptic, void of any personality whatsoever, just like all the others— then down to the sight of the gig for a sound check. Lots of “hurry up and wait.” There’s some hanging out with musicians in the group who will be sharing the bill with you but there’s little to say. They’re as burned out as you are. Back to the hotel or motel for a fast dinner. Nothing but ill-prepared commercial grease that fills the stomach but could never be said to nourish. You might have time for an interview or two, then you’re climbing into your stage clothes and the road manager is at the door every thirty seconds reminding you how late it’s getting; that the limo is downstairs waiting to whisk you back downtown to do your show and earn your money. After the show there’s the ubiquitous party tossed by the promoter or record reps to give themselves a chance to hobnob with the stars. You’re in bed by two or three at the earliest and tomorrow at nine or earlier it starts all over again: another city, another gig and more partying.

  It was fun at first, sure. The realization of every true rocker’s dream: playing your music for fun and plenty of profit and living the nomadic life of a gypsy, with all the women, dope and booze you can handle tossed in to make it complete. Until the days and the cities and the faces all merge into one repetitious blur. The pot and dope have kept you going until now, giving everything around you a stoned glow that at least made it all-easy to experience and enjoy. But by now you’ve indulged in so very much in such a short time, with so much happening, that it’s all caught up with you. By this point the pot and drugs only anesthetize, leaving you spent, foggy and irritable.

  You wish it would stop. Or even just slow down. You wish you could get away by yourself for just an hour, thirty minutes would do, to enjoy the almost forgotten beauty of solitude and silence. Man does not live by energy alone. But it doesn’t stop. There are another fourteen cities to go on the tour. And the madness—the constant assault on your senses— continues around the clock. Day after day after day.

  The show goes on.

  That’s where everyone’s head was at on The Screaming Tree tour this day as the Learjet soared through sunny skies at 32,000 feet, well above the clouds. It was still raining below, but here the world was a crisp blue beyond the cabin portals, although everyone in the plane seemed too wasted to take notice.

  Steve Madison had experienced mid-tour fatigue often enough to recognize its symptoms in others. Each one of his traveling companions had it bad. Or seemed to. Mick Adamson, Lee Brocchi, Jeremy Bates and Connie Frazer
inhabited a semi-circular couch up front toward the pilot’s compartment.

  They were watching a video Cassette of an old In Concert T.V. segment with blank, barely comprehending eyes.

  Laura Bates sat a few seats behind them at a window seat across the aisle from Madison. A half-finished paperback book was spread open across one of her shapely knees. Her head was resting on a pillow propped between the seat and the wall, and she appeared to be dozing.

  Keith Terrance was beyond a paneled wall to the rear of the craft. There was a well-stocked bar back there and some couches. But Terrance would be alone.

  Madison was as quiet as the others. He sat gazing out through the window beside his seat. This was only his second day on the tour and, though he had been through a lot during the last twenty-four hours, he was a long way from being victimized by the fatigue which had these others in its grip. He was keeping a low-profile, blending in with the surroundings so as to be hardly noticed by these people in their sleepwalking haze. By tonight they’d begin coming to life again. But this was only late morning. Dead time for any musician worth his salt who’d been working as hard as these guys.

  For Madison this was a time to get things done. For Connie too. Despite appearances she wasn’t any more wasted than he was. She was following his instructions, hanging out with Lee, Mick and Jeremy around the cassette machine to try and pick up any bits and pieces of the puzzle which might happen to float her way. She hadn’t said much to Madison since their stretched tempers that morning. But she was working with him, helping him, getting the job done,

  Madison wondered if he was bothering her mind as much as she was bothering his. He liked her the more he thought about her, and he’d been thinking about her a lot since the lift-off from 0’Hare. He blocked her from his mind once again, determined that this time she would stay blocked out. He brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  Tonight would be interesting. There was no concert scheduled for this evening. The band had the night off in Kansas City before playing a show the following evening across the river at Mun Stadium in Independence. Tonight, everyone would have their first free time since the tour began.