The drummer’s face clouded. “Lee?”
“I didn’t follow you last night,” said Madison, as if it were a statement of obvious fact. “I made all that up. Lee’s the one who told me that you were at the scene of a murder. He followed you, just like he said. When I leaned on him this morning, he couldn’t stop singing. He’s got a real good voice, that boy has. You ought to try using him in the group.” He slid into the car the rest of the way and slammed the door in Keith’s face. “You heard Mr. Brocchi,” he snapped at the chauffer who was furnished by the limo service. “Let’s roll this popsicle wagon.”
The machine slid effortlessly into gear and left Terrance standing in the sunlight. Madison’s caddy swung around toward the access road leading to the highway. He had one last view of the hulking drummer as Keith turned slowly and marched back to where Adamson and Brocchi sat waiting in the first limo.
Madison thought it was a shame that he couldn’t make out the look on Keith Terrance’s face.
He didn’t envy Lee Brocchi one damn bit.
9
It was a day of surprises for Madison. First, to learn how lucid Keith Terrance could become relevant to matters of satanism and the occult. Then, that it would not be at all difficult to arrange a confrontation with the next name on his list.
He received a phone call from Mick Adamson within minutes after checking into his motel room.
Kansas City was as gloomy and dilapidated as Madison had remembered it, even in the sparkling summer sunshine. This had once been a swinging, wide open town in the days of bootleg whiskey, a young Count Basie and Kansas City jazz. With my Kansas City baby and my bottle of Kansas City wine. Sure. The music lived on but the happy-go- lucky red-light spirit that had given birth to it had died long ago, smothered by the sterility of countless moral “clean up” campaigns.
Or maybe he was being too hard on the place. Maybe it was just his mood. Knowing how short the fuse was getting. Wishing for but a passing instant that he could remain here in the plastic but at least safe comfort of the Holiday Inn room. Leaving the problems of the world—especially Arn Shapiro’s problems—to take care of themselves. He thought again, as he occasionally did on assignment, how paradoxical it was that he had to smear himself with the dirt and moral decay of others, to pay for his retreat out among the healthy, soulful virgin pines of the Rockies. Or maybe it wasn’t a paradox. Maybe he learned something here—about himself and the universe he lived in, its good and its bad— that gave the golden peace of his time away even more meaning.
He turned from the window and started toward the door. Connie Frazer was two rooms down. He wanted to learn if she had picked up anything hanging out with Lee, Mick and Jeremy around the video machine in the plane.
He had his hand on the knob when the peeling ring of the telephone pulled him around. He hesitated an instant. There was a good chance it would be Arn Shapiro calling from New York, trying to keep tabs on him.
He briefly debated with himself the and advisability of just letting it ring and going on about his business. But somehow Shapiro always seemed to find a way of tracking him down, and there seemed little use in prolonging the inevitable. He walked back to the phone and lifted the receiver.
It was not Shapiro.
“Let’s you and me have some words,” a voice said. It was Mick Adamson.
“Talk on, Mick. I’m all ears.”
“Not over the house phone,” the lead singer snapped peevishly. “I’ll meet you in the coffee shop next door. Not the motel coffee shop. I don’t want to run into anybody. I mean the one about halfway down the block.”
“No one booked me in as a secret agent,” Madison replied. ‘What’s wrong, Mick? You know what room I’m in. Drop on down and let’s have a talk.”
“I’ll be at a back table,” said Adamson. “Be there in fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead.
Twenty minutes later, Steve Madison strolled into the coffee shop. The place wasn’t crowded, and the Screaming Tree’s lead singer was easily spotted, even at a back table. The wiry, compact singer and bassist seemed even more antsy than usual. He was flying, either on something synthetic or on the quivering of his, own stretched nerves.
“What the hell’s the idea of keeping me waiting?” he demanded irritably as Madison slid in across from him. “You were supposed to be here five minutes ago.”
“What’s five minutes?” said Madison. “I was across the street. I watched you come in. I wanted to see if anyone was playing tag with you.”
“Was there?”
There was a quaver to the voice now. The eyes said he was flying on a chemical high. But the quaver said that the nerves were jumpy as well. Madison wondered what he’d hooked onto here.
“There was no one following you,” he said confidently. “Relax.”
Then the waitress was there to take their order. When she had gone, Adamson said, “Something’s going down on this tour that I don’t know about. I want that to change.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because I think you’re right smack in the middle of it, that’s why. What did you say to Keith back there by your limo just after we’d landed?” Madison shook his head.
“That’s between Keith and myself,” he said.
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” rasped the singer. “This band was never what you’d call family to each other, the way a good band ought to be. Sure, I’ll admit it. Between Keith and me, Keith is the heavy. I listen to what he says because a lot of it makes sense. But it’s not a fifty-fifty exchange and we both know damn well that the only reason I’m around is because when I sing his lyrics, people buy the records and we both get rich. Then there’s Jeremy, putting Keith’s lyrics to music for as long as the paychecks keep coming. And Lee’s head is right where Jeremy’s is at.”
Madison nodded. “A real mixed bag of nuts,” he agreed.
“But at least we got high and had some fun with each other,” the singer snapped. “At least we trusted each other.”
Madison couldn’t hold back the words that came next.
“You’ve got your nerve, talking about trust,” he growled. “Screwing your lead guitarist’s wife.”
Adamson’s rubbery lips seemed to quiver with a life of their own as Mick drew in a quick breath. He licked his lips and most of the quivering stopped.
“I knew that had something to do with it,” he said. “Does Jeremy know?”
Madison ignored the question. “Tell me what happened in your limo after I spoke with Keith,” he said._
Mick shrugged and spoke impatiently, as if he considered this the price for getting on with more important matters.
“When Keith got back into the car with me and Brocchi, he seemed really pissed,” he said. “No one said anything for a little while but after we’d gone a ways, Keith says to Brocchi, “Madison tells me maybe we should fit you into the group.” Brocchi didn’t seem to know what he was talking about, so Keith goes on, “Madison says you told him all about what happened at that chick’s house in Chicago last night.”
Madison grinned to himself. It made him feel good to know that his efforts were meeting with success. He said, “And Brocchi told Keith to stow it until they were alone. Or words to that effect, right?”
The singer started. “How did you know?”
“You said something about being mad because no one trusts you,” Madison reminded him.
The food arrived.
And with the food, another interruption.
Lee Brocchi and Keith Terrance came leisurely in through the front door. Brocchi spotted Madison and the singer and the surprise was clear on his face even from across the room. Brocchi and Terrance conferred for a moment, then came forward. They both seemed in good spirits.
Adamson muttered a graphic curse. He leaned forward and Madison leaned over to listen. He had the impression that the singer was flipping as rapidly as possible through his mental index file of sights and geography assimilat
ed in the short time since they’d arrived in town.
“Look, I’ve got to talk with you and I want to do it where we won’t be overheard,” he said. “I don’t know what highway we came in on, but we passed a big gravel quarry just after leaving the airport.”
“I remember the one,” said Madison.
“Good. Meet me there tonight at nine. It could be worth your while.”
“Yeah,” said Madison dryly. “We can talk all about trust.”
Then Brocchi and Terrance were with them, joining them at the table. It seemed that they were in dire need of sustenance, but that they had had to bypass the Holiday Inn coffee shop since Keith had a supreme distrust of any food made in any chain kitchen anywhere.
Madison admitted to sharing this prejudice and he and Adamson dug in while Brocchi and the heavy-set drummer ordered meals of their own. The conversation drifted to the state of popular music today, and during it Madison could detect no undercurrent of distrust or bad vibes between any of th men around him. It was hardly a personal discussion, but the words flowed easily, seemingly between friends who enjoyed each other’s company. Any hostile undercurrents were successfully muted beneath the pleasantries.
Madison made a point of finishing his lunch and being on his way before any of the others. He didn’t want to be tied down by a group. He wanted to have the freedom of movement without needing to explain anything to anybody. Besides, he wasn’t picking anything up or accomplishing anything hanging out here discussing who was on top of the charts this week. If any of these guys had anything to say about the events of the past few hours, they were waiting for him to split before they said them.
So, he split. With smiles and see-you-laters, he paid his check and walked back toward the motel up the block. He had been about to see Connie when Adamson’s call had come, and now seemed like as good a time as any to follow through with that original plan. Besides, he was looking forward to seeing her again, alone, even if it was just to compare notes on the assignment.
He walked a little faster.
The lady was getting under his skin...
Which was why, when he saw Jeremy Bates helping Connie into a rental car in the motel parking lot, he suddenly felt the same vast emptiness in the pit of his stomach that he had felt the night before when he’d seen sweet-cheat Laura go into her clinch with trusting buddy Mick Adamson in Chicago.
Connie and The Screaming Tree’s lead guitarist didn’t see Madison. From this distance, their manner seemed to be that of a man and woman who were friends, out to share a pleasant afternoon drive in a new city.
The car pulled away and exited the lot on the opposite side of the block, immediately lost in the dense flow of traffic on the street which ran parallel to the one on which Madison stood.
He tried telling himself that there was nothing to worry about. Connie must have picked up a lead on the. plane. Like a good operative, she was following through. Madison hoped the lady knew what the hell she was doing. But there was no possible chance of catching up with them now...
He continued toward the motel. The emptiness he’d felt at seeing Connie and Jeremy together was still there. Only it wasn’t like last night in Chicago after all. Seeing Laura with a man other than her husband had brought disillusionment. There could be no disillusionment with Connie. Madison had no illusions about her. There hadn’t been time since yesterday morning in New York to form any.
A lot more had gone by in those twenty-four hours than a few thousand air miles. There was a spark between himself and this woman; a compatibility. And thanks to an extraordinary set of circumstances, their lives had intertwined as totally as their bodies had the night before in Connie’s bed.
Madison recalled that just before the concert last night at Soldier Field, Connie had told him that she and Jeremy Bates had once been lovers. The thought had somehow been lost until now beneath the flood of everything else that was happening. But now it registered, and Madison was surprised at the realization that this time the emptiness in his gut was jealousy, and nothing else. He reminded himself that he had no right to be jealous of a woman he’d only slept with once.
Then he found himself wondering why it wasn’t Laura Bates out driving with her husband.
He found Laura in the motel cocktail bar.
There were only two other customers in the place, and she was sitting alone at the bar. Madison had always felt that bar stools enhanced the appearance of some women, while others, no matter how virtuous, had trouble getting comfortable on the damn things without giving the vague impression of being tramps. But a lady was a lady anywhere and that was how he had to class Laura Bates, even after what he knew about her.
He slid onto the stool next to hers.
“Buy you a drink?’
“No th—” she started to say. Then, when she realized who it was, “Oh! Steve—”
Madison looked at the bartender.
“A Coors for me and another of whatever the lady’s having,” he instructed. Then he looked back at Laura. “I never remembered you as killing your spare time in cocktail lounges, lady.”
She looked at him directly for the first time. There was something deep in those brown eyes that he couldn’t be certain of. There was a time when he could read her like a book. But that was long ago. He sensed an air of unhappiness about her, though, and wondered how to handle it.
The drinks came.
When the bartender was out of ear shot, she said, “I thought we agreed last night to stay away from each other. Not to mess up each other’s life all over again.”
Without knowing why, he asked, “Any idea where Jeremy is right now?”
Her eyes grew sharper.
“No. Why?”
Madison took a sip of beer and shrugged.
“Just wanted to check up on when I should arrange this interview that some local columnist’s been pestering me for,” he said. “I am the promo man, you know.”
She sipped her drink, a Marguerita, eyeing him over the glass.
“I guess I’m still trying to get used to that,” she said. “I guess I always saw you as so much more.”
“It’s kind of late for the personal jabs, isn’t it, Laura? They say first you love, then you hurt, then you forgive. I thought we were way past the second stage by now.”
She turned back to the bar with her drink. The air of tragedy—or maybe it was just sadness—that he’d detected before was even more pronounced.
“We are past that stage,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt. I guess I meant that since we split, I’ve always thought of you as playing your music, being happy.” She tried to smile but didn’t quite make it. “I guess that’s just my hang-up, isn’t it?”
His thoughts of Connie Frazer were obliterated in the presence of this woman who had meant so much to him. As were any thoughts of cheats, sweet or otherwise. A part of hm wanted now so badly to reach out to her. But he knew he couldn’t do that.
“I guess I always thought of you as being happy after we split up too,” he said. “It doesn’t look like either one of us got their wish, does it?”
She looked at him. She seemed to be genuinely startled by the statement.
“What do you mean, Steve?’
“Are you happy, Laura?”
“Steve, please—”
“Maybe I’m just misreading the signs.”
“Signs?’
“Like you and Jeremy arguing at the party last night, for starters.”
“Stephen don’t be silly. Jeremy and I are married, remember? Married people are supposed to bicker once in a while.”
“The next day you’re sitting down here drowning your blues in Margueritas while your old man’s seeing the sights with another lady?” Madison countered. “Yeah, a real happy relationship the two of you have. And I’ve only been around for one day.”
Laura’s brown eyes blazed. | “That’s right, only one day,” she said. “So, what the hell gives you the right to try and diagnose my en
tire life after only one day, just because we knew each other a long time ago? I’ve been living and growing since we broke up, Steve. I might not even be the same person you knew way back then.”
“Two years isn’t that long,” said Madison. “What were you arguing about last night? Did I cause it?” She shook her head. Madison thought that her long brown hair glinted beautifully in the soft lights of the lounge.
“You’re more impossibly stubborn than you were two years ago,” she said. “No, I told you last night that Jeremy doesn’t know about us. You remember the mutual agreement I told you about? My past stays buried where it belongs, in the past, and so does his.” She set her glass down. She reached along the edge of the bar and touched his wrist. “Dear Stephen, we can’t let the past confuse us about what’s happening now. Don’t you understand that? There’s a part of my heart which will always belong to you, and I know that a part of you is loving me right now. You want to help me, but you don’t know how to go about it because you have no way of knowing what kind of person I am now. You can’t help me, Steve. Please, just let it be. You’ll save us both so much hurt.”
It was quite a speech. When it was over Madison finished his beer and got to his feet, dropping some dollar bills on the bar.
“You always were impossible to argue with, yourself,” he grinned. “You’re much too logical for a woman, Laura. Okay, I’ll lighten up. Your life is your life. And so are your problems. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Stephen.”
“Take care, lady.”
He caught the elevator in the lobby and all the way back up to his floor he wondered what had happened down there. He flashed back on his condemnation of and pontificating to Mick Adamson less than thirty minutes ago and tried not to feel like too much of a hypocrite. But dammit! There was still some sort of magical flow between himself and that fine woman. It could never be as it once was, obviously. He had blown that long ago. But a feeling was still there. Then he stopped thinking about it.
In his room he locked and chained the front door. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. He stripped and took a fire-breathing, twenty-minute shower. He didn’t bother toweling down as he padded out from the bathroom. He liked the sensation of the moisture evaporating from his skin. Nude, he sat at the narrow shelf built into the wall beneath the mirror and cleaned and oiled his .44 Magnum.
The Vampire Chase Page 8
