Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) Read online

  Brubaker floundered back four feet as the smell of gunpowder hung in the air and the rattle of gunfire echoed in their ears.

  The kid’s red face went ash white, and he looked as if he might lose his dinner.

  Wesley kept a stone face, not wanting to show a trace of the fear that was making his hands shake.

  “You know how many twenty-twos this mag carries?” Tony grabbed the fat magazine with his free hand.

  The kid jerked his head in one rapid no.

  “Twenty. And I got it rigged so I pull the trigger once and the thing can unload. You understand?”

  The kid opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Word on the street is, the dude in Canarsie was a rat-squealing tell-all.” Tony lightly tossed the Tech .22 in his right hand. “He got himself whacked for blabbing.”

  “Oh…don’t worry—”

  “And the same will happen to you if you tell one soul where you got that cristy, you read?”

  “Oh, hey, I read, I read. I’m not about to—”

  “Now beat it!” Tony hoisted the weapon up to his shoulder and the kid scrambled an about-face, practically sprinting for the door with a blubbering Brubaker right on his heels.

  Badino’s dark eyes locked in on Wesley, followed by the cock of his head and a smirk. “He ain’t gonna do no talkin’, now is he, Wes?”

  Wesley watched the two figures scurry into the darkness. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  As Tony banged the Tech .22 back into the toolbox, two things occurred to Wesley: 1) He would love to see the bullets from that weapon rip through Everett Lester’s sickening, superspiritual flesh, and 2) if you ever wanted to commit a murder, Tony Badino was probably a very good person to know.

  2

  “I’M ABOUT TO GO on.” Everett Lester sat hunched over a wooden bench in a carpeted locker room, his head almost buried between his knees, speaking into a tiny cell phone.

  “I’m so excited for you,” his sister said. “It’s been a long time coming. Are you psyched?”

  Chanting and foot stomping from the thundering crowd one floor above reverberated around him in Queens Arena.

  He stood. “I’m feeling weird.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He found a row of sinks and looked at himself in the big mirror. “I feel like bailing.”

  “What are you saying? You were made to perform!”

  He got close, examining his intense brown eyes. Somehow, looking beyond them into his restless soul. “I guess I’m worried about what people are expecting…”

  “What people?”

  “Everybody. Fans. Reporters. Former DeathStrokers. The whole world. Everybody’s watching.”

  “Since when have you cared what other people think?”

  “I’ve got to set a good example, Mary.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I had a guy chew me out at the Pro-Am in Pebble Beach.” Everett hoisted himself onto the countertop. “He told me his fifteen-year-old, who’d heard I was saved, got there at seven in the morning to follow me around for eighteen holes. But he followed me for four and went back to the clubhouse. You know why?”

  She waited in silence.

  “I was complaining about the pin placements…”

  “And?”

  “I must’ve said something raunchy; it was an accident. I didn’t know anyone was listening. I’m not perfect!”

  “Nobody is—”

  “He gave up on me! Told his dad I couldn’t be a Christian.”

  “Ev, God knows your heart—”

  “Yeah, but I’m under a microscope!”

  “So what? Most people are gonna like what they see.”

  “I just feel like I need to be this…saint.” He hopped off the ledge.

  “Who else is making you feel that way? Not Karen?”

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to know the Bible as well as her dad,” Everett said. “Like I’m supposed to lead her in spiritual things. Heck, she knows the Bible better than I do. But it’s like she’s waiting for me to step up and be this mature leader—overnight.”

  “And you’re—”

  “I’m not there!” He swung around and peered at the “new” Everett Lester in the mirror. All tidied up. Short hair. Tattoos gone from his wrists and the back of his neck. “I’m trying. I love the Word. I love what God’s done in my life, and what He’s doing—”

  “That’s enough, Ev!”

  “No, it’s not! It doesn’t feel like enough. You can’t imagine the expectations. I’m telling you right now, I can’t carry the load. People are just waiting for me to blow it.”

  “You don’t have to be someone you’re not!”

  “That’s exactly what I feel like.” A mixture of regret and frustration stirred as he ran a hand through his two-inch-long brown hair and examined the long-sleeved sweater he wouldn’t have been caught dead in two years ago. “Why do you think I cut my hair and had those tattoos removed? Why am I livin’ on a farm in Bedford, New York?”

  “What are you saying? You feel some guilt complex about ‘looking’ the way society says a Christian’s supposed to look?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What else?”

  “I wanna be what Karen and her folks want me to be.”

  “You don’t need to change for Karen or Sarah and Jacob. I know them. They don’t think about that stuff.”

  He turned away from his image, knowing she was right.

  “Let me ask you something. Are you feeling pressure from God to be this overnight spiritual sensation?”

  “I don’t know.” Everett meandered back to the bench, positioned between two rows of beige lockers. “All I know is, I’m not perfect. Never will be. Can’t live up to it.”

  “You may not like this, Ev, but I think you’re doing this to yourself. You’re letting the enemy get to you. This is a guilt trip Jesus doesn’t want you to go on! Satan’s the one who wants you cowering. He wants you all inward-focused, so you won’t have the impact he knows you can have.”

  He hoisted a foot onto the bench and leaned over, pushing up a sleeve and stroking one of the black serpents he hadn’t had removed.

  “I’ve been where you are,” she insisted. “I’ve done the legalism thing. You know that. I did the works. I did the performance grid thing, for God and for other people. It’ll burn you out! And it may even lead you away from Christ.”

  “Well, what do I do?”

  “Just know you’re His child. Love Him with your life. Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks. That’s between them and God. If you’ve got that vertical relationship, nothing’s gonna stop you.”

  “I just want to reach these people…” His sentence was cut short by a surge of emotion. He cupped his mouth and dropped his head backward to relieve the stiffness in his neck.

  “You be yourself, Everett Lester! God made you precisely the person you are, for His purpose—for this concert today. He had your life all planned out way before you were born. And you’re on the right track.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I want to reach the ones on the fringe, Mary, the ones like me. The ones with ratty hair and nose rings, and tattoos and drug problems. The ones who are so confused; they’re all just searchin’…”

  “That’s right.” Her voice quivered. “You meet them where they are.”

  He dropped his head in his hand, so thankful for his older sister.

  “You’re different, Ev.” She got her wind back. “You’re creative and caring and charismatic. You’ve lived in the depths of hell. Remember what God’s done. He’s given you a platform. Explain what’s happened. Be transparent. They’ll respond, Ev. I promise—”

  “There’ll be opposition.”

  “Absolutely. Praise the Lord! He’s gonna stir the pot today. You’re gonna go out there and be the fragrance of Christ to those who are perishing and to those who are being saved.”

  Dropping to the bench, he found himse
lf laughing and crying at the same time. As usual, Mary’s exuberance was contagious.

  “I’m so excited for you,” she said. “Jerry and I are gonna pray for you the whole time! God’s gonna move.”

  “Thanks, Mar.”

  “Is Karen there?”

  “She’s got a doctor’s appointment, but she’ll be here later.”

  “Why’d she make an appointment for today?”

  “Ob-gyn. She’s had it scheduled a long time.”

  “Routine checkup?”

  “Kind of. She wants to make sure all her equipment’s running right, you know, for the dozens of kids we’re going to have.”

  “Gee whiz.” Mary laughed. “You haven’t even been married a year yet.”

  “You know Karen. She’s been ready to have babies since day one. And if she checks out okay, guess who’s next in line for the doctor?”

  “Uh-oh. Now there’s where we may run into a problem.”

  “Ha, ha.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Hey, I gotta run. Thanks for talking.”

  “Call me anytime, brother. When will we see you?”

  “We’re playing Cincinnati, remember?”

  “That’s right. I’ll check your website for the dates. We wouldn’t miss it. Neither would the boys!”

  “Can’t wait to see those big guys,” he said. “We’ll set you up with passes. Love you. Thanks again.”

  “Love you, too. Break a leg, Godspeed, and all that good stuff.”

  Everett closed the phone in his hand and leaned on his knees. He was where he was supposed to be, where God wanted him. But was his mind strong enough to stay the course, to be a godly example, not only for the day’s gig, but for life?

  It would be a long road. He was well aware that he had blind spots and weaknesses. The serpent on his arm served as a daily reminder of the man he used to be. He wanted never to forget the Everett of old, how he would have gotten high or bolted right about then.

  But he wasn’t the same.

  He stood and made for the door.

  It was time to rock.

  Karen was so excited. She’d met two expecting mothers in the plush waiting room at her ob-gyn’s office. One, a petite brunette, was seven months along and let Karen feel her baby kicking and rolling within her hard, round tummy. Karen treasured the notion of someday seeing her and Everett’s baby on the ultrasound monitor. Could she possibly muster the patience to wait for that day?

  She smiled as she recalled the last time she and Everett had discussed baby names. It had been fall. They were parked in his convertible at an old-fashioned drive-in hamburger stand. With his penetrating brown eyes and contagious smile, Everett surprised her by bringing up the topic and even introducing several names he’d come up with. The one he suggested for a girl was Joanna, which meant “God’s been gracious.” For a boy, he dug the name Cole, which meant “people of victory.” Karen adored them both. One of her top picks was Vivien—“full of life.”

  The brunette said good-bye and Karen was left by herself in the tranquil waiting room, trying to picture her body at seven months pregnant and vowing to purchase the coolest maternity clothes.

  She needed to speak to her doctor once more to go over all her results, then get on the road. She checked her watch. Everett’s concert had started, and she desperately wanted to make it, at least for several songs.

  Admiring a subtly lit painting of a cabin by a stream, Karen prayed that thousands of people would come to Everett’s show, and that many would begin a relationship with Christ because of it. That had become the passion of Everett’s heart.

  When Dr. Margaret Jannell opened the door to the waiting room, Karen was bewildered. Usually an attendant slid open the tinted window that blocked off the reception desk and asked patients to come back.

  “Let’s go into my office, Karen.” Dr. Jannell held a blue folder across her chest in one hand, gold-rimmed glasses in the other, and propped the door open for Karen with her tall, slender body. “We’ll have more privacy in there.”

  Privacy. What do we need privacy for? Why is she so serious?

  The rest unfolded like a bad dream, like a slide show. Passing the enormous crystal-clear aquarium in Dr. Jannell’s office and its colorful assortment of stones and tropical fish. Being escorted to the soft, maroon leather chair next to the tinted windows that overlooked the busy parking lot. And the doctor’s words, the cursed conversation Karen feared only in the recesses of her mind.

  “I’m sorry, Karen.” The blond, middle-aged doctor spoke softly, making direct eye contact. “The infection you had in the womb and Fallopian tubes, back when you had the abortion, has caused tubal infertility—”

  “He said it was nothing!” Karen bolted to the edge of her seat. “The doctor said it would heal and I’d be fine. I am fine!”

  This was a nightmare, right? It had to be.

  Wake me…please.

  “Karen, you’re right. Pelvic inflammatory disease, when treated properly, almost always goes away, especially in young ladies like you were—”

  “He assured me!” She gasped. “The doctor promised me I could have babies.”

  “No one should make that kind of promise. There are adhesions in your Fallopian tubes. The tubes are shut, Karen, as if they were mended together. I’m sorry about this. I know how much—”

  “We’ve got to do surgery! Can we do that? I don’t care about risk.”

  The doctor’s mouth had become a small, horizontal slit.

  She shook her head.

  And the room spun out of control.

  The first placard Everett made out amid the frenzied crowd when he jogged onto the scuffed, black stage at the free concert at Queens Arena read: “Go to hell, Lester.”

  A quick pan of the packed thirty-six-hundred-seat auditorium revealed more of the same. A skull and crossbones. Clenched fists. Beer cans flying. Angry faces screaming obscenities. Nazi swastikas. And dozens of revelers pushing with all their might to bulldoze the gate in front of the stage.

  “Hey!” Everett’s booming voice pierced the room like a fog horn blaring on a battleship. If there was one thing this Cleveland boy knew how to do, it was take command of an audience.

  “I don’t know why you came here tonight. You may not know.” His own words were all he could hear as they rolled off the stage with the mist from the dry ice machine. “But I’ll tell you what—we’re glad you’re here. Let’s rock!”

  Drumsticks clashed, flash-pods exploded, purple and yellow lights flooded the stage, electric guitars blazed, and Everett whirled the microphone stand as if it were a stick on the playground.

  Five adrenaline-filled minutes later, Everett flew off the drum kit with his legs curled behind him, perfectly timing the end of the first song with his landing. The second he hit the stage, more explosives detonated, the stage went black, and Everett heard people cheering. A lot of people.

  3

  WESLEY’S THROAT WAS NUKED and his nostrils burned raw. But it didn’t matter. He’d take a little pain in exchange for the buzz any day.

  Flyin’, baby.

  Forgettin’ the messed-up past.

  Enjoyin’ the moment, the very millisecond he was livin’ in.

  No worries about tomorrow, ’cause tomorrow he could be dead—like his brother.

  Not goin’ there.

  He and Tony Badino had met Brubaker at a flophouse in Fairview earlier in the day, where they smoked some of the new cristy just in from Pennsylvania. Now they were geeking in the Super Wal-Mart.

  Tony was probably spellbound somewhere in the automotive department while Wesley was lusting over the Winchesters, Rugers, Weatherbys, and Brownings in sports and recreation. There were bolt-actions and pumps, lever-actions and semiautomatics—and all that lovely ammunition. Wesley had developed an affection for guns since hooking up with Tony—who was constantly buying and selling used firearms.

  “Excuse me,” came an unconfident voice from behind, then three taps on the shoulder. Wesley
turned and looked up at a tall, shiny-faced man wearing a bright blue vest—one of Wal-Mart’s finest. “Can I help you in some way?”

  The guy looked concerned. Or was he annoyed? Curious? Honestly trying to help? Wait a second—he knows I’m lit!

  “I don’t need anything.” Wesley turned back to the glass case.

  Scopes and choke tubes, magazines and barrels—

  “It’s just that…you’ve been here a long time,” came the voice again.

  Wesley faced him once more. The man wore a half smile and was tentative, examining Wesley all the way up and all the way down.

  “Yeah. No. I just…” Wesley rubbed hard at his blazing nose. “I’m just lookin’. Okay? Is that a crime? There’s not a time limit for browsing, is there?”

  Who am I foolin’? This dude knows the symptoms. Everybody knows. I’m a rail. He’s scoping the purple ring under my eye.

  “No, that’s fine. You’ve just been standing in this area for, well, it’s been hours now.”

  He thinks I lifted something. He’s called security. He’s stalling!

  Walk. Just walk.

  Walk fast!

  Find Badino. Get out.

  Wesley began to march, looking back at the man, who was staring, staring, staring.

  BAM.

  He crashed into a huge crate in the middle of the aisle, full of winter hats and scarves, and a sign that read Three Dollars Each. He peered back at old Blue Vest meandering toward him.

  Move. Keep moving. To automotive.

  That dude’s gonna call the cops!

  Baby stuff. Music. Electronics. Photo department. Shoes and more shoes. Fabrics. Automotive. Yes. We got gas treatment and power steering fluid—car mats, wax, accessories—even those cool little air fresheners that hook to the air vents in your car.

  There. Badino. By the stereos, speakers, and fuzz-busters.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Wesley yanked Badino’s arm. “The guy by the guns made me. I think he called the cops!”

  Tony fumed at Wesley with his meanest scowl. “You idiot, Lester.” He shook his arm free, turned down the volume to the sample speakers, and scanned the area. “Chill out! What’d you do?”