Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (10 page)

By the time I got back from court, dinner had already been served. Now it’s leisure time, which means one hour of gathering around TVs, reading magazines, playing cards, talking on pay phones, and shooting the breeze in each other’s cells. All cell doors were open during leisure time.

Donald Chambers, one of the few guards who’d taken a liking to me, brought me dinner on one of the prison’s decorative army green cafeteria trays. The meal consisted of one dry hamburger, a handful of soggy salad, mystery bean casserole, and water.

Chambers set a chair outside my cell, turned it backwards, and sat talking to me, his arms resting on the back as I picked at my dinner.

After discussing some of the difficulties from the day’s trial, including the false accusations of Twila Yonder, I listened in disbelief as Chambers surprised me with more good news.

“There is a guy in here by the name of Zane Bender.” Chambers looked around cautiously. “Nickname is Zaney. You know him?”

“No.”

“You need to watch your back. Word is, he thinks this is gonna be another OJ trial—guilty guy walks. Word is, he won’t let it come to that.”

My stomach was getting used to trouble. I inhaled deeply, blew out long and steady, and reminded myself there was a reason for this.

“Why?” I pushed the tray of food away, feeling flushed. “What’s he got against me?”

“Look, Everett, this dude’s in for armed robbery and attempted murder. He’s doin’ a minimum of seventeen years. You think he has to have a reason? It makes him popular, okay? You’re a star. He hurts you, it puts the spotlight on him. Guys like this, all they got to live for is having a name in here. Me and the other guards are under special order to watch your back.”

“Great…”

“I hear he’s into the occult.” Donald pushed the green guard hat high on his forehead. “Probably favors people like Endora Crystal. He even does some kind of psychic mumbo jumbo in here—guys pay him for it! Can you believe that? I’ve heard some pretty weird stuff has gone down.”

“Like what?”

“One night during leisure he and about twelve guys met.” Chambers inched his chair closer. “He predicted one of the guys in the meeting would be dead within three days. Dude was found hangin’ by a bedsheet in his cell.”

“Suicide?”

“They’re still investigating.”

“What kind of guy is this?” I said. “I mean, how big is he?”

“Let’s take a walk.”

7

A SEDUCTIVE LIGHT SPARKLED
from Endora’s eyes as she stood behind the glass partition and watched us lay down a radical new rock number called “Freedom.”

She wasn’t going to miss this.

We were back at The Groove recording studio in Santa Clarita between stops on the Rowdy tour. Although our frazzled nerves and strained friendships had been pushed to the edge, things seemed to be stabilizing, in great part thanks to the potential we felt in the new
Freedom
album. Although it was by far our most drawn-out recording to date, we also felt it may be our best seller.

Endora made the drive over from her place in Malibu. She was with Gray and three producers in the control room of The Groove, where cigarette smoke swirled beneath track lighting, and dozens of red, green, and yellow lights glowed from a long, sleek soundboard.

The Groove was a great place to record because the equipment and acoustics were top-notch, and it was a comfortable getaway. Interruptions were kept to a minimum. The facility was small, dark, and well-appointed, with comfortable furniture and a contemporary kitchen that was manned by a full-time chef.

The members of DeathStroke were on the other side of the glass rocking out to “Freedom,” a song I had written after spending several days with Endora. It was basically a tune about her spiritual beliefs. I wrote it in fun as kind of a rally-type anthem and really hadn’t taken it very seriously—until we started sampling it out on the Rowdy tour. We were taken aback by the response from our fans, who fell into an absolute trance over it, lighting matches and chanting the words in unison.

The song, which I dedicated to Endora, features riveting guitar work by John Scoogs, overpowering bass from Ricky Crazee, slashing drums by David Dibbs, and yours truly screaming louder and meaner than any AC/DC song you ever heard. Here’s a taste:

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!! (screaming)

Weary traveler

Come into my domaaaaaaaaaain

Hey, weary traveler

I got somethin’ to saaaaaaaaaay

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

Whooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! (screaming)

Weary traveler

It doesn’t matter where ya beeeeeeeeeen

Hey, weary traveler

You are going to live agaaaaaaaain!

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! (screaming)

Weary traveler

The Judgment Day’s a liiiiiiiiiiiiiie

Hey, weary traveler

Every soul will surviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

FREEDOM, FREEDOM

“I’ve got to talk to you.” Endora dragged me by the hand out to her white Cadillac during an afternoon break.

“What’s up? I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you had the wedding…”

“It’s in two days. We’re all set,” she said, hitting the unlock button. “You know I wanted to see you record this.”

“I know. What else is on your mind? Where’re we headed?”

“Late lunch, drinks.” She buckled up.

I loved Santa Clarita, based on the five or six times I had been there. It was clean, with a small-town feel, a fair amount to do, and close to LA. And it offered a panoramic view of the stark, rocky Placerita Canyon and some of the most breathtaking skies I had ever seen.

“Where’s the button to move this seat back?” I asked, as Endora eased the Caddy out of the parking lot. “You see my knees? They’re in your glove compartment.”

“It’s on the right.” She puffed on a long menthol as I searched for the lever that moved the seat back.

“Everett,” she touched my knee, “I’ve been getting a woman’s initial.”

“What?”

“A woman’s initial. The spirits are giving me a woman’s initial.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember when I was in the hospital, I told you…”

“Ohhhhhh,” I moaned, sarcastically. “This is about the eerie mystery lady. The one who’s gonna show up and ruin my already perfect life. Right?”

“It’s not funny,” she stormed. “I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”

“Okay, okay…I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“The woman will try to
destroy
you. Her name starts with
K
. Are there any
K
s in your life right now?”

Most of the women I spent any time with probably didn’t give me their real names half the time. I had no one serious—not even close.

“No, doesn’t mean a thing,” I said, enjoying the view.

“She’s already in your life, Everett.
I know it.
You need to concentrate on this and figure out who it is. I’m telling you, she’s destructive.”

“I’m drawing a blank right now.”

“This is the supernatural realm we’re dealing with. This is about the spirit world. It’s real. I can feel it. Someone is encroaching…”

“You give me the creeps when you talk like that,” I said.

“The last initial is
D
or
B
.” She whirled the Caddy into a parking lot at a restaurant called Diamond Jim’s. “I’m not positive about that one. But the
K
is set in stone. You’ve gotta be watching for this lady.”

Endora was out of the Caddy and five steps ahead of me. She threw her cigarette on the ground. “C’mon.”

As we walked up the front steps, two attractive women in their thirties recognized me as we passed. I heard the usual giggles and squeals, and then…

“Excuse me.” The blonde came up behind me as we entered the vestibule. “You’re Everett Lester, aren’t you?” She was slightly nervous, yet had one of those playful, “forward” looks about her, which I had come to know well over the years. Her brunette friend was blushing just a few steps below her.

“Yes, I am.” I turned and reached to take her outstretched hand. “At your service.”

“He’s already taken.” Endora stepped between us and pushed me inside the door. “Pleasure to meet you ladies. Better luck next time.”

She entered the vestibule, pulling the heavy door shut behind us.

Too embarrassed to pursue the lunchtime duet, I turned to Endora. “What do you think you’re doing?” I blasted, seeing only darkness as my eyes adjusted to the cavelike vestibule. “That was cold. Don’t do that again!”

“Table for two, smoking,” Endora barked to the hostess.

“I said, that was cold.”

“They’ll get over it.”

As I left my cell and walked out into the commons area of the detention center with Donald Chambers, I saw dozens of white guys, black guys, Hispanics, and others.

“Yo, Lester!” yelled a stocky white dude, his muscular body stained by more tattoos than mine. “What’s up?”

I acknowledged him by raising my chin slightly and then followed Chambers up two flights of stairs. He stopped at the second landing and leaned over the railing. I leaned over, too.

Below, the inmates looked like fire ants, swarming after their hill had been stepped on. Everybody perked up during leisure time.

“I don’t see him,” Chambers said, both hands on the metal railing, his eyes scanning the busy crowd. “He usually plays poker with that group.” He nodded down toward a five-man game.

“Stay here a minute,” Chambers said. “I’m gonna walk up to four and go past his cell. Sometimes guys pay him to interpret dreams, read palms, whatever. Hang loose. I’ll be right back.”

As I perused the orange jumpsuits below, I noticed a few guys pointing up at me. Not sure yet what their consensus was—and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to mind my own business, get the trial behind me, and…

SLAP!

Two hands. Hard
.
On my shoulders. From behind.

My head turned. My body couldn’t.

The viselike fingers tightened into my shoulders.

Then, something drilled into my lower back.

A knee.

My stomach arched forward.

“Ahhhhhh,”
I yelled awkwardly.

“Are ya singin’, Lester?”

The knee ground deeper.

“Stop!”

“I never heard that one,” came the raspy voice. “Was that a
Billboard
hit?”

Suddenly, the hands jerked me around quick and hard.

My eyes were shoulder high on this monster, so I only looked down slightly to see the black numbers stenciled on his jumpsuit, 488792.

“What are you lookin’ for, rock star?”

My eyes made their way up his sweaty, fat neck and stopped at his blubbery jowls and enormous shaved head.

“You lookin’ for me?” He breathed down on me, just four inches from my face.

“Who are you?” I asked, scared, taking in every inch of his red baby face.

“Zaney.” His high, cracking voice didn’t sync up with the sheer girth of his mammoth physique. “You don’t know it yet, Lester, but you and me got a history.”

“Hey!” I heard Donald’s voice echo from above as he hurried down the hall, pulling out his billy club on his way to the steps.

Zaney stepped back. “I got people inside,” he whispered quickly, drilling his thick finger into the middle of my chest. “I got people outside. I
will
finish the job.”

The effeminate male waiter brought Endora her second Blue Dolphin. She wasn’t eating. The drink came in a glass shaped like a teardrop. It was turquoise blue and contained five different shots of liquor and a pink umbrella.

“Would you mind not smoking while I eat,” I said, cutting up the chicken in my salad.

“What do you mean?
You
smoke.”

“Not while I’m eating.” I focused on the salad.

“Thanks for the raise,” she said.

“You’re welcome.

“That couple over there recognizes you.” She pointed her dripping straw toward a Hispanic couple in the booth to our right.

I didn’t look up immediately, but when I did, they quickly looked toward each other shyly and giggled.

“Our waiter was giving you the eye, too.” She smirked.

“Did I tell you my mother called?” I asked, ignoring the onlookers.

Endora finally put her cigarette out. “No, what did she have to say?”