Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (6 page)

I grabbed a Molson, lit a Salem, and dropped onto the couch, hoisting my legs up over the side, not bothering to read any of the cards or well wishes from fans stacked in front of me on the coffee table.

By now, fans all looked the same; they were like trees walking.
I questioned their motives and feelings. Sometimes I viewed them as wild animals, just wanting a piece of me. At other times, they seemed to care for me genuinely, and I tried to do the same for them. Relationships were a confusing issue for me.

Charlie LaRoche, a friend, employee of the band, and longtime drug supplier, would soon be around to set me up for the weekend. I longed for more of the good hash he’d found recently, and it wouldn’t hurt to score some coke while he was here, either.

Who was that babe?
I picked at some of the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table.
And what the heck is she doing toting a Bible in here?

Within the next hour, Charlie came and left, as did Gray Harris, who had come to check up on his golden boy. Still in my street clothes—which consisted of torn jeans, a white v-necked T-shirt, and black Doc Martens—I was determined to check out the fox with the Bible when I went for the sound check. But when I passed by where she had been standing, hesitantly acknowledging the screaming fans along the way, she was gone.

I would not see Karen Bayliss again for five or six years, but somehow she managed to get this note under my dressing room door that weekend in Kansas City, along with the yellow rose she had brought…

Hi, Mr. Lester!

Do you find it at all intriguing that I, of all people, would be selected by Kansas City’s KCFX radio as the winner of two backstage passes to your Weekend Jam concert? I don’t even listen to that station, but a friend, who knew I’ve been praying for you, told me there was a contest—so I entered.

God is behind everything, Mr. Lester. There are no coincidences. The Bible says He has made everything for its own purpose. I am convinced you were made for His purpose. My prayer is that you will surrender your life to Him and allow Him to radically use you for His kingdom, just as He did the apostle Paul (you can read about him in the book of Acts—New Testament).

I did not stay to see the show because I don’t care for your music (no offense!). But I do care about you, your peace on earth, and where you will spend eternity. Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30).

Are you still hungry for more, Mr. Lester? Jesus can give you real bread—the bread of life. Do you still thirst for something to quench what’s missing in your life? Jesus is waiting to come and give you Living Water. I know, because I have drank of Him and will never thirst again.

I’ll write again soon. Until then, may the one almighty God draw you.

Sincerely,

Karen Bayliss

Of all the…what is this chick’s game?

The letter angered me. But it intrigued me at the same time.

How did she get back here?

Unlike all the other hell-raisers who were after me, this Karen had no interest whatsoever in my music, my money, my body, or my stardom. Why was she pursuing me?
Why bother?
My very existence was designed to insult people like her—and their so-called God. Yet, she drove all the way here just to drop off a rose and a note.

It was almost as if it wasn’t her at all writing the letters or standing there along the rope. She was like an angel sending messages from God. And her words shot a tiny ray of light through the soupy fog that was my disturbed life.

When I read her letters, I heard Him calling me.

But I ignored the letters and disregarded Him.

I stuffed them all away in the dark attic of my mind, along with all the other baggage—and then I had another drink.

4

WE WERE IN THE
process of recording our ninth project, this time at The Groove recording studio in Santa Clarita, California, when I got word that Liza Moon was on her deathbed in Dallas. She had been filming her latest movie on location near the Lake Fork Reservoir in Sulphur Springs, Texas, when a crew member found her unconscious in her trailer.

Gray Harris quickly arranged for a limo to take me to the airport and for the DeathStroke jet to get me to Texas. I was determined to see her before she died.

Liza’s mother, who was seated outside room 306 at Charlton Methodist Hospital, saw me but made no acknowledgment as I passed her and tapped on the wide wooden door.

After a few moments, Liza’s older sister quietly opened the door, gave me a quick half-smile, motioned me into the room with her eyes, then tiptoed back to her sister’s bedside.

Liza was a ghost of the woman I had once known.

“She overdosed,” said Liza’s sister, staring at her sibling’s ashen face, closed eyes, and cracked lips.

“What are her chances?” I asked, knowing she couldn’t possibly live.

“Not good. I’ll leave you alone with her if you want.”

“Yes.”

When the door to the room clicked shut, I pulled my chair close and touched the fingers of her cold, thin hand. That was the only skin I could find amid all the tubes and tape.

Her appearance upset me. I could see the bones in her face and hands. Her skin was drawn tight against her forehead and cheekbones. The white bedsheet lay smoothly over her, as if there was but a wisp underneath.

Where had Liza gone? This did not look like the same person.

I slipped back in time to the late-night, after-show limo rides and dinners, to the parties and shows, to the long walks and talks. I remembered her at her Hollywood townhouse, wearing faded jeans and oversized sweatshirts with her long brown hair flowing out the back of her Dodgers cap.

“What’s happened to us, Liza?” I whispered, surprising myself with the tears that followed, not able to remember the last time I had cried.

We were supposed to be on top of the world, but we had hit the slimy depths. We were supposed to be on easy street, but it was difficult to make it through the day. We were rich, but we didn’t have anything of value. We were somebody—and we wished we were nobody.

Liza used to get a kick out of hanging with the band. Everyone liked her. Every guy wished she were his. She was a bright star in an often dark world. And she was the only person I had ever really opened up to about my past and about the failed relationship with my father. He and Mom had met Liza several times. They liked her. To them, she was one of the few things I had ever done right.

Slowly, my sorrow melted cold, like wax drying.

Look at her.

I wanted to smash the equipment that kept her alive.

LOOK AT HER!

I couldn’t stay any longer.

Had to run.

“God,
why would You do this?”
I hissed.

Standing, I took one last look at her and blew out the door, not looking again at the family and friends lined up in the chairs along the hallway.

Gray and the band didn’t hear from me for days. The recording session at The Groove stopped in midstream. Liza died two days after I visited her. I did not attend the funeral in California but instead plunged into a weeklong drug binge at my high-rise in Manhattan.

Somewhere near the tail end of the stupor, I flipped through the channels on my TV and saw a thin, elderly preacher addressing a large congregation in Atlanta.

“Listen to me
,” he insisted.
“Our world is full of sin. That sin nature has been passed down to you and me from Adam and Eve. If you want to know why bad things happen to good people, why tragedy comes unexpectedly, why our world and our country are in such disarray…the answer is sin. It’s in you, it’s in me, and it’s got to be dealt with. Listen, Jesus died to forgive you, right now, wherever you are, whatever you’ve done. He desires to come into your life and to make His home with you…”

Those were the last words I remember hearing before pulling the trigger of my 9 mm UltraStar and blowing the picture tube clean out of my 60” Magnavox.

“Yes, he liked guns,” our longtime DeathStroke manager, Gray Harris, testified.

Dooley pushed his chair back and stood. “Did he own a lot of guns?”

“Everett was the kind of guy who, once he got interested in something, wanted to be an expert at it, immediately. It was that way with the guns and the knives. Someone turned him on to handguns early in his career, and right away he owned an assortment of them. He took marksmanship lessons and even had a small shooting range built into the basement of one of his homes. But I never saw him misuse guns.”

“Mr. Harris.” Dooley looked directly from one juror to the next. “In all your years working and traveling with the band, did you ever see Everett Lester threaten anyone?”

Gray had aged incredibly. His hair was white and he was overweight. The bows of his silver glasses bent outward to make it around his wide, red face. Gray had always loved a good steak, and the red meat seemed to be catching up with him. He appeared to be almost out of breath. I didn’t know whether that was from his anxiety about the trial, his health, or both.

“Look,” he said heavily. “Everett and the other members of DeathStroke were like family. We lived and worked and traveled together, in very close quarters. We were probably closer than many husbands and wives. When you’re in these kinds of intimate settings, everyone sees everyone else’s weaknesses. And little things take on big proportions.”

I was amazed at Dooley’s patience. He must have had a good night’s sleep, because he remained silent as Gray attempted to soften his answer.

“When Everett was at his worst, drug- and alcohol-wise, he did lose his composure and threaten people. But all in all, I would say he did quite well with his emotions, considering how blitzed he was by the media twenty-four hours a day.”

With his arms crossed, strolling about, Dooley asked, “Who did you see Everett Lester threaten, and for what reason?”

“Well, on several occasions he became angered when people approached him in public,” Gray answered so quickly that his response seemed rehearsed. “Like when someone would come up to him at a urinal and want to shake hands…”

This brought a relief of laughter from the crowd. I think I even smirked. But Dooley nipped it.

“Did you ever see Mr. Lester threaten the psychic known as Madam Endora Crystal?” Dooley asked, throwing a cloak of silence over courtroom B-3.

“No, I did not.”

Dooley approached Gray. “Mr. Harris, what is the most violent act you ever saw Everett commit?”

Boone was on his feet in an instant. “Your Honor, we object on the basis of relevance. What if someone asked that question of your life or mine or of Mr. Dooley himself, for that matter? In each instance, I am certain the answer would certainly be most incriminating.”

Boone stared at Judge Sprockett, who debated for several seconds while fiddling with something in front of him. “Objection overruled. I am interested in Mr. Harris’s answer.”

Gray rubbed his chin with his pudgy right hand, shook his head, and raised his eyebrows. “Geez, I don’t know, sir. There was a time once in, I think, Pennsylvania. We were doing a concert with a number of other bands. But it was Thanksgiving Day, and we found ourselves at one of the only hotels in town—a motor lodge of some sort.” He breathed deeply. “There were no restaurants open, and we were all kind of ticked off because it was a holiday and we were away from home, apart from our loved ones.”

For the life of me, I could not remember what Gray was talking about—or where the story was going.

“Well,” he continued, conjuring up the strength in his lungs to continue, “Everett had been deep into drugs to pass the time, and he was totally out of it; I mean, falling-down wasted. We were all in one hotel room. I forget whose room it was. But all of the sudden, one of our roadies burst into the room with a wastebasket.

“He had been collecting all the Gideon Bibles from our rooms, up and down the hallways. And he barged into the room where the band and I were gathered, pulled out the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and yanked out the Gideon Bible. Right then he began ripping out pages and throwing them into the trash can. Next thing we knew, he doused the torn-up Bibles with alcohol and lit the wastebasket on fire.”

Groping to remember the incident, I sat dumbfounded, feeling the eyes.

“When Everett kind of came to for a minute and inquired what was going on, what was burning, he went into an outrage. From behind, he grabbed the roadie around the neck, took a knife out of his pocket, flicked it open, and put the knife to this young fellow’s throat.”

Whispers made their way through the courtroom.

“Please continue,” Dooley raised his voice, enjoying the drama yet wanting Gray to finish the gory details.

“The knife slightly punctured the roadie’s throat. And Everett ordered him, while still in a headlock, to put the fire out. The young man grabbed an ice bucket, filled it with water, and dumped the ice on the flames. Everett had him in a headlock the whole time.”