Rock Star (56 page)

‘Hey – Bobby, I’d give you a runnin’ commentary,’ Kris said in a low voice, ‘but it’s boring. We’ll be out of here soon.’

Bobby grunted.

Maxwell was pacing up and down the room agitatedly, trying to decide what to do next. Everything had been going so smoothly until that cow from the restaurant had gotten in his way. He wished he had her in here with him now. Oh, yes. He’d show her a thing or two. He’d jam his gun in her mouth and blow her head off.

Surprising everyone, Marcus spoke up in a harsh, loud voice, his lingering accent guttural with intensity. ‘Why don’t you shoot the nigger,’ he urged. ‘Shoot the coon and throw him out of here. Then perhaps we can get this charade over and done with.’

‘You motherfucking
son of a bitch
,’ Bobby said, reacting immediately, and rolling toward the sound of Marcus’s voice.

‘Oh, Christ!’ groaned Kris, sensing trouble.

‘You’re filth, Marcus,’ Rafealla cried out. ‘You are the lowest slime.’

‘And what do you think
you
are?’ Marcus snarled in return. ‘You’re one of them too. I should have had you thrown over that balcony in Rio along with your friend, you black cunt.’

The truth at last. Enraged beyond belief, Bobby kicked out toward the sound of Marcus’ voice – feeling the thud of his heel connect with something hard.

He caught Marcus on the side of his jaw. And with a snort of agony, Marcus retaliated by lifting his hands, still bound together, and smashing them down like a lethal club on Bobby’s head, rendering him unconscious. Meanwhile Kris was struggling to free himself.

Watching this scene, Maxwell felt like he was losing control. He raised the hand-gun threateningly, and fired a warning shot in the air.

Kris lunged toward him, tripping on the ties that bound his ankles together.

Caught off balance, Maxwell fired wildly, hitting Marcus in the stomach with a stray bullet.

‘Oh my
God
!’ screamed Rafealla, watching in horror as blood pumped forth from a gaping hole.

‘Help me,’ moaned Marcus, clutching his stomach in vain. He looked toward Rafealla, then desperately his eyes sought out Kris. ‘I beg you . . . help me . . . stop the blood. I’ll give you anything.’ His voice began to fade. ‘All . . . the . . . money . . . you . . . could . . . ever want. Anything . . .

At that moment the sound of the helicopter hovering above arrested their attention.

With icy calm, Maxwell said, ‘We’re leaving now. And I don’t expect any more trouble.’

*    *    *

The noise of the helicopter drowned out the sound of gunfire. Captain Lynch had no idea what had taken place when he next spoke to Maxwell.

‘It’s time to evacuate,’ he said. ‘The helicopter is here.’

‘Get everyone away from the house,’ Maxwell instructed. ‘Just leave one television camera in place. Is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ Captain Lynch replied.

‘Do it!’ Maxwell insisted. ‘I’m watching you.’

And your daddy is watching you, you little bastard. He’s right here ready to surprise the ass off you.
‘It’ll be done.’

‘We’re coming out in five minutes,’ Maxwell warned. ‘And if anything goes wrong – anything at all – I’ll shoot them all. Do you understand?’

‘You’re making yourself very clear.’

‘Good.’

Maxwell turned to confront his hostages, a sorry-looking bunch. Amazing how you could cut the mighty down to size. Walking over to Rafealla he untied her and said, ‘Go upstairs and bring down a blanket.’

There was blood everywhere. Marcus was slumped on the floor, ominously silent. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she whispered, staring at Marcus in shock.

‘So what?’ Maxwell said callously. ‘The same thing can happen to you if you don’t follow my instructions. Go upstairs
now
, get a blanket, and come right down. If you don’t –
he
gets it next.’ He waved his gun at Kris.

‘Big fuckin’ man with a gun pointed at my head, ain’tcha?’ Kris jeered. ‘I’d like t’see what’d happen if it was just the two of us.’

Maxwell ignored him. He wasn’t about to be drawn into a confrontation. Kris Phoenix was nothing. They were all nothing. And if he killed one of them, he might as well do away with them all. It didn’t make any difference.

But not now, not until they’d finished being useful. At this moment they were his only protection.

*    *    *

Captain Lynch had his sharp-shooters in place. He also had Carmine Sicily standing in the shadows behind him. The helicopter waited in the middle of the vast lawn at the front of the house. At the controls was a trained member of the SWAT unit.

The press had been cleared, moved far back on the estate, all except one television camera crew.

Nova Citroen hovered in the background with Hawkins by her side. She’d changed into a warm brown jumpsuit, boots, and a loose mink coat. She was surprisingly calm.

The Hawk said, ‘When they come out, the captain is going to tell this Maxwell character to drop his weapon and surrender.’

‘What makes the captain think he’ll comply?’

‘Because at that stage of the game he’ll be vulnerable, out in the open. And then his father will step forward and reason with him.’

‘He can still shoot his hostages.’

‘No,’ the Hawk said sharply. ‘They’ll have him under such strict surveillance that if his hand even tightens near the trigger, they’ll take him out. One bullet through the head.’

‘It’s dark.’

‘They have special equipment.’

She wondered how Marcus was taking his captivity. Not well. If the police didn’t kill his captor, he would certainly see it was taken care of. Marcus Citroen insisted on being in control at all times.

*    *    *

‘This is how we’re going to do it,’ Maxwell said. ‘Listen carefully, because any mistakes can mean the end of your life.’ Contemptuously he kicked Marcus, rolling him on his side, until the dead man came to rest in a pool of his own blood. ‘Like him.’

Lying on the floor, still bound, Bobby heard the words as he drifted back into consciousness. Opening his eyes he saw a blurry haze. Gradually the haze sharpened, and came into focus.

He blinked once, twice, hardly believing what was happening. He could see! Goddammit,
HE COULD SEE!

The doctors had said it could happen, just like that, anytime, anywhere. A conversion reaction could take place, they’d said, brought on by a traumatic situation. Jesus Christ! He could see, and he couldn’t tell anyone because he was well aware of the danger they were all in.

‘We’ll walk outside under the blanket,’ Maxwell said. ‘You’ll be in front, and I’ll be behind with a gun in your backs. The police won’t know who is where. Do you get it?’

‘Very smart,’ Kris jeered.

‘Yes, very smart,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘Because they’ll have marksmen out there ready to pick me off, and this way they can’t take the risk of making a mistake.’

Slowly Bobby looked around, taking in the scene. On the floor, nearby, were his dark glasses. Surreptitiously he groped for them with his hands still tied. He got them on without anyone noticing.

‘I’m going to untie your feet,’ Maxwell announced. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to keep on repeating that what happened to Marcus Citroen can happen to any one of you.’

Bobby groaned, to let them know he was conscious.

‘Are you all right?’ Rafealla asked anxiously.

If she only knew! ‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good,’ said Maxwell sarcastically. ‘It’s nice to know everyone is well.’

*    *    *

‘Here they come,’ said Captain Lynch, with a grunt of anticipation as slowly the front door swung open. ‘Carmine, get ready.’

Carmine Sicily stepped up next to the police captain. He was ready all right.

Nova Citroen shuddered. She had an ominous feeling of doom.

The Hawk put his arm around her, patting her mink-clad shoulder comfortingly. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Captain Lynch, as the blanketed group of figures shuffled from the house ‘
Shit
!’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Carmine.

They’re under a fucking blanket. We can’t see who’s who.’ Grabbing his walkie-talkie he barked out a command.

‘No firing. Hold all gunfire.’

*    *    *

Under the blanket it was hot and uncomfortable. Rafealla was positioned in front of Maxwell, his gun jammed into the small of her back. Every step she took, she feared it might go off by mistake.

Kris was next to her. Maxwell had tied them together around the waist, making it difficult to walk. Bobby brought up the rear, tethered loosely to Maxwell.

‘Any bullets an’ you’re the ones that get it, my friends,’ Maxwell boasted. ‘One false move from any of you, and I’ll blow her in half – so don’t even think about it.’

Slowly they trundled towards the helicopter, every step an ordeal.

The night was silent, except for the sounds of nature. Waves crashing on the beach far below, crickets chirping, and the sway of the palm trees in the night breeze. There was a bright moon in the sky.

‘Maxwell,’ Suddenly a voice boomed through the bullhorn, breaking the silence. ‘This is your father, Carmine. I want you to quit what you’re doing
now.
Release your hostages, an’ give yourself up. That’s an order.’

Maxwell stopped stock-still, frozen in shock. What the fuck was Carmine doing here? What the fuck was that cocksucker interfering for? Wasn’t it enough that he’d had to grow up in his shadow, always Carmine Sicily’s son, Carmine Sicily’s boy. He hated his father with a passion. ‘What are you doing here?’ he screamed hysterically.

Instinctively both Kris and Bobby knew this was their moment, and as if operating on thought telepathy they acted as one. Kris knocked the gun from Maxwell’s hand with a vicious turn of his body, while Bobby kneed him in the back with every bit of force he could muster.

Maxwell fell to the ground, dragging all of them down with him.

‘Get the lights on.’ Captain Lynch yelled the order, as he raced toward the scene, accompanied by several of his officers, guns drawn.

Floodlights lit up the area.

It was over.

It was all over.

Epilogue

At Marcus Citroen’s funeral there was a bizarre combination of rock and rollers, high society, the movers and shakers of show business, and the powerful world of real money.

They came from all over to pay their respects, the most popular mode of transport being private plane.

The line of limousines at the burial ground was impressive, and later, at Novaroen, a party atmosphere prevailed.

Nova went through the motions. She made an impressive grieving widow.

Hawkins Lamont – the Hawk – delivered the eulogy. He was going to miss his friend and mentor.

Marcus had remembered him in his will. The Hawk inherited Marcus’s prized collection of antique cars, two solid gold Carrier watches, and an assortment of Tiffany cuff-links. The Hawk appreciated the gesture, but above all else he was a deal-maker, and owning a collection of old cars did not appeal to him. He sold them, and with the proceeds bought himself a white Ferrari, a black Maserati, and a weekend apartment in London.

Three months after the funeral he divorced his wife. A few weeks after that he and Nova Citroen were married in a secret ceremony in Mexico City.

They returned to New York triumphant, the latest ‘power’ couple. Together they ran Blue Cadillac Records, expanding into television and movies.

Nova Citroen maintained her reputation as one of the most elegant hostesses in America. And the Hawk continued to guide the careers of the cream of the superstars.

Together they made a formidable combination.

By the time Speed fixed the flat tyre on the hired limousine, and got himself and the car up to the Novaroen estate on that fateful July night, he was too late. The hostage situation was in progress, and everyone was going crazy.

He’d grabbed hold of a parking attendant, demanding hoarsely,’ What’s going on?’

‘There’s a guy up there gone wacko. He’s grabbin’ people, tying’ ’em up an’ demandin’ money.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Some waiter from that fancy restaurant. George somethin’ or other.’

‘George Smith?’

‘Yeah, that’s the dude’s name.’

Speed had gotten out of there fast. Gunning the limousine, he’d raced back to Hollywood, cleared out of his apartment, dumped the limo outside the rental place, and taken the next plane to Vegas. There, he’d thrown himself upon his ex-wife’s mercy, begging her to alibi him, lest George Smith pointed the cops in his direction.

She’d obliged. Reluctantly. It had cost him.

He stayed with her for three months. They’d fought every day, but he’d been forced to admit she had the best pair of bazoombas in captivity. Unfortunately she also had a lethal dose of the clap – contracted from a lounge singer with bad teeth and no talent. Naturally, Speed, with his luck, picked it up too.

He left in a fury, drifting back to Hollywood and his old haunts.

One night he met a man in a bar. There was a big job going down and this dude had heard he was the best freakin’ driver on the West Coast . . .

*    *    *

Chloe remained at Lilliane’s, quite the restaurant celebrity. If it wasn’t for Chloe and her diligent eye, Maxwell Sicily might have got away with the robbery of the year. She revelled in the attention.

It never crossed her mind that if she hadn’t interfered, Marcus Citroen would be alive today.

*    *    *

Cybil Wilde and Kris Phoenix broke up, whereupon Cybil embarked on what was supposed to be a top-secret, extremely discreet affair with Governor Highland.

One late summer weekend they played together on a mutual friend’s yacht in Acapulco – where, unbeknownst to them, they were photographed by a lone paparazzi operating with a powerful long-distance lens.

The resultant pictures made headline news, damaging Governor Highland’s spotless reputation beyond redemption, and catapulting Cybil into a starring role in her first movie.

*    *    *

Vicki Foxe made the best of a bad job. She fled Novaroen during the height of the hostage situation, hitching a ride into town with one of the party guests – an old and shaky lawyer, who believed every word of her hastily made up story about a fight with Mrs Ivors, the dragon-lady housekeeper.