Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (30 page)

Everett’s bass player, Danny Dwyer, sat on the bunk. Jacob stood next to the sink, flanked by guitarist Randy White and violinist Lola Shepherd. Manager Gray Harris and drummer Oz Dublin leaned against the cold white concrete wall that Everett remembered so well.

“I owe you guys so much,” Everett yelled above the stomping, which echoed in unison with the calls of “Les-ter, Les-ter.” “Like we’ve discussed for months, this is God’s day; it’s His time.” Everett dropped his head. “God, be glorified. Flood this place with Your Spirit…”

The dress code at the Miami-Dade detention center hadn’t changed since Everett had been incarcerated during the Endora Crystal murder trial a year ago. Orange jumpsuits were everywhere, like fire ants on a dirt mound.

As dusk settled outside, its yellow haze filtered in through narrow window slits to reveal several hundred inmates sitting on the floor in front and behind the gray stage and on high stacks of amplifiers, while hundreds more lined the narrow aisles in front of the cells, which circled the facility four stories high. Guards in army-green uniforms were interspersed throughout, probably seventy in all.

As Everett and the band made their way down the hall and stopped some twenty feet from the stage to strap on their instruments, the lights were down, and the inmates were going ballistic.

Guided by a beam of light from Gray’s flashlight, Everett was the last to bounce onstage, clutching his chest as he did. “Hey!” his low voice echoed strong throughout the cavernous room. “Good evening, Miami. Happy New Year!” It was mayhem. Everyone was on their feet, and the lights were still out. “It’s good to be with you guys.

“As you know, I spent a good deal of time in this can a while back.” He grasped the mike in one hand and the neck of his blue Les Paul in the other. “And when I did…I began to write some new music—to go along with the new life I’ve found in Jesus Christ.”

The other band members were in place. Jacob and the rest of the crew stood in the wings.

“This first song is called ‘Bailout’!”

Click, click, click, click…
On the fourth crack of Oz’s drumsticks flash pods went off, purple and yellow lights flooded the stage, and the band launched into a hard-driving rock ’n’ roll number, with guitars and violin blazing, and Everett’s penetrating voice taking command.

How many roads have I traveled?

Yet how much have I really learned?

How many people have I befriended?

Yet how many bridges have I burned?

I’m deaf, dumb, and blind—in debt out of my mind.

Drug habit climbin’ higher—no end to the evil desire.

Deeper and deeper I keep diggin’,

Worse and worse my sin grows.

Farther and farther from Him I travel,

Where they may find me, no one knows.

I’m just a criminal at heart—a criminal,

And now I’m hangin’ here on death’s tree.

But aren’t we all criminals? Criminals?

Hey! Jesus shed His blood to set us free.

Bailout, bailout!

Bailout, bailout!

All I did was fear my Maker,

Asked Him to remember me—and suddenly…

Bailout, bailout!

Bailout, bailout!

He said,

“Today you’ll be with Me in Paradise,

’Cause you believed in My sacrifice.”

Bailout, bailout!

Bailout, bailout!

Everett was overcome with elation and laughter during the ovation, which was so loud that he noticed Gray squeezing earplugs in offstage. Everett switched to the acoustic guitar, took the stool a roadie set next to him, and slowed things down.

There were catcalls and cheers. Some inmates yelled the titles of Everett’s new music, while others called out DeathStroke songs from a lifetime past, like “Souls On Fire.”

“We don’t do that one, anymore.” He smiled and adjusted the mike with sweaty fingers. “You know, a number of things have happened in my life lately, in our lives,” he waved an arm at the band and crew, “that have led me to believe, very distinctly, that Satan doesn’t want us here tonight.”

Thunderous applause sounded.

“But by God’s grace, we
are
here—and so are you, each one of you. God wants us together tonight, on New Year’s Eve. Why?” The one-word question echoed off of the walls, windows, bars, ceilings, and glossy linoleum floors. “Maybe it’s because tonight will be the night you’ll do something radical, something you’ve never done before, something that requires more guts than anything you’ve ever done—invite God into your life to take over and to give you a new beginning. Who knows, maybe this’ll be the night you get born again…”

As Everett strummed hard and fast and the band broke into one of his latest releases, “Second Time Around,” thousands of hands clapped, and the bodies of grown men—felonious criminals—swayed in unison. The hair on Everett’s arms stood. Performing had never been like this before. There was clarity and unity and pleasure.

Everett, Gray, and the team of twenty volunteers who’d joined them to serve as counselors were overwhelmed by the scores of inmates who came forward after the concert. Even Donald Chambers filled in, greeting the men as they asked for prayer, sought counsel, and simply said, “Thank you for coming.”

“What hit me was when you said we was all sinners, all in the same dang boat,” one convict with leathery brown skin, a blond cowlick, and several missing teeth explained to Everett in a Southern drawl. “I never knew why Jesus died; now I know it was fur down-’n’-outers like me.”

“And like me.” Everett patted his bony shoulder.

“How could He love us that much?”

“I don’t know.” Everett laughed. “That’s what’s so amazing about grace. We just accept the gift. We believe. And we enjoy it.”

“I accepted it tonight. I repented all my sins—during that prayer you said. I wanted yous to know that.”

Praise You, Father.
“What’s your name, bro?”

“Henry.”

“If I don’t see you again in this lifetime, Henry, I’ll see you in Paradise.”

They embraced, and Everett looked up to the next man in line—short and pale, with sad eyes and a pug nose. “Hey, Everett…Jimmy Blaylock. I saw you guys play in Port Charlotte couple years ago; that’s where I’m from, Gulf Coast.”

“Hey, Jimmy.” Everett shook his soft hand. “I’m glad to get a chance to meet you.”

“It’s bad in here.” He glanced around and stepped closer. “Well, you know. You were in here. ’Course, you had a cell to yourself.”

“I know what you mean though.” Everett was reminded of the brawls with Zane Bender. “It can be scary.”

“I got a mental case from Oklahoma bunkin’ with me. I mean, I go through hell, Everett, livin’ hell.” His sagging eyes filled with moisture. “Some days I don’t think I can take it no more. I still got four years.”

“Parole?”

He shook his head.

“Why don’t we pray together. You want to?”

Jimmy sniffed and nodded nervously.

“Holy Spirit,” Everett rested both hands on Jimmy’s slight shoulders, “come now, Helper, and fill Jimmy. Give him the peace and protection only You can give. We pray he’ll find hope in Your Word, gain strength in it, and come to rely on You for his every need, every comfort, and every protection. And may his life reflect Your transforming power—”

“God help me!” His eyes were shut tight, and his shoulders bounced with tears. “I’m scared as all get-out. I need things to change. Please protect me. They’re all comin’ against me. Usin’ me.” The tears turned to sobs. “I’ll give my life to Ya. Please, just protect me…”

“Look at me, Jimmy.” Everett gripped the sides of the man’s arms. “God will protect you. He’s got you at this scary place because He wants you to call out to Him, rely on Him for everything; not yourself anymore—”

“I know.”

“I’m not talkin’ about religion. And not just tonight, on this mountaintop. I’m talkin’ about you starting a relationship with Christ. He’s a High Tower, man, a Mighty Fortress. You’re safe inside Him. But you need to trust God and have a partnership with Him. Do you have a Bible?”

“No.”

“Get yourself one over there.” Everett dipped his head in the direction of the table where Gray was handing out paperbacks. “And immerse yourself in that thing. Listen to me. It’s not just a book, you hear? Jesus is the Word. He’ll meet you in the Bible and can keep you from the evil ones.”

Jimmy suddenly bear-hugged Everett, embracing him tightly—not caring what anyone thought.
Oh, Lord,
Everett nodded,
this is it. This is what You’ve been preparing me for. Thank You! Thank You for using me.

Everett noticed several taps on his shoulder. He smiled and looked into Jimmy’s eyes one last time. “Peace, brother,” he said, and turned to face a solemn Gray Harris.

“It’s Wesley.” Gray rested his hands on Everett’s shoulders. “He tried to commit suicide.”

30

WITH AN IV SECURED
to his wrist and a white tube running into his mouth, Wesley lay asleep in a second-story room at Stamford Hospital on New Year’s Day. Karen’s head snapped away when her eyes found his neck, stained by a grotesque mixture of purple, yellow, and red bruises from where he’d secured the bedsheets and hung himself from a dismantled overhead light in his room at Horizons at Harbor View.

Karen and Everett stood over him holding hands, while Madison spoke in hushed tones to someone on the phone in the far corner of the room. Other than the bruises, Wesley actually looked better than he had the last time they’d seen him. Karen could tell his treatment had been working. His face was full, and his brown hair had grown out some.

Still on the phone, Madison stood, flipped on a standing lamp, doused the bright overhead light, and sat back in her chair.

The door opened slowly. “It’s me.” Sheila crept in, tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness, and flicked the overhead back on.

“Thank God he’s going to make it.” Everett rested a hand on Sheila’s back. “We came as soon as we could.”

Without a word, Sheila went to her boy and swiped her hand through his short hair. Her nose was bright red, and she reeked of whiskey or something equally strong.

“Madison says he’s stable and improving,” Karen said.

Sheila rested her tan hand on the side of Wesley’s white face. There was a band of diamonds on her ring finger and a gold signet ring on her pinky.

“Sheila,” Everett stepped toward her, “are you all right?”

She adjusted the tube in Wesley’s mouth ever so slightly, then turned to face them. “That girl he met at Horizons—Cassidy.” Sheila covered her lips with two fingers. “She died…the night she got out.”

“Oh, no.” Karen gasped. “How?”

“Meth.” Sheila swallowed. “I talked to her mom. Cassidy went to a party she knew she shouldn’t have. She was there for hours and had nothing, just seeing old friends. But the meth kept getting passed around the room; it was too much for her.”

“What happened?” Karen asked. “Was it an overdose?”

“It started with an irregular heartbeat. Her heart got overstimulated. They said it actually burst. She was dead before the paramedics got there. Nineteen years old.”

Everett’s head shook in exasperation.

Madison was off the phone, and she approached her brother’s bedside. “He liked her. One of the nurses—Veronica, the one who found him—said they’d gotten really close.”

“Did Wesley know Cassidy had died…when he did this?” Everett asked.

“We’re not sure yet,” Madison said.

“What about Eddie?” Everett asked. “Where’s he?”

Sheila and Madison looked at each other, then began speaking at the same time.

“Go ahead.” Madison waved and turned away.

“He’s in trouble.” Sheila eyed them. “At least we think he is. He hasn’t been home for two days. I’ve left messages on his cell, told him about Wes. We haven’t heard back.”

“Does he often do this?” Karen asked. “I mean, stay away from home?”

“I know he’s hooked on gambling.” Sheila closed her eyes and squeezed the back of her neck. “But he always comes home at night—even if it’s late—unless he’s on business.”

“Wesley hasn’t even asked for him.” Madison had her back to them, staring out at the blowing trees. “Mom wasn’t here either, when he first woke up.” Her voice dropped. “Probably off filling up somewhere…”

Karen shot Everett a glance and watched Sheila deflate. But she forced herself to shake off the blow as quickly as it had been dealt.

“A black car has been parked outside the house on and off all week.” Sheila ran her fingers through her thick, dark hair. “I think someone may be after him.”

“Who?” Karen wondered how much Sheila knew about Eddie’s mob ties.

“I have no clue. Whoever he bets with. Probably the same crowd that beat him up at the racetrack. I haven’t been able to get him at work. I don’t even think he’s been in this week; hardly anyone is, ’cause of the holidays.”

When Madison’s phone rang, she snatched it, glanced at the caller ID window, excused herself, and left the room.

“She told me about her…religious experience.” Sheila rolled her eyes toward where Madison had exited, then meandered to the other side of Wesley’s bed. “I can’t say I’ve seen any difference in her. In fact, she seems to hate my guts all of a sudden.”

Karen caught Everett’s stare. He motioned with a nod and a winding of his hand, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

“Sheila.” Karen hesitated. “Madison told us…she thinks you have a drinking problem. She’s worried about you, and she needs you, especially now—”

“Oh, great.” Sheila stuck her fists on her slender hips like pins going into a cushion. “So my drinking’s the talk of the town. I suppose that gives Eddie the perfect excuse for all his shenanigans.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Everett raised his hands. “Look, Sheila, we want to help your family—”

“It’s over, okay? This ‘family,’ as you call it, lost its meaning a long time ago, long before you two came onto the scene. It’s really none of your business, anyway.”

“It
is
our business. Eddie’s my brother. You
are
family.”