Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (6 page)

Was there a bottle of scotch or gin being swigged and passed about in that car? Was there a torn cardboard case of beer on the floor, or maybe a fresh stash of coke? Everett couldn’t ignore how dangerously seductive the drugs and drink still were to him.

His old self had been crucified with Christ. The Holy Spirit lived in him now. Yet, there seemed to be an ugly, bitter, deadly force lurking in the shadows of his mind, haunting him, trying to trick him into thinking that his old self still lived and would make an encore appearance someday, on a day when Everett was at his weakest.

He rolled on through the puddles, vowing—as he had since he’d been born again—to live hour by hour, step by step. God had given the Israelites enough food for one day at a time, no more. Similarly, God’s grace would carry him day by day. He needn’t look beyond that.

On the very last row, in the darkest part of the lot, Everett’s breathing was interrupted by a wave of panic. Beneath a flickering streetlight, next to a sagging chain-link fence, he spotted something—or someone.

Jerking up on the parking brake, he hurried out of the Audi and dashed through the headlights’ beam to the mound that lay still between a beat-up conversion van and an old Mazda. It had to be garbage. Maybe a homeless person. Certainly not his brother, not out here like this.

Everett made out a shiny black wingtip, and all the air left him.

“Eddie?” He raced toward the shape on the ground. “Eddie Lester?”

No movement. A gray trench coat. It was a person, dressed nicely.

Everett’s knees wobbled. He told himself to stay calm and asked Jesus to help.

The rest of the puzzle became clear: an arm oddly twisted, a necktie half submerged in a puddle.
Lord, no!
And his brother’s head, lying awkwardly on the cold ground, blood clotted in his graying hair and smeared on the side of his face.

“Eddie!”

The cold rainwater soaked into his knees as Everett knelt over his brother, gently lifting his head in trembling hands

Eddie coughed, blinked, and gasped for air. His cheekbone was cut deep and still bleeding, just beneath the right eye. There were several bruises and another slice high on his forehead.

Has he been shot? Stabbed?
Unable to work the buttons, Everett ripped open Eddie’s overcoat, searching for bullet holes or blood or—who knew what else? Nothing wrong underneath.

“Eddie, it’s Everett!” He yanked the lapels of the overcoat, wanted to make his brother’s eyes open. “Can you hear me?”

With shaking fingers, Everett wiped the blood from his brother’s nose and mouth.

Eddie’s eyes opened. He was dazed and limp.

Jesus, let him hang on!

Everett laid his head back down, fumbled for his phone, and dialed 911.

“No.” Eddie grunted, turning his head sideways to look at Everett out of half-closed eyes. “No cops.”

“Eddie, we need an ambulance!”

“They’ll kill me,” he gurgled, still laid out flat. “Don’t…”

“I’m callin’ an ambulance!”

“No!” he groaned, shifting to his side and trying to sit up. “I’m okay. Wait. Just wait.” He reached for Everett’s glowing phone. Everett pulled it away.

Drooling and moaning, Eddie forced himself up. “Knicks were…on the take last night.” He smiled, eyes closed. “Had to be. Favored by eight over Atlanta. Only won by one in overtime… Turn off the phone, brother.”

“Is that what this is about?” Everett closed the phone, slid it into his pocket, and examined his brother’s mouth and facial cuts.

“Hawks. Worst team in the league. And they come within one of the Knicks. Had to be fixed.”

Everett scanned the parking lot. “You lost twenty-four grand on one game?”

“It was double or nothin’.’” Eddie groaned, licking a small cut at the corner of his mouth. “I owed twelve. Couldn’t believe they gave me eight points and the Knicks. It was a no-brainer.”

“Are you on anything? You been drinking?”

“Nothin’.” He grimaced. “This is who I am, brother.”

“Who’d you bet?”

“Let’s go, can we? I’m soaked. Think I cracked a couple ribs.”

“You need a doctor.”

“No.” Eddie looked around for the first time, getting his bearings. “I’ve had worse. Just get me to a hotel. I don’t want Sheila to see me like this, or the kids.”

“Where’s your car?”

“A lot near my office.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Cab.”

“I’m not takin’ you to a hotel. I’ll take you to a hospital, your house, or my house. You make the call.”

Eddie closed his eyes and could only shake his head, wincing.

“Never mind,” Everett said. “I’ll decide.”

Slowly, Everett helped his brother make it from the car to his house. Karen rushed to meet them at the door, gaping at Eddie’s bloodied body and shooting Everett a look of distress.

As they entered the toasty kitchen, Eddie barely made eye contact with Karen, insisting that his injuries were not substantial. But his body language said otherwise.

After taking a pair of blue sweatpants and an old white sweatshirt of Everett’s that Karen had retrieved, Eddie insisted he didn’t need his brother’s help changing. Thirty minutes later, he gingerly emerged from his room carrying his dirty suit and overcoat in a white laundry sack Karen had given him.

In the light of the family room, Everett was taken aback by how much his brother had aged—mostly in the past year, ever since David had perished. Long, wavy cracks creased his forehead, and myriad lines trailed from the outsides of his eyes like streamers. He looked beaten and resembled their deceased father, Vince, more each time Everett saw him.

The abrasions on Eddie’s thin face had been cleaned, but his normally shining brown eyes looked tired and sunken above his puffy cheeks. He had combed and spiked his hair, which was more gray than black now.

Eddie seated himself in a soft chair by a standing lamp, with Karen at his side. She used a washcloth and warm water from a silver bowl to clean the wounds on his face again, as well as several they discovered on the back of his head. From the opposite side of the chair Everett followed with peroxide, Neosporin, and several butterfly bandages.

“What’d they use, bro? A lead pipe?”

“One of ’em pistol-whipped me.” Eddie stared straight ahead. Everett could tell he was embarrassed, especially with Karen there.

Everett shook his head. “How many were there?”

“Three. They liked to kick. I’m pretty bruised up.”

His older brother had always been tough, seldom shedding a tear, even when their father had beaten his bottom raw with his thick leather belt. “Who are they, Eddie?”

His weary brown eyes flicked to Karen, who tried to look busy putting away the first-aid supplies.

“You know I’ve been strugglin’ with betting at the casinos, and whenever I travel—”

“Yeah, but I thought you had it under control.”

“Not quite.” Eddie chuckled. “Couple months ago I made the mistake of getting a bookie.” He looked at Everett, who peered back at him, waiting. “A friend told me it would be more convenient than going all the way to the casinos or the track. Plus, I wouldn’t be taxed on the winnings.”

“And…” Everett prompted.

“And pretty soon I was betting every day.”

“On what? What could you possibly bet on every day?”

The tilt of Karen’s head and her slow blink told Everett to cool it. He felt the strain in his face, his neck, his whole body.
Be patient.
He made himself relax.

“You name it. Between the horses, the pros, college—there’s always something. My bookie gives me the spreads, and I make my picks. Or he gives me total points, and I say over or under. You remember how dad used to do it—”

“Five bucks, Eddie. He bet
five bucks
once in a while on the Browns.”

“I got no excuses.” He turned away.

Everett felt like shaking him, screaming at him to grow up and straighten out his life. He was embarrassed by his brother in front of Karen. But just as quickly, he remembered his own pitiful life. He, too, was but dirt. He, too, had been trapped in the mire and blinded by Satan. “Who did this to you? The bookie? His cronies?”

Eddie exhaled and his shoulders slumped. “I thought the bookie was just some empty suit.” He looked at the floor where Rosey and Millie had curled up. “Apparently, he has connections.”

“With who, the mob?”

“I dunno, Ev. Maybe. Possibly.” Eddie stood and walked away from them. “These guys tonight were definitely somebody’s hired guns. All business.”

“What’d they say?”

“That I needed to pay what I owed by Friday.” Eddie found a mirror and touched several of the wounds on his face.

“Did they mention your bookie or anyone else?”

“Nope, just pay what you owe by Friday.”

“Or what?”

Eddie turned to face Everett. “If these are wiseguys, you don’t want to know ‘or what.’”

“I thought the mob was dead,” Karen chimed in.

Eddie looked at her one of the first times all evening. “There are still pockets. And they don’t mess around.”

“Well, we need to pay ’em their money and be done with it,” Everett said. “And we need to get you some help.”

Eddie closed his eyes, looking like a teenager who’d been told what to do once too often. “I’ve tried to get help.”

“Where?” Everett challenged.

“Gamblers Anonymous…my psychiatrist. None of it’s worked.”

“Maybe there’s a treatment center that could help you,” Karen said. “There must be places around here that deal with gambling addiction, maybe even from a Christian perspective, if you’d be interested…”

Eddie pursed his lips, stuck his jaw out, and nodded. “This thing tonight sobered me up. If you can help me pay the $24K, Ev, I’ll pay you back, a little each month.”

Everett patted his older brother on the back and kept his hand there, rubbing gently. “Let’s not worry about your paying us back. The first thing we need to do is get the bookmaker his money and tell him this’ll be your last transaction. How ’bout we do that tomorrow?”

With his mouth sealed, Eddie closed his eyes and nodded slightly.

“And after that, we’ll see,” Everett said.

“Honey,” Karen peered at Everett, “can we pray?”

“Yeah.” Everett glanced at his brother, feeling a bit awkward. “Okay with you, bro?”

Eddie shrugged.

Keeping his hand on Eddie’s back, Everett closed his eyes. “Thank you for sparing Eddie’s life tonight, Lord, for protecting him from worse. We pray You’ll help end this relationship with the bookie and whoever he’s hooked up with. And that You’ll free Eddie of this problem.”

During a brief pause, Everett raised his head slightly to find Eddie staring wide-eyed at the dogs, mouth closed tight. They made eye contact for a fleeting second, and Everett dropped his head again.

“Lord, please also heal Eddie’s marriage to Sheila and his relationships with Wesley and Madison. Help them to be a loving family.”

Everett heard Eddie stand and cross the room. He opened his eyes and watched his brother tilt open the top slats of the plantation shutters and look out at the darkness. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know how bad I
don’t
want to hear that right now.”

Everett shot a helpless glance at Karen and got the same in return.

“Eddie—”

“When you’ve lost your seventeen-year-old son,” Eddie’s voice overtook his brother’s, “
lost
your marriage of twenty-three years,
lost
your children’s hearts—and
lost everything
you’ve worked all your life to build…” The emotion rose up and choked him midsentence.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I’ve just seen God do so much in my life—”

“Don’t get me wrong. I believe there’s…something bigger out there.” His laugh was strained and crazy as he seemed to fight for breath. “But I also believe you play the cards you’re dealt. And it looks like you just got a better hand than I did, little brother.”

7

BY THE TIME THE
white Yukon crept down Old Peninsula Road, past the driveway and well-lit house at Twin Streams, it was approaching 11:50 p.m. Tony sat tight-lipped and beady-eyed in the passenger seat, glaring back at the Lester estate while Wesley’s heart thundered beneath his old green army jacket.

The white lines on the narrow weathered street were barely visible, and there were no streetlights, nothing but New York night. The darkness didn’t faze Wesley. The meth they’d smoked made him feel like a Navy SEAL on a midnight operation, wearing infrared night goggles, with caffeine coursing through his veins.

“Turn around,” Tony mumbled.

Wesley swung the Yukon into the next driveway, nearly bashing into a shiny black gate he hadn’t seen until it was two feet in front of the SUV. Heading back up the sloping road toward Twin Streams, Wesley slowed the vehicle to a crawl as they approached the house again.

“Old Uncle Everett’s up late.” Tony peered through Wesley’s window toward the cozy house. “Aw, ain’t that purty. They got the Christmas lights goin’. Tree all lit up. And the manger scene. Stop and turn out the lights, Wes.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, here. Just for a minute. Ain’t no cars out here. This is Boonesville.”

The Yukon crunched to a stop on the frigid street. Wesley glanced over at Tony, who was opening his door.

“Shhh.” Tony held a gloved index finger to his lips. “Come on.”

Nudging his door shut just enough to douse the dome light, Tony crossed in front of the SUV. His shadow expanded several hundred feet as he passed one headlight, then the next. He scampered down through the ditch toward the house, waving for Wesley to follow.

Wesley looked in all directions and cursed Tony under his breath. He was stoked about spooking his uncle but didn’t exactly plan on getting caught, either. He put the Yukon in drive and pulled into the dirty snow at the side of the road. Clicking the lights off, he quietly opened the door, endured the shock of the cold night, and closed the door behind him.

“What’re you doin’?” he yelled to Tony, who was walking casually through the brittle grass, still covered in great part by large patches of snow.