Armageddon Rag by George R.R. Martin Read Free Book Online

anticipated, once he’d made it clear that the help he was offering did not include betraying any journalistic ethics or violating any confidences. When he got to Bangor he was tired, and glad for a bed, any bed, so he pulled his Mazda over at the first VACANCY sign.
    Luckily, Jared Patterson hadn’t changed his unlisted phone number in the past four years. Sandy took a faint satisfaction in waking his erstwhile employer out of a sound sleep. “You’re in trouble, Patterson,” he said cheerily. “That’s my daughter there in bed beside you, and I’ll have you know she’s only fifteen. We’re going to send you to jail and throw away the key.”
    “Who the hell is this?” Patterson demanded in a confused, wary voice. Sandy could picture him sitting bolt upright in his jockey shorts, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
    “Tsk. I’m wounded. This is Clark Kent up in Maine, chief. Your star reporter. Don’t you recognize the voice?”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Patterson muttered. “Seven years, and I’d almost forgotten your asshole stunts, Blair. What the hell do you want? Do you know what time it is?”
    “Three-seventeen,” Sandy said. “Exactly. I have a digital watch now, you know. I got mugged three years ago and the bastard took Spiro, would you believe it? I need some information from the
Hog
morgue. Here, write down this number.”
    There was a brief muffled conversation on the other end as Jared said something and someone else answered. It did sound like a fifteen-year-old girl, Sandy thought. “All right,” Patterson said. “I’ve got a pencil. Give it to me.”
    Sandy gave it to him. “What I need are the present whereabouts of the three surviving Nazgûl. In case the disco queens you’ve got working for you now don’t know who the hell they are, the names are Peter Faxon, Rick Maggio, and John Slozewski. If you clowns have kept the files up to date, the information ought to be there. Get back to me as soon as you can tomorrow. I’ve done everything I can up here, and I want to get rolling.”
    “Sure, sure,” Patterson said. “Hey, as long as we’re at it, you want to look up some of the guys in Lynch’s other groups too?”
    “No,” Sandy said curtly.
    “Todd Oliver used to be with American Taco, didn’t he? He’s lead singer for Glisten now. You ought to interview him, at least, so we’ll have one current name in with all these has-beens.”
    “Fuck Todd Oliver,” Sandy said. “Man’s got no pride. If he’d play for Glisten, he’d do anything. I refuse to interview any man who wears a silver lamé jumpsuit on stage. Just the Nazgûl, please. The reasons need not concern you, but let me tell you, this story is going to be more interesting than we thought. Give your friend a kiss for me. Bye.” He hung up, smiling.
    The smile faded quickly in the dinginess and silence of the motel room, however. Bone-weary as he was, somehow Sandy did not think sleep would come easily, and he was strangely reluctant to turn out the lights. Briefly, he considered phoning Sharon back in Brooklyn, but he discarded the idea without even reaching for the phone. She’d be furious with him if he called at this hour, especially since he really had nothing to tell her. Sandy sighed. For the first time in a good number of years, he found himself wishing for a joint. It would relax him nicely, but it was a futile thought. He had smoked so little in recent years that all of his connections had long ago dried up and blown away.
    Thinking of connections led to other thoughts, however. He took out his notebook and glanced through the names and numbers he’d jotted down at home. Old friends, old contacts, old sources. Most of the numbers probably weren’t even good these days. People move around a lot. Still, if he needed them—and you could never tell on a story like this—the numbers would give him a place to start tracking them down.
    He lingered over one number, considering. Finally he smiled. Maggie