Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol by Creston Mapes Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    “End of story?”
    “Well…yes,” Gray said, almost as if disappointed.
    “You hesitate, Mr. Harris. How does the story end? Was the man fired?”
    “Not exactly. Everett told him he could keep his job… if he fished the legible pages out of the trash can and read every one of them.”
    Dooley grinned. “Well, you may as well finish.” He snickered. “We’re all waiting with bated breath. What did the young man do?”
    Gray himself laughed now. “Actually, he read every page. The next thing we knew, he joined the Peace Corps.”

    I guess somewhere in the recesses of my mind I always thought I would marry Liza Moon. Now she was gone. Just another dagger in my heart to prove that life was meaningless, that nothing mattered. You just lived and died and…who cared?
    A flood of bitterness and rage filled my soul. I seemed to be walking beneath a dark cloud, unable to break into the sunlight. Sorrow ate away at me. Even though all the world wanted to be close to me, I was so alone. No one really wanted to be a true friend.
    I was becoming dangerous.
    During a brief break from the DeathStroke Rowdy tour, Endora flew to one of my favorite homes, a waterfront condo in Bal Harbour, Florida, near North Miami, to cheer me up. She promised a full-blown psychic reading, and I was all for it.
    After a catered dinner and a few drinks, she shooed me out of the living room while she broke out her bag of tricks. I went to the bathroom, then ducked into the den, clicked on the big-screen tube, and stood channel surfing for a few minutes.
    My condo was situated on the top floor, the thirty-second story, of a building complex known as The Towers, whose twin peaks hovered beautifully over ritzy Bal Harbour, providing a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. One major network news anchorman had a suite in the same building, as did several Hollywood stars.
    My unit had three spacious bedrooms, three baths, a kitchen and breakfast area, a large den with a bar, an office, and formal living and dining rooms. Liza had helped me decorate using the finest furnishings money could buy. It was truly elegant and had a style that was all Liza.
    By the time I came back, the living room was lit only by dozens of candles, including a large black one that sat just off to Endora’s left. Some sort of incense was burning, and Endora beckoned me to sit with her on the floor, insisting I cross my legs Indian-style and remain positive; negative vibes, she assured me, would produce an inaccurate reading.
    Next, she opened the lid of a shiny wooden box, which she’d been clutching most of the evening, and removed something that was covered in a square of silk. From beneath the purple cloth she brought out her treasured tarot cards, which she had spoken of often. There were seventy-eight cards in the deck, and I was not allowed to touch one of them. Not yet, anyway.
    Looking through the deck, Endora picked out one card—the King of Swords. It was a card that matched my astrological sign, Aquarius, and my skin and hair tones, dark. She placed that card facedown on the table horizontally.
    Next, she gave me the privilege of shuffling the deck until the cards felt “warm,” which I imagined they did. I cut the deck with my left hand “to invite order from the universe,” as she had insisted.
    Dealing from the bottom of the deck, Endora carefully set three cards vertically, facedown, above the King of Swords, then one card