Chapter Twenty-one
Melchior stared at the image on computer as if he could burn a hole through the screen. He had snapped one of his prize Cohibas. He was that angry.
They had used the original logo. They were playing Axton’s in NYC next week, a group of boys no older than the day they’d gone head first into the bog.
Melchior believed the world was conspiring to drive him mad.
He’d had a persecution complex since growing up Jewish in Blackpool, having to run home every day pursued by yobs. Nothing had ever come easy. Except talk. He could talk a sparrow out of a tree. He could talk starlets into his bed, sheiks out of their money, fleas off a dog. He could talk three provincial heavy metal belters to sign him as their manager thus becoming his vehicle for a lifetime ride to the top. Had they lived they might have shared that ride. It wasn’t his fault they’d guessed wrong about the weather. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
After a suitable period of mourning Melchior chose his next teen idols, those irrepressible power pups, Mayflower. There was an act you could market to young girls. And after that, Studley Bearcat, Serf City, a steady string of success stretching from Liverpool to Hollywood.
No one asked about the Banshees anymore. Fine with him. In retrospect, the imagery had been crude and obvious—something a biker gang would like.
And now they were back sticking their collective bums in his face. Mocking him. Daring him. According to Schaefer they were still under contract. Even if they weren’t, Melchior had secured the rights to trademark and ownership from their grieving—and not so grieving—kin.
Well, they may look the same, but he was not the same Melchior as this gang of brigands was going to find out.
Serafin had phoned an hour earlier, catching Melchior at his morning workout with his trainer, Adolfo. Serafin insisted that Melchior take the call. As Melchior listened, he waved Adolfo off. There would be no workout.
He was in his office working damage control. The office was freezing. Melchior found a Lakers hoodie in the closet and put it on. He sat in front of the screen and looked in vain for some way to contact the Banshees’ website. “Website under construction.”
He’d called Guttierez four times, leaving a message each time. He’d left a message for Dan Kennedy describing Guttierez’ disappearance. At this stage he could safely conclude that the Berlin police weren’t going to do squat. No one had reported a crime. If the situation Serafin described was accurate, the whole crowd had been in on it. How do 250 people keep a secret? Especially when the secret is murder?
For the third time, he summoned the image Serafin had sent him. It was obscene, beyond belief. But only if you knew it was blood. You might think someone had spilled a bucket of paint on the floor. And the way it reflected the overhead lights … one of the most disturbing images he’d ever seen.
All that red.
The house was equipped with a 17th century bell and sash system to summon the servants. Melchior used it now. Seconds later Stanton appeared in the door carrying a clipboard. “Sir?”
“I need the Latitude Wednesday to fly to JFK. Thursday night I’ll need VIP passes to Axton’s in the Village.”
“Sir, what is the event?”
“The fucking Banshees, if you can believe that shit. This time I’ll nail ’em personally. Find out where they’re staying. And get hold of Greg Eltaeb. I need to see him ASAP.”
“What about Melissa?”
What about Melissa? Melchior had read in Esquire many years ago that the most powerful statement a man could make was to appear with a stunning girl on his arm.
“Yeah, why not.”