Rock Star (55 page)

Four hours had passed. Four of the longest hours of Maxwell Sicily’s life.

He’d always tried to be low-key, stay away from the spotlight, keep out of other people’s business and hope they would afford him the same courtesy.

It wasn’t easy being Carmine Sicily’s son. No, it wasn’t easy at all. In school it was like he’d had a neon sign over his head proclaiming the fact. Decent kids stayed away from him, while the scum couldn’t do enough favours.

He grew up confused. Carmine was a larger-than-life figure to have as a role-model. Everybody loved Carmine Sicily. Every low-life who ever breathed.

His mother, Rose, didn’t count. She died when he was fourteen, leaving him alone with Carmine and a parade of whores.

He had his first woman the day after his mother’s funeral. Carmine forced her onto him – pushing the girl into his room with the words, ‘She’ll cheer you up, an’ if she don’t, forget about hangin’ around me with your miserable face.’

The girl was twenty-two and experienced. She milked him like a cow, holding his penis in one hand, rubbing between her legs with the other.

He hated it. He hated her. He hated his father.

When he was sixteen he took a gun from Carmine’s closet and robbed a liquor store. His father’s fury knew no bounds. He was beaten for a week.

When he was eighteen, he fucked Carmine’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend, stole twenty-six thousand dollars in cash and a black Lincoln from the house, and took off.

Carmine had him tracked down and brought back. This time he was locked in the cellar for three weeks with only bread and water for sustenance.

At twenty-two he shot and nearly killed a bank guard during the course of a violent robbery.

‘I give up,’ Carmine said. ‘Let him rot in jail. He’s not my son.’

And so he spent the next seven years in prison without a word from his father.

When he got out he headed for California, and it wasn’t long before he decided what his next job would be. Reading a magazine one day, he found out all about Nova and Marcus Citroen and their fabulous wealth. Then he saw the newspaper piece about their forthcoming fund-raiser for Governor Highland. The two articles jelled in his head. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

Now here he was. Fucked.

And outside the house there were police, and people and TV cameras and press.

He was
FUCKED.

‘Can I please have a drink of water?’ Rafealla asked wearily. Like the others she was bound hand and foot, lying on the floor in the corner.

Maxwell had forced them to tie each other up shortly after he broke in. Wild-eyed, he’d brandished his gun in the air threatening to shoot every one of them if they didn’t comply with his wishes.

He’d sent Rafealla upstairs to fetch sheets. If you’re not back in two minutes I’ll put a bullet through his head,’ he’d warned, nodding at Bobby.

Shaking, she’d raced through the bedrooms, dragging sheets from the beds.

When she’d brought them downstairs, he’d made Kris and Marcus tear them into strips and tie first Bobby, then Rafealla. Next, he’d had Marcus truss Kris up, and finally he’d done the honours to the furious record magnate himself.

Marcus had tried to reason with him. ‘Be sensible,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll never get away with this.
Never.
So why don’t you be smart, and walk away
now
, before you do something you’ll really regret?’

Walk away. That was a joke. He couldn’t walk away. He was trapped. All his life he’d been trapped.

Marcus Citroen reminded him of Carmine. A fat cat. A man who thought money could buy him anything.

‘How much if I walk?’ he’d asked, seeing what price Marcus would put on his life.

‘Ten thousand dollars. Cash,’ Marcus had replied, with all the confidence of a man able to buy himself out of any situation. ‘And you have my word. I’ll make absolutely certain you’re set free.’

Sure. And Mother Teresa will get a job in a go-go parlour.
Marcus Citroen insulted his intelligence, just like Carmine. Two rich pigs.

Maxwell had laughed in his face, whereupon Marcus Citroen doubled his offer, then tripled it. But by that time Maxwell wasn’t listening.

Once his hostages were tied up he’d felt better. Leaving them for a moment he’d scanned the house, making sure every window was secured from the inside, and pushing the bolts and chains on the two outside doors.

Soon the police would arrive.

He wasn’t wrong.

*    *    *

All Rafealla could think about was Jon Jon. If anything happened to her, how would her little boy survive? He was ten years old. What would he do without her? Who would teach him about life, and how to treat women, and the difference between right and wrong?

Who would comfort him when he was sad? Laugh with him when he was happy? Scold him when he was naughty?

She was his mother,
goddammit
, and she was determined to get out of this alive.

*    *    *

Locked into a world of blackness Bobby struggled with a terrible feeling, of inadequacy. There was nothing he could do – he was tied up, helpless, he couldn’t even see what was happening. He, Bobby Mondella, was a prisoner in every way.

*    *    *

On the other hand Kris felt pretty damn strong. When Marcus was tying him up he’d managed to loosen the bonds as they were going on. Strips of sheet weren’t going to hold
him
back when the moment came to take this psycho out. And the guy
was
a psycho – Kris knew he was right – you only had to look at the creep with his flat, starey eyes, and edgy, unsure movements.

Hey – Andy Warhol had said it pretty good. Everyone can be famous for fifteen minutes – and that’s what this asshole wanted. To hit the headlines, sell his story, have a book written about him, maybe even a mini-series.

Right now he was on the verge. He had three of the biggest recording stars in the world and a billionaire record tycoon wrapped up as hostages. But hey – Kris could figure out what the freak was thinking. If he let them go, what then? One headline, and that was it, he’d fade into obscurity without a trace. The only way he was going to hit it big was if he did something major – like kill them all.

With a shudder, Kris managed to roll towards Rafealla. ‘You okay?’ he whispered.

She nodded.

‘Hang in there, kid,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Because we’re gonna get out of this. An’ that’s one thing you’ll learn about me, I’m
never
wrong.’

*    *    *

Gathered outside the house there was a virtual army of people. The police, along with the SWAT team, had cordoned off a large area. Behind them were the TV crews, reporters and photographers. Most of the important guests had fled the scene, but Governor Highland had remained, giving Nova Citroen comfort, and maintaining a suitably heroic image with the press.

Maxwell, in his phone negotiations with Police Captain Lynch, had insisted the media were allowed onto the estate, figuring he was safer that way. His demands were simple. A helicopter to take him and his hostages to a quiet location, where an unmarked car would be waiting for him to make his getaway. ‘When I’m certain I’m safe, I’ll release the hostages,’ he’d promised.

‘Sure,’ Captain Lynch had muttered under his breath.

This conversation had taken place during the second hour of the siege – once the police captain took charge, and telephone contact began. ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’ was the first question he’d asked.

‘George Smith,’ Maxwell lied.

‘No way, pal. We had George Smith checked out. He’s only been around for the last couple of months. How about telling us your
real
name, and saving us all a lot of trouble?’

Maxwell felt the frustration build. Just who exactly did they think they were dealing with? Did they imagine he was as stupid as they were?

‘If I don’t get what I want,’ he’d said, slowly and precisely, ‘I will shoot the hostages, one by one. Do we understand each other?’

*    *    *

Sara’s eyes were red-rimmed. She’d tried to stay on top of it, but finally she’d broken. She couldn’t bear to think of Bobby and what he must be suffering.

Trudie tried to comfort her. ‘He’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘They all are.’

Sara knew it could go either way. Of course it was possible they’d walk free without a scratch. On the other hand something terrible could happen. She remembered the jewellery store incident on Rodeo Drive in 1986. For many hours the police had insisted the hostages, trapped in Van Cleef & Arpel, were okay. It turned out one was killed within minutes of being taken captive, and more died later in a hail of gunfire.

With a choked-back sob she realized just how much she loved Bobby Mondella. He had become her life, and it wasn’t healthy, because if she were truthful with herself, she had to admit he didn’t give a damn about her. Sure, he made love to her, and was nice when he felt like it. But he wasn’t in love with her, and she might as well face up to it.

If he gets out of this I’m going to leave him, she thought
.
He’s a success again – the man doesn’t need me, he’ll be a lot happier without me
.

That decided, she said a silent prayer for his safety.

*    *    *

Maxwell held the glass of water to Rafealla’s lips.

She sipped it slowly, and asked his name. Somewhere she had read that in a hostage situation it was important to develop a connection with the person holding you prisoner.

‘What the fuck has my name got to do with anything?’ he said angrily.

‘I’d like to be able to call you something,’ she ventured.

‘I know what you can call him,’ snarled Marcus, unbowed by his captivity. ‘You can call him a dumb sonofabitch.’

This comment incited Maxwell. He turned on Marcus and said threateningly, ‘Nobody calls Maxwell Sicily dumb.’

‘There’s your answer,’ Marcus said with a triumphant snort.

‘For Christ sake, shut up,’ Kris hissed, flexing his muscles beneath the loose bindings, and trying to decide if he could grab the psycho now. One lunge and it would be all over.

But what if his bindings didn’t break? What if the creep had time to turn his gun on him and blow Kris Phoenix away? There was something very unsettling about a gun being pointed in your direction.

Christ! His mum in England must be going crazy. The newspapers had probably called her already. Poor old Avis. She was never short of a bit of excitement with him for a son. And how about Willow and Bo? Willow would somehow make out it was all his fault. And as for Bo – who knew how the kid would react?

Maybe I’ve been a lousy father, he thought. If I get out of this I’ll try to be better, spend more time with him.

If I get out . . .

*    *    *

Cybil rested her honey-blonde head on Governor Highland’s sympathetic shoulder. ‘I’m so
tired
,’ she moaned.

They were sitting in the main house along with Hawkins, Nova and a slew of other people.

‘Maybe you should take a nap,’ he suggested. ‘Nova, is there a spare bedroom Cybil can lie down in?’

Nova signalled to her assistant. ‘Norton, take care of it.’

Norton St John escorted Cybil and a concerned Governor Highland upstairs to a spare bedroom.

‘Thank you,’ the Governor said, dismissing Norton with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ll see she settles down.’

Cybil sat on the side of the bed, brushing a weary hand through her mane of hair. ‘This is so awful,’ she sighed.

‘I know,’ he agreed, sitting down beside her.

‘Poor Kris.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be all right.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Cybil.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a very lovely young lady.’

‘Thank you.’

Clumsily he began to kiss her. She fell back on the bed, too exhausted to resist. All she could think of was that one day Governor Highland might be President, and wasn’t it funny that every man – be it rock star or future President – was exactly the same. Sex crazy. And who was she to object?

*    *    *

Impatiently Maxwell picked up the phone. ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ he said with cold intent. ‘If the helicopter isn’t here in fifteen minutes, I’m shooting a hostage.’

‘Come now, let’s think about this. Don’t be foolish,’ the Captain reasoned. ‘It’ll be here.’

‘Don’t fuck with me,’ Maxwell warned, his voice rising. ‘You’ve been giving me shit for over an hour. Either it arrives within fifteen minutes, or I’m taking one of them out. This is no idle threat. Am I getting through to you?’

‘Yes,’ the captain said, humouring him. ‘I promise you the helicopter is on its way.’ He wanted to add –
so is your father
, because they had discovered George Smith’s true identity by lifting his fingerprints off his locker at Lilliane’s and running them through the main computer.

Some discovery. Maxwell Sicily. Only son and heir of the infamous Carmine Sicily. And Carmine had been tracked down to a suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where he was staying on a business trip.

At first Carmine didn’t want to know. ‘My son? I don’t have a son.’ But when the situation was made clear to him, and he found out who was involved, he said, ‘I’ll be there. Don’t do anything until I arrive. This can be cleared up in seconds.’

Yes, he’d clear it up all right, Carmine decided – he’d put a hit out on his own son, and get him out of his life forever. The boy was no good, never had been. How dare he embarrass him like this with such important and influential people. Carmine was deeply humiliated. What had he done to deserve a son like Maxwell?

*    *    *

‘You still okay, luv?’ Kris moved closer to Rafealla, whispering in her ear. ‘The berk won’t do anything. Trust me.’ They’d all heard Maxwell’s furious threats to shoot one of them, and he wanted to reassure her.

Her voice sounded shaky. ‘I don’t know, Kris. This is like a nightmare, and I keep on expecting to wake up.’

‘I know, babe. But don’t worry, the guy’s a loser, he’s all talk an’ no balls – you can see it just by looking at him.’

Trying to sound brave she murmured, ‘I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.’ Reaching over, she touched Bobby’s shoulder.