Charlie Estrella E-Book

Theodore Huntington

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

He's the greatest musician the world has ever seen, or heard. But what is the secret behind Charlie Estrella's magical musical gifts?

In the second book in Theodore Huntington's 'The Storm Trilogy', we follow a tale of another supernatural hero - in the real world. This time, it is young Charlie Estrella who is granted his greatest wish by the Storm.

But can he find his true destiny in time, or will he be thwarted by his evil foes?

Leseprobe

CHARLIE ESTRELLA

THE STORM TRILOGY BOOK 2

THEODORE HUNTINGTON

CONTENTS

I. ENCORE!

II. FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SHOW

III. THE EPIPHONE

IV. LUNCH BREAK

V. AFTER THE SHOW

VI. GROUPIES

VII. THE PRIUS

VIII. IN THE DUNGEON

IX. GEORGE STARSIAK

X. GAIL

XI. THE RUNAWAY

XI. NIGHTMARES

XII. GOUCH

XIII. DR. JONES

XIV. THE STORM

XV. TROUBLED WATER

XVI. ESTRELLA IS BORN

XVII. SESSIONS

XVIII. LONG ISLAND

XIX. BILLIARDS

XX. SECRETS

XXI. THE INTERVIEW RESUMES

XXII. ROSALIE

XXIII. INTRUDERS

XXIV. INTERROGATION

XXV. PRACTICE SESSION

XXVI. CHARLIE’S DEVILS

XXVII. WORST WEEK EVER

XXVIII. MYRON KLEIN, RIP

XXIX. NEIL HOCHHEISER

XXX. HOMELESS

XXXI. SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK

XXXII. LETICIA

XXXIII. DR. STARRR

XXXIV. THE ESTRELLA SHIP

XXXV. RAMONE

XXXVI. FLIGHT ATTENDANTS

XXXVII. MAYDAY

XXXVIII. THE LIMO

XXXIX. RAMONE

XL. GEARING UP

XLI. ESCAPE PLAN

XLII. DAYS OF OUR LIVES

XLIII. BERG AND ANNETTE

XLIV. CAL

XLV. GREEN AND DARK ONES

XLVI. THE SORCERESS

XLVII. THE SHAMAN

XLVIII. COAL THE RAVEN

XLIX. THE BAND PLAN

L. FLOATING

LI. DISTRACTED

LII. INTRODUCING SHYNUH

LIII. WOMEN AND DRUGS

LIV. THE MARTIN

LV. ESTRELLA EXPLODES

LVI. THE ARREST

LVII. THE BATTLE LOOMS

LVIII. THE BACKSTAGE VISITOR

LIX. THE ORPHAN

LX. NOT TINKERBELL

LXI. SHE RETURNS

LXII. THE BOSTON TRAGEDY

LXIII. HANA

LXIX. SURPRISE VISITOR

LXX. THE STORM REVEALED

LXXI. MISDIRECTION

LXXII. THE PREMONITION

LXXIII. DUPED

LXXIV. FAREWELL BASH

LXXV. FROZEN

LXXVI. HEAD ON A SWIVEL

LXXVII. THE NIGHTMARE

LXXVIII. THE MOST GLORIOUS CREATURE

LXXIX. IT IS TIME

LXXX. ENCORE

Epilogue

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Theodore Huntington

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to Chance Lucas Huntington, the littlest “Star-Head.” Follow your destiny, “Sir Chancelot.”

In Memory of

Eddie Van Halen

I. ENCORE!

Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California, was literally swaying from the stomping and screaming fans, urging their hero Charlie Estrella to emerge for one final encore.

The sky was crystal-clear, the moon and stars shining, the flickering extravaganza from the stadium adding to the sky’s luster. A warm, seventy-degree breeze kept the concert-goers comfortable. For miles, the streets surrounding Levi’s Stadium were lined with vehicles, a la scenes from Woodstock, where thousands of rabid Estrella fans – “Star-Heads” – listened intently to the music emanating from the concert.

“Estrella! Estrella! Estrella!” It was deafening, yet the one-hundred-thousand-plus loyal Star-Heads inside the stadium, ears, and minds buzzing from the mixture of one hundred thirty-decibel amplified rock, and a thick cloud of powerful flower and other mind-altering concoctions, refused to stop until the band returned to the stage, even following an epic five-hour Halloween night show.

Catching their breath in the tunnel, Charlie Estrella and his bandmates guzzled bottles of water. Drummer Sid Stanley, tall and lanky, shaved head with a purple bandana atop his dome, twirled his drumstick with one hand while using his other hand to towel off the streams of sweat dripping into his eyes. Stanley stared at Estrella, who stood with his back against the stone wall, eyes closed, soaking in the adoration of the massive crowd, oblivious to the curious stares from the band.

“Shall we?” Sid yelled to Estrella, hoping to break the virtuoso ax man from his trance. Charlie did not react, continuing to meditate. Rhythm guitarist/singer Ronnie Jones, bassist Q. Zeller – Estrella’s closest bud – and keyboard player Nylon Quipp, shrugged at each other, wondering when their leader would give the go-ahead to perform one final tune – a send-off for the band that Rolling Stone Magazine deemed “the last, and greatest, supergroup.”

Surrounding the band, Estrella’s diminutive, cigar-chomping, bad-toupee wearing manager, Berg Rabinowitz, massive, Sasquatch-like road manager/head troublemaker Sparks Nevada, and the lady dubbed the most beautiful woman in the world, Charlie’s girlfriend, Shynuh, all wore concerned looks on their faces. Estrella’s trances had become more frequent, and this one seemed to linger longer than most of them.

“Should we turn up the lights?” lead roadie Al Rose screamed into Rabinowitz’s ear, knowing that the lights would signal to the crowd that the show was over, and their chanting could finally cease.

Rabinowitz shook his head slightly, blew out a puff of his stogie, and waved his hand towards Rose to back off. There was one more song remaining in Estrella’s arsenal – the one everyone came to see the band play on this, their final concert ever.

Eyes closed, Charlie raised his head towards the ceiling, lifted the water bottle to his lips, so slowly it seemed like he could barely raise his arm, gulped down the liquid, and dropped the empty bottle on the ground. The band froze in place, wondering if Estrella’s movement meant it was time to retake the stage.

Estrella’s eyes sprung open, darting around dramatically as if he had just awakened from deep REM sleep. He inhaled a chest-full of oxygen and declared, “Let’s do this.”

The stage turned black, except for the one circular beam shining down on the gold star at center stage. In the darkness, the crowd could not see that Stanley, Jones, Zeller, and Quipp had taken their positions at their instruments.

Quipp struck an A-minor on his Studiologic organ and the fans screamed in unison, “YEAH!!!” They knew it was time for the band’s all-time classic, “Free.”

The studio version of the song’s incredible intro featured a five-minute, face-melting solo by Estrella, that stretched to twice that length in concert before the drum cymbals smashed and the song broke into one of the most iconic anthem-jams in rock music history.

Seemingly by magic, Estrella appeared on his star, the stage light illuminating his golden locks and his signature Les Paul Goldtop. Quipp sustained the chord, which could barely be heard over the fans.

Estrella raised his pick high in the air, and the screams grew even louder.

The organ faded. Charlie wrapped his left hand around the neck. Smoke billowed around the guitar-God, and the star underneath his feet began to rise, lifting him ten feet above the stage.

Estrella squeezed his eyes closed and summoned the magic within his fingers. Despite his years of grueling practice, even Charlie Estrella questioned how one could possess such spectacular talent.

Thirty minutes later, one-hundred-thousand fans inside the arena, another quarter-million from the nearby streets, accompanied Ronnie Jones, singing the final words to the song: “And for all of our lives let’s be freeeeeeee.”

Stanley struck the gong.

The stage went black.

As was their custom for every concert throughout their spectacular run, the band members gathered in the middle of the stage to take a bow, the stadium lights illuminating the giant crowd.

The guitarist who was supposed to occupy the star in center stage, in the middle of the five-member band, was gone. Stanley, Quipp, Jones, and Zeller looked around, confused. They bowed and waved to their fans.

Blowing a kiss to the audience, Jones proclaimed, “We love you!” The band unlocked their arms and wandered off stage, expecting to see Charlie waiting for them in the wings.

But Charlie Estrella had completely vanished in a puff of smoke while bending his high E-string at the conclusion of “Free,” tears streaming down his face.

II. FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SHOW

LaRissa Holloway drummed her fingers on her MacBook, her nails whittled to the nub from nervous chewing. LaRissa had been waiting in the lobby of the Plaza for almost two hours. Any other reporter would have given up long before, but LaRissa had dogged Charlie Estrella for four years before he finally agreed to the exclusive interview. She checked her iPhone for the eighty-fifth time, just in case Estrella’s manager, Berg Rabinowitz, may have replied to her repeated “where is he?” texts.

The Rolling Stone reporter worked her way to the top of the magazine’s roster of stellar writers through grit, a take-no-prisoners attitude, and a colorful writing style that earned her a 2002 Pulitzer nomination for her expose on how Napster transformed the music industry.

LaRissa looked the antithesis of the music journalist, especially one who penned such a massive volume of articles on rock and hip-hop music. The petite, light-skinned African American, barely broke five feet and barely hit the century mark on her scale. Born in Clifton, New Jersey to two college professors – dad Marvin taught English at Princeton, and mom Helen taught physics at Rutgers – LaRissa never left home without looking perfectly professional, taking special care to wear clothing that hid her ample curves.

To say LaRissa’s colleagues disliked her was a severe understatement. She never dated another in the industry – nor anywhere else, for that matter. She never socialized or drank a drop of alcohol – a rarity for someone in the music biz. She never engaged in friendly banter, nor did LaRissa make any attempt to develop any work friendships. A complete loner, or possibly an intensely private person, LaRissa heard the gossip and back-stabbing from her peers: “stuck-up bitch,” “snob,” “the poster child for resting bitch face,” “lesbian.” She was adept at letting these jabs roll off her back. To LaRissa, work friendships simply led to distractions and would derail her from her career aspiration – to become managing editor of Rolling Stone.

“Miss Holloway?” a meek male voice whispered from over LaRissa’s right shoulder. The reporter did not hear her name, her eyes glued to the front doors. “Pardon me, Miss Holloway?” She turned her head to see the bellboy standing nervously over her.

“Me?”

The bellboy handed LaRissa a note, which she unfolded, read, and took a deep breath in disgust. The note said, “Your interview is running late. He apologizes for the delay.” LaRissa crumpled the paper and handed it back to the hotel employee.

She tried texting Berg one more time: “WTF, Rabinowitz!?! Losing my patience.”

To LaRissa’s surprise, text bubbles raced on her phone. She stared at the screen, waiting for a response.

BR: CE overslept. He’s two minutes away. LOL.

LaRissa did not see what was so “LOL-worthy.” She readied her MacBook, took a relaxing breath, twisted her neck, cracked her knuckles, stood, and took a couple small steps toward the front door. She froze underneath the massive chandelier, watching a steady flow of wealthy hotel guests come and go, the cool Autumn breeze blowing in leaves every time the door opened. As each person passed her, LaRissa mumbled to herself, “You’re not Estrella… You’re not Estrella… You’re not Estrella…”

“Hi, Charlie, nice to see you again.”

“Mr. Estrella, fashionably late again, I see.”

“You’re such a dick! I’ve been waiting for two hours.”

LaRissa was not sure what greeting might emerge from her mouth when Estrella finally appeared.

Several minutes later, LaRissa’s face showing her displeasure with Estrella’s rudeness and complete lack of punctuality, Wanda Rice strode through the ornate front doors, looking about as haggard as LaRissa felt. Charlie Estrella’s publicist was conducting reconnaissance in advance of her client’s entrance.

LaRissa could not help but notice that Wanda was alone.

“Where’s your client?” LaRissa pondered, avoiding Wanda’s outstretched hand.

“You want to do this interview or not?” Wanda barked back, snapping her arm down to her side.

“I’ve got better things to do than sit here for two hours—”

“No, you don’t.”

Wanda was correct. After all, LaRissa had been chasing this interview for so long it had bordered on addiction. She knew this scoop might land her that promotion she richly deserved, so it was worth it to wait a couple hours if it meant spending an entire day picking the brain of the world’s greatest guitar virtuoso, the man who single-handedly made genius guitar playing relevant and revered once again, the man Rolling Stone dubbed, “Greater than Hendrix, Stevie Ray and Eddie – combined.”

“So, where is he?”

“In the car. He wants you to ensure his privacy. His bodyguards aren’t here.”

“You can see I’m alone.”

“A back entrance? A private suite, with no live feed broadcasting your interview?”

Ten minutes later, LaRissa sat in an incredibly comfortable chair in a Plaza suite, watching Wanda text her client from the incredibly comfortable couch.

WR: Coast is clear. ETA?

CE: One flight to go. Out of breath.

Wanda stood and opened the door a crack.

“Is he here?”

“Two minutes.”

LaRissa Holloway had interviewed many rock music giants: Jimmy Page, Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day, Elton John, James Hetfield from Metallica, Pink, Dave Grohl from Foo Fighters, Chris Martin from Coldplay. Yet, when the “Great White Whale” of rock strode through the door, LaRissa’s spine tingled.

She froze, paralyzed for an instant, her heart racing, her butt glued to the seat. Embarrassed and much more star-struck than she imagined, LaRissa’s palms pooled in sweat, so she told herself to avoid an awkward handshake.

In fact, there was no greeting at all, just some head nods. LaRissa’s fuming over Charlie’s tardiness flew out the window into the adjacent Central Park. Now staring at the ultimate “Rock God,” the reporter had to muster all her professional grit to compose herself and focus on the job at hand.

“Grab a water from the fridge,” Wanda suggested, seeing Charlie panting from his ten-story climb.

Estrella planted himself next to Wanda and guzzled the entire bottle of water. LaRissa examined the mercurial star. Charlie wore a tattered Yankees’ cap and Ray-Bans shielding his blood-shot eyes. His black Ozzy T-shirt had seen better days, but it was short and tight enough to reveal the tattoo on his right shoulder – a dark cloud surrounded by lightning bolts. LaRissa could not help but notice Charlie’s muscle tone – more fitting for a gym rat than a rock star. Charlie’s Lees and biker boots completed the ensemble. He crossed his legs and nestled back into the couch.

LaRissa leaned over her MacBook and tapped some keys. “I’m going to do a video recording, okay? Just to help me capture everything about the interview.”

Charlie looked over to his publicist for assurance.

“It’s fine, Charlie. She’s a straight-shooter.”

LaRissa almost smiled.

“The first question is really just for my own curiosity… Why now? I’ve been dogging you for years. Why agree to this interview now?” LaRissa had heard rumblings through the music world that the upcoming Estrella concert might possibly be the final show for the famed rock ensemble, but she wanted to hear it come from Estrella himself.

Charlie bit his cheek and cocked his head. “Pity.”

“Seriously?”

“Ha! No, not seriously. Why would I pity you?”

LaRissa’s blood boiled. She asked herself, “Why does he have to put on this asshole act?”

Wanda stood abruptly and sauntered to the bar. She knew how to put Charlie Estrella in his place.

“Don’t make mommy come and smack you upside the head, Estrella!” Wanda reprimanded the star as she poured herself a rum and Coke. The bleached blonde who never changed her Bob hairdo and was twenty years Charlie’s senior often took on a motherly role to Estrella.

“Fine. It’s just about time, ya know? All these rumors have followed me throughout my career. Time to set the record straight. Maybe I’m ready to move forward.”

“Move forward?”

“Yeah… well, we’ll get to that in due time.”

LaRissa leaned to the edge of her seat. She already knew this was going to become a monumental interview. She jotted down a note on her yellow legal pad: “MOVE FORWARD???”

“Okay, let’s go back to the beginning. Let’s set the record straight. Legend has it you never took a guitar lesson – learned to play when you were a small boy while locked in your mother’s basement. She couldn’t stand hearing your amplifier –”

“Alright, alright… That story has been totally butchered,” Charlie corrected LaRissa. “Mom’s been portrayed as such a witch. Truth is…” Charlie’s voice trailed off, as he caught a vision of something by the window. The spirit-like image appeared to stare out the glass, and then he turned his head slowly until he and Charlie locked gazes.

“Charlie?” LaRissa spoke after a full minute of dead air. “Charlie, you okay?”

Charlie came back, creaking his head slowly to face his interviewer. “Yeah, sorry.”

LaRissa made another note: “ZONES OUT… IS HE OKAY???”

“So yeah, Mom hated my guitar. She wanted me to learn an instrument when I was a wee lad, but something quiet, like a – I dunno, what’s a quiet instrument, the flute? My older sister played the flute. Maybe that’s what Mom wanted for me. Can you imagine!?! I mean, the Ian Anderson flute thing never really caught on, did it?”

LaRissa shook her head.

“So, yeah… Anyway, my grandma got me a toy guitar for my birthday when I was seven. Plastic strings. It had all these stars and rainbows. I added a bunch of X-Men stickers, ‘cause, ya know, I was seven. But it played fine – for a kid. And it was quiet. Plastic strings, no amplifier. I liked it. Mom didn’t complain. It came with a songbook, and when Mom punished me and sent me to my room, I learned to play those songs: ‘Twinkle Twinkle,’ ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ – not the SRV version!”

“Why would she punish you?”

“Kid stuff. I didn’t clean my room. I teased my sister. I looked like my dad.”

“That sounds painful.”

Charlie took off his cap and rubbed his curly blonde hair. Then he looked toward Wanda, nursing her drink at the bar. “Tell her I’m not going to do this if she wants to play psychiatrist.” It was going to take some time for Charlie to warm up to LaRissa and let his guard down.

Wanda repeated her client’s warning, “He’s not going—"

“Yeah, yeah. I heard him. Fine. Moving on… This is when you lived on Long Island, right?”

“Bay Shore. I think I was the only non-Italian in the entire town. A lot of mobsters’ kids in my class. Freaking Johnny D’Antonio ran a bookie business in sixth grade. Fun stuff! But I digress… The basement…”

“Let’s get into that basement.”

“I was the class clown. That was my identity. Knew I could make kids laugh in second grade. It made me, I dunno, popular? I was an okay athlete. Played Little League and stuff. But I never got bullied or into fights because the tough guys thought I was funny. They liked hanging around me. My teachers – they did not enjoy my comedy. Not at all. One teacher, Mr. Byrnes, absolutely hated me. Moved my chair next to his desk at the front of the room.”

Wanda, munching on an ice cube, interrupted, “Thought you didn’t want this to become a therapy session!”

Charlie shot Wanda a nasty look.

Off Charlie’s stare, Wanda responded, “Just sayin’. Anyway… continue, your highness.”

“By fourth grade, I was breaking the school record for most consecutive evenings spent in detention.”

“Why?”

“As I said, I was funny, and the teachers didn’t like me. Mrs. Leshefsky – seventh grade – she really loathed me. She was one of those fitness freaks and I’d see her running to school every morning. But she had this awkward style, with her arms tucked into her armpits. She looked like a chicken.

“And she wore these bright yellow shorts, tight, riding up her crack. I took pics and showed the class.

“Developed a whole stand up bit about the ‘Chicken Teacher’ I’d do before school started in the morning. Classmates were hysterical. They wanted more, and every day I’d come up with new jokes about Mrs. Leshefsky. Looking back, it was hurtful stuff, but I was thirteen. And I was getting a lot of laughs… until one day she heard the commotion from outside. I was standing on a desk, lights off, with a friend shining a flashlight on me like I was on stage with a spotlight. My first audience, you might say. And then I noticed Mrs. Leshefsky at the window – a look of complete horror and tears in her eyes. Spent the rest of the year in detention, in school, and at home. Wasn’t allowed out of the house for two years. And when Mom heard me playing my toy guitar in my room, enjoying my time alone, she decided to enhance the punishment by banishing me to the basement. She threw a mattress down there and would leave my dinner at the top of the basement stairs. I had to go straight to the basement as soon as I got home from school.”

“Seems a little extreme.”

“Mom was going through her own torture during that time. It’s when Dad bailed. I don’t blame him. Mom was cruel to him. He got laid off and Mom hated him for it.”

“What are their names?”

“Mom is Theresa. Dad was George. He died a few years ago.”

“Sorry.”

Charlie’s nod said “thanks.”

“Tell me more about the basement.”

III. THE EPIPHONE

The first week or so in the basement was hell. My friends would call or come by, wanting me to hang out, but I’d hear Mom upstairs, “Charlie’s not gonna be playing for a looooong time!” There was such joy in her voice. I’m convinced she got a great deal of pleasure out of my misery.

It wasn’t long before all my friends faded away. It was tough for me. I went from a popular funny guy to just a kid in the background. Because of how depressing it was at home, I lost my sense of humor for a while. Just wasn’t in the mood to make people laugh.

And the basement was cold, too. I mean, it was New York in the winter. I had a thin little sheet to keep me warm. No space heater. Nothing else. There were plenty of nights I’d huddle around the furnace, so I didn’t freeze. I could see my breath. I’d walk home from school, slipping over the ice, watching my classmates pass by on the school bus, and go straight to the dungeon. It was a miserable existence.

“You had to sleep in the basement, too,” LaRissa asked.

Two years. Two solid years down in the dungeon. And it was very dungeon-like – cobwebs, dank, dripping pipes, a loud-ass, rusty furnace. I wasn’t allowed to bring anything from my bedroom except schoolwork and books. I would take out books from the school library – something I never thought would interest me. But I found interesting paperbacks like Hammer of the Gods, a Led Zeppelin biography, How to Kill a Rock Star, which coincidentally is about a music journalist, and Mitch Albom’s The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto. Those books really fueled my desire to learn about music.

I honestly think my punishment had more to do with my folks’ divorce than my behavior in school. I’m the spitting image of my dad. Banishing me to the basement meant Mom wasn’t reminded that her ex’s look-alike lived under her roof. I begged her to let me go live with my dad, but she didn’t want to give up the child support money.

We had a couple rats down there too. Big, scary rats. I named them – Kong and Godzilla. Freaked me out at first, but I got used to them – would give them my dinner scraps. We had an understanding: I feed you and you don’t give me rabies, okay?

“Why didn’t your mother clean the basement or get an exterminator?”

You kidding? She’d say Dad didn’t give her enough money to pay for frivolous stuff like that.

Mom rarely even saw me during those two years. There was an unfinished bathroom in the dungeon. No walls. Just a toilet, shower with no curtain, and a sink. Pipes all around. I’d enter and leave the house through the cellar door in our backyard.

My sister Gail felt sorry for me. She got it bad from Mom, but nowhere near as bad as me. Gail would come down occasionally, tell me about life in the above-ground world. Before I was banished to the basement, we didn’t get along that well. Things changed for us when I was down there. Gail was two years older and was a nerdy girl with hardly any friends. And then at fourteen she blossomed, developed these huge tits, and became exceedingly popular with the boys. But during those two years when I was in the dungeon, we were closer. She’d worry about my health. My skin was turning gray. My blonde hair got darker and was long and scraggly. No sun will do that to you, ya know?

But really, it turned out the basement was the best thing for me.

“How’s that?”

It was about two months into solitary confinement. There was a nasty smell building in the basement. I went looking for the source. Turned out, Kong had croaked. Maybe Godzilla murdered him for his piece of bread. Whatever it was, it smelled rancid. I looked all over the basement for the source of the smell. Found Kong in a corner, behind a bunch of dusty boxes. Got a rag and picked him up by the tail. Jesus, it was horrid! But guess what I saw under the rat carcass? A freaking guitar case! An Epiphone guitar case, with a little pig nose amp next to it. After vomiting, I was able to clean everything up – give Kong a little burial in the backyard – and after some polish, I had myself a 1956 Epiphone Les Paul Goldtop.

“Did you ever find out who it belonged to?”

Turns out old George Starsiak was a bit of a musician. Dad played—

“Starsiak? Your last name is Starsiak?”

It’s Polish in case you were wondering. You thought my real name was Estrella?

“Well, yes. In all my research I never came across anything about a different last name.”

Starsiak… Star… Estrella is star in Spanish. It’s not much of a stretch, really. I’m zero percent Hispanic. Polish and Welch, with a little Austrian – hence the blonde hair.

“The Les Paul?”

Right, right… Still have it. It’s going to get buried with me… when it’s time, ya know? That guitar means everything to me. Gail told me she heard that Dad was a rather good guitarist. He was in some bands in the 60s – even toured with the Lovin’ Spoonful and some other big acts. I was mad when Gail told me. How did she know and not me? Why was it such a big secret that Dad had this music history? Well, I guess I had to get my musical aptitude from somewhere, right?

LaRissa made a note: “GEORGE STARSIAK!”

I was getting too old for the toy guitar, but seeing that Les Paul, I mean, it inspired me. I was so motivated to play it. But I had no money and Mom wouldn’t help at all. I needed stuff for the Goldtop. So, I begged Mom to let me do chores for money: raking leaves, mowing the lawn, cleaning out the rain gutters. Mom took full advantage. I did every crap job she could find for me. And boy, was she cheap! I’d spend three hours re-screening the back porch, getting eaten alive by bugs, for two dollars. But it all added up, and besides, it gave me brief reprieves from the dungeon. By springtime, I saved a couple hundred dollars. I snuck out one Saturday and rode my bike to a little music shop, Musica Negozio. The name literally means “music store.” Fancy, right? An old Sicilian owned the shop, Carmello Ponte. Spent every penny on songbooks, a four-track tape recorder, strings, picks, a tuner, a strap, a cord. I was set – and I dove into “Terry.”

“Terry?”

The Goldtop. Named it after my mom. Not sure why – maybe because it annoyed her so much to hear me play. The little pig nose amp wasn’t very loud, but she loved pounding her broomstick on the kitchen floor – just over my head in the dungeon – whenever the music seeped through the floorboards. Gail told me it was barely audible, but Mom couldn’t stand it that I found something to not only occupy my time in the dungeon but something that I enjoyed. Honestly, “enjoyed” doesn’t come close to describing it. I started racing home from school to play. My fingers were completely calloused, playing until two or three in the morning, every night.

Started out with a Led Zeppelin songbook. I cried when I first played “Stairway” all the way through, solo and all. It’s not the most challenging song – I’d say Page’s toughest tune is “The Rain Song” – but “Stairway” is just so iconic. Within a few weeks, I had all ninety-two Zep songs down – at least the licks and chords. I hadn’t mastered all the solos yet. Then I got a Hendrix book. His songs are much more difficult than Page’s. Struggled a bit on an obscure Jimi tune, “Machine Gun.” Hendrix played a Strat, and my Les Paul wasn’t exactly suited for several of his songs.

By the end of summer, I had stormed my way through the Van Halen, Queen, and Nirvana catalogs. Next up was Stevie Ray Vaughan. That was some seriously challenging shit. Felt like I was climbing the “Mt. Everest” of guitar.

“How long did it take you to learn all these great guitar pieces?”

Hmm, four, five months. I know, I amazed myself how fast it all came to me. But then I went through a let-down stage. I knew I could continue to work my way through more and more difficult compositions – Eric Johnson, Yngwie Malmsteen, Michael Angelo Batio, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani – and I became a sponge, listening to and attempting to emulate all their amazing technique and speed. I was far from technically perfect, but I knew I was good for a thirteen-year-old.

I needed more. I needed to write my own music.

IV. LUNCH BREAK

Three rum and Cokes later, Wanda’s mouth was agape, as she sat on the couch, inches from her client. Charlie noticed out of the corner of his eye, stopped talking, and turned his head toward his publicist.

“What?” Wanda wondered why Charlie stopped.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve… I’ve just never heard any of this. All the years we’ve known each other, and…”

Charlie grinned.

“I think this is a good place to take a little break, don’t you?” LaRissa asked, pausing the recording on her MacBook. She twisted her neck and stretched her back. “Lunch?”

Wanda checked her phone for texts and noticed the time – one-twenty-five. “Holy crap, I gotta run.”

“You’re not staying for the whole interview?” LaRissa asked.

“I’d love to, but Berg and I have a thing with Lionsgate. They’re filming the show on Saturday.”

LaRissa jotted that down: “CONCERT MOVIE – LIONSGATE.”

Wanda summoned an Uber and headed for the door. She turned to Estrella before exiting, “You’ll behave yourself, right Charlie?”

“Lemme know how the meeting goes,” Estrella replied.

LaRissa and Charlie chatted more informally over their BLT sandwiches.

“Alright, I have to ask – why’d you keep me waiting so long?”

Charlie reached over and plucked a speck of lettuce off LaRissa’s chin, flicking it in the general direction of a trash can. He shrugged.

“I was… feeding the homeless?”

“Right.”

“Volunteering for Habitat for Humanity?”

“Come on!”

“Why’d I keep you waiting? Honestly – because I can. I know it’s a dick thing to do, but the band’s been practicing late into the night for a month. I wanted a few more hours of sleep, and I knew you’d wait. And if you didn’t wait, I’d just grab a bite here at the Palm Court.”

“Fair enough. Yeah, I was pissed… but fair enough.”

Charlie and LaRissa heard a commotion building outside the suite, in the hallway. The noise grew louder, converging right at their door.

Charlie normally traveled to public places with at least one of his bodyguards, Paul and/or Baby, gargantuan former powerlifters whose biceps were roughly the circumference of LaRissa’s waist. Charlie figured Wanda would be able to keep the rabid fans away, but now Wanda was gone, and from the rumblings in the hallway, it appeared Estrella’s whereabouts had been compromised.

“Shit.” Charlie proclaimed, very quietly to avoid being heard through the door. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” He stood and did a quick three-sixty, scanning for a potential exit strategy.

LaRissa was already on the phone with the front desk: “Yes, hello. We have a bit of an issue here… Correct, suite ten-twenty-five…”

Charlie listened intently. LaRissa covered the phone receiver with her hand, pointed frantically toward the bedroom, and mouthed to Charlie, “Lock yourself in there.”

LaRissa removed her hand, “The situation is, I have a high-profile guest in the suite, here for a business meeting, and it appears his identity has been divulged. We have a significant throng of fans gathering in our hallway…”

LaRissa could hear the bathroom door inside the bedroom lock and hoped Charlie was safe inside.

“God-damn social media!” LaRissa proclaimed. She knew all it took was the room service attendant posting “Charlie Estrella in room 1025 of the Plaza” on his Instagram page to spark an immediate domino effect and a stampede of Estrella fanatics.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“Hello!?!” The fans yelled from the hallway. They were getting braver, starting to pound on the door. LaRissa knew it was just a matter of time before they tried to break it down.

“Yes, it’s becoming rather urgent—”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“Please send security immediately… What do you mean, they’re at lunch!?! All of them? You cannot be serious! You need to handle the situation!” LaRissa slammed down the receiver and dialed 9-1-1 on her cell phone.

RATTLE! RATTLE! RATTLE!

Fans began jiggling the door handle.

The Star-Heads, Charlie Estrella’s fans, was an equal mix of male and female, all ages, and all extremely high-strung and excitable when it came to a potential face-to-face encounter with their idol. Charlie was involved in numerous incidents throughout his career, some that turned quite frightening. There was the concert at Waikiki Beach – a free show to promote the launch of his second album, Long Island Sound – that attracted far more fans than what security could control. Expecting around five thousand concert goers, over twenty thousand showed in the ninety-degree, humid heat, most of whom were turned away due to fire code restrictions. The fifteen thousand sweaty fans who were blocked admission were not happy at all. They took to the streets in downtown Honolulu, wreaking havoc throughout the vacation paradise before a helicopter dropped tear gas to break up the melee.

The most notorious incident happened in Boston. As the band’s limo pulled up to Fenway Park, the sight of the Estrella concert, fans raced alongside the vehicle, surrounding it, and pounding on the windows.

The chauffeur was young and too inexperienced for the situation. He freaked, and slammed the gas pedal to the floor, plowing over six female fans – none of whom were even there to attend the show. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Four of the six teens died. The other two suffered devastating injuries. Charlie donated all his earnings from the show to the victims’ families. Unable to make sense of the calamity, he went into seclusion for six months.

“We just want an autograph! Please!!!” The fans yelled from the hallway.

THUMP! RATTLE! BANG!

The door hinges began to crack from the pounding.

“Charlie,” LaRissa whispered to the bathroom door. “I called 9-1-1. Police are on their way.”

“They better not shoot anyone,” Charlie whispered back.

V. AFTER THE SHOW

It was not unusual for Estrella to hole up inside a dressing room for a few minutes following a concert. He often spent some solitary moments centering himself, catching his breath, allowing himself some self-praise, especially when the show went well. And this show was spectacular.

Stanley, Jones, Zeller, and Quipp were handed towels as they triumphantly promenaded off stage. They had not yet begun to worry about Charlie’s whereabouts, although each band member could not help but be a little curious how their mercurial leader simply vanished from the stage.

“Estrella’s not with you guys?” Berg asked, holding open the Green Room door for the band members.

“Assumed he was back here with you,” Quipp quipped.

Rabinowitz shrugged and shook his head.

Inside the Green Room, a small throng of insiders had already gathered, sipping Dom Perignon, and munching on the wondrous spread of shrimp, cheeses, and other assorted goodies. A sweet cloud of weed gained strength. Through the fog, Berg spotted Shynuh in a corner of the room, back to the wall, champagne flute at her side, staring at the shiny rock on her finger, looking lost. Berg weaved through the crowd, accepting praise, shaking hands, and hugging those impeding his path to Shynuh.

“Do you know where he is?” Shynuh asked Berg, leaning into his ear so no one could hear the concern in her voice.

“I sent Al Rose to search for him,” Rabinowitz replied.

Rose’s first stop on his search for Estrella was a smart one – Michael Cuesta, who was directing the Estrella documentary for Lionsgate. Rose wanted to see the footage of the end of the concert – the last time anyone had seen Charlie Estrella.

“Are you kidding?” Cuesta snapped at Rose. “We’re still filming here. There are ten cameras roaming the venue. I can’t stop everything right now and—”

“He’s missing, Michael! No one knows how he just disappeared from that stage,” Al was now begging, almost whining for Cuesta’s help.

A shadow loomed over Cuesta’s head, as the massive road manager Sparks Nevada appeared to assist Rose in the search for his boss. Michael’s neck popped as he stretched to view the source of the intimidating shadow.

“Help the man,” Nevada calmly said, placing a catcher’s mitt-sized palm onto Cuesta’s shoulder.

Rose and Cuesta stared at the final minute of concert footage a half dozen times. Cuesta slowed the tape more and more each time. They were baffled.

Smoke filled the stage, and Estrella just vanished. From one frame to the next – he was there and then he was gone.

“There!” Al thought he saw something.

Cuesta moved his nose an inch from the monitor. “I don’t see anything.”

The director shooed away several cameramen, who were firing questions at the movie maker. “Give me five minutes, guys!”

By now word was spreading that Charlie Estrella had gone AWOL. An air of tension and confusion grew rapidly. Shynuh sat in the Green Room, looking catatonic, mumbling to herself, “He was telling the truth… Everything was true…”

“Slow it down more,” Rose begged Cuesta. “Stop it! There!”

An extremely faint white image flashed through the fog. It took the shape of a hand, coming down from above. The image appeared on one frame of the tape.

“Can you see it?” Rose asked Cuesta.

“It can’t be!” the director gasped.

“It’s impossible!” Rose replied, his jaw hanging in stunned disbelief.

Even Sparks Nevada, the scariest dude since Zeppelin Manager Peter Grant intimidated the music industry, turned as pale as a snowflake as he bent his massive frame toward the monitor. “What the fuck is that?”

VI. GROUPIES

Charlie and LaRissa sat in the backseat of the Prius, out of breath, hearts pounding.

“Excuse me. Destination? Says just ‘Central Park,’” Yannick the Uber driver asked his passengers.

“Can you just drive, and we’ll let you know?” LaRissa’s plan was to conduct the interview from the backseat of the car if she could convince the driver – and she was confident she could entice him enough.

“But I need to know for correct fare.”

“Look… Yannick… We need privacy. I’m sure you saw the police escorting us back there. If you drive us to a nice, secluded spot I will make it well worth your time.”

“Are you two criminals?”

LaRissa thought, “Great, the only person in Manhattan who’s not a fan of Charlie Estrella.”

“A thousand bucks for us to use your car today,” Charlie cut to the chase.

“Right! And then you steal my car.”

“Two thousand.”

“And how do I get car back from you?”

A small herd of groupies from the hotel noticed the black Prius pulled over to the curb, a couple blocks from the Plaza, and began racing to the car.

LaRissa spotted the groupies in the side view mirror.

“You need to drive now!”

“How will I get back to my car?”

“Take an Uber!” Charlie exclaimed, exasperated with how the transaction was transpiring.

“Five thousand,” Yannick negotiated.

“Fine, just drive.”

As the Prius pulled away from the curb, several groupies had reached the car and began pounding on the back windows.

“Can you drive faster, Yannick!?!” LaRissa was shocked at the driver’s extreme caution.

Charlie and LaRissa felt lucky to be alive. The police arrived as the hotel room door was breaking free of its hinges, and roughly two hundred rabid fans were ready to storm the suite.

Other hotel guests – many wealthy tourists freaking out inside their room – cracked open their doors to investigate. “Everyone, please stay in your rooms!” the riot police screamed.

Through the bull horn, the police announced, “Everyone disburse immediately!” This slowed the rowdy crowd, but just as the suite door crashed to the floor, splinters, and dust flying everywhere, the police shot tear gas into the crowd. When the dust settled, a stampede of crazed Estrella fans raced for the exits and elevators.

VII. THE PRIUS

“Where were we?” LaRissa finally cracked a smile, maybe her first one all day… or all month. She was not prone to random outbursts of happiness, but LaRissa had just escaped a crazed posse and the sense of relief released a surge of emotion.

“In my mother’s dungeon.”

“Right… I have to ask, Charlie, how do you deal with that kind of… adoration?”

“Never really got used to it. I know it’s hard to believe, but I didn’t get into this business to become, well, me. My dream was to play my guitar at a level never heard before. The rest of the stuff? It’s been a challenge.”

LaRissa had driven Yannick’s Prius to a secluded spot in Central Park, dropped a pin on her smartphone so Yannick would know the location of his vehicle, and got as comfortable as possible to continue the interview.

The rock star and the rock reporter had tried to contact several associates to meet them in the park and take them to a safe location. Wanda the PR agent and Estrella’s manager, Berg Rabinowitz, were still meeting with the movie studio. Q. Zeller was busy with his latest lady friend and would not reply to Charlie’s texts. LaRissa, who made her home in San Francisco, and continued to live there even after the magazine shut down their West Coast office in 2009, did not know anyone locally who could help. So LaRissa and Charlie decided to conduct the interview from the backseat of Yannick’s Prius until Yannick needed to get his car back.

Estrella became momentarily lost, staring out the backseat passenger window.

“Hello? Charlie?”

No response. More staring.

“What’re you looking at?”

More staring.

“Estrella!”

Still staring at nothing – at least nothing LaRissa could see, Charlie mumbled, “But I don’t want to die.”

“Pardon? Estrella? What are you saying?”

Charlie came back. “Oh, sorry. What’s your question?”

LaRissa shook her head, confused. “We okay to continue?”

“Of course, why?”

“Let’s just get back to your mom’s basement.” LaRissa made a note: “ODD BEHAVIOR; TRANCES; TALKS ABOUT DEATH.”

VIII. IN THE DUNGEON

Six months into my “exile,” and I had hit a wall. Since school was out, I played my Goldtop about eighteen hours a day but felt like I needed a new direction with the music – a new challenge. I was pleased with my ability to teach myself, and I knew I was good, but I had hit a plateau. I could listen to a song and play along with it. Didn’t need the sheet music. My technique was top-notch for a kid, although I knew I had to work on my speed to compare with legends like Eddie Van Halen I had not quite mastered Eddie’s tapping technique, but I was skilled at tricks like tremolo picking and sweeping. I tried a variety of genres – jazz, classical, it didn’t matter. I was a sponge and I wanted to eventually become so good that I could play it all. And I was only thirteen.

It was summer and Mom was adhering to her punishment. She only allowed me outside to do chores. Maybe I’d mow the lawn or take out the trash for a couple dollars, then sneak out while Mom was at work to get stuff at the music store.

Then Mom caught me. She started doing drive-by check-ups. Guess she suspected I was doing something with the money I’d earned. If she paid even the slightest bit of attention to the music coming from the basement, it would have been so obvious. She was sitting on my bed when I snuck back into the dungeon. Imagine my shock – considering she hadn’t set foot in the basement since my banishment. She always left my meals at the top step. I heard more from her broomstick pounding the floor above my head than I did from her, which I really didn’t mind.

She reached behind her back and lifted my Goldtop. “Looks like you’re enjoying this noisy thing,” she said to me.

I nodded my head, worried she was about to smash it on the cement floor, Pete Townsend-style. Then she stood, scoffed at me, and walked upstairs, Terry dragging behind her, bouncing off the stairs. I cringed with every bounce. As Mom was slamming the door she screeched, “You can have your toy back in two months.”

Two months without the only thing I enjoyed in life. The only thing that gave my life meaning. There was so much more I needed to learn about the guitar. I had become frustrated that I could not break through that wall and become as talented as I had hoped. And with Terry hidden away from me, I worried I’d lose it – the skill, the focus, the technique. I worried I’d lose interest after two months without her.

“Did you? Did you lose any of that?”

The opposite. It was like a junkie had his heroin taken away. Cold turkey was impossible! I’d listen to music and play air guitar on a tennis racket. I unstrung the racket and glued the strings along the handle, trying to create something remotely close to a guitar. I really think I was going insane. Couldn’t sleep. It was difficult to eat. I imagine it was remarkably close to that feeling one gets when they are passionately in love with someone who has gone away.

“You’ve never been passionately in love with someone?”

Hmm… not exactly like that.

Note: “WHAT DOES ESTRELLA LOVE?”

In hindsight, this was a really good time in my musical development.

“How so?”

With Terry stashed in Theresa’s chamber of horrors – her bedroom – I wasn’t satisfied pretending to play guitar on a tennis racket. I taught myself how guitars were made. I began unraveling the onion layers behind what makes the guitar such an exquisitely perfect instrument.

There are so many unique aspects of the guitar. It is polyphonic – you can play multiple notes simultaneously. You can play the same notes in so many different shapes, allowing you to elicit such a wide array of tones. A guitar has a higher range than most instruments. You can hit up to four octaves on the neck. There are so many gear options that allow you to alter and enhance a guitar’s sound: pedals, slides, pickups, amps, strings, capos, power supplies. All these toys make a guitar morph into whatever you want. I could have spent hours at a time in the music store – and I wanted to buy everything.

During my downtime, with Terry sequestered in Mom’s room, I decided to learn how to build a guitar. I had two months to decipher how to make the perfect ax for me.

Carmello was super helpful. Whenever I could sneak away to his store, I picked his brain on everything to do with guitar-making, and he was more than willing to share his considerable knowledge. Turns out Carmello spent a decade working in the Gibson Guitar factory in Nashville. The guy was a savant when it came to guitar manufacturing. His specialty was hollow bodies, but he knew a ton about every model. He even gave tours of the Gibson factory. Man, I wish I could have taken one of those tours!

I had a list of everything I needed to start constructing my own custom ax: Premade neck, birch plywood for a blank body, string, ferrules, tuners, screws, pickups, pickup rings, plastic control knobs, potometers, capacitors, input jack control switch – I decided on five-way switches for a Fender Strat-style guitar since I already had my Les Paul. It’s amazing how much goes into one of those machines.

Clearly, I didn’t have the funds for all that stuff. More than that, I didn’t have the necessary tools. When Dad moved out, he took his huge toolbox and left Mom with one of those basic “wife” tool kits.

I moped around for a couple days until I got a call from Carmello.

“Allo, Virtuoso!” That’s what he called me. Even though I did not feel like a virtuoso, I loved the nickname, especially the way Carmello said it with his thick Sicilian accent. “Can you come down to shop? Have something to show you.”