Armageddon Rag Read Free

Somers on the cover, for God’s sake. Consumer reports on video games. A dating service for lonely singles. What is it you call yourself now? The Newspaper of Alternative Lifestyles?”
    “We changed that, dropped the ‘alternative’ part. It’s just
Lifestyles
now. Between the two H’s in the logo.”
    “Jesus,” Sandy said. “Your music editor has
green hair
!”
    “He’s got a real deep understanding of pop music,” Jared said defensively. “And stop shouting at me. You’re always shouting at me. I’m starting to regret calling you, y’know. Do you want to talk about this assignment or not?”
    “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Why do you think I need your assignment?”
    “No one said you did. I’m not out of it, I know you’ve been doing well. How many novels have you published? Four?”
    “Three,” Sandy corrected.
    “
Hedgehog
’s run reviews on every one of them too. You oughtta be grateful. Firing you was the best thing I could have done for you. You were always a better writer than you were an editor.”
    “Oh, thank you, massa, thank you. I’s ever so thankful. I owes it all to you.”
    “You could at least be civil,” Jared said. “Look, you don’t need us and we don’t need you, but I thought it would be nice to work together again, just for old time’s sake. Admit it, it’d be a kick to have your byline in the old
Hog
again, wouldn’t it? And we pay better than we used to.”
    “I’m not hurting for money.”
    “Who said you were? I know all about you. Three novels and a brownstone and a sports car. What is it, a Porsche or something?”
    “A Mazda RX-7,” Sandy said curtly.
    “Yeah, and you live with a
Realtor,
so don’t lecture me about selling out, Sandy old boy.”
    “What do you want, Jared?” Sandy said, stung. “I’m getting tired of sparring.”
    “We’ve got a story that would be perfect for you. We want to play it up big, too, and I thought maybe you’d be interested. It’s a murder.”
    “What are you doing now, trying to turn the
Hog
into
True Detective
? Forget it, Jared, I don’t do crime shit.”
    “Jamie Lynch was the guy that got himself murdered.”
    The name of the victim brought Sandy up short, and a wisecrack died in his mouth. “The promoter?”
    “None other.”
    Sandy sat back, took a swig of beer, and mulled on that. Lynch had been out of the news for years, a has-been even before Sandy was fired from the
Hog,
but in his day he had been an important man in the rock subculture. It could be an interesting story. Lynch had always been surrounded by controversy. He’d worn two hats: promoter and manager. As a promoter, he’d organized some of the biggest tours and concerts of his day. He’d ensured their success by booking in the bands he controlled as manager, and by denying those bands to rival concerts. With hot talent like American Taco, the Fevre River Packet Company, and the Nazgûl under his thumb, he’d been a man to reckon with. At least up until 1971, when the disaster at West Mesa, the breakup of the Nazgûl, and a couple of drug busts started him on the long slide down. “What happened to him?” Sandy asked.
    “It’s pretty kinky,” Jared said. “Somebody busted into his place up in Maine, dragged him into his office, and offed him there. They tied him to his desk, and, like,
sacrificed
him. Cut his heart out. He had one after all. Remember the old jokes? Ah, never mind. Anyhow, the whole scene was kind of grotesque. Mansonesque, y’know? Well, that made me think of the series you did back around the time that Sharon Tate got offed, you know, that investigation of… what did you call it?”
    “The dark side of the counterculture,” Sandy said dryly. “We won awards for that series, Jared.”
    “Yeah, right. I remembered it was good. So I thought of you. This is right up your alley. Real Sixties, y’know? What we’re thinking of is a long meaty piece, like those in-depth things you used to go for.