Free Armageddon Rag by George R.R. Martin Page B

to tell him of what had gone on up in Maine. By the time the drinks and Gopher John came back to the table, he had made up his mind.
    “A few more questions,” he said, taking out his notepad once more.
    Slozewski rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “I hate you fucking journalists,” he said in an even conversational tone. “Go on.”
    “I want to know about your fans,” Sandy said.
    “I got a cat that’s real excited about me.”
    Sandy smiled. “The Nazgûl must have had a few weirdos hanging around in the old days. Fringe types. Was there ever any one particular person? Or a group of people, maybe? People who were real into your music?”
    “Lots of people were into our music. Hundreds of fucking thousands. Millions. We were the Nazgûl. Shit, you know that.”
    Sandy waved impatiently. “Yes, but I don’t mean ordinary fans. I mean nut cases, people who maybe thought you were speaking right to them, who tried to live by your music, who identified with you.”
    “We had a big fan club. They called themselves Orcs.”
    “No, no. I mean
dangerous
people. Manson types. Mark David Chapman types. You know.”
    “Nah,” said Slozewski. “Nothing like that. Brown-nosers and groupies and Orcs, that’s what we got.” He tasted his drink.
    Sandy frowned and took a slug from his own Scotch-and-soda. This wasn’t working, he thought. Either there was no Nazgûl cult or Slozewski didn’t know about it, or he was holding back, but Sandy didn’t know how to find out which one it was. “One last thing,” he said. He set down his drink. Moisture had formed on the outside of the glass. He stared at it and absently drew a peace symbol with a finger. “Where were you on the night of September 20th?”
    Slozewski laughed. “This one or the one back in 1971?” he asked.
    Sandy stared up at him. “
Jesus,
” he blurted. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. “I’m a fucking
moron,
” he said loudly. “It’s the same fucking night, isn’t it? September
20th
!”
    Comprehension dawned in Slozewski’s dark eyes. “Oh,” he said. “You mean Jamie got himself killed on the same night.” He scowled. “That’s weird.”
    Sandy pounded the table. “It’s more than weird,” he said angrily. He had decided not to tell Slozewski all that he’d learned from Davie Parker, but now he abruptly changed his mind. Gopher John
had
to know. “This is kinky in the extreme. Jesus, why didn’t I
realize
! Sharon was right, I’ll never be the hippie Sherlock Holmes. Listen, it wasn’t any coincidence that Lynch got killed on the anniversary of West Mesa. There’s more to it than that.” He told Slozewski about the album, playing over and over, and about the poster that had been taken down and spread out under Lynch’s body. Halfway through his account, their salads arrived. Slozewski took up his fork and began to eat with methodical slowness, chewing each bite thoroughly, his eyes never leaving Sandy’s face.
    “I see,” he said when Sandy was done.
    “That’s why I asked about a Nazgûl cult,” Sandy said. “We thought maybe someone like that was responsible. Someone unhinged by your old music.”
    “Nah. I don’t know of anybody like that.”
    Sandy ate a forkful of salad, hardly tasting it, and put down the fork again. “Where
were
you that night?”
    “At the Gopher Hole,” Slozewski said. “Same place I am
every
night. Unless it was a Sunday. It wasn’t a Sunday, was it?”
    “No,” said Sandy. “Well, you’re clear then.”
    Slozewski shoved away his empty salad bowl. “Clear?”
    “You’ve got an alibi.”
    “Do I need one?”
    “The killer offed Lynch on top of one of your posters, while playing one of your records, on the anniversary of your last concert, in a manner described in one of your lyrics. What do you think? You admit there was no love lost between you. If you don’t have a cult of crazed fans, then suspicion is naturally going to fall on you and Maggio and