Charlie Estrella

V. AFTER THE SHOW

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 f**k is that?”