Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  “Wow. So I guess disabled kids would be kept out of general pop so the others won’t pick on ‘em.”

  “No disabled kids,” she assured him. “They arrive whole.”

  “Really?”

  Mama snapped her fingers. “Just like that; fully repaired. No wheelchairs, no canes, no blindness or deafness, no cancers, learning disabilities, nothing. Of course, there are hospitals, but those are for injuries sustained up here. They heal fairly quickly, though.”

  “So a two-year-old will always be two years old and never reach the top, so to speak.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. That’s why even on this level they are given the best treatment possible. It is sad they also don’t have real pets, but the toymakers are geniuses up here. They make robotic cats and dogs that are pretty realistic. They sure fooled me. They even have zoos, too. Pretty big ones filled with all kinds of animals.”

  “All robotic.”

  “But you can’t tell the difference,” she vows. “They act, jump, do everything the same as real ones, even piss hydraulic fluid.”

  “That’s gross.”

  Freddie Mercury, singer extraordinaire, rolled up with his wooden cart of their orders.

  “Surf and turf for the missus,” he announced, placing her plate on the table then removing a bottle of Worchester sauce from his black apron and sitting it on the table. “Hamburger with everything for the gentleman,” he smiled, winking at Gregory, then taking off with his cart.

  “You know,” Gregory mused to his host, “I bet a lot of the guys up here flip over to the other side, huh?”

  “Hmph. More like coming out of their shell, if you ask me.”

  The duo dug right into their meals without further hesitation.

  “Wow,” Gregory announced, juices splashing on his yellow suit. “This is good.”

  “Yeah,” Mama stated. “They do a commendable job here.”

  “So, what’s your story?” Gregory inquired of his dining partner.

  “I’m a singer.”

  “I mean your history,” he clarified.

  “I was born in Baltimore, Maryland on the same day the Nazis began their siege of Leningrad, September 19, 1941. I have Russian ancestors so I take an interest in Russian history. I went to the same high school as Jim Morrison.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Mama Cass looked like she needed oxygen. “Jim Morrison? From The Doors?”

  “I’m not a big music fan,” Gregory offered, by way of apology.

  “He’s a singer and poet. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him. Anyway, I sang in different bands then hit it big in The Mamas and the Papas.”

  “Is that where you’re from? I’ve heard of them.”

  “I’m glad. Know any of our songs?”

  “Um, sorry, can’t say I do. Crime and punishment’s my thing.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “Private investigator,” he specified. “I used to be a cop in Seattle.”

  “You ever heard of ‘California Dreamin’?”

  The PI shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Mama Cass sang the first two lines.

  “All the leaves are brown / and the sky is gray.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gregory chimed in. “I’ve heard that. Good song.”

  “After The Mamas and the Papas broke up,” she continued, “I went solo and did some acting. I also got into a lot of things I shouldn’t have. You know, the money was pretty good; had to spend it on something. Anyway, back in those days, when you’re a star, you get all the good shit for free. That’s good and bad. But six years later, no more Mama Cass.”

  “You have any regrets?”

  The 60’s singer took a deep breath and thought of her answer. “You know, I was never happy with my voice. I’m glad people liked it, but I was really self-conscious about that, and my weight, and my looks. I wasn’t a looker, like Tina Turner, Lulu or Lesley Gore.”

  “So you regret becoming a singer?”

  Mama shrugged. “Not really. I made people happy. I guess that’s the important thing.”

  “What was wrong with your weight?”

  “I was a box of cellulite, man,” she swore. “When I got in an elevator it had to go down.”

  Gregory giggled. “At least you have a sense of humor about it.”

  “Have some of my entrée,” she requested.

  “Nah, that’s okay.”

  “Go ahead, boy,” she insisted. “I can’t eat it all. The portions are so big here.”

  Mama Cass cut off a piece of the juicy steak and held it out on a fork for the PI to eat, which he did, with much aplomb.

  “Delicious,” he remarked. “Multi-layered, crisp to tender. It’s like aged Kobe Beef.”

  “These chefs are magicians up here.”

  Gregory wiped his mouth. “Juicy as hell.”

  “You should try this lobster, too,” she suggested.

  “What’s this stuff made from?”

  “It’s a mix of tofu, quorn, camelina, yellow peas, textured veg protein, mustard seeds, seasonings, different things. I used to work here, that’s how I know.”

  “Let me see that,” the PI requested, bringing Mama Cass’ plate closer to him. Carefully, he scrutinized the lobster. It sure looked and smelled real. Using a fork, he cut off a piece of the butter-soaked crustacean wannabe and placed it on his tongue.

  “Tastes real,” he nodded. “These guys must’ve studied in the best culinary schools.”

  “They did,” she acknowledged. “Since there’s no real meat here, these people would be up in arms about it every day.”

  After Seven Beaches, Mama Cass and Gregory Angelicus walked past a few recording and rehearsal studios, as well as the ubiquitous bistros, on Ohayo Mountain Road, finally stopping to rest in the Village Green where a few musicians were sitting around a makeshift fire playing acoustic guitars. The cricket-less, hoot owl-less, cicada-less hamlet was eerie with its animal absence. The moon, hiding behind the clouds, barely lent its silvery light to the evening, the luminescence brought mainly by various street lamps, store fronts, and the fire itself. Sitting on the bench, they, along with other spectators, watched and listened as the five musicians strummed their axes, singing ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’ by Crosby, Stills & Nash.

  “It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore-

  I am sorry-

  Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud-

  I am lonely.”

  “You ever heard this song?” Mama whispered to Gregory.

  “I think so,” he said. “It’s been a while, though.”

  “I’ll tell you who those singers are. That cute Spanish guy is Ritchie Valens. He breaks my heart because he’s so young, only 17. No telling how big he would’ve gotten. Probably would’ve even headlined at Woodstock. That’s Buddy Holly with the glasses; another young ‘un. Good songwriter, too. I could just see him stoning out, coming up with music as good as Abbey Road, even better. See the guy with the mustache, the Groucho Marx impersonator? That’s Jim Croce. Funny as hell. He missed his calling; I think he would’ve made a great comedian. He had that hit song ‘Bad Bad Leroy Brown.’”

  “I remember that one.”

  “The other guy with the glasses and cowboy hat you should know. That’s John Denver. He’s a really nice cat. Not a bad bone in his body. I think he shits carnations. That moody-looking young fella with the black hair is Ian Curtis. He was in a band called Joy Division.”

  “He looks like he’s having a seizure.”

  “That’s how he dances.”

  “How’d he cash in his chips?”

  “Hanged himself. Depression’s a terrible thing. Brought a bunch of folks here, like Elliot Smith, Terry Kath, Nick Drake, Syd Barrett, Michael Hutchence, Wendy O. Williams…”

  “What about you?”

  Mama shook her head. “Heart attack in my sleep. At least it was painless. And you?”

  “Car accident.”

&nb
sp; “Ouch,” she squirmed. “Let’s change the subject.”

  After singing a few songs with the acoustic group at the Green, Mama Cass escorted Gregory back to the Inn on the Millstream, but because she was tired, she opted to go home to sleep. The PI gave her a kiss on the cheek then entered the Inn. The British clerk was watching news on his own holographic TV behind the counter.

  “How’d it go, mate?” he asked the new visitor.

  “Pretty nice place you got here,” Gregory complimented him. “I could get used to this.”

  “Like you have a choice.”

  “What’s your name again?” the PI asked.

  “Joe Strummer, mate,” he saluted. “I was in The Clash.”

  “Cool. Well, I’m beat. I’m gonna call it a night.”

  “Likewise, me ol’ Bacardi. I’m off to Bedfordshire as soon as I see a man about a dog.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just taking the piss with you, Charlie.”

  “What?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Gregory woke up in his clothes again the next morning, not like that’s a problem given his history of doing just that in various alleys and parks over the years. The first time he’d blown a perfectly good date was when he finally grew the stones to ask Lucie Brezewski, a knock-kneed half-Lummi brunette from his sophomore Introduction to Political Sociology class at Western Washington University in Bellingham, out for dinner and a movie. Choosing blindly, they ended up at the Willows Inn, a seafood restaurant on Lummi Island, a 9 square mile rock, population of 1,000, just west of Bellingham and accessible by a brief, open air ferry ride.

  When the pair of students hopped on the boat, they ignored the first clue that showed this was going to be an expensive date – they were the only people in their 20’s on the vessel; everyone else looked like they just came from a performance of Mahler’s 4th at Benaroya Hall. Not realizing they’d needed to make a reservation at the upscale Inn, the sophomores went there anyway. Luckily, there was space so they weren’t turned away and stayed for all the fixin’s. Big, fat, gargantuan mistake. What the ambitious young man didn’t know was that the dinner was prix fixe – at $195 a pop, with wine pairing costing another whopping $90. Since Lucie opted for the $40 juice menu, Gregory found himself out of a cool $520 plus tips for one evening of culinary pleasure. What that meant, of course, was he would have to get used to Ramen noodles for the next two years or so, because that was all he’d be able to afford; that and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  The dinner went well, but afterwards, on the ferry back to Bellingham, Gregory was fit to be tied, and it showed. Here it was he simply wanted to impress Lucie but ended up spending half of his student loan on a rich meal that, in a few minutes, was going to be rejected by his bowels anyway. Because the vibes he gave off reeked with negativity, Lucie opted to go home instead of going out for drinks with him, which suited him fine as he couldn’t afford to entertain her anymore, anyway. Typically, he’d go to a bar where the other college students went, but the thought of dropping $2 or $3 for a bottle of light beer made no sense, so he bought a 12 pack of the cheapest lager he could fine (Rainier), sat in a park, and threw them down one by one. By midnight, he was, as they say in Liverpool, fooked. Barely able to move, he gathered some leaves together into a makeshift bed in a quiet, dark corner of the park and caught some Z’s.

  And so marked the beginning of his alcoholic slide. In the future he would find himself waking up hung over beside dumpsters, athletic fields, train depots, beneath the warm exhausts of clothes dryers outside various hotels, and other places. When he finally became a police officer, he slowed down on his inebriation, but whenever he went on a date that went south, his excessive drinking began again. It was like this up until his police chief couldn’t take his indiscretion any longer and reluctantly showed him the door. It’s been five years since he’s been off the force and four years since he’s been a PI. The money, he found out, wasn’t steady. His was a hustler’s job. The PI firm where he worked never seemed to get many clients; perhaps they had a bad reputation or weren’t that effective. In any case, he advertised his services to many attorneys around town and did get work, albeit inconsistently. At least he had enough for the important stuff – rent and booze. He did get close, once, to marrying a woman he’d met during a case, but she later changed her mind when she saw how much he drank. All his promises to slow down, or stop, eventually fell on deaf ears. His work ethic was good; his personal life, however, blew chunks.

  The morning sun, flowing like a golden orb in the faultless blue sky, was bestowing its good graces on the little town of musicians. Just a few clouds dotted the skyline, nothing more. As this Woodstock was as isolated as the other heavens, there would be no airplanes in the sky, weather balloons, zeppelins, drones or helicopters to sully the lower atmosphere.

  Gregory absorbed as much of the brittle morning air as he could while ambling gingerly down Playhouse Lane towards the Woodstock Playhouse. It was almost 10AM. He could see some of the new arrivals to Heaven walking towards the 320-seat theatre flanked on the sides and back by large, thick, almost impenetrable pines with a manicured lawn in the front framed by perpetually blooming apple blossoms. Because he wasn’t a musician, or even a big fan of the genre, he barely recognized any of the faces save one, Prince, atypically attired in a light blue knee-length tunic, white pyjamas and hemp boots. When Gregory was a teen he’d seen Purple Rain in the theatres. For a moment, it inspired him to pick up the guitar, but when he found out he was all thumbs and no fingers, quickly abandoned the idea for something a little more practical, basketball. Even though he was nowhere near the caliber of, say, Michael Jordan, LeBron James or Kobe Bryant, he could still keep the other students in high school on their toes if necessary. He was no scrub, but he wasn’t Class A material, either.

  Walking into the orange, yellow and brown building, he was greeted by a worker in a reddish, loose fitting tunic suit who asked for his name. The diligent worker then checked it off a wooden clip board while a second worker gave the PI a blue, novel-sized, hardcover book which, oddly enough, had no pages. Before entering the theatre, he helped himself to a few cubes of faux cheddar and Swiss cheese, grapes, crackers and apple juice from catered tables, then proceeded to the warmly lit theatre.

  By his estimate, there were about 60 people, mostly men, in attendance. These soft, rather comfortable, light brown cloth seats have a steep recline; dangerous, he thought, if I was sleepy. It’d be embarrassing for a neighbor to wake him up for snoring too loudly. Baroque music was streaming from several speakers high up on every wall. A lot of work went into the design of the Playhouse, especially the ceiling with its exposed cross beams, indirect vaulted lights and sound absorbing chambers. The decorated hemp and flax carpeting, mainly colored in hues of yellow, orange, red and brown, was so clean it looked like it was only laid down just that morning.

  Reclining in his chair in the middle of the theatre, the PI watched as two gentleman walked to the stage, the angel L’Da and his brown-haired compatriot, Ba’al’figor Duçaj. L’Da was carrying a clipboard while Ba’al’figor had a cloth-covered attaché case in his right hand. The chatter amongst the guests in the hall ceased, as did the music in the speakers, when L’Da tapped the microphone in the middle of the stage.

  “Good morning,” he began, his tenorous, attention-getting voice echoing through the chamber. “Welcome to Rock & Roll Heaven, or R&R, as everyone says. My name is L’Da. The gentleman to my left is Ba’al’figor Duçaj. Some cultures know us as devas, or malaikas, or Tenshi, anxo, meli’ākumi, tenger elch, or as they say in Kazakh, perişte. Most of you here are predominantly English so we are simply known as angels. We are here to assist you in your passage through the heavens. You are here because, well, you did something right in life. Now, some of you I already know because you’ve been here for months, like Dale Griffin, David Bowie, Glenn Frey, all you guys from Viola Beach and CounterFlux…where are you?” Scanning the audience, he saw the m
embers of CounterFlux near the back to the right. “How are you guys doing?”

  “Not bad,” Kyle Canter from the Ohio-based hard rock band answered.

  “Where’s Viola Beach?” the angel asked.

  The members of Viola Beach, an English indie rock band sitting near the back to the left, raised their hands. Their manager, Craig Tarry, who also died with them in the car accident back in February, also raised his hand.

  “Oh, hey guys,” L’Da greeted them. “Good to see you’re doing better.”

  “Yeah,” Ba’al’figor chimed in. “We were worried for a minute. Glad you’re doing okay.”

  “So,” L’Da continued, “before we begin this brief orientation, I just wanted to apologize for making some of you wait for months for this meeting. As you know, there was a major incident here, one of which we’ve never had before, and it has unnecessarily absorbed most of our time. Before I continue, are there any questions?”

  “Yes,” Glenn Frey answered, standing up. “I put in my petition to visit Country Heaven weeks ago and I’m still waiting for the okay.”

  “Yes,” a few other musicians grumbled. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll be happy to know, Glenn,” Ba’al’figor explained, “that the transfer station is almost operational now.”

  “We’ve heard that story before!” came an anonymous voice from the back. “Always next month! Next month!” A few of the attendees voiced their agreement.

  “What about Funk –R&B Heaven?” Prince shouted, standing up. “I’m suffocating here.”

  “Yeah,” said Tony Lopez, a gay, 21-year-old half-Latino, half-Korean saxophonist and guitarist sitting near the front, sarcastically addressing Prince, “because they got too many men, not enough chicks for you, right?”

  “Oh, man,” Prince groaned, sitting down angrily. “Be quiet.”

  “Hey Prince,” Tony yelled again, “why don’t you and me hit the town tonight?”

  “What you driving at?” the Purple One shouted.