by Robin Ray
“Hey man,” Jim whispered, “without hope, what else do we got?”
“Can I ask you another question?” the recently conscripted sleuth wondered.
Gregory could see the singer was getting tired. “Tony, that’s enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Jim told them. “You know, when you first get here, you have a lot of questions. You’re a fanboy, like a kid in a candy store the size of the Dubai Mall. You run into your heroes and you can’t take your eyes off ‘em. Sitting in a bar, clinking glasses with your heroes. I did that. Of, course, after years and years of meeting the same faces, it all starts feeling…bland. Oh, there’s Elmore James, Chuck Willis, Big Bopper…” the singer pointed arbitrarily to no one, “it become same ol’, same ol’. But the new cats that get up here, the unfamous ones schlepping their gear through the rain and snow to play in bars for six or seven people, those are the disillusioned ones. They meet people like me and they feel better. I meet people like them and I feel better. Everybody wins. So, no, I don’t mind these questions at all.”
“That’s right neighborly of you, Jim,” Gregory complimented him.
“Thanks, man,” he nodded. “I try. My buddy, Bill Black, he feels differently, but that’s his hangup.”
“Who’s Bill Black?” Tony asked.
“The bass player from Elvis’ band,” Jim replied.
“Elvis Presley?” the wide eyed young detective asked.
“How many Elvises do you know?” the blues-rock singer questioned him.
“And he’s here, too?” Tony practically squealed.
“Of course,” Jim answered. “Where else would he be? Shangri La?”
“He did sing country and gospel, too,” the youngster noted.
“He’s a rocker, man,” the singer emphasized. “Through and through. People think I drink a lot but that motherfucker can put me under the table in fifteen minutes.”
“Sweet,” Tony smiled. “Can’t wait to meet him. Hey, you know they made a pretty good movie about The Doors.”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Jim nodded. “The one with Val Kilmer?”
“Yeah,” Tony replied. “How accurate was that?”
“It wasn’t,” the controversial, raven-haired entertainer stated. “They took a lot of liberties, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s all about the mystique anyway. Anything else you wanna know?”
“I’m good,” Tony claimed. “For now.”
“I’m straight,” the PI added.
“You ever slept with a guy?” the young D asked out of the blue.
“What?” Jim spurted, nearly swallowing his tongue.
“You are a good looking dude,” Tony fawned.
“Stop right there,” his elder partner warned him. “That’s going too far.”
“Just wanted to know, man,” the sullen youngster groaned. “Somebody like Jim Morrison’s gotta be hit on from all sides.”
“You’re out of line,” Gregory castigated him.
“It’s okay, bro,” Jim came to his defense. “You don’t think I play off that image? I know it works that way sometimes. Why do you think I always get arrested when I…?”
“Alright,” Witherspoon brazenly interjected. “Before this turns into a Stonewall session, Brother Jim, thanks for coming down. I’m sorry you had to go through this again. If it wasn’t important, we wouldn’t have troubled you.”
“That’s okay, man,” Jim indicated. “Always willing to help an investigation. Do me a favor, though, huh? Help me out of these wires. I’m stiff as a motherfucker.”
CHAPTER 15
The questioning of Jim Morrison, a surreal endeavor in itself, gave the two detectives pause. A million thoughts ran through their mind as they walked back towards the Inn on the Millstream that night. While they were in the interrogation room, the bright sunlight had been supplanted by the ghostly light of the celestial moon. The air outside, no longer warm, floated around them coolly, concentrating the smells of maple and oak being reduced to ashes in nearby fireplaces, incenses burning in their 10” long, ash-catching bamboo burners, and the intoxicating exhaust of ethnic restaurants, some specializing in Greek, Chinese, Pakistani, Middle Eastern and other world cuisines.
Walking up Tinker Street, the PIs stopped to window shop at the various clothing stores along the way. Already just past 9PM, all of them were closed, or rather, devoid of staff, leaving the eateries as the only establishments still “open.” Their stomachs, shouting to be fed, gave them no peace, so they decided to quell those bad boys by visiting the one with the most enticing odor, the Pakistani restaurant Shalimar Spice up on the 2nd floor of a converted two-story house near the corner of Rock City Road.
As was expected, the décor was all-Pakistani – beaded entry curtain, wooden tables and chairs, some walls were exposed bricks while others contained framed posters of Pakistani scenes involving traffic, rivers, busy market places, etc. The entire floor was covered by an intricately-designed handmade amber and red rug that had to have set the owners back thousands of credits. Besides the two PI’s in the eatery, three out of the 12 tables were currently occupied by guests. A young man wearing an orange, loose-fitting, silk-embroidered, knee-length pullover long sleeve shirt called a kurta, solid white pyjama pants, and black slippers, approached them just as they passed through the curtain.
Hello! Tony thought, ogling the striking young man. What are you doing after work?
“Good evening,” the glossy-haired Pakistani greeted them. “Welcome to Shalimar Spice. Have a seat anywhere.”
“Thanks,” the detectives said in tandem. Continuing onward, they chose a small table with a lit candle beside an exposed brick wall. The server, grabbing a brass pitcher of ice cold water from a counter, and a pair of menus from a wooden holder, followed them to their table, poured out two glasses of water, and gave them each a menu.
“Would you like anything from the bar?” he asked them.
“How about your twin brother?” the young PI requested.
“Tony!” Gregory barked at his impudent assistant.
“Sorry,” the neophyte detective apologized. “I’ll take a white wine.”
“What kind of beer do you have?” Gregory asked the server.
“IPA’s, lagers, bocks, stouts…” the server promised.
“Any imports?” Gregory asked.
The server shook his head. “They’re all crafted here in Woodstock.”
“Okay,” the PI concluded. “I’ll have a bock. Any type.”
“Thanks,” the server said then took off.
“What’s a bock?” Tony asked.
“High alcohol beer,” came the reply from his older partner. “It’s a cold-brewed lager, kinda copper-colored and bittery.”
“How’s it taste?” the young PI wondered.
“Like piss,” Gregory answered jokingly, “but it works.”
They both started leafing through their menus.
“This is my first time coming to a place like this,” the youngster admitted. “It’s pretty nice. I’m gonna apply for a job here.”
“Sure, you are,” Gregory smirked. “I can read your dirty mind from here.”
“What would you like to start with?” the quickly returned waiter asked as he placed their drinks on the table.
“That was fast,” Tony noted.
“I’ll have the vegetable samosa,” Gregory ordered.
“I guess I’ll have that, too.” Tony echoed. “Make mine beef, though.”
“Certainly,” the waiter said then disappeared again.
“You’ll like it,” the older PI assured him. “You like spicy?”
“The spicier, the better,” Tony swore. “That’s what I always say. You like spicy?”
“If it’s food we’re talking about,” Gregory stated, “then yes. If it burns a hole right through the plate, then it’s perfect.”
The angel Ba’al’figor, sitting alone at the well-stocked bar, abandoned it and, drink in hand, ap
proached the detective’s table.
“Goodnight, gentlemen,” he interrupted. “Do you two want to be alone?”
“No,” Gregory insisted. “It’s okay. Take a load off.”
The angel did just that, plopping himself down at the table on the chair furthest away from the wall.
“How are you two enjoying Heaven so far?” he asked.
“It’s not bad,” Tony admitted. “A lot to learn, that’s for sure.”
“I just gotta get used to a lot of things,” Gregory stated. “Like, for instance: you know those two mountains up there? They’re pretty close to each other but only one is covered with snow. Are they using a snow machine up there?”
“They’ve always been like that,” Ba’al’figor revealed. “Green Mountain and Snow Mountain. One’s for the hydroelectric plant, the other’s for skiing. Not too many people use the skiing one, though. You know how musicians are – party all the time. If you’re interested, you can rent skis or snowboards in town or the chalet up there. Padded jackets, pants, and ski boots, too. You can also go camping in Green Mountain; lots of nice spots up there but most prefer seem to prefer South Beach. Less hilly, I guess.”
“I’m not big on skiing,” Tony explained. “Camping’s cool, though.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve done any of those things,” Gregory said. “Maybe I’ll give it a looksee one of these days.”
“You guys picked a good restaurant,” the angel complimented them. “I’m here a lot.”
“It’s weird to see angels eating and drinking like us common folk,” Tony avowed.
“Yes, of course,” Ba’al’figor maintained. “You and I are really the same celestial matter; we just originated from these worlds and you two are from Earth.”
“Worlds?” the young PI’s inquisitive mind forced him to voice.
Ba’al’figor nodded. “Heaven and Hell.”
“But you have special powers,” Gregory noted.
“Yes,” the angel agreed. “We’re all different in that regard, though.”
“What can angels do?” Tony beckoned their visitor to explain.
“Well,” Ba’al’figor said, “mainly, we’re messengers; guides, if you will. Basically, you learn from us the best way to make the most out of Heaven. A very high percentage of people who get here are, first, shocked that they are here, and second, didn’t expect it to look like this. Ours is to help people with their journey through the afterlife. It is vastly different than earthly life and there’s always an adjustment period. You’d be surprised at the number of people who get depressed here; not just in this heaven, but all the others, really. But there are always counselors on hand to help them cope. It’s a good thing you can’t die again. That’d be tragic.”
“Except Amy Winehouse,” Gregory reminded him.
“Yes,” Ba’al’figor lamented. “That is a major issue.”
The waiter returned with the samosas and placed each order in from of the diners.
“Ready to order?” he asked them.
“Gee,” Tony admitted. “I wasn’t finished reading the menu.”
“I’ll have the Karahi Keema,” Gregory ordered, quickly scanning the menu.
“Um…,” Tony began, rapidly eyeing the table d'hôte. “I’ll have the…Nihari.”
“How spicy would you like your dinners?” the waiter politely asked him.
“On a scale of one to five I’ll have a one,” Tony ‘the wimp’ requested.
“Ball-less wonder,” Gregory mocked him, smiling. Tony sucker kicked the insulter’s shin beneath the table, but of course, he felt the pain from his own kick and reacted negatively to it. “That’s what you get,” the older PI scolded him.
“What about you?” the waiter asked Gregory, interrupting their travesty. “Your heat level?”
“Till my eyeballs bleed,” Gregory boasted, challenging his taste buds.
“Very good,” the waiter said then collected the menus. He turned to Ba’al’figor. “Will you be dining here also, sir?”
“I’m okay,” the angel insisted.
“Anyone want a refill?” the waiter asked the table.
“Yes,” everyone replied. The freshly attired young man immediately left to fulfill their requests.
“That hurt,” Tony admitted, rubbing his shin. “I gotta get used to that.”
“I gotta get used to these menus not having prices,” Gregory observed. “Makes it hard to know how much credits you have left.”
“It’s a good thing that doesn’t matter,” Ba’al’figor reminded them.
“They use credit cards in hell, too?” Tony asked.
“No, of course not,” the angel replied. “There are very few, if any, amenities there. It truly is a punishing zone. Consider yourselves lucky.”
“I wonder what it looks like,” the curious young man expectorated.
“Me, too,” Gregory added.
“Easily arranged,” Ba’al’figor remarked.
PFAFF!
“What the fuck?!” Tony cussed, finding himself with Gregory and the angel in an, heretofore, unexplored land. As far as their eyes could see, and in every direction possible, they found themselves standing in the midst of an endless, sandy desert almost completely covered with jewels of all shapes and sizes – smooth amber agates as big as camel hearts, square purple amethysts the size of bricks, milky white moss opals as huge as ostrich eggs, huge rubies as bright and red as cardinals, navy blue sapphires the size of paperbacks, diamonds, quartzes, moonstones, and deep blue tanzanites of all shapes and sizes that would give Ali Baba and his 40 thieves heart attacks just from encountering them. Scattered among these gemstones were coins, doubloons, saucers, plates, cups, platters, chains, lamps and other items crafted from gold, silver, brass, copper, titanium, platinum and other precious metals.
The sun, completely hidden behind thick, fast-moving orange clouds, gave the entire horizon a glow which made them seem like they were ants caught in the midst of a universe-sized piece of amber. The air itself smelled like burning brimstone with small bits of sandy matter floating by endlessly in perpetually swirling winds. All around them were plain, open faced stone buildings stretching up into the sky. On the ground were thousands upon thousands of naked, moaning people walking around looking like lost zombies. Some of the folks were being forced to dig trenches with pick axes and shovels while others pushed giant carts around picking up human wastes. The temperature, a stifling, severely humid 101 degrees, made Tony and Gregory feel like their skin would strip off their bones at any minute. Dark-clothed, bizarre-looking angels on horsebacks, some with whips, were dipping water from bottomless barrels atop their mighty, terrifying steeds and splashing it over the thirsty multitudes.
“What is this place?” Tony bawled, his voice trembling with fear. “How’d we get here?”
“Let me guess,” Gregory finally mustered the strength to say. “Hell?”
“The first level, or first ground, or first circle,” Ba’al’figor revealed, “depending on your heritage or beliefs.”
“You brought us here?” Tony, his heart racing like a hummingbird’s wings, asked.
“One of my many talents,” Ba’al’figor conceded. “Sorry to frighten you.”
“This is crazy,” the youngster protested, wiping his brow. “It’s hot and smells like ass. Who are all these people? Prisoners?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” the angel answered knowingly.
“How long are the sentences here?” Gregory asked.
“About 10,000 years,” Ba’al’figor answered.
“Holy shit,” Tony gulped. “And no one dies?”
The angel nodded. “No one dies.”
“10,000 years of this torture,” the young PI freaked, “I’d find a way.”
“Good luck,” Ba’al’figor smiled.
“Are these real?” Gregory asked, picking up a milky, golf-ball sized opal.
“All of it,” the angel added.
“If this i
s Hell,” Tony asked, picking up a fist-sized chunk of emerald, “how come there’s gold and jewelry here? That would make it kind of a paradise to me.”
“These baubles are worthless, I assure you,” Ba’al’figor claimed. “These people can’t spend them; they can’t eat them, either. All they can do is stare at them. Temptation alone is painful – just punishment for a misspent life.”
“That’s so cruel,” Tony realized.
“What are those buildings?” Gregory asked, pointing to the structures.
“Sleeping quarters,” Ba’al’figor informed him.
“Well,” the elder PI sighed, “at least they get to sleep even though those buildings have no walls.”
“There are no beds, either,” the angel lamented. “Just stone floors.”
“What did these people do to get here?” Gregory wondered.
“It’s not so much what they did,” Ba’al’figor let him know, “it’s how they spent their lives. Murderers, masters of genocide, molesters, pillagers, thieves, the absolutely despicable worst of the worst begin their afterlives in the lower hells, sixth or seventh. This first level is for the lazy, the purposefully ignorant, the gluttonous, petty thieves and robbers, people who were given many chances for redemption on earth but failed. To be sure, there are also minor criminals in heaven, but through their contribution to humanity, they were delivered to the higher plains.”
“Can any of these people get to heaven with good behavior?” Tony asked.
“Not from here,” the angel claimed. “Good behavior will get their souls reborn on Earth. That will be their chance for redemption. Either they can rise to the challenge and make it to the overworld, achieve little and return as a lower life form like an amoeba, worm or plant, or fail and end back here…or worse.”
“But you can get to heaven from being an animal or plant, right?” Gregory asked.
“No,” Ba’al’figor explained. “Only mankind, endowed with all five senses, is capable of karma-reducing virtues that animals and plants aren’t, like compassion, forgiveness, self-control, altruism, etc.”
