by Robin Ray
“The good news is,” Ba’al’figor assured him, “once you’ve been through it a few times, that cramp won’t happen again.”
“It’s past one already,” Gregory noticed. “We’d better get some sleep.”
“You go ahead, old man,” Tony disagreed. “I’m going up to Cumby’s.”
“Now?” the ex-cop asked. “I thought you were sick.”
“I’m starting to feel better already,” the young man swore.
“That’s the good news,” Ba’al’figor stated. “The cramps are transitory.”
“So,” Gregory asked his compatriot, “you’re still heading out?”
Tony nodded. “Gonna keep Eddie C company. See what he’s up to.”
Gregory waved his arms in exasperation. “Whatever floats your boat.”
“Young people,” Ba’al’figor sighed, shaking his head.
CHAPTER 17
The next day, Tony started having doubts about whether he wanted to keep following Gregory around. Where, at first, his impression was that he was a good guy, now it seemed like maybe he made a mistake and was biting off more than he could chew. If the shock of coming to Heaven and running into dead rock stars wasn’t enough, there was also the fact that he barely spent much time with his new boyfriend, ran into creatures that discombobulated his mind, and suffered through interdimensional travel which made him feel like his intestines were being electrocuted. The older PI, he also noticed, was ultra-tense, like someone had shoved a javelin stick through his spinal column and planted him in a cornfield somewhere to scare off the crows.
Nevertheless, momentarily laying those thoughts aside, he tried to enjoy the lounging he was doing on the East Beach with Eddie C., both in multi-colored swim trunks, and Tony with reason enough to suspend any detective work for the time being. As it was relatively early in the day, there were only approximately 30 visitors there, scattered all about, some building forts, some soaking in the cool water of the East Sea, others just lounging around enjoying the bright orange sun. Beneath a wide blue and black umbrella near the restrooms about 200 feet away, a few people were lounging around on striped-fabric beach chairs smoking weed and listening to crunch ‘n roll, specifically, Italian goth metal outfit Lacuna Coil, blasting from a virtual jukebox. The table with the umbrella was completely covered with different cases of beer as was the ground around the sand-dipped feet of the revelers. From the expression on other beachcombers’ faces, the metal gathering beneath the umbrella could, perhaps, tone down the volume of their music a few decibels, but since the metallers looked like humanized pitbulls complete with spikes and chains, no one dared approached them to express their wishes of a quieter morning. The brazen, explosive music, however, was beginning to drive Eddie C batshit crazy.
“You know,” he said to his buddy, “I’ve been here since Cumby’s was just a brick and I still don’t get metal. I’ve tried listening to it over and over, but I don’t know, still can’t get used to the distortion and anger… and even the imagery they’re evoking – cemeteries, demons and such. Some of the singing is fine, but those growling moments – sounds like a rhino getting his nuts shredded in a wood chipper.”
“That is the point,” Tony observed. “It’s no accident it’s jarring. Supposed to mirror your angst or something.”
The blond young clerk shrugged, opened his duffel bag, produced a transceiver the size of a toner cartridge, laid it horizontally on the beach and switched it on. A holographic speaker appeared in the air over it and started playing Jerry Lee Lewis.
“Oh, yes,” he smiled. “Much better. Wanna go swimming?”
“Not now,” Tony professed. “It’s kinda early; that water’s gotta be real cold. I am famished, though. What do we have to eat?”
Eddie C scoured through the paper bag of groceries he’d obtained from Cumby’s and announced each item as he laid them out in a towel on the sand. “Apples, chocolate bars, Danishes, a couple of sodas, potato chips and, of course, the crème de la crème, a six of Blue Hammer Wheat.”
“What’s that?” the young PI inquired, reaching for one.
“Clear beer from a farm close to here, actually,” he recited knowingly. “The water they use is mountain filtered. Makes a big difference.”
“I thought all the water here would be mountain filtered,” Tony said, inspecting the label.
“Just the artisanal kind,” Eddie explained. “Most of it is just redirection from the falls.”
“I’d like to see those someday,” Tony requested. “Sounds like a good place for a camp.”
As they each opened a cold brew, a small group of overly excited partiers zoomed past them, kicking a soccer ball and accidentally splashing sand up in their faces.
“Hey!” Eddie shouted to the group. “Be careful!”
“Do you know those guys?” his partner asked as the oblivious group continued on their merry, albeit careless, way.
“No,” the clerk answered, “but that sort of shit happens to me all the time, like I’m invisible. Why do you think I don’t like it here? Next petition, I’m going far away, something completely out of my comfort zone, like Maidservant’s Heaven or Lion Tamer Heaven, something really off the wall. They might be more sympathetic than these clowns.”
“Just wait till they fix the transfer stations, though,” Tony warned him. “Right now they’ll give you the bends like you won’t believe. You know, if people pick on other people here, who can they go to? The angels?”
“If the angels had their way,” Eddie stated, “we’d be chopping off heads in a Coliseum every night for sport. Some heavens have a disciplinary board, council members, peacekeepers, that sort of thing. This one is built on mutual trust. That’s how artists, especially musicians, prefer it. Autonomy, you know? I mean, people help each other out here. If it was every man for himself it’d be chaos.”
“Then you need strong people on your side, like that crew,” Tony indicated, pointing to the tattooed metallers beneath the blue umbrella.
“If, one day,” Eddie promised, “I’m in the mood to have somebody yank my spine out through my ass, I’ll give them a call.”
“You’re funny,” the young PI claimed. “But you know what they say – when in Rome chill with the gladiators.” He then held up his brew. “I like this beer. It doesn’t taste too strong.”
“It’s not,” Eddie C assured him. “Goes down like silk but weak as hell.”
Twenty minutes later, Tony and Eddie were so buzzed they could barely stand up straight or look at objects without seeing them as doubles. Now that the local craft beer was coursing through their veins like an anaconda in the Amazon, their inhibitions immediately took a nosedive. Eddie thought it was time to liven up the place a little so he turned up the volume on his virtual speaker which, at that moment, meant a loud earful of Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers. As the two started dancing, or as some might rudely say, trying to get carpenter ants off their backs, the volume on the metal across the beach also went up. Not to be beat, Eddie raised the volume on his speaker till it was so distorted it now actually sounded metallic. Unfortunately, frustrated with the thrashing, broken sound it created, he raised his leg and kicked the transceiver so hard it flew into the shallow cresting waves where it immediately sparked and blew up.
“That’s it,” the 50’s icon shouted. “I’m given those loons a piece of my mind.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Tony said, holding his friend back. “Look how big they are, man.”
“Don’t worry about me, Tony,” Eddie said, struggling free. “I can handle my own.”
As the blond clerk stormed over to the metal table, the novice PI gulped and stayed close behind just in case.
“Hey, guys,” Eddie introduced himself loudly to the smoking group, “why don’t you turn that music up even louder?”
The already inebriated quartet, consisting of two males and two females, simply stared at the bold intruder. The multi-tattooed female in her 50’s, wearing a12” high pink and bl
ond Mohawk like a fan atop her head, turned the music down a little.
“What’s up, Eddie?” she asked the clerk. “Pull up a seat.”
“So you know me, huh?” the young man with clenched fists asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “You’re Eddie Cochran. ‘Summertime Blues’, ‘C’mon Everybody’…my old band covered you a lot. Bobby Darin, too.”
“Watch out,” the 70-year-old mustachioed, black haired metalhead with the grouse voice and a face full of experience warned him. “She could put hair on your chest like that,” he boasted, snapping his fingers.
“He’s drunk,” Tony apologized for his friend, grabbing his forearm.
“No, I’m not,” Eddie objected, pulling his limb free.
“Hey,” the woman with the Mohawk said, “we’re all friends here.” Reaching into a red cooler, she brought out a bottle of 5th Wheel Beer, cracked it open using a tool attached to her ID card, and handed it to Eddie. “How ‘bout you?” she asked Tony.
For a moment, the young PI hesitated, thinking, should I acquiesce to the strangers’ offer of friendship so they’re not insulted and tear me a new one, or shovel some of that sparkling, hoppy fluid down my gullet even though it meant possibly upchucking it minutes later?
“Thanks,” he said, making his decision and reaching for the bottle.
Since there really was not another seat the boys could actually sit on, they simply sat on the beach near the table. The other woman in the group, a brunette beauty in her 20’s with a face that can’t hide the pain around her soul, and the other gentleman, a tepid bloke in his 50’s, were so involved in hushed conversation that they barely noticed Eddie and Tony had visited.
“I’ll introduce you,” Ms. Mohawk said to the boys. “I’m Wendy O. Williams from The Plasmatics. I know you’ve never heard of us, but that’s okay. We would’ve been too over the top for you anyway.”
True, the clerk thought. Scantily dressed as she already was in black panties and a ‘Joker’ t-shirt with the bottom half ripped off, he could just imagine the full extent of her stage show.
“This gentleman to my left,” she continued, “Is Lemmy Kilmister. The name ring a bell?”
“Sorry,” Eddie apologized. “Can’t say that it does.”
“That’s okay, mate,” Lemmy said with his gruff, seasoned voice. They shake hands. Kilmister, perhaps showing off, squeezed the guitarist’s hand so tightly it felt like his phalanges would fuse. “Crackers and cheese!” he complained after Eddie’s agonized reaction. “For a Yank ye got lovely bacons but right Lara Croft germans.”
Eddie looked as confused as a nun at a nudist colony. “What?”
“He said you’re a nice young man,” Wendy translated, albeit inaccurately on purpose. “Been playing bass in Motörhead for 100 years. He’s gonna be strong, lugging all that equipment around from place to place.”
“Almost blew off yer orchestra, did I?” Lemmy laughed, speaking to Eddie. “Don’t fret, chum. I’ll make it up to ye someday.” He then extended his hand to the PI. “What’s your name?” The youngster, reluctant to take his powerful hand, hesitated, but when he saw the bassist wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, he took a deep swallow and prepared for the battering that was to come. Sure enough, Lemmy’s squeeze was so powerful it made the PI’s urinary bladder squirt out a few warm CC’s down his buckling legs.
“To my right,” Wendy continued, “are Johnny Ramone from the Ramones and Kristen Pfaff from Hole.” The couple stopped talking to each other just enough to say hi, then went back to their hushed conversation.
“How come I felt pain in my hand when you crushed it?” the young detective queried the Motörhead bassist.
“I meant ye no harm,” Lemmy swore.
“Where’s everybody from?” Eddie asked.
Once again, Wendy gave the answers and began by pointing to herself. “New York,” then to the others, “England, Long Island, Seattle.”
“Sweet,” Tony blurted out enthusiastically. “I’m from Seattle, too.”
“What part?” Kristen asked.
“Shoreline,” he proudly asserted.
“Capitol Hill,” the Hole bassist revealed. “Big mistake. Can’t cry about it now. The city changed any in the past 20 years?”
“Not a lick,” Tony explained. “Still weirdville any way you slice it. Yuppies are taking it over, though. Only they can afford the $3000/month studios.”
“Whew,” Kristen whistled. “Changed a lot. Used to be around $600 when I was there.”
“How do you fellas like it here?” Wendy asked the pair of 21-year-olds.
“I don’t,” Eddie admitted. “I wanna find someplace new, someplace, I don’t know, that agrees with me.”
“This place doesn’t?” the punk singer asked.
“Nope,” he attested. “Been to a couple of places but none suited me. I wish there was some kind of way they can just type your name in a database and find out what’s perfect for you.”
“Well,” Wendy told him, “make sure you come to the Triple C Rally this Saturday. Air your grievances. Let everybody know how you feel; you know what I’m saying?”
“What’s that all about?” Tony asked.
“Concerned Citizens for Change – Triple C,” Ms. Williams explained. “We’re having a rally at the Playhouse to talk about what changes we need to see up here.”
“Like what?” the PI asked.
“More freedom,” she quickly answered, not missing a beat. “Why, for instance, do we have to petition to visit other heavens? If we have enough credits that should be it, right? We’re treated like jailed juvies here.”
“Really?” Tony queried. “People I’ve met seem pretty happy.”
“You’re new,” she professed. “You haven’t met the right ones yet. There’s a reason why they’re barely seen. It’s like a form of protest.”
“Is this a new thing?” Tony asked.
“Nah,” the Mohawked-singer answered. “Just been gaining a lot of steam recently.”
“Yeah,” Tony accepted. “I’ll check it out.”
“Ever been to Painters Heaven, bloke?” Lemmy asked Eddie C.
“I’ve thought about it,” he answered, “just never got around to it.”
“Me manhole cover’s there,” the sandpaper-voiced bassist explained. “He’ll show ye the ropes.”
“Manhole cover?” Eddie asked, perplexed. “You know, your accent…”
“Me brethren, man,” Lemmy tried to clarify. “‘E’s good people even tho’ the lad’s behind on the rent, you know wha’ ah mean?”
The 50’s icon shook his head. “I don’t…”
“Bub,” Lemmy asked him in his thick Cockney accent, “ye got enough credits, do ye?”
“I’ve been saving,” Eddie pledged.
“Good.” Lemmy ripped off part of the cardboard from a 6-pack carrier then started checking his own pockets. “Where’s me bill an’ ben?” he asked himself. Eventually, he brought out what he was looking for – a pen. “This is his name and address,” he explained, scripting on the paper. “Give ‘im me turtle dove, eh?” he said, handing the paper to Eddie.
“I’ll do that,” the young crooner replied although he had no clue what the Motörhead bassist meant.
Just then a chime went off on Tony’s watch. Gazing at it, he pressed a ‘receive’ button. A holograph the size of a soda can floated off the device.
“Hey, Tony,” the elder PI began. “Come down to the station. They just found a huge piece of the puzzle.”
“Sure,” his assistant promised. “No problem.” He then turned the image off.
“Got some business to attend to?” Wendy asked him.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Important stuff. Eddie, you staying here?”
“I’ll trail along, if you don’t mind,” he requested. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
Tony nodded. “Okay.” He turned to the group of four. “Bye, guys. Thanks for the brews.”
“
Sure/Anytime/no problem,” they answered at once.
Tony and Eddie started trudging back towards their little picnic site.
“See?” the novice detective said. “They weren’t so bad, right?”
“No,” the blond clerk answered. “Pretty friendly lot. I wouldn’t want to get caught in a dark alley with Lemmy at night, though. Looks like he could take my head off with just his voice alone.”
“Yeah,” his pal nodded. “I’ll bet.”
CHAPTER 18
Tony entered the police station about one hour after escorting Eddie home and immediately knew something was very wrong. Five people, two males and three females, all attired in typical angel-porcelain white, were conferring amongst themselves in the lobby in front of the sergeant’s desk. Noticing the door to the corner office was ajar, the young PI poked his head in. L’Da was sitting behind the paper-filled desk. Gregory, Ba’al’figor, D’Ariel, J’ai Né and two other angels, a male and a female, both attired in black, were standing around him going over notes in a few manuscripts.
“Wow,” the greenhorn detective exulted. “Full house.”
“This is serious,” Gregory scolded him.
“Sorry,” he apologized as he entered.
“I think you’ve met most of the angels here,” his partner stated, “L’Da, Ba’al’figor, D’Ariel, J’ai Né. These two in ebony are Ka’Arina and Matthias.” Tony shook their hands. “Look at this,” Gregory continued, handing him a dossier. The neophyte perused the form but barely understood the drawings or language on it.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Matthias and I were part of the forensics team involved in the pathological examination of Ms. Winehouse,” Ka’Arina stated. “We consulted with other examiners from different heavens and simply couldn’t determine why a citizen had died. You can imagine the enormity of such a finding. We thought it best to keep this information from reaching the upper levels because they would exert executive powers over this first level and chaos would ensue. At least that is our belief because of something similar that occurred about 4,500 years ago.”
