Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  The room suddenly became so quiet that, if there were crickets in Heaven, they would sound like The Who at full blast.

  “Don’t everybody answer at once,” J’ai Né scolded the gathering.

  An angel in white who hadn’t spoken before raised his hand. “We’ll take out the trash,” he moaned. “Don’t we in Sanitation always get the bum jobs?”

  “Think about how much karma you’d be shedding,” the red angel next to him said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “A lot of good that does me,” the Sanitation angel complained. “since we can’t achieve Nirvana.”

  “Yes,” the red angel agreed, “but you’ll have more power.”

  Sanitation Angel shook his head. “I guess I’ll take the assignment.”

  “Sounds like everything’s coming together nicely,” L’Da noticed.

  “In three weeks?” Ba’al’figor wearily asked.

  “Then I suppose we better get started,” L’Da suggested.

  “All this for the Anima,” Ba’al’figor groaned, rubbing his hands together.

  CHAPTER 27

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  Gregory, sitting in a booth the next morning sipping fresh brewed coffee at Patty’s Egg Nest, posed the question to his young assistant who was sitting across from him also enjoying breakfast with his boyfriend, Eddie. Eddie’s wraparound bandage had been replaced by a simple plaster over his glabella; both he and Tony now looked that they’d went a few rounds with Mike Tyson, their purple bruises and crimson scratches echoing their past misspent days.

  “Detective work is cool,” the young PI admitted. “When I checked my card this morning I had 300 credits already. In a couple of days, I can afford this sweet tenor sax I saw over at the music center.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, though,” the PI maintained. “Are you in or out?”

  “I’m in, I’m in, I’m in,” the young ‘un extolled wearily.

  “Your partner, Eddie, here,” Gregory noted, “says you two might travel?”

  “Yeah,” Tony shrugged. “Maybe.”

  The elder PI tapped nervously on the table with both hands. “You’re confusing me, dude. I can’t get a bead.”

  “What I’d said,” Eddie tried to clarify, “is that we want to check out a few heavens, that’s all. This town gets kinda…old after a while.”

  “Your stunt must’ve cost you a fortune,” Gregory guessed, turning to Eddie C.

  “I didn’t check,” the blond icon admitted, “but you’re probably right. That’s okay, though, because if I play in the festival I should make enough credits just for that. Plus, they didn’t fire me, just told me to take a few days off. I can use that time to get a couple of guys together for a band. Really, all I need is a drummer and bassist and maybe a piano player.”

  “I used to play bass,” Tony revealed. “I’d be down for backing up the famous Eddie Cochran after a couple days of practice.”

  “Thanks, pal.” Eddie said, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek.

  A waitress came over. “Any more coffee for you fellas?”

  They all shook their heads no.

  “I’ll take the check, though,” Gregory offered.

  “Sir,” the waitress said, sliding her hips to the right, “there are no checks up here. Everyone carries their own weight.”

  “Bummer,” the PI groaned. “I forgot. Suppose I wanted to treat somebody, you know, like a date?”

  “All rules can’t be gems,” the waitress informed him.

  “I learned that the hard way,” Eddie told the PI.

  “Fair enough,” Gregory nodded. “Brutal, but fair.”

  The waitress exited to another table.

  “Would you believe I haven’t cooked once since I’ve been here,” the ex-cop cheerily admitted. “Not once. If I’d known Heaven was like this, I would’ve killed myself years ago.”

  “There’s a good chance you still may not have made it up here, though,” Eddie stated.

  “Why not?” Gregory doubted him, relaying, “Some of the guys up here were suicides.”

  “They take your whole life’s work into consideration,” the blonde icon informed him. “If you were a bastard from day one, then just decided to chuck it all away, you’d probably still end up in Hell. The suicides up here had souls that weren’t as heavily tainted with karma so they were given a chance at ascension. I take it you haven’t been reading your manual.”

  “Sometimes,” Gregory snorted. “It’s kinda long. Anyway, Tony, I’ve got you caught up on everything. If you still want to help with the investigation, you can reach me any time. I got some digging around to do later. If you’re available, that’s cool. If not, that’s cool, too. It’s not like what we do makes us friends anyway.”

  “I understand,” the neophyte detective exclaimed as the PI got up.

  “See you guys later,” Gregory said, then exited.

  “You have a pretty cool friend,” Eddie stated. “Takes his job kinda seriously, huh?”

  “You know,” Tony realized, “I’m beginning to see why they have so many heavens. I bet he’s not happy here. A cop is not complete without criminals. A teacher is not complete without students. A dancer is not complete without an audience.”

  “That’s okay, though,” Eddie warranted. “Remember, if he puts himself out there for hire, he doesn’t need to make enough credits here to travel to a parallel world. They’ll take of that in the next realm. Probably the easiest way to build credits.”

  Around noon, practically everyone in Woodstock was aware that there would be a three-day festival on the Labor Day weekend. The once serene atmosphere was now electrified with excitement as musicians started brushing up on their skills, acquiring new amp transceivers, and reconnecting with friends they haven’t seen in months or years. Bands started forming left and right, members finding other members through fliers taped to poles, bulletin boards and good old fashioned word of mouth.

  By the time evening fell, the elated musicians were so caught up in preparing for the concerts that their planned protest of the angels’ policies was put on ice. The heavenly beings were aware of it, too. Some of them had the ability to smell dissension from yards away, a bitter odor which dissipated more and more as the day wore on. Their celestial plan, they hoped, was working. So far the town seemed to be in the right direction. Civil war had been averted. Now, there was only the pressing matter of finding that damned Anima, an important, anxiety-inducing task bequeathed to the one man they hoped would offer the world some needed relief.

  By nightfall, with everyone busy making preparations for the upcoming show, Gregory thought it was a good time to revisit the 27 Club. The last time he was there he had a sneaking suspicion that not every stone was unturned. Arriving to the house around 11PM, he noticed a minimalistic party was in full swing inside. Sneaking out to the back yard, aided by the light of the moon as well as his own manual, supercapacitor-powered Faraday flashlight, he scoured the area, quietly pushing leaves aside and looking under buckets and bricks for anything even remotely smelling like a clue.

  There were a few deciduous trees around the 27 Club – maples, aspens, birches – and there was even one which bore fruit, a Hawkeye Delicious apple. Luckily, no insects, birds or scavengers existed to usurp the tasty fruit. Gregory, shining his light through the leafy branches, saw a perfect specimen ripe for the picking which, unfortunately, was way out of reach. Laying his Faraday on the ground, he attempted climbing up the thin trunks towards the elusive fruit, then ended up abandoning that idea as his weight overpowered the medium-sized tree.

  Retrieving his light, he quickly scanned the yard until he saw a wooden well-bucket near a hedge. Retrieving it, he placed it upside down beneath the Hawkeye and climbed atop it Then, thrusting himself up and outward, he snatched the prize in just one unerring leap but paid the price of awkwardly crashing down towards the supple earth.

  “Uh,” he moaned, slamming hard against the ground near the roots. As
he started to get up, he noticed the spot where he placed his hands for support seemed softer than the rest of the ground. Curious, he removed his pen and started digging in the dirt. Going nowhere fast, he looked around and saw a partial branch on the ground a few feet away. Retrieving it, he started digging again. Something unusual flew out from beneath the surface.

  Kneeling towards the unearthed objected, Gregory shined his bright white light on what he’d discovered – a small, flat wooden container that could serve as a soap dish or compact.

  “Let’s see what we got here,” the PI whispered to himself.

  Cracking open the case, his eyes fell on two objects – a 1” square wax baggie containing a fingernail’s worth of dark brown tarry substance, and a folded piece of partially burnt tinfoil. Carefully opening the baggie, he sniffed its contents. Ooh, he thought. Smells like vinegar. Wouldn’t wanna add this to my salad dressing, though. He then unfolded the tinfoil and sniffed the dark residue in it. Yep, he thought. Somebody found a way to chase the dragon in Heaven. Pocketing his find, he packed the upturned dirt back into its rightful place.

  Getting up to walk away, he froze when he noticed the silhouettes of a man and woman departing from the back of the house to smoke. As they took a few steps further towards an external light, Gregory concealed himself behind the apple tree. He could plainly see the female was Janis Joplin. The blond man in his late 20’s, unfortunately, he didn’t recognize. The PI strained his ears trying to listen in on their conversation; because they were too far away, he heard zip. The blond man seemed agitated, flailing his arms about like the bubble-headed robot of ‘Lost in Space.’ Janis was trying to calm him down but her efforts were in vain; the man stomped his feet infrequently, smacked himself in the head a few times, then fell to his knees as if he was in agony. Janis, bending down to console him, hugged him and helped him to stand. The gentleman, wiping the tears from his eyes, kissed the blues singer’s cheek, watched as she went back into the house, then turned and stepped quickly towards the Hawkeye Delicious. The PI immediately abandoned his spot and quickly concealed himself behind an aspen about 15 feet away from the fruit tree.

  Rubbing his chin, he stared as the stranger removed a metal measuring spoon from his back pocket, kneeled down beneath the apple tree, and started digging in the dirt, every so often looking back to the house as if expecting company. The man, increasingly despondent, started digging faster, sweat started pouring down his brow. After a few scant minutes, unable to unearth whatever he was looking for, he cussed the air and banged his hands on the ground. Gregory removed the wooden case from his pocket and approached the downed man.

  “Looking for this?” he asked, extending the mud-tainted container.

  The blond stranger jumped up and dived for the case. Gregory, quickly retracting his arm, sidestepped his assailant. Now supremely angry, the stranger leaped towards the PI and jabbed his face with a powerful right. Of course, this being Heaven, the blow backfired, causing the enraged man to recoil in pain, holding his now bloody nose.

  “Damn you!” he screamed, then dived towards the detective with his leg extended to deliver his jump kick. Immediately, the blond man flew backwards, clutching his midriff in agony and collapsing to the ground while the PI just shook his head in disappointment.

  The pained assailant started coughing noisily, staining the grass with his serosanguinous spittle. Falling to his knees, he covered his face and started wailing like an 18 wheeler just creamed his favorite mutt. The PI walked over and knelt down in front of him.

  “Do you need help?” he asked the bleeding stranger.

  “I don’t know, man,” the crying fella replied. “Are you a HERO?”

  “No,” the PI answered. “Greg Angelicus. I’ve been tasked to solve the mystery of Amy Winehouse.”

  “So what are you?” the blond man asked, drying his tears. “Some kind of PI?”

  “Exactly,” Gregory answered. “And I’m not an angel.”

  “I’m out of control,” the man bawled, batting his head. “I lost my fucking mind.”

  Gregory gave him a firm hug. “You’ll be okay.” He then helped him to stand. “I can help you, if you want,” the PI offered, wiping some of the blood off Blondie’s face.

  “I really need it, man,” the stranger said. “Is there some way you can get me to a rehab?”

  “I don’t have a scooter, if that’s what you mean” the PI replied, “but I can walk you to the hospital. It’s not that far.”

  “Okay,” the man said, drying his tears. “Can we go now before my stinking thinking wakes up and changes my mind?”

  “Sure,” the ex-cop said, “no problem,” as he placed his arm around the stranger for support. “What’s your name?” he asked as they started walking off the lawn.

  “Brian,” the sobering man answered. “Brain Jones.”

  “Do you want to tell your friends you’re leaving, Brian?”

  “Nah,” Jones answered. “It’s better this way.”

  “So then we should be there in about 10, 15 minutes,” Gregory hoped.

  “Thanks, Greg,” Brian said. “You’re a life saver. Sorry about attacking you back there.”

  “You’re a good fighter,” the PI observed. “Too bad it won’t do you no good up here.”

  “Yeah,” Brian lamented. “I missed my calling.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Simply for the fact that Woodstock was a small town, bad news travelled fast. By morning, half of the residents already knew that Brian Jones, ex-guitarist, keyboardist and multi-instrumentalist from the Rolling Stones, was in seclusion at the hospital, but interestingly enough, people believed he was set up. How was it, they wondered, he was able to get his hands on heroin? Not only was it banned like all other illegal drugs, it was also impossible to come by. Cultivating plants like the opium poppy, jimsonweed, the coca plant, peyote, Ayahuasca and others are not allowed; of course, since their seeds are nowhere to be found in any of the heavens, it was never necessary to enforce any laws against their possession. By noon, about two dozen protesters, all wearing the white Japanese headband with the tricolor C’s, were marching back and forth in front of the hospital with bongos and banners. Their chant?

  Hell no, Brian Jones. He was set up, let him go!

  Because of the protests and unnecessary agitation of the citizens, preparation and practice for the upcoming three-day festival was put on hold. Some of the angels went around trying their best to convince the populace that they had nothing to do with this tragic turn of events, but they were hardly believed. Some musicians were outraged enough to try to attempt looting, but their minds were quickly swayed by the handful of monks and nuns ambling around town.

  The ascetics of Woodstock were an interesting crew, to say the least. They all lived in a monastery called Karma Triyana Dharmachakra up on Meads Mountain Road; the men slept on the west side, women on the east. Opened 24 hours a day, anyone was welcome to enter barefooted to meditate in the Buddhist-inspired temple or chant phrases based on any theosophy they wished. Being it was located in R & R Heaven, the monks and nuns were either musicians or employed in a music-related field. All have since adopted new monikers as befitted their lifestyle; amongst the ascetics were folks like singer Alexander Sharp from The Orioles, songwriter Charles Tobias, saxophonist King Curtis, singer Miss Christine, singer & guitarist Bobby Fuller, and several others.

  The ascetics were well respected because of the sacrifices they made which, in essence, were twofold – live the kind of life that would get them to the upper levels, and being the inspiration for all laymen and laywomen. There was no hierarchy within this sect; everyone was equal. Monks and nuns wore the same outfit, a plain white, seamless robe, and had only one possession each, a bamboo bowl which they use to beg for food from the residents twice a day. Most of their time was spent studying scriptures and teaching the populace what they’ve learned. Typically, when a layman or laywoman had decided to adopt that strict lifestyle, they abandoned all their poss
essions and loved ones. Sex, drugs, alcohol and entertainment became things of the past. For approximately 10 years, they will live a life of extreme penury, doing their best to avoid violence in their words, thoughts and actions. After the ten years has passed, if they have managed to purge as much karma from their souls as possible, they will rise to Level II where their austerities will be much easier to tolerate because the pangs of hunger and loneliness will no longer exist, relieving the burdens on their minds and souls.

  Brian Jones, lying quietly in one of the quiet, rear rooms of the hospital, was completely oblivious to the commotion being perpetrated outside on his behalf. In fact, he would probably even doubt there’d be much of a fuss because, well, as of late, he’d begun to feel invisible. Several citizens had noticed his countenance had changed; the effervescent smile and enchanting eyes he’d once possessed had been usurped by bitterness and, to a certain extent, lethargy. Most of his friends simply thought he was probably burning himself out writing and recording an album for over two years, playing all the instruments as was his wont, without engineering or production help. After years and years of performing around the heavens, he’d became the kind of talent most musicians envy. His pianism was unparalleled. His affinity for exotic instruments grew to include rarities such as the Turkish oud, the Maui xaphoon pocket sax, the Tibetan dung chen horn, the Nigerian goge fiddle and the Moroccan gimbri – a three-stringed lute with a rectangular body, making the instrument look like the Mediterranean cousin of Bo Diddley’s cigar-box guitar.

  Everyone knew Brian was a genius, the Einstein of the guitar, the Tesla of the piano. He had perfect pitch, knew the intricacies of unusual, rarely used scales like the Phrygian dominant, Byzantine, Persian and Indian seven-note. His memory was encyclopedic especially when it came to the blues. He could tell you the birthdays and birth places of the legends, from Howlin’ Wolf to Blind Lemon Jefferson; from Ma Rainey to Honeyboy Edwards and many others. All he needed was one day with a new instrument he’d never encountered before and he’d master it overnight. He was the go-to guy when recording musicians and producers needed someone to resolve discrepancies in their audio mixes, mostly related to compression or reverberation errors. But, naturally, such genius came at a high price. Aristotle once said, “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” The old Greek philosopher must’ve been really prescient since it appeared Brain Jones was already in his mind.