Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  “Yes,” the boys nodded.

  “The sculptors designed all of them,” the Irishman explained, “but we were taxed with their maintenance. I think we did a good job of lighting them every dusk, but when a sculptor had to do that work to earn credits, he often neglected his duties and we got blamed for keeping the city unlit. They claim that, since we were link boys, street lighting was also our duty.”

  “What’s a link boy?” Eddie asked.

  “Torch boy,” Stanhope replied. “We lit the way for others to follow when it was dark. The torches were made from flax fibers, you see – our stock in trade.”

  “What does link mean?” Tony asked.

  “That’s what they call the wick in the torch,” the Irishman elucidated.

  The young PI glanced up and down the table. “Are there any famous artists in here right now?” he asked his new pal from Éire.

  “Probably not,” Stanhope answered, drinking some of his wine. “Midgard Inn is really a tourist destination. There are smaller bistros around the city the artists prefer. They’re quieter and out of the way.” Then, glancing up and down the table himself, he saw a few people he recognized. “You’re in luck,” he told the budding detective. “See there?” he said, pointing to two men conversing with each other down at the far end to the right. “That’s Paul Cézanne and Claude Monet; funny seeing them in here. Do you see the little man with the glasses talking to that woman in the blue tunic down there?” he asked, motioning to the far end to the left. “That’s Toulouse-Lautrec and Mary Cassatt.” He then turned his attention to the kitchen area. “Two of those chefs are famous, too. See that white-haired gentleman with the baggy eyes?” he asked pointing to one of the workers. “That’s René Magritte. The man chopping carrots and lettuce in the rear is Jackson Pollock. Considering the kind of art he creates, I’d say he has the most appropriate job in the kitchen, boyo.”

  “Fantastic,” Tony exclaimed. “I’m really starting to like this place. That Renaissance music, though,” he then added, referring to the performing quartet, “not so much.”

  “Change it if you want,” Stanhope informed him. “It’s been this same thing for over two hours already.”

  “What do you mean change it?” Tony asked.

  The Irishman slid open a book-sized door in the table in the area right in front of him. In the square hole was a beige-colored pad. Placing his stretched-out palm in the hole, he directed his gaze at the four Renaissance musicians and the two dancers who, instantly, transformed into a string quintet performing classical music.

  “Blood claat!” Tony exhorted, whipping around to see the unusual alteration.

  Stanhope and the boys, still eyeing the musicians, watched as the group further transformed into a brass trio comprising of trumpet, trombone and tuba players, seconds later a flamenco guitar quartet complete with two flamenco dancers, then a pair of rappers with their two DJ’s behind them, a crooning Justin Beiber…”

  “No!” the lads yelled in tandem.

  …and, finally, Bruno Mars and his band on a 6” riser performing “24k Magic.”

  “Hey!” the astonished Eddie chortled. “Tony, he looks like you!”

  The young D groaned. “I wish I had his flow.”

  “He is pretty good looking,” Gretsch boy remarked. “But, you know what? The first time I saw this live juke box I jumped out of my blue suede shoes.” He slid open both trapdoors in front of him and his friend which had been blended so well into the table top they were invisible. “All you have to do is think about what you want to hear,” he told his pal, “and the entertainment will change. You have to wait an hour, though, because the Irish laddy here went first,” pointing to Stanhope.

  Getting off his chair, Tony danced over to the band and reached for Bruno’s mic stand. Like the Soul Watcher’s orbs, his hand passed right through the instrument without feeling a thing. Stepping into the stage, he watched as his hand jettisoned unhindered and unnoticed into the noncognizant singer’s black pompadour and other body parts.

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered, returning to his seat. He then turned to Stanhope. “Most realistic thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Aye,” the Irishman answered. “Technology perfected.”

  “Shouldn’t there be some kind of projector?” Tony wondered.

  “It’s integrated into the floor beneath the musicians,” Stanhope explained.

  Filippo returned just as the boys had resumed their pottage. “Everything okay here?” he asked the crew.

  “You can bring another bottle of mead,” Tony requested. “Sweet, but I like it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “No,” the three men said. The waiter bowed his head tactfully and left.

  “Be careful with that mead,” Stanhope warned the PI. “It sneaks up on you.”

  “This is nothing,” Tony bragged. “I’ve had way stronger.”

  Famous. Last. Words.

  CHAPTER 32

  By 3PM, Tony was so blitzed from all the sweet mead he drank that he could barely tell the difference between a urinal and a potted plant. It was still raining out as the boys stumbled up Main Street towards Ordinance Road. Eddie was holding his own well. In fact, he’d taken on the responsibility of preventing his friend from slipping and falling into the various, well-groomed hedges along the way. By the time they arrived at Erudition Road, Eddie had to take a break from continually propping his buddy up.

  A few feet ahead, Eddie encouraged Tony to have a seat on the bench beneath the blue and white awning of a writing arts studio set in a plain, light yellow, nondescript, one story, flat-roofed house with a banner containing the words –

  Deng Shiru, Calligrapher 邓石如.

  “We’ll sit here a while till the rain stops,” Eddie whispered to his friend, both of them soaked to the gills.

  “I want another drink,” Tony stammered weakly.

  “No, you don’t,” Eddie retorted. “You’ve had enough.”

  “Eh,” the young PI protested then tried to stand up. Eddie simply pulled him back to the moist bench.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the Cumby’s clerk told him. “Just relax a bit.”

  “I’m feeling sick,” Tony moaned.

  Eddie quickly turned his friend so he faced the side of the bench at the edge of the awning. “If you’re gonna vomit,” he said to him, “now’s the time.”

  Not missing a beat, the novice detective did exactly what his boyfriend suggested – drop the steamy, pottage and mead mixture from his nauseous stomach right on the rain-drenched ground in front of the art studio.

  “What a mess,” Eddie groaned. “It’s a good thing it’s raining.”

  “I want to lie down a little,” Tony said weakly.

  “Can you walk?” Eddie asked him.

  The young PI stood up, albeit with some difficulty. “I’m okay,” he promised. “Let’s go.”

  Approximately 20 minutes later, the duo found Ordinance Road. Now all we have to do is find 221, Eddie thought as they walked down the block. Easy to find, 221 turned out to be a two-story, half-timbered Tudor-style house in the middle of the second block of Ordinance Road. It also stuck out because the two houses across the street, as well as the other two on the 221 side, were oddities, geometrically speaking. One and two-story stone structures, some of them were covered with domes, some were completely circular in shape, but all mostly resembled small castles that looked like the designs of a cross-eyed architect. Their individual gardens and water fountains were gorgeous sights to behold even if the water was spouting out of atypical orifices from marble dragons, naked Olympic athletes, gargoyles, and other bits of Gothic-inspired structures.

  Unlike the other estates, 221 had no lawn and, therefore, no water fountain. In fact, it sat closer to the road that the other 4 homes. 221 flaunted two flower gardens, one on each side of the house, but as far as decorations went, that was basically it. By the time Eddie was knocking on the front door, it had s
topped raining; the sky remained an ominous dark gray, nevertheless. Tony, wobbling next to him, looked like he could pass out anytime.

  “Hello?” the owner of the house asked the two after opening the front door.

  “I’m looking for Masaccio the Painter,” Eddie said.

  “Who are you?” the clean-shaven, fairly good looking, brown-haired gentleman in his late 20’s, wearing dark brown stretchy tights and a dark blue vest over a white, long-sleeved shirt with frills, asked.

  “I’m Eddie Cochran,” the clerk/guitarist answered. “This is my friend, Tony Lopez. As you can see, he had one too many mouthfuls of mead.”

  Remembering his manners, the half-asleep PI waved hi to the stranger.

  “We’re from Rock & Roll Heaven,” Eddie informed him. “Lemmy Kilmister said if we ever get to Painters we should look up Masaccio.”

  “Lemmy!” the man squealed. “Why didn’t you say so. I am Masaccio,” he revealed, shaking their hands. “Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone at your service. Come on in.”

  “You’re both soaking wet,” the Renaissance painter noticed as the visitors entered his home. Removing two towels from a nearby hook, he handed one to each 21-year-old. “Luckily, you two are the same size as me, so have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a red velvet couch in the drawing room, “and I’ll be right back.”

  Eddie and Tony sat down while Masaccio climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. This place is sweet, Eddie thought as he surveyed the room. He noted the varnished, wooden floor partially covered by an Italianate rug, fine wooden furniture, exquisite bookcase, paintings galore, gothic lamps, at least two holographic transceivers, and a lit fireplace gently scenting the room from the well-seasoned oak crackling in it.

  It didn’t take long for their host to return to the drawing room. Carrying an armful of assorted pieces of clothing, he placed it on the couch next to the travelers.

  “These should fit you two nicely,” he told them. “Just leave your wet clothes on the table and I’ll come back for them as soon as I bring you both some tea, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine with me,” Eddie stated. Tony, too tired to fully acknowledge the painter, simply nodded. “And ice water for my friend,” the blond guitarist added.

  After Masaccio retired to the kitchen, Eddie undressed himself and Tony and attired them both in the brown Friar Tuck-like robes the artist had brought downstairs. Minutes later, the young Renaissance man re-entered the room with a wooden platter toting a brass pot of hot tea, a bamboo jug of ice water, bamboo cups, silver cutlery, crackers, cubes of sugar and salted tofu, and placed the whole shebang on the table in the middle of the room.

  “You two look like dears,” he complimented his guests, then, picking up the damp clothes, he went back into the kitchen where he hanged them on hooks near the pot belly stove. Eddie wasted no time pouring out a cup of ice water for his traveling partner.

  “Here, big boy,” he said to the PI, offering him the smooth vessel. “Drink up.”

  Tony took the cup, downed half its contents, and returned it to the table. “I have to stretch out my legs,” he groaned and then did just that – elevate his clogs on the table.

  “Oh, Hell No!” Masaccio shrieked as he ran back into the drawing room. “That’s an original Donatello!” Racing over to Tony, he quickly moved his extended legs off the superbly carved wooden table and laid them on the floor. “He gave that to me over 500 years ago.”

  “Sorry,” the PI apologized. “I’m just so tired.”

  “I have a guest room upstairs,” the painter said, “if you feel like.”

  “Yes,” Tony assented, standing up.

  “I’ll be right back,” Masaccio promised Eddie as he helped Tony to walk upstairs.

  “Your friend went right to sleep the second I put him in bed,” the artist told Eddie when he returned downstairs minutes later. “What has him so groggy?” he asked as he poured himself a cup of tea and added two lumps of sugar to it.

  “Corn syrup mead,” Eddie said. “One too many mouthfuls, I’d say.”

  “Do you two live together?”

  “Nah,” the guitarist said, nipping on the tofu. “Just friends.”

  “I take it you’re a musician?” the painter asked, sipping his tea. “What kind of music?”

  “Early rock and roll,” he answered. “I’ve been here since 1960.”

  “Oh,” Masaccio solemnly stated, “sorry to hear that.”

  “What about you?”

  “1428, AD,” he replied with specificity as if editing an entry in Wikipedia.

  “Gee,” Eddie exclaimed, his eyebrows raised.” How many years is that?”

  “Plenty,” he lamented. “Trapped at 26.”

  “Is that how old you are when…?” The guitarist, perpetually finding it difficult to ask citizens about their deaths, let the question slide. The artist took the lead anyway.

  “Yes,” Masaccio answered. “How about you?”

  “21,” the musician answered.

  “Wow,” the painted emitted. “That’s tough. So much life left to live.”

  “So how come you’re still here when you’re from the Renaissance?” Eddie inquired. “I was told all you guys from that period ascended already.”

  “Most of us,” the painter disclosed, “specifically, the younger ones, stuck around. There’s a simple reason, really. You can call it selfishness, but in a way, we felt robbed of a full life. Mind you, I did try ascetic life. Would you believe I’ve been a monk twice? Twice I’ve been a monk,” he added for emphasis. “I sacrificed for years but always kept the thought that maybe I should’ve been allowed to continue my work, and if not mine, at least the visionaries’ like Raphael and Titian. Like them, I wanted to branch out into different fields of my choosing; you know, medicine, writing, architecture…but now, looking back in time, I did have the will to indulge myself in these occupations, and I did try, but I always returned to the easel. Just don’t have that special talent bequeathed to Signori DaVinci or Michelangelo. Believe me, that’s very hard to accept.”

  “But you have lots of time,” Eddie reminded him.

  “True,” he agreed. “Still, I’m doubtful because most artists and other talented individuals who came after me remain in the same field for years. Anyway, that’s a depressing topic. Would you like to see my studio?”

  “This is just one of many suites I own,” the painter said as they entered the spacious room attached to the back of the house. Nearly as large as a greenhouse, Eddie figured it might look just as he imagined it would, and he was basically right. Easels of unfinished paintings were scattered throughout the room as well as new and used palettes, brush sets, jars of oil and water paint, hung art, cloth screens draped from the ceiling to the floor, drafting table, papers and canvasses galore, chairs, tables, couches, and other accoutrements.

  “Impressive,” Eddie confessed as he journeyed through the collection. “So, after all these years,” he asked his new friend, “you still like to paint this much?”

  “It’s been a struggle,” the painter conceded, “but I got tired of fighting with myself. It’s what I am. Would you like a portrait of yourself?”

  “When?” the surprised musician asked. “Right now?”

  “Is there a better time?” the artist retorted.

  “Well,” Eddie admitted, “I don’t think I’m up to sitting still tonight. Me and Tony’s been up and down all day. Pretty fatiguing.”

  “I understand,” the painter said. “So you and Tony are really close, huh?”

  “Not really,” Eddie answered. “I mean, we only met each other recently, but he’s still learning the ropes. You know, he’s not old school like you and me.”

  “He’s on shaky ground,” Masaccio added.

  “Yes,” the guitarist stated. “He’s got a lot of growing to do. You know, if it’s okay with you, I would like to learn a little about painting.”

  “Really?”

  “The truth is,” Eddie exp
lained, “I’m tired of being in R&R. I’m feeling stagnant and, I don’t know, out of place there, probably because I am one of the earliest ones. You know, my style of music being out of date an’ all. But I have a good feeling about Caprese, always did ‘cause I’ve visited a few times. It just strikes me as being different… more tolerable, anyway.”

  “You sound like a pariah like me,” the painter noted. “Imagine being a monk twice. You think they’d let me do it for the third time?”

  “Would they?”

  “Si,” Masaccio answered, “but it doesn’t mean I’ll be trusted. Anyway, you came at a good time,” he swore, “because a lot of homes are vacant, now that the sculptors and 3D artists are gone. I can show you some basic things tonight, if you’re not too tired.”

  “Okay,” the guitarist agreed. “I’m fine with that. May as well, since it’ll be a while till our clothes dry.”

  “Good,” the Renaissance painter said. “I’ll go get us something to drink and we can start.”

  “Get us what?” Eddie inquired.

  “It’s a surprise,” Masaccio said, smiling as he left.

  Just 20 minutes into his art lesson, Eddie was beginning to feel the relaxing effects of the warm, brown, aromatic drink the painter had retrieved from his kitchen. The painter, for his part, was holding up well despite having drank as much as his student.

  “What did you call this?” Eddie asked, holding up his half empty mug of liquor, garnished with a slice of orange.

  The artist, sitting next to the blonde musician who, himself, is positioned on a wooden stool in front of an easel containing a blank, poster-sized, mounted/borderless canvas, answered, “Mulled wine. It’s red wine with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and sugar. Very easy to make. I like drinking it on these rainy, chilly nights. Do you like it?”