Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  “You have feet like a cat,” the guitarist noticed. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Forgive me,” the calligrapher said.

  “I like this style,” he stated, pointing to the multi-language collection. “Would it take you a long time to write ‘Tony?’”

  “It actually might,” Deng admitted, “because I didn’t create those.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “A few months ago I had a visitor,” he explained. “Very determined person, but very foolish. Sought to challenge my skill, but there really was no purpose. I’ve been doing this kind of work for centuries. Do you know I can write your name on a strand of hair?”

  “What?” Tony shouted. “Really?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Unfortunately, I can’t do it with the kinds of brushes in Heaven. No animal fur, you see. Now, if there were Siberian weasels around!”

  “That’s your favorite?”

  “Well,” Deng answered, “they’re what I prefer. There’s an old Chinese folklore – Siberian weasels are slippery devils who can steal your soul and replace it with someone else’s. A tale, no doubt, characteristic of the fine and exotic nature of their exemplary fur. Old wives’ tale if you ask me, but who am I to say? Um, if you wish, I can show you the basics of this particular style and you can work on the rest at home.”

  “Sure,” the guitarist said.

  “Have a seat,” Deng said, pointing to the folded man. As Tony complied, the calligrapher opened a nearby cupboard, brought out a sketch pad, a brush and ink set, brought it over to his guest and sat opposite him in front of the self-standing tray while the guitarist cleared it of the tea and cups.

  “This requires a lot of skill,” Deng said, laying the materials on the tray. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Sliding next to Tony, the calligrapher opened the pad, removed one blank sheet for himself and returned the pad to the musician. Then, opening the paint set, he took out a very thin bear grass brush, handed it to his guest, then retrieved one for himself.

  “Let’s begin,” he said, lifting up the lid of one of the small jars of black India ink. “Hold your brush like this,” he demonstrated. “Good,” he congratulated Tony who got it right on the first attempt. “Now,” he said, dipping his brush into the ink, “make a line like this from bottom to top.” Illustrating what he meant on his own sheet, Tony carefully dipped his brush in the ink and created his black vertical line. “Very good,” the calligrapher said. “Now draw a line like this.” The musician, closely following his teacher’s instruction, succeed once again. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” the artist asked. “Students rarely get this accuracy on their first try, and to top it off, your hand is bandaged.”

  “I’ve always had pretty good penmanship,” the guitarist boasted, though not overtly.

  After a few minutes, Deng and Tony had sketched from A to E, then the older artist started to yawn.

  “I’d better go,” the youngster said.

  “We’re not done,” the calligrapher insisted.

  “That’s okay,” Tony assured him. “I can finish this at home. I’m pretty tired myself.”

  “In that case,” Deng said standing up, “take this with you.” Going over to the cupboard, he brought a sheet of paper with the complete cursive alphabet on it and handed it to the novice. “I made copies of the original, just in case,” he winked.

  “Thanks,” Tony said, getting up. “If it’s okay with you, I’m gotta get to stepping.”

  “Okay with me,” Deng swore. “Will you back in Caprese any time soon?”

  “Probably,” he answered as he walked to the door. “Probably won’t be any time soon, though. Thanks for the tea.”

  “No problem,” his teacher said. “I’ll see you later. Zài lián xì. Keep in touch.”

  “Bye,” the guitarist said as he closed the front door behind him.

  CHAPTER 34

  What the hell? Tony thought, stirring from a much needed beauty sleep. What time is it? Pressing a button on his watch, he focused his weary eyes on the holographic time that rose out of it. 11AM? And what is that noise? Dragging himself out of bed, he post-hangoverly entered his living room, bee-lined straight to the windows and parted the opaque curtains with his still-bandaged hands.

  “HELL BENT, REPRESENT! BRIAN JONES IS INNOCENT!”

  Now what? the novice PI asked himself, staring at the marching throng passing by his window. About 100 angry protesters, their fists in the air, were following a huge banner which read “FREE BRIAN JONES”. Another wonderful day in the neighborhood, the young sleuth reckoned. I’d better get dressed and see what’s the dilly.

  Traipsing alongside the group minutes later, Tony asked a protester why the commotion?

  “It’s those damn angels,” the bearded protester yelled. “They know ain’t no one of us can get our hands on dope. It’s a cover up.”

  “Who do you suspect is behind this?”

  “You got me,” the protester admitted, “but I won’t be surprised if it ain’t Vai.”

  “Vai?”

  “Dragon Lady, man,” the angry fist-pumper stated. “Really powerful. She makes these angels look like Barney & Friends. I’ve heard that whenever she gets ready to do an inspection, she goes out of her way to make sure something is amiss in the heavens she visits because she likes to throw her weight around.”

  “Boss of the angels, huh?” Tony asked. “So what does she have to gain by sabotaging a heaven? And why?”

  “The same reasons the police don’t really want you to stop crime,” he replied. “No criminals, no cops. Vai is scared to death about ending up in Hell. Not because she hates it there, but because of her pride. She’s thinks she’s too high a rank to go down to those decrepit levels. Those underworld angels would torment her for centuries, and she ain’t having that. If there’s some huge shake up or disturbance in this heaven, she’ll be needed to identify and correct it. Vai’s just looking out for herself; she made Brian Jones the scapegoat.”

  “Wow,” the new detective nodded. “So Vai has a supervisor she’s scared of?”

  “That’s part of it,” the protester acknowledged. “The other thing is she wants to achieve Nirvana like the humans, but angels can’t do that. After millions of years they return to indiscriminate matter, and she’s not having that, either. She wants to go all the way.”

  “I didn’t think Heaven would be so…difficult,” Tony admitted.

  “Yes,” the protester agreed. “If you’d known what it was like up here, if anyone knew what it was like up here, they’d ask themselves, ‘Am I sure I want to go to Heaven?’ I can just image what the responses would be.”

  “So where are you guys headed now?”

  “The jail,” he answered. “That’s where they’re keeping Brian.”

  “How come?”

  “They’re scared we’ll free him from the hospital.”

  “Okay,” the budding PI said. “Well, I’m with you guys, but I have to catch up with my partner, Gregory.”

  “No problem,” the protester said. “Take care.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Wat up, G?”

  It didn’t take long for Young Tony Lopez, PI in training, to run into his partner. Gregory was busy interviewing protesters in front of the police station, trying to get their take on the unusual circumstances engulfing Heaven as of late. So far, the protests have been relatively peaceful, but like the weather, it’s subject to change.

  “What happened to you?” the elder PI wondered, gazing at his assistant’s bandaged hands.

  “Tony, meet sidewalk,” he answered. “Sidewalk, Tony.”

  “Who introduced you two?”

  “Corn syrup mead.”

  “Never drank it,” Gregory admitted. “Must be real strong to do all this, though. How’s it going with you and Blondie?”

  “He stayed behind in Painters,” the greenhorn sleuth regretted to say.

  “Sorry about that,
pal,” Gregory said. “I know how that feels.”

  “Eh,” Tony shrugged. “It was doomed from the get go. So how’s the investigation going? Any new leads?”

  “Let’s walk,” the elder PI suggested.

  “People are pretty hush-hush up here,” Gregory said as they strolled up Rock City Road. “They live in fear of an angel named Vai.”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, “I heard about her. Could be an exaggeration, too.”

  “Maybe,” Gregory submitted, “but it’s making my work that much harder with everyone clamming up like that.”

  “Afternoon,” Tony said, greeting a trio of monks who just ambled past. The ascetics nodded and kept walking towards the center of town. “You notice that?” the young PI asked his trainer. “They’re not carrying their bowls. Maybe they’re going to get involved in the protests.”

  “Monks in a protest always goes sideways,” Gregory felt. “These guys take their frustration to the extreme and self-immolate.”

  “I know,” Tony said. “I’ve seen the pictures, like, in Vietnam.”

  “What’s that?” Gregory asked suddenly, his attention momentarily diverted.

  “What?” the young PI quizzed him.

  “Down there,” the ex-cop mumbled, squinting to ascertain what his eyes were seeing some 200 feet away. Abandoning the road, he entered a sprawling meadow and headed straight to a wooden shed; Tony, staying close behind, tried to see what his partner was looking for. “You see that glow?” Gregory said as he picked up his pace towards the shed.

  “What is that? A fire?” Tony asked.

  “I don’t know,” his hurrying partner panted.

  “I see it!” the young sleuth shouted. “It’s going behind the shed.”

  Racing towards the back of the shed, the two D’s caught a glimpse of what resembled a human figure completely enshrouded by a glowing amber mist, then poof, the image vanished.

  “What was that?” Tony asked rhetorically.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Gregory admitted as they surveyed the area of the meadow where the apparition had been. “Look at the ground here,” he told his partner. “Nothing’s singed, no sign there was a fire.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t smoke from a fire,” Tony thought. “I don’t even feel any heat.”

  “Pretty bizarre,” the elder detective admitted. “I wonder what’s in here?” he asked, motioning to the shed.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Going around to the front of the shed, Gregory pulled the wooden door open.

  “Just tools,” Tony noted as they entered the semi-dark enclosure. “Spades, shovels, rakes…gardening stuff.”

  “Damn it!” Gregory shouted, smacking his hands together.

  “What’s the matter?” the young PI asked.

  “I forgot these watches have a camera,” he conceded. “We could’ve photographed whatever that thing was and analyzed it later.”

  “So what do you want to do now, G?” the youngster asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gregory admitted. “Seems like we’re just spinning our wheels.”

  “Wanna go see what’s doing with the protest?”

  “May as well,” the seasoned detective groaned. “I want to get something to eat, too. I’m famished.”

  CHAPTER 35

  By dinner time, Protest Day had devolved into Protest Night. The sit-in on Tinker Street effectively closed the thoroughfare to traffic. Firecrackers were popping off everywhere. Informal musical groups sprang up around town in the bars, restaurants, parks and houses of worship. Some people dared traipse around in the nude as a form of civil protest. Bullhorns were being used to shout demands to the angels who simply stood by and accepted all the dissention. Tempers flared even further after law enforcement officers from Legal Heaven were brought in to keep the throngs in check. Unlike traditional riot police, this battalion didn’t require pepper spray, water hoses, shields or other riot-quelling devices. Just one stone flung their way would automatically backfire on the pitcher; yes, those who forgot that rule was reminded the hard way as nurses worked overtime to clean and bandage their self-made wounds.

  Throughout the night, different citizens went up to the makeshift podium in front of the station to vent their piece. It was becoming clear, however, that two factions were developing – those who wanted Justice for Jones and those who thought the best form of protest would be to simply prepare and have the concerts as a show of force that, yes, the musicians were still in charge of their destiny. Not surprisingly, the artists who insisted on Justice for Jones were those from his era. This included Papa John Creach, Joey Covington, Paul Kantner and Skip Spence from Jefferson Airplane, Mama Cass, Dickie Peterson and Ralph Burns Kellogg from Blue Cheer, Bob Hite, Alan Wilson and Harry Vestine from Canned Heat, John Lennon, George Harrison, Bert Sommer, Tim Hardin, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Clive Palmer from The Incredible String Band, and many others. The musicians who said, “Fuck it, let’s dance!” included Phil Lynott, John Bonham, Jon Lord, Kurt Cobain, Shannon Hoon, Layne Staley, Chris Squire, Keith Emerson, Scott Weiland, David Bowie, Bon Scott, Glenn Frey, Rushton Moreve from Steppenwolf, Randy Rhoads, James “Honeyman” Scott and Pete Farndon from The Pretenders, and several others.

  For a while, it seemed like the Justice for Jones crew was going to win, given the unrivaled popularity and influence of artists from his era. The Let’s Party contingent, however, had an ace in the hole. They brought out a secret weapon which no one in attendance could deny – the grandfather of rock & roll, New Orleans pianist Professor Longhair. The words of the legendary bluesman, it seemed, still held court amongst his disciples. Because he thought that the concert would be their best revenge, the artists sided with him and started dispersing around midnight.

  The next morning, preparation for the Labor Day Festival began in earnest. The transfer stations in the basement of the police station were getting a kind of workout it hadn’t seen in decades. Streams of carpenters, electricians, monitor engineers, riggers, lighting and sound technicians, the Porta John people, the press, camera crews, medical and security, food services, sanitation and related concerns came flooding through town. As there were no motorized vehicles in Heaven, the artists relied on the matter-manipulating angels to transport and erect the lighting system. Sound and visual rigging for the three-day concert was a breeze because the giant video monitors and speaker systems were, luckily, virtual. With the musicians and angels working side by side, there was no doubt that things were beginning to look up.

  That afternoon, Tony and Gregory went on an impromptu tour of Imperial Farms to see how things were coming along. In total, there were about 70 people involved in setting up for the massive event. Speaking to a member of the construction crew, they learned that the stage should be complete in a week to ten days. With Labor Day fast approaching, the detectives felt they were running out of time and decided to speed up their investigation a notch.

  “You know what I was thinking?” Gregory said as they strolled around the field. “That whole 27 Club business.”

  “What about it?” Tony asked.

  “You ever had a gut feeling that something just doesn’t seem right?” he asked. “I can’t help thinking about what Amy Winehouse scratched in the dirt. I don’t know. Maybe it is a dead end and she really was just writing nothing.”

  “I can read your mind, G,” the young PI stated. “I have a feeling we’re going back to the house, like, soon.”

  “I was thinking about now, actually,” Gregory confessed.

  The investigators arrived at their destination around 2PM. That no one was home was a plus; Gregory had never met a lock he couldn’t pick. Entering the house from the back, the detectives rifled through the cabinets in the kitchen, the broom closets, the vanities in the bathrooms, the shelves in the living room, and the dressers and closets in every bedroom.

  “I’m beat,” Tony admitted when they plopped down on a sofa in the living room to relax. Sweating profusely, bo
th D’s were drinking flower sodas procured from the dispenser in the basement studio.

  “You know,” Gregory thought, “I wonder if we’re looking for the wrong thing.”

  “What do you mean?” his charge asked.

  “When I was training to become a detective, there was a class I took called ‘Alternatives to Interrogation’. The goal was to get investigators to think outside the box; you know, look for clues from a non-traditional viewpoint. Right now, we’re focused on the who, what, when, where, why and how of Amy’s missing soul,” he explained, “but I wonder if we’re asking the wrong question.”

  “Yep,” Tony admitted, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Mathematically,” Gregory said, trying his best to put his words into palatable language, “the universe is non-orientable. In the greater scheme of things, you can’t point to one direction and call it north or south because where is its reference point? There isn’t any.”

  “You know,” the youngster said, “whatever you’re smoking, I don’t want it.”

  “Hear me out for a minute,” his instructor advised him. “I was lost at the beginning, too. The professor had good ideas, but I think because he was German, some things may have been lost in translation. Anyway, he looked at the universe as continually beginning and ending.”

  “What?”

  “You know what a Mobius strip is?”

  “That’s that twisted piece of paper that goes around and around with no beginning or end,” the clever young D answered.

  “Right,” Gregory agreed, “except the universe is not flat like a Mobius strip. It’s more of a massive, how should I put this, formless entity with no specific dimensions, just subatomic particles weaving around itself into infinity. And that’s what he meant when he said the universe begins and ends all the time, because there’s no point you can recognize to insert yourself into that you can claim is the beginning or the end.”

  “And this is related to Amy Winehouse how?”