by Greg Kihn
Bobby returned with the snuffbox. He noticed that Brian’s eyes were red and he smelled like he’d been smoking hashish in his limo.
“Here it is. It’s really quite exquisite.”
He carefully handed the small oval gold-and-enamel snuffbox to Brian. It was absolutely beautiful. Brian turned it over in his hands and opened it.
Dust Bin Bob filled in the history.
“It was created by Pierre-Claude Pottier of Paris in 1789 for Louis XVI. As you know, Louis XVI snuffboxes are extremely rare, and this is a particularly nice one. Notice the engravings of naked women around the sides.”
Brian scratched his finger inside and sniffed it.
Bobby nodded. “It’s been cleaned, of course.”
Brian examined the box again.
“It doesn’t hold very much.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not very big. It would probably only hold a couple of grams.”
Bobby nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean. This was a standard size for the era. It was designed for snuff.”
“It wouldn’t hold very much … er … snuff, would it?”
Bobby raised an eyebrow.
“Whatever snortable material you place in the box would be dry and secure and I’m sure it would fit your needs. It’s bigger than it looks.”
Brian pointed across the room at something in the window.
“I’d like to see that antique recorder.”
Bobby fetched the recorder from the window.
“It’s German-made, over a hundred years old. You’ll notice it’s the classic baroque design, and it’s made from pearwood, the preferred fruitwood for superior tone in recorders. It plays beautifully.”
Brian took the exquisite wooden flutelike instrument from Bobby’s hand and played the famous riff from “Ruby Tuesday.” The ageless sound of the recorder cut the air like a sword. It had an innocent, unpretentious sound, with just a hint of melancholy. Brian played the hypnotic refrain. For a moment, time in the shop stood still.
Several people from the crowd that had been chasing Brian were now milling about the front of the shop looking in.
Bobby Dingle was no fool. He realized that a gaggle of curious onlookers would ruin the moment and send Brian on his way. One of the girls tried the door, found it locked, and cupped her hands on the window to peer inside. Bobby surreptitiously slipped over to the side and pulled the shades.
Brian was in his own world playing the recorder.
“Nice mellow tone,” he said.
“The fruitwood ages and gives it that rich sound. That’s a really nice one. It’s in perfect condition.”
“Where did you find it?”
Bobby smiled; acquisitions were his pride and joy. He knew just where to look and just what to buy. That was his talent.
“At an estate sale for Lord something or other. The family had fallen on hard times, owed a fortune in taxes, so they had a big sale and auctioned everything off. Finding out about the sale, that’s the key.”
“It’s beautiful,” Brian said.
He started playing another tune. This one Bobby recognized as the second chorale from Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9 in D Minor. He had heard about Brian’s uncanny ability to pick up any instrument and master it in just one sitting. In fact, according to John Lennon that’s what kept him in the Stones. He’d played dulcimer on “Lady Jane,” marimbas on “Under My Thumb,” sitar on “Paint It Black,” and a myriad of other instruments to keep him relevant within the band. Brian’s multi-instrumentalism became his signature.
“Would you like to buy it?” Bobby asked.
Brian looked surprised. “Yes, of course. Didn’t you put it there just so I would find it?”
Bobby laughed. “How did you know?”
Brian tapped his forehead. “ESP, my dear Dustman.”
“And the price, did you know that, too?”
“Ahh, the price. Well, to tell you the truth I don’t much care about the price.”
“Really? Because the Louis XVI snuff box is around six thousand pounds.”
Brian shrugged. “One of the reasons I come here is that you always know the discrete way to bill the Stones business office.”
Bobby smiled. “I learned that from Brian Epstein.”
“It makes life so much easier. Besides, I almost never carry cash.”
“I’ll make you a great deal on the recorder so it balances out with the snuff box.”
“I’ll take them both. It’s a pleasure doing business with the legendary Dust Bin Bob.”
They stepped away from the window into the interior of the shop, away from the gathering crowd. There were at least a dozen people outside now, talking excitedly.
As Bobby went to write the receipt, Brian went into a sneezing jag.
“Allergies: asthma, dust, pollen, you name it,” Brian sniffed. “I’m never right.”
Bobby finished his paperwork and put it away. He knew better than to give it to Brian. He would send it to Andrew Loog Oldham’s office in Ivor Court, Gloucester Place. He knew the address because Kit Lambert and the Who had their offices there and Keith Moon was a regular customer.
Brian played with his new toy, the antique recorder. He seemed to be unaware of the rapidly growing crowd outside the front door. The shades were drawn, but there were plenty of cracks to look through. Bobby realized if Brian stopped to sign autographs he could be there for hours. He knew from his experiences growing up with the Beatles how quickly a crowd could form.
Bobby said, “I suggest you leave by the back door.”
Brian seemed surprised.
“The back door? Why?”
Bobby nodded in the direction of the front window of the shop, now full of onlookers pressing their faces against the glass.
“Oh, I see what you mean.”
“We have a delivery door that opens into the alley behind the shop. You can avoid the autograph hunters by going that way.”
Brian sighed. “Another potential disaster averted. You’ve done this before, Dust Bin Bob?”
Bobby wanted to correct Brian. His name was Robert Dingle, not Dust Bin Bob. It had taken the Beatles years to get over that nickname, and except for John Lennon, they’d all dropped it. Now here he was building a new myth with Brian. Bobby almost said something, but held his tongue. Things were going so well with Brian, why change the dynamic? Besides, it didn’t bother him nearly as much as it used to.
Bobby wrapped up the snuffbox and the recorder in heavy brown paper and slipped the two packages in a bag.
“Thank you, Sir Dust-My-Broom.”
“You are most welcome, Prince Elmore.”
The delivery door was in the back of the shop, so no one could see them leave. Brian stepped out into the alley and stood next to some garbage cans.
“Where’s your car?” Bobby asked.
“A few blocks over. What are you doing tonight?”
Bobby looked back at the shop.
“Well, my wife is leaving town tomorrow, so I’ll be staying with her on her last night.”
“Anita and I are having a few people over tonight for a late dinner, and I thought you might want to join us.”
Bobby blinked. Have dinner with legendary Brian Jones and Anita Pallenberg at Brian’s rock-star mansion?
“John Lennon might show up. I know you two go way back. I invited him, but he’s so flaky you never know.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Where is your wife going?”
Bobby cleared his throat. “She’s going back to Baltimore to see her father who’s in the hospital. She’s taking my three-year-old son, Winston, with her. I’m afraid we won’t be able to make it.”
Brian pushed his blond bangs back from his forehead and peered at Bobby.
“Baltimo
re? Isn’t that in America?”
Bobby nodded.
“Well, if you change your mind …”
He heard a movement behind him, coming from the trash cans.
Brian and Bobby turned around to see a beautiful twenty-one-year-old groupie emerge from behind a garbage dumpster. She had blond hair cut exactly like Anita Pallenberg’s. She was dressed in a black leather micro-mini skirt with lacy black tights and a black silk blouse. She was lithe, with perky breasts and long legs. She wore dark eye makeup.
This girl had obviously studied Anita and had reproduced her look down to the tiniest detail. She appeared out of nowhere.
“I’ll come to your party,” she said in an American accent. “And I’ll do whatever you want.”
Brian squinted at her.
“How did you know we would be using the back door?” Bobby asked. “Everyone else is in the front.”
“I checked it out when I first got here. I knew these old shops had alleys and that usually means delivery doors. I just put two and two together.”
“But how did you know I’d be here?” Brian said.
She had an overly dramatic breathless Marilyn Monroe voice.
“I’ve been following you. My name is Renee. I’m from New York. I saw you at Carnegie Hall. I think you’ve seen me around.”
“Following me?” Brian looked concerned.
“Lots of girls follow you, so don’t act so surprised. I know most of them. Every once in a while you’ll take one home. I’m just waiting my turn. It’s my destiny.”
“Yes, I believe I’ve seen you.”
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
Brian was amused.
“You’re not lacking in the confidence department, are you?”
Renee smiled her sweetest smile.
“I know what kind of women you like, and I can be any of them.”
Bobby blushed. “You look like Anita.”
Renee said, “Of course I do. I can look like anything Brian wants.”
Brian suddenly became uncomfortable. “It’s time for me to leave.”
Renee reached out and touched Brian’s face.
“You are my destiny, Brian Jones. Don’t fight it. If you want, I can come over tonight and do you and Anita, too. We can have a ménage à trois. I know you like that.”
Brian looked her over again, reconsidering the proposition. A flicker of interest flashed in his eyes. He did like two or more women in bed. But not tonight.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said.
“Anyway, think about it. I’ll be around.”
Brian looked at Bobby and shook his head.
“I’m leaving.”
Renee said, “Walk you to your car?”
Brian shook his head. “Not today.”
Bobby strolled with Brian back to his limo. Renee stayed a block behind.
“That chick gives me the creeps,” Bobby said.
Brian chuckled. “She’s just a groupie, what do you expect? There are lots of chicks like that hovering around the Stones.”
“She seemed obsessed.”
Brian said, “Women and rock and roll, man. Chicks. Chicks are everywhere. They make the world go ’round. I’ve heard it said that most bands are pulled apart by women. Can you believe that? A band breaking up because of women? That’s the difference with the Stones and every other band in the world. If the Stones have women problems, the Stones get new women.”
Bobby wanted to comment on what he’d heard about the disruptive effect that Brian’s current girlfriend, Anita Pallenberg, had on the Stones but let it pass. It was not his place to judge. Brian was a complex and sensitive individual. Besides, Bobby had heard that same exact quote come out of Keith Richards’s mouth, so he figured it must have come from the Stones publicist.
Brian said, “Are you sure you and your wife can’t join us?”
Bobby shook his head. “No. Sorry. It’s our last night together.”
Bobby loved his wife, Cricket. She was an American, a Baltimore girl, and she had recently soured on life in London. She started out loving it, but that was several years ago when it was all exciting and new. She had become increasingly homesick over time. After a long, miserable winter cooped up in their apartment with Winston, she had developed a chronic respiratory infection that wouldn’t go away. She coughed all the time and felt miserable. She longed to go home to Baltimore where, she was convinced, she would finally get well.
When her mother called to tell her that her father was in the hospital suffering from diverticulitis, she didn’t think twice. She bought her ticket the same day. She wanted to be by his side. Maybe they would help heal each other.
Her bags were packed, her tickets paid for, and she was leaving tomorrow. They hadn’t discussed when she’d be coming back.
Bobby smiled and graciously declined the invitation again.
“Thanks, it sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid it’s impossible tonight.”
Brian slipped a card into Bobby’s palm.
“Here’s the address in case you change your mind.”
Just then, Renee walked up to the limo. Bobby put the card in his pocket. Brian shook his head and chuckled.
“No need for secrecy with that bird. She already knows where I live. She’s been to my house.”
“What?”
“She camps out in front.” He turned to Renee. “Don’t you, love?”
Renee expertly reapplied her lipstick, staring into a tiny mirror.
“Of course I do, darling. I’m just waiting for you to let me in.”
Bobby arrived home feeling anxious. Cricket avoided talking about her return, knowing it would upset Bobby, but he knew she would bring it up tonight. They had always spilt their time between Baltimore and London, with Bobby operating stores in both locations. But now that the London location had become the hip shop of choice for the new royalty of rich rock stars, it was difficult for Bobby to leave. Business had exploded, and he found himself too busy to go back. This didn’t sit well with Cricket. On top of being homesick, she had recently become annoyed that their son was developing an English accent. Bobby knew she really wanted him to come with her and wanted to avoid the subject.
“Brian Jones came in the shop today,” Bobby said, changing the direction the conversation might take. “He bought an expensive antique snuff box and a beautiful pearwood recorder.”
Cricket frowned. “That’s nice, but when are you coming to Baltimore?”
“A week or two. At the most.”
A week? I’ll bet it’s more like a month.” Cricket sighed. “I’m going to miss you and so is Winston. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since you traveled with the Beatles in ’66.”
Bobby put his arms around her.
“I’m going to miss you, too. But you and Winston will be in Baltimore soon, and that will perk your dad right up. He’ll get better in no time.”
Cricket coughed the chest-rattling chronic cough that she’d had all winter.
“And I can finally get rid of this congestion. This London weather is horrible. How these Brits cope with it without becoming suicidal is beyond me. What did you say about Brian Jones?”
Bobby paused a moment.
“Brian came into the shop today. He invited us over to his house tonight for a late dinner.”
“Brian Jones?”
“Yes, Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones invited us to his house tonight. Late dinner he calls it. I wonder what time they eat.”
“Brian Jones? What is he having, some sort of orgy?”
Bobby laughed. “Oh, don’t believe what you read in the newspapers. He’s a very charming chap.”
Cricket looked at Bobby suspiciously.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said my beautiful, pre
cious wife was flying to the States in the morning, and we couldn’t possibly go.”
Cricket smiled. “Good boy.”
Then she kissed him on the cheek.
The doorbell and rang and broke the mood. Bobby answered it quickly. He opened the door to see two old friends from Baltimore, Clovis Hicks and his wife, Erlene. They were the first two people Bobby met when he came to America as a merchant marine. He had walked off the cargo ship Pilgrim’s Progress and wandered into the infamous red-light district of East Baltimore Street known as “The Block,” where Clovis was a guitar player and Erlene was a stripper. All in their mid-twenties now, the group’s friendship had been steadfast. Clovis followed Bobby to London to seek his fortune in music. After all, everybody knew that Dust Bin Bob was a personal friend of the Beatles. That couldn’t hurt.
The genuinely talented Clovis had landed a job as assistant engineer at Olympic Recording Studios in London and found himself working with the Rolling Stones. Everybody liked Clovis. His good-natured manner was a breath of fresh air in a business where narcissistic, egocentric behavior was the norm. Clovis was not only a gifted musician; he was an excellent technician as well. But it was his easygoing manner and ability to deal with all kinds of people that made him invaluable. He’d enhanced his résumé a little to get the job—and because he was American, nobody seemed to notice.
Erlene and Clovis stood in the doorway, backlit by the sunset streets of London.
“Sorry to barge in on y’all. We dropped by to wish Cricket bon voyage.”
Erlene held up a bottle of champagne. She blew into a plastic party horn, and it quacked like sick duck.
Bobby grinned and invited them in. Cricket and Winston ran over and hugged Erlene.
Erlene’s Baltimore accent hadn’t dimmed in the slightest; in fact, it seemed sharper than ever. Like the Old Bay Seasoning she brought with her for cooking, she never lost the flavor of the Chesapeake Bay.
“I wish I was going back with you, honey. A little shot of the Big B would be just what the doc ordered. Some crab cakes and a nice cold National Bohemian beer. I’d love a Polish sausage from Pollock Johnny’s right about now.”
