Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  He sat across from Brian at a tiny table in a tiny café on a tiny street walking distance from the hotel. The table was strewn with pastries, teacups, and finger sandwiches. Dominating the table, a large hookah sat billowing great clouds of blue hash smoke. Brian stoked the bowl and took another hit.

  He handed the long stem to Clovis who took a much smaller hit and put it down. His head was already spinning. Brian had been smoking dope since Clovis got there. Clovis couldn’t blame him, he was self-medicating to dull the pain of losing Anita to Keith, the only friend he’d had left in the band.

  Clovis took a sip of room temperature sweet tea to lubricate his parched throat.

  “How soon do you want to leave?”

  Brian looked up. His eyes were fiery red, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for several days. He had bags under his eyes, and his complexion was sallow.

  “Leave?”

  “Yeah, don’t you want to hightail it back to London?”

  Brian grunted. “Yes, yes, of course, except …”

  Clovis said, “You want to see if this old hound dog can pick up the scent of Keith and Anita and track ’em down? So you can confront them once and for all? Is that what you’re thinkin’?”

  Brian smiled awkwardly, as if the muscles in his face had atrophied from chronic depression. No one else talked to him like Clovis, and it was an upbeat change of pace.

  “Yeah …” Brian drawled.

  “You devil! Looking for some revenge, are we? Who said it was best served cold? Well, my best bet is that they all went back to London. So let’s catch the next plane out of Dodge.”

  Brian looked confused. “Dodge?”

  Clovis seldom explained his cowboy references. They were all steeped in American culture, and if English guys couldn’t follow, well, tough shit.

  “We can catch a flight from Menara Airport tonight if we start now.”

  Brian remained silent for a few moments. He seemed deep in thought.

  “Let’s go tomorrow. We can have one last night in Morocco before we go back to London.”

  Clovis shrugged.

  “Sure, pardner. If that’s what you want.”

  Cricket and Bobby had been inseparable since the Bluesette. Bobby’s mind worked overtime trying to separate his feelings for Cricket and Winston and the endlessly unfolding saga of Brian Jones. His mind bounced from one thought to another.

  “You look distracted,” Cricket said.

  “I am.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “It’s Brian. Anita dumped him and ran off with Keith. They ditched him in Morocco.”

  Cricket frowned.

  “And how is this your problem?”

  “I promised John I’d look after Brian.”

  Bobby was surprised to see anger in Cricket’s face.

  “What about us? What about your wife and son? If you want my opinion, I’d forget about Brian before he drags you down with him.”

  Bobby gazed at Cricket. Her temper had always been a controlled quiet storm. This flare-up bewildered him.

  “But I promised John I’d look after Brian …”

  “Oh, come on! I’m sick of hearing about Brian! What’s more important? Brian, or me and Winston?”

  Bobby stammered. “Y-you are! Of course!”

  “Then what’s the problem? Don’t you want to live here with your wife and child?”

  “Of course I do!” he shouted.

  “Well?”

  “I’m going for a walk!”

  Bobby stood and stormed out of the house.

  Bobby walked up Southway and turned right at Greenmount Avenue. He walked by Mr. Hacks Shoe Repair Shop on the corner and across the street past the barbershop and the Stadium Pub.

  He wandered aimlessly down toward Read’s Drug Store. The big newsstand on the corner offered everything under the sun, even Melody Maker and New Musical Express. He bought a copy of each from the toothless vendor. He crossed the street to Pete’s Tavern and went inside. He ordered a cup of tea and scanned the front page.

  The tavern door flew open, and Cricket marched in. Bobby, surprised that Cricket had followed him, remained motionless with the English music press in front of him. He looked at her face and for the second time today saw something he hadn’t expected—shock.

  “Bobby!” she cried. Her voice sounded desperate. “Bobby!”

  She swooped toward him and practically landed on his lap. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

  “Oh, Bobby! Daddy’s dead!”

  Bobby heard the words, but their meaning seemed to fail him. He stared at her for a moment, blinking in disbelief.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Arthur just called from the hospital.”

  “I thought he was doing better.”

  “He took an unexpected turn for the worse. I can’t believe it!”

  The tears, which she had valiantly fought all the way from Southway, broke through.

  “My daddy is dead!” she wailed.

  The people in the restaurant watched the drama unfold. Bobby gently lifted her out of his lap and stood hugging her.

  “He’s gone …” she sniffed. “I feel numb.”

  Bobby felt tears welling up. He knew how much pain Cricket was experiencing. He remembered when his father died. It created a hole inside him that never went away.

  He hugged her tightly, felt the tears of grief flowing from her face to his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He walked Cricket back to Southway as quickly as possible and called Arthur who was still at the hospital.

  “He was doing fine,” said Arthur. “We thought he’d be coming home in the next day or two … then this infection set it. It didn’t take long. …”

  “It doesn’t seem real.”

  “I was speaking to him last night and he sounded fine.”

  “What should we do?”

  Arthur paused. “Nothing. I’ll make all the funeral arrangements. Just take care of Cricket. Let her grieve.”

  On the other side of the world, Renee sat at the hotel bar and sipped a martini. She wore a black vinyl miniskirt, high heels, and a lace blouse. It was an eye-grabbing ensemble to say the least, especially in North Africa, where most of the women covered up. Renee looked sexy and alluring.

  Men had been flirting with her all night, but she brushed them off. She would not be distracted. She had a mission.

  Brian walked in with Clovis and sat down at a table in the corner. Renee noticed them as soon as they walked into the bar. She’d been waiting for him. With her breasts thrust out, she checked her makeup.

  Satisfied she looked her best, she slipped off the barstool and walked back to Brian’s table. As she approached, Brian noticed her and looked up with bloodshot eyes.

  Renee’s voice was smoky.

  “Well, imagine running into you here.”

  Brian didn’t say anything for a moment. He just blinked and stared. Then he stood and kissed her. Renee kissed him back. Without saying a word, he led her back though the door and out into the lobby.

  Clovis watched them go, alarms going off in his head. He had seen Renee hanging around with a gaggle of groupies outside the recording studio.

  There is something odd about her, something not quite right, he thought. Why would she be here in Morocco? How did she find out what hotel Brian was in? How did she know he’d be alone and vulnerable tonight? Clovis concluded that Renee had inside information. That made him feel even more apprehensive.

  Not that Brian cared; he didn’t. All he wanted was a smooth young body to make love to. Maybe he believed having sex with another woman would somehow dull the pain of Anita and Keith. Renee was here, she was now, and she looked good.

  Brian treated Renee’s arrival in
Morocco as divine intervention. God had sent her to soothe his pain. There could be no other explanation. Brian led Renee back to his hotel suite and pushed her down on the bed.

  “Did you come here to make love to me?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I know what you like,” she said.

  Brian’s tight mouth curled into a wicked grin.

  “You know what I like?”

  “I want you to dominate me, tie me up, subjugate me.”

  “Then get your clothes off.”

  The sex was rough and desperate. Brian ravaged Renee all night. His erection never flagged. Then at last, he fell asleep in her arms, holding her urgently close.

  While Brian slept, Renee slipped out of bed and took a pair of scissors out of her purse. She held the cold silver blades against his throat for a moment. After a few moments, she moved away and carefully snipped a lock of his blond hair and folded it into a tissue. Then she went around the room collecting small trophies. She stole a scarf, some jewelry, a brush, and a hash pipe. Placing all the items in her purse, Renee slipped back into bed with Brian. As soon as he felt her press against him, he rolled over and hugged her tightly.

  Downstairs, Clovis stayed in the bar and had several more drinks. He tried not to imagine what was going on upstairs between Brian and Renee. He told himself she seemed harmless enough. She was just another crazy groupie, but something about her gave him an uneasy feeling. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a troubling gleam in her eye. Brian was extremely vulnerable now. Not a good time to be humping strange women in a foreign country.

  Clovis finished his drink and tried to get some sleep, but jetlag haunted him and he tossed and turned all night. He thought of Erlene. He didn’t want to be in Morocco. Nothing was familiar here. Clovis counted the hours until he could leave.

  In the morning, Brian woke up in a dreadful mood. His dark side had control of him. All the ugliness about Keith and Anita came flooding back. He felt dirty and hungover. He took a long, hot shower and washed himself thoroughly, spending extra time with his hair. He didn’t notice the small snippet missing from the back of his head.

  He walked out of the shower with a towel wrapped around him. He looked at Renee and frowned.

  “You’re gonna have to leave.”

  Renee looked at Brian. “What?”

  “I need to pack. I’m leaving.”

  “What do you mean? I thought we—”

  “Look, I really appreciated last night. The sex was great, but now I need to get back to London and deal with things.”

  “But, Brian, it was such a beautiful night last night. Couldn’t we have just one more? Didn’t I fulfill all your wildest desires?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So? Stay here with me and I’ll make you forget all about Anita.”

  Brian looked at her. His voice was soft but firm. “Nothing could make me forget Anita.”

  The crestfallen look on Renee’s face forecast an emotional hurricane on the horizon.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving for the airport. You can stay in the hotel suite for a few hours, but you’ll have to leave this afternoon.”

  Renee’s eyes narrowed. “Leave? You can’t treat me like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “You can’t just use me and toss me away. It’s not right.”

  “You’re the one who came up here last night. I didn’t force you.”

  “Well, can I at least fly back to London with you?”

  Brian shook his head. “I can’t be seen with another woman. Not right now. The place will be crawling with reporters.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  Renee gathered her things in a snit and left just as Clovis came to Brian’s door. She stomped past Clovis and slammed the door.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Forget about her. Let’s get back to London.”

  Chapter Nine

  Prodigal Son

  Mr. Samansky’s funeral was dignified, but Bobby felt uncomfortable among Cricket’s extended family. He felt their pain, having lost his own father, but the Americans grieved differently. Bobby’s funk continued for days.

  Even as the rest of the family got back to normal, Bobby continued to mope around. He didn’t have much interest in the shop lately. In fact, the only thing that brought him joy was playing in the jugless jug band. To be able to feel even a microscopic amount of what it must be like for his old friends the Beatles filled him with a kind of energy he’d never experienced before.

  Cricket could see the difference in Bobby. She herself had changed. After her father died, she stayed home a lot, preferring to watch the three local Baltimore channels of fuzzy black-and-white TV than to socialize. She read incessantly and spent a lot of time with her nose in her sketchbook, drawing.

  Cricket liked Tom Naylor and the rest of the musicians in Blood Mary. She viewed them as a positive influence for Bobby, and a distraction from Brian Jones, John Lennon, and all his other English rock-star friends. She encouraged him to play.

  Bobby learned that Tom had booked the gig at the Foghorn, which meant that Tom would be fronting the band that night instead of Buck. That meant that, for the night, they would be known as Omar St. Groovy and His Snake Stompin’ Review. Omar St. Groovy was Tom Naylor, of course, and Tom’s jug-band repertoire differed slightly from that of Blood Mary and Her Black Plague Trolley Car Museum or Orange Juice Jake and His Blind Ethnic Peg-leg Pygmies. Tom threw in a couple of originals, which Bobby thought were quite good, and rounded out his set with some Bob Wills and Hank Williams numbers. It gave the boys a chance to play. Everyone soloed, even Bobby on the primitive washtub bass. He began to feel like a member of the band.

  The Wednesday-night rehearsal went long into the night. Bobby enjoyed it immensely. Jug-band music is good-time music. His fingers became full with blisters after the first hour, so Bobby wrapped some Band-Aids around them under the gloves. It took some getting used to, but he was on his way to becoming a decent washtub bass player.

  Bobby noticed that while he was playing, he forgot about all his other problems. The positive power of music sustained him. It was revelation. This is what the Beatles have been feeling for years.

  Clovis called in the middle of the night with an update from the airport. He and Brian were about to board a plane back to London. He filled Bobby in on what had happened with Brian. He told Bobby about Renee.

  Bobby said, “Jeez, I wish he’d stay away from her. She gives me the creeps.”

  Clovis snorted. “Hey, man, I still can’t believe what Keith and Anita did to Brian. Who does that kinda shit to his own band mate?”

  “It creates some really bad vibes.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Not any time soon. Unless there’s an emergency.”

  Clovis chuckled. “Define ‘emergency.’ To Brian, that’s losing his sunglasses.”

  “You realize there will be reporters everywhere as soon as you step off the plane. You’ll need to keep Brian under wraps.”

  Clovis didn’t answer right away. “Ahh … about that …”

  “Oh, shit!” Bobby said, suddenly realizing that Clovis was going to stash Brian in his apartment while he was out of town.

  It was a good idea; that was true. No one would think of looking there. Bobby shuddered when he thought about the debauchery Brian would visit upon his quiet little flat. He made a mental note to have the place cleaned and the sheets washed before he returned.

  “You’re not taking him to my place, are you?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s the price you pay for skipping town and leaving me in charge.”

  Bobby sighed. “I guess you’re right. I just won’t tell Cricket.”

  “You won’t have to. Erlene will. That woman holds nothing back.”

 
; Brian sat in Clovis’s Mini and pointed down the street.

  “I just want pop in at Courtfield Road and pack a few things. A friend of mine is meeting me. Why don’t you drop me off there and pick me up later?”

  “Sure,” Clovis said.

  He was dead tired. He hadn’t slept much in Morocco, and he couldn’t sleep on the plane. Brian just seemed to keep going.

  When he arrived at Courtfield Road, his friend Prince Stanislas Klossowski de Rola, better known as Stash, was sitting on the front step waiting for him.

  Clovis was about to ask Brian in what country Stash was a prince, when Brian jumped from the car and ran up to his entrance.

  “Stash!” Brian cried. “So good to see you, mate! You won’t believe what I’ve just gone through.”

  Clovis drove off, leaving Brian in front of his townhouse. Brian waved as Clovis tapped the horn.

  Clovis drove home like a zombie and hugged Erlene.

  “Honey, I missed you.”

  “So how was Morocco?”

  Erlene’s buttery smooth Baltimore accent sounded like home to Clovis.

  “Hot. Dusty. Lonely. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “How’s Brian?”

  “That is one messed-up cowboy. You know, the guy has all the money he could ever spend, he’s in one of the biggest bands of all time, he’s on the cover of magazines, he can have any woman he wants … yet he’s just a miserable son of a bitch.”

  “Some people are like that, hon.”

  Clovis kissed Erlene.

  “I wouldn’t trade with Brian for all the gold records in England. As long as I got you, I’m the richest man in town.”

  Erlene smiled. Clovis was silver-tongued devil, that was for sure, but he had the soul of a poet and Erlene never got tired of him. “You’re sweet, hon.”

  “You know, it’s funny. When I first hooked up with Brian, I thought it was so cool. He was my idol. I looked up to him. But, now that I’ve got to know him, I kinda feel sorry for him, you know?”

  Erlene pressed her bodacious stripper’s body against Clovis. “Oh, baby. I have something to tell you.”

  Clovis looked into her eyes. He wasn’t sure what he read there. “What is it?”