Painted Black (11 page)

“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?”

Erlene paused. There was twinkle in her eye. “I'm pregnant.”

Brian phoned around midnight and told a groggy Clovis to just forget about picking him up. The coast was clear. He had decided to spend the night at Courtfield Road and leave the next day.

“What could happen in twenty-four hours?” he asked.

“Plenty,” Clovis wisecracked. “I'm going back to sleep now. Remember, tomorrow Keith and Mick go in front of the judge for the Redlands bust, so be on your toes. There are bound to be reporters around.”

“Stash is here. We'll be fine.”

“Don't open the door for anyone.”

Brian and Stash stayed up all night drinking brandy, smoking copious amounts of weed, and listening to John Lee Hooker records. The blues always seemed to soothe Brian whenever he was upset or distracted.

Brian loved to talk music when he was high. Stash was a good listener and a fellow student of the blues.

“If you notice, John Lee Hooker never changes chords. The other guys in the band do. It's implied of course, but he stays on the root chord the whole time. His mind doesn't work like yours and mine, he cuts right to the essence of the blues.”

Stash considered Brian's words. Light filled the eastern skies. Dawn was approaching. The room was full of smoke.

Stash said, “But I've heard you speak of three chords, the universal three chords of life.”

“Yes, three chords for you and me and everyone else in the world. But only one chord for John Lee Hooker. He only needs one. It's not about the music with John Lee, it's about the pain.”

The morning passed without incident. Brian made tea and toast. John Lee Hooker gave way to Muddy Waters and Little Walter.

There came an insistent knocking on the door. Brian, immediately paranoid, jumped up and looked around.

“Who is it?”

“It's probably the milkman.”

“The milkman never knocks twice.”

“Isn't that the name of a Hitchcock movie?”

Brian looked through the peephole and saw an officious-looking gentleman in a brown suit. He foolishly opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Brian Jones?”

Brian's heart sank. He looked past the suit and saw Detective Sergeant Norman Pilcher looking smug standing behind him.

“Pilcher!” Brian gasped. “Why do you keep hassling me?”

“You know the game, Jones. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

They stepped past Brian. He saw twelve uniformed officers standing outside waiting to come in and toss everything he had upside down.

Brian stood there stunned as the police swept in. They searched for forty-five minutes, and only thing they came up with were a few joints. Brian stood by, tears streaming down his face.

“Leave me alone! Why can't you just leave me alone?”

Sergeant Pilcher showed Brian a vial containing white powder.

“Is this your cocaine?”

Brian held up his hands, visibly shaken.

“Whoa no! That's not mine. We smoke weed and hash, it's true, but I stay away from the hard stuff. Somebody must have planted it. One of your blokes, perhaps?”

As they left for the police station, a crowd of reporters gathered outside. They had obviously been tipped off. TV cameras lit the morning like a movie set. They were waiting for this moment.

The cops handcuffed a trembling Brian. It was completely unnecessary, of course, Brian was zero-risk flight threat. It was all for show.

They led Brian and Stash directly in front of the throng of shouting reporters. They drove them to the Kensington police station. A mysterious purple leather bag containing some grass turned up. Neither Brian nor Stash had ever seen it before. It was clearly a plant by the cops, and Brian complained bitterly.
It was all a setup.

At the police station, there were more cameras and reporters. The circuslike atmosphere was all captured on TV and broadcast around the world. Brian was convinced the tabloid
News of the World
had engineered the whole thing to boost circulation.

The message was clear. First Mick and Keith and now Brian. The Stones were under attack from every quarter.
The establishment had declared war on the Rolling Stones.

Unlike the Beatles, who spread goodwill from the British Empire throughout the world, the Stones were dirty. They took drugs and spread dissent. Finally, they were going to get what was coming, according to the papers. The line had been drawn.

A week later, Brian called Clovis. He was afraid to go home, convinced the cops were out to get him at that address. He'd been staying in hotels around London.

“John invited me to come over to Olympic and record a sax solo for their new single. All the studios at Abbey Road are booked so they decided to visit Olympic for a change. I need you to pick up my sax and dulcimer at Courtfield Road and take me over there.”

“You want me to bring you to a Beatles session?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Clovis was stunned. “Do I get to hang out?”

Brian chuckled. “I don't see why not, as long as George Martin doesn't throw you out.”

“But … I work for Olympic, not you. I can't just drop everything and go.”

Brian paused. “Why don't you come and work for me?”

Clovis shook his head. “I can't quit my job at Olympic. I need the money.”

“I'll pay you twice what you're getting now.”

“Now hold on there, pardner.” Clovis banged the phone on the table, then brought it back up to his ear. “There's something wrong with the phone. It sounded like you said double the pay. You don't even know what I make.”

“I can guess. It's a pittance, correct?”

“Well, it ain't chicken feed.”

“I'll pay you twice what Olympic is paying you to be my personal assistant.”

Clovis scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don't know, man. … No offense, but you're no day at the beach.”

Brian laughed. “Come on, think about it. Do you know how to restring a dulcimer?”

“Sure.”

“Tune a sitar?”

“It would take a while, but yeah …”

“Fix a hundred-watt Marshall stack?”

“I got my own soldering iron. No problem.”

“Then you're well worth the money.”

Clovis began to grasp the enormity of the situation. He immediately thought of Erlene. She didn't like Brian. That would cause problems. But to work with a Rolling Stone …
for double the pay
. It was too good an offer to refuse.

“I'll have to talk to my wife first,” Clovis mumbled.

“Sure, sure, take all the time you want. But the session is tomorrow, and if you want to go, you gotta make a decision.”

Back in Baltimore, Bobby read about Brian's bust in the newspapers. He felt terrible. If he'd been there, maybe he could've prevented it. He'd been trying to call Clovis all day but all he got was Erlene.

“He ain't here, hon. He's out workin' for a livin'.”

“Well could you tell him to call me the minute he comes in?”

“Sure, but what's so all-fired important?”

“Well, it's Brian, he—”

When Erlene turned up the heat, her voice got husky. When she got mad, she barked.

“Brian, Brian, Brian! That's all I hear around here. I'm so sick of that man. He's got Clovis jumpin' like a goddamn horny toad. I wish he'd keep his nose out of our business.”

Bobby sighed. “Brian's just going through a tough time right now.”

“Tough time, my ass. He's wicked. I swear. He put the evil eye on Clovis. Him and that German witch of his, Anita.”

“They've broken up.”

The sarcasm in her voice was evident.

“Oh yeah, I forgot. She's with Keith now, hopping from bed to bed like a randy little rabbit. That was a real classy move on her part.” The sarcasm gave bite to her words. “They're all depraved if you ask me.”