Painted Black (13 page)

“That's wonderful! Are you going to Monterey?”

“No, I'm staying here in Baltimore while the boys are at the festival.”

“That's perfect. You can stay here with me. I could use the company.”

When the tires of Bobby's pickup crunched onto rutted the gravel path that was Mill Race Road, Brian took note. It was a tight squeeze in the front seat, and four across was the absolute maximum. They pulled up to the house.

“Looks charming,” Brian said. “Why are we here?”

“We're here to meet a ghost,” Erlene said.

“A ghost? A real one?”

“Yes. As real as a ghost can be.”

Brian slapped his hands together. “Excellent!”

“You're a big believer in the occult, Brian. Have you ever seen the real thing?”

Brian shook his head. “But I'd like to.”

They walked into the house. The front door was not only unlocked, it was wide open. Spider John was lying on the sagging couch in his jockey shorts and T-shirt, blowing blues riffs on a harmonica. When he looked up and saw Bobby, Clovis, Erlene and …
Who was that?
Brian Jones! He jumped to his feet.

“Holy shit! You're Brian Jones!”

“That is correct, my good man,” Brian said, “no need to dress for us. We're only here for a minute, so be cool.”

“We want to go to the room where Bobby saw the ghost,” Erlene said.

“Sure …” Spider John replied. “You know where it is. Go right up the stairs. George is out of town.”

Erlene put a hand on Clovis's shoulder.

“Just me and Bobby go up first. I don't want to spook her.”

Bobby led Erlene quietly up the stairs to George's room. They looked in. It was empty. Tentatively, they walked into the room.

Bobby was about to speak when Erlene shushed him.

They stood in absolute silence. The birds stopped singing outside and the cicadas in the trees stopped humming. Suddenly, it was as quiet as a snowy night. Erlene closed her eyes. They remained that way for five minutes, Erlene listening and breathing softly. Someone started up the stairs. The
clomp, clomp, clomp
of the boot steps drew nearer.

Brian got to the top of the stairs and peered in.

“Is this where it is?” he said.

Suddenly, Erlene felt dizzy. She wavered for a moment, then crumpled to the floor.

“Clovis!” Bobby shouted. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse.

Clovis came up the stairs quickly. He saw Erlene on the floor, scooped her up, and carried her downstairs. He went right through the house, past Spider John, out to Bobby's truck. He sat her in the cab and rolled down the windows.

“Breathe some air, hon.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I felt faint for a second.”

Clovis was concerned.

“You're pregnant. You went up those steep stairs and got all emotional and had a bad reaction, that's all. Nothing supernatural about it.”

“But I felt her presence.”

“The girl?” Bobby said.

He had followed them out and now stood near the passenger side window.

Erlene nodded. “At first, I got the feeling she was trying to … to tell me something. Then Brian came in. And she reacted so strongly to his presence, it was incredible. She got all excited, and I could feel her trying to send a message inside my brain. I don't know what it was, but Brian was definitely the one that triggered it.”

Clovis shook his head.

“You were faint. Low blood sugar, whatever, that's all it was.”

Erlene looked at Clovis. “I love you, honey, but that was more than morning sickness.”

Clovis looked at Bobby for a long unhappy moment.

“Dust Bin Bob, can I talk to you in private for a moment?”

“Sure.”

Bobby and Clovis stepped away from the car, out of Erlene's earshot.

Clovis put his hand on Bobby's shoulder. “Hey, man, would you do me a favor? Don't encourage Erlene with all this ghost talk. The truth is your mind has been working overtime since Tom found that skull in the basement.”

“I know what I saw, Clovis.”

Clovis looked around to make sure no one was listening. “You know what you saw? You saw a chick from the party with a long dress on. You saw a chick who probably smoked too much weed and drank too much wine and got a little sick and came up here to go to the bathroom. You saw a chick who wandered into George's bedroom and sat down on the bed, and that's all. She split right after that. That's why you didn't see her at the party. She wasn't a ghost. That part was all in your mind.”

“But, I saw her!”

“I know you saw her. That's not the question. Was she transparent? Could you see right through her? Did she disappear into thin air in front of you? Did she exhibit any ghostlike characteristics? Did she float around the room? No! So how can you be so damn sure she was a ghost?”

Bobby stammered. “But …”

“All I'm saying is be cool around Erlene. God bless her, she means well, and she's convinced that girl was a ghost. She's pregnant. I don't need any extra pressure on her. Can you understand that?”

Bobby hung his head. “Yeah.”

“So you promise to cool it?”

“Yeah.”

“You've got no proof either way, right?

Bobby shrugged.

“No proof …”

Brian came out of house like aristocracy visiting the peasant village at the foot of his castle.

“Our work here is done. I didn't see a thing. Let's go buy some records.”

Despite what Clovis said, Bobby couldn't get Eleanor Rigby out of his mind. That was as good a name as any other to call her. And it seemed to fit. She haunted his waking hours.

Bobby drove through the streets of Baltimore. Brian was fascinated by all he could see through the windows. This was the gritty soul of a city, something a visiting Englishmen would never know. Brian took it all in.

They parked the car and walked half a block to the world famous Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack in East Baltimore. The shop was on a corner in a distressed neighborhood. It had accordion folding bars to cover the windows at night. Several businesses along the block were boarded up. Trash blew in the streets and children grew up amid the debris.

To say that Brian stood out would be an understatement. The Golden Stone was dressed like the Prince of Strange in a flowing gold robe over purple velvet pants and white ruffled shirt.

As they approached the shop, Preston Washington, the three-hundred-pound black goliath of a man who owned and operated the store, looked up. He sat in a wooden chair in front of the shop, balancing a plate of pork ribs on his knees. He had barbecue sauce on his chin, and he held a bone in his meaty fingers.

Preston wore a three-piece pimp-master pinstripe suit with a black silk shirt and a silver tie that looked like it had been knotted by Eskimos pulling hard with their teeth after chewing on whale blubber.

When Preston saw three white men and a drop-dead beautiful white woman heading his way, he dropped the bone and quickly wiped his hands and face.

When they got close enough for Preston to put on his glasses and squint at them, he recognized Bobby and Clovis.

“Robby the Limey! Clovis, my man! What brings you to my humble soul shack … with all these beautiful people?”

Bobby and Clovis hugged Preston Washington. Preston knew that Bobby always brought him great customers, including an after-hours buying spree with the world famous Beatles.

“This is a very important person,” Bobby said, waving his hand at Brian.

“Yes, I can see that.” Preston looked Brian up and down, then cracked a huge smile and laughed. “I'd like to meet his tailor.”

“Preston Washington, this is Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones.”

“You don't say?”

They shook hands.

“I've heard of you boys. You play a lot of blues and R&B.”

“Used to,” Brian said. “The rest of the band wants to play psychedelic shit.”

“Oh, well that's too bad.”

Bobby said, “Brian wants to buy some records.”

Preston's baritone voice filled the room.

“Oh, I get the picture. You want the Hi-Dee-Ho Man's recommendations. Save you some time, right? The crème de la crème of the R&B scene.”

Preston led them into the amazing Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack, where every inch of wall and ceiling space was covered with posters, picture sleeve singles, album covers, and signed photos. Preston pointed at a picture sleeve single of “Get Off My Cloud” by the Rolling Stones. Sure enough, there was a young Brian on the far right, looking out from one of the most famous haircuts in rock and roll.

“I knew I had one of yours.”

Brian was overwhelmed. He stared at the walls in amazement.

“Where do I begin?”

Preston wasted no time putting on the first record.

“Check this out, a cat named Toussaint McCall, out of New Orleans on the Ronn label. The song is called ‘Nothing Takes the Place of You.'” The song was slow, like Gospel, and featured a Hammond B3 organ. The vocal sounded downright painful to sing, and Toussaint McCall sang his guts out.

Brian had never heard anything like it. “I'll take it!”

“How about something new by Little Milton on Checker? J. J. Barnes on the Groovesville Label? ‘Pata Pata'
by Miriam Makeba? Unbelievable! ‘Shout Bamalama'
by Mickey Murray! I loves my chicken, honey! Slim Harpo! Robert Parker's ‘Barefootin'.'”

They spent the next forty-five minutes building a massive pile of records on the checkout counter for Brian to purchase. The experience of the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack was Mecca to an English audiophile like Brian. He chose so many records that he had to arrange for shipping back to London.

Preston loved showing the English kids what was real. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of R&B music. They spent a blissful hour going through Preston's recommendations.

“One last thing,” Brian said. “I want a copy of that unbelievable song by Harvey. The one that John keeps raving about.”

Preston laughed like Santa Claus, his massive belly jiggling in his loose silk pants.

“You English boys! I love you guys! What is it about Harvey that drives you nuts?

“It's like nothing we've ever heard before,” said Brian truthfully.

Preston spun around with practiced speed and whipped out a 45 rpm copy of “Any Way You Wanta” by Harvey on Tri-Phi Records with its distinct blue-and-turquoise label. He handed it to Brian.

“I keep 'em handy. Always have some in stock. One of the great R&B finds of the decade. A minor hit, but a huge turntable favorite. Harvey is Harvey Fuqua of the Moonglows. Every person I play it for buys a copy.”

Brian examined the label. He saw that Harvey was indeed “Formally of the Moonglows” on the credits. He also noted that the song was written by Fuqua and Fuqua. He wondered who the other Fuqua might be.

Preston said, “This song has magic. I never get tired of it.”

Preston snatched the record out of Brian's hand and put it on the turntable behind the counter. He dropped the needle, and the song filled the room with a bouncy irresistible rockin' cha-cha beat.

The nonsensical lyrics made perfect sense. Harvey did his monkey cries and when he got to the “sucky, sucky, sucky” parts and Brian was dancing in the aisles.

“Sucky, sucky, sucky, suck-kay! Any way ya wanta! Anywayawant, anywayawant, anywayawant, a-nong-nong-nong ANYWAYYYYY! Koo-koo-koo-choo!”

“No wonder John loves it so much!” Brian shouted. “This is genius!”

The song wound through, pulling Brian along like a man being dragged by sheer force of will.

“Give me two copies of that one!” Brian said.

After Preston tallied up the sale and gave Brian a hefty discount, he smiled. He'd made a tidy profit. It constituted the biggest sale he'd made since the Beatles were there.

“Can we have a word?” Bobby asked Preston.

“Of course.”

After Bobby, Clovis, and Brian went into the other room, Preston closed the store and locked the door. “Now, what is it I can do for you?”

“Our friend Brian here just got busted for drugs in London. Bruce Spangler was there. Seems like he's working for the English cops, too.”

Preston smiled. “Well, that's something we've got in common. I've been busted by Spangler, too. He tried to shut me down. What an asshole.”

“What's he doing in London?”

“He loves to bust celebrities. Especially rock stars.” Preston lowered his voice. “I know a few things about Bruce Spangler. When he came after me, I had to get nasty to get him off my case.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Spangler's got an Achilles' heel that no one knows about … 'cept maybe me.”

Bobby said, “Well, what is it?”

“I can't tell a nonbeliever. This stuff is too powerful to trust outside the church.”

“The church?” Clovis groaned. “Are you nuts?”

“You mean he won't tell us?” Bobby asked.

“Not until we all get confirmed in the eyes of the Lord,” Clovis said.

“Are you putting me on?”

Preston was adamant. He wagged a finger. “You got to fix it up with Jesus before I can tell you a word.”

“How do we do it?” Bobby asked.

“Tomorrow's Sunday, you all come with me to see Reverend Julius Cheeks. Then we'll talk.”

Bobby said, “You can't be serious.”

“But, I am. You all come to church with me tomorrow and get infused with the power of the Gospel, and I'll consider you trustworthy enough to share my secret.”

“Ah, we're not really churchgoers, Mr. Washington,” Brian said.

“Well, you are tomorrow.”

“Who is this Reverend Julius?”

Preston had been waiting for that question. He paused, cracked a big friendly smile as if he finally got to tell the punch line to his joke. “Who's Julius Cheeks? Only the greatest singer in the world, and he's preachin' the Gospel right here in Baltimore at noon at the First Pentecostal Church of God. Would you expect me, Preston Washington, the Hi-Dee-Ho Man, to take you to some second-rate Gospel show?”