Painted Black (9 page)

Bobby walked down Read Street. The sleepy old street had changed. Now it was hippie central. Everyone was dressed in bright colors. Beads, feathers, and fringe were everywhere.

Unlike the fashion cool of London where the hipness was more sophisticated and the people expertly coiffed, these people had long unkempt hair, headbands, and wore crazy Indian clothes. They shuffled around as if they hadn't a care in the world.

Up toward the end of the street, near the Bum Steer leather store, a spattering of head shops had opened with Zap Comix and water pipes in the display cases. You could buy a poster of Albert Einstein and a pack of Zig-Zags at the same time.

A large stage had been erected at the western end of the street. Bobby could hear rock and roll blasting out the speakers. It wasn't the gentle, upbeat rock and roll of the Beatles, it was much more aggressive. The group on stage was called the Uncertain Things, a Jefferson Airplane–style band with a female lead singer named Kathy. They were tight and loud. Bobby was transfixed. This was more like what he'd read about San Francisco than Baltimore.

He walked down the block and found the doors of Dingles of Read locked. He used his key to open the shop. He phoned his assistant manager, Graham. Graham's mother said that Graham was at the Read Street Festival along with just about everyone else in Baltimore under the age of thirty. Bobby put the phone down hard, a little miffed that Graham had missed the retail opportunity of the year. He closed the shop and walked west on Read toward the stage.

He passed some familiar faces, Read Street regulars. He searched for Cricket's face among the crowd. She was nowhere to be found.

The Uncertain Things had finished their set and Baltimore's most popular band, the Urch Perch, were setting up their equipment. The female lead singer for the Uncertain Things approached Bobby.

“Aren't you Robby the Limey?”

Bobby laughed. No one had called him that in years. Clovis had given him that nickname on his first night in town.

“You must know Clovis Hicks,” Bobby replied.

“Clovis is a good friend of mine. He helped me write some songs once. I'm Kathy.”

Bobby shook her hand. “Your band sounded great.”

“Thanks.”

Kathy noticed Bobby constantly scanning the crowd.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“Yes, I'm looking for my wife, Cricket.”

“I know her! She was at the Maryland Institute, right?”

“Have you seen her?”

Kathy shrugged. “This place is crawling with art school people. I'm sure you'll find her.”

Bobby said, “Have you noticed if my store has been open much lately? I've been out of town and I'm a little concerned. It's called Dingles of Read. It's right down there.”

Bobby pointed down the crowded street.

“I know that place. I couldn't tell you when it's open. The street has got lots of new businesses on it. It's become a hot spot. I only come down here on weekends.”

Just then Bobby caught a glimpse of Graham on the periphery of the crowd. He was standing next to a girl his age with his hands in his pockets, looking in the general direction of the stage. Graham looked as though he didn't have a care in the world.

“Excuse me,” he said to Kathy, and dashed after Graham.

The crowd was thick and it took a few moments to get next to him.

Bobby shouted. “Hey, Graham!”

Graham looked up, surprised to see Bobby.

“Mr. Dingle?”

“How come the store is closed?”

“You're here?”

Bobby nodded. His voice took on an exasperated tone. “Yes, I'm here. And you obviously didn't think I'd find out about this. Why is the shop empty on a Saturday?”

“I couldn't get anybody to work today.”

“Well, how about you? You're supposed to be in charge when I'm gone.”

“I wanted to go to the festival,” he mumbled.

“On the potentially biggest retail event of the year? With a street fair going on right outside our door? What were you thinking?”

Graham shrugged. “I figured most of the stuff we sell is too old for these people.”

“That's what an antique store sells. Old stuff.”

Graham gave Bobby a long, hard look. “Graham, I hate to do this. You're a nice kid, but you're fired.”

Graham's mouth dropped open. He clearly wasn't ready to be fired. Reprimanded yes, but not fired. He needed this job. He was in school and jobs were scarce.

“Please, Mr. Dingle, don't fire me. My parents will kill me. I need the money for school.”

Bobby studied Graham for a moment, looking him over. He was an honest kid, a little young for an antiques salesman, but he'd done a passable job. Teenagers and old ladies liked him, but he stunk as a salesman.

Bobby sighed. “All right. Maybe I was a little hasty. You promise not to do anything irresponsible like this again?”

Graham perked up. “I promise!”

The Urch Perch were running a line check, and it was very loud.

“Test! Test one! Test two!”

Bobby led Graham away from the speakers so they could talk.

“Get down there and open the store right now. Give everybody that comes in a free lollipop.”

“A lollipop?”

“There's a box of them in my desk, bottom drawer. Put them on the counter.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Fifteen percent discount all day! No! Let's say twenty! Twenty percent off everything during the Read Street Festival Sale. Make a sign, put it in the window.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dingle.”

“And give everybody a free button. There's a box of assorted buttons behind the counter.”

“Those old ones? Like i like ike?”

“I bought that whole collection and nobody wants to buy them, so maybe we should give them away. Put the box on the counter marked free. Those old buttons are cool.”

“Okay.”

“And where's my wife?”

Graham grinned. At last, he had an answer.

“Oh, Mrs. Dingle was with some of her friends, and they hung around for a while then they left. I heard one of them say they were going over to the Bluesette tonight after the festival.”

“What's the Bluesette?”

“It's a teenage nightclub on Charles Street. The Urch Perch live upstairs. They're the house band there.”

“Why would Cricket go there?”

Graham's crooked smile amused Bobby.

“For fun?”

“Cricket doesn't go in much for nightclubs and drinking.”

“Oh, it's a non-alcoholic club. They just have Cokes.”

Bobby was immediately reminded of the early days of the Beatles at the Cavern Club in Liverpool.

“Why do people go there?”

“For the music. It's a scene. They get good bands. Grin is playing there tonight.”

“Grin?”

“Yeah, they're from DC. and they have a great guitar player named Nils Lofgren. I predict big things for that guy. They are really, really good.”

“Sounds like you hang out there a lot.”

Graham said, “There aren't too many places to go.”

Bobby spent the rest of the afternoon looking for Cricket. He hung around the stage, walked up and down Read Street, browsed the new head shops, but Cricket was nowhere to be found.

Bobby walked to places downtown that she liked to go. He visited Abe Sherman's Bookstore and browsed the magazines and the black light posters. He walked to the main branch of the Enoch Pratt Public Library on Cathedral Street and strolled through the stacks. He loved the quiet elegance of the old building; the smell of leather chairs, books, and paper. Built in 1931, it reminded Bobby of Liverpool. He checked out the Washington Monument and the park around it. He even stopped in at the Peabody Book Shop. No Cricket.

Where could she be?

Bobby remembered walking these same streets with Clovis, trying to explain the Beatles. Try as he could, he could never make Clovis understand the way he felt about the band, the way they were like brothers. It wasn't until Ed Sullivan that Clovis got it. Everyone got it then. They'd gone from rags to riches in less than a year and a half.

Now it had all changed. John Lennon was a millionaire, and George Harrison lived on a country estate. Their friendship had changed, too. Bobby knew it was predicated on respecting their privacy. If they needed him, they knew exactly how to find him. The phone rang when it rang. Just like elderly Mrs. Swithins used to say in the old days at the flea market, “A watched pot never boils, La.”

Mrs. Swithins was a true philosopher. Whenever Bobby asked her how she was, the old lady would say she was “flat as piss on a plate.” You can't get much flatter than that.

He remembered taking the Beatles to the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack and introducing them to proprietor Preston Washington, greatest record salesman in the world. He smiled when he remembered John and Preston's conversation. The boys loaded up on records that night. It was still something they all remembered.

Bobby walked up Charles Street, lost in thought.

Where was Cricket?

Bobby became concerned. He decided to go to the Bluesette that night if he couldn't find her. Maybe showing up unannounced in Baltimore wasn't such a great idea after all. He expected to be welcomed with open arms, but the reception thus far had been disconcerting.

Eventually, he made his way back to Read Street where the Urch Perch had just finished their set. The crowd loved every note. Bobby was used to the Liverpool beat groups and the loose, jammy San Francisco hippie bands sounded strange to him. He liked it though.

The show was over, and the crowd began to dissipate. Bobby's feet hurt. He was depressed and tired. But he still hadn't found Cricket.

Walking back to his truck, he remembered the night he met Cricket and how she used her black belt judo skills to vanquish two muggers on the street. He remembered how shocked he was and how taken aback. Cricket was no ordinary woman. He found that out the first night.

But where was she?

He drove home hoping to find her there, but she was still out. Her mother, babysitting Winston, sent disapproving looks his way when he suggested she go home. She refused, citing the Grandmother's Babysitting Creed. Winston was still her responsibility until his mother returned, she explained. Period.

Chapter Seven

2,000 Light-Years from Home

Keith Richard's Bentley, Blue Lena, rolled south outside of Paris with Tom Keylock at the wheel. Keith stayed in the front seat smoking joints and playing 45 rpm singles on the Lena's front-seat record player. The American R&B music blasted out of the car as they rolled through the French countryside.

Somewhere near Toulouse, Brian suffered an asthma attack. He heaved and gasped for breath. On the surface, Anita and Keith acted concerned, but they were nearly fed up with Brian and all they really wanted was to get to Morocco as soon as possible. They planned to drive through France and Spain, then cross over to Morocco at Gibraltar.

On the second day, Brian became too sick to continue. He developed a respiratory infection and had to be hospitalized. He told Anita, Keith, and Tom to continue without him and that he would catch up in a day or two in Tangier.

As soon as Brian was gone, Keith and Anita's sexual tensions began to rise. They'd been eyeing each other for some time now, and Brian's unpleasant personality only made Keith seem all the more desirable. After being careful not to become too friendly while Brian was around, they let their inhibitions go as soon as he was out of the car.

As the Blue Lena rolled through the night, Keith and Anita attacked each other like oversexed tigers. Tom Keylock—sworn to secrecy by Keith—could hardly keep his eyes on the road as Anita gave Keith a major blowjob. Shortly thereafter, they made passionate, penetrating love in the backseat. All three of them knew it was playing with fire. Brian's reaction would be impossible to gauge, but he was sure to become violent eventually. Keith and Anita didn't care.

They arrived in Morocco and registered at the beautiful El Minzah Hotel in Marrakech. Although they booked separate rooms, Anita slept with Keith. They smoked hash and drank wine. They strolled the storybook Kasbah shopping area for whatever pleased them. They bought colorful scarves and jewelry and paused for mint tea and pastries at the outdoor restaurants. The two love exiles seemed supremely happy.

For once, Anita was free of Brian's terrible temper, but Keith warned Anita again and again not to take their liaison seriously. It was temporary, he insisted. And when Brian returned, they would have to return to their previous relationship. Clearly, Keith didn't want to destroy what he had going with Brian.

Two days later, a demanding telegram from Brian arrived. Reluctantly, Anita agreed to return to Toulouse and escort her boyfriend either back to London, where he could fully recover, or on to Tangier, if he felt better.

Anita returned to France dutifully. Brian was now insisting on flying to Morocco to meet his friend Brion Gysin as well as Mick, Keith, Marianne, and driver Tom Keylock.

The minute Brian saw Anita, he could see deceit and betrayal in her eyes. He immediately accused her of what he was convinced had happened and which indeed was the sordid truth. Keith and Anita had been playing house the whole time he was gone.

Screaming at Anita, Brian described the scenario.

“As soon as I was gone, Keith made his move, didn't he? And he had his way with you, didn't he? You cheap little German slut! You had sex with him! Admit it! You sucked his dick! You spent every moment together, didn't you? Didn't you?”

Of course, Anita denied everything. Her ability to lie was quite sophisticated, and she could stick like glue to the flimsiest of plausibilities.

The fight came to blows as most of their big arguments did. In the end, Brian relented and they drove on to Marrakech.

That first night, the Mount Vesuvius of Brian's paranoia erupted again and the Pompeii of his ego was buried under tons of ash. He was devastated by the idea that Anita would cheat on him. And with Keith! That made it ten times worse. He thought Keith was his friend, his band mate. Didn't he know something like that would destroy Brian? How could they be so callous?

The thought ate away at Brian. He became even more enraged. He attacked Anita and she fought back, throwing things and destroying most of the hotel room. Brian beat Anita to the verge of unconsciousness. The sounds of the physical abuse echoed through the ancient hotel, making Keith wince. He spent an unpleasant night listening to the woman he had just been making love to a few days before being beaten senseless. Eventually, the hotel management knocked on the door and threatened to throw them out if they didn't quiet down.

In the morning, sitting around the pool with Keith, Mick, and Marianne, Brian and Anita were coldly silent. They both bore a few cuts and bruises. The tension was terrible.

That night, Brian and Anita had another row. This one was even louder and nastier than the night before. Anita locked herself in the hotel room and wouldn't let Brian in. He became completely unhinged and pounded on the door until the concierge threw him out. He stormed out, cursing and slamming doors.

Brian returned a few hours later with two tattooed Berber prostitutes. He demanded that Anita participate in an orgy. Anita refused. Brian overturned a platter of food and began throwing things. He grabbed Anita and beat her. The two prostitutes fled in terror, and Anita stood her ground. Brian was a disgusting pig, and she had had enough.

Brian chased her around the hotel suite, beating her mercilessly. Fearing for her life, Anita fled to Keith's room.

Keith looked at Anita and said, “Fuck this. I can't watch Brian do this shit to you anymore. I'm taking you back to London.”

As the sun rose the next day, Tom Keylock knocked on Keith's door. He opened it a crack and squinted out.

“What now?” Keith rasped.

“There's a plane-load of reporters that just landed at the airport. They're digging around for more Stones stories.”

“Oh, shit.”

“We gotta get Brian away from here for the afternoon. I got Brion Gysin to take him to the central square of Jemaa el Fna to record some local musicians on the portable tape recorder.”

Keith rubbed his unshaven chin. His hair was standing up as if he'd seen a cartoon ghost. He looked like hell, but at the same time he looked elegant. There was gypsy quality to Keith that Tom Keylock admired.

Keith said, “This is our chance! I want you to drive me and Anita back to Tangier today so we can catch a ferry back to Málaga.”

Tom Keylock, who answered to the Stone management team, was hesitant.

“Ahh, Keith … we just can't leave him here.”

Keith said, “Yes, we can! Don't give me a hard time about it! We're doing it and that's that. Fuck Brian. He's out of control.”

Tom Keylock waited for Keith to say something more, but the conversation was finished and Keith closed the door.

“Get packing, Anita. We're leaving just as soon as Brian is out the hotel.”

“But …”

“Are you having second thoughts? After the way he beat you last night?”

Anita sighed. “This is going to kill him.”

Keith sneered. “Ha! It'll probably kill you first.”

“I don't want to hurt him.”

“Are you daft? Get packin'. It's time for Brian to face the truth.”

When Brian returned to the hotel after a carefree day listening to and recording the local musicians, he was shocked to find everyone gone and the rooms empty.

All the color drained from his face. His worst dreams had come true. They had all checked out.

He phoned Brion Gysin in a panic. His voice trembled, and Brion could barely understand him.

“They're all gone! They've abandoned me! I don't know where they went! The hotel won't tell me! There's no message! I'm here all alone! Please help me!”

The Bluesette was a tiny Baltimore nightclub built into a row house on Charles Street. They didn't serve alcohol so teenagers could go there. It was the center of the rock and roll scene in Baltimore. It was very small, like the Cavern Club, but lacked the moist WWII bomb shelter ambience.

As Bobby looked around, he visualized the savage, young Hamburg Beatles blowing these people away with great songs and tight harmonies. There were no long guitar solos for the Fab Four, just straight rock and roll. Anything rock and roll reminded Bobby of his time with Beatles in one way or another. Bobby suddenly wondered what Brian was doing. He hadn't thought of him now for one full day. A pang of guilt quickly flashed through his mind. He'd skipped town and left Clovis in charge. Clovis was used to the structured world of the recording studio. Brian was an enigma. He lived in the age of rock and roll wildmen like Keith Moon, yet he was a gentle soul and wouldn't dream of driving a Cadillac into a swimming pool. But when Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde, he would get incredibly violent. He became a woman beater. Anita usually paid the price. Brian Jones had a number of different demons, to be sure.

To Bobby, the Beatles differed from every other band on the planet. In the early days, they were closer than brothers. No one had ever gone through what they were experiencing and it drew them closer than words could tell. Like explorers, they were constantly in unknown waters, navigating by the stars like ancient mariners. Bobby watched the transformation himself. If you listened to their music, you could hear the magic between the notes. There had never been a band like the Beatles. Never would there be the likes them again. Bobby was convinced of that.

The Rolling Stones were made from completely different DNA. As individuals, the band didn't seem to like one another very much. In fact, the overall impression Bobby got was that they tolerated one another as coworkers—no more, no less. Bassist Bill Wyman and drummer Charlie Watts seldom hung with the others. They had nothing in common with the rest of the band. They kept their distance from the glimmer twins, Mick and Keith, who were as close, in their own way, as John and Paul. But the two bands had different atomic structure and were driven by different powers.

And then there was Brian, the ultimate outsider. He orbited around the double stars of Mick and Keith in a wobbly figure eight. The Stones and the Beatles seemed forever opposites, yet balanced somehow within the musical universe.

The Bluesette reminded Bobby of countless Merseyside and Reeperbahn rock and roll joints. He could smell the energy. He could sense the excitement. His feet stuck to the floor, making gentle sucking sounds as he walked up the steps. It felt good to touch base with such an old and dear friend as live rock and roll.

The cigarette smoke stung his eyes and brought back memories of the Cavern. The Bluesette had its own roxy toxic atmosphere. It fit twenty-five people, fifty if you squeezed them in like sardines. But on summer weekends, it was not unusual for a hundred kids to show up and just hang around the building listening to the bands from outside.

Art Peyton ran the place with his wife, Sharon. They presented local bands and sold overpriced Cokes. The club was popular with rock fans from all over the city. All the Baltimore bands played there.

The band known as the Urch Perch, also managed by Art, lived upstairs in cramped apartments above the club.

Cigarette smoke swirled through the lights. The band onstage was loud and surprisingly good. Bobby Dingle walked in and edged his way around the tiny dance floor to the bar and ordered a Coke. The band hit the chorus like a sledgehammer. The lead guitarist also sang lead vocals. His voice was high and edgy.

“Hey, baby!” he screamed. “See what love can do!”

The band finished their first set and took a break. Bobby scanned the crowd. He didn't see Cricket.

“First time here?” a voice asked.

Bobby looked around to see a guy in a cranberry shirt and white Levis smoking a cigarette. His hair was a little long, but nothing like the shaggy musicians. He was no teenager but had the excitement of youth in his eye.

Bobby's ears were still ringing from the loud music.

“What?”

“I said first time here?”

“Yeah …”

“I'm Art. I own this place. I can tell a first-timer, they always have big eyes.”

“I'm English. I just got in.”

“Hey, are you in a famous band?”

“No, actually, I'm an antique dealer.”

“Are you looking for somebody? You have that look.”

Bobby waved cigarette smoke away from his face.

“Yeah … a girl named Cricket.”

Art Peyton laughed.

“Funny name.”

“Funny girl,” replied Bobby. “What's the name of that band?”

“You don't know? These guys are the most popular band in the Baltimore-Washington area. I thought that's why you came in here. They're called Grin. The lead guitarist is amazing. His name is Nils Lofgren. He plays piano, accordion, guitar, everything—and he writes great songs.”

Just then, Bobby saw Cricket coming in the door with four of her art school friends, including Dirk, a former boyfriend, who still made Bobby jealous.

He pretended not to notice her at first. As soon as she came into the club, that became impossible. The intimate dance floor pressed everybody up against everybody else.

“Bobby!” she squealed. “You came!”

She rushed into his arms, and he hugged her tight.

“When did you get here?”

“Just today. I went by the house, and your mother told me you were at the Read Street Festival, and then Graham said you might be here … so I came.”

Cricket hugged him again.

“Oh, Bobby!”

Bobby noticed the band had returned to the stage. The drummer was already testing his drums. Nils Lofgren plugged in and hit an E chord, which reverberated in Bobby's teeth.

Bobby shouted over the noise.

“Let's get out of here. It's gonna get loud.”

As they left the club, they noticed dozens of teenagers hanging around the door. Some were dancing to Grin right there on the sidewalk. Bobby and Cricket walked up Charles Street arm in arm. Bobby had a million things to say, but didn't. It wasn't the right time.

“How's your father?”