Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 2

  Strutting back up Mill Hill Road drinking his soda, Gregory crossed over to a man and woman both dressed in white shoulder-to-ankle tunics standing by the concert hall across the street. The gentleman was holding a brown, cloth-covered attaché in his left hand. The woman, attired in a multi-colored turban, red vest, and wearing several strands of beads around each wrist and her neck, had a smile as warm as the midday sun.

  “Excuse me,” he interrupted the duo. “Where can I get a bus or a taxi?”

  “There are no buses,” the woman replied in a rough voice which did not resemble her good looks. “Just the trolley. There are no designated stops. You can hop on anywhere.”

  “Even down by the Village Green?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Doesn’t run that often, though.”

  Gregory nodded. “I’ve heard that. Thanks. Do you have a phone?”

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I walk everywhere.”

  He looked at the gentleman who shook his head and shrugged.

  “That’s okay,” Gregory stated. “I’ll just go back to the gas station.”

  “What gas station?” the man asked.

  “That one down there,” the detective answered, pointing to Cumby’s.

  “They don’t have gas,” the stranger told him.

  “Yeah,” Gregory nodded. “I figured as much since there doesn’t seem to be any cars around.”

  “Where do you want to go?” the gentleman asked him.

  “Seattle,” the PI answered.

  “Seattle!” the turbaned woman coughed. “Hate to tell you, but, you can’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t,” she insisted.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Gregory scolded her.

  “She’s right,” the gentleman interjected. “There’s no getting off this island.”

  “Then how did I get here?” Gregory asked incredulously.

  The woman and the man look at each other but nary a word slipped from their mouths. The PI sensed they knew something about his ordeal but simply declined to enlighten him.

  “Geez,” Gregory moaned, “every freak in this town is off their medication. I’m going back to the gas station and get out of here before I go cuckoo, too.”

  “That’s not a gas station,” the woman shouted as Gregory walked away.

  “Whatever,” he shot back.

  Snorting, he went back to Cumby’s at a quickened pace. Curious about what the couple had mentioned about there being no gas, he gazed at the pumps. To his astonishment, they were, in fact, electric vehicle filling stations and not gas pumps. Opening the convenience store’s glass door, he entered. The clerk, he noticed, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hello?” he shouted, glancing around the store. “Eddie Cochran!” Receiving no response, he ran towards the back of the store and, entering the door there, saw the restroom to his right.

  “Eddie!” he shouted, knocking on the door.

  Receiving no response, he opened the door which, he noticed, did contain a lock but it wasn’t engaged. Realizing the clerk may have stepped out for a while, Gregory exited the store.

  After strolling about 1/10th of a mile, he arrived at Patty’s Egg Nest, a diner that resembled an elongated log cabin, this one with an open face. Several people were sitting around tables in the front of the store enjoying their breakfast and chatting up a storm. A waiter, carrying a basket of warm bread, exited the diner and placed the basket on a table occupied by four men of varying ages, all wearing long sleeved, shin-length multi-colored shirts with narrow collars, light brown or red pyjama pants and bamboo slippers.

  “Excuse me,” Gregory motioned to the waiter, similarly attired in loose-fitting clothes. “Do you have a phone I can use? I have to call a taxi.”

  “Oh,” the waiter informed him, pointing to the table at the far end of the outside dining area where three men and one woman were sitting. “A taxi driver’s right there.”

  Gregory nodded and walked over to the table. “Morning,” he introduced himself. “The waiter said one of you’s a taxi driver?”

  “I am,” the oldest, a grey-haired gentleman, answered. “Need a cab?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to bother you while you’re eating.”

  “That’s okay,” the gentleman smiled. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Seattle,” Gregory responded.

  All four diners looked at each other momentarily then burst out in laughter.

  “What the hell?” Gregory exploded. “What’s so funny?”

  They all simmered down.

  “Hate to break this to you, buddy,” the driver explained, “but there is no Seattle.”

  “Bullshit,” Gregory retorted. “I’m tired of hearing that story.”

  “And even if there was,” the driver laughed, pointing to a nearby rickshaw, “it’d take us forever to get there.”

  “Pshaw!” the angry PI snorted and went off in a huff.

  Up the road he saw a few people milling about, all of them similarly dressed in colorful, roomy attire. Feeling he’d get the same response as everyone else around, he passed right by them, went back to the Village Green and plopped down on the yellow bench. Casually, he massaged the aching soles of his feet as the hardness of the street was beginning to take its toll. Looking up, he watched as people, mostly men, ambled by on the street going about their business, all seeming to have no cares in the world.

  “Happy lot, eh?” he heard a man’s voice utter. Looking to his left, he saw a rather good looking gentleman of about 45 with salt and pepper hair standing there. Cleanly attired in a nice, crisp, white suit, white shirt, light blue tie and matching light blue shoes, he looked like he was headed to a fancy Spielberg-sponsored Oscar bash in Hollywood.

  “Hey,” Gregory voiced, “You look normal. I want to ask you something, but can you answer me straight? Everybody around here is coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” the man in white scolded him.

  “Eh,” the recent arrival shrugged. “How do I get out of this place, man?”

  “May I sit down?”

  Gregory huffed and slid over to give the stranger some space. “Sure.”

  The man sat down and extended his hand. “My name’s L’Da.”

  “L’Da? That’s different. Gregory.” They shook hands.

  “I know you must have a lot of questions, Gregory,” L’Da said. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “I seem to have a memory lapse. I woke up here but I don’t know how I got here or even where ‘here’ is.”

  “Hmm,” L’Da nodded, “would you like a straight answer or something a bit more politically correct?”

  “What?” Gregory asked. “Straight, man. Always straight, no chaser.”

  The stranger gazed directly into Gregory’s brown eyes and said plainly, “You died and came to Heaven.”

  “Oh, here we go with the heaven bullshit again,” the PI grieved. “It’s okay, man. You can go. Sorry I asked.”

  “I can prove it,” the clean-cut gentleman insisted.

  Gregory took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’ll play along. What the hell, Barry’s getting back at me for all the tricks I played on him. Fair’s fair.”

  “Here in Heaven,” the dapper man explained, “no one can hurt you. In fact, if they try, they will feel the pain instead of you.”

  “What?” Gregory’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  L’Da got to his feet. “Stand up,” he beckoned to the doubter. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Gregory considered the request for a moment then stood up and faced the man in white.

  “Kick me,” L’Da instructed him.

  “What?”

  “Go ahead,” the gentleman insisted. “Kick my shin. Make it hard and strong.”

  “Are you off your medication or something?”

  “I’m offering you proof. That’s what you wanted, isn’t i
t?”

  “Everybody in this town is insane.”

  “Kick my shin,” the stranger repeated. “Don’t be scared.”

  “Okay,” Gregory huffed. “I’m not wearing shoes, but you asked for it.”

  Taking a martial stance, Gregory swung his right leg backwards and rocketed his foot directly towards L’Da’s left knee.

  “Ahhh!” the new arrival hollered in agonizing pain, grabbing his left knee and falling down to the ground. “What the fuck?”

  “You were supposed to aim for my shin,” L’Da said, standing as calm as can be without a hint of pain or distress. Extending a hand, he offered to help Gregory stand up. Reluctantly, the injured man took it and rose, adjusting his sheet around him as he did.

  “What kind of trickery is this?” Gregory asked, still feeling the throbbing pain in his leg.

  “Here in Heaven,” L’Da explained, “you feel the pain you’d try to inflict on someone else, not them.”

  “I don’t know how you pulled that off,” Gregory snorted, “but it hurts like hell.”

  “If you want to know more,” L’Da informed him, “let’s go for a walk.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Gregory, limping right beside L’Da, moseyed down Tinker Street till they came to what looked like a gypsy emporium. The wooden sign, painted in gold, over the entrance said –

  HOUSE of ROMANY

  The store, built in a converted hut, was painted like a checkerboard, only it was multicolored in oranges, reds and yellows and not simply two-tone black and white or black and red. Sheer flax scarves draped off the edges of the entrance. Towering plants about 8 feet tall, with starry leaves quite familiar to the detective, lined each side of the front entrance.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Gregory asked, examining the leaves of the plants.

  “Yes,” L’Da answered. “It’s cannabis sativa, but the non-psychoactive variant. It’s hemp.”

  The two men entered the shoppe soon after viewing the plants. To Gregory, the place looked like another world, perhaps imported from Macedonia or the Carpathian Mountains. Among its accoutrements were glistening crystal balls, wooden beads and shells, cases of jewelry, racks of exotic clothes from foreign countries as well as earlier times and eras. There were golden coins dangling off the cloth-covered ceiling, wooden beaded curtains, bamboo dream catchers, paper lanterns and handmade hemp and flax rugs attached to every wall. The strong bittersweet scent of Oriental musk floated in the air. A young gypsy woman wearing a red head scarf, multi-layered clothing and tons of bracelets, entered from a back room.

  “Oh, hello,” the jangly mistress greeted them. “I didn’t know I had company.”

  “Anybody ever told you you look like Karen Carpenter?” Gregory asked, warmly shaking her hand.

  The woman smiled. “I am.”

  “Whatever,” Gregory moaned.

  “Karen here makes ID cards,” L’Da informed him. “Would you like yours now?”

  “ID card? What do I need it for?”

  “Larder, libations, lodgings…everything, really.”

  “What’s larder?”

  “Foodstuffs, groceries, consumables, victuals, sustenance…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gregory interrupted. “I got it. Sorry to bust your bubble, Snow White, but when I woke up this morning I didn’t have my wallet. No pants, see? Nada. Zip.”

  “The card is free,” Karen informed him.

  Gregory eyed the mysterious duo with suspicion. That uncertain feeling you get when a framed picture doesn’t seem aligned quite right settled firmly in his chest.

  “All I want,” he exhorted, “is to go home. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Oh,” Karen nodded, “we have a non-believer.”

  “Yo,” Gregory explained, “whatever y’all hippies are on down here, I don’t want any.”

  PFAFF!

  No sooner after he finished uttering his words he found himself standing solidly on…nothing. All around him, including above and below, as far as the eyes could see, was blue, sky blue, unadulterated, untainted, pristine blue. L’Da, who had been to his left, was now transformed into a being nearly 12 feet high with alabaster skin, an elephant’s face with glowing pink eyes, heavily-adorned human limbs, a fan-type blue crown on his head that resembled a giant sea shell, blue and white raiment vaguely reminiscent of what Aladdin would wear to a ball, and odorless smoke and lotus leaves encasing him, or it.

  The elephant-thingy suddenly leaned forward and roared at Gregory, causing him to gasp and jump backwards…right into one of the beaded curtains in the gypsy shoppe. No longer in the sky-blue world, he struggled to free himself from the drapes. L’Da and Karen smiled as he wrestled with the awkward curtain.

  “Are you okay?” the proprietor/singer /drummer asked.

  Gregory, still startled, turned, ran out the front door…and almost crashed into young British singer Rory Storm who, luckily, put up his palms to deflect the collision.

  “Bollocks, mate,” the ex-Hurricane scolded him. “Almost knocked me arse over tit.”

  Still discombobulated, Gregory shot across the street like a loosed Scud missile and down a winding, forested path, far from the madding crowd.

  “Blimey,” Rory muttered. “’E’s Chicken Jalfrezi, ‘e is.”