Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 26

  After interviewing Janis, Gregory took the trolley back into town to see if, in fact, his young assistant, Tony, was recuperating at the hospital. As it turned out, he was. A conversation about whether the novice PI was up to the task of being an investigator followed. Eddie C, relaxing in the room next to theirs, only overheard part of their repartee. Heavily sedated after his outburst at the Cumberland Farms market, and barely able to keep his lids open, he drifted off into slumber land while the two detectives continued their talk.

  Just across the street, with dusk hovering over the sedate Woodstock atmosphere, several angels were having a meeting in one of the larger rooms in the basement of the police station. Simple in presentation, the scant furniture in the white room included the King Arthur-sized round wooden table on which sat several brass pitchers of ice cold water, glasses, pads, pens, catered snacks and various ledgers. Twenty-four angels were sitting around the table, all dressed entirely in suits that were either all black, white or red, with all those present ranging in age from 18 to 80. Of course, those were human years. In all reality, there was probably no one in attendance less than 5,000 years old. Among the attendees were L’Da, Ba’al’figor, D’Ariel, J’ai Né and 20 other spirits – a handful from Rock & Roll Heaven but most from the parallel worlds. Cool air wafted in the windowless room through vents in the ceiling; sound-absorption blocks were attached to all the walls. Also painted white, they practically disappeared among the snow drift décor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” L’Da began; the angels who had been speaking to those sitting next to them stopped to listen to their organizer. “Welcome to this emergency session of the Council of Angels. I’m glad you all could attend this evening because, as you know, things have been getting dire here. Before I continue,” he said, drinking some water from his glass, “let’s get the bad news out of the way. We’re having a visitor here in a few weeks.”

  “Let me guess,” J’ai Né interjected. “An angel from Level II?”

  “Better than that,” L’Da said. “It’s Vai.”

  General consternation erupted at the mention of the supreme angel’s name. One angel in red got up to leave but another angel in white held him back, telling him to calm down. At the same time, another angel had started banging uncontrollably while another tried to hold his hands still. The hands of an angel in black burst into flames; at least three other angels started splashing water on it. L’Da started banging loudly on the table.

  “Angels! Angels!” he shouted. “Calm down!”

  “Why weren’t we notified?” Ba’al’figor yelled.

  “Keeping secrets again?” a red angel asked angrily.

  “Please!” L’Da screamed. “Order!” His voice was suddenly so deep and voluminous that the excited gathering had no choice but to settle down. “Thank you,” he complimented them.

  “Wasn’t she just here 10 years ago?” Ba’al’figor asked, but not in a mirthful way.

  “Yes,” L’Da answered.

  “Then why so soon?” J’ai Né begged.

  “I don’t know,” L’Da replied. “Would you like to ask her why when she gets here?”

  J’ai Né, as well as the others, knew better than to reply to that request. Vai’Kriya Sharir was someone just not worth tangling with. With the ability to turn day into night and night into day, her name inspired so much fear that it was barely spoken in social circles, let alone at formal conventions.

  “I’m glad everyone got that out of their system,” L’Da moaned. “Now, I was commenting before, that citizens aren’t happy and, unfortunately, we are made to bear the substantive brunt of their ire. Naturally, we have to find a way to turn all of this negativity against us around, otherwise, well, this wouldn’t be Heaven, would it? Several concerns are on the agenda tonight – the murder of Amy Winehouse, the talks of protest, the need for increasing or decreasing police work, whether the petitions for inter-Heaven travels should be eliminated, and anything else you might have in mind. So, Ba’al’figor, would you bring us up to speed on the investigation of Amy Winehouse?”

  “Thanks, L’Da,” the angel said. “As you know, two humans are conducting the investigation, Gregory Angelicus and Anthony Lopez.”

  “Angelicus!” one of the foreign angels spoke up. “Sounds like one of us.”

  “Just a coincidence,” L’Da insisted, “and, hopefully, a positive one; given the mistrust so prevalent in this society. They’re on the quest for the Anima Furabatur but it’s as elusive as truth from a politician.”

  “What is the Anima Furabatur?” another foreign angel asked.

  “The Soul Keeper,” Ba’al’figor answered.

  “I didn’t know such a thing existed,” the foreign angel wondered aloud.

  L’Da took another sip of water from his glass. “Now that we found out Ms. Winehouse is bereft of her soul, that is our conclusion.”

  The angels who hadn’t heard about Amy having her soul removed started whispering amongst themselves, the incredible news taking them completely by surprise.

  “Such a device in the wrong hands,” a bellicose, balding angel in black guessed, “can bring about the death of all humanity. It must be found at once.”

  “Yes, C’hung C’hee,” Ba’al’figor explained. “We know. Luckily, it hasn’t made a reappearance…yet.”

  “What’s this about increasing or decreasing policing?” C’hung C’hee asked.

  “Very simple, actually,” J’ai Né answered. “They want to police themselves and we go hands off.”

  “Preposterous,” the rotund C’hung C’hee objected. “For eons, we have been the guardians of the overworld. That cannot be altered. It’s historical canon, older than any spirit in this room.”

  “True,” J’ai Né agreed, “but do you think it’s possible that, with every new age of man, comes a new sense of responsibility? They are, after all, evolving. Remember when they first adapted to bipedalism 6 million years ago? Hasn’t been a very long time.”

  “Basic tenets cannot be changed,” C’hung C’hee insisted. “Even if it could, the unbalance of nature would be chaotic. Heaven becomes Hell and Hell becomes Heaven. Too dangerous. It may even cause the ascetics on the upper levels to fall from grace. The whole universe, split apart, all for the whims and caprices of a disenchanted few.”

  Some of the other angels murmured to each other that C’hung C’hee may have a point.

  “In that case,” J’ai Né said, “I move we table this discussion for some other time.”

  “Yes,” the other angels nodded.

  “What about petitioning?” L’Da queried. “Can we eliminate that?”

  “Petitions were set up as a reward for good behavior,” an angel in red stated.

  “I understand,” L’Da retorted, “but aren’t decredits punishing enough?”

  “You want to give the humans too much power,” C’hung C’hee vehemently objected. “Attempts like these have been made before. Humans have thus far, thus far, failed to take responsibility for their indiscretions. I’m not sure if anyone has been around as long as I have, but time and time again, I see it: if you lay the rare, delicate petals of a Middlemist Red rose in their hands, they will crush it. If you give them a white peacock’s beautiful tail feather to hold, they will pluck the quill dry, barb by barb.”

  “You must have more faith, C’hung C’hee,” the sorely disappointed L’Da told him. “We live in different times.”

  “Hmph,” the hot-under-the-collar angel snorted. “Okay, how about this: if, after a few successful petitions, a human traversed throughout the heavens without incident, I’d be willing to let him travel all over without having to petition.”

  “I like that idea, actually,” L’Da nodded. The other angels also nodded their agreement.

  “By a show of hands,” J’ai Né requested, “how many are in favor of C’hung C’hee’s proposal?”

  All the angels raised their hand.

  “Good,” she added. “Now we just hav
e to decide how many successful petitions warrants an end to all petitions.”

  “Five,” one angel said.

  “Ten,” another spirit claimed.

  “Fifteen,” C’hung C’hee further added.

  “Mama Mia,” L’Da moaned, grasping his head. “Back to square one.”

  “What about psychedelics?” a blue-haired angel in black with a pretty, sing-song voice, speaking for the first time, asked.

  “What about it?” J’ai Né asked her.

  “The citizens have been wanting it for some time now,” Blue Hair explained, “at least they are over in Farmer’s Heaven, anyway.”

  “Which Earthly country is it legal in?” J’ai Né asked.

  “None,” Blue Hair said after a quick moment’s search through her memory banks. “I don’t think it exists.”

  “So, we’re not aware what a full blown legalized epidemic would look like,” L’Da stated.

  “I suppose not,” the angel from Farmer’s Heaven acknowledged.

  “Then that’ll also be tabled for now,” L’Da ordered. “Anything else?”

  “I wish there was a way you can legally spike every human’s drink with truth serum,” C’hung C’hee mocked, much to the disapproval of his peers.

  “Totally subversive and uncalled for,” L’Da scolded him.

  “He might have a point, though,” J’ai Né reconsidered. “Not that I’m for it, but if we had a concert festival, let’s say, everybody will be drinking and having a good time…”

  “…And something’s bound to come out,” L’Da completed her assessment. “Good idea.”

  “I like that,” Ba’al’figor noted. “Grimy, but good.”

  “So, that’s it then,” C’hung C’hee exhorted. “A concert. Of course, there are so many musicians here, it may have to be a three-day festival.”

  “Why stop at three days?” a foreign angel objected. “Why not a whole week?”

  “That’s overkill,” C’hung C’hee objected. “We’re trying to uncover a mystery, not bring shame to the heavens.”

  “I agree,” L’Da stated. “A three-day festival. By a show of hands…”

  Before the angel in white could finish his statement, all hands went up.

  “Then it’s settled,” he concluded. “How about this Labor Day weekend?”

  “That’s three weeks from now,” Ba’al’figor argued.

  “Yes,” L’Da agreed, “but think about it. Vai will show up around that time for her inspection. We have to either resurrect or bury Ms. Winehouse before then; you know how thorough Vai can be.”

  “True, true,” the other angels whispered.

  “Of course,” J’ai Né explained, “resurrection is the best thing. That, or…” she made a motion of a knife being drawn across her throat. The others got the hint. “These musicians are professionals,” she continued. “This is our chance to put all this Amy stuff behind us, not like we have a choice. I trust the professionalism of these artists. I hear them constantly playing around town at the bars and some have been practicing late into the night. It should be okay. Booking and advertising will be a piece of cake.”

  “I can handle the advertising part,” C’hung C’hee insisted. “Where will it be?”

  “Imperial Farms,” she answered. “The soil’s already been turned over for next year’s wheat crop. I believe it should be able to support about 500,000 people, maybe more.”

  “Perfect,” L’Da beamed. “I’ll speak to the tech guys. You get a list of performers by the end of this week,” he motioned to J’ai Né, “and we’ll coordinate sound and light systems.”

  “I just had an idea,” C’hung C’hee interjected. “Why just have a plain three-day festival? That’ll get a lot of folks over, but what if it was Woodstock ’69 Redux?”

  “Which is…?” L’Da wanted to know.

  “It would have the same lineup as the first one,” C’hung C’hee hoped, “you know, the same headliners. Most of them, anyway. And whichever musicians are missing in the bands, they would be replaced by newcomers. For instance, who was in the Jimi Hendrix Experience at Woodstock ‘69?”

  “It wasn’t the Experience,” a young angel in red, about 20 years old with cloud-white shoulder-length hair, and speaking for the first time, chimed in. “It was Gypsy Sun and Rainbows, kind of like a late minute pickup band. If I remember from the archives, it was Jimi, Mitch Mitchell, Billy Cox, Larry Lee on rhythm guitar, and two percussionists, Juma Sultan and Jerry Velez.”

  “Really?” C’hung C’hee was surprised. “I’ve heard the recordings and don’t remember all those players. Maybe their mics weren’t on?”

  “The original engineer mixed them out so it sounded just like a trio,” White Hair stated. “Either the record company was going for a more profitable ‘Experience’ feel or maybe the rest of the pickup band was unrehearsed and their loose playing made the overall sound too busy and, probably, unusable.”

  “What’s your name?” C’hung C’hee asked the youngster.

  “Jay’Manta,” the brown-faced angel answered. “Archivist in the Wisdom Library of Matamga Deva.”

  “You remind me of a young Ravi Shankar.”

  “Yeah,” Jay’Manta admitted. “I’ve heard that.”

  “You’ve travelled far,” C’hung C’hee complimented him. “Worthy. Who then would you suggest fill in the missing players?”

  “There are so many to choose from,” Jay’Manta believed. “Hughie Thomasson, Dan Fogelberg, Clive Burr and, of course, the new arrivals like Prince, Glenn Frey and David Bowie.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” L’Da stated. “Can you coordinate that?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” the young archivist promised, saluting him.

  “In that case,” the angel in black whose hands were aflame just minutes hence, added, “I’ll coordinate catering from Culinary.”

  “My people will handle medical,” a gaunt red angel volunteered.

  “We’ll supply the water,” an alabaster angel from R&R said. “Our falls should be more than enough.”

  “Thanks,” L’Da told him, then glanced around and asked, “Who’ll take care of the wastes?”

  The room suddenly became so quiet that, if there were crickets in Heaven, they would sound like The Who at full blast.

  “Don’t everybody answer at once,” J’ai Né scolded the gathering.

  An angel in white who hadn’t spoken before raised his hand. “We’ll take out the trash,” he moaned. “Don’t we in Sanitation always get the bum jobs?”

  “Think about how much karma you’d be shedding,” the red angel next to him said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “A lot of good that does me,” the Sanitation angel complained. “since we can’t achieve Nirvana.”

  “Yes,” the red angel agreed, “but you’ll have more power.”

  Sanitation Angel shook his head. “I guess I’ll take the assignment.”

  “Sounds like everything’s coming together nicely,” L’Da noticed.

  “In three weeks?” Ba’al’figor wearily asked.

  “Then I suppose we better get started,” L’Da suggested.

  “All this for the Anima,” Ba’al’figor groaned, rubbing his hands together.