Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

CHAPTER 32

  By 3PM, Tony was so blitzed from all the sweet mead he drank that he could barely tell the difference between a urinal and a potted plant. It was still raining out as the boys stumbled up Main Street towards Ordinance Road. Eddie was holding his own well. In fact, he’d taken on the responsibility of preventing his friend from slipping and falling into the various, well-groomed hedges along the way. By the time they arrived at Erudition Road, Eddie had to take a break from continually propping his buddy up.

  A few feet ahead, Eddie encouraged Tony to have a seat on the bench beneath the blue and white awning of a writing arts studio set in a plain, light yellow, nondescript, one story, flat-roofed house with a banner containing the words –

  Deng Shiru, Calligrapher

  “We’ll sit here a while till the rain stops,” Eddie whispered to his friend, both of them soaked to the gills.

  “I want another drink,” Tony stammered weakly.

  “No, you don’t,” Eddie retorted. “You’ve had enough.”

  “Eh,” the young PI protested then tried to stand up. Eddie simply pulled him back to the moist bench.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the Cumby’s clerk told him. “Just relax a bit.”

  “I’m feeling sick,” Tony moaned.

  Eddie quickly turned his friend so he faced the side of the bench at the edge of the awning. “If you’re gonna vomit,” he said to him, “now’s the time.”

  Not missing a beat, the novice detective did exactly what his boyfriend suggested – drop the steamy, pottage and mead mixture from his nauseous stomach right on the rain-drenched ground in front of the art studio.

  “What a mess,” Eddie groaned. “It’s a good thing it’s raining.”

  “I want to lie down a little,” Tony said weakly.

  “Can you walk?” Eddie asked him.

  The young PI stood up, albeit with some difficulty. “I’m okay,” he promised. “Let’s go.”

  Approximately 20 minutes later, the duo found Ordinance Road. Now all we have to do is find 221, Eddie thought as they walked down the block. Easy to find, 221 turned out to be a two-story, half-timbered Tudor-style house in the middle of the second block of Ordinance Road. It also stuck out because the two houses across the street, as well as the other two on the 221 side, were oddities, geometrically speaking. One and two-story stone structures, some of them were covered with domes, some were completely circular in shape, but all mostly resembled small castles that looked like the designs of a cross-eyed architect. Their individual gardens and water fountains were gorgeous sights to behold even if the water was spouting out of atypical orifices from marble dragons, naked Olympic athletes, gargoyles, and other bits of Gothic-inspired structures.

  Unlike the other estates, 221 had no lawn and, therefore, no water fountain. In fact, it sat closer to the road that the other 4 homes. 221 flaunted two flower gardens, one on each side of the house, but as far as decorations went, that was basically it. By the time Eddie was knocking on the front door, it had stopped raining; the sky remained an ominous dark gray, nevertheless. Tony, wobbling next to him, looked like he could pass out anytime.

  “Hello?” the owner of the house asked the two after opening the front door.

  “I’m looking for Masaccio the Painter,” Eddie said.

  “Who are you?” the clean-shaven, fairly good looking, brown-haired gentleman in his late 20’s, wearing dark brown stretchy tights and a dark blue vest over a white, long-sleeved shirt with frills, asked.

  “I’m Eddie Cochran,” the clerk/guitarist answered. “This is my friend, Tony Lopez. As you can see, he had one too many mouthfuls of mead.”

  Remembering his manners, the half-asleep PI waved hi to the stranger.

  “We’re from Rock & Roll Heaven,” Eddie informed him. “Lemmy Kilmister said if we ever get to Painters we should look up Masaccio.”

  “Lemmy!” the man squealed. “Why didn’t you say so. I am Masaccio,” he revealed, shaking their hands. “Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone at your service. Come on in.”

  “You’re both soaking wet,” the Renaissance painter noticed as the visitors entered his home. Removing two towels from a nearby hook, he handed one to each 21-year-old. “Luckily, you two are the same size as me, so have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a red velvet couch in the drawing room, “and I’ll be right back.”

  Eddie and Tony sat down while Masaccio climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. This place is sweet, Eddie thought as he surveyed the room. He noted the varnished, wooden floor partially covered by an Italianate rug, fine wooden furniture, exquisite bookcase, paintings galore, gothic lamps, at least two holographic transceivers, and a lit fireplace gently scenting the room from the well-seasoned oak crackling in it.

  It didn’t take long for their host to return to the drawing room. Carrying an armful of assorted pieces of clothing, he placed it on the couch next to the travelers.

  “These should fit you two nicely,” he told them. “Just leave your wet clothes on the table and I’ll come back for them as soon as I bring you both some tea, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine with me,” Eddie stated. Tony, too tired to fully acknowledge the painter, simply nodded. “And ice water for my friend,” the blond guitarist added.

  After Masaccio retired to the kitchen, Eddie undressed himself and Tony and attired them both in the brown Friar Tuck-like robes the artist had brought downstairs. Minutes later, the young Renaissance man re-entered the room with a wooden platter toting a brass pot of hot tea, a bamboo jug of ice water, bamboo cups, silver cutlery, crackers, cubes of sugar and salted tofu, and placed the whole shebang on the table in the middle of the room.

  “You two look like dears,” he complimented his guests, then, picking up the damp clothes, he went back into the kitchen where he hanged them on hooks near the pot belly stove. Eddie wasted no time pouring out a cup of ice water for his traveling partner.

  “Here, big boy,” he said to the PI, offering him the smooth vessel. “Drink up.”

  Tony took the cup, downed half its contents, and returned it to the table. “I have to stretch out my legs,” he groaned and then did just that – elevate his clogs on the table.

  “Oh, hell no!” Masaccio shrieked as he ran back into the drawing room. “That’s an original Donatello!” Racing over to Tony, he quickly moved his extended legs off the superbly carved wooden table and laid them on the floor. “He gave that to me over 500 years ago.”

  “Sorry,” the PI apologized. “I’m just so tired.”

  “I have a guest room upstairs,” the painter said, “if you feel like.”

  “Yes,” Tony assented, standing up.

  “I’ll be right back,” Masaccio promised Eddie as he helped Tony to walk upstairs.

  “Your friend went right to sleep the second I put him in bed,” the artist told Eddie when he returned downstairs minutes later. “What has him so groggy?” he asked as he poured himself a cup of tea and added two lumps of sugar to it.

  “Corn syrup mead,” Eddie said. “One too many mouthfuls, I’d say.”

  “Do you two live together?”

  “Nah,” the guitarist said, nipping on the tofu. “Just friends.”

  “I take it you’re a musician?” the painter asked, sipping his tea. “What kind of music?”

  “Early rock and roll,” he answered. “I’ve been here since 1960.”

  “Oh,” Masaccio solemnly stated, “sorry to hear that.”

  “What about you?”

  “1428, AD,” he replied with specificity as if editing an entry in Wikipedia.

  “Gee,” Eddie exclaimed, his eyebrows raised.” How many years is that?”

  “Plenty,” he lamented. “Trapped at 26.”

  “Is that how old you are when…?” The guitarist, perpetually finding it difficult to ask citizens about their deaths, let the question slide. The artist took the lead anyway.

  “Yes,” Masaccio answered. “How about you?”

&nb
sp; “21,” the musician answered.

  “Wow,” the painted emitted. “That’s tough. So much life left to live.”

  “So how come you’re still here when you’re from the Renaissance?” Eddie inquired. “I was told all you guys from that period ascended already.”

  “Most of us,” the painter disclosed, “specifically, the younger ones, stuck around. There’s a simple reason, really. You can call it selfishness, but in a way, we felt robbed of a full life. Mind you, I did try ascetic life. Would you believe I’ve been a monk twice? Twice I’ve been a monk,” he added for emphasis. “I sacrificed for years but always kept the thought that maybe I should’ve been allowed to continue my work, and if not mine, at least the visionaries’ like Raphael and Titian. Like them, I wanted to branch out into different fields of my choosing; you know, medicine, writing, architecture…but now, looking back in time, I did have the will to indulge myself in these occupations, and I did try, but I always returned to the easel. Just don’t have that special talent bequeathed to Signori DaVinci or Michelangelo. Believe me, that’s very hard to accept.”

  “But you have lots of time,” Eddie reminded him.

  “True,” he agreed. “Still, I’m doubtful because most artists and other talented individuals who came after me remain in the same field for years. Anyway, that’s a depressing topic. Would you like to see my studio?”

  “This is just one of many suites I own,” the painter said as they entered the spacious room attached to the back of the house. Nearly as large as a greenhouse, Eddie figured it might look just as he imagined it would, and he was basically right. Easels of unfinished paintings were scattered throughout the room as well as new and used palettes, brush sets, jars of oil and water paint, hung art, cloth screens draped from the ceiling to the floor, drafting table, papers and canvasses galore, chairs, tables, couches, and other accoutrements.

  “Impressive,” Eddie confessed as he journeyed through the collection. “So, after all these years,” he asked his new friend, “you still like to paint this much?”

  “It’s been a struggle,” the painter conceded, “but I got tired of fighting with myself. It’s what I am. Would you like a portrait of yourself?”

  “When?” the surprised musician asked. “Right now?”

  “Is there a better time?” the artist retorted.

  “Well,” Eddie admitted, “I don’t think I’m up to sitting still tonight. Me and Tony’s been up and down all day. Pretty fatiguing.”

  “I understand,” the painter said. “So, you and Tony are really close, huh?”

  “Not really,” Eddie answered. “I mean, we only met each other recently, but he’s still learning the ropes. You know, he’s not old school like you and me.”

  “He’s on shaky ground,” Masaccio added.

  “Yes,” the guitarist stated. “He’s got a lot of growing to do. You know, if it’s okay with you, I would like to learn a little about painting.”

  “Really?”

  “The truth is,” Eddie explained, “I’m tired of being in R&R. I’m feeling stagnant and, I don’t know, out of place there, probably because I am one of the earliest ones. You know, my style of music being out of date an’ all. But I have a good feeling about Caprese, always did ‘cause I’ve visited a few times. It just strikes me as being different… more tolerable, anyway.”

  “You sound like a pariah like me,” the painter noted. “Imagine being a monk twice. You think they’d let me do it for the third time?”

  “Would they?”

  “Si,” Masaccio answered, “but it doesn’t mean I’ll be trusted. Anyway, you came at a good time,” he swore, “because a lot of homes are vacant, now that the sculptors and 3D artists are gone. I can show you some basic things tonight, if you’re not too tired.”

  “Okay,” the guitarist agreed. “I’m fine with that. May as well, since it’ll be a while till our clothes dry.”

  “Good,” the Renaissance painter said. “I’ll go get us something to drink and we can start.”

  “Get us what?” Eddie inquired.

  “It’s a surprise,” Masaccio said, smiling as he left.

  Just 20 minutes into his art lesson, Eddie was beginning to feel the relaxing effects of the warm, brown, aromatic drink the painter had retrieved from his kitchen. The painter, for his part, was holding up well despite having drank as much as his student.

  “What did you call this?” Eddie asked, holding up his half empty mug of liquor, garnished with a slice of orange.

  The artist, sitting next to the blonde musician who, himself, is positioned on a wooden stool in front of an easel containing a blank, poster-sized, mounted/borderless canvas, answered, “Mulled wine. It’s red wine with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and sugar. Very easy to make. I like drinking it on these rainy, chilly nights. Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” the musician nodded. “Spicy. If my nasal passages were clogged before, they sure wouldn’t be now after this.”

  “So, I just showed you how to mix paint using bamboo stirrers,” Masaccio said as he laid his mug of wine down on the floor next to the wine pot. “Now, here are a few brush techniques. Take one of those smaller, bear grass brushes,” he indicated, pointing to the set on the chair next to Eddie.

  “This one?” Eddie asked, picking up a flat-bristle brush.

  “Yes, that’s good,” the painter acknowledged.

  The young student flicked the soft flexible head of the brush. “What’s bear grass?”

  “Indian basket grass,” his delicate host explained. “It’s a plant about 4’ high with white flowers. That very issue, by the way, was the single biggest problem in the art world.”

  Eddie furrowed his brow. “Grass?”

  “Fine art brushes were usually made from hog hair, sable, squirrel, ox, horse, different animals,” the artist revealed. “There were different thicknesses, but generally speaking, sable was used for detail work and the others were for broader strokes. The problem was, when the early artists came here, maybe about 1000 years ago, there were no art brushes because animals didn’t exist here. They were so angry that they protested often. It was ugly, I heard. Then they figured, well, since they’re stuck here for the time being, they may as well make the most out of it, so they started experimenting with different materials, from plant fibers to human hair.”

  “Human hair?” the stunned, early rock star asked. “Really?”

  “Sì,” Masaccio answered. “One very creative Asian fellow even used pubic hair.”

  “What?!” the guitarist mouthed.

  “It’s true,” Masaccio insisted. “You know, Chinese calligraphers used to use human baby hair for their finer strokes. That was the norm. Anyway, the brushes they did eventually make were good for painting houses, furniture, applying varnish, but not for art. The fibers came from lots of different places, but they later found out the softest and best substitute for hair were fibers from the banana yucca and bear grass plants. The fibers from other yuccas were used, too, but for bigger and stiffer brushes. Needless to say, over the years, they really perfected the craft of brush making and painters started using them.”

  “You mean,” Eddie asked, “like DaVinci?”

  “Sì,” the Italian answered. “DaVinci, Donatello, Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, Dürer, everyone, really. And all because of one artist. They said, [Utilizing a stodgy, scruff voice] ‘Well, if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.’”

  “Which artist were they talking about?”

  Instead of answering directly, Masaccio displayed a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon and as bright as a savant. The guitarist quickly got the hint.

  “You?” he asked the painter.

  “Sì,” Masaccio said proudly. “Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone, da parti di Castel San Giovanni di Altura.”

  “Where did the Masaccio come from?”

  “Tommaso,” he explained, “or Maso for short. Masaccio is just a goofy play on words. A modern translation of Maso
would be oddball or weirdo which, for all intents and purposes, fits.”

  “Can you give me a refill?” Eddie asked, holding his mug out to Maso.

  “Sì.” The Renaissance artist poured him a full cup. Then, after a quick toast, they both took a good, long swig with their eyes locked on each other. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Maso decided to break the silence.

  “A famous painter fell on hard times because no one was buying his art,” he began. “Even though he hated to do it because of his pride, he decided to ask the Art Foundation for a grant. Not being a great writer, he dictated the all-important letter to his common assistant to present to the board in person, reminding him, ‘Make sure you get this letter perfect or there'll be hell to pay!’ The nervous assistant sat at his desk, carefully notated the message, then left for the Foundation. Along the way, his anxiety got the best of him because he wasn't sure if he was the great writer he'd often bragged himself to be.”

  “Which artist are you talking about?” Eddie asked.

  “You’re interrupting.”

  “Sorry,” the guitarist said remorsefully. “You may continue.”

  “As the anxious assistant walked down Main Street,” Maso said, “he saw a sign over a shoppe that said, ‘Proofreader for Hire.’ Sweet, he thought. Maybe this guy can help me. Walking in, he saw an old man busy scribbling at a desk and approached him. ‘Are you the proofreader?’ he asked. ‘Yep, that's me,’ the man replied. ‘Good,’ the artist's assistant said. Taking out the letter, he handed it to the stranger. ‘Can you correct this?’ he asked. ‘It's very important. My master has a temper like an ogre.’ ‘Sure,’ the proofreader said. ‘I'll start right away.’ The assistant said, ‘Okay, but if there's anything you should remember, it's this - feel free to dot all my I's, just don't cross Matisse.’”

  Eddie sat staring blankly at his host as if he was just watching a leaf change colors.

  “You don’t think that’s funny?” Maso asked him.

  “I’ve been up since this morning,” the visitor apologized. “But, yeah. It was funny.”

  Getting back to their tutoring session, they both laid their mugs to the side, and got down to work. Eddie picked up his natural fiber brush.

  “What color?” he asked the Italian.

  “Meadow green,” his instructor answered.

  Complying, Eddie dipped the brush in the oil he’d mixed earlier and positioned himself in front of the vertical white canvas.

  “Now,” Maso said, illustrating by position his own arm, “hold the brush like this.”

  “Like this?” the guitarist asked, nearly mimicking Maso’s outstretched right arm.

  “Almost,” the artist said. “Like this,” he repeated, holding out his arm in his own particular way.

  “This?” Eddie asked, trying his best to match the Italian.

  “Not yet,” Maso said. “Technique is important. Let me show you.” Instead of taking the brush himself, he slid closer to Eddie, placed his right arm around his body, gently grabbed his right wrist and repositioned the neophyte’s arm to his liking, the tip of the brush mere inches from the canvas. The guitarist felt Maso’s heart pounding, the steady beat of his pulse bouncing against his back. Eddie’s heart started speeding up as he began to feel warmer and warmer from the young Italian’s presence. Turning to face the artist, he stared into his eyes with the earnest depth of a seaman trying to navigate a swerving submarine through an unstable periscope. A quick kiss on his teacher’s wine-tainted lips and he pulled back, hoping he didn’t just make a big mistake. Maso gently kissed him back. It was no mistake.