Black Dogs

by Jason Buhrmester

  We laughed about the party on the drive to Emily's house. I felt fucking great. I missed hanging out with her. Hell, I missed Alex and Frenchy and Keith too. That cocky feeling crept back into my brain. The one that ran through me years ago when me and Alex were really working. That feeling like the world was one big scam and all you had to do was connect the dots, think fast and make the right moves as you pinballed around, and the whole thing wasn't nearly as hard as it looked because all of the other players were winging it just like you.

  I couldn't stop myself from smiling as me and Emily made out in her driveway.

  She pulled away.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  I couldn't tell her that I was going to rob the biggest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world so I just smiled and kissed her again.

  SEVEN

  FRENCHY,” I YELLED, NOT LOOKING BACK AS I HURRIED UP THE CONCRETE CORRIDOR. “YOU'RE NOT BRITISH.”

  “Yes, I am, mate,” he argued.

  The accent sounded convincing. Still, there was no way I was going to let him fake being British. Backstage passes he had scored for us through a contest with WKTK and the Record Barn dangled around our necks. Frenchy adjusted his fake mustache and knocked a pair of aviator sunglasses off his face as he tried to keep up with me.

  “Hang on a second,” he said, stopping under the fluorescent lights in the hallway to pick up the sunglasses. He straightened up and smoothed the denim vest he wore over a button-up shirt. I stood in front of him.

  “You can't be British,” I lectured. “Are you listening to me? Led Zeppelin are British. Their managers and their crew are British. What if one of them asks you where you're from or where you went to school? You don't know shit about England.”

  The lights dimmed at the end of the tunnel and the crowd cheered. The sound of Zeppelin taking the stage poured down the corridor toward us in a tidal wave of noise.

  “Listen,” I said. “Stick to the story. Your name is Reginald Chamberlain. You're a rare-guitar dealer from Baltimore. You want to sell Jimmy Page your nineteen sixty Fender Telecaster. That's it.”

  “What if he doesn't want it?”

  “Who gives a shit? We don't care if he buys it or not. We just need to hang around and watch them. See who has the money and find out where they're staying. Hopefully, we can ride with them back to the hotel.”

  He looked up at me.

  “How does my mustache look?”

  He lifted the guitar case and started up the corridor. Anyone backstage had already gathered at the side of the stage to watch Zeppelin, and me and Frenchy strode up the wide, empty hallway. Zeppelin charged through “Rock and Roll” and into “Celebration Day.” The drums thundered off the concrete walls of the empty hallway as we marched toward the stage.

  “What about the South?” Frenchy said. I could barely hear him over the music.

  “What about it?”

  “Can I be from the South? You know, use a Southern accent?”

  “Let it go, Frenchy.”

  Roadies, bouncers and groupies crowded the side of the stage. We slipped through and looked out into the Civic Center. Light washed over the faces of tens of thousands of screaming fans. Bodies filled every space from the floor to the ceiling and around the walls.

  Jimmy Page stood facing the amps, his back to the crowd. Sweaty ringlets of dark hair surrounded his face. He wore black flares covered in embroidery and a small matching jacket with no shirt underneath. White symbols lined up the pant leg and around the cuffs of the jacket. His guitar hung low to his knees and he hunched over the neck, squeezing out the chords to “Celebration Day.”

  Frenchy turned to me and shouted over the music, “What about Brooklyn?”

  “What?” I asked, cupping my ear.

  “I've been working on a Brooklyn accent. This would be a great way to test it out. Can I use that?”

  “Seriously, man. Stop it.”

  Zeppelin powered through “Black Dog” and “Over the Hills and Far Away” then launched into “Misty Mountain Hop.” Robert Plant danced at the edge of the stage, wearing tight blue jeans and a tiny, matching vest. He twirled the microphone by the chord and pumped his hips at the crowd. They went wild.

  The lights dimmed over the audience and Zeppelin eased into “Since I've Been Loving You.” John Paul Jones's lazy bass lines rumbled across the stage. I tapped my foot and checked my watch. How long could they play?

  The thought was broken up as a thick hand grabbed the back of my arm. A lanky guy in a white satin jacket poked his bearded face at me. His T-shirt read, “Edgewater Inn, Puget Sound.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, in a snarling British accent. “Where did you get this pass?”

  He grabbed the pass around my neck and yanked me toward him until we were face-to-face.

  “From WKTK,” I stammered.

  “What the fuck is that?” he asked, inspecting the back of my pass.

  “It's a radio station here in Baltimore.”

  He locked eyes with me.

  “Is it any good?”

  “No. It's fucking awful.”

  “They play Zeppelin?”

  “All the time,” I answered, grinning.

  He grunted and let go of my pass.

  “Just stay the fuck out of the way,” he barked as he stormed off. He turned and yelled back, “And tell your fucking friend.”

  A pair of groupies in short skirts and knee-high boots chased after him. Their voices trailed off.

  “Richard! Hey, Richard! Wait!”

  The opening chords of “The Song Remains the Same” erupted from the stage. Frenchy leaned over to talk to me.

  “Who the fuck was that guy?”

  “Richard Cole. Zeppelin's tour manager.”

  “He didn't look happy.”

  “No. He had a message for you.”

  “For me? What did he say?”

  “Stay the fuck out of the way.”

  “Got it.” Frenchy nodded.

  Zeppelin closed the show with a blistering version of “Communication Breakdown” then charged offstage with the feedback from the instruments still pulsating through the arena. The backstage crowd swirled around us as the band rushed for the dressing room. The door slammed and those of us left in the hallway slumped against the walls.

  Me and Frenchy waited with the crowd in the hallway. Now and then a roadie or manager would go in or leave the room and the groupies would shriek “Jimmy” or “Robert” through the open door. Inside, Jimmy stood in the center of the room with a towel around his neck, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and staring at the floor. Richard Cole sat bent over in a folding chair in the corner counting money in a brown suitcase.

  “Australian,” Frenchy said.

  “Not a chance.” I smirked. “Tell you what, you can be French, Frenchy.”

  “Fuck off.”

  An hour later the door was flung open. A massive figure filled the entire frame. Peter Grant, Zeppelin's manager. His swollen gut jutted out in the hallway. A ring of scraggly hair wrapped around the sides of his bald head and blended with a dark goatee. His voiced boomed.

  “All of you. Get the fuck out of the way.”

  He lumbered through the crowd and Zeppelin and their entourage snaked behind him. Security guards fanned out around him, adding to the crush of bodies in the narrow hallway.

  The four members of Led Zeppelin moved untouched in the center of it all. Jimmy and John Paul Jones wore sunglasses. John Bonham and Robert kept their heads down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. The entire procession moved quickly down the hallway, charging like a herd of animals.

  Me and Frenchy were sandwiched between the crowd and the wall. We swam through the crowd to keep up. I turned sideways to slip past a pair of groupies then bent to duck under the arm of a photographer holding his camera above the crowd. Zeppelin edged away from us up ahead.

  “Come on, Patrick,” Frenchy yelled from behind me. “We gotta get up there.” />
  The crowd kept moving as I tried to maneuver around a pear-shaped hippie in front of me. He was just too big. His wallet dangled from his back pocket, squeezed to the top by his flared jeans. I tugged the wallet loose and tossed it in front of him.

  “Aw, shit,” he howled. He dropped to his knees and scrambled to wrap a meaty hand around the wallet. I dodged to the right, grabbing a fistful of Frenchy's shirt and dragging him with me. The crowd behind us slammed into the hippie in a pile-up of hair and sweat.

  We caught up with the main entourage and I shoved Frenchy toward Richard Cole.

  “Get to it, Reginald!” I whispered to him.

  “Mr. Cole,” he stumbled nervously.

  Richard Cole kept walking.

  “Mr. Cole, my name is Reginald Chamberlain. I have a guitar that Mr. Page might be interested in.”

  “What is it?” Richard asked, keeping his eyes locked on the Civic Center's rear exit as we raced toward it.

  “It's a nineteen sixty Telecaster. Great condition.”

  Richard cocked his head to the side and whispered to Jimmy, “Nineteen sixty Telecaster.”

  From behind his giant sunglasses, Jimmy Page jerked his head in the slightest of movements. I barely saw it. Richard turned back to Frenchy.

  “Not interested.”

  “Really?” Frenchy stuttered. “But didn't Jimmy play a Fifty-eight Telecaster for the solo on ‘Stairway to Heaven’?”

  “I told you, he don't want it. Now piss off.”

  Frenchy looked back at me and shrugged. I waved my hand in the air, motioning for him to keep talking. I couldn't hear what they were saying. I walked on my tiptoes to see over the crowd. Frenchy said something and Jimmy's head spun toward him. He nodded rapidly.

  Suddenly we were outside, launched from the back door of the Civic Center into the cool summer night. Zeppelin and their entourage slipped with military precision into a waiting black limo. Richard was the last one in. He stopped in front of Frenchy.

  “Well? Where the fuck is it?”

  “Where are you staying? I'll bring it to your hotel.”

  Richard climbed into the waiting limo. Something was wrong.

  “There's no hotel.” He laughed. “We're taking the jet back to New York tonight.”

  “But how will I get the guitar to you?” Frenchy pleaded.

  “Bring it to New York this weekend. We're staying at the Drake Hotel until Sunday.”

  The limo driver slammed the door as I caught up with Frenchy.

  “What the fuck just happened?” I asked.

  “Um … I told them we also had a Fifty-eight Les Paul.”

  “What's that?” I asked.

  “Listen, I'm sorry! I got nervous. I didn't know what to say.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? What's a Fifty-eight Les Paul?”

  “It's one of the rarest guitars in the world.” Frenchy sighed.

  “Where the fuck are we going to get one?” I shouted.

  I couldn't believe it. I thought to myself, This can't get worse.

  “Haven Street Pawnshop has one.”

  It was now worse.

  The limo pulled away and I stared at the glowing taillights until they disappeared over the hill and moved toward the airport and the private jet waiting to take Zeppelin to New York. I tore the fake mustache off Frenchy's face but Zeppelin was too far away to hear him scream.

  EIGHT

  SOME PEOPLE AND PLACES THAT YOU JUST DON'T FUCK WITH EVEN IF YOU'RE THE DIRTIEST CROOK AROUND. BAIL BONDS OFFICES. GUN SHOWS. PAWNSHOPS. YEARS OF DEALING WITH THE MEANEST AND DEADLIEST ASSHOLES IN THE WORLD HAS LEFT MOST OPERATORS EVEN MEANER AND DEADLIER THAN THE CUSTOMERS. SCREWING AROUND WITH THEM IS JUST PLAIN STUPID.

  In Baltimore, there was one person that you definitely didn't mess with: Backwoods Billy Harvick. Ten years ago, Backwoods Billy ran with a pack of motorcycle nuts. Guys with names like Jimmy “Two Bottles” and “Hairy” Garfield. They were animals. They stole anything, tore up everywhere they went and kicked the shit out of anyone. They would have been a real motorcycle gang if any of them had bothered to come up with a name.

  One night after a ride, Backwoods Billy and his guys showed up at the Damn Tap, a beaten-down bar in Fell's Point. They went wild. They terrorized the waitress, stole everything they could and broke everything else. Someone found a safe in the back room and started prying at it with a crowbar. When the owner stepped in, Backwoods Billy split his head with a socket wrench and dragged him out to the street. They laid him facedown in the gutter and Backwoods Billy ran over the poor guy's skull with his bike. Then they tore out of there.

  The police busted him but couldn't prove anything. The bikers had their story sewn up. As they told it, the owner attacked Backwoods Billy and when the fight didn't go his way he ran out into the street, where he was creamed by a car.

  “Happens all the time, Officer. Especially late at night. The roads are loaded with drunk drivers after the bars close. Hell, we're gambling with our lives riding our bikes that late, ya know?”

  Backwoods Billy ended up with manslaughter. He got seven years and served five. He found Jesus in prison, gave up pills, got his GED and taught a Bible study class. When they let him out, he went straight back to the gang's clubhouse in Canton. He gathered up the old gang, gave them Bibles and christened them the Holy Ghosts.

  They were still the same psychos, only now they wore a skull-and-cross patch. Nothing else had changed. They still sold pills, still knocked off stores, still beat the hell out of people. The only difference was that this time they didn't get busted. The few Holy Ghosts actually to see the inside of a courtroom always dodged serious time. They were blessed with a string of botched trials. Missing witnesses. Cops with foggy memories. Misplaced evidence. One miracle after another.

  The newspapers ran photos of Backwoods Billy standing outside the courthouse, Bible in hand, praising Jesus and defending the misunderstood Holy Ghosts and all of their hard work for the community like their charity car wash and Christmas toy drive. The law couldn't touch him. He could fuck with you any way he wanted and get away with it.

  The Holy Ghosts' main business was selling pills. Black Beauties. Yellow Jackets. Blue Devils. They invested in a few businesses around town: an auto garage, two tattoo parlors and their main operation—Haven Street Pawnshop.

  If robbing a pawnshop was a death wish, then robbing one owned by Backwoods Billy and the Holy Ghosts was guaranteed suicide. This could only end badly. I pictured the four of us buried alive under fresh concrete. Frenchy figured we'd be dragged behind motorcycles.

  And yet here we were, pulling into the back parking lot of the Haven Street Pawnshop. The squat brick building looked more like a bunker than a store. Thick iron bars covered the two small windows and a tiny neon sign blinked PAWN. The sun shimmered off a freshly waxed Cadillac parked alongside the building.

  A glass jewelry case lined the right side of the store and ended at a stack of TVs in the corner. Piles of drills and other tools filled shelves along the back wall, their power chords dripping toward the dirty tile floor. Rows of guitars perched on stands next to tiny amps and keyboards along the left wall.

  “Hey, Pete,” the old man behind the counter said as we walked in.

  “Hey, Dave,” Frenchy said, waving.

  Alex whispered into Frenchy's ear, “Your name ain't Pete. It's Frenchy. Don't forget it.”

  “Fuck you,” Frenchy whispered back.

  “How the hell does the guy behind the counter know you?” I asked.

  “I come in here a lot.” Frenchy shrugged.

  “Need help with anything?” Dave asked.

  “Nah. Just looking around. Thanks.”

  Me and Alex pretended to be interested in an old TV. Frenchy strummed on an acoustic guitar then put it back on a stand. Keith plunked at a keyboard. Down the aisle Frenchy picked up an electric guitar, plugged the chord into an amp and sat down on a stool. The amp buzzed and hummed as he inched the volume knob
toward ten.

  Frenchy tore into “Voodoo Chile.” I recognized the riff just as he hurled into the main chords. The sound rattled everything in the store. Guitars vibrated on their stands. The glass counters rattled. Dave ran from behind the counter yelling something but the sound drowned out the words. He fumbled with earplugs, cramming them into his ears as he hurried toward us.

  “Pete! Pete!” he shouted.

  Frenchy didn't look up. He dipped his shoulder and launched into the solo. His hand leapt up the neck of the guitar then slid back down. He held a note and lay into the whammy bar, twisting the sound around the store. Dave grabbed the neck of the guitar and Frenchy stopped playing. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

  “Pete! Goddamn it! I told you to cut that shit out,” Dave said.

  “Sorry, Dave. Just showing my buddies some stuff.” Frenchy shrugged. He turned the amp down lower then quietly played “Little Wing.” I couldn't believe it. Frenchy was one hell of a guitar player.

  “Damn, man,” I said. “When'd you learn to play like that?”

  “Just been playing a lot lately, I guess.”

  “All right, Frenchy,” Alex said. He was getting anxious. “Where's this guitar?”

  Frenchy looked across the store.

  “I don't know. It's usually right there.”

  He pointed to an empty stand in a glass display case. If that guitar was gone we were all screwed.

  “Hey, Dave. You finally sell the Fifty-eight Les Paul?” Frenchy shouted.

  “Hell no.” Dave laughed. “Nobody around here has enough money for a guitar like that. It's in the back office.”

  Keith named songs for Frenchy to play and somehow Frenchy knew most of them. Even some Sabbath. Alex and I wandered the store, scoping out the layout. I ran over the setup in my head. You couldn't come in through the front windows with those bars and all the traffic on the street outside. The side windows were small and high, making it too difficult to slip in and too hard to climb out in a hurry.