by Greg Kihn
Clovis let out a long and suffering sigh. “Let’s let a little water pass under the bridge first, pardner. Give it some time. Erlene’s still pissed-off, too.”
They stood in silence for a minute or two.
“Could you drive me to Brian’s?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I don’t know what else to do. Maybe if I help find Anita, Brian’s karma will help me get Cricket back. Who knows?”
Clovis chuckled. “Jonesy can barely tie his own shoes, man. He’s a mess. His karma stinks.”
Bobby put a hand on Clovis’s shoulder.
“You want to know the truth? I don’t know why I should go over there. It just seems like something I should do. I got this feeling of inevitability, like it’s part of my fate.”
“That’s the acid talkin’, pardner. All that fate and inevitability shit. Sounds pretty trippy to me. Look, I’m your friend. I’ll take you. That’s that. No magical mystery tour, okay?”
“You’re a good man, Clovis Hicks.”
“I know. Erlene tells me all the time.”
Bobby snapped his fingers.
“It’s hard to believe that Erlene punched out Brian Jones at that fancy nightclub last night and he doesn’t even remember.”
Clovis laughed.
“She don’t take no shit, man. She told me she thought Anita was a witch and Brian was a warlock.”
“She might be right.”
Number One Courtfield Road was dark in the afternoon. The windows were drawn and the house appeared closed.
When Bobby rang the doorbell, he felt a slight electric shock and pulled his hand away from the button quickly.
“Did you get a shock?” Clovis asked.
“Yeah, as soon as I touched it.”
Clovis rang the doorbell, too. He received no shock.
“Nothing.”
Bobby touched it again and got another shock.
Just then, Brian opened the great door and peered at them through red squinty eyes. He’d been crying.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “Hurry, before they see you!”
“Before who sees us?”
“Them …”
“What the fuck?” Clovis said. “There’s nobody out here, Brian. You’re just paranoid.”
He pulled Clovis and Bobby inside and shut and locked the door with multiple locks.
He led them into the living room where they had been getting high the night before. The remains of the merriment were still there.
Bobby was surprised to see Skully and Acid King Leon sitting on the couch. They must have returned to Brian’s some time during the night. Clovis saw them at the same time Bobby did, and they shared a frown.
“What are they doing here?” Clovis asked, nodding toward the couch.
Clovis made no attempt to hide his distrust of the two Californians. They knew hardly anything about them other than the unofficial connection to the Monterey Pop Festival, but something about them made Bobby uneasy.
Brian was apologetic.
“I’m sorry. I was lonely. Anita’s gone. She took her things.”
Clovis put his hands on his hips.
“Well, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Oh, shit. … I must’ve been crazy.”
“No argument there.” Bobby looked around. Yep. Crazy as a shit-house rat, as old friend and R&B philosopher Preston Washington used to say. The place was a mess. It looked like the lair of a madman.
He asked, “Do you have a cleaning lady?”
Brian, distracted by thoughts of Anita, mumbled something to the affirmative.
“Then I suggest you call her. Let’s get both you and this place cleaned up. Take a shower and I’ll make some tea.”
“I don’t have time for that. I have to find Anita.”
Bobby said, “You don’t want her to see you like this. You have to wash your hair.”
That comment struck a nerve. Brian was incredibly vain about his hair and washed it meticulously every day.
“Yes,” Brian muttered. “You’re right.”
Bobby led Brian back to the shower, turned it on, and made sure the temperature was right. He left the room and heard Brian enter.
Clovis looked at Skully and Leon.
“What are you guys here for? Planning some kind of a party?”
They looked at each other.
“We’re here for Brian.”
Clovis, a Baltimore boy from the wrong side of the tracks, pulled no punches. He spoke his mind in every situation. He put his hands on his hips in a cocky, defiant stance.
“You’re here for Brian? That’s a laugh. What the fuck have you guys ever done for Brian? The best thing you can do right now is leave.”
“But Brian invited us!” Skully protested.
“He doesn’t need you anymore, man. Why don’t you take a hike?”
Leon shook his head. “Why don’t you let Brian decide that for himself?”
Clovis bristled.
“Why don’t you fuck yourself? You heard me. Take your acid and get out! That shit is scrambling Brian’s brain and making him unable to work.”
Acid King Leon looked incredulous. His mouth hung open as if to reply but no words came. Clovis blunt statement caught him by surprise. After all, Acid King was welcome everywhere he went, wasn’t he? Clovis paused a moment to let his words sink it. Then he punctuated the statement with one more remark.
“Now!”
They looked to Bobby for sympathy. “Are you gonna let him treat us like that?”
Bobby said, “You heard the man.”
Leon took his briefcase, and Skully took a brown leather shoulder bag. Bobby didn’t see them come in and didn’t know whom the shoulder bag belonged to. He said nothing, though, and watched them leave.
Thirty minutes later, Brian sat at the kitchen table and sipped a cup of tea. Bobby made some buttered toast with strawberry jam that smelled so heavenly they all gulped it down like starving men.
“Did you know those two before last night?”
“Skully works for Jimi,” Brian said. “At least that’s what he told me.”
“Hold on a second, pardner.”
Clovis held out a hand making the universal stop sign.
“I haven’t seen that guy around and I just worked with Jimi at Olympic. I know most of Jimi’s roadies. There’s Neville Chesters, who shares an apartment with Noel Redding; a long-haired kid named Lemmy who’s always crashing there; and Tappy Wright, who was hired by the management team.”
Brian shrugged. “Are you saying Skully lied?”
“Well, he sure ain’t tellin’ the truth,” Clovis said. “I just a got a funny feelin’. I’m gonna call Noel Redding.”
“Of course,” Bobby said, “Jimi’s bass player ought to know.”
Clovis looked in his address book and called the bushy-haired bassist for the Jimi Hendrix Experience.
“Noel? How are ya, pardner?”
“Clovis?”
“Of course it’s Clovis. Who else you know talks like this? Hey, I’m checking somebody out and they claimed they worked for you.”
Noel listened.
“A guy named Skully and another guy named Acid King Leon? I don’t know if Skully is the first name or last.”
On the other end of the line, Noel tapped the mouthpiece rhythmically as he thought. His sense of humor was as dry as Vermouth. He delivered his punch lines like Noel Coward with a martini glass and a smoldering joint in a cigarette holder.
“Did you say Acid King Leon? Jimi has several freaks who follow him around and give him acid. We’ve got an Acid Queen Marcy; we’ve got a Captain Trips; we got Tony Baloney, the King of Pepperoni; and Rasheesh, the Sheik of Hashish. Jimi draws royalty wherever he goes. No Acid King Leo
n that I can remember, though. I’m not really part of that scene. Acid is not really my thing.”
“How about Skully?”
“First name or last?”
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“No Skully? You’re sure of that?”
“Hold on a sec.”
Noel cupped the phone and shouted into another room. Bobby could hear it.
“You ever heard of a roadie named Skully?”
A moment later, Noel was back on the line.
“No Skully … Although there was a guy named Skull working for The Pretty Things briefly a couple of years ago.”
“Could it be the same guy?”
“I doubt it. Somebody told me that other guy was a junky, and we never hire junkies.”
“Thanks, bro.” Clovis signed off.
Clovis looked at Brian and Bobby.
“Noel says he never heard of either one of them.”
When Bobby returned to his apartment, he was beginning to feel human again. The LSD had taken over a day and a half to wear off, and he still had occasional flashes of wild disorientation. He bought a newspaper on the way and read about the airline strike. There was no resolution in sight, according to the Times. He’d been waiting for a chance to collect his thoughts and call Cricket. It was nine o’clock at night in London, and Bobby’s calculations made it four in the afternoon in Baltimore. A good time to call. Bobby had no idea what he was going to say when he finally got Cricket on the phone. He just knew he had to say something.
He dialed the overly long international number to their place in Baltimore and waited. It rang and rang. There was no answer. Was she ignoring him? Maybe she was out. Maybe she was with her father in the hospital. That made sense. It was visiting time at the hospital. Bobby briefly considered calling the hospital and asking for her father’s room in the hopes that she’d be there. Then he realized she wouldn’t talk in front of her family. Bobby wondered what she had told them.
Bobby hung up the phone after a few minutes of listening to the ringing tone. He was reluctant to cut the connection even though he knew there would be no answer. His thoughts swirled around Cricket. Had he blown it?
Bobby decided to send Cricket a telegram explaining the airline strike. He wrote out the message to her and called Western Union.
My Dear Sweet Wife—
Can’t fly out due to airline strike. Stop. Will arrive ASAP. Stop. Miss you. Stop. Can explain everything. Stop.
Your Loyal Husband, Bobby.
Everybody liked Claudine Jillian. She was a sassy blonde from Sheffield, raised just far enough away from London to be untouched by its pretense and close enough to know what to watch out for. For a while, she had been the girlfriend of several major rock stars. Lately, she’d been floating around between boyfriends and having a ball as one of London’s most beautiful faces. Her modeling career had made her a substantial independent living before her rock star liaisons, so Claudine could pick and choose her way through life.
Of course she knew Renee. Renee was part of the same scene but lacked the class of Claudine. Claudine had a modeling career. Renee did not. Claudine knew Anita Pallenberg and had been inside Brian’s house several times. Renee had not. Renee was very jealous but never showed it. As part of the infamous London club scene, Renee and Claudine were sisters in arms. They drank and danced together at a mod place called The Speakeasy Club at 48 Margaret Street. That’s where they were the night after Brian slapped Anita at The Scotch of Saint James. Brian hitting Anita was the talk of the town. Both girls were obsessed with Brian Jones and had trouble believing he had actually struck Anita. No one they knew had actually witnessed it.
And if he did, so what? The crazy bitch drove him to it, that much you could see. To Claudine and Renee, Brian Jones was a saint, incapable of such savagery.
Claudine knew most of the same people Renee knew, they were all familiar faces on the nightclub scene. After a few hours of nursing drinks and hanging out at The Speakeasy Club, Renee had given up and gone home. It was around one in the morning. Claudine stayed for one last drink when Brian walked in. He walked right up to Claudine and touched her cheek.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
“Let’s spend the night together.”
Claudine blushed. She was speechless for a moment. Was Brian quoting a Stones song or propositioning her? The lustful look Brian eye gave him away. This is what she’d always wanted, a whole evening with Brian Jones. Her heart raced and she tried not to look too thrilled.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Brian whispered.
“Okay,” said Claudine.
Brian’s intoxicating presence made her bolder.
“Your place or mine?”
“Better make it yours. I’m afraid I’m being watched.”
Claudine scanned the room to see who was looking. She shouldn’t have bothered. Every eye in the place was on them. It would be hard to walk out of The Speakeasy Club with Prince Jones without half the world knowing it, including snooping Fleet Street reporters who hung around the clubs looking for a story. Claudine picked up her vodka tonic and smiled.
“Just let me finish my drink.”
Brian gently took it out of her hand and drank it down in one swig. Then he ordered four more. By the time they actually left the club, Claudine was well lubricated and had forgotten all about who might be watching.
They wound up back at her Belgravia apartment. Claudine showed him her black silk sheets and her collection of lingerie. Brian forgot all about Anita. Conversation ceased. Claudine and Brian made mad, desperate love all night. Brian clung to her like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. He craved constant affection in order to feel alive.
In the morning, with the sun peeking through the windows, Claudine tried to make Brian stay, but he was a restless, troubled man.
“Why don’t you relax and stay awhile and I can make some breakfast?”
Brian got out of bed and paced the room.
“I’ve got things to do.”
Claudine pouted.
“Like what? Find Anita? I’d appreciate it if you stopped thinking about her. Here we are, and we’ve been making hot, passionate love all night. It’s a beautiful morning, and all you can think about is her? I should be insulted. What’s so special about Anita? Why are you so obsessed?”
Brian shook his head. It was clear he’d been asked this question before and had no answer then or now. That was the mystery of Anita. Maybe she’d used black magic to capture Brian’s heart and caught his soul instead.
“I’ve never known a woman like Anita. She’s completely unique.”
“If you ask me, she’s making you crazy.”
Brian paced a like a caged animal.
“There’s no denying that. But something deep and unforgiving has got its hooks into me. Maybe we were lovers in a past life.”
Conflicting emotions tore Brian apart. Part of him felt wracked with guilt for spending a night of unbridled passion with another woman. Not that it would make a difference. Brian and Anita had a more or less open relationship. But she would find out anyway. She always did. And when she did, she would punish him. Anita could play high-stakes sexual politics with the best of them.
Claudine said, “I shouldn’t say this because Anita is a friend of mine, but she’s making your life miserable. There’s something about Anita that’s affecting you in a very bad way, Brian. She has a natural sense of schadenfreude that gives her that nasty edge.”
“What’s schadenfreude?” Brian asked.
“It’s a German word. It means taking pleasure out of other people’s misfortunes. Schadenfreude. Remember that.”
“The Germans actually have a word for that?”
Claudine ignored the question and spoke frankly
.
“Brian, I’ve been worried about you since you met her. You’re too fragile for Anita. Get rid of her. Let her go. She’ll break your heart.”
Brian listened to Claudine. She was a sensible girl and her words had weight and value. It’s just that everything she said went against Brian’s heart.
“I have to go,” Brian said suddenly. “I’ll call you.”
Their night of lovemaking had been magnificent. Brian needed to decompress. Afraid he might find Anita waiting at home and unwilling to confront her in his current state, Brian checked into a hotel instead of going back to Courtfield Road. He wanted to be where people couldn’t find him. He needed to be alone to sort things out.
He felt tremendous guilt and at the same the same time he felt he needed to punish Anita, the ungrateful bitch. The yin and yang of these conflicting emotions ran through his head like a psychic speedball, pulling him apart. It gave Brian a headache.
He took a sleeping pill, fell asleep, and slept for hours.
Claudine met some friends for lunch and then intended to explore some new boutiques that had sprung up around Carnaby Street. She shopped alone, taking her time. Claudine enjoyed shopping this way. She hated other people making her rush.
She spent the afternoon zigzagging around Regent Street checking out the little shops that seemed to spring up like mushrooms on the damp side streets.
Halfway through the afternoon, she noticed someone following her. At first she wasn’t sure, but after she’d seen the same strange person several times, there could be no doubt. There was something both bizarre and familiar about the stalking figure. It was female, she thought, about her same size and weight. She wore a long seedy overcoat. The stranger had long stringy black hair that hung in her face and wore huge Audrey Hepburn-style Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses. She also wore a black silk scarf around her head. What the sunglasses didn’t cover was obscured by the scarf, making her unrecognizable.
Claudine felt a sense of wrongness. Why would this person be wearing a long overcoat on such a warm sunny day? And why so anti-fashion, wearing a ratty overcoat on Carnaby Street? The peculiar appearance of the stranger disturbed her. She was obviously in disguise. Why?
Claudine stepped up her pace, trying to lose the stranger. But no matter how she tried, she could shake the mystery figure. At one point, she actually ran across the street and tried to disappear behind some taxicabs, but the stranger hung tight.