by Greg Kihn
“What are doing at your shop at this time of night?”
“Just hanging out.”
Keith’s voice was tobacco rough and Tennessee whiskey smooth. He slurred his words a little and laughed at his own private jokes. He was hard to understand in person, much less over the phone.
“Listen, mate. I’m tryin’ to bring this fuckin’ band back together again. I’m inviting everyone up to my place at Redlands for a nice quiet weekend away from London. Tell Brian I want him to come and bring Anita, too. I’ll send a driver out to pick him up. You’re invited to join us, too, Dusty.”
Dust Bin Bob smiled.
“I’ll have Brian call you back if he shows up.”
Bobby hung up.
“Keith is inviting everybody to Redlands for the weekend. He wants to bring the band back together again.”
Brian’s mood had flipped. Suddenly, he was as happy as puppy.
“Bring the band back together? That’s wonderful! Good old Keith.”
“He said he’d send a car.”
“What about Anita?” Brian said. “I can’t go without her.”
John thought long and hard and said, “I can contact some Beatles fans and Apple scruffs. They’ll know where to find a posh bird like Anita. Don’t worry.”
John made several telephone calls and managed to locate her through mutual friend Robert Fraser. She had been staying at Fraser’s art gallery in a small apartment behind his office. There was no sexual tension between Anita and Robert because Robert was gay, which assuaged Brian’s jealous nature.
Before John had to leave, he spent several minutes talking with Brian alone. They were deep in conversation in the corner of the room. Bobby realized that they were the only two people in the world who could have that conversation. John Lennon talked of fame and keeping his sanity and had a lot to say while Brian listened intently. When John said good-bye, Bobby saw a tear in Brian’s eye.
Bobby and Clovis quickly organized an expedition to find Anita and put Brian in the backseat of the Mini. When they arrived at Fraser’s gallery, they found Anita sipping champagne and looking gorgeous in a new dress. The minute she saw Brian, she rushed into his arms. They held on to each other, hugging and kissing. All their past animosity evaporated instantly. It was as if it never happened. Bobby noticed Anita’s black eye was nearly healed, and with makeup it had almost disappeared. Bobby knew the ugly truth though. It was still there and nothing could erase it.
“Keith invited us to Redlands for the weekend!” Brian shouted.
“Keith did that? What a wonderful idea!” Anita sang. “Let’s go.”
Bobby added, “Keith said that George and Pattie Harrison are coming down and so is Robert. It’s going to be a great weekend.”
Brian swept Anita off her feet and out of the building. Later, as Anita packed her suitcase, she asked about Claudine Jillian. Brian said nothing about being with her the night before her death. Mutually, they decided not to go to the funeral because it would be too much of a bummer. Besides Mick and Marianne had already left for Redlands, and Keith was right behind them.
Clovis and Bobby decided to take Keith up on his offer, plus John suggested they keep an eye on Brian to make sure he didn’t get too whacked out and embarrass himself. Brian insisted on having dinner in London that night, so the foursome would make the drive the next morning.
When Clovis got home and told Erlene about the party at Redlands, she steadfastly refused to go. She didn’t like Brian anymore. She didn’t want to have to act like she didn’t punch him at The Scotch of Saint James.
“Fuck that little weasel,” she said. “You better be careful honey, or they’ll dose you with that LSD again. That’s some nasty shit.”
“I will.”
“And for God sake, watch what you put in your mouth.”
“Okay.”
“You can’t trust those damn rock stars.”
Bobby walked through the silent apartment, remembering all the gleeful noises Winston made, and he felt empty. He still hadn’t been able to have a real conversation with Cricket and apologize. Had she been avoiding him? Every time he called, it was the wrong time. Tonight, he was determined to finally get through and resolve their differences. He dialed her number in Baltimore.
The overseas operator connected him. The static and crackle on the phone lines made ordinary conversation difficult.
A female voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Cricket? It’s Bobby.”
He waited a second for some type of response. When there was none, he plunged ahead.
“Honey, we’ve got to talk.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Bobby told Cricket the whole story, about how Brian dosed them and how he wandered through the park all night. He left nothing out. When he finished, Cricket sighed.
“I already know,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Erlene called. She told me everything. She managed to get through on the telephone, even though you couldn’t. She even called at a decent hour. Unlike you.”
“Did you get my telegram?”
“Yes, I got your silly telegram. What’s wrong with you, Bobby Dingle?”
“So much has happened since you left. A girl was murdered and Brian’s a mess.”
Her voice was cool.
“Brian’s state of mind doesn’t surprise me, but a girl was murdered? What happened? Did he kill her?”
“No, of course he didn’t! She was a model friend of Anita’s. She was stabbed in public.”
Bobby could hear sobbing in the background. He realized that Cricket was crying and holding the receiver away from her face.
“Honey? Are you crying?”
Cricket sniffed into a tissue.
“Why don’t you come home? You’re getting sucked deeper and deeper into Brian’s sordid little soap opera. Get out. Get out now before it’s too late. I miss you. Winston misses you. We’re waiting for you.”
“It’s tough right now. I’ve been trying to get a flight, but there’s an airline strike.”
“It’s about Brian Jones, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but …”
Bobby thought he could hear Winston in the background playing. It made his heart ache.
Cricket’s voice was firm.
“I don’t want you hanging around with Brian. He has really bad karma. I can feel it. It’ll rub off on you. He’s a disaster waiting to happen. Your place is with your family, not hanging around with decadent, narcissistic rock stars.”
Bobby sighed.
“I can’t leave yet. Brian needs me.”
“What’s more important, your family or Brian Jones?”
“I just can’t walk out on him now. I promised John.”
“Choose, Bobby Dingle. A month ago, you didn’t even know this guy; now you’re babysitting him. How much of this is you being starstruck? You, Bobby Dingle, are hanging out with one of the Rolling Stones, the big bad Stones, the anti-Beatles. Isn’t your relationship with John enough? Do you really need this?”
Bobby contemplated his answer, but before he could say anything, she spoke again.
“Winston and I want you to come home.”
“You know I love you and I miss you and Winston more than I can say. As soon as the planes are flying again, I’ll come right back.”
“How long will that be?”
“As soon as the strike is over. It’s already been a couple of days, so hopefully it will be resolved soon.”
“And you promise you’ll come right home?”
“As soon as I can get a flight.”
Cricket sighed again. “All right. But be careful.”
The weekend retreat at Redlands was turning into quite a party. The list of friends grew to include Robert Fr
aser and his Moroccan servant, Mohammed Ajaj, and Christopher Gibbs. Someone had invited a King’s Road flower child named Nicky Cramer, and he drove up with Robert. Nicky was a space cadet and why anybody would have invited him was a mystery. Tony Bramwell, an associate of the Beatles and friend of Mick Jagger’s, plus photographer Michael Cooper also made the trip.
Redlands was Keith’s country estate with plenty of bedrooms with a huge dining hall and grand living room.
Keith’s usual driver, Tom Keylock, was ill, and somehow Skully got the job to drive down to Redlands. He’d been hanging around the Stones office lately, looking for a way to ingratiate himself and put him next to the Stones.
“Drive Keith? No problem,” he said cheerfully.
Keith’s entire entourage stopped at Abbey Road Studios before they left London to witness the Beatles recording a brilliant new song called “A Day in the Life.” Buzzed from the genius of the song and several joints, Keith led the throng into the night feeling creative and exultant.
Skully invited Acid King Leon Silverman to ride with them, which pissed Keith off. However, once he saw the contents of Leon’s briefcase, he changed his mind. It was an apothecary of recreational drugs, including huge amounts of purple haze.
They arrived at Redlands around midnight on Saturday. After building a roaring fire in the huge Tudor fireplace, they set about exploring the contents of Acid King Leon’s briefcase. Keith was particularly keen to try the purple haze.
They sat around the cozy fire and rolled joints. Keith pulled out his guitar and played. He strummed his vintage Gibson Hummingbird acoustic. The same chords that would eventually become the song “No Expectations.” The chords were sad, yet beautiful. Keith’s guitar playing could hover on the edge between feelings. He had the ability to make you hear what he didn’t play, along with what he did. Everyone in the group was mesmerized by his playing. He played far into the night.
The next day, Keith woke up around noon and found Acid King Leon already up. Leon suggested a magical mystery tour of Sussex in his minivan, including a trip to the beach. Most of the guests went along, happily tripping through the countryside. Leon dispensed the purple haze freely. Before long, the entire group was flying.
They returned to the house after dark. Everyone was tired and feeling mellow after a long acid trip. Robert Fraser’s servant, Mohammed, made dinner. George and Pattie Harrison left to return to their house in Surrey. Marianne went upstairs to take a bath. She was the only one who hadn’t brought a change of clothes, so after the bath she wrapped herself in a large fur rug and came downstairs just as Keith put on Bob Dylan’s latest album—the masterpiece double album Blonde on Blonde. Someone noticed a face peering through the window.
“It’s probably just a fan,” Keith said. The doorbell rang.
“Let’s be quiet and maybe they’ll go away.”
Shortly after George and Pattie left, Keith heard knocking at the door. He looked through the peephole and saw a group of twenty uniformed dwarves dressed in blue with shiny metallic bits and helmets. Keith swung open the big front door and invited them in with open arms.
Flying on acid, Keith said, “Wonderful attire! Am I expecting you? Come on in, it’s chilly outside.”
In stepped Chief Inspector Gordon Dimely.
“I have a warrant to search this premises,” he said curtly.
Keith was so high, he didn’t realize it was a bust.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “Come on in and we’ll read it by the fire.”
The police searched everyone. Policewomen searched the ladies. Marianne ran upstairs wrapped in her fur rug and let it drop just as she got to the top step.
“Search me first!” she squealed.
Acid King Leon Silverman’s briefcase was sitting on the table in plain view. One of the cops asked about the contents of the briefcase.
Silverman quickly explained it contained sensitive film for an American TV show that would be exposed if the briefcase were opened. Miraculously, the cops believed him. There was enough LSD in the briefcase to send him to prison for a long time, but apparently not today.
The phone rang and Keith picked it up. It was Brian and Anita saying that they were about to leave Courtfield Road to come to Redlands. They’d been shopping, and it had taken extra time to leave the house, but now Brian was anxious to get rolling.
“Don’t bother,” Keith deadpanned. “The cops are here. We’ve just been busted.”
Chapter Six
Yesterday’s Papers
Brian ran around his townhouse like a maniac, throwing things into two suitcases open on the bed. Anita had caught a full dose of Brian’s paranoia and was frantically doing the same.
“Hurry!” he shouted. “They could bust in any second!”
Bobby tried to calm him.
“Be cool. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Clovis had turned on the TV in Brian’s bedroom and was watching BBC News. The Redlands bust was the lead story, the biggest story of the year so far. The video of Mick and Keith being led away in handcuffs, surrounded by cops, was disconcerting. Every tabloid, including News of the World, screamed the headlines, fanning the flames.
“That’s what they want to do to me!”
Brian pointed at the screen.
“As soon as they get their hands on me, I’m finished!”
The picture shifted to the Chichester, West Sussex, police station where a large crowd had gathered. The reporter breathlessly read the copy, accentuating the well-known rock star names. Clovis watched with intense interest.
“Skully and Silverman. I’ll bet they had something to do with this. There was something not right about those guys,” Clovis said.
Bobby sat down next to Clovis to watch the TV screen. A press conference had just begun. A gaggle of cops and dignitaries were gathered in front of a bank of microphones. Reporters didn’t wait for instruction. They began to shout questions over the din. These weren’t the civilized Fleet Street reporters who worked for the well-known news sources; these were sleazy tabloid reporters who tried to spin the news to make everything seem more salacious. They were the bottom-feeders. Their questions were rude, pointed, and dripping with sarcasm. They seemed to have professional disdain for the Rolling Stones and took great comfort in their troubles. It was the very definition of schadenfreude. The bad karma seemed to swirl around the Stones endlessly.
Clovis pointed at the screen and shouted, “Wait a second! I know that guy!”
“What guy?” Bobby asked.
Clovis pointed at a man in the background wearing a black suit with a gray fedora pulled low over his eyes. He was nervously smoking a cigarette.
“That guy,” Clovis said, pointing.
“Who is he?”
“He’s a Baltimore narc I used to know on The Block. His name is Bruce Spangler. He was the biggest, baddest narc in town and eventually rose to be the top man in drug enforcement in Baltimore. Everybody knew him. He was a deal maker. He used to come in and watch the late show when I played at the Two O’Clock Club. He liked one of the strippers there. He busted me once for smoking a joint. What an asshole.”
Bobby scratched his head.
“Why would a Baltimore narcotics cop be in West Sussex?”
Clovis continued. “He eventually got promoted and went to work for the feds. Remember, Washington is right down the street from Baltimore, and he had a lot of friends. The Baltimore City Police Narcotics Enforcement Division was one of the most corrupt in the country when he was there, so he fit right in with Washington.”
“Are you sure that’s him?”
Clovis squinted at the screen.
“Yep. See the way he holds his cigarette? The way he stands? That’s him for sure. That son of a bitch busted me between shows! I was out in the alley and I had just lit a joint, and here comes this big asshole with his stripper ch
ick. He sees me and wants to impress her. Next thing I know, I’m in handcuffs and spending the night in jail.”
Spangler pushed his hat back, and Clovis got a better look.
“See? That’s him! He’s got a tattoo on the back of his hand.”
“What’s his name again?”
“His name is Bruce Spangler. I’d know that face anywhere. If an American narc is involved in the Redlands bust, you know something is rotten somewhere.”
Brian had been watching over their shoulders.
“Wouldn’t you know it? That’s Nobby Pilcher standing next to him.”
They all crowded around the TV.
Anita said, “The News of the World’s favorite detective sergeant.”
“The bastard,” Brian mumbled.
Brian seemed on the verge of a nervous fit. His breathing had become rapid and shallow. His asthma flared. Sweat bloomed on his forehead. He twitched.
Clovis said, “If those two have joined forces, it’s gonna be a very bad scene, man.”
Brian rasped, “I must be next. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Bobby tried to be the voice of reason.
“But where can you go?”
The telephone rang, jarring them back to reality. When Brian and Anita made no move to pick it up, Bobby acted as valet.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was instantly recognizable with its thick Scouse accent.
“Dust Bin Bob? What are you doing at Brian’s house answering the phone like a common career girl?”
Bobby recoiled.
“John? Is that you?”
John Lennon’s voice could be incredibly funny at times, especially when he delivered his deadpan punch lines.
“No, it’s the Duke of Prunes, Dusty. I’m just checking to see if Brian’s getting enough fiber.”
“I just happened to be standing here next to the phone. Brian and Anita are packing.”
John cleared his throat.
“Good, because it’s you I want to talk to. Thanks for hanging out with Brian. He hates to be alone and he’s too trusting of people. The cops are on the warpath lately. It’s a recipe for disaster. If he should get busted and go to jail, he’ll freak out. I believe he’s actually capable of suicide.”