by Greg Kihn
Bobby interrupted. “John, I understand, but really, I can’t be his minder twenty-four hours a day. I have my own life. Remember, as soon as the strike is over, I’m flying to Baltimore to be with my wife and son.”
John waited a beat. “Please keep an eye on Brian while you’re still here. I sense something terrible is coming. Do it as favor to me.”
Bobby let the words sink in.
“I will. But I won’t be around much longer.”
“Maybe Clovis could keep an eye on Brian after you’re gone. Everybody loves Clovis.”
“Why don’t you ask him? He’s standing right next to me.”
“Jolly good! Let me talk to him.”
Bobby handed Clovis the phone.
“It’s John Lennon.”
Clovis smiled and took the phone, half expecting it to be a joke. “There’s three words I thought I’d never hear.”
He brought he phone to his mouth and pressed the earpiece against his head. “What’s up, Johnny?”
John’s accent left no doubt.
“When Dust Bin Bob goes back to Baltimore, would you keep an eye on Brian for me?”
“Sure, man. No problemo.”
“You saw what happened at Redlands. Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen to Brian.”
“Will do.”
“Considerate it a personal favor to me.”
“You got it, pardner.”
Clovis hung up and looked at Bobby.
“Easy as pie, see?”
“I hope you didn’t bite off more than you can chew just now. This stuff has a way of wearing you down.”
Driving back through London traffic in Clovis’s Mini, BBC News played on the radio.
Bobby said, “I hope you did the right thing.”
Clovis became indignant.
“Hey, man. I don’t know about you, but when John Lennon asks me to do him a personal favor, I do it.”
“I’ve known you a hell of a lot longer than I’ve known Brian. I care more about you getting in over your head.”
“I don’t care. I just gave a Beatle my word. My word means something. If it’s a nightmare, it’s a nightmare. I’m still doing what I said I would do.”
“Just be careful, okay?”
Bobby and Clovis were alone with their thoughts when BBC News interrupted through the speakers. The strike was over.
Bobby said, “Take me home. I have to pack.”
“Morocco,” Brian said. “We’re going to Morocco. Brion Gysin invited me to come over and see the Master Musicians of Joujouka. He’s been trying to get me to come over and hear these guys. He says it’s the world’s only four-thousand-year-old rock band. He wants me to record them.”
Brian didn’t have to explain to Anita that Brion Gysin was a beat-generation expatriate living in Morocco; she already knew that. She knew William Boroughs hung out with Gysin at the legendary Beat Hotel. She knew he invented the “cut up” technique of writing used by Burroughs in his landmark novel Naked Lunch. She also knew Gysin was a friend of Brian’s.
Clovis whistled low.
“Morocco? Man, that’s far away.”
Brian said, “Everything’s legal there. We can smoke and relax without fear of the cops kicking in the door. We should all go together. Christopher Gibbs goes there on buying trips all the time for his antique shop. Why can’t Dust Bin Bob do the same? Moroccan stuff is very popular these days.”
“Because he’s on a plane bound for Baltimore as we speak.”
“Oh …”
No one had asked Clovis to go on the trip, and he was grateful. He had lots of work at Olympic Studio, more than he could handle. Still, he stood by dutifully and waited for Brian.
Brian would be surrounded by the Stones and their entourage. What could go wrong?
Indeed. Brian’s problems never seem to end. The gravitational pull of the black hole at the center of Brian’s bad karma sucked Clovis ever closer to the event horizon. Clovis felt sorry for Brian. For a man who had everything, he never seemed happy.
Bobby checked the time and called Cricket again.
The phone rang several times before it was answered. A series of clicks that preceded every transatlantic phone call ensued. Bobby waited until he was sure whoever had answered was listening clearly.
“Cricket? This is Bobby. Are you there?”
Bobby heard someone breathing on the other end of the line, but no words were spoken. After a few moments, the phone hung up breaking the connection.
What the fuck was that? Was that Cricket and she just hung up on me? Was it someone else in the house? Bobby’s heart raced.
He redialed the number quickly. This time, there was no answer. His mind began to weave strange scenarios.
He dialed one more time with the same result. Bobby felt a wave of Brian Jones–style paranoia pass over him.
The Stones office approved Brian’s trip to Morocco. They were anxious to get Brian away from London, away from the newspaper headlines, and most of all, away from the cops. At least in Morocco, there was no chance of getting busted.
Keith decided to come along, too. Mick and Marianne were already there. The plan was simple. Tom Keylock would meet Brian, Anita, and Keith at the Hôtel George V in Paris. He would bring Keith’s car, nicknamed “Blue Lena.” It was a huge blue 1965 Bentley S3 Continental Flying Spur, one of a limited edition of eighty-seven. Keith described it as, “Three tons of machinery, made to be driven fast at night.” It was six inches wider in the back than the front and required an experienced driver.
Tom Keylock’s duties weren’t spelled out. He was what they called a fixer. Tom Keylock was a hard man with a shady past. He seemed capable of violence, but no one had actually ever witnessed it. He acted as enforcer, bodyguard, concierge, and of course, driver. From the Stones management’s view, he was the perfect man for the job. His number one job was keeping the Stones out of trouble and off the front pages. He worked along side the Stones respected publicist, Les Perrin.
Bobby’s flight touched down at Friendship International Airport in Baltimore on Saturday morning. Bobby took a cab to the duplex that he had purchased after his marriage to Cricket on Southway, just a few blocks from Memorial Stadium.
He considered knocking on the door. He had a key, but he didn’t know what to expect on the other side of the door. In the end, he just let himself in.
“Hi, honey! I’m home!” he shouted cheerfully as he dropped his bags inside the front door.
He walked through the house to the kitchen. Cricket’s mother was feeding Winston a grilled cheese sandwich. As soon as Winston saw Bobby, he jumped into his arms.
“Daddy!” he squealed. “You’re home!”
Bobby hugged Winston and stole a glance at Cricket’s mother, Mrs. Samansky. She looked concerned.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“Didn’t you hear? The airlines were on strike. I got back as soon as I could.”
Mrs. Samansky eyed Bobby suspiciously.
“It certainly took you long enough.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Where’s Cricket?”
Mrs. Samansky cleared her throat and spoke clearly and precisely.
“She’s gone with her friends to the Read Street Festival.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a street fair on Read Street. They block the street from traffic, set up a stage, and have bands. All the kids go. It’s become quite the thing to do.”
“Are we open through all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is Dingles of Read open during the festival?”
Mrs. Samansky stood there and gaped at Bobby.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Bobby rummaged through a drawer and came up with a wel
l-worn set of keys. He dashed out the door.
“I’ll be right back, Winston! I gotta go find Mommy!”
Bobby found his old pickup truck parked in the alley behind the house. He doubted it would have enough juice in the battery to start. It had been sitting for months.
He got in, said a quick prayer, and twisted the keys in the ignition. To his surprise, it started right up, belching a great cloud of black smoke out the tailpipe. Bobby gunned the engine. More black smoke billowed out. After a few minutes, Bobby put the truck in reverse and rumbled out of the crumbling concrete carport. The tires crunched the uneven surface of the alley, which was full of gravel, broken glass, and garbage. He drove south to Read Street. Several blocks of the western end of the street were closed off and full of people. He parked his car several blocks away and walked to his antique shop, Dingles of Read.
Bobby walked down Read Street. The sleepy old street had changed. Now it was hippie central. Everyone was dressed in bright colors. Beads, feathers, and fringe were everywhere.
Unlike the fashion cool of London where the hipness was more sophisticated and the people expertly coiffed, these people had long unkempt hair, headbands, and wore crazy Indian clothes. They shuffled around as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Up toward the end of the street, near the Bum Steer leather store, a spattering of head shops had opened with Zap Comix and water pipes in the display cases. You could buy a poster of Albert Einstein and a pack of Zig-Zags at the same time.
A large stage had been erected at the western end of the street. Bobby could hear rock and roll blasting out the speakers. It wasn’t the gentle, upbeat rock and roll of the Beatles, it was much more aggressive. The group on stage was called the Uncertain Things, a Jefferson Airplane–style band with a female lead singer named Kathy. They were tight and loud. Bobby was transfixed. This was more like what he’d read about San Francisco than Baltimore.
He walked down the block and found the doors of Dingles of Read locked. He used his key to open the shop. He phoned his assistant manager, Graham. Graham’s mother said that Graham was at the Read Street Festival along with just about everyone else in Baltimore under the age of thirty. Bobby put the phone down hard, a little miffed that Graham had missed the retail opportunity of the year. He closed the shop and walked west on Read toward the stage.
He passed some familiar faces, Read Street regulars. He searched for Cricket’s face among the crowd. She was nowhere to be found.
The Uncertain Things had finished their set and Baltimore’s most popular band, the Urch Perch, were setting up their equipment. The female lead singer for the Uncertain Things approached Bobby.
“Aren’t you Robby the Limey?”
Bobby laughed. No one had called him that in years. Clovis had given him that nickname on his first night in town.
“You must know Clovis Hicks,” Bobby replied.
“Clovis is a good friend of mine. He helped me write some songs once. I’m Kathy.”
Bobby shook her hand. “Your band sounded great.”
“Thanks.”
Kathy noticed Bobby constantly scanning the crowd.
“Are you looking for somebody?”
“Yes, I’m looking for my wife, Cricket.”
“I know her! She was at the Maryland Institute, right?”
“Have you seen her?”
Kathy shrugged. “This place is crawling with art school people. I’m sure you’ll find her.”
Bobby said, “Have you noticed if my store has been open much lately? I’ve been out of town and I’m a little concerned. It’s called Dingles of Read. It’s right down there.”
Bobby pointed down the crowded street.
“I know that place. I couldn’t tell you when it’s open. The street has got lots of new businesses on it. It’s become a hot spot. I only come down here on weekends.”
Just then Bobby caught a glimpse of Graham on the periphery of the crowd. He was standing next to a girl his age with his hands in his pockets, looking in the general direction of the stage. Graham looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Excuse me,” he said to Kathy, and dashed after Graham.
The crowd was thick and it took a few moments to get next to him.
Bobby shouted. “Hey, Graham!”
Graham looked up, surprised to see Bobby.
“Mr. Dingle?”
“How come the store is closed?”
“You’re here?”
Bobby nodded. His voice took on an exasperated tone. “Yes, I’m here. And you obviously didn’t think I’d find out about this. Why is the shop empty on a Saturday?”
“I couldn’t get anybody to work today.”
“Well, how about you? You’re supposed to be in charge when I’m gone.”
“I wanted to go to the festival,” he mumbled.
“On the potentially biggest retail event of the year? With a street fair going on right outside our door? What were you thinking?”
Graham shrugged. “I figured most of the stuff we sell is too old for these people.”
“That’s what an antique store sells. Old stuff.”
Graham gave Bobby a long, hard look. “Graham, I hate to do this. You’re a nice kid, but you’re fired.”
Graham’s mouth dropped open. He clearly wasn’t ready to be fired. Reprimanded yes, but not fired. He needed this job. He was in school and jobs were scarce.
“Please, Mr. Dingle, don’t fire me. My parents will kill me. I need the money for school.”
Bobby studied Graham for a moment, looking him over. He was an honest kid, a little young for an antiques salesman, but he’d done a passable job. Teenagers and old ladies liked him, but he stunk as a salesman.
Bobby sighed. “All right. Maybe I was a little hasty. You promise not to do anything irresponsible like this again?”
Graham perked up. “I promise!”
The Urch Perch were running a line check, and it was very loud.
“Test! Test one! Test two!”
Bobby led Graham away from the speakers so they could talk.
“Get down there and open the store right now. Give everybody that comes in a free lollipop.”
“A lollipop?”
“There’s a box of them in my desk, bottom drawer. Put them on the counter.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Fifteen percent discount all day! No! Let’s say twenty! Twenty percent off everything during the Read Street Festival Sale. Make a sign, put it in the window.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dingle.”
“And give everybody a free button. There’s a box of assorted buttons behind the counter.”
“Those old ones? Like i like ike?”
“I bought that whole collection and nobody wants to buy them, so maybe we should give them away. Put the box on the counter marked free. Those old buttons are cool.”
“Okay.”
“And where’s my wife?”
Graham grinned. At last, he had an answer.
“Oh, Mrs. Dingle was with some of her friends, and they hung around for a while then they left. I heard one of them say they were going over to the Bluesette tonight after the festival.”
“What’s the Bluesette?”
“It’s a teenage nightclub on Charles Street. The Urch Perch live upstairs. They’re the house band there.”
“Why would Cricket go there?”
Graham’s crooked smile amused Bobby.
“For fun?”
“Cricket doesn’t go in much for nightclubs and drinking.”
“Oh, it’s a non-alcoholic club. They just have Cokes.”
Bobby was immediately reminded of the early days of the Beatles at the Cavern Club in Liverpool.
“Why do people go there?”
“For the
music. It’s a scene. They get good bands. Grin is playing there tonight.”
“Grin?”
“Yeah, they’re from DC. and they have a great guitar player named Nils Lofgren. I predict big things for that guy. They are really, really good.”
“Sounds like you hang out there a lot.”
Graham said, “There aren’t too many places to go.”
Bobby spent the rest of the afternoon looking for Cricket. He hung around the stage, walked up and down Read Street, browsed the new head shops, but Cricket was nowhere to be found.
Bobby walked to places downtown that she liked to go. He visited Abe Sherman’s Bookstore and browsed the magazines and the black light posters. He walked to the main branch of the Enoch Pratt Public Library on Cathedral Street and strolled through the stacks. He loved the quiet elegance of the old building; the smell of leather chairs, books, and paper. Built in 1931, it reminded Bobby of Liverpool. He checked out the Washington Monument and the park around it. He even stopped in at the Peabody Book Shop. No Cricket.
Where could she be?
Bobby remembered walking these same streets with Clovis, trying to explain the Beatles. Try as he could, he could never make Clovis understand the way he felt about the band, the way they were like brothers. It wasn’t until Ed Sullivan that Clovis got it. Everyone got it then. They’d gone from rags to riches in less than a year and a half.
Now it had all changed. John Lennon was a millionaire, and George Harrison lived on a country estate. Their friendship had changed, too. Bobby knew it was predicated on respecting their privacy. If they needed him, they knew exactly how to find him. The phone rang when it rang. Just like elderly Mrs. Swithins used to say in the old days at the flea market, “A watched pot never boils, La.”
Mrs. Swithins was a true philosopher. Whenever Bobby asked her how she was, the old lady would say she was “flat as piss on a plate.” You can’t get much flatter than that.
He remembered taking the Beatles to the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack and introducing them to proprietor Preston Washington, greatest record salesman in the world. He smiled when he remembered John and Preston’s conversation. The boys loaded up on records that night. It was still something they all remembered.