Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  “You were faint. Low blood sugar, whatever, that’s all it was.”

  Erlene looked at Clovis. “I love you, honey, but that was more than morning sickness.”

  Clovis looked at Bobby for a long unhappy moment.

  “Dust Bin Bob, can I talk to you in private for a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  Bobby and Clovis stepped away from the car, out of Erlene’s earshot.

  Clovis put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Hey, man, would you do me a favor? Don’t encourage Erlene with all this ghost talk. The truth is your mind has been working overtime since Tom found that skull in the basement.”

  “I know what I saw, Clovis.”

  Clovis looked around to make sure no one was listening. “You know what you saw? You saw a chick from the party with a long dress on. You saw a chick who probably smoked too much weed and drank too much wine and got a little sick and came up here to go to the bathroom. You saw a chick who wandered into George’s bedroom and sat down on the bed, and that’s all. She split right after that. That’s why you didn’t see her at the party. She wasn’t a ghost. That part was all in your mind.”

  “But, I saw her!”

  “I know you saw her. That’s not the question. Was she transparent? Could you see right through her? Did she disappear into thin air in front of you? Did she exhibit any ghostlike characteristics? Did she float around the room? No! So how can you be so damn sure she was a ghost?”

  Bobby stammered. “But …”

  “All I’m saying is be cool around Erlene. God bless her, she means well, and she’s convinced that girl was a ghost. She’s pregnant. I don’t need any extra pressure on her. Can you understand that?”

  Bobby hung his head. “Yeah.”

  “So you promise to cool it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got no proof either way, right?

  Bobby shrugged.

  “No proof …”

  Brian came out of house like aristocracy visiting the peasant village at the foot of his castle.

  “Our work here is done. I didn’t see a thing. Let’s go buy some records.”

  Despite what Clovis said, Bobby couldn’t get Eleanor Rigby out of his mind. That was as good a name as any other to call her. And it seemed to fit. She haunted his waking hours.

  Bobby drove through the streets of Baltimore. Brian was fascinated by all he could see through the windows. This was the gritty soul of a city, something a visiting Englishmen would never know. Brian took it all in.

  They parked the car and walked half a block to the world famous Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack in East Baltimore. The shop was on a corner in a distressed neighborhood. It had accordion folding bars to cover the windows at night. Several businesses along the block were boarded up. Trash blew in the streets and children grew up amid the debris.

  To say that Brian stood out would be an understatement. The Golden Stone was dressed like the Prince of Strange in a flowing gold robe over purple velvet pants and white ruffled shirt.

  As they approached the shop, Preston Washington, the three-hundred-pound black goliath of a man who owned and operated the store, looked up. He sat in a wooden chair in front of the shop, balancing a plate of pork ribs on his knees. He had barbecue sauce on his chin, and he held a bone in his meaty fingers.

  Preston wore a three-piece pimp-master pinstripe suit with a black silk shirt and a silver tie that looked like it had been knotted by Eskimos pulling hard with their teeth after chewing on whale blubber.

  When Preston saw three white men and a drop-dead beautiful white woman heading his way, he dropped the bone and quickly wiped his hands and face.

  When they got close enough for Preston to put on his glasses and squint at them, he recognized Bobby and Clovis.

  “Robby the Limey! Clovis, my man! What brings you to my humble soul shack … with all these beautiful people?”

  Bobby and Clovis hugged Preston Washington. Preston knew that Bobby always brought him great customers, including an after-hours buying spree with the world famous Beatles.

  “This is a very important person,” Bobby said, waving his hand at Brian.

  “Yes, I can see that.” Preston looked Brian up and down, then cracked a huge smile and laughed. “I’d like to meet his tailor.”

  “Preston Washington, this is Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones.”

  “You don’t say?”

  They shook hands.

  “I’ve heard of you boys. You play a lot of blues and R&B.”

  “Used to,” Brian said. “The rest of the band wants to play psychedelic shit.”

  “Oh, well that’s too bad.”

  Bobby said, “Brian wants to buy some records.”

  Preston’s baritone voice filled the room.

  “Oh, I get the picture. You want the Hi-Dee-Ho Man’s recommendations. Save you some time, right? The crème de la crème of the R&B scene.”

  Preston led them into the amazing Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack, where every inch of wall and ceiling space was covered with posters, picture sleeve singles, album covers, and signed photos. Preston pointed at a picture sleeve single of “Get Off My Cloud” by the Rolling Stones. Sure enough, there was a young Brian on the far right, looking out from one of the most famous haircuts in rock and roll.

  “I knew I had one of yours.”

  Brian was overwhelmed. He stared at the walls in amazement.

  “Where do I begin?”

  Preston wasted no time putting on the first record.

  “Check this out, a cat named Toussaint McCall, out of New Orleans on the Ronn label. The song is called ‘Nothing Takes the Place of You.’” The song was slow, like Gospel, and featured a Hammond B3 organ. The vocal sounded downright painful to sing, and Toussaint McCall sang his guts out.

  Brian had never heard anything like it. “I’ll take it!”

  “How about something new by Little Milton on Checker? J. J. Barnes on the Groovesville Label? ‘Pata Pata’ by Miriam Makeba? Unbelievable! ‘Shout Bamalama’ by Mickey Murray! I loves my chicken, honey! Slim Harpo! Robert Parker’s ‘Barefootin’.’”

  They spent the next forty-five minutes building a massive pile of records on the checkout counter for Brian to purchase. The experience of the Hi-Dee-Ho Soul Shack was Mecca to an English audiophile like Brian. He chose so many records that he had to arrange for shipping back to London.

  Preston loved showing the English kids what was real. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of R&B music. They spent a blissful hour going through Preston’s recommendations.

  “One last thing,” Brian said. “I want a copy of that unbelievable song by Harvey. The one that John keeps raving about.”

  Preston laughed like Santa Claus, his massive belly jiggling in his loose silk pants.

  “You English boys! I love you guys! What is it about Harvey that drives you nuts?

  “It’s like nothing we’ve ever heard before,” said Brian truthfully.

  Preston spun around with practiced speed and whipped out a 45 rpm copy of “Any Way You Wanta” by Harvey on Tri-Phi Records with its distinct blue-and-turquoise label. He handed it to Brian.

  “I keep ’em handy. Always have some in stock. One of the great R&B finds of the decade. A minor hit, but a huge turntable favorite. Harvey is Harvey Fuqua of the Moonglows. Every person I play it for buys a copy.”

  Brian examined the label. He saw that Harvey was indeed “Formally of the Moonglows” on the credits. He also noted that the song was written by Fuqua and Fuqua. He wondered who the other Fuqua might be.

  Preston said, “This song has magic. I never get tired of it.”

  Preston snatched the record out of Brian’s hand and put it on the turntable behind the counter. He dropped the needle, and the song filled the room with a bouncy irresistible rockin’ cha-cha beat.

 
; The nonsensical lyrics made perfect sense. Harvey did his monkey cries and when he got to the “sucky, sucky, sucky” parts and Brian was dancing in the aisles.

  “Sucky, sucky, sucky, suck-kay! Any way ya wanta! Anywayawant, anywayawant, anywayawant, a-nong-nong-nong ANYWAYYYYY! Koo-koo-koo-choo!”

  “No wonder John loves it so much!” Brian shouted. “This is genius!”

  The song wound through, pulling Brian along like a man being dragged by sheer force of will.

  “Give me two copies of that one!” Brian said.

  After Preston tallied up the sale and gave Brian a hefty discount, he smiled. He’d made a tidy profit. It constituted the biggest sale he’d made since the Beatles were there.

  “Can we have a word?” Bobby asked Preston.

  “Of course.”

  After Bobby, Clovis, and Brian went into the other room, Preston closed the store and locked the door. “Now, what is it I can do for you?”

  “Our friend Brian here just got busted for drugs in London. Bruce Spangler was there. Seems like he’s working for the English cops, too.”

  Preston smiled. “Well, that’s something we’ve got in common. I’ve been busted by Spangler, too. He tried to shut me down. What an asshole.”

  “What’s he doing in London?”

  “He loves to bust celebrities. Especially rock stars.” Preston lowered his voice. “I know a few things about Bruce Spangler. When he came after me, I had to get nasty to get him off my case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Spangler’s got an Achilles’ heel that no one knows about … ’cept maybe me.”

  Bobby said, “Well, what is it?”

  “I can’t tell a nonbeliever. This stuff is too powerful to trust outside the church.”

  “The church?” Clovis groaned. “Are you nuts?”

  “You mean he won’t tell us?” Bobby asked.

  “Not until we all get confirmed in the eyes of the Lord,” Clovis said.

  “Are you putting me on?”

  Preston was adamant. He wagged a finger. “You got to fix it up with Jesus before I can tell you a word.”

  “How do we do it?” Bobby asked.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, you all come with me to see Reverend Julius Cheeks. Then we’ll talk.”

  Bobby said, “You can’t be serious.”

  “But, I am. You all come to church with me tomorrow and get infused with the power of the Gospel, and I’ll consider you trustworthy enough to share my secret.”

  “Ah, we’re not really churchgoers, Mr. Washington,” Brian said.

  “Well, you are tomorrow.”

  “Who is this Reverend Julius?”

  Preston had been waiting for that question. He paused, cracked a big friendly smile as if he finally got to tell the punch line to his joke. “Who’s Julius Cheeks? Only the greatest singer in the world, and he’s preachin’ the Gospel right here in Baltimore at noon at the First Pentecostal Church of God. Would you expect me, Preston Washington, the Hi-Dee-Ho Man, to take you to some second-rate Gospel show?”

  Bobby blushed. “No, of course not.”

  Preston’s voice boomed. “Hell no! I’m telling you, this man has the voice of the ages. He taught James Brown and Wilson Picket how to sing. He was in the Soul Stirrers with Sam Cooke. He was in the Sensation Nightingales. This man wrote the book on soul shouting. Every time you hear a great R&B singer get down and scream, you’re hearing Julius Cheeks. When I say he is the greatest, I don’t mean one of the greatest. I mean the greatest of all. Got that? Guys like Wilson Pickett would have to stand on a chair just to kiss Julius Cheeks’ ass. Someday, all you’ll remember about tomorrow will be that was the day you got to see Julius Cheeks in person. I have given you a rare opportunity, my friends. Grab it while you can.”

  Preston walked over to a bin of Gospel music and checked the Julius Cheeks section. He pulled out several rare Julius Cheeks records on the legendary Peacock Label

  “How come I don’t know about this?” Clovis asked.

  “White people don’t know shit about Gospel. You never got religion, so where would you hear it? I grew up in church.”

  Brian’s voice was soft. “Everything else this man has shown us has been absolutely brilliant. I have no reason to think it would end here. I say we go and hear the greatest singer of all time.”

  Bobby said, “Then you’ll tell us about Bruce Spangler’s Achilles’ heel?”

  Preston Washington’s eyes were big and watery. “Get right with Jesus, and I’ll get right with you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Play with Fire

  Clovis and Bobby walked down East Baltimore Street on the infamous “Block.” It brought back memories for both of them. Clovis got his start by playing guitar in the strip clubs that lined the Block.

  Most of the old places were still open, but with different management. Blaze Starr was no longer at the Two O’Clock Club, the place where Clovis had fallen in love with Erlene, watching her strip for the fat, bald men smoking cigars and stuffing twenties into her G-string from the front rows. They walked past the famous Gayety Theatre, past the peep-show sex shops, past countless bars, to the end of the block where Livingston’s Loans pawnshop stood on the corner.

  “Everything looks different,” Clovis said.

  “Everything looks the same,” Bobby replied, “just dirtier.” They went inside the shop.

  The walls were filled with instruments and the display cases were full of jewelry. Manny Brillstein was sitting in the same place he was the first time Bobby walked in years ago. He was eating a corned beef sandwich, just like he was the first time they met.

  He eyed Clovis suspiciously. “I know you. You’re that drunken guitar player who always got fired.”

  “Yep.”

  “Clovis Hicks! I never forget a face! Where have you been? I assumed you were in prison or dead.”

  “Thanks for the vote confidence, Manny. Actually, I’ve been in England, working in a recording studio.”

  “You mean you got a steady job? Hey, you ever seen Erlene anymore? She disappeared around the same time you did.”

  “I married her.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. And I remember you friend here, Robby the Limey, right? You bought the Gibson.”

  “Yep.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  They explained about Brian and asked if he had any information about a certain well-known Baltimore narc.

  Manny got real quiet. “Let’s step out for a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

  “Sure, Manny.” Clovis could tell that Manny didn’t want to talk in the store. The place was probably bugged.

  They stepped around the corner to a rundown luncheonette. Manny ordered coffee and a piece of cherry pie. Clovis had a Coke. Bobby had a cup of tea. Manny made small talk until the waitress walked away.

  Once she was gone, he wrote something on a napkin with a disposable ballpoint pen. He looked at it for a moment, as if weighing whether to give it to them or not. He seemed torn. Then, after a few moments, he slid it across the counter to Bobby. There were just two words on the paper: Angelo Arnello.

  Bobby folded the napkin and put it in his pocket.

  “Is that it?” he asked

  Manny nodded. “You can take it from there.”

  Bobby and Clovis got up and left.

  The church was a storefront with whitewashed windows. Painted by hand in block letters at eye level on the door was the simple notice first pentacostal church of god along with a handpainted cross. Inside, the room was sparse and warm. There was a coffee urn at one end and some pastries on a table. Bobby began to sweat immediately. Rows of metal folding chairs filled most of the room. A single podium sat on a six-inch riser. On the riser were a set of pink champagne Ludwig drums, an upright piano, a
nd a Fender Super Reverb amp with a beautiful sunburst Gibson ES semi-hollow body guitar leaning against it. It was the same model guitar Chuck Berry used.

  “Check out that guitar,” whispered Brian to no one in particular. “I wonder if he’d sell it.”

  “That would be in bad taste,” Bobby pointed out. “It’s an instrument of God.”

  “Don’t you already own an Gibson ES?” Clovis asked.

  “No, I have a Thunderbird.”

  Clovis nodded. Brian loved the way Gibsons played. The neck felt very comfortable his hand. It wasn’t too thin like a Rickenbacker or too wide like the Vox Phantom series. Gibsons were just right.

  Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and Brian Jones were the only white faces in the crowd. Preston had insisted that Erlene stay home because, with her stripper’s body, “she might start a damn riot” among the brethren.

  To say that they stood out would have been an understatement. Everyone stared. Especially at Brian. He appeared to them like a visitor from Mars.

  A few people approached Preston Washington and greeted him warmly. He hugged all of them, his bulk swinging freely around the room.

  Preston introduced his white English friends. Just before the service, the great Reverend Julius Cheeks came out in all his glory, surrounded by his entourage, and personally worked the room. He had a handshake and a good word for everybody there. He made a special point of welcoming Preston Washington and his white guests.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Julius said. He nodded at Brian and the outlandish way he was dressed.

  “This man looks like the King of Something.”

  Julius Cheeks was dressed like an R&B singer in a shiny silver sharkskin suit, baby blue tab shirt, and crisply tied black silk tie. He sported a processed pompadour haircut and a Clark Gable-style mustache, trimmed to a tight line just above his lip.

  You wouldn’t know to look at him now, but Julius had lived an incredibly hard life. His childhood was spent in deep poverty, and he suffered every indignity of an uneducated black in the segregated south. He’d left school in the second grade to pick cotton in the fields. Singing his heart out in church was his only release.

  Julius’s smile was incredibly soulful.