Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  Arnello’s Lincoln Towncar slid into Spangler’s driveway, blocking the way. The window opened and a puff of blue cigar smoke wafted out.

  “Hello, Narc.”

  “Mr. Arnello? What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “So … talk.”

  “Not here. I need some privacy. Get in the car.”

  Spangler got in the car.

  “We’re going to the airport.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a real estate deal I want to show you, but you can only see it from the air.”

  “Real estate? But, why include me?”

  “We feel we owe you one. I’m pulling a couple of people together to throw down a million each to develop a strip of land we just bought. Houses, condos, golf courses, retail space, the works. There’s a lot of money to be made. We thought you might be interested.”

  “But my wife and kids are waiting for their hamburgers. Couldn’t we do this some other time?”

  “Forget about them. We got things to talk about.”

  Spangler suddenly became very nervous.

  Brian’s hands were shaky as he tried to light a cigarette. He sat at the dinner table with Clovis and Dust Bin Bob in Bob’s London apartment.

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said he’s taking care of it personally,” Bobby said.

  “What does that mean?” asked Clovis.

  Brian’s voice had an emotional edge to it. He sounded whiney and petulant. “It probably means he’s going to kill him. Then I’ll have blood on my hands.”

  His face had aged ten years. The bags beneath his eyes quivered. His skin sagged. He had four months of freedom left before his most current bust went to trial, and he was still out on probation with court-ordered regular psychiatric care. In the house of cards that had become Brian’s life, the first card had fallen, and soon the entire structure would come tumbling down.

  “I have to get out of here,” Brian said. “I have to get out of London.”

  “Where can you go where they won’t bug you?”

  Brian sighed.

  “Morocco. I can go to Morocco and record the Master Musicians of Joujouka.”

  “The Master Musicians of your hookah?”

  Brian was somber.

  “No, man. The Master Musicians of Joujouka. I’ve always wanted to record them.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “That’s the cover story. We’re off to make a record, and we’ll be gone awhile. It will keep the reporters at bay. We can get some rest and record some great music.”

  “Won’t the reporters follow us?”

  “Where we’re going, they won’t be able to. It’s too remote.”

  Clovis and Bobby stood with their mouths open.

  “We can’t go to Morocco, we’re married. Our wives would worry about us.”

  “Let’s call ’em right now.” Brian looked at his watch. “It’s not too late over there.”

  Clovis and Bobby exchanged worried glances. Brian called the international operator and placed a call to Baltimore. A minute later, Cricket answered.

  “Oh my God! This is so weird! We were just talking about you guys.”

  “This is Brian. Bobby and Clovis are right here. I just got busted again, and I have to get out of London as soon as possible. Can Dust Bin Bob and Clovis come with me? We’re going to the Rif Mountains to record the Master Musicians of Joujouka.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Morocco, North Africa.”

  “Um … Can I talk to Bobby?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He handed the phone to Bobby.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hello, honey. Brian wants to take you to Morocco. Is it safe there?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay.”

  “He says he wants to record the master magicians of something or other?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I really don’t want you to go. It seems dangerous. I know nothing about Morocco. Erlene insists as long as you stay with Brian, nothing bad will happen. Erlene says you two are the key. You have to stick together.”

  “I really don’t need this.”

  “How do you think I feel? I want my husband to come home as soon as possible. You couldn’t be any farther away; you’re on the other side of the world.”

  “A few months ago, you would have never let me go on a trip like this. Why the change of heart?”

  Cricket’s breathing was so full of frustration and anxiety that Bobby could feel it three thousand miles away.

  “Erlene says she’s been communicating with Eleanor Rigby.”

  “Oh, shit. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “She’s trying to warn Brian about something.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go to Morocco at all.”

  Erlene took the phone from Cricket’s hand. “No! You have to go! You have to stay together! That’s the key.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until this is over.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Forget it,” Bobby said.

  Cricket and Erlene began talking at the same time. Cricket had great trepidation about the trip, but Erlene kept trying to reassure her that everything would be all right as long as they stayed together. She was insistent. In a weird way, they canceled each other out. Bobby was in the middle.

  Eventually, Cricket came back on the phone alone.

  “Bobby? As much as I don’t like it, I guess you’re going to have to go with Brian and Clovis to Morocco. Oh God. This is such a nightmare. I’m scared for you. Please be careful.”

  “I will. Brian wants me to photograph the trip. I am going to do some buying for the shop as well. Moroccan stuff is very popular now.”

  “Don’t get into any trouble over there.”

  “Of course not.”

  Bruce Spangler was nauseous. Angelo and Carmine had put him in a private plane despite his most fervent protestations, nearly forcing him into the cabin. Carmine’s suit jacket came open while they struggled, and his gun flashed momentarily in its shoulder holster. Spangler stopped resisting.

  They took off from a small airfield in Maryland with Angelo at the controls and circled the airport. Angelo flew the plane for about twenty minutes until they were over some rugged terrain in a remote region.

  “Where’s the real estate?” Spangler asked innocently.

  He hadn’t said a word since they took off.

  Carmine said, “There ain’t no real estate. We’re gonna throw your ass outta the plane, chump.”

  Carmine frisked Spangler from behind and took a .38 Special snub-nose revolver out of his pocket.

  “What?”

  Angelo laughed. “He’s joking. Relax.”

  Carmine finished his inspection of Spangler and found a two-shot Derringer in an ankle holster. He held it up. “Cute little gun. I’ll just take that.” He slipped it his coat pocket.

  “You know, you really pissed me off,” Angelo said. “You made me look bad. Why?”

  “I thought everybody wanted those dirty Rolling Stones behind bars.”

  “You think I forget this shit? You gotta be crazy. I told you specifically to lay off Brian Jones and the Rolling Stones, and you went ahead and busted him anyway. Why is that?”

  “I didn’t bust him. Scotland Yard already had it planned. They were hot to trot. I couldn’t stop ’em.”

  “What? You have no influence over these guys? Your fuckin’ buddies? That’s weak.”

  Spangler tried to sound convincing. “They have a thing for Brian Jones. They want to bring him down.”

  “I don’t care. When I told not to bust Bria
n Jones, I meant it. He’s under my protection now. Remember, I got the goods on you twenty times over. Now you’re gonna have to pay for your mistake. Open the door, Carmine.”

  “No! Please! Don’t throw me out!”

  Carmine unlocked the door to the small aircraft. Wind came howling through the crack. Carmine pushed the door open.

  “Stop!” Spangler yelled, “I learned my lesson.”

  “No, you didn’t. Get ready, Carmine.”

  Carmine unlocked Spangler’s seat belt. Spangler held on to anything he could. His fingers gripped the lip of the door like iron clamps.

  “When you cross Angelo Arnello, it shows disrespect. I can’t let you get away with that. Gotta set an example every once in a while. Besides, my kids like the music.”

  “That first step is a bitch, so watch it,” Carmine joked.

  Spangler begged. “Please, Mr. Arnello, just listen to me! I know a lot more about these rock stars than you think!”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  Spangler began to weep. “They’re being set up! The real heat ain’t drug busts; it’s getting rid of them!”

  “That’s nuts. They make money for people.”

  The wind howled through the cockpit. Spangler had to shout to be heard.

  “No! I swear! They’re gonna start rubbing them out. I got nothing to do with it. It’s a secret group. It might even be the government.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re gonna get rid of these rock stars. They got some kind of mission. It’s in their blood. These men control the world; they own the companies that owns the companies.”

  “You lie!”

  “No I don’t! They got a hit list! I’ve seen it!”

  Arnello signals for Carmine to shut the door. Without the wind whipping through the cabin, the atmosphere got a lot less frantic. Spangler had a chance to catch his breath. His heart was hammering.

  “All right, who’s on the list?”

  “Brian Jones, Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin …”

  “How do you know this shit?”

  “I worked with a guy, he was part of the drug bust team, but he didn’t work for any known agency. He was just there. He said Brian Jones had a price on his head. He was working for that secret group I told you about.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I think it was Skully.”

  “Skully what?”

  “Just Skully. He had a chick with him.”

  “Jimi Hendrix? Jim Morrison? Janis Joplin? These people are rebels. I like rebels. I’m a rebel myself. I live outside the law. I take offense if somebody whacks one of my friends.”

  Spangler looked hopeful.

  Arnello paused and let his voice drop to a low and threatening level. Spangler concentrated so he could hear every word.

  Arnello said, “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to guarantee Brian’s life, got that, asshole? His life! If any harm should befall Mr. Jones, if he should get hit by a truck or fall off a bridge, I would be extremely upset and I would come after you. Do you understand that? He dies; you die.”

  “But, it’s already too late! They’re already coming!”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  Spangler rubbed his forehead.

  “Aw shit …”

  “Let’s get this over with so I can be back in time for dinner. You want to live, Spangler? I’ll give you one chance. You just saved your life.”

  Without warning, Angelo banked the plane sharply to the right, and Spangler’s unlocked door flew open and hung down at the ground, slapping back and forth. His seat belt was still unhooked and dangled in the wind. He held on for dear life.

  “Gravity is a powerful thing,” Angelo said. “It has the ability to make all men speak the truth.”

  Spangler screamed. He was terrified. He looked down and saw the treetops far below.

  Arnello shouted above the din. He pointed down. “If I find out you’re lyin’ to me, that’s where you’re gonna end up!”

  Arnello righted the plane. The door swung shut again and the handle clicked. Spangler slid the lock in place. He was shaking with gratitude.

  “I’ll find out who it is, Mr. Arnello, and who put the contract out on Jones.”

  “Find out more about this secret group that wants to kill rock stars. My kids love that shit. Me? I don’t hear it, but if there’s a conspiracy I want to know.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Mr. Arnello.”

  “I know you will, Spangler. I know you will. Because you know I’m serious.”

  The 747 touched down as soft as a kiss on the runway in Tangier–Ibn Batouta Airport. Bobby stared out the window at the foreign world outside. He’d been absorbed in a lengthy article in the onboard magazine. The article described Morocco’s legendary racing pigeons. Strong, intelligent, and brave, they’d been bred for generations to do amazing things. During WWII, the pigeons flew with honor through the skies of North Africa. Some historians surmised that the Germans, who resented having “dumb animals” carry their most secret messages back and forth, may have actually won the war in the desert had they embraced Morocco’s ancient warfare traditions. The Allies did.

  Before they left, Bobby and Cricket agreed to talk on the phone twice a week on Tuesday and Thursday while the men were in Morocco. The only problem was that when they traveled to Joujouka in the Rif Mountains, there would be no phones or electricity. Bobby said he would find a way to keep in touch when they left civilization behind.

  Brian, Clovis, and Dust Bin Bob set out for another adventure. Brian stuck to his story that he was going to the Rif Mountains to record the Master Musicians of Joujouka. He needed no special visa to record there.

  As the passengers left the plane and walked down the movable steps across the tarmac, Clovis could see a few reporters in the arrival lounge. They were pointing at Brian and talking excitedly.

  “Look who’s here.”

  “The tabloids? Big deal. We’ll tell them the truth.”

  Bobby grabbed Brian’s arm. “Hold on. These guys don’t print the truth. The truth is boring. They want sensationalism.”

  “Okay, we’ll tell them we’re recording in the nude!”

  “Get serious, Brian,” Bobby said. “We’re supposed to be looking after you. Let’s just avoid the reporters altogether.”

  The heat in North Africa can be debilitating. It shimmers in the afternoon like ghosts hovering above the stones. Clovis couldn’t take it and told Brian so, but he just laughed that soulful laugh of his and pointed at the hookah. “That’s what that’s for.”

  “Oh …” said Clovis. “In that case …”

  Brian lit a big wooden match on the side of the table and fired up the bowl of fragrant brown hashish. The smoke billowed across the room. Brian coughed violently.

  “Steady there, kemosabe. Take it easy.”

  Brian smiled, his eyes watery and far away. “I shall never take it easy, Clovis. It’s not part of my code. Life is too bloody short for that kind of thinking.”

  Clovis leaned forward, took a short pull on the pipe, and sat back, his head spinning. He let a lazy, blue cloud of smoke drift from his mouth. Nothing tastes quite like hash. Pungent and mysterious, stinking of dreams, it’s the very essence of Morocco. A waiter brought more room temperature tea, and they sipped it to cool their throats. Brian shook his head.

  “This is the first place I came after Keith stole Anita from me. The rotten bastard took half the dope and half the records, too.”

  “It could have been worse. He could have taken it all.”

  The bags under Brian’s eyes quivered. “He must have had a rare attack of conscience. But the fact remains, he might have taken only half the stash, but he took all of Anita. And that’s what really hurts.”

  Brian had been an emoti
onal train wreck following the first trip here, and Clovis knew those wounds were still fresh. The complex relationships that swirled around the Stones and their women made for the worst kind of decadent rock and roll soap opera.

  Bobby returned from the hotel where he’d been taking care of registration for the group and sat down with them.

  “Everything’s set up. I got a rental car—a Land Rover, rigged for desert driving. This is going to be a hell of an adventure.”

  “I can’t wait,” Brian said.

  Bobby worried about Brian. Mick and Keith had taken over every aspect of the group, and Brian had become the odd man out. He wasn’t driven the way they were. He wasn’t as obsessed with keeping up with the Beatles as they were. He reacted to Mick and Keith’s musical activism by staying zonked out on drugs most of the time. Bobby could see their point. The Stones were a business, one of the two great bands of their era, and they had to deliver every time out. Brian lived up to his nickname “Liability” Jones.

  So now Brian, Clovis, and Dust Bin Bob sat in a café in Tangier waiting for writer/artist Brion Gysin, a friend of Brian’s. They’d only been here two hours and Brian was anxious to get out in the field. Clovis brought a pair of portable battery-powered Uher tape recorders, the best money could buy, and a selection of microphones to make sure they got every note. The machines were only two-tracks, but Brian assured Clovis there would be no overdubs.

  “These guys play live, all-in, one take. You gotta be ready, man.”

  Clovis would be, if the equipment worked. They’d have to lug it on their backs across the barren landscape, which was probably the real reason Brian brought Clovis and Bobby in the first place. It was worth it. Clovis had never seen Brian happier.

  “This place is magical. You can smoke dope right out in the open. I love it.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  Brian shook his head. “Brion Gysin actually knows these Joujouka guys. He hangs out with them in their little village up in the mountains. He’ll take us there. Without him, we would never find them.”

  Brian busied himself with another match, another toke. This time the others shook their heads when the pipe was offered.