Painted Black (7 page)

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.

Alarmed now, Claudine began hurrying, looking for a policeman and trying to stay ahead of the frightening stranger. She wanted to cry out for somebody to help but she realized how ridiculous it would have sounded in broad daylight.

After Claudine thought she had finally lost her, she ventured a look behind only to be shocked to see the stranger was back, looking as determined as ever. Claudine panicked. She cut across streets and alleys, frantically trying to lose the stranger, but no matter what she did, there she was, like a phantom.

She hurried down Shaftsbury Avenue bumping into people and stumbling forward. She wanted to scream, but she didn't. She couldn't. She just kept running in little steps in her high heels. Saint Patrick's Cathedral was ahead.

She dodged a group of tourists and sprinted toward the back door to Saint Patrick's. There would be priests there, someone who could help her. It would be safe haven. She was sure.

Claudine ran up the steps to the old church, taking them two at a time, and launched herself through the unlocked oversize wooden doors. She expected worshippers, but the church was barren. Blind from going from bright afternoon sunlight into the darkness of the church, she stumbled past one of the pews. She nearly ran into one of the priests.

“Oh, thank God!” Claudine said. “Somebody's following me! I need help!”

Claudine stopped. As her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness of the cathedral, she noticed some alarming things about the priest she had just bumped into. He wasn't really a priest. He wore a black hooded robe that kept his face in dark shadow. The cross around his neck was upside down. It was made of some kind of polished black stone.

Claudine's terrified heart nearly leaped out of her chest. She tried to scream when the powerful arms of the counterfeit priest grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her around, and pulled her back against the wall. One of the evil priest's hands clamped over her mouth, and the other applied a chokehold around her neck. Claudine couldn't move or make a noise.

Like a ghost, the female stranger entered the church. She silently withdrew an elaborate WWII Nazi SS dagger from an inside pocket of her overcoat. The blade gleamed menacingly. It looked razor sharp. Claudine got a good look at the stranger. She saw her own terrified reflection in the stranger's sunglasses. She couldn't help thinking,
I know this person
.

Claudine tried to scream, but it was too late. The knife plunged into her heart. The blade shoved deep enough into her chest to cover the German inscription
Meine Ehre Hei
ß
t Treue
(My Honor Is Loyalty).

Claudine slid to the floor.

Chapter Five

Midnight Rambler

Brian woke late the next day and ordered a room service breakfast and a newspaper. When he saw the headlines, he nearly choked. He was struck numb to read about the murder of Claudine Jillian. It took several disbelieving moments for the truth to sink in. Brian turned a whiter shade of pale.

His ears rang and his heart raced.
No! Not Claudine!
For a moment, his hands shook so hard he couldn't read the words. He put the newspaper down and spread it on the bed. He read the article three times. The lurid headlines shouted at him: top model killed by nazi ripper!

Brian's paranoia agitated his fear
. It had to be a dream. It had to.

But it wasn't.

There was no mention of Brian being with Claudine in her apartment the night before, thank God. Was Brian a suspect? And who would kill Claudine? Why? It didn't make sense. She was such a sweet girl with no known enemies. The papers called it a ritualistic killing with a German WWII SS knife. The knife was left in her chest, shoved in to the hilt, the German inscription,
Meine Ehre Hei
ß
t Treue
, covered in blood.

The thought of it pushed Brian's already fragile paranoia over the top.

Nazis
, thought Brian,
we've brought out the bloody Nazis. It must have been that damn photo. Thank God
Stern
magazine refused to run it, but the tabloids have had it for weeks. Everybody's seen it now. They think I'm a Nazi! It was Anita's idea. The crazy bitch. She loved the controversy. She said, “Who cares? If they don't like it, fuck them. Besides, you look good in a Nazi SS uniform.”

Brian didn't know what to do. He didn't want to call the Stones office, and besides, there didn't seem to be anything to keep out of the papers as of yet. Brian and Claudine were the only ones who knew they were together that night. Brian's heart sank as he remembered making love to the beautiful, vibrant Claudine. And now she was dead. Was it in some strange way his fault? Did that night of passion have anything to do with her murder? Could the killer have been after Brian?

What did the inscription on the knife mean? “My Honor Is Loyalty.” Loyalty? Whose loyalty? The Stones? The fans?
A spurned lover from the past?
Brian let his mind stumble over all these thoughts like a blind man on an obstacle course.

He had to tell somebody. Brian called Bobby.

“Dust Bin Bob?”

“Yes?”

“Something terrible happened last night. Claudine Jillian was murdered.”

“I just saw the newspaper. It's shocking. They're calling it the Nazi Ripper. She was stabbed through the heart with WWII Nazi SS dagger in Saint Patrick's Church. How bizarre.”

“Who would kill Claudine? She was a threat to no one. Everybody adored her. This is all rather upsetting. I somehow feel responsible. Can you come over? I need to talk with you privately. I'm afraid the phones may be tapped.”

Bobby sighed.

“Why don't we meet in my shop? We're closed now. It's one hundred percent private, and I guarantee you no one's eavesdropping.”

“Yes, excellent! I'll see you there in one hour.”

Bobby hung up the telephone. John Lennon stood behind him. His hair longer and starting to creep over his shoulders. He'd grown a beard and mustache, too, like all of the Beatles. John's charisma glowed in the half-light.

“Did you tell him I was here?”

Dust Bin Bob shook his head.

“He has no idea John Lennon will be waiting for him.”

John rubbed his hands together.

“Good! Suddenly, the worm is on the other foot!”

“The worm?”

“The worm of truth!”

“Are you sure you want to surprise him? The guy is as jumpy as chicken on a hot plate.”

John Lennon smiled soulfully.

“When we met Elvis, he told us an outrageous story about his manager, Colonel Tom Parker. Seems the colonel used to promote a dancing chicken on the county fair circuit. He used an actual hot plate to burn the chicken's feet until the unfortunate bird couldn't help but dance. Elvis told me sometimes he felt like that dancing chicken.”

“Looks like Brian has a case of dancing chicken hot foot himself.”

John said, “He's my friend. He needs help. I think he deserves a good turn. You know I appreciate acid as much as the next freak, but there comes a point when you have to step back.”

Bobby spoke softly. “The problem is, he's expecting some kind of magic from me, like in the Philippines.”

John nodded his head.

“Manila was a nightmare for sure. And he's right. You did have magic that day. Maybe you can summon that same mojo again. You foiled an assassination attempt by your own brother. No one else could have done it. It was karma. God knows what would have happened had you not been there. The way I see it, you saved my life and the lives of all the Beatles.”

Bobby said, “Clive was certifiably insane.”

“Is he still alive?” John asked.

“Yes, he's still alive, rotting away in a Filipino prison. He'll never walk again. Let's hope he stays there.”

John said, “If one of those bullets would have even so much as grazed one of us, it would have been an international incident. It was your fate to be there, just like it's your fate to save Brian now.”

Bobby raised his hand. “Now hold on. Save Brian? I hardly know him. It's not like you and me. We were like brothers in the beginning. It's not the same with Brian.”

“He's
my
brother,” said John. “And that makes him your brother, too.”

Bobby's voice sounded whiny. “How can you expect me to save him? I can't save him from himself. The man's a bloody basket case.”

“It has to be you,” John said firmly.

“Why?”

John grinned, breaking the tension. “Because you're legendary Dust Bin Bob! Savior of rock stars!”

“Must you call me that? Now Brian's using it, too.”

“Because it has something to do with your mojo. As Bobby Dingle, you're just another guy, but as Dust Bin Bob, you're king of vinyl, friend of the Beatles, you have magic. You're a lifesaver.”

“Why don't you just help him yourself?” Bobby posed the logical question.

John shook his head.

“Can't do it. I'm a Beatle first and foremost. And Beatles can't get involved in another band's business, especially the Rolling Stones. No, I'm afraid it's up to you, Dusty.”

Bobby said, “I'm leaving for Baltimore as soon as the strike is over.”

“From what I read in the newspapers, it might be more than a couple of days.”

Bobby waved his hands as if directing traffic on Mars. “The minute that strike is over, I'm leaving. My wife is expecting me.”

John put his hand on Bobby's shoulder.

“I know, but can't you help just a little bit while you're here?”

Bobby couldn't say no to John Lennon.

“Why are you so concerned about Brian?”

John lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air.

“Let me tell you a little story. Do you remember when Andrew Loog Oldham asked me and Paul to write a song for the Stones because they didn't have any original material? They desperately needed an original song and they were not songwriters at the time. We were flattered that he would ask us; after all we were beginners ourselves. It was a big deal. We went over to watch them rehearse. I had a little idea and Paul had a little idea so we stuck 'em together. Well, we worked hard on the song and it turned out to be a good one—‘I Want to Be Your Man'—Ringo sang it for the Beatles. When it was all over and we handed the song to Mick and Keith, they didn't even thank us for it. Maybe they forgot, I don't know. The only one who acted like he really appreciated it was Brian. We became friends after that. I never forgot that. I remember Mick and Keith were aloof about the whole thing. I think they were a little put off by the fact that we could write songs and they couldn't at the time. They probably resented Andrew going over their heads and asking us directly.”

Bobby listened to John. He hadn't heard that story before.

An hour later, Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and John Lennon sat around the closed shop waiting for Brian and drinking tea that John had thoughtfully brewed on the office hotplate. Bobby knew John made the world's best cup of tea. He had special way of doing it that brought out the full flavor. Always started with the dry teabag, then poured the hot water over it. He added the milk and sugar to the hot water immediately thereafter as the tea was steeping.

John and Clovis were deep in conversation.

John said, “You're with them in the studio every day, why do the rest of the Stones treat him so shabbily?”

Clovis looked John Lennon in the eye.

“I'll tell you the truth, pardner. They see Jonesy as a big fat liability. He can't be counted on. When they're touring, he misses gigs all the time, claiming one type of illness or another. And when he does show up, he's usually whacked out of his gourd and can't play. Keith resents having to play all the parts. You know the Stones are a two-guitar band. That's their sound. One man can't do it alone.”

John said, “But Brian plays all the instruments that give the Stones their exotic sound. He even showed up last week at Abbey Road Studios and blew some sax on a Beatles tune. He's multitalented. Everybody in the Beatles loves him.”

Clovis replied, “That's true, but you can always get a session cat to play those parts, and you don't have to give them a full share of the band's money. It doesn't replace being onstage every night and delivering a simple twelve-bar blues. John, you know it's a marathon, not a sprint.”

John nodded.

“Ringo missed a portion of the Australian tour when he had his tonsils out. We replaced him with a session drummer named Jimmy Nicol. Nice bloke. The guy was an excellent drummer, but it wasn't the same.”

Clovis paused, deep in thought.

“To my knowledge, the only time Keith ever missed a gig was when he was electrocuted in Sacramento during the 1965 tour. If he hadn't been wearing rubber-soled Hush-Puppy shoes that day, he probably would have died. His strings brushed a live microphone, and the electric shock knocked him right off his feet. He was out cold for an hour and woke up in the hospital. But he bounced right back and played the next show.”

“How do you know that?” Bobby asked.

“He told me.”

Bobby grunted.

John knew a thing or two about touring and hanging out with the same guys day after day. The Beatles had managed to live through it. Their camaraderie held them together. Music was the glue. Professionalism was their badge of honor. It was all for one and one for all. Most bands are strongest during their “us against the world” period of development.

John said, “Fame does not sit lightly on anyone's shoulders. And on some people's shoulders, like Brian's, it doesn't fit at all. It's like a gorilla.”

Bobby nodded.

“What do you know about this American bloke, this Acid King Leon?” John asked. “He's been spreading this new purple haze around. It's pretty good shit. Does anybody know his last name?”

Bobby held up a hand.

“Silverman, his name is Leon Silverman. I did a little snooping.”

“Silverman?” John said. “Why does that name sound familiar to me?”

Somebody rapped lightly on the glass door of the shop. Bobby went to answer it. It was Brian. He looked nervous and pale. He was sweating profusely even though the weather was cool. The bags under his eyes seemed heavier than usual. They twitched involuntarily every few moments.

Bobby let Brian in, locked the door behind him, and then led him back though the shop to his office.

Brian was surprised to see John Lennon standing next to Clovis.

Bobby said, “I brought a friend of yours.”

“John …” Brian coughed and held back a tear. “It's so good to see you, man.”

John hugged Brian. They were two veterans of the rock 'n' roll wars.

“I heard you were having some problems.”

“John, John … thank you so much. Nobody else could possibly understand.”

John patted Brian's back.

“It's okay, mate. I'm here. Dust Bin Bob is here. Clovis is here. We're here to help.”

Brian shivered. “Things are strange.”

John pulled out a joint from his pocket and lit it with one of Bobby's silver WWII-era Zippo lighters. The smoke filled the room like a velvet fog. No one said a word, and they smoked in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Brian said, “Did you hear about Claudine Jillian?”

“Yes,” they all said. “It's front-page news.”

Bobby said, “Didn't I meet her at your house the night of the dinner party? She's one of Anita's modeling friends, right?”

“Yes. A really beautiful girl. I was with her the night before she died.”

Bobby's jaw dropped.

“You were … what?”

Brian told them the whole story.

“We met up after hours at The Speakeasy Club. I was looking for Anita and I ran into Claudine. She was alone. She looked good. And I was so depressed, I didn't want to be alone. We went back to her place and humped like rabbits all night long. She was incredible. Now she's dead.”

“Do the police know?”

Brian shook his head.

“Nobody knows.”

“The cops are sure to search her apartment. Did you leave any evidence?

“Maybe some pubic hairs. I arrived and left with the clothes I was wearing.”

“Think carefully,” Clovis said. “Did you leave anything behind? Some matches, a guitar pick, cigarettes, things like that?”

Brian stammered. “I may have left a roach in the ashtray.”

“Did it have lipstick on it?”