Painted Black

Painted Black

Greg Kihn

In loving memory of Christy Harris.

We will miss her immensely.

We also lost Sean Hartter,

brilliant cover artist for
Rubber Soul
.

Rest in peace, Sean.

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction. None of it actually happened. I took all the facts about Brian Jones and fit my story on top of it. So, technically, you might call it historical fiction. My point is: some of it happened; most of it didn't. Dust Bin Bob, Clovis, and their wives are obviously fictional. Skully and Renee never existed.

At the end of my last novel,
Rubber Soul
, I didn't want to let these characters go, I loved them all so much, so I just kept on writing. What you hold in your hands is the sequel:
Painted Black
.

Much has been written about the mysterious death of Brian Jones. Did Frank Thorogood murder him on the very day he was sacked? Was it because of the treasure rumored to have been hidden in the house? Was it Frank's thuggish day laborers? Was it the Stones? Was it the Mafia? Was there a conspiracy? There are so many unanswered questions. Without a time machine, I doubt we'll ever know.

Once again, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Introduction

The 1965 European tour by the Rolling Stones had been a nightmare. They'd played most of the cities before but now something new was in the air, like the smell of gasoline and burning tires. Things had become volatile.

Riots ensued wherever they played. Even in such seemingly peaceful places as Zurich, the crowd used the wooden chairs to set fire to the stage. Their rage still dissatisfied, they smashed all the equipment, too.

Every show ended in chaos. The Stones were the champion band for the disenfranchised and rebellious youth of the world. These kids thought rioting and smashing the stage was normal behavior at rock concerts. It was their unstated mission and was demonstrated in their clothes, drugs, and attitudes. None of them would ever get satisfaction. Life was cruel and unfair.
No satisfaction!

And of course the Stones brought out the absolute worst in their audiences.

Brian Jones was miserable. His chronic asthma made breathing difficult. He suffered through every show. Depression dogged him. He'd never felt so alone on the road as he had on this tour. Detached from London, from his family, from his French girlfriend the Parisian actress/singer Zouzou, Brian was flying solo dangerously low to the ground.

A few weeks earlier, he'd watched while a wild-eyed audience member repeatedly spit on Keith Richards. Again and again, the vile-looking gobs would come arching up from the audience and hit Keith in the chest, hand, and finally the face. Brian could see the revulsion in Keith's eyes when he backed up a few steps. He knew what was coming next. Brian stayed well out of the way, not even pretending to sing into the microphone in front of him. Keith took a two-step running start and kicked the guy square in the face like a penalty kick in soccer. His head snapped back. He went flying head over heels into the crowd, and suddenly a full-scale riot broke out. It was hard to tell if Keith's kick had spurred them on, but suddenly everybody wanted a piece of the Rolling Stones. People began to climb on the stage with blood in their eyes.

Keyboard player Ian Stewart stepped away from his piano and dispensed with another interloper who was running directly at Brian. Stewie stuck his foot out and tripped the attacker who fell face first in front of Brian. A swift kick to the face as he reached for Brian's feet knocked him out. Ian knew if Brian went down, he wouldn't get up again.
Not at this gig
. Brian ducked as the guy's tooth sailed past his head.

The Stones knew when to cut and run. They were practiced at it. They'd seen it all before.

What did all this have to do with the blues?
Brian asked himself. This was not why he created the Rolling Stones. He used to love those minutes on stage with the band. They were the best minutes of the day. It made the rest of the day bearable. It was a reason to get up in the morning. He lived for it. But now, those feelings had soured. There was no relief on stage, either. The tension that accompanied the Stones everywhere they went made Brian uneasy.

Touring together had become a real chore. None of the band seemed to like one another or enjoy traveling. They stayed alone in their hotel rooms most of the time.

Munich had been another typical show, halted several times by the cops while the audience roared its disapproval. The feeling of impending violence was strong in the air like the drop in pressure before a big storm.

During the show, Brian watched scores of young girls carried out unconscious, bruised, and bleeding, yet he still kept playing.

What else could he do? The Rolling Stones onstage were a hurricane of energy. They brought out the passion in people.

They always had their escape routes planned out. The Germans were smart, though, and surrounded the building so that the only thing the Stones could do after the show was wait them out. They were under siege. Outside, the cops used tear gas to break up the crowd.

An argument had erupted backstage as angry voices echoed in the halls. Mick and Keith shouted at Brian about mistakes he made during the show.

Brian just took it. He never fought back. Whenever he felt defensive, he thought,
I started the Rolling Stones. It's my band
.

Suddenly, a lissome blond twenty-one-year-old Italian-born model named Anita Pallenberg walked up to Brian boldly with the idea of introducing herself. She tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around, she could see tears in his eyes and knew that he'd been crying. Anita was instantly smitten. She reached out and touched his face as one of the tears freed itself from his eye and ran down his cheek.

Their eyes met and time froze.

Brian said, “I don't know who you are, but I need you. Let's spend the night together. I don't want to be alone.”

That was how it started with Brian and Anita. Anita was cultured, connected, and spoke four languages. She'd been a professional model from Rome to Paris by the time she was a teenager and had a vast amount of knowledge about the scene. She seemed to know everybody.

She was statuesque; nearly a full head taller than Brian, but she knew how to be small when she had to. Her beauty was feline, mysterious, and she had a touch of madness in her eyes.

The other members of the Stones, namely Mick and Keith, said publicly, “How the fuck does Brian rate a girl like that?”

Brian didn't care. In his mind, he was prince of all he surveyed, including Anita. He believed it was his birthright.

He took her back to swinging London and they became the quintessential hip young professional couple.

This is where our story begins.

Chapter One

The Return of Dust Bin Bob

Blam! Blam! Blam!

“What the hell was that?” asked Bobby Dingle, owner and proprietor of Dingles of Newburgh Antique Shop, Soho, London.

It sounded like somebody desperately banging on a glass door with his bare palms. When Bobby went to investigate, he saw a crowd of young mods, at least twenty of them, mostly females, sprinting past the shop. They headed up the street.

The remnants of Bobby's Liverpool accent shown through in moments like this. “'Ang on. What's all this then?”

Patti, Bobby's pretty twenty-one-year-old assistant, looked over his shoulder.

“Looks like they're chasing somebody.”

The crowd rounded the corner and disappeared.

“I wonder what's going on?”

They resumed their task of closing up the shop.

Outside, Brian Jones was running for his life. He had his driver park his Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud a few blocks away. He got out and walked quickly through the streets, confident that he could make his destination before being recognized. The problem was that Brian Jones, founder of the Rolling Stones and one of the most recognizable rock icons of swinging London, could not possibly walk down the street without drawing a crowd.

He slowed to say hello to a couple of young dollies outside a trendy boutique. They giggled and followed him when he continued on his way. Then he passed a hair salon that virtually emptied out when they saw him, all the patrons and employees following Brian like the Pied Piper. Two of the hairstylists snipped their scissors as if to say, “I want a lock of his golden hair.”

Brian walked faster. A pair of tall girls in miniskirts tried to block him, their long legs moving slightly akimbo as he deftly avoided contact by sidestepping. Their miniskirts rode up pink tights to youthful thighs as they both teetered on their high heels. They stumbled and grabbed at Brian.

Brian broke into a run. Two guys who had been pacing him were talking incessantly to him, but he didn't hear them. They began to run, too. Their chatter became more desperate as they realized Brian was escaping.

Brian picked up the pace. He managed to distance himself when the stumbling girls created a diversion and now he was half a block ahead and still running. By the time they realized he was getting away, they accelerated, too. It was like the opening scene of
A Hard Day's Night
as the fans pressed in on him, except these weren't smiling happy Beatles fans, these were frustrated, pissed-off Stones fans. They all had something to say to Brian.

Brian circled the block and was now approaching Dingles again. Gasping for breath, Brian banged on the glass door a second time. The crowd was closing in. Brian was trapped. He could hear the snipping scissors getting closer.

Brian looked over his shoulder at the onrushing mob. Some had already produced Stones album covers and were now waving them to be autographed.

Suddenly, the glass door opened inward, and a pair or friendly arms reached out and pulled him inside. The door clicked shut and the lock engaged. Bobby flipped the sign in the window from open to closed.

“Hey!” Brian said. “What are you doing?”

“It's okay, I think we just saved you from certain mayhem.”

The mob ran past Dingles, unaware that Brian had escaped.

“I don't think they saw you.”

“Thank God for that.”

Brian straightened. “Dust Bin Bob?”

Bobby shook Brian's hand. “Nobody calls me that anymore except the Beatles.”

“If it's good enough for the Beatles, it's good enough for the Stones.”

Dingles of Newburgh attracted an interesting clientele. As an antique shop in the middle of the trendy Carnaby Street neighborhood, it seemed out of place wedged between posh boutiques with kitschy names like I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet, Granny Takes a Trip, and Kleptomania.

Swinging London swirled around Dingles; girls in colorful miniskirts and neon leggings and guys dressed in the latest mod gear stopped and looked in the shop window at the myriad of curious items displayed.

Bobby Dingle started at the bottom, growing up poor on the hardscrabble streets of Liverpool with his friends the young, unknown Beatles. He ran a stall for his father's secondhand shop at the flea market in Penny Lane. It was because of his love for American R&B records that the raw young Beatles sought him out as their friend. John renamed him Dust Bin Bob and the nickname stuck, although Bobby had come to dislike it. He was far from the dustbin now and was proud of his achievements. He'd come a very long way. Bobby Dingle was a successful businessman with profitable antique stores in London and Baltimore. What's more, he was the trusted friend of the Beatles.

The fact that the Fab Four shopped there assured Dingles of Newburgh a fair share of notoriety and a steady stream of scene makers. All four Beatles had been spotted at Dingles on different occasions. It often made the gossip column and did wonders for Bobby's business. He'd been staying open late, attracting club goers and students.

The store itself was an old chemist shop with two large front windows and a beautiful art deco glass display case. Bobby had done some renovations, but the old-time feel of the chemist shop shown through.

The shadows of late afternoon slanted through the narrow street giving everything a golden hue.

Patti gasped. “That's Brian Jones!” she said. “From the Rolling Stones!”

Brian flashed a bemused smile and strolled around the shop dressed in an eye-bending red-and-gold Edwardian outfit with elaborate ruffles and lace.

He was shorter than he appeared on TV; five foot seven or eight, Bobby reckoned. His hair was longer, too. It shimmered with precious highlights in the late afternoon sun. He'd heard that Brian was fastidious about his hair and washed it every day. His mutton-chop sideburns were slowly encroaching down the sides of his face, giving him an out-of-time look.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Dust Bin Bob offered. “We were just closing up.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Brian's voice was soft, nearly effeminate, and he spoke perfect “Cheltenham School for Boys” English.

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Dust My Broom' instead of ‘Dust Bin Bob'?”

“You mean like the Elmore James song?”

Brian grinned. His face lit up. “I knew I could trust you, Dustman.”

“Just because I know about Elmore James?”

Brian nodded slowly. “Exactly. There was a time when we were living in poverty with Mick and Keith at this horrible flat in Edith Grove and we judged
everybody
on their knowledge of the blues. Back then, nobody knew shit. There were just a few of us. We were the keepers of the flame.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Well then, I guess I pass the Elmore James test.”

“I used to play a good version of ‘Dust My Broom.' I did all the Elmore James stuff. I swear, his guitar used to make me cry. It was so beautiful. At the time, I was the only guy in London playing slide.”

Bobby respected Brian's roots. They came from the same musical turf. As a youth, the legendary Dust Bin Bob had influenced the nascent Beatles by selecting rare American R&B singles from his collection to play for the band that subtly altered their direction. The memory of those innocent days came flooding back to Bobby.

He remembered John's penchant for singing R&B girl group songs like “Please Mr. Postman,” by the Marvelettes and “Baby, It's You,” by the Shirelles. John convincingly changed the gender of the song so it always sounded natural. Bobby loved turning them on to songs that no other male Merseyside group would touch with a barge pole. Of course, the Beatles were fearless. The passion in John's voice could make any song his own. Whether he sang the Dust Bin Bob–recommended “Money” by Barrett Strong or “Twist and Shout” by the Isley Brothers, John had no problem moving from one side of the musical spectrum to the other without batting an eye. He could belt them out or sing them straight.

Brian Jones fulfilled a similar role for the early Rolling Stones. He put the band together, gave them their name, carefully chose the material, did the arrangements, and generally assumed command of the musical direction the Stones would continue on for decades.

The Rolling Stones were Brian's band. That was a well-known fact.

Brian created the Stones to do straight blues. At first, it was strictly the purist stuff, but soon they were injecting high-powered Chicago R&B into their live shows: Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Howlin' Wolf, and the like. The Stones set their roots firmly in black American music. Brian had exquisite taste in R&B and handpicked the songs the band would cover. Musically, it was the same thing musically that Bobby had done for the Beatles.

One of their first singles was “Little Red Rooster,” a song written by Willie Dixon and recorded by Howlin' Wolf. Brian's haunting slide guitar gave the song its commercial hook. After it was a hit, he was proud to say, “It's a song about a chicken, man! I'd like to see another group do that!”

It wasn't until Ronnie Bennett of the Ronnettes took the band to see James Brown at the Apollo Theater during their first visit to New York that they realized the true potential of what they were doing. Later, they had to follow James Brown in the feature length concert film
The T.A.M.I. Show
. James jolted the band into a new reality.

That was right around the time that their manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, cajoled Mick and Keith into writing original material and the reigns of the band slipped out of Brian's hands permanently.

Dust Bin Bob knew the story. John Lennon had told him most of it. Contrary to published reports, the Stones and the Beatles were not rivals. The two bands knew each other and liked each other. Indeed, it was John and Paul's contribution to the Stones of the song “I Want to Be Your Man” that became one of their early hits.

The Stones frenzied R&B flavored version contrasted greatly with the Beatles version, sung by Ringo on the
With the Beatles
album. The Stones supercharged version was like Elmore James on speed. Once again, Brian's slide guitar provided the hook.

“What brings you to my humble shop?”

Brian lit a cigarette. “You mean besides running for my life? You saved me.”

Bobby looked out the window. The coast was clear now.

Patti pointed to a nick on Brian's neck. “You're bleeding?”

Brian wiped it away and looked at the blood on his finger. One of the girls had jabbed him with her sharp fingernails.

“You want a Band-Aid?”

Brian shook his head. “Nah. Let it bleed.”

Dust Bin Bob bowed. “As you wish. Anything you care to look at while you're here?”

“Yes, I'd like to look at that antique snuff box again.”

“Of course, let me get it for you.”

Patti tried not to stare at Brian, but she had been reduced to a giggling schoolgirl. Brian hardly noticed. He was so used to that type of behavior it barely registered with him.

Bobby returned with the snuffbox. He noticed that Brian's eyes were red and he smelled like he'd been smoking hashish in his limo.

“Here it is. It's really quite exquisite.”

He carefully handed the small oval gold-and-enamel snuffbox to Brian. It was absolutely beautiful. Brian turned it over in his hands and opened it.

Dust Bin Bob filled in the history.

“It was created by Pierre-Claude Pottier of Paris in 1789 for Louis XVI. As you know, Louis XVI snuffboxes are extremely rare, and this is a particularly nice one. Notice the engravings of naked women around the sides.”

Brian scratched his finger inside and sniffed it.

Bobby nodded. “It's been cleaned, of course.”

Brian examined the box again.

“It doesn't hold very much.”

“Excuse me?”

“It's not very big. It would probably only hold a couple of grams.”

Bobby nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean. This was a standard size for the era. It was designed for snuff.”

“It wouldn't hold very much … er … snuff, would it?”

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever snortable material you place in the box would be dry and secure and I'm sure it would fit your needs. It's bigger than it looks.”

Brian pointed across the room at something in the window.

“I'd like to see that antique recorder.”

Bobby fetched the recorder from the window.

“It's German-made, over a hundred years old. You'll notice it's the classic baroque design, and it's made from pearwood, the preferred fruitwood for superior tone in recorders. It plays beautifully.”

Brian took the exquisite wooden flutelike instrument from Bobby's hand and played the famous riff from “Ruby Tuesday.” The ageless sound of the recorder cut the air like a sword. It had an innocent, unpretentious sound, with just a hint of melancholy. Brian played the hypnotic refrain. For a moment, time in the shop stood still.

Several people from the crowd that had been chasing Brian were now milling about the front of the shop looking in.

Bobby Dingle was no fool. He realized that a gaggle of curious onlookers would ruin the moment and send Brian on his way. One of the girls tried the door, found it locked, and cupped her hands on the window to peer inside. Bobby surreptitiously slipped over to the side and pulled the shades.

Brian was in his own world playing the recorder.

“Nice mellow tone,” he said.

“The fruitwood ages and gives it that rich sound. That's a really nice one. It's in perfect condition.”

“Where did you find it?”

Bobby smiled; acquisitions were his pride and joy. He knew just where to look and just what to buy. That was his talent.

“At an estate sale for Lord something or other. The family had fallen on hard times, owed a fortune in taxes, so they had a big sale and auctioned everything off. Finding out about the sale, that's the key.”