Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven Read online

  Standing in the open doorway and gazing in, the PI estimated there may have been about 30 or 35 people in the packed, and weakly lit bar, and roughly the same number of folks out in the smoky patio to the back. In addition to the western music playing from a virtual jukebox, the din of the pool tables, clinking glasses, idle chatter, virtual pinball machines, virtual one-armed bandits and dancing feet betrayed the pure festiveness and bliss of the emporium. Even though all the toking was taking place outside, anyone sensitive enough to strong sativa, indica or hybrid would get a contact simply by walking in the joint.

  Stepping up to the curved, polished teak counter, the ex-Seattle cop ordered a rum and coke from a bearded, big-bellied bartender with tattooed logs for arms. Tony asked for whatever’s on tap, saying he’ll respect the barkeep’s choice.

  “Your card, please,” the barman requested.

  Tony scoured through his pockets, fished out his flexible blue ID card and handed it to the employee who swiped it over a box behind the counter. Immediately, a green light lit up on the box and the young PI received his card back.

  “Coming right up, gentleman,” the barkeep promised then strutted off for their drinks.

  Tony turned to his mentor. “How do they even know that card belongs to me? It has no picture, and I’m sure some clever devil has already found a way to hack these machines.”

  “The light would’ve turned red,” a gentleman who overheard Tony’s conversation enlightened him. “The card, which you’re in close proximity to, is tied in to your soul. It cannot be fooled.”

  “Thanks,” the young musician said.

  “When’d you get here?” the man, probably pushing 60, asked the youngster.

  “Just this week,” he answered, then pointed a thumb to Gregory. “We got here on the same express.”

  The slightly inebriated man leaned in a little towards Tony as the din in the room prevented casual conversation. “What’s your name?” he asked, cupping an ear.

  “Tony,” the young PI revealed. “This is Gregory.”

  Both detectives shook the stranger’s hand.

  “Gerry Rafferty,” the bearded geezer said.

  That name piqued Gregory’s interest. “I’ve heard of you, right? Your name sounds familiar.”

  Cue Gerry singing:

  “Winding your way down Baker Street

  Lite in your head, and dead on your feet

  Well, another crazy day / you drink the night away

  And forget about everything.”

  “Shut up, old man!” a tipsy fella down at the end of the bar shouted at the pop singer.

  “Go fuck yourself, you prick!” Gerry yelled back. He then turned back to the detectives. “Everybody’s a critic.”

  The bartender came over with the drinks for the two D’s then turned to Gerry. “If you can’t control yourself you’re out of here.”

  The Baker Street singer got up. “I was leaving anyway.” He turned to Tony and Gregory. “You see those three gentlemen over there?” he asked them, nodding in the direction of three men around 30 years old sitting in a booth against the far wall near the pool tables. “They hooked me up last time and I aims to pay back my favor.” Removing an unopened bottle of grain whiskey from one of the back pockets of his loose-fitting tan pants, he handed it to Tony. “Tell them it’s from Gerry. I gotta run out of here before Conan comes back with a pool stick and shoves it up my ass.” The D’s then watched as the insulted singer staggered out of the bar.

  “Is that my future?” the novice PI queried no one in particular.

  Gregory laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “At least you’ll be stuck at 21.”

  “Yeah,” Tony nodded. “It’d suck to get up here at 20, so close to drinking age, and stay there forever.”

  “We’re in a rock and roll, town,” Gregory dutifully reminded his compadre. “I wouldn’t worry about the kid. Let’s go see those three guys.”

  Grabbing their drinks, they waddled over to introduce himself to the trio, carefully avoiding running into rustic, muscular pool and pinball players who look like they eat barbed wire for breakfast. When a pool player jerked his stick back to sink the ‘9’ ball in a side pocket, he nearly punctured Gregory’s spleen who, luckily, moved away just in time. Still, the near accident riled him.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot?” he cussed the player. “Helen Keller School for Girls?”

  “What’d you say to me?” the player barked, steam flying out of his nose.

  Tony grabbed his friend’s arm. “Let’s go, man. You’re just wearing down your credits.” Complying, the older PI did just that and escorted his young partner to the trio in the corner.

  “Hi, guys,” Tony introduced himself. “Gerry Rafferty said he owed y’all this.” He then laid the whiskey on the table between them.

  “Man,” the blonde guy with the scruffy ¼ inch beard sitting solo on the right side of the table remarked. “That’s been a whole year coming.”

  “Why don’t you help us guzzle it,” the gentleman on the left side with auburn hair sticking out from beneath a red bandana offered.

  The two D’s, accepting the invite, planted themselves at the table – Tony next to the solo yellow-haired man on the right, and Gregory grabbing an empty chair from a nearby table and planting himself on the side closer to the pool section.

  “I’m Shannon Hoon,” the man with the bandana said. “The bloke next to me, who never ever takes of his sunglasses, is Layne Staley. Of course, that’s Kurt Cobain next to you.”

  “I’m Gregory Angelicus,” the PI stated. “This is Tony Lopez. Nice meeting you guys.”

  They shook hands. Layne Staley, probably feeling under the weather, had the handshake of an overcooked Ramen noodle.

  “Anybody ever tell you you look like Will Smith?” Shannon asked the PI.

  Gregory sighed. “All the time.”

  “Be careful with those dudes you almost just scraped with,” Shannon warned the PI’s. “You see the guy who’s laying the stick against the wall – and he just kicked it in half? That’s Bon Scott from AC/DC. Completely liquid diet. Soup flavored with vodka, coffee flavored with vodka, vodka flavored with vodka, you get the drift. That gentleman who just stuck his pool cue in the ceiling is Cliff Burton from Metallica. You see that guy with the long hair and goatee swinging off the beer sign? That’s Randy Rhoads. He never used to be pumped like that, but he’s been lifting weights or something. Whoops! He just broke the light. Doesn’t know his own strength. And be careful with that skinny guy holding up the wall. That’s Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots. Only been here about six months but he’s like the terror from the deep blue sea. We used to be tight but, I don’t know. He changed. When you see John Denver ask him about his jaw. Not a pretty story. I keep my distance because all those guys like to fight. The problem with that is it costs you credits, too. Then you’d have to go, like, a month without shit. Fuck that. Of course, they can’t kill you, but they can leave you in a world of hurt. Welcome to Heaven.”

  “It’s interesting how people know that we’re new,” Gregory mused.

  “Well,” Shannon explained, “it’s not like fresh blood comes up here every day. Plus, it’s a pretty small town. Everybody knows each other. It’s pretty cool, too. You get to meet your heroes and jam with them. What’s better than that?”

  “What bands are you guys from?” the inquisitive PI asked.

  “I’m from Blind Melon,” Shannon replied. “Blondie over here is from Nirvana, and quiet Superman over here is from Alice in Chains.”

  “Oh, cool,” Tony smiled. “More Seattleites.”

  “You guys from Seattle?” Kurt asked, cracking open the bottle of whiskey.

  The young PI nodded. “Yep.”

  “Cool beans, man,” Kurt complimented them. “At least you’re not angels.”

  “They sure get a bad rap,” Gregory lamented.

  “I could be an angel in disguise,” Tony taunted them.

  “Na
h,” Kurt disagreed, swigging the liquor then passing it to the young PI. “You would’ve already burst into flames for lying.”

  “Do they come into places like these?” Gregory asked.

  “Sometimes,” the Nirvana singer/guitarist answered. “But it’s rare.”

  The elder PI studied the ultra-quiet Layne momentarily. “What’s up with him?” he asked, then pointed to his own nose. “He tooted too much?”

  “I wish,” Layne finally uttered, albeit in a gravelly voice.

  “You’re in a dry county,” Shannon explained. “No powder, no pink, no black anywhere.”

  “That’s gotta be tough for you rock guys,” Gregory figured.

  “Eh,” Shannon moaned, taking a drink of the powerful alcoholic beverage bequeathed by Gerry Rafferty. “What can you do? Hell’s worse.”

  The PI nodded. “I’ll bet. That just means you’ve gotta be real creative up here.”

  “If you’re a chemist, go for it,” Kurt goaded him. “Just try not to get caught.”

  Gregory’s eyebrows suddenly went north in surprise. “And lose my privileges?”

  “No sweat, man,” Shannon insisted. “It’s all good.”

  “It’s all good!” Kurt repeated loudly, drunkenly banging the table like the pinheads in Tod Browning’s Freaks. The minor commotion, obviously noticed by several revelers, brought the table some company, a scowling, short-haired, multiple-tattooed bouncer in his late 20’s with Schwarzenegger’s young physique and the neck of a defensive back. Next to him was his faithful companion, a muscular Dalmatian that’d put fear in GG Allin’s heart.

  “You guys had enough?” the surly employee asked the table of five.

  “We’re okay,” Shannon insisted. “Kurt here’s just celebrating, you know.”

  The bouncer eyed the blonde rock star. “Keep it civil, though, huh?”

  “When’d you start working for the man?” Kurt scoured him.

  “Gimme a break, huh fellas?” the bouncer pleaded. “You know I’m still paying off for this thing,” he indicated, motioning to his four-legged partner.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Shannon uttered, trying his best to silence him.

  “Let’s go, Lou Dog,” the bartender ordered his Dalmatian. They both then went back to the bar, the spotted cur trailing his master close behind.

  “Asshole,” Kurt mumbled.

  “Who was that?” Gregory asked.

  “Brad Nowell from Sublime,” Shannon answered. “Lost his guitars, virtual amps, everything, in a bet a couple of months ago. Of all of those expenses, added to that mutt, is costing him a fortune.”

  “No wonder he’s stuck in places like these,” Kurt surmised.

  “That’s rough,” the PI said. “How does he happen to have a dog in Heaven, though?”

  “Just a robot,” Shannon replied. “Took him ten years to save up for that. He’ll probably still be paying for it the next ten years. All that for a dog. I guess he really missed the original.”

  “So,” Gregory asked the rocker next to Tony, “what are you celebrating?”

  “Nothing, dude,” the southpaw guitarist answered, throwing down another shot of whiskey. “Just celebrating life.”

  “He just likes to throw it in our face that he’s in the 27 Club,” Layne said in a slurry voice weighted down by one too many boilermakers.

  “Yeah,” Shannon added. “I should’ve OD’d a year earlier instead of ending up here at 28.”

  “What’s the 27 Club?” Gregory asked.

  “Man,” Kurt scolded him, “you’re really out of the loop. Where have you been?”

  “That’s just a loose club of musicians,” Shannon explained, “who checked out at age 27.”

  “Like who?” the PI queried him.

  “Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, James Morrison…”

  “Hold up a minute,” Gregory suddenly realized. Reaching into the pocket of his bright yellow tunic, he brought out the photo of the deceased Amy Winehouse and handed it to Shannon.

  “What’s this?” the Blind Melon singer asked, examining the photograph.

  “Amy Winehouse,” the PI answered.

  “Tragic, man,” Shannon shook his head. “She looks bad.”

  “Yeah,” the PI nodded. “See…” he indicated, motioning to the photo, “by her hand? She scratched 27J in the dirt. I couldn’t find that address anywhere.”

  “She’s part of the 27 Club, too,” Shannon expounded. “Or, rather, was. That J probably fingers other people in the club, like the ones I’d just said.”

  “Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison,” Gregory recalled.

  “They might have something to do with it,” Shannon guessed. “Why do you have this picture of her anyway? Where’d you get it?”

  “I don’t want you guys to look at me as the enemy,” the PI warned them ahead of time, “but I’m just doing an investigation.”

  “You’re working with the angels?” Kurt asked angrily, veins protruding from his neck.

  “The way they explained it,” Gregory explained, “is that this is bigger than everyone here. It has repercussions through the whole universe.”

  “You believe that shit?” Kurt doubted astutely.

  “Seems reasonable,” the PI believed. “Just a few days ago I was on my way to lunch, now I’m sitting here talking to a couple of, excuse my frankness, dead rock stars. Sorry for being so blunt, but it is what it is.”

  “No sweat, man,” Layne expressed. “Why do you think I don’t talk that much? This whole Amy Winehouse shit is splitting everybody up into factions. That’s bad, man. Bad.”

  “Yeah,” Gregory extolled. “Just so everybody knows, I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m not the police. I’m not out to bad talk or indict anyone. They threw this gig on me because I’m new, so supposedly, untainted. I’m on everybody’s side. Are we all man enough to accept that?”

  “It’s cool,” Kurt made clear. “You’re alright, dude.” He handed his beer to the PI. “Here. Have a drink.” The PI accepted the offer and finished it off in one long swig.

  “Professional, huh?” Layne joked.

  “I hate to ask,” Gregory stated, “but I hope you gentlemen will indulge me. Where were you three on the night of July 15?”

  “What day was that?” Shannon quizzed.

  “Friday.”

  “Easy,” the Blind Melon singer remembered. “Right Here. Saturday night, right here. Sunday night…well, you get the point.”

  Gregory bit the inside of his cheek. “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Yeah,” Shannon swore. “Everybody knows us, man. Just ask any of the barkeeps.”

  “Thanks, I will,” the ex-cop mused. “The 27 Club, huh? So where should I start?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Early the next morning, Gregory went knocking on Tony’s door in his room at The Inn. After waiting for nearly a minute, and receiving no answer, he left the building and carried on to the main drag where he bought himself an aloo pie and a coffee from Beth’s Pastry Shoppe next to the hardware store. Trekking up Rock City Road, he had a clear line of sight to the twin mountains in the distance. Both roughly the same height, it did appear odd that the one to the left was covered with trees while the other looked like a ski resort in full swing. From here, he thought, that vista looked like a giant flag. And he was half right. Had the good detective been a more focused student in his vexillology class, he would have realized the distance green & white scene was nothing more than a monstrous, veritable representation of the Nigerian flag. Along the way, he glanced at the various open fields to the left and right of the road. Wildflowers of all different sizes and colors dotted the otherwise sparse fields, land that seemed perfect for a family gathering or spring dance.

  Along the way, the detective thought about one of his earlier cases, Elizabeth Bathory. She stayed fixed in his memory simply because her gothic name brought up images of a well-heeled woman bathing in the blood of virgins within the bowels of her inner sanctum while th
e villagers burned stakes outside her castle. How odd, he thought, her American parents should name her Elizabeth. Perhaps they weren’t aware of the Hungarian serial killer who shared the same name. Or perhaps these Bathorys were blood relatives. He never did find out. All he knew was his Elizabeth needed his services to follow her man around to see if he had another mistress. The two were planning to get hitched soon; it’d be a shame, she thought, if he was simply using her for her money.

  Elizabeth lived in a posh, gated community with fields of marigolds and gently flowing streams everywhere, a landscape not dissimilar from the one he’d found himself in now. Some of the homes, he remembered, were colossal, perhaps sporting 12 to 14 bedrooms, maybe more. They all had gorgeous, picture book landscaping and, even though it was mere blocks away from the interstate, the thickly wooded surroundings were more than adequate to buffer the squeal of the incessant tires out on the paved road.

  One other element jogged his memory about Elizabeth’s little homestead. When he was a few yards away from her house, her spotted Great Dane would come trotting towards him. The first time that happened, he nearly shit his pants. Her dog, Alfa, was a Harlequin Dane that clocked in at around 190 pounds; in other words, a Dalmatian on steroids, and its bark was so loud it could give a rabbit a heart attack from ½ a block away. As it turned out, and much to his relief, Alfa was just an overgrown puppy, a well-fed Deutsche Dogge that lived the life of Riley, albeit a lonely one, in Elizabeth’s estate. And now it was up to the good detective to find out why her fiancée, a Haitian creole named Josué Dumarsais, had become so distant in recent weeks.

  For one month, Gregory followed Josué everywhere, from scheduled meetings with his tech co-workers at various eateries around the Pacific Northwest, to visiting his family members in Tacoma, Federal Way and Vashon Island. As it turned out, Elizabeth’s suspicions were for naught. Josué simply had family members who weren’t nearly as well off as he was and he felt obligated to help them cope in life, especially his cousins on Vashon Island who, truth be told, should start investing some of their donated money in contraceptives.