Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven Page 6
“Yeah,” the PI said, his mouth watering for the freshly prepared food. “I heard about that from Karen Carpenter.”
“She’s a dear. How’s she doing these days?”
“Okay.”
“I haven’t seen her in ages,” she admitted, placing one ceramic plate of food on the table in front of Gregory. Placing the other in front of her, she sat down.
“You remind me of me when I first got here,” she revealed. “I had so many questions they got tired of hearing my voice. Just study the manual. There’s a lot of stuff in there.”
“What manual?”
“You’ll get one at orientation.”
“How long have you been here?”
Mama recalled the day quickly. “Since July 29, 1974. So, what’s that, 42 years?”
“You still look like you’re in your early 30’s, though,” he complimented her.
Mama Cass faux blushed. “Oh, you make a woman feel so good.”
“Seriously, though,” he wondered, “you stop aging when you get here?”
“Yep,” she stated. “Live fast, die young. Seems to be the law of the land.”
Gregory took a sip of his coffee. “And you’ll be here forever.”
“Well, not here,” she explained. “This is just the first level. You’re supposed to be working your way up to total liberation of the soul.”
He helped himself to his egg and cheese omelette. “Delicious. How long does that take? Liberation, I mean.”
“It’s up to you,” she attested, digging in her meal. “Takes a long time, I know that much. It’s said we’ll be in this first circle for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.”
The Will Smith-lookalike choked on his food. “Dayum! Thousands of years?”
“That’s why there’s no rush to learn everything at once,” she promised him. “You’ve got lots of time.”
“How’s this little town supposed to accommodate all those future customers?”
“The islands grow as needed.”
“Islands?”
“Oh,” she said, “I thought you would’ve learned about that already. You can imagine just how many people are in the afterworlds – billions and billions. We’re separated based on what we did in our earthly life; supposedly we attain a greater sense of peace when we’re among the familiar, like occupations, interests, stuff like that.”
“I’ve heard familiarity breeds contempt.”
“The 13th century Buddhist scholar Sakya Pandita once said, ‘The quarrels of men often arise from too great a familiarity.’ That may be true, but it’s those very challenges which keep men in check, lest one group subjugate the other by an imbalance of power.”
The PI nodded. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“So there are Medical Heavens; for instance, Dentists’ Heaven or GP Heavens. There are art heavens, dance heavens, sports, bricklayers, robotics…it’s unlimited, really. More gets added from time to time because more occupations are created.”
“And what is this?”
“This is Rock & Roll Heaven,” she said, “an offshoot from Musical Heaven.”
“So everyone here is a rock musician?”
“Mostly,” she believed. “Those who aren’t musicians are related to it somehow, like audio engineers, tour managers, equipment handlers, and so on.”
“So why am I here?” the curious PI asked. “I can’t carry a note in a bucket.”
“Really? I can’t answer that. When you run into one of the angels ask them about it. There’s gotta be a good reason why the Watcher of Souls placed you here.”
“The Watcher of Souls?”
“Think of him as a categorizer; assigns souls their destination.”
“Has he ever made a mistake? Seems like he did this time.”
“You’ll find out soon.”
“Thanks for the late night breakfast,” he stated. “But I’m confused about something. I was at Molly Moon’s today and they said there are no animals in Heaven.”
“There aren’t.”
“So where did they get these eggs and cheese from?”
“The eggs are mostly tofu,” she explained. “The cheese from almonds, potatoes, rice, cashews, sunflower seeds…different things.”
“I would’ve never known,” he nodded. “Sure tastes real especially with this black pepper on the eggs.”
“That’s not black pepper; it’s Himalayan black salt. Gives it that real egg-y taste.”
“How’d they get this from the Himalayas?”
“They didn’t,” she answered, sipping her coffee. “It was recreated in one of the heavens, maybe Chemistry. I guess all they had to do was break down the elements in the salt and rebuild it using the same mineral ratios. It’s available in a lot of markets in town.”
“You know what?” Gregory yawned. “Are you getting tired? I sure am.”
“It’s kinda early,” she informed him. “The town’s really gonna be picking up now. Why don’t you come out? There’s some people I want to introduce you to.”
“Mama,” Gregory pleaded. “I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Are you sure?” she asked him. “You don’t look it.”
The new arrival thought about her request momentarily. True, he didn’t feel as tired as he’d let on, and that was very odd, considering the amount of liquor he’d imbibed all evening. By now he should’ve been flat on his back in a park somewhere with his mouth wide open catching moths. How many times in the past had he heard the loud knock of police officers tapping on the wooden planks of his bench, forcefully encouraging him to get up and move along? Technically, he should be studying the insides of his eye lids, yet, he seemed to have caught his second wind, or…
“You put something in my coffee?” he asked her, suspicion written on his face.
Mama got up, walked over to one of the wooden cabinets above the aluminum kitchen sink, and brought out a bag of the extra strong beans she’d used.
“Death Wish Coffee,” she boasted, displaying the black package with the white skull on it. “Just what the doctor ordered. It was in your hospitality kit with that robe.”
“If I get an aneurysm I’m suing you and lover boy downstairs,” he joked. “Some hospitality kit. Alright, let’s go meet your friends. I just hope I’m not late for orientation tomorrow.”
“You’ll be okay,” she insisted, replacing the coffee. “If you are, tell them I’m to blame.”
“Tell who? The angels?”
Mama Cass nodded. “The one and only.”
“Are they, like, the bosses up here?”
“The angels sprung up spontaneously from ethereal matter,” she said, “just like in the underworld. They’re, how should I say, maintainers of these worlds. They keep order, mainly.”
“Rock & Roll Police.”
“Sort of,” his guest admitted. “They don’t meddle in our affairs and we don’t get in their business. Some people resent them and say it’s an unhealthy alliance, but it is what it is.”
“What do you mean by sprung up spontaneously, though?” Gregory asked. “I’m not sure I’m catching that.”
“Have you ever been in a submarine?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You learn a lot from deep sea diving,” she explained.
“What is that?” the PI wondered. “Like, your favorite hobby?”
“Nope,” Cass revealed. “Just making a point. If you went down to the Marianas Trench in a submarine and your ship sprang a leak, you’d want to get to the surface as fast as you can.”
“From over a mile deep in the ocean,” Gregory submitted, “if your ship sprang a leak, you wouldn’t even have time to kiss your ass goodbye.”
“Probably not,” his guest admitted, “but if there’s a chance of survival, you’d get yourself through the escape hatch as quickly as possible.”
“The escape hatch,” the PI repeated, though not being sure of where she’s going with this line of dialog.
“Nature always has an escape hatch,” she elucidated, “a backup plan for survival. Are you familiar with parthenogenesis?”
“Yeah,” Gregory stated, ‘the British rock band.”
“Not them,” Cass giggled, “the concept. Scientists have seen it in komodo dragons, water fleas, scorpions, sharks – females impregnating themselves simply because no males were available. The species must thrive, right?”
“I guess.”
“Nature abhors a vacuum,” she added. “It doesn’t like nothingness. It’s always in motion, it’s always in need of something. There is a need for their cosmic plains to remain in order; that’s what the angels are for. They’re not around forever themselves and they have to be replaced. No one has to create them – they are created spontaneously as the need arises. I believe the Greeks call it autopoiesis – self production.”
“Probably how all the wonder women in the Amazon procreate,” the PI joked.
“You never know,” Cass mused.
“And God is the ultimate authority, huh?” Gregory asked.
“I suppose,” she shrugged. “I’ve never met him, though. No one has.”
“Really? Secretive guy, huh?”
“Well,” she informed her host, “none of these angels has been to the upper levels, so even they’ve never met him, don’t even know what he looks like. They say Vai might talk to him, but who gets to talk to her? I sure as hell wouldn’t want to.”
“Who’s Vai?”
“Vai’Kriya Sharir,” Mama replied. “She’s lives in the upper heavens; kind of like the supervisor of the angels.”
“So they have a whip cracker, huh?” Gregory joked.
“Probably more than that,” she figured, “because she supposedly has the power to banish them to Hell. Be glad she’s not interested in civilians; not that much, anyway. Don’t worry, though. She comes by very infrequently, like, once every generation or something like that. You know,” Mama added, sipping the last of her brew, “it helps that what you see here, I mean everything, is just a familiar illusion, if that makes sense. These bodies appear corporeal to help you understand the movement of souls through the universe.”
“I’m not fully understanding what you mean,” he admitted, “but I’ll take your word for it, like I have a choice. It’s kinda late for my mind to absorb all of this right now. You know what, though? I’m still a little hungry, like the eggs got stuck in my ribs.”
“They have a tendency of doing that,” she admitted. “Why do you think there are so many gyms in town? All us lard asses would turn to Jell-O if we didn’t limber up once in a while.”
“So,” the PI wondered, “you and Strummer…?”
“He’s just good people,” she insisted. “Talks a lot about his punk days. I’m surprised he made it into his 50’s.”
“When did he get here?”
“Around Christmas, 2002,” she recalled. “I remember because he was so blitzed out his mind he caused a massive row on Tinker Street. A lot of people who were new up here forgot that, when you try to hurt someone, you just end up hurting yourself. A lot of people ended up in the hospital by their own doing,” she laughed. “Kinda like our own Christmas Day Massacre.”
“I’m ready to go out if you are,” Gregory conceded.
“Well, I’m glad you’re still hungry,” she smiled, “because that can be fixed.”
CHAPTER 6
Around 10PM, Mama Cass escorted her new friend to Seven Beaches, the restaurant and bar near the Super Wheels bicycle shop on Tannery Brook Rd., a tributary right off the main drag through town. As befitted its name, the décor of the establishment was mostly Caribbean in nature. Large, full color photographs of shell-littered, white sand beaches and pristine, blue seas hanged on every wall. A few live palms were sitting in various clay pots around the eatery. Even the wait staff, themselves attired in breezy Bermuda shirts, matched the surroundings perfectly. Within seconds of arriving, they followed the greeter to a polished, driftwood table near the back not far from a small stage now occupied by a ballad-performing singer/guitarist.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” the greeter informed them, then laid menus on the table and exited.
“Nice joint,” Gregory remarked. “There sure are a lot of eateries in this town. Kinda surreal.”
“Who’s got time to cook?” she asked. “It’s not like we have the best equipment anyway. Our pots and pans are just adequate enough to get by for a quick snack, but preparing really nice food takes pretty experienced chefs, considering the raw materials we have to work with. What I mean is, you don’t buy eggs; you concoct it yourself. Meat-type products? Most people, when they try, end up with something that looks like road kill. Better to let the culinary guys do their things. That’s why there are so many bistros. No one cooks at home; not that much, anyway.”
“Wow,” the PI said. “I gotta get used to that.” He started scanning the environs. Pretty high tech,” he noticed, “even though it’s just bricks and wood. Who’s the singer?”
“I don’t know,” she swore. “They have different people here every night. It’s like a showcase bar, you know, like The Bluebird Café in Nashville, except this is a little bigger.”
“He sounds good.”
Gregory continued reading the room, scanning faces as if expecting to see anyone familiar. Unfortunately, he didn’t. He did, however, notice that…
“They’re mostly men in here,” he whispered. “Is this a gay restaurant?”
“Not hardly,” she told him. “How many female rockers do you know?”
“Well, let’s see,” he recalled. “The Bangles, the Go-Go’s, Heart…”
“But they’re not dead, though.”
“Oh, the older ones. Well, there’s…um…”
“Exactly,” she noted. “Not very many. It’ll grow in time.”
Just then, their waiter, a dead ringer for the lead singer from Queen, came over with a basket of warm bread with small jars of assorted jams and jellies, and placed it on the table between the dining duo.
“I’m Freddie, your server,” he introduced himself. “Can I get you something from the bar to start?”
This face Gregory recognized. “You’re Freddie Mercury, right?”
“In the flesh, so to speak,” he answered. “What’ll you have?”
“How about a song?”
“No.”
“You know what?” Gregory told Mama. “Those eggs really did fill me up. I’ll just take a bowl of ice cream,” he instructed Freddie. “Something citrus-y, like lime or lemon.”
The mustached waiter turned to Mama Cass. “What about you, Mama?”
“I’ll have a Muscatel,” she ordered. “Any kind, Freddie. Surprise me.”
“Thank you,” the singer/pianist/showman/waiter said. As he turned to exit straight to the bar, Gregory changed his mind.
“You know what?” he called Freddie back. “Nil on the ice cream. I’ll just take a glass of light beer.”
“Very well,” the mustachioed server nodded, then left.
“Muscatel, huh?” Gregory mused. “Pretty classy.”
“Yeah,” Mama snorted. “I wish. I just like their sweet complexity. In some of them the aromas of tangerines and apricots dominate. I’ve had those that tasted more like raisins and figs. At least they don’t get me shit faced like vodka or gin.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled, tapping non-consciously on the polished table. “I also can’t help noticing I never saw any kids.”
“You can’t procreate here.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “L’Da told me that. But some do adopt, right?”
“They do,” she acknowledged. “You just got here so you haven’t seen them yet. They go to the school up near the monastery. All the kids you will see around here were adopted.”
“There’s only one school?”
“Uh, huh. There are not really that many kids up here to begin with.”
“For K to 12?”
> “I’d say most, if not all,” she replied, “of the adopted kids are around the same age – from babies to 12 or 13. The older ones are pretty much set in their ways and can be too much of an unnecessary challenge, especially since, you know, they don’t grow up. Kids forever. Some heavens are like Peter Pan Hell. Anyway, the classes go from K to middle school.”
Just then, Freddie Mercury returned with their drinks. “Ready to order?” he asked, laying their beverages down before them.
“I didn’t even look at the menu,” Gregory apologized. “I’ll just have a deluxe burger and fries. They have that?”
“Yes,” Freddie promised. “What about you, Mama?”
“I’ll go with the traditional surf & turf,” she requested. “Medium on the turf, please.”
“Thank you.” Freddie scooped up both menus and exited.
“You know, Mama,” Gregory resumed, “I bet a lot of people here would rather raise their own flesh and blood.”
“So would I,” she said, sipping her drink, “but remember, these bodies are pseudo-corporeal, representative of what they once were. Since they’re not the real deal, they can’t reproduce themselves; can’t even be cloned.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. I hope this burger won’t let me down.”
“It won’t.”
“You guys did tell me there are no animals up here because they lack the consciousness of knowing right from wrong.”
“That’s true.”
“But what about kids, though?” he wondered. “A one or two-year old won’t know right from wrong, so how would they proceed through the heavens?”
“On their adoptive parents’ guidance. That’s why the older ones aren’t here because they go out of their way to challenge everything. But you know what? A lot of the kids from around 6 to 12 start getting depressed because there aren’t more kids to play with so they end up back in Children’s Heaven.”
“Children’s Heaven,” Gregory chuckled. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
“It is, actually. But because there are so many of them, billions and billions of kids, they live in huge group homes with responsible caretakers and eventually don’t yearn for parents. And, of course, no child would ever be abused. Not one. Ever. They learn pretty quickly that to hurt someone is to hurt yourself.”