Painted Black (25 page)

“You can all stay here at Cotchford for the time being, if you like. Tom Keylock is coming down tomorrow to hire the general contractors to carry out the renovations. The main thing is the studio; let's get started on that first.”

Anna Wohlin entered the room with a bottle of champagne on ice and several glasses.

“A toast?”

Anna poured the champagne. They all held their glasses high.

Brian's voice sounded happier than it had in years. “To Cotchford!”

“To Cotchford!”

“Home of Winnie-the-Pooh!”

“Now the home of Brian Jones.”

Skully met Renee at their secret rendezvous in a darkened pub in Camden Town, London. He was nursing a pint as Renee walked in wearing tight jeans and a black plastic trench coat. She was incognito tonight, dressed to travel, dressed to kill.

She sat down next to Skully in a corner booth and spoke in low tones.

“Brian just bought the A. A. Milne house in Hartford. It's a perfect setup.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I have directions. We should go down there and check it out.”

“Look, there's no rush right now. I say we watch and wait.”

Renee nodded. “What happened to Spangler?”

Skully dropped his voice. “I don't know. He disappeared. I think the Mafia got him.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared'?”

“I mean he's missing. Hasn't been to work in over a week. Nobody's heard from him since he returned from London.”

“You think the families got him?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. He was always making deals with them, they were getting sick of it. Live by the sword; die by the sword.”

Renee lit a cigarette. Her smile was feline. “He was a weasel anyway.”

“He had no idea who he was dealing with.”

“He knew. He just thought he could get away with it.” Renee changed the subject. “You know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you.”

“What's to know?”

“When are you going to tell me who you work for?”

Skully smiled. “You're curious little bitch, aren't you? What does it matter?”

“I have to know who I'm working with.”

“Believe me. You don't want to know.”

“Come on, Skully. Don't you think you owe me? You made a lot of promises.” She touched his face. “Don't you remember, baby?”

Skully whispered, “I'll tell you once, right now, but you'll have to swear never to bring it up again. This information must never get out. Do you swear? If it does, we're both dead.

“I work for a secret organization called The M Group. That's all I can tell you.”

“The M Group? I never heard of them.”

“That's why they're secret.”

“Is it a government agency? Like the CIA?”

“No, it's a private group.”

“And why do they want Brian dead?”

Skully frowned. “No more questions.”

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had been talking for weeks about firing Brian from the Rolling Stones, the band that he founded. Things had changed. He wasn't contributing anymore. The incident with Keith and Anita broke his heart. Life on the road was impossible. And of course, there were the drug busts. Brian felt pressure from every quarter.

The Stones had a major tour coming up.
Beggar's Banquet
had reestablished the band, and now it was time to take it to the people. Touring had never been more important. Not only did it provide a much-needed cash flow, but it stimulated record sales, and that was the kind of promotion they needed. The Rolling Stones brand had been tarnished by the weak response to
Their Satanic Majesties Request
, a train wreck of an album with only one weak hit single; the overproduced “She's a Rainbow.” Brian had warned them to get back to their roots. Now
Beggar's Banquet
had righted the ship.

Brian couldn't get a visa to tour in the United States or Japan. Keith and Mick had kicked around every idea they could think of. Eric Clapton had volunteered to take a leave of absence from Cream and join the group temporally until the tour was over. Other guitarists volunteered. Mick and Keith had their own visa problems, but their lawyers were working hard to clear the slate.

Unbeknownst to Brian, the Stones had been jamming with a hot young guitarist from John Mayall's Bluesbreakers named Mick Taylor. They could bring this guy or that guy, but neither wanted to hire a temp. The only answer was to fire Brian Jones and move on. But Brian's roots were deep. He started the band, he named the band, he chose the members, he selected the material, and he booked the early gigs. Brian's fingerprints were all over the Stones. It would not be easy to replace him.

Mick, Keith, and Charlie drove out to Cotchford Farm to confront Brian. Firing Brian would be the most difficult business decision they had ever made. They took their time driving, mulling over what they would say. They'd have to choose their words carefully because Brian was as sensitive as a bad tooth.

The Rolling Stones new manager, American publishing mogul Allen Klein, put together the parting deal for Brian. Brian would continue to receive his share of the royalties for the albums already recorded, he would also get a one-hundred-thousand-pound settlement payment and the sum of twenty thousand pounds yearly for as long as the Stones continued to exist and make money.

Allen and the rest of the Stones avoided saying that Brian had been fired. The official press release said he was quitting the group due to “musical differences.” That sort of whitewash always made Brian angry.
At least let the truth come out
, he thought. Brian didn't care if he was fired or quitting, it was all the same. He just wanted the nightmare to be over.

Mick, Keith and Charlie walked into Cotchford with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Brian knew instantly what they were up to. He'd been expecting it. One look at their faces and he could tell. What they had to do wasn't easy, but so much bullshit had built up around the Stones that it was suffocating them. They all knew what had to be done. There was a cancer growing on the band, and it had to be cut out.

Brian led them down to his parlor and listened to what they had to say.

Keith got right to the point. “Brian, you're out of the band, cock. You're fired.”

Even though Brian expected it, Keith's words still came as a shock. Brian felt numb. It was remarkably like the day Keith stole Anita and left Brian on his own in Morocco.

Brian felt his ears ring. This was the moment he'd been anticipating, and now it was here. For a few seconds, he couldn't hear them. It all sounded like gibberish. Ever the businessman, Mick went over the settlement payments with Brian. Brian couldn't concentrate. One hundred thousand pounds, twenty thousand pounds, what did these numbers mean? They had computed Brian's worth to the Stones, and there it was written down on a piece of paper? Brian felt like crying. The irony was almost too much.

Mick seemed to be the most motivated among them; he did most of the talking. In a hurry to get through the sacking, he lost a little of his compassion and started to sound cold.

Brian felt confused. Mick made it seem like Brian wanted to quit, like he was unhappy with the band and wanted to move on. But that wasn't the case at all. He was being sacked.

Brian tried to pay attention, but it was like listening to lawyers instead of musicians.

Mick and Keith claimed they owned the rights to the name
Rolling Stones
. When Brian objected, they decided to sort that detail out at a later date. First things first, Brian had to be jettisoned before anything else could happen.

They spoke for a while, Brian becoming more quiet and withdrawn with every passing moment. When at last they left, Brian said good-bye and put on a carefree face, but he was dying inside.

Brian watched them drive away. His last sight was Charlie Watts's look of discomfort as he watched out the back window.

I am no longer a Rolling Stone
, Brian thought.
After all these years, the dream is over.

The next day, the newspaper headlines read: BRIAN JONES QUITS THE STONES AS GROUP CLASHES OVER SONGS!

Brian had the London papers brought to him every day and he followed the story. He read them again and again, tears forming in his eyes.

What a load of shit,
he thought.

Fans were flabbergasted. No one outside the Stones had any idea.

Chapter Twenty

The Vox Teardrop

In the days that followed getting fired, Brian fell into a profound funk. His life had revolved around the Stones for as long as he could remember. Without the band, there seemed no reason to get up in the morning.

Brian thought about the financial settlement. The more he weighed it, the more unfair it seemed. One hundred thousand pounds didn't seem like enough money after generating millions. Bobby sat down with Brian on several occasions and tried to explain Allen Klein's memorandum of agreement as best he could, but Brian understood little. Inside him, bitter resentment grew. He was no businessman, but he knew what was fair.

Clovis and Erlene stayed at Cotchford with Brian just to keep a watchful eye on him. John Lennon called often. Dust Bin Bob commuted from London two or three times a week, splitting time between running his store and living with Cricket.

Friends called Brian every day, trying to encourage Brian to play some music, but now that he was out of the Stones, his inspiration had temporarily dried up. Jimi Hendrix, Denny Laine, Alexis Korner, John Mayall, Eric Burdon, John Lennon, his phone bubbled forth with the cream of the crop of London's best musicians. But Brian was nonplused. He needed some time off.

Tom Keylock hired Frank Thorogood to do the renovations on Cotchford Farm. Frank had worked on Keith's Redlands Estate and even though Keith was less than thrilled with the quality of the work, Tom hired Frank to work on Brian's house.

Frank hired a trio of unsavory day laborers, known only as Johnny, Mo, and Dave, from nearby West Withering. Clovis called them the Pep Boys after the American auto parts store: “The Pep Boys! Manny, Mo, and Jack!” There was classic sight gag about the Pep Boys matches. The English guys never got it until Clovis showed Brian and Bobby the infamous “Pep Boys Match Book Trick.”

Clovis explained that he learned it in juvenile hall after being arrested for stealing cars as a youth.

“Please, show us!” Brian begged.

“Okay, Brian. Just for you.”

Clovis had a brandy snifter full of Pep Boys matchbooks from a friend who worked in one of the stores back in Baltimore. The trick required a Swiss Army knife and a standard book of cardboard matches.

The front of the matchbook showed three caricatures of the Pep Boys bowlegged with oversize heads. Clovis made tiny slits between their legs and pushed the three matches through so that it looked like each Pep Boy had a giant red-tipped penis protruding from the front of their pants. For the grand finally, Clovis lit the three matches.
The Pep Boys' dicks on fire!

Brian watched the Pep Boy's peckers burn. For some reason, he was fascinated with the trick. Maybe, he thought, in a weird way, that his own wiener was on fire.

“Bloody brilliant!” Brian said after a hearty laugh.

Johnny, Moe, and Dave, the real English Pep Boys kept trying to see how far they could push Brian. They were lazy and their work was terrible. Brian quickly became fed up.

The initial Frank Thorogood quote of eleven thousand pounds for the work on Cotchford Farm was way off, and the new price was close to ridiculous. Brian felt sure he was being ripped off. It only got worse.

The workers' daily presence became menacing. They took over the pool area, drinking and carousing. When Brian showed his face to check on the progress of the work, they made jokes and laughed at his skinny body and long effeminate hair.

Clovis saw what was happening and gave them a piece of his mind, demanding that they get back to work or get fired.

Frank soon became a problem himself, having moved into the flat over the garage. He turned Brian's beloved Poohville into his own private party zone. Soon the workers started inviting girls over, and nothing got done.

Frank Thorogood was thuggish and domineering and didn't seem to like Brian. He disrespected him every chance he got. When Brian asked a question, he was usually given a flippant answer. Work progressed at a snail's pace. Just because Tom Keylock worked for the Stones, and he hired Frank, Frank thought he was immune to criticism.

Brian complained, but Frank laughed at him. Frank began to order Brian around. Anna Wohlin complained that the “cowboys” Frank hired were entirely unprofessional and had to go. She didn't want them around the house. Neither did a now visibly pregnant Erlene, whose apprehension about protecting Brian had reached a fever pitch.

Bobby experienced it every time he made the drive from London and saw that nothing had progressed from the time before. Bobby joined the chorus of people who feared and/or disliked Frank Thorogood and his workers.

Clovis and Bobby had both volunteered to fire Frank, acting as Brian's spokesmen. But for some reason, Brian's intimidation froze him and he did nothing. Besides, Brian knew it would mean nothing to Frank unless it came from him. Brian had to be the man. He had to grow up and face the truth.

Frank worked for Tom Keykock, who worked for the Stones. They all worked for the Stones. Even the checks for Mrs. Hallet, the housekeeper, were issued by the Rolling Stones office in London. Did Brian feel some sort of misplaced loyalty?

Tension at Cotchford Farm mounted.

Clovis worked in the studio room with Brian and seldom came out. Unlike Frank, his work progressed nicely. He'd rewired the control room and installed a patch bay so he could plug any device into any input. He brought in a beautiful Ampex 16-track recorder and several dozen of the big two-inch tape boxes.

Brian spent hours talking to Clovis. Clovis loved to hear about the old days of British blues. Brian's mood improved when he recalled those days.

Brian pontificated freely. “That was the beauty of the early Stones. We just didn't give a shit. We were so audacious. I recently saw the old video of us doing ‘Little Red Rooster' on the TV show
Ready, Steady, Go!
There I am playing these time-honored slide guitar riffs, right out of Howlin' Wolf, and I'm playing them on an ultra modern-looking white Vox Phantom teardrop guitar! It's almost sacrilegious! And Keith is playing a cheesy Harmony Sovereign acoustic twelve-string! With cheap pickups! Mick is faking my harmonica parts from the record! And, to make matters worse, it's our first English number one and
it's a song about a fuckin' chicken, man! What other group could do that?
”

Clovis and Brian laughed until their sides hurt. It was times like this when Clovis thought Brian could actually be happy and content.

“When we appeared on the TV show
Shindig!
in America, we insisted that Howlin' Wolf be on the bill with us. It caused quite a ruckus because the producers wanted only young white acts. Somehow, I don't know how he did this, but Mick had lied to them saying that Howlin' Wolf was in fact young white group from Chicago. You can imagine their consternation when in walks this six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-ninety pound black guy. By that time, it was too late to book another act. I got to introduce him.”

Brian watched Clovis work, slowly and methodically. Clovis took his time and enjoyed his work. They often talked about music and the amazing things they'd seen: Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and the Master Musicians of Joujouka. It was music he would never forget. Lifetime music. Brian's already vast musical horizons shined like a Hawaiian sunset.

Clovis instructed Brian to order an expensive twenty-four-track Neve console. They awaited its arrival. Rupert Neve had designed it himself with an eye to keeping it compact to fit in unusual spaces.

Frank wandered into the control room looking for Brian. It was Frank's style to creep into a room and listen before making his presence known. He could see Brian and Clovis talking quietly on the other side of the double glass but he couldn't hear what they were saying due to the soundproofing.

Frank watched their mouths move. Curiosity got the best of him. Frank knew enough about the studio to turn on the talk back button so he could eavesdrop. He slid the level of the microphones up and listened through the overhead speakers.

When Clovis asked Brian how he was going to pay for the Neve console, whether it would be a Rolling Stones check or a personal one. Brian looked surprised.

“Cash, my dear boy,” he said.

Clovis did a double take. “Cash? That's over twenty grand, Brian. Who keeps that kind of money around the house?”

Brian grinned. “I do.”

“Are you serious?”

In the control room, Frank Thorogood stood at attention. He'd been listening to every word they said.

Cash? Did he say cash? Frank's ears pricked up.
He leaned closer to the monitor speakers so he could hear every word.

Brian smiled. “Absolutely. I have over a hundred grand in cash hidden in this house: English pounds, Swiss francs, and American dollars.”

Frank almost lost his cool. His heart thumped and the sound of his blood pumping in his ears nearly drowned out Brian's words.
A hundred grand? Hidden in this house, but where?

Clovis's jaw dropped. “Come on, that's not only stupid, it's dangerous. If anybody knew about that money, they would kill you for it.”

“Relax. Nobody knows.”

“Relax? Jesus, Brian! How can you sleep with that much money hanging around? We need to go to the local bank and deposit it all straightaway.”

Brian sighed. “Clovis, my man. Let me explain something to you. The English tax rate for millionaires is insanely harsh; eighty-three percent for earned income and ninety-eight percent for unearned income. Ninety-eight percent! That's outrageous. They'd be all over me. As cash, that money is obviously worth a whole lot more.”

“But …”

“I'm the only one who knows where it is.”

Clovis had seen Brian's bedroom. He knew Brian kept stacks of cash on a nightstand next to his bed. It looked to be thousands of pounds. Clovis had warned Brian to never leave large amounts of cash in the open. It was too much of a temptation.

If the Pep Boys ever found out about that money, Brian would have some real trouble.

Renee and Skully drove past Cotchford Farm several times. They studied the grounds. Renee got out of the car and snuck behind the house to the pool area. She saw the floodlights and where they would illuminate. She studied the site lines. She hid in the bushes and watched some people she didn't know cavorting and drinking beer around the swimming pool.

She returned to car with her report. “There's a bunch of guys I don't know hanging out by the pool.”

“It's probably the workers Frank Thorogood hired.”

“There are tons of places to hide.”

“Okay, let's get back to town.”

Renee watched the tranquil country house slip into the hundred-acre wood as they drove away.

Renee said, “Is that really the house of the guy who wrote
Winnie-the-Pooh
?”

“Yes. A. A. Milne moved here in 1925. He owned it for a long time. That's why it's so special.”

Renee snorted. “Now that we're here, it doesn't seem like such a big deal.”

Smithson Photographic Developing Labs was the type of hip young darkroom technology lab Bobby was looking for. They specialized in jobs other developers wouldn't attempt.

“These are super-dark exposures,” Bobby explained. “They're going to need help.”

The guy in the white lab coat sniffed. “What was your light source?”

“Candles. Dozens of them.”

His right eyebrow arched up. “And what exactly are you shooting?”

Bobby told the guy what kind of film and camera he used. “I was shooting Tri-X, ASA 400.”

“Did you have the lens open all the way?”

“Yes, but it was only fifty millimeters.”

“
Hmmm
, I see. What was the line of site here?”

“Over a guy's shoulder into an antique mirror.”

The white lab coat shook his head. “I don't know, man. What were you shooting, ghosts?”

Bobby nodded. “That's right. Can you help me?”

“Of course I can! I'm the best. I'll squeeze every available photon of light out of these exposures. I'll have to push the film a little, that means I'll leave it in the developer a little longer. Give me until Friday and I'll see what I can do.”

When Bobby returned on Friday, the prints were ready. The guy in white lab coat was excited to show him. Bobby inspected the prints.

“It was a challenge, but I think I captured what you wanted to see. Most of the time, it was this face, with flickering candlelight, but at one point it wavers and other faces appear. It happens so fast that the eye doesn't catch it, but the lens does. You were shooting bursts of exposure at top speed. It caught everything. Look.”

Bobby stared at the series of prints.

“Is that Brian Jones?” Bobby momentarily forgot that Brian Jones was one of the most famous icons of rock and roll and a face known to millions.

“Yes, it is.”

“I thought so. Examine please.”

In the first print, Brian's face is plainly visible. In the next, Brian's face appears to waver. In the next, it becomes cloudy and indistinct. In the next print, another face, a girl's face is plainly visible.
A girl's face—and Bobby recognized it.

Eleanor Rigby! The face of infinite sadness. How could it be possible? There's no connection
. Her slender white fingers against the other side of the mirror as she appeared to touch her fingertips to the glass.

In the next print, Eleanor Rigby's face becomes cloudy and morphs into a new face, a beautiful face, a face he knew. It was clearly visible in the next print.
Claudine Jillian
, just as she appeared at Brian's party in what seemed like a hundred years ago. She too seemed to reach out to touch the glass.
What did they all want to say?

The lab guy held the next-to-last print in his white-gloved hand. He hesitated before handing it to Bobby.