Black Dogs: The Possibly True Story of Classic Rock's Greatest Robbery

ONE

baltimore, maryland

JULY 20, 1973

the albums flipped forward into my hand.

Paranoid

Volume 4

Master of Reality

And of course Black Sabbath, the album that started it all for the greatest band in the world: Black Sabbath.

I pulled a copy of each one, stuffed them under my arm and looked around the Record Barn. I’d been coming here since I was a kid. In high school I use to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night to make a lunch just so I could pocket my lunch money. By the end of the week I had enough for a few singles.

Not much had changed at the Barn in the months since I had split town. Faded posters covered the grimy front windows, keeping the store dim even in the middle of the afternoon. The stench of pot still hid behind a thin wall of incense, and boxes of T-shirts and albums littered the narrow aisles like always. The owner, Bob, a frizzy-haired David Crosby look-alike, wandered around squeezing more albums into cluttered bins. He stopped in the aisle and stared at me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” he growled.

“I graduated two years ago, Bob,” I told him without looking up from the row of records I flipped through.

“Oh,” he grunted. “Well, do you need anything?”

He didn’t really sound interested in helping me.

“Nah. Just waiting for Frenchy . . . uh . . . Pete.”

A few minutes later Frenchy stumbled from the back room. His arms waved wildly around his head and shaggy brown hair swirled around his face. He flung a pile of records on the counter and wiped his face with the front of his Flamin’ Groovies T-shirt.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Frenchy?”

“I got caught in a spiderweb in the basement,” he said. He patted down his hair then looked up at me. “And don’t call me that.”

We’d been calling him Frenchy since a night he passed out drunk in the backseat of my car talking gibberish that we decided sounded like French. After I left town he convinced everyone to call him Pete again. It was going to take some getting used to.

“So did Alex actually get out today?” I asked.

“Yeah. His mom’s having a party for him tonight.”

Frenchy sighed heavily.

“You sure he wants to see you?”

“Probably not,” I answered.

Bob disappeared into the back room. I followed Frenchy while he walked through the store. Now and then he stopped to file a record into a bin.

“Man, I shouldn’t have told you he was getting out,” Frenchy moaned. He moaned a lot.

“I just need to talk to him.”

“He didn’t answer any of your letters. Why would he talk to you now?”

“I know Alex better than he knows himself.”

“You drove all the way down from New York City just to talk to him?”

“Something like that.”

Bob returned from the back room with a set of BMW keys in his hand and a briefcase with a Grateful Dead sticker on the side. Something about an old hippie with a BMW and a briefcase made me smile.

“Be sure to lock up, Pete.”

“Okay, Bob. See you tomorrow,” Frenchy said as the front door rattled closed.

Music played in the store. Something loud and noisy. I liked it.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“The Stooges. They’re from Detroit.”

“I dig it.”

“Really? You actually like something other than Black Sabbath?”

“Just need something to fill the time until their next album.”

“Whatever.” Frenchy laughed.

“How’s your band going?” I asked.

“Which one?”

When he wasn’t working at the Record Barn, Frenchy combined his musical talents and marginal high school acting experience into a couple of cover bands that played bars and private events. Want the Rolling Stones to rock your wedding reception? Frenchy can do a hell of a Mick Jagger. Need Neil Diamond at your office holiday party? Frenchy’s version of “Sweet Caroline” could get the accounting department on their feet. He could imitate anyone.

Frenchy finished restocking the bins then locked the front door. The cash register chimed as he stabbed at buttons until the drawer shot open. Frenchy grabbed the tray of cash and headed toward the back office. I followed him until he stopped, blocking the doorway.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just following you.”

“No way. Wait out here.”

“What’s the big deal? You’re just counting out the cash register. I can hang out for that.”

“Not a chance, dude. That’s my rule. You, Alex and Keith aren’t coming near the cash or the safe or the back room. I don’t even want you guys near the fucking mop closet. Just wait out there.”

I sat on the counter, started to read an issue of Rolling Stone, got bored and read Creem instead. A flier on bright yellow paper hung on the side of the counter.

THE MISTY MOUNTAIN HOPPERS

LED ZEPPELIN FAN CLUB

MEETINGS EVERY FRIDAY—CALL FOR INFO

I tore it down, folded it up then slipped it into my pocket. A switch flipped from the back room and the lights shut off. Frenchy reappeared and stood in the middle of the store going over everything in his head to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He double-checked the back door then the tiny safe in the office. Then he checked the back door again.

“We need to pick Keith up from work,” Frenchy said, turning off the rest of the lights in the store.

“Is he still working at Mancini’s?” “Yeah. Installing car stereos.”

“And then uninstalling them in the middle of the night?”

“Of course.”

Frenchy fished for his keys then stopped at the front door and turned around.

“Don’t you already own those?” he asked, pointing to the stack of Sabbath albums under my arm.

“Wore them out. I need new copies.”

“You gonna pay for ’em?”

“What do you think?”

Frenchy sighed and opened the door. We walked together across the empty parking lot as the sun set behind the Record Barn and Baltimore looked every bit as small as it did when I’d left.