Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.
For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.
NOOK Book(eBook)
Available on Compatible NOOK Devices and the free NOOK Apps.
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497663091 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/07/2015 |
| Series: | Dust Bin Bob , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | NOOK Book |
| Pages: | 406 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
In the 1990s, Greg turned his attention to writing fiction. He published four novels and a handful of short stories in various anthologies, and edited a compilation of original fiction by famous musicians. Horror Show was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel.
Read an Excerpt
Painted Black
By Greg Kihn
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2015 Greg KihnAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6309-1
CHAPTER 1
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."
"It's beautiful," Brian said.
He started playing another tune. This one Bobby recognized as the second chorale from Beethoven's Symphony no. 9 in D Minor. He had heard about Brian's uncanny ability to pick up any instrument and master it in just one sitting. In fact, according to John Lennon that's what kept him in the Stones. He'd played dulcimer on "Lady Jane," marimbas on "Under My Thumb," sitar on "Paint It Black," and a myriad of other instruments to keep him relevant within the band. Brian's multi-instrumentalism became his signature.
"Would you like to buy it?" Bobby asked.
Brian looked surprised. "Yes, of course. Didn't you put it there just so I would find it?"
Bobby laughed. "How did you know?"
Brian tapped his forehead. "ESP, my dear Dustman."
"And the price, did you know that, too?"
"Ahh, the price. Well, to tell you the truth I don't much care about the price."
"Really? Because the Louis XVI snuff box is around six thousand pounds."
Brian shrugged. "One of the reasons I come here is that you always know the discrete way to bill the Stones business office."
Bobby smiled. "I learned that from Brian Epstein."
"It makes life so much easier. Besides, I almost never carry cash."
"I'll make you a great deal on the recorder so it balances out with the snuff box."
"I'll take them both. It's a pleasure doing business with the legendary Dust Bin Bob."
They stepped away from the window into the interior of the shop, away from the gathering crowd. There were at least a dozen people outside now, talking excitedly.
As Bobby went to write the receipt, Brian went into a sneezing jag.
"Allergies: asthma, dust, pollen, you name it," Brian sniffed. "I'm never right."
Bobby finished his paperwork and put it away. He knew better than to give it to Brian. He would send it to Andrew Loog Oldham's office in Ivor Court, Gloucester Place. He knew the address because Kit Lambert and the Who had their offices there and Keith Moon was a regular customer.
Brian played with his new toy, the antique recorder. He seemed to be unaware of the rapidly growing crowd outside the front door. The shades were drawn, but there were plenty of cracks to look through. Bobby realized if Brian stopped to sign autographs he could be there for hours. He knew from his experiences growing up with the Beatles how quickly a crowd could form.
Bobby said, "I suggest you leave by the back door."
Brian seemed surprised.
"The back door? Why?"
Bobby nodded in the direction of the front window of the shop, now full of onlookers pressing their faces against the glass.
"Oh, I see what you mean."
"We have a delivery door that opens into the alley behind the shop. You can avoid the autograph hunters by going that way."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Painted Black by Greg Kihn. Copyright © 2015 Greg Kihn. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Customer Reviews
