CHAPTER 19
When Jimi was finished consulting with the customer, he walked over to Gregory who was checking out some sleeping bags, survival supplies and edible plants at the Center. Tony, himself, was occupied trying on several hooded tribal Aztec ponchos.
“Can I help you?” the legendary rock & blues axeman asked the PI.
“My name’s Gregory Angelicus,” the ex-cop said, shaking his hand. “That fellow over there is Tony Lopez. I’m an investigator and he’s my assistant.”
“Oh, man,” Jimi groaned. “What’d I do now?”
“No, no, no,” the PI assured him. “It’s not like that. We wanted to talk to you about Amy.”
“Amy?”
“Winehouse,” Gregory answered.
“Oh, yeah,” the guitarist recalled. “Wow, that was a heavy thing, man. Tragic, you know?”
“Um, is there some place we can talk?” the ex-cop asked, surveying the lodge.
“I was just gonna take a break and go for a walk down to South Beach,” Jimi revealed. “Why don’t y’all come with me? It’s a pretty nice day out.”
“Sure,” Gregory said, nodding. “Um, who’s gonna mind the shoppe? You seem to be the only clerk around.”
“Still learning the ropes, huh?” Jimi chuckled. “It’s not just the stores in town without locks on their doors. If cats want to corrupt their soul with petty thievery, that’s on them. Brother, around here, when they say there’s hell to pay, they really mean it.”
A few minutes later, Jimi, Gregory and Tony were on the road to the South Beach, passing a doobie around supplied by Jimi. The transparent, cloudless sky, an endless canopy of cerulean blue, hovered over them like a comforting blanket. The trees and shrubs of all shapes and sizes on both sides of the narrow road extended into infinity, rendering them as perfect sites for camping. Tony, wearing a knapsack donated to him from Jimi, fished a bottle of water out of it and started gulping it down like a parched hyena.
“As you cats can see,” Jimi spoke, stretching out his arms, “this is nature at its peak. I come out here a lot to commune with the missus, as I call her.”
“To play guitar, no doubt,” Gregory guessed.
“Not really,” Hendrix negated. “I mean, whew, can you imagine strumming away day after day for, what, thirty, forty years? I could go crazy. Then again, they say I am, so maybe it’s too late,” he laughed. “Everybody’s got their opinion. That’s cool. We’re all just trying to live.”
“I gotta say,” Tony inserted, “my life is complete; walking down the street with the greatest guitar player in the world.”
“Oh, man,” Jimi moaned. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that. I’m not the greatest. There are cats out there that make me look like I have no fingers. Thanks for the compliment, though. So, why are you guys talking to me about Amy? I barely knew her.”
“She lived in your house,” Gregory answered. “The 27 Club.”
“Oh, shucks,” Hendrix said, “you know, at this point they can call it the 74 Club.”
“Is that how old you guys really are?” Tony asked.
“I guess so,” Jimi stated. “Trippy, right?”
“How did you and Amy get along?” Gregory queried.
“Everything was alright between us,” Hendrix admitted. “I mean, she did her thing and I did mine. Did you know she was a blues singer?”
“No,” the PI admitted. “I didn’t know. Why’d you mention that, though?”
“They call me the wild cat,” Jimi explained, “but she can be out there, too. I was kind of intimidated when she first came by. Whew, she’s strong, but she surprised me by knowing songs from people like Blind Willie McTell, Big Bill Broonzy, Blue Lu Barker, Georgia White…pretty impressive. We did a couple of recordings back at the house, or The House, as they call it in Woodstock. Never saw so much press in my life when she died, not even at the Isle of Wight or Monterey Pop.”
“Wow,” Tony extolled. “Recordings with Amy Winehouse backed up by Jimi Hendrix.”
“What else are we gonna do up here?” Jimi pondered. “A bunch of us cats just sat around all night, playing music, getting stoned out of our minds, that sort of thing. You know Stevie Ray Vaughan?”
Gregory shook his head. “Sounds familiar, but not really.”
“I do,” Tony confessed. “Plays a lot like you.”
“Yeah,” Jimi smiled. “That’s the one. When I first heard him I was, like, wow, I may as well hang it up now. But we get along real good, you know? Comes by the house to jam every so often. He was part of those sessions, too. Keith Moon, Johnny Entwistle, lots of cats.”
“You had a big influence on musicians,” Tony explained. “Even till this day.”
“Cool,” Hendrix acknowledged. “A lot of good players up here, too. Gary Moore, Rory Gallagher, Zappa, Terry Kath, Randy Rhoads, Dimebag Darrell, Duane Allman; you know, I taught Robert Johnson electric. That brother, man. Wow.”
“Who’s Robert Johnson?” Gregory asked.
“Oh, gosh,” Jimi lamented, “we gotta get you up to speed. That’s the grand pappy of them all. All us slingers can sit at his feet all day and still not pick up on half the stuff he plays. He’s a bluesman, but his ideas are, wow, mind blowing. Just when you think a lick is headed in one direction he completely alters it, keeps you on your toes. Very creative plucker. Took my own equipment and turned it on its ear! I think I didn’t play for a year after that. Oh, yeah. Robert Johnson. Spends most of his time in Blues Heaven, but knowing him, he probably has a second home in Models’ Heaven. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“They recently found out how Ms. Winehouse died,” the PI stated. “Someone removed her soul.”
“Really?” Jimi asked, surprised. “That can be done?”
The PI nodded. “Apparently.”
“How’d they do it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Gregory explained. “We think they used some sort of extraction device and that’s what may have left that mark on her abdomen.”
“I don’t know how I can help your investigation,” Hendrix vowed. “All this is new to me.”
“We’ll need you to come back to the station for a polygraph,” Gregory said, trying his best to make his request sound as un-authoritative as possible.
“Oh, shucks,” the legendary guitarist groaned. “Again? I did one already.”
“I use a different set of criteria,” Gregory informed him.
Jimi eyed the PI. “Where are you from?”
“Seattle,” the ex-cop answered. “Why do you ask?”
“You remind me of this guy I used to jam with from the Rocking Kings,” Jimi explained. “Sound just like him, too. Your father played drums?”
Gregory shook his head. “Not that I know.”
“You must be really familiar with that city,” Gregory wondered.
“It’s where I was born and raised,” the left-handed Strat master informed him. “Went to Garfield High School on 23rd, played in a couple of local bands. So, how’s the town these days?”
“They’re developing it really fast,” Tony asserted. “Maybe too fast.”
“People got their own rocket ships yet?” Hendrix joked.
“Nah,” Tony shook his head. “It didn’t develop that far.”
“At least it’s developing,” Hendrix mused. “I had to drop out because the place just wasn’t happening for me.”
“Oh, it’s developing all right,” Tony swore, “just in the wrong direction.”
“What do you mean?” Jimi asked him.
“Gentrification, man,” Tony answered.
“What’s that?”
“The poor folks are getting kicked out of town,” the young PI asserted. “They gotta move down to Renton, Kent, Tacoma, places like that.”
“At least they have a place to go,” Jimi stated.
Tony abruptly stopped in his tracks and stared at the legend. “You don’t understand, man,” he said angrily. “It ain’t about development, it??
?s about money, like a fucking land grab.”
“Wow,” Hendrix said, thrusting his palms outward, “you make it seem like upward progress is a bad thing.”
“Not when it’s at the expense of the less unfortunate,” Tony roared, the veins on his neck protruding at least 1/8th of an inch.
“I left that town because it was ass backwards,” Jimi complained. “Freaks like me couldn’t get a break. So, hell yeah, I’m all for progress. Small minds keep the world back, bro.”
“Ah,” Tony moaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.” Hendrix watched as the young PI stormed off to sulk in silence.
“Your boy’s pretty high strung,” Jimi told the elder PI. “Reminds me of me when I was a young ‘un. Loose as a cannon.”
“He just got here,” Gregory said in his pal’s defense. “Gonna be confused for a while.”
“True,” Hendrix nodded. “Nothing a couple hits of Monterey Purple can’t fix.”
Minutes later, the group of three found themselves on the South Beach. Tony had calmed down by at least 10 degrees, though the recent verbal altercation with the rock legend still rested like bricks on his mind. Unlike the East or West beaches, the South wasn’t super suitable for lounging on because the land was basically gravel and alluvial silt with giant boulders and fallen tree limbs scattered about. Also, because the beach itself was narrower than the East’s, water frequently splashed up on the rocks with forces strong enough to wash any unsuspecting sunbather out to sea. Two young people were sitting in director’s chairs near the boulders, but from where the trio stood, they appeared to be fast asleep.
“Jimi,” the ex-cop asked, “how come The Center has rifles for sale? There’s nothing to shoot up here.”
“They just look like rifles,” the lefty guitarist explained, ‘but they emit bursts of light on reactive targets. Marks the spots where you’ve hit. I’m not into guns myself but they’re just trying to accommodate those who are.”
“What kind of targets?” Gregory asked. “Deer? Ducks?”
“Nah,” Jimi answered. “Just regular circular ones. You’re interested in a rifle?”
“I might check it out some time,” the PI swore. “You know, this place is pretty sparse. Where’s all the action, Woodstock Park?”
“Yep,” Hendrix answered. “People go swimming or jogging around the lake; some take their kayaks out on it. Lots of campsites around there, too. Picnics and meetings are even scheduled there. There’s a theatre, concert hall, reception hall, and a restaurant, too. When we get back I’ll give you a brochure if you’re interested.”
“Thanks,” the PI said.
“I also saw fishing rods back at the Center,” Tony noted. “There is no fish, right?”
“Robots,” the bushy-haired guitarist elucidated. “This ain’t the season for ‘em, though.”
“What good are robot fish?” the detective-in-training asked. “You can’t eat them.”
“You can’t,” Hendrix agreed. “They’re just for sport. Huge ones, like marlins and swordfish. Most of the time, when they get dragged out of the water, they have to go back for repairs. That takes a while, that’s why the fishing is done in seasons.”
“They have a duck hunting season?” Tony asked.
“Not around here,” the Center clerk answered. “As a matter of fact, they’re doing away with all things related to hunting, you know, that karma reduction stuff.”
“That’s not fair to people who make hunting their livelihood,” Gregory protested. “What are they supposed to do now when they get up here? Weave baskets all day?”
“You’re talking to the wrong person, brother,” Hendrix advised him. “Ain’t my rules. This hunting fiasco has been a bone of contention for centuries up here. There ain’t never gonna be peace about that. No matter how many times the subject gets brought up in rallies, there’s always a stalemate. Everybody can’t be pleased, I guess. The angels sometimes give a little and allow small game hunting, but you know, the animal rights people will protest even though the animals are robotics. You can’t please everyone.”
“Welcome to Heaven,” Tony groaned.
“You cats been to Culinary Heaven yet?” Hendrix asked the D’s, changing the subject.
They both shook their heads. “No.”
“Wow,” Jimi exclaimed, “that’s some scene right there. Grows bigger all the time. Pretty soon they’ll start breaking that heaven up – Sicilian restaurants here, Peruvian restaurants there; that’ll be bad because if you walked down the main drag right now, oh man, the aromas alone will fill you up.”
“Have you been working at that Center for a long while?” Tony asked him.
“If I was there for years I would’ve already found some way to blow out my mind,” Hendrix laughed. “No, like everyone else, I float around. I spent two years at the power plant, worked at Cumby’s, maintained some buildings, taught guitar, cooked for a while…”
“So, you’re a pretty good cook?” Tony wondered.
“Oh shucks, man,” Jimi boasted. “I used to be sous chef at a Greek restaurant, this funky little place near the nudie beach called Demeter’s Kitchen. Made some of the best Saganaki, Fasolatha soup, Spanakopita, Souvlaki, Tabbouleh – that’s Lebanese but still good, all kinds of stuff. Kept those tables filled up and lines forming down the block.”
“Where’s the nudie beach?” Gregory asked.
“West side,” the legend answered. “The north part of the beach there.”
“This ain’t Heaven,” Gregory snickered, shaking his head. “It’s a hedonistic paradise.”
“Just the way I like it,” Jimi laughed.
“I wanna visit the nude section one day,” Tony averred.
“Won’t see much,” Hendrix promised him. “Hairy asses, stomachs for days…”
“In a place like this,” Tony wondered, “people are so well behaved they don’t really need policing?”
“It’s true,” Jimi answered. “I’d say the heaven that has been most policed would be Chemist’s. And believe me, those scientific cats hate it. But what can you do? A lot of those brothers are geniuses. They can turn Clorox to cocaine. Tweak a chlorine atom here, a carbon atom there, and voila! Instant rush.”
“The pros and cons of the afterlife,” Gregory muttered.
“It is what it is,” Hendrix sighed. “Make the most of it, I guess.”