Black Dogs: The Possibly True Story Of Classic Rock's Greatest Robbery by Jason BuhrmesterBlack Dogs: The Possibly True Story Of Classic Rock's Greatest Robbery by Jason Buhrmester

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

byJason Buhrmester

Paperback | April 14, 2009

Pricing and Purchase Info


Earn 80 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store

Out of stock online

Not available in stores


In July 1973, Led Zeppelin played three sold-out shows at New York’s Madison Square Garden. Before the final performance, $203,000 of the band’s money went missing from a safe deposit box at the Drake Hotel in what was called the single highest deposit box theft in the city’s history. The money was never recovered. Black Dogs might be the story behind the greatest rock ’n’ roll heist of all time.

the last thing nineteen-year-old Patrick Sullivan needed was a new scam. Just months earlier, he had left a trail of broken friendships and new enemies in Baltimore for a fresh start in New York City after a botched robbery attempt landed one of his best friends in jail. But when he spies a briefcase full of cash backstage at a Led Zeppelin concert, Patrick makes plans for one last crazy mission–one that he hopes will redeem him in the eyes of everyone he left behind.

To pull it off, Patrick will have to return to his hometown to round up his crew: Alex, the one who did time for Patrick’s last crime; Frenchy, the neurotic musician who still lives with Mom; and dim-witted but endearing Keith, the greasy-haired loner who excels at installing car stereos and then uninstalling them, all in the same day.

When the unlikely team’s plan goes horribly wrong, the boys find themselves mixed up with Backwoods Billy, the psychotic leader of the Holy Ghosts Christian motorcycle gang. They need some help, and they find it in some unlikely places: by crossing paths and making deals with a pill-popping DA, a safe-cracking funk band called the New York Giants, and the Maryland chapter of the Misty Mountain Hoppers Led Zeppelin Fan Club. Sporting a rare 1958 Les Paul guitar and a complicated plan that could either go wonderfully right or horribly wrong, the guys, fueled by beer and egos, make a desperate attempt at robbing the world’s coolest rock band–to hilarious result.

Black Dogs brings to life one of the infamously unsolved rock ’n’ roll mysteries and introduces us to a lovable bunch of knuckleheads who may have just pulled off the greatest heist in rock ’n’ roll history.
Former editor at Playboy, current editor of Inked, JASON BUHRMESTER has been published in Maxim, Spin, Wired, the Village Voice, and other publications. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he is working on his second novel and listening to Black Sabbath.
Title:Black Dogs: The Possibly True Story Of Classic Rock's Greatest RobberyFormat:PaperbackDimensions:256 pages, 8 × 5.15 × 0.55 inPublished:April 14, 2009Publisher:Crown/ArchetypeLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:030745181X

ISBN - 13:9780307451811


Read from the Book

ONEbaltimore, marylandJULY 20, 1973the albums flipped forward into my hand.ParanoidVolume 4Master of RealityAnd 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 HOPPERSLED ZEPPELIN FAN CLUBMEETINGS EVERY FRIDAY—CALL FOR INFOI 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.