The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology

by Raymond Benson

  “And Brenda was in the rehab place with him?”

  “That’s where they met. Apparently she was a recovering addict, too.”

  “How long was he there?”

  Bentley said, “Five months, I think. I really don’t know.”

  Bristol continued. “Well, he was in and out of rehab all through ’98 and ’99. It was after new millennium, in 2000, when I was sure Flame was sober and truly out. So I went to see him, you know, to find out what we were gonna do. During those years we weren’t recording in the mid-nineties, Al was happy to release a live album and a CD of B-sides and outtakes, but we needed to record something new. Flame told me the band was finished and he was doing something on his own. He gave me a Bible and told me to read it and join him in his new venture, which was singing for Jesus. I couldn’t believe it. I asked him, ‘What, are you nuts? Have you gone crazy, Flame?’ And he said, ‘Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. I just know that a new path has been laid out for me and I must follow it.’”

  “Was that before or after he went to Jamaica?” Jenkins asked.

  “That was after,” Bristol replied.

  “Tell me about that,” Berenger suggested.

  “Right after he got out of rehab for the last time he went to Jamaica with Brenda and the rest of those Messengers. He was there a week or two, I can’t remember. They must have brainwashed him or something, because he gave them a shitload of money and returned to New York all Christ-like and reflective. I had truly never seen Flame act so weird. He was like an automaton. Whatever Brenda said to do, he’d do it. They started living together and that was it. Bye bye Flame’s Heat. I tell you why her name is Brenda Twist—she twisted his mind. That’s what happened.”

  Suzanne spoke up. “I’ve been to the Messengers’ church. I find their philosophy a little extreme but I don’t think they’re particularly dangerous. Do you?”

  “Yeah, I do. I think they’re fucking evil. They have a hidden agenda, I know they do,” Bristol said.

  “Like what?” Berenger asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Taking your money. That’s one thing they do. I can’t tell you how much money Flame pumped into them. And what did he get out of it? You tell me.”

  “Peace of mind? Religious comfort?” Berenger proposed.

  Bristol waved his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said.

  “So I guess things deteriorated between the two of you then?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. Actually, you know Flame and I never got along all that great as friends. We really clicked on stage and in the studio. Musically, he was the other half of my soul. I suppose we had to get away from each other every now and then. After Hay Fever split up I couldn’t stand the guy. I wanted nothing to do with him. But then, a few years of water under the bridge, we got back together and did Flame’s Heat. And for a few more years that was the best music I think I’ve ever done.”

  “Tell me about the legal problems you had with Flame.”

  Bristol’s eyes flared angrily. “Had? I still have them. I’m suing his estate. The songs on the last three Flame’s Heat albums are all credited to Flame. I wrote half of them and co-wrote another quarter. I should be getting composer royalties and I’m not.”

  Berenger looked at Jenkins and Bentley. “Do you agree with that?”

  Obviously uncomfortable with the question in front of Bristol, they reluctantly agreed. “Flame was certainly stingy with the writing credits,” was the most Jenkins would commit to.

  “I think the kicker was when we wanted to call ourselves Hay Fever,” Bristol said. “Moe and Brick and I wanted to stay together. We couldn’t very well call ourselves Flame’s Heat without Flame, so I thought, why not bring back Hay Fever? Hay Fever was huge in the seventies. It could be like a resurrected, re-invented Hay Fever. With me at the helm, and with Moe and Brick here, it could really work. The thing is, Flame owned the name Hay Fever. How he managed to finagle that legally, I don’t know. I was under the impression that the name was owned by Flame, Greg Patterson, and me.”

  Berenger turned to Suzanne and said, “Greg Patterson was Hay Fever’s bassist. He died of an overdose, when was it? Seventy-seven?”

  “Seventy-six,” Bristol said. “Greg went into a super depression when Flame disbanded Hay Fever. Anyway, it turned out Flame had somehow bent the contracts and Al Patton backed him up. We couldn’t use the name Hay Fever, so we call ourselves Blister Pack.”

  “It’s a good name,” Suzanne said.

  “I guess. I think we’d make more of a splash with ‘the Return of Hay Fever.’”

  “Are you going to play at Flame’s memorial service?”

  “Yeah, Carol asked us to do that. That was nice of her.”

  “Good. Now let’s switch topics a little. Tell me about the last night you saw Flame.”

  Bristol said, “The three of us went to the Beacon and showed up just after sound check. Al Patton and I had spoken earlier in the week and he suggested we just show up and maybe Flame would let us perform with him, you know, as a one-off thing. I didn’t think he’d do it and wasn’t too enthusiastic, but we wanted to stay on Al’s good side. He’s working out our recording deal. So we go see Flame in his dressing room. Brenda’s there and they’re meditating or something. He wasn’t happy to see us. I asked if we could join him onstage for a number or two and he got all pissed off and started yelling. Totally out of control and inappropriate.”

  “Yeah, it was weird,” Jenkins said. “It was like we’d just asked him to shoot his dog or something.”

  “We heard later he had a big fight with Adrian before we showed up, so that may have had something to do with it,” Bristol continued. “Still, he could have treated us with a little more respect. Anyway, we got into a huge shouting match. I said, ‘Fuck this,’ and we left. I can’t believe we actually stayed for the show. I sure didn’t want to but we did.”

  “Were you invited to the Meet ‘n’ Greet?”

  “We had passes but we didn’t go. In fact, Flame had told us he didn’t want to see us again, if you can believe that.” Bristol turned to the other two. “Why did we stay for the show?”

  Jenkins and Bentley shrugged. “I dunno,” Jenkins said. “Curiosity?”

  “Whatever. I thought the show sucked, by the way. Flame gave one of the worst performances I’d ever seen, and that’s including all the times he was strung out during Flame’s Heat. Anyway, we left the Beacon that night with really bad vibes.”

  “Did you see Adrian at the venue that night?”

  “Yeah, we did. We were leaving the auditorium and we saw Adrian and Gina. Gina said hello and asked if we were coming backstage. I told her we weren’t welcome. Adrian didn’t say a word. He was his usual surly self.”

  “You know Gina thinks you’re a good suspect in Flame’s murder?”

  Bristol rolled his eyes again. “The police interviewed me three fucking times. The third time I had to go down to the goddamned police station. It was awful. Look, I’ve been angry enough at Flame to wanna wring his neck, but I’m not a murderer. And I know you’re gonna say my temper is legendary. I know. Rolling Stone did a lot to perpetuate that little myth. There was that article chronicling the time I got into a fight with Stephen Stills and wrecked a room at the Sheraton. I know.”

  “And you’ve been arrested a few times for, uhm, disorderly conduct.”

  “Rub it in, Spike, rub it in. Okay, I like a brawl every now and then. It still doesn’t mean I’d kill the guy. I would have liked to punch his lights out a couple of times, but that’s about it.”

  “Do you think Adrian did it?” Berenger asked.

  “How should I know? Adrian really looked pissed off that night. Maybe he did.”

  “Sounds to me like Flame had the ability to piss you off really good, too.”

  “Shit,” Bristol said. “Peter Flame could piss off a lot of people in one night.”

  As if on cue, what sounded like a sonic boom rocked the dres
sing room. At first Berenger thought a bomb had exploded in the club. He immediately recalled the package of guitar strings and the creepy threatening phone message he had received.

  “What the hell was that?” Jenkins shouted. Amidst curses and exclamations, the band members jumped up and ran to the door. Berenger grabbed Suzanne’s hand, prepared to lead her to safety if that was indeed what was required.

  Then the noise of harsh electric guitars penetrated the walls. Something was going on outside the building. Eisenberg stuck his head in the door. “Better stay put. The Jimmys are here. They just decided to put on a show in front of the club. In five minutes the area’s gonna be chaos!”

  Suzanne squeezed Berenger’s hand. “I want to see!”

  Berenger agreed. He led her out of the dressing room, through the stage door and into a swarming mass of hyped-up, unpredictable young people filling the street.

  15

  Wild in the Streets

  (performed by The Circle Jerks)

  The noise was almost unbearable. The discordant, thrash-metal guitars pierced the air and the heavy, thumping bass shook the ground below them. Whoever was drumming had double-kick pedals and was beating the two bass drums with a ferocity that would put Mike Portnoy to shame. The crowd that had gathered consisted of older teenagers and twenty-somethings. Many of them were the stereotypical punk fans—shaved heads or spiked, colored hair, tattoos, piercings, dog collars—and they had formed a makeshift mosh pit that covered the width of the street. Berenger led Suzanne through the crowd so they could get a closer look at the band. He held her tightly, and thanks to his large frame he was able to push past the mayhem.

  There were three musicians—a guitarist, bass player, and drummer. They wore the “Leatherface”-style masks and were dressed in tattered clothing. A decrepit white van had parked sideways in the middle of the street, no doubt the vehicle that had carried the two amplifiers and drums to the site. Several other Jimmys, also in masks and holding baseball bats, stood in front of the building where the power cords were plugged just in case someone got the bright idea to try and cut off the juice.

  The guitarist approached the one microphone stand and screamed into the mike. The so-called lyrics—the ones that were discernable—implored the audience to break storefront windows and set the street on fire.

  Berenger and Suzanne stood in the crowd and watched, simultaneously fascinated and repelled. My God, Berenger thought. These guys were criminals but this was what rock ‘n’ roll was all about! It was pulling the art form back to its basic, primitive roots—raw, energetic, and visceral. Not to mention dangerous. No wonder the City had outlawed these band gangs. The young people in the audience were already worked up to a fever pitch and were capable of doing anything. Berenger knew he should get Suzanne out of there but he was too entranced by the spectacle to move.

  “This is incredible!” she shouted into his ear. All he could do was nod in agreement. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes moving around the area, anticipating anything unexpected, for here he was—standing in the midst of a bunch of Jimmys. The death threat weighed heavily on his mind. As Berenger scanned the scene he noticed none other than Dave Bristol standing by the white van, apparently conversing with one of the Jimmys’ road crew, a man also wearing a mask. Bristol and the Jimmy leaned into each other, talking into the other’s ears, and then Berenger noticed the Jimmy passing something to Bristol. Bristol slapped the man on the back and took off. Berenger wanted to follow him but there was no way he could break away from the tightly packed crowd in time.

  The roadie then stepped in front of the bass player and began to ignite firecrackers with a cigarette lighter. He tossed them one at a time into the crowd, where they exploded with surprising force. Berenger assumed they were Black Cats—basically noisemakers but they had the potential to be harmful if one went off too closely to someone.

  “Come on!” Berenger shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “No, wait!” Suzanne was digging the excitement. He figured it must appeal to the 1980s Goth in her. Nevertheless, he pulled her toward the sidewalk where they would be out of the range of the firecrackers.

  The band launched into a second song. Berenger figured they had about five minutes left before the police arrived. He expected to hear sirens at any moment but instead the sound of motorcycles with no mufflers nearly drowned out the heavily amplified guitar.

  “Oh shit,” he muttered.

  The Cuzzins, clad in black leather jackets and black Zorro masks, arrived on supercharged bikes with spectacular fanfare. About twenty of them appeared on the other side of the white van and then they revved their engines and zoomed headlong into the stage area. One bike plowed into the guitarist, knocking him off his feet and flinging his guitar into the air. The resulting feedback and metal-crunching crash it made through the Peavey amp was akin to the sound of a wrecking ball. The bass player, suddenly aware of what was happening, stopped playing and swung his bass around to slam it into one of the Cuzzins, propelling him off his bike. The Jimmys’ drummer picked up his snare and threw it at another Cuzzin, then drew a handgun from a holster he wore behind his back. He shot into the air, causing many in the crowd to scream. But the gunfire also inspired a greater number of people to cheer. The next thing Berenger knew, the glass window in front of Mortimer’s shattered.

  “Run!” he shouted to Suzanne. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the street away from the melee, but they had to stop when he saw that a group of Jimmys had materialized behind the crowd. The gang had surrounded the perimeter of the audience and each member carried a baseball bat. Berenger and Suzanne were trapped with the rest of the crowd, which unfortunately now stood dead between the two rival groups. Before anyone could disperse, the Jimmys and the Cuzzins converged into the mass of humanity. With no regard for the innocent bystanders in the way, the gang members swung bats, clubs, and chains, aiming to maim or perhaps kill constituents of the opposite team.

  “Spike, look out!” Suzanne shouted. Berenger turned in time to see a five-foot length of heavy chain swinging toward him. He instinctively ducked, pulling Suzanne down with him. The chain, wielded by a Jimmy and meant for a Cuzzin standing on the other side of the couple, missed its target and hit another audience member instead. The man cried in pain and fell to the ground as blood gushed from the wounds on his face.

  On their hands and knees, the couple moved through the rampaging throng but by being that close to the ground they were in more danger of being trampled. Better to stand and take their chances. Berenger helped Suzanne up and pushed his way through, but a Jimmy with a bat blocked the way to the sidewalk. He grinned at Berenger and apparently decided that any target was as good as a Cuzzin. He raised the bat high and Suzanne screamed. Berenger summoned what he remembered from his training as a CID special agent and immediately attacked his opponent with a Mawashi-geri “roundhouse” karate kick. He sidestepped the Cuzzin, twisted his hips in a circular motion so that the ball of his foot swung inward at a right angle to the man’s body. The blow hit the Cuzzin squarely in the chest, knocking him backward. He dropped the bat before it could do any damage. Berenger followed through with his right fist, punching the man hard on the chin. The Cuzzin fell to the ground, clearing the way for the couple to escape.

  They ran to the sidewalk and hugged the wall as they moved down the street. By now they could hear police sirens growing louder. As Berenger and Suzanne turned the corner onto Seventh Avenue, three patrol cars soared past them and headed toward the brawl. The riot squad wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Damn, Spike, you sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Suzanne said breathlessly. “I haven’t had this much fun since I threw up at Coney Island.”

  He laughed. “You okay? You aren’t hurt are you?”

  “Nah. What about you?”

  “My knuckles are a little sore from hitting that guy but that’s just because I’m not used to it. I’m fine.”

  They were a bit stunned from the
excitement but managed to walk quickly to the parking garage where he had left his Altima. It was a relatively new three-story structure that had been built to accommodate the overpopulated Village streets. The car was on the top level and Berenger had paid for the space when they first arrived.

  He held the stairway door open for Suzanne and she went through. “We really could have been hurt badly, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah. I should have got you out of there sooner.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  As he followed her up the stairs, Berenger asked, “By the way, did you see Dave Bristol outside by the Jimmys’ van?”

  “No. Was he there?”

  “Yeah. Looked like he was making some kind of transaction with one of their roadies.”

  “Must be where he gets his drugs. The Jimmys like to sell to rock stars, don’t they?”

  “Yeah.”

  They got to the third floor landing and opened the door. All the parking spaces were full and the Altima was at the other end of the level. They walked toward the car as Suzanne said, “He seemed pretty together tonight, didn’t you think?”

  “He did. And he was nice, too. Sometimes Dave can be a curmudgeon and a half.”

  “So I’ve heard. I tell you, Spike, when those—”