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

by Raymond Benson

  “You’re welcome. And call me Spike.”

  He waited and watched the guard lead Duncan out of the visitor’s room. When Berenger was outside, he called the office.

  “Hi, Ringo. Do me a favor. See if Al Patton is in his office. I’d like to spend a few minutes with him.”

  Mel phoned him back as soon as Berenger got in his car outside the prison.

  “Spike, Al Patton is booked up the rest of the day,” she said. “His assistant didn’t know when he’d be back in the office.”

  “Damn,” Berenger muttered. Patton was the only one on his list who hadn’t been interviewed at length. “All right, thanks.” He hung up and drove out of Rikers.

  She answered the phone with a weary “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Gina.”

  When she realized who it was, she paused and said, “Hello, tiger.”

  “I’m surprised to find you in your room.”

  “Yeah, I was just about to go to dinner. Actually I’d fallen asleep. I was wondering if I’d hear from you today.”

  “Well, it’s been a long one. You got back to the hotel okay this morning?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Whatcha been doin’?”

  “Sleeping, mostly. You wore me out, Spike.” She laughed seductively.

  “Yeah, I’m a little raw, too. Speaking of raw, would you like to get some sushi? There’s a nice Japanese restaurant near your hotel.”

  She laughed again and said, “Sureshi.”

  They met at the restaurant, where they had a quiet and unhurried meal spiced up with no small amount of wasabi. They spoke very little, preferring to gaze at each other with bewildered affection. Neither one of them understood the mixed emotions they felt about the previous night. Berenger figured that they were simply refusing to acknowledge the previously dormant sexuality that had rekindled between them, so it was best left unsaid. When they did talk it was about the quality of the tuna or how hot the wasabi was. At one point during the meal Berenger laid his hand upon Gina’s and they smiled at each other for a couple of seconds. It was indeed an awakening, but Berenger wasn’t sure what kind. They were both lonely and single middle-aged adults, and perhaps that’s all it was.

  After dinner, with sinuses cleared and stomachs filled, they walked to Gina’s hotel and stood on the sidewalk in front of the building.

  “I’m going to Jamaica tomorrow,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d still be in town when I got back.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of days. I hope no more than that.”

  “I haven’t decided what I want to do. I feel like I should stay as long as Adrian’s in jail. So, yeah, I’ll probably be here.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s still early. We could—”

  “We could go upstairs to my room,” she suggested.

  “I thought you were worn out.”

  She shrugged. “Hair of the dog?”

  Berenger blinked. “Somehow that doesn’t sound quite right in this connotation.”

  She laughed again, took his hand, and led him toward the door. “Come on, you big lug. I’ll show you what raw really is.”

  22

  Night Moves

  (performed by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band)

  When Gina was asleep, Berenger slipped out of bed, dressed, and left the hotel. The anticipation of his early flight to Jamaica and the events of the past couple of days had produced a strong bout of insomnia. He figured he might as well continue to work on the case.

  He stopped by his apartment and retrieved the Kahr P9 semiautomatic before setting out on what they used to call a “covert op” back in his army days. He dressed in dark clothing, put the gun in a shoulder holster that he wore beneath a black leather jacket, and set out for the street. He hailed a taxi that took him to Hell’s Kitchen, a block away from the Messengers’ church.

  Sticking to the shadows, Berenger moved down the street toward Ninth Avenue to survey the front of the building. All was quiet but a couple of lights were on upstairs—perhaps Reverend Theo and Brenda Twist were burning the midnight oil again. Berenger noticed that a small set of stairs descended to a basement level in front of the church, which was standard for many of the buildings from that era. These often led to single basement studio apartments that had their own access from the exteriors. In this case, the door below street level appeared unused, for it was cloudy and dirty from years of no cleansing. Berenger went down the steps and turned on a penlight so that he could examine the space. The steel door was locked, of course. There was a square window at the top that was reinforced with steel mesh. Berenger peered inside and saw nothing but darkness.

  One of the tools of the PI trade was a set of lockpicks and skeleton keys. Unlike what occurred in most spy stories, lockpicks were not infallible. Depending on the type of lock and how old it was, the use of lockpicks or skeleton keys to open a door was always a gamble. Maybe one of them would fit—more often not. Berenger pulled out the ring from his trouser leg pocket and held the picks and keys so that they wouldn’t jingle. He began with the keys, trying one at a time, hoping for a minor miracle. When he got to number fourteen, the key slipped into the keyhole like butter. It helped that the door was old and was fitted with what was then a fairly standard lock.

  Berenger turned the key and heard the click that allowed him to pull the door open. He winced when the thing squeaked loudly. If anyone really was in the building, hopefully they were far enough away and didn’t hear the noise.

  He stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. Utilizing the penlight, he looked around the room. The small room was full of junk—old broken folding chairs, pieces of furniture, paintings and decorations that hadn’t been used in years, and ancient cans of paint.

  Another door led to the rest of the building. He tried it and was surprised to find it unlocked. Berenger moved into the hallway and found himself outside the chapel that Suzanne had told him about. He took a quick look inside, shuddered at the ugly artwork, and moved on.

  He carefully ascended the stairs to the ground floor. The foyer and office were dark. He went to the sanctuary doors, put his ear to them, and determined that the room was empty. Berenger began to move away but froze when he heard the sound of a door opening above him on the second floor. He heard footsteps and quickly skirted to the corner of the foyer, where the illumination was at its darkest. He waited until the footsteps diminished and he heard the sound of a knock and another door opening. Muffled voices. Male and female.

  Berenger moved to the stairs and slowly took each step one at a time. If any of them creaked he’d be discovered, so he kept to the outer edges of the steps where the carpet had not been tread upon as much and was still thick. When he reached the top, Berenger’s forehead was covered in sweat.

  He flattened against the wall by Reverend Theo’s office. The door was slightly ajar and the lights were on inside. He heard movement and more muffled voices—but they weren’t words. It sounded more like… no, it couldn’t be!

  Berenger inched toward the door and positioned himself so that he could steal a look through the tiny open slit.

  Sure enough, the noise he had heard was what he thought it was.

  Brenda Twist was sitting on the reverend’s desk, naked from the waist down. The good Reverend Theo was standing in front of her, his trousers dropped to his ankles. Her bare legs were wrapped around his waist as he continually thrust against her hard and fast. Brenda’s eyes were closed in ecstasy and the reverend’s head was tilted up, as if he were praying.

  So much for Brenda’s faithfulness to Flame’s memory, Berenger thought. He knew she had been hiding something and he wondered how long this had been going on. If he were to venture a guess, Berenger would have bet that poor Flame had been a cuckold long before his death.

  He quietly moved away and down the hall to another open door. It was an office, presumably Brenda’s. The computer was on, work
materials were spread over the desk, and the décor was decidedly feminine. Her heels were on the floor underneath the desk.

  Berenger risked the time to examine some of the papers. Brenda had been working on a spreadsheet when she had decided to pay a little visit to her boss’s office. With a cursory glance, Berenger determined that the document was an inventory of newly purchased supplies. They consisted of the usual items—paper goods, office materials, and other ordinary expenses needed to run an organization.

  But one thing stood out that struck him as odd. Most everything was listed under the heading “44th Street Address.” There was another heading that read, “22nd Street Address.” What the hell was that? Did the Messengers have another property that Briggs or no one else knew about? What was even more perplexing was that nothing was listed below the heading. What could they use the space for?

  Berenger took the liberty to open the drawers of the desk. He rummaged around the expected supplies until he found two sets of keys. One was marked “44.” The other was labeled “22.” He pocketed the latter set and left the room.

  Once more he quietly moved toward the stairs. He paused long enough to peek into the reverend’s office. They were still at it, but now Brenda was standing, leaning over the desk. The reverend was behind her, grasping her hips with his hands. Their animalistic grunts would have made Berenger ill if he hadn’t found them so funny.

  He carefully descended the stairs, went down to the basement, and exited through the door he had used earlier. When he was on the street, he quickly walked to Ninth Avenue to catch a taxi going downtown.

  He didn’t realize that he was being watched… and followed.

  It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Berenger got to the area of Manhattan known as Chelsea, although technically the place was too far west to really qualify as a Chelsea address. Being so close to Eleventh Avenue, the spot was next to the West Side Highway and, beyond that, the Hudson River. It wasn’t a residential area, although there were buildings on the street that surely contained apartments and lofts. Eleventh Avenue was home to several warehouses and commercial businesses. The address Berenger had noted was indeed a commercial warehouse with a roll-up steel door in front of the pedestrian entrance. Another barrier also shut off a driveway leading into what he presumed to be a loading dock.

  He went to work on the padlocks that secured the roll-up door. Brenda’s keys weren’t marked but he got the right one on the second try. Throwing caution to the wind, he then pulled the chain that raised the door. It was terribly noisy but at this point he didn’t care. All he wanted was a look inside and then he would get the hell out.

  Another key opened the front door. He scanned the street to make sure he hadn’t aroused anyone’s suspicions and then stepped into the building. Using the penlight again, he made his way along a corridor, through a door, and into an office. Berenger found the light switch and turned it on. There wasn’t much there—just a desk and chair, filing cabinets, and a phone. He shut off the light and continued into the main warehouse area.

  Bingo. The place was full of musical instruments and equipment. Guitars, amps, drums, microphone stands, power cords—whatever it took to put on an impromptu concert. Some of the stuff looked used and battered while the rest appeared to be brand new. It was stolen merchandise—he was sure of it. Every now and then the music shops in town reported a break-in and theft of equipment and instruments. The police always thought it was the work of the Jimmys or the Cuzzins and sometimes the stolen stuff was recovered when one of the bands left it behind after a street show.

  And here was a cache of it.

  Berenger rummaged through the place, making a mental inventory of what was there. At the back of the space he found a padlocked trunk against the wall that aroused his curiosity. None of Brenda’s keys fit it, so he drew his P9 and shot the damned lock off. The noise of the handgun echoed loudly in the warehouse but Berenger was certain he was alone. He kicked away the padlock debris and opened the trunk.

  It was full of Jimmy masks.

  The discovery felt so good that Berenger wanted to laugh. The Messengers owned the building and they stored equipment for the Jimmys. It was irrefutable proof that they were in bed together.

  And then Berenger nearly jumped out of his skin when the sound of a second gunshot reverberated through the space. The round hit the open trunk lid next to where he was standing. Reflexively, the private investigator jumped to the side and hit the floor.

  BAM! Another shot, a foot over Berenger’s head. He quickly wormed around the trunk and peered across the room. Another blast of gunfire forced him back behind the meager cover. With the P9 in hand, he lifted his arm and blindly fired the gun over the top of the trunk. Then he bolted out from behind it and ran to a set of large Peavey amps that stood seven feet away.

  Another shot missed him but now he was in a better position to defend himself. Berenger carefully looked around the amp and saw his opponent.

  He was a Jimmy, although an unusual one. The man wore the grotesque mask, but he wasn’t wearing the punk clothing. Instead he had on what appeared to be a long-sleeved dress shirt and black trousers. Was it the same man who had shot at him the other night?

  Berenger raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. The Jimmy leaped behind a pillar, avoiding the shot, and returned fire almost immediately. The slug ripped into the amplifier in front of Berenger with a loud thud.

  It was a stalemate. Both men were behind adequate cover and it was up to one of them to make a move to exit or try to gain a better position. Berenger looked at the ceiling and counted three work lights. He carefully aimed the pistol and shot out each lamp one at a time. The room was plunged into darkness.

  He then squatted behind the amp and waited. All was silent. He thought he could hear his opponent breathing but it was unlikely—the man was thirty feet away at best.

  Then there was scuffling across the room. The Jimmy was moving. Berenger peeked around the amp but couldn’t see a thing. Nevertheless he pointed the Kahr and fired at the sound. Suddenly, the warehouse door flung open and the figure darted through it. Berenger leaped to his feet and gave chase.

  Before he could reach the door, however, the loading dock door creaked and started to move. The thing was opening! Berenger froze like a deer caught in headlights.

  The heavy door continued to rise, revealing four teenagers dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Two of them had shaved heads, one had a blue Mohawk, and the other had a normal haircut. A van was backed up to the dock, its back door open and ready to receive a load.

  “Okay, you get the guitars and we’ll get the amps,” Mohawk said. Then he saw Berenger standing there, the gun in his hand.

  “Shit, who are you?” he asked.

  The only thing Berenger could think of to do was to point the gun at them and shout, “Hands up!” All four boys raised their hands.

  “What the fuck?” one of the shaved heads muttered.

  “Don’t shoot, mister!” the Normal Haircut pleaded. They were truly scared.

  “Are you Jimmys?” Berenger asked.

  None of the boys answered.

  “Well?”

  “We didn’t do nuthin’,” Normal Haircut said.

  “Yeah,” the others mumbled.

  “I don’t care. Did you see one of your guys run out of here just now?” Berenger asked.

  “No,” Mohawk said uncertainly. He turned to the others. “Did you?”

  They shook their heads.

  Berenger stood for a moment, allowing their fear to build. Then he holstered his weapon and said, “Have a good show, boys, wherever it is.”

  He then walked past them, out onto the loading dock, and jumped down to the street. The four Jimmys watched him in confusion, shrugged, and proceeded to load the van.

  Berenger ran to the corner of 22nd and Eleventh Avenue and saw the taillights of a car speeding uptown. It was too far away for him to determine the make and model. Was that his assailant?

&
nbsp; He scanned the street back toward Tenth Avenue and saw no other movement other than the Jimmys loading their van. Berenger returned to the warehouse and approached Mohawk.

  “Hey,” he said. “You got room in the van for one more roadie?”

  23

  Dead Man’s Party

  (performed by Oingo Boingo)

  The van drove north on Eighth Avenue with one of the shaved heads driving. The four Jimmys had loaded it with two amps, a guitar and bass, a drum kit, and a microphone stand.

  “So, like, who are you, man?” Mohawk asked Berenger.

  “I’m a private investigator,” he replied. He sat on a spare tire in the back of the van, holding on to the side of the vehicle for support.

  “Whoa, no shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “What were you doing in there? You’re not gonna bust us are you?” Normal Haircut asked.

  “I don’t have the authority to bust you. I’m not a cop. Like I said, I’m a PI. I’m not after you guys. But there’s one Jimmy I’m looking for. He was using me for target practice tonight.”

  “You know, I thought I heard gunshots before we opened the loading door,” one of the shaved heads said. “I thought it was just noise from the door or something.”

  “So you wouldn’t have any idea who that might have been?” Berenger asked.

  “No, man, we didn’t see a thing,” Mohawk said.

  Berenger gestured to the instruments. “So what instruments do you guys play?”

  “Oh, we’re not the band,” Normal Haircut replied. “We’re just the roadies. The band will meet us at the gig.”

  “How are these things set up, anyway?” Berenger asked.

  “We get orders down the pipe.”

  “Yeah, orders.”

  “From who?” Berenger asked.