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

by Raymond Benson

  “Looks deserted,” Berenger said.

  “You won’t find anyone here at dis time of day. Dey at de other place.”

  Baskin drove around the building so Berenger could see all sides of the modest church and then drove out toward the other fork. About a half-mile from the crossroad they came upon a barbed-wire fence and a gate. Baskin rolled down the window and pressed the call button on an intercom built next to the gate.

  “Yes?” came a smooth male voice.

  “We like t’ see Mistah Tools, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Mistah Spike Berenger, from New York City. I’m his driver, Steve Baskin.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Mistah Berenger is with a security firm in New York. He has some questions about de Messengers.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Baskin looked at Berenger and said, “I’m not sure tellin’ de truth was de right thing t’ do in dis case.”

  Berenger replied, “I always try to be honest about who I am unless special circumstances dictate otherwise. At this point I can’t find a reason for special circumstances.”

  The voice came back. “I’m sorry but Mistah Tools not here.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When might he return?”

  “Can’t say. Probably not today.”

  “I see. Well, thank you. We try another time.”

  Baskin reversed, turned the car around, and headed out. “Now what?” he asked.

  “We go to Plan B,” Berenger said.

  It was shortly after 11:00 p.m. when Berenger and Baskin parked the Ford in the brush off the main highway. Baskin had supplied Berenger with boots, a soldier’s camouflage outfit, and a backpack full of various tools he might need. Baskin also let the private investigator borrow a SIG P239 9mm semi-automatic. Berenger liked SIG and thought the company made excellent firearms, although for a semi he preferred his personal Kahr P9 that he had to leave at home.

  They hiked through the thick jungle-like terrain using small flashlights for illumination. Berenger asked Baskin about the possibility of stepping on snakes or other dangerous animals and Baskin replied that it was “entirely possible.” That answer didn’t bother Berenger. His time in Southeast Asia had forever immunized him against fear of the wild. He had performed many missions that involved traipsing through the jungles of not only Vietnam but also Laos, Cambodia, and the Philippines. Moving through the brush brought back memories—not always unpleasant ones—of the two years he had spent in the military as a Criminal Investigations Special Agent. The smell and feel of the jungle, the humidity, the crunching of branches beneath the boots, the constant chirping of insects, and the bright moon in the night sky served to remind Berenger that he was still a soldier, albeit an older and heavier one.

  When they reached the barbed-wire fence, Baskin whispered, “Here we are. You sure you don’t want me t’ come in wit’ you?”

  “No, Steve, I want to do this alone. But thanks. Go on back to the car and wait. If I’m not back by dawn, bring in the cavalry.”

  “Okay, you’re de boss. By de way, if you find Mistah Tools, just lean on him a little. I think he be somebody dat don’t like t’ get hurt.” The men shook hands and Baskin took off into the dense thicket. Berenger removed the backpack, opened it, and found the wire cutters Baskin had placed inside. With four snips, he cut the wire enough for him to slip through. After donning the backpack once again, Berenger crawled through and surveyed the property below him.

  He was on the top of a slope that overlooked the retreat. A large farmhouse was the main focal point. It was a two-story structure that appeared to be fifty or sixty years old, built in the grand British Imperial style from the era when the UK was Jamaica’s caretaker. Berenger suspected that a wealthy Brit who grew tobacco or coffee beans originally owned the property.

  An armed guard sat in a chair on the front porch of the main house. Berenger wondered why a church organization would need an armed guard; in his opinion, this was further evidence that the Messengers were up to no good. The guard didn’t appear very alert. His chin was on his chest and the rifle lay in his lap.

  Berenger moved slowly and quietly out of the brush and then darted down the slope to the side of the building. He peered through a window into a dark room. He tried to open the window but it was locked. Berenger skirted along the wall to another one and tried it. It opened freely.

  He climbed through the opening, softly shut the window, and found himself in an office. There was a photocopier in the corner, mailbox slots on the wall, a postage machine, stacks of copy paper, and boxes of Messenger literature. The mailroom.

  Berenger peeked into the corridor and found it empty. Somewhere in the distance Bob Marley and the Wailers were singing one of their many hits on a CD player. He snaked down the hallway, his back to the wall, and eventually came to a large open foyer facing the front door. A long reception desk was unmanned but Berenger could see small mailboxes with corresponding keys hanging over each opening. Apparently the place served partly as a hotel—guests stayed in assigned rooms during the retreats. A stack of maps showing both floors of the building lay on the desk; Berenger picked one up and studied it for a moment. The guestrooms occupied the second floor while the first floor had a sanctuary, a dining hall, a recreation room, a kitchen, and several offices.

  Berenger made his way toward the kitchen, which was around the other side of the foyer and down the hall, next to the dining room. Luckily, it was empty. Using the flashlight he examined the cabinets and refrigerators and found only food supplies and dining ware. A door next to the refrigerator was not on the map. A storage room, perhaps? He tried the knob but it was locked. Not about to let that stop him, Berenger reached into the backpack and removed a putty knife that Baskin had given him. It served as a lockpick but the going wasn’t easy. The bolt was sturdy and old—it didn’t give without a good deal of force on Berenger’s part. He finally got the door open to reveal a staircase leading down into darkness.

  He stepped through the door, closed it behind him, and felt an abrupt decrease in temperature. Shining the flashlight on the steps in front of him, he descended to the bottom and realized he was in a wine cellar. Bingo.

  There were nearly fifty bottles lying horizontally in cubicles on one wall. He took one and examined the label. It was a cabernet made by Jamaican Spirits, a company he had never heard of. He stuck the bottle in his backpack, turned, and saw two large kegs occupying the other half of the room. Empty bottles sat in crates on a table. They obviously made and bottled the wine on the premises.

  Berenger took an empty bottle, held it under a keg spigot, and poured a little of the red liquid into it. He smelled the stuff but couldn’t discern anything other than a fruity wine with a hint of charcoal. He wasn’t much of a connoisseur but to him the aroma was quite nice. At any rate, the drugs were either mixed into the wine before bottling or they were added after the wine was opened for serving.

  He poured the wine into a slop sink and replaced the empty bottle. He then ascended the stairs to the kitchen. Berenger went back into the corridor and headed toward the sanctuary. The Bob Marley music grew louder as he approached the room. First making sure no guards were about, Berenger opened the double doors slightly and looked inside. The sanctuary was a near carbon copy of the Messengers’ place in New York. A little larger, able to hold a hundred people or so, it was decorated in the same grisly religious iconography that he and Suzanne had found so disturbing.

  A black man with dreadlocks stood at the altar preparing something, his back to Berenger. He hadn’t heard the doors open, for a portable CD player on the floor was blasting out the reggae music. Berenger quietly let the doors swing shut behind him and he walked softly down the center aisle.

  “Are you Chucky Tools?” he finally asked in a loud, commanding voice.

  The man jumped and turned. “Damn, man! You scared de shit out of me!” He wa
s in his forties, wiry, and looked more like a reggae musician than a church employee. Like Baskin, he also spoke with a pronounced Jamaican accent. “Who are you, man? How did you get in here?”

  “Answer the question,” Berenger said. He grabbed the man by the shirt, turned him around, and forced him against the altar. Berenger quickly patted him down and found no weapons.

  “What is dis, man? Are you de police?” he wailed.

  “Are you Chucky Tools?”

  “Ya man! Ya!”

  Berenger turned him around and said, “I’m not the police. I’m worse. I want some answers and I want them fast. If you cooperate I’ll leave and you’ll never know I was here. I warn you, though, I’m known to play rough if I don’t get what I want.”

  “Sure, man, sure. What do you want t’ know?”

  “Tell me what goes on at the Messengers’ rituals. How do you brainwash the members?”

  “Brainwash? We don’t brainwash—”

  Berenger slapped the man hard. “Don’t lie. I know how you lace the wine with drugs. What are they?”

  “Shit, man.” Tools rubbed his cheek. “Dat hurt.”

  “That was just a love tap because I like you. If you make me mad I can’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  “Okay, okay. We put Reverend Theo’s special mixture in de wine. But only for de members we want t’ influence. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What’s in the special mixture?”

  “Mostly X, man.” Ecstasy. MDMA. A powerful and illegal drug that breaks down inhibitions and encourages emotional responses from the users.

  “What else?”

  “Sodium Pentathol. De reverend mixes it just right.”

  Berenger thought as such. Sodium Pentathol, the so-called “truth serum,” most likely exacerbated the symptoms produced by the Ecstasy. After an extended and carefully dispensed regimen of such a mixture, users would believe anything they’re told.

  “And what happens when the members are thoroughly stoned on the stuff?”

  Tools held out his hands. “Man, de Reverend does all dat. He’s de master. During de sessions he treats dem like patients, man. You know, like he’s a psychiatrist or somethin’. He lays all kinds of guilt trips on dem and dey have what he calls emotional breakthroughs. Most of dem end up in tears and beg de reverend to let dem help de Messengers any way dey can.”

  “I take it the drugs are used only on rich members? The ones who’ll give money to the Messengers?”

  “Pretty much.” Tools was truly frightened and wasn’t about to lie now. “What are you going t’ do t’ me?”

  “Tell me about Flame. Do you remember Flame?”

  “Sure, everyone knows Flame here. He’s de biggest star dat ever came t’ de Messengers.”

  “Tell me about his visits.”

  “Well, dat was a long time ago. I don’t know. Four or five years, maybe six…”

  Berenger opened the backpack, removed the SIG, and stuck it in Tools’ face. “You better start remembering.”

  “Okay, okay!” Tools raised his hands. “Flame came and was here, I don’t know, two or three weeks de first time. He came back with some of his people de second time and stayed longer. He went through de treatments just like everyone else and came out a true believer. He pledged his life t’ de Messengers.”

  “The reverend just wanted Flame’s money, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Who came with Flame that second time?”

  “I don’t know. His manager, I think. Bald guy.”

  “Al Patton?”

  “Dat’s him. Ya, Al Patton.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, by dat time he was with Brenda. Dey never left each other’s sides.”

  “Who else came with him from New York?”

  “Dat’s it. Just her and de bald guy. Mistah Patton couldn’t get into it. De drugs didn’t affect him and he left after a couple of days. That happens with some people. Anyway, he said he felt sick or somethin’. He never came back. De driver took him back t’ Montego Bay t’ catch a plane back t’ New York.”

  “The driver? Flame’s driver? You mean Ron Black?”

  At the mention of the Black’s name, Tools’ eyes widened. It was as if he had let something slip and regretted it. “Er… Ron Black? No, I don’t think I know dat name.”

  Berenger thrust the barrel of the SIG into Tools’ nose. “Yes you do,” he said.

  “Er, ya, I guess I do. He worked for de Messengers. Long time. But he started workin’ for Flame by de time Flame came back dat second time.”

  “And now he’s back with the Messengers. Okay, Mister Tools, I have one more question to ask you. Very recently Reverend Theo sent you an e-mail and he said someone in your organization was messing up. You replied, saying that he should remember who became ‘very friendly’ during a retreat. Who exactly did you mean?”

  Tools winced and almost started to cry. “Oh, man, if I tell you dat, my life, it be worthless!”

  “If you don’t tell me, in a minute from now you won’t have a life at all.”

  Tools’ eyes darted back and forth furtively as he made sure no one else was listening. “It was Mistah Patton and Ron Black. Dey hung out t’gether de two days dat Patton was here.”

  Berenger lowered the gun. His instincts told him that Tools was telling the truth.

  “Just who the hell is Ron Black, anyway?” he asked.

  Tools gulped loudly and whispered, “A very bad man.”

  25

  Black Limousine

  (performed by The Rolling Stones)

  On the morning after Berenger had infiltrated the Messengers’ Jamaican headquarters, Suzanne Prescott sat in her Rockin’ Security office, intently studying several photographs of Flame that she had spread out on the desk. Of the eight pictures, seven were recently shot candid group settings. Brenda Twist was with him in every pose. She clung to his arm like a dutiful companion but there was something about the body language that wasn’t right. Having studied a number of Eastern philosophical tenets, Suzanne was in tune with the various emotional signals the body exhibited. It went hand in hand with yoga and martial arts.

  The couple’s body language indicated that she was the one in control of the relationship. Brenda was the dominant force working between them. Suzanne wondered how such a young woman could have that kind of influence on a powerful and famous rock star like Flame, but there it was.

  Another photo showed Flame posing with Al Patton, one of the most famous manager/producers in the music business. The two men had their arms around each other and were smiling for the camera. The flash had produced a shiny glare on Patton’s bald head. Suzanne found it funny and chuckled.

  Flame was with Reverend Theo in another shot, surrounded by other members of the Messengers. None of the sycophants faced the camera but instead focused solely on the reverend and his star recruit. Theo was smiling his award-winning grin and Flame appeared to be in awe of the man.

  Suzanne squinted when she noticed the other bald head at the back of the group. It was Ron Black, the driver. She reached into a desk drawer and removed a magnifying glass. Holding it above the photo, she examined the man more closely. It struck her as odd that Black’s head was very similar to that of Al Patton’s. Both men were bald and the shape and size of their skulls were strikingly similar.

  That wasn’t all that impressed her about Black. He was the only one in the group, other than Flame and the reverend, who was looking at the camera, and there was a snarl on his face.

  I’ve seen that snarl before, Suzanne thought. But where?

  She looked over the photos to see if Black was in any of the other shots but that was the only one. She needed to see him again in person, close up if possible. The first time she had met him there was something familiar about the guy that gave her the creeps. What was it?

  She had to find out.

  Flame’s limo wasn’t parked anywhere near the Messengers’ church so s
he decided to go into the pizza parlor across the street and wait for a while. Perhaps Black was out on an errand or something. She got a slice and sat where she could watch through the window and monitor the comings and goings. Twenty minutes went by before the limousine pulled up in front of the church.

  Ron Black got out of the driver’s seat, trotted up the steps to the front door, and went inside. Suzanne stood, waved goodbye to the pizza chef, and left the restaurant. She was determined to talk to the man even though he frightened her. But that was the point—Suzanne needed to know why he scared her.

  Before she could cross the street, however, Black emerged from the church and ran down the steps to the limo.

  “Mr. Black?” Suzanne called, but the man didn’t hear her. He had already slammed the door and started the engine. The limo rolled out into the street and picked up speed.

  At that moment a taxicab was approaching from the end of the block. Suzanne thanked her lucky stars and raised her hand. When the driver pulled over, she got in the back seat and said, “Can you follow that limousine without being seen?”

  The Middle Eastern driver shrugged.

  “There’ll be an extra twenty in it for you on top of the meter plus a generous tip.”

  The driver sped after the limo, which drove east across Eighth Avenue, through Broadway, and then past Seventh. At Fifth Avenue it turned south and the cab driver deftly did the same. When the limo reached 42nd Street, it slowed slightly and moved over to the east side of the avenue. It eventually stopped in front of the Liquid Metal Records building.

  Al Patton came out the front door and rushed to the limo. He got in the front passenger seat and Black drove away.

  Holy moley! Suzanne thought. Ron Black and Al Patton together? What was that all about? She doubted they were going to a convention for bald men.

  “Keep on them,” she told the driver.