“I’m closing loose ends,” Black said breathlessly. “Then I’m getting the hell out of Manhattan. Do you know where my brother is?”
“Your brother?”
“My brother! Patton! Al Patton!”
“Al Patton is your brother?” Duncan slowly crawled backward away from the manic killer.
“Yes, he’s my fucking brother. Where is he?”
“I… I don’t know! I haven’t seen him since the other day!”
“His people at his office say he’s on vacation. That’s bullshit. He’s hiding somewhere in the city. I know it.”
“I don’t know where he is! Honest!”
Black slammed a fist into the wall, cracking the plaster. He stood, panting, staring at Duncan with menace.
“Things have gotten too hot for me and it’s all yours and Al’s fault,” he said.
“What do you mean? What did we do?” Duncan was now backed against the wall of the apartment foyer. He had no other place to retreat.
Black reached behind his back and drew a Colt Cobra .38 revolver. He aimed it at Duncan, causing the young man to scream.
“No! Please don’t!” Duncan cowered, covering his head with his arms as he started to sob uncontrollably.
“Shut up, you little shit!” Black said.
The door buzzer sounded. Black froze.
“Joshua?” The voice came from the other side of the locked front door. “Are you in there?” The buzzer rang again, followed by loud knocking.
Black crouched beside Duncan and whispered, “If you make a sound I’ll blow your head off.” He then went to the door and looked through the peephole.
It was Berenger, the PI.
“Joshua, open up! It’s Spike Berenger! The doorman said he saw you come up.” More knocking.
Black moved to Duncan and pulled him to his feet. “I want you to answer him, tell him that you’re sick, and for him to go away.” He stuck the pistol’s barrel in the back of Duncan’s neck and shoved him toward the door.
Sweat poured off Duncan’s head as he nodded in compliance. Trembling, he faced the door and said, “Mister… Mister Berenger?”
“Joshua! Are you all right?”
Perhaps it was the disparity of Duncan’s situation that motivated him to take the risk he did. Or maybe it was the lifelong fatalism that he had always possessed and never attempted to combat. Whatever it was, the young man steeled his nerve and unexpectedly shouted.
“Black is here, he’s got a gun!”
Simultaneously, Duncan slammed his elbow into Black’s chest and did his best to shove the man away. He then ran toward the back of the apartment—if he could just make it to the bedroom, he could lock the door and go down the fire escape.
Black’s Colt fired twice.
Duncan’s body propelled forward through the arch dividing the foyer from the living room. He slid across the smooth wooden floor, two slugs in his back.
Out in the hallway, Berenger heard the shots, drew his S&W Bodyguard AirWeight, released the safety, and fired at the doorknob. The lock mechanism blew away and Berenger kicked in the door. He crouched in a firing position, arms stretched forward and both hands on the gun.
The foyer was empty.
He moved quickly to the arch, peered into the living room, and saw Joshua Duncan lying in a puddle of his blood. No one else was in the room. Berenger skirted quickly across the space to the back hall, taking the necessary precautions to look first and move second. The hallway and bathroom were empty. The bedroom door was closed.
Berenger kicked it open and crouched with the gun in front of him.
The room was empty. The large window by the bed was open and the white drapes blew in the breeze.
Black had gone down the fire escape.
Berenger looked out the window and didn’t see the man. He moved back into the living room, stooped beside Duncan, and felt his pulse.
“Did… did… you get him?” Duncan rasped.
“Hush, Joshua. I’m calling for an ambulance.”
Berenger flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, he relayed the details and address of the shooting.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes, Josh. Just hold on.” Berenger examined the two wounds. They looked bad. One had surely punctured a lung and there was no telling what damage the second one did. It was near the center of the young man’s back.
“Go…” Duncan whispered.
“What?”
“Go get him.”
“I shouldn’t leave you.”
“Go get him. He killed my parents. Don’t let him… get away.”
Berenger frowned. Duncan was right. If the young man was going to live or die there was nothing Berenger could do to influence Duncan’s pendulum of fate.
“Hang on, Joshua. I’m going after him,” he said.
Berenger ran to the bedroom and climbed out onto the fire escape.
31
Run Like Hell
(performed by Pink Floyd)
Berenger stood on the platform and looked down.
How come he couldn’t see Black? It was twelve flights to the ground. There was no way the killer could have made it down so quickly.
As if in answer to Berenger’s thoughts, a gunshot thundered above him and the bullet struck the metal bars on the fire escape with a loud CLANG. Berenger threw himself back to the side of the building and remained flat. It was times like this when he wished he could get rid of some of the gut that protruded over his belt buckle.
He raised his head and squinted into the sun, which was directly overhead. It was impossible to focus on anything but it was obvious that Black had climbed up rather than down the fire escape.
Fine, Berenger thought. If a chase was what the guy wanted, then that’s what it would be. He holstered the S&W and boldly took hold of the ladder rungs. Berenger climbed halfway to the fourteenth floor—there was no thirteenth—when another shot zipped past his head. He hugged the ladder, waited a moment and then continued his ascent.
“Give it up, Black!” he shouted. “Or is it Patton? We know who you are now!”
Berenger saw the killer quickly peer over the edge of the roof and then vanish. He continued to climb—the fire escape ladder reached all the way to the edge of the roof. Berenger carefully looked over the ledge and saw nothing but a small maintenance structure that was also the entrance to the stairwell running through the center of the building. It stood about thirty feet away.
He climbed over and crouched, the S&W once again snug in his hands.
Another shot came from behind the structure. Berenger leaped sideways and fired two shots. Another round chipped off pieces of brick inches above his head. Reflexively, Berenger catapulted over the roof edge and back to the fire escape platform—it was safer there.
He attempted to climb the ladder, raise his gun, and shoot again, but Black had managed to reload and fire first. Berenger felt that one’s heat as it missed his left cheek by an inch. He didn’t stop his momentum, though. Berenger quickly reached over the ledge, took a bead at the shape behind the maintenance structure, and squeezed the trigger. Bits of the building flew like shrapnel.
Black suddenly appeared in the open. He fired twice as he moved to the stairwell door. Berenger was forced to duck for cover; by the time he could raise his head, Black had disappeared inside the structure.
Berenger climbed over the ledge once more and ran after Black at full speed. He flattened his back against the wall next to the steel door and then yanked it open. He swung around with gun ready but the landing was empty. Berenger leaned over the rail and heard running steps descending through the building. There was only one thing to do. Berenger climbed on top of the rail and jumped to the 14th floor landing below him. His military training had taught him to land flat-footed with knees bent so that his hefty weight wouldn’t cause him to lose his balance or, even worse, break his legs. With one floor down and twelve to go, Berenger once again climbed onto the rail
and jumped to the landing below.
Now Black’s steps were louder. Berenger leaned over the rail and glimpsed the man’s arm and leg as the killer ran down the stairs. Berenger pointed the S&W at the rail, slightly ahead of his prey, and squeezed the trigger. The rail exploded into bits as the gunshot echoed robustly in the stairwell. Black, enraged, stopped and looked upward through the gap between flights and aimed his Colt. Berenger pulled back as two shots tore into the wooden rail in front of him.
The chase resumed. Berenger took the stairs two at a time and passed a few floors when he finally heard the sirens outside.
It’s about time! he thought.
Once again he climbed onto the railing and leaped to the landing below. Only seven more floors to the bottom. He rounded the corner and started to descend the stairs but was halted by the sight of Black standing at the bottom of the flight, gun in hand. Berenger simply fell back onto the steps as the Colt recoiled and the bullet whizzed over his chest.
Shit! He was surely a goner. There was no way he could scramble out of the way now.
Black pulled the trigger again but the gun only clicked. He was out of ammo!
Berenger sat up, pointed his gun, and fired. But Black had already begun the next descent and the bullet simply bore a hole in the plaster.
Where were the goddamned cops?
He got to his feet and resumed the chase. Floor 4… Floor 3… Was Black completely out of bullets? Was he reloading as he ran? Berenger always kept a spare magazine with him when he carried his weapon. He had lost count of how many shots he had fired—did he need to reload as well? There was no time for it, for he heard Black opening the door to the ground floor, followed by shouts.
One last time, Berenger climbed onto the rail of the second floor landing and jumped to the first. He burst out the door and found Freddie the doorman on the floor, rubbing his head. Black had pistol-whipped him and run through the lobby and out the front door.
Berenger rushed outside and saw Black sprinting across West End Avenue toward Riverside Park. The sirens now filled the air, for two patrol cars screamed into view and pulled over in front of the building. Berenger ignored a policeman’s command to halt and he took off after Black.
Black ran west on 103rd Street and bolted across Riverside Drive, straight into heavy traffic. The scream of breaks and the sudden dull thump accompanied the horrific sight of a taxicab slamming into the running man. The impact flung Black into the air and he landed hard on the hood. More cars screeched to a halt. Berenger ran into the avenue, prepared to grab the guy and disarm him, but Black rolled off the cab and continued to run—with a pronounced limp—toward the park. His pace was much slower now and Berenger had no problem decreasing the distance between them.
Black hobbled onto the grass, causing a group of carriage-pushing mothers to scream. Berenger stopped at the edge of the park to examine his S&W. There was one cartridge left. No time to reload.
“Black! Stop now!” he shouted, but it didn’t do any good. The man kept limping away.
Berenger took aim at Black’s lower body and squeezed the trigger. The S&W coughed loudly and Black dropped to the ground.
“You! Throw down your weapon! Now!”
Berenger turned to see three policemen, guns drawn, running toward him. He immediately dropped the S&W and raised his hands.
“I’m a PI!” he shouted. “I have a gun permit!”
“On your knees! Now! Hands on your head!” one of them shouted as they reached him.
Berenger did as he was told. “I can show you my ID, fellas. The guy you want is over there.” The cops looked up and saw Black attempting to crawl across the grass. He moved like a wounded bird, unable to fly to safety.
Two patrolmen left Berenger in the care of the third and ran over to intercept Black. At that moment, a familiar voice yelled from the edge of Riverside Drive.
“Let that guy go!”
It was McTiernan. He and two other patrolmen ran across the avenue to Berenger. “This man’s on our side, officer,” McTiernan said, addressing the patrolman. “Get up, Berenger.”
Berenger stood and picked up his S&W. “Thanks, McTiernan. I tried to tell ‘em I was one of the good guys but they didn’t listen.”
One of the two policemen with Black shouted, “Sir, the suspect has a gunshot wound in the right leg. We’ve cuffed him and he’s ready for an ambulance.”
“That’s fine, officer!” McTiernan yelled back. “Keep him under wraps!”
“McTiernan, have you been upstairs to Joshua’s apartment?” Berenger asked.
“The paramedics are up there now. They’ll be bringing him down any minute.”
As the police took charge of Black, Berenger followed McTiernan back to Duncan’s apartment building, where a sizable crowd had gathered. Four patrol cars and two ambulances were parked in front, lights blazing.
Eventually the paramedics brought Duncan out on a stretcher. They were about to load him into one of the ambulances when the young man opened his eyes and saw Berenger. The paramedics paused a moment to get the gurney ready to slide in.
“How ya doin’, kid?” Berenger asked.
“I’m… sorry,” Duncan whispered. Tears streamed down his face. “I didn’t mean… for it to go this way…”
“Save your breath, Joshua. You can tell us all about it when you feel better.”
“All I wanted… was a chance to prove myself. I could be something… in the music business… too. Patton… Patton promised to help me… after I got control of Flame Productions… if I’d let him release… if I’d let him release…”
“I know,” Berenger said. “Hush now. They’re gonna take you to the hospital and fix you up. Don’t worry about a thing. We got Black and we’re gonna get Patton, too.”
Duncan coughed, spitting blood.
“Back away, please, sir,” one of the paramedics said as they shoved the gurney into the ambulance.
Berenger stood and watched it speed away, and then he turned to McTiernan, ready to give the police detective his statement.
32
Watching the Detectives
(performed by Elvis Costello & the Attractions)
Three hours later Berenger walked into Lightning Rod Studios at the appointed time and could hear smoking jazz-fusion coming from the monitors in the reception room. He recognized the signature sound of Blister Pack, formerly known as Flame’s Heat but without Flame. Berenger told the receptionist he was there to see Dave Bristol. She shrugged and gestured toward the studio access door. Security was unbelievably lax in some recording studios.
When he walked into the control room, Al Patton looked up and was momentarily unable to conceal the expression of surprise on his face. He quickly recovered, smiled, and nodded.
“Hey, Spike, how’zit goin’?” he said.
“Hello, Al. I’m fine. How are you?” Berenger asked.
“Good.” Berenger turned toward the plate glass window that separated the control room from the studio. Dave Bristol was banging away on his Tama kit, Brick Bentley was slapping his Rickenbacker bass, and Moe Jenkins was pouncing on his array of Yamaha and Roland keyboards. Bristol noticed Berenger and their eyes met in collusion.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Berenger said to Patton, but he was lying. He had spoken to Bristol by phone two hours earlier. Berenger explained what was going on and Bristol agreed to help with the private investigator’s plan.
“Yeah, I’m working with Dave on their new stuff,” Patton said. “I’m hoping to make Blister Pack a bigger household name than Flame’s Heat ever was. What are you doing here, Spike? This is supposed to be a closed session, my friend.”
“Oh, Dave told me I could come by.”
“He did?” Patton frowned. “That’s weird. Dave usually doesn’t like anyone but essential personnel in the studio when he records. I mean, I know you guys are friends and all…”
Berenger shrugged. “He’s never said anything to me. I’ve always been w
elcome.”
Patton didn’t respond. He fiddled with the mixers and focused on the music.
“You know, Al, I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Berenger said. “We never did have that talk you promised me.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been super busy, Spike. You know how it is.”
“Your assistant says you’re on vacation.”
“I am. This is how I spend it!” He laughed unconvincingly.
The music continued for another minute and then Bristol abruptly stopped playing. He got off his stool and shouted, displaying his famous temper.
“This is crap, Al! I hate it! We sound like shit!”
Bentley and Jenkins stopped playing and looked at their partner as if he were crazy. “What do you mean, Dave?” Brick asked. “We were cooking!”
“Fuck this!” Bristol said. “I’m going out for a smoke.” He threw his sticks on the floor and stormed out of the studio. Bentley and Jenkins exchanged expressions of bewilderment. Jenkins addressed the control room, “What the hell was that all about, Al?”
Patton punched the intercom and spoke. “I don’t know. Sounded good to me.”
“So what do we do, take a break?” Bentley asked.
“I guess so. Let him cool off a bit.”
Patton leaned back in his chair and shook his head at Berenger. “That bastard Bristol. You never know with him.”
Berenger chuckled. Of course, Bristol’s little act had been prearranged. It was just what Berenger needed.
“So let’s go get a cup of coffee or something, Al. I can’t let you put me off any longer. Now you have no excuse,” Berenger said good-naturedly.
Patton knew he couldn’t get out of it easily. “All right. Let’s go downstairs to the diner.”
He stood and Berenger opened the control room door. They walked through the reception room and down the stairs to the street.
Just as Patton opened the front door, Berenger said, “Oh, by the way, did you hear that your big brother was arrested a few hours ago?”
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 25
