Charles Nance, the band’s drummer and Joe’s brother, noticed the blood as they slogged into the green room.
“You all right?”
Nance nodded. “’Course.” He examined his fingertips and cursed. There were thin slices in the skin. “Damn it. This is gonna hurt like hell tomorrow night.”
“We could re-arrange the set so you just play keyboards.”
“Are you kidding? The fans’d freak out.”
It was true. Although Nance occasionally played keys, people went to see Windy City Engine expecting him with a guitar around his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Charles said, “I guess you’re right. It’d be like going to see Santana and watching Carlos shake maracas for the whole show.”
Manny Rodriguez, the bass player, and Harrison Brill, the rhythm guitarist, collapsed into easy chairs. They already had cold beers in their hands.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this shit,” Brill muttered.
Charles laughed. “Come on, Harrison, you’re never too old to rock ‘n’ roll.”
“Yeah? I’m sure old enough to die. I’ve got heartburn like a son of a bitch.”
“My back was hurtin’ again tonight, too,” Rodriguez added.
Charles rolled his eyes. “You guys. What’s wrong with you? Don’t be such old men! Come on, that was a great gig we just played. The audience loved it.”
“What audience there was,” Joe said. “That was the smallest crowd we’ve had in a long time.”
“Well, it’s raining. Kept people away.”
“Didn’t keep ‘em from going to see the Cubs.”
Charles shook his head. “Well, boo hoo. You guys are pathetic. You should be happy we’re still playing at all. I’m going home. I’ll see you in Milwaukee tomorrow.”
The drummer grabbed his gig bag, saluted the other guys, and left the room.
“How come he’s always so cheerful?” Rodriguez asked.
Joe Nance cleared his throat, spit into a paper cup, and replied, “I don’t know, but it’s always made me want to puke. When we were growing up he drove me nuts. My little brother never got mad, never got upset, and never was in a bad mood. Sometimes I just wanted to kick his ass.”
Nance went into the bathroom and ran cold water over his bleeding fingers. He washed them with soap, wrapped them in a paper towel, and then took a leak. When he was done, he went back into the green room, where Ray, the club’s owner, was waiting. He had a stack of cash in his hand—a very small one.
“Here’s your take of the door, Joe.”
“Thanks, Ray.”
“Not many people tonight.”
“I guess not.”
“Probably the rain.”
“That’s what we figured. Where’s the first aid kit?”
Ray nodded toward the white box attached to the wall and handed over the money. He left the room as Nance stuck the wad into his bag. Making payroll was going to be tougher this month.
“How many roadies we got now?” Nance asked as he retrieved some Band-Aids.
“Three,” Rodriguez answered. “You know that.”
“We might have to let one go.” He managed to apply two bandages to his fingers and then said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night in Wisconsin.”
“Bye, Joe,” the other two spoke in unison.
When the band’s leader was gone, Rodriguez and Brill looked at each other and sighed.
“You get the feeling Joe’s gonna cut loose pretty soon?” Brill asked.
“Yeah. But I’ve been feeling that for ten years.”
“What’ll you do if he does? We both know there’s no Windy City Engine without Joe.”
“I know. I guess we’ll do what the guys from Red Skyez do—we form splinter bands, play sessions, you know. I wish Zach needed a bass player. I’d probably leave the Engine myself.”
“Zach Garriott doesn’t need you, partner. Trust me.”
“Screw you, too!” Brill finished his beer. “How come Zach Garriott’s the only musician in the Chicagoprog scene who made it big?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “I don’t know. Because he’s good?”
Brill grunted and stood. “Well, I’m out of here. I thought it was a good show. See you tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, I’m leaving, too. Bye, Harrison.”
The two worn-out musicians gathered their stuff and shuffled out of the club without saying another word to each other.
They couldn’t know that the demise of Windy City Engine was closer than they imagined.
Charles Nance drove his ’03 Toyota Highlander south on Damen to North Avenue, took the right turn, and then made a left onto Claremont. He lived in a pre-war townhouse that was desperately in need of repairs and fixing-up, but since he was a divorced man of fifty-eight with a limited income from music, he didn’t care much about appearances. He was simply happy that he still made a living in the band with which he’d been playing since he was a teenager. It was all he ever cared about and he was sure that his brother Joe felt the same way. He knew Joe got tired of never making good money, but in Charles’ opinion, Windy City Engine was doing very well for a band that had been around for four decades. They were gigging and he was playing drums for a living! That was all that mattered to Charles Nance. Just put him behind a drum kit—anywhere, anytime—and he had a smile on his face. He knew, though, that many of his contemporaries were ready to throw in the towel. Not him. As far as he was concerned, if the band could afford a couple of roadies to unload, setup, strike, load, and carry the equipment from gig to gig without the band having to do it themselves, then they were doing all right.
Nance slid the SUV into his driveway and parked in front of the separate garage. He’d lived in the pocket east of Humboldt Park and west of the Kennedy expressway since the early eighties and it suited him just fine. It was quiet, the neighbors were friendly, and he wasn’t far from his brother. Charles was a man of few complaints.
He got out of the vehicle and took a deep breath. The rain had ceased, so the late April night air was pleasantly cool and moist. It was the time of year he enjoyed the most. Seeing that Chicago realistically had at the most only a month or two of spring and fall, three months of hot summer, and nearly six months of winter, residents had to relish what good weather they could get. Charles had a good mind to sit out on his back deck, smoke a joint, have a beer, and listen to the crickets before turning in.
But as he stepped toward the front porch, he noticed that the side gate to his fenced backyard was ajar.
That’s odd, he thought. He hadn’t remembered going through the gate any time recently.
He took a few steps toward the gate and peered into the darkness behind the house. He wasn’t worried about burglars because he had an airtight security system in his home. Nevertheless, it was possible for someone to enter the backyard through the unlocked gate if they wanted.
“Someone there?” he called.
Silence.
He shrugged, pulled the squeaky gate closed, and turned toward the front porch once again. Charles bounded up the wooden steps, removed the keys from his trouser pocket, and stood at the door to unlock it.
The side gate squeaked again.
What the…?
Charles looked beyond the wooden rail that lined the porch and saw that someone was standing just outside the gate. He couldn’t see who it was, but the dim moonlight revealed the intruder to be a woman wearing a floppy hat. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and she wore a trench coat—the kind private detectives from the old film noir flicks favored.
“Who are you?” Charles asked. “What are you doing in my backyard?”
The figure remained still and silent.
Charles took a step toward her, the rail of the porch between them. “I asked you a question, miss.”
The woman raised her right arm and there was no mistaking the glint of black metal in her hand.
“Hello, Charles,” the woman said. “Remember me?”
She had a low,
throaty voice. One that he recognized. Charles’ eyes went wide and he gasped.
The blonde hair… the floppy hat…!
The handgun recoiled twice. The shots were not as loud as one might expect. They were more like two firecrackers that teenagers might set off during the days surrounding the 4th of July.
Charles felt his chest explode with a fiery pain that he didn’t think was possible for a human being to experience. As he stumbled backwards, he managed to blurt out a name.
“Sylvia…!”
And then he crashed onto the porch.
Whether Charles Nance was too old to rock ‘n’ roll might have been debatable, but he certainly wasn’t too young to die.
2
Wouldn’t It Be Nice?
(performed by The Beach Boys)
“You’re a good friend,” Ann Berkowitz said as she patted his hand.
“I’m your son, mom,” Spike Berenger retorted, but kindly so. “I appreciate the sentiment anyway.”
“You’re my son? I thought my son lived in Texas.”
Confusion clouded the old woman’s eyes. It broke Berenger’s heart to see her in this condition. Alzheimer’s was a terrible, cruel disease. Berenger had recently noticed that his mother’s memory and recollections were becoming more and more obtuse with time.
“I lived in Texas a long time ago, mom. I live in the city now.”
“The city?”
“Manhattan. New York.”
Mrs. Berkowitz, who had kept the name of her second husband, looked around her room. “Am I in New York?”
“Yes, you’re on Long Island. Isn’t this a great apartment? You’re very lucky. Most people have to pay a fortune to live in a place like this.”
As a matter of fact, Berenger was paying a fortune for his mother to live in Franklin Village, an assisted living establishment in Hempstead. Her room was in the special locked wing known as “the Neighborhood,” which kept dementia patients from wandering out of the building.
“And your other son Carl lives in California,” Berenger added. “Look, here are our pictures.” He pointed to the framed family photos of the two brothers, shot a year earlier when Carl had come to visit. The picture sat next to another one taken long ago in Austin, Texas, when the boys were small. “And that’s us when we were little. You remember?”
Ann Berkowitz smiled and had tears in her eyes. She nodded, but Berenger knew she really didn’t recall those years. Her doctor had told him that Alzheimer’s patients often faked answers to questions they weren’t sure about. The poor woman didn’t remember Daniel Berenger, Spike and Carl’s father. She did, however, remember Abraham Berkowitz, the man who had been Spike’s stepfather for a number of years until his untimely death. Particularly painful were the times when Berenger’s mother didn’t remember that he was her son, like today. She knew he was an important friend, someone who cared about her, and a person who came to visit often… but somehow the blood relation concept didn’t always gel.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a picnic?” she said, incongruously.
“Oh, that reminds me… look, ma, I brought you a present.” He pulled a CD out of his shoulder bag. “The Beach Boys. You like them.”
She took the CD and examined the cover. “They look like nice young men.”
“They are. They sing good, too. Here, let me put it on the player.” Berenger opened the jewel case and placed the disk in the portable CD player he had bought her. She no longer knew how to operate it, so Berenger made it a point to play some music for her whenever he visited.
As the music began, Ann Berkowitz’s eyes lit up. It was said that an Alzheimer’s patient’s appreciation for music was one of the last things to go. The woman swayed in her chair as the Beach Boys sang “California Girls.”
“I remember this song!”
“I figured you might. The Beatles and the Beach Boys—they were always your favorites.”
The ring tone on Berenger’s cell phone blasted out the opening riff from King Crimson’s “21st Century Schizoid Man.” He quickly pulled it from his belt and answered it.
“Berenger.”
“Spike, don’t forget we have that IRS audit this afternoon.” It was Rudy Bishop, the co-owner, with Berenger, of Rockin’ Security, Inc.
“Oh, geez, Rudy, I forgot. Okay, I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
“He’ll be here in a couple of hours, so you’ve got some time.”
“All right, I’m on my way.”
“Another thing. Zach Garriott called.”
“Really? Mr. Shredder?”
“Yep. He wanted to speak to you. I told him you’d call him back when you got in to the office.”
“Any idea what he wanted?”
“Nope. He called from Chicago, though.”
“Okay, Rudy.” Berenger hung up and addressed his mom, who was in bliss with the music. “Mom? I gotta go now. I’ll be back next week, okay?”
“Okay, dear.”
“You enjoy the music, okay?”
“Okay, dear.”
He stood, leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, and then left the room. It was best to make goodbyes short and sweet.
Berenger signed out on the visitor’s sheet and then went outside to the parking lot, where he’d left his 2005 Nissan Altima SL. The car had held up nicely and he figured it was nearly time to trade it in and get something newer. Since he lived in Manhattan, he rarely used the car except to make trips out to Long Island or for business.
Zach Garriott, Berenger mused. What a coincidence.
The CD he currently had in his car was a European sampler mix of music related to the same genre from which Garriott had emerged. Berenger’s Italian friend, Sandro Ponti, sent the disk to him from Rome. Ponti was once part of the same Chicago underground music scene, something Berenger knew as “Chicagoprog.” Zach Garriott had played lead guitar with a Chicago-based prog band called Red Skyez in the late-seventies. Sandro Ponti had played bass with a Chicago-based prog band called Rattlesnake in the early seventies. When Rattlesnake broke up, Ponti moved back to Italy, but the rest of the band members formed a new group. For a while it was called South Side, but since most of the members lived in the city’s opposite side, they permanently changed the name to North Side. Zach Garriott was their guitarist for a few years before breaking out on his own and becoming the only well-known, super-successful musician to come out of the Chicagoprog scene. As for Ponti, he still gigged with various bands in Italy.
Berenger started the car and headed toward Manhattan. The music on the sampler consisted of several new Italian progressive rock acts. Berenger had always been a prog rock fan, and he was happy that the genre had seen a resurgence in popularity during the nineties that had continued into the new millennium. He and Ponti had met in Italy several years after the Rattlesnake era and had got along well. Every now and then, Ponti sent him a sampler of stuff he was listening to and Berenger reciprocated. It was what serious music fans did for each other.
The sampler contained new music by some classic seventies Italian prog bands like PFM and Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso, but there were several new acts as well. One track featured a female singer whose works reminded Berenger of Kate Bush. She had a strong voice and the song was intricate, complex, and hauntingly beautiful. So far it was the best cut on the CD and Berenger played it a couple of times. The singer didn’t sound Italian—Berenger wondered if she was English or American. He grabbed the jewel case and noted that the track listing identified her as “Julia Faerie.” He’d never heard of her. When next he communicated with Ponti, he’d have to ask for more of her stuff.
Typically, though, as he merged onto I-495 toward the city, he quickly forgot about it.
The Rockin’ Security office was located in a brownstone on East 68th Street between Third and Second Avenues. Rockin’ Security was the number one security business in the world of rock music. With branches in LA and London, the firm had a database of security personnel that could be called in
for a single gig or a major tour at a moment’s notice. Bodyguard service was a specialty. Berenger also had a private investigator license, which was a Rockin’ Security service that wasn’t advertised openly. The PI cases were always the most interesting jobs but they didn’t come around as often as he’d like. All in all, the partnership of Rudy Bishop and Spike Berenger worked like a dream. As long as Bishop handled the money and the dealings with Uncle Sam and let Berenger handle operations, it was a fabulous gig. Of course, a lifetime ago he had dreamed of being a rock star himself. For a while in the late seventies, his prog band, The Fixers, did pretty well for themselves. But the overblown style of progressive rock went out of fashion when punk and New Wave hit the scene, and by 1980 The Fixers couldn’t keep up. Berenger became a music manager for most of the eighties and then formed Rockin’ Security in the nineties with Bishop.
Berenger entered the building’s ground floor, which held Bishop’s office, the conference room, and other administrative areas. Melanie Starkey, the office assistant, looked up and smiled. She was a twenty-nine year old feisty redheaded babe who spoke with a thick New Jersey accent. Even though she preferred to be called Mel, most of the time everyone called her “Ringo” because of that darned last name. Starkey = Starr = Ringo. Who wouldn’t automatically think of the Beatles’ drummer?
“Hi, Ringo,” Berenger said.
“Hey, Spike. How’s your mom?”
“’Bout the same.”
She made a tsk tsk sound and looked at him with sympathy. “It’s hard, I know.”
“Yeah.”
He started to climb the stairs when Melanie stopped him. “Hey!”
“What?”
“Have you lost weight?”
Berenger blinked. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“You look like you have.”
“Uh, well, thanks, I think.”
“I guess all that workin’ out you do upstairs is payin’ off.”
Berenger was surprised by her comment because his bulky physique hadn’t changed in years. No matter how hard he worked at it, he never seemed to get rid of that extra twenty-five pounds that had attached themselves to him in his forties and never let go.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 29
