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

by Raymond Benson

  Flights to Chicago had been delayed because of thunderstorms, so they didn’t arrive until early evening. As expected, Berenger had a splitting headache and was in a foul mood when he and Prescott arrived at a wet and rainy O’Hare. When Prescott had asked him what was wrong and why he looked like a “strung-out bear,” Berenger snapped at her. She didn’t speak to him for the remainder of the trip until he apologized.

  Zach Garriott had asked them to meet him at a show that featured a new band he was producing. The building actually contained two venues—Reggie’s Music Club and Reggie’s Music Joint. The Music Club was a large space with a big stage and a balcony for those patrons who might want to sit. The Music Joint was a sports bar that served food and drinks and had a small stage for more intimate acts. In between the two venues, on the second floor, was a CD store called Record Breakers. Reggie’s was on South State Street, near the University of Illinois Chicago. Berenger and Prescott took a taxi from the airport and arrived at the club just as the music was beginning.

  The band was a young and talented group called Chicago Green. Berenger and Prescott had actually seen them before in New York and spent a few minutes standing with the crowd on the floor in front of the stage. Berenger was happy that the group had found someone like Garriott to sponsor them. After a few songs, the couple went upstairs to the balcony and found Garriott subtly disguised in a baseball cap and sunglasses. Garriott gave Berenger a hug, shook hands with Prescott, and then they sat in chairs to watch the rest of the show. Berenger ordered a round of beers for everyone, knowing that the alcohol would go a long way toward relieving his hangover.

  Chicago Green played an energetic and impressive set of covers and originals, after which Garriott went backstage for a few minutes with the boys to give them some tips. He then rejoined Berenger and Prescott in the unique sports bar on the other side of the building. Reggie’s Music Joint decorated with all kinds of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia and real vinyl record labels were embedded in the clear epoxy-covered tabletops. The menus were made out of classic LP record covers.

  As they sat, the club’s owner, Robby Glick, came over to give the superstar guitarist VIP attention. Glick was in his forties, had a shaved head, and was dressed in a sports jersey and shorts as if he’d just come from the basketball court. Garriott introduced Berenger and Prescott to him.

  “I’ve heard of you, man,” Glick gushed. “You were with The Fixers!”

  “You know The Fixers?” Berenger asked, unable to hide his surprise.

  “You bet. I have your album, and every once in a while a used one comes in and we sell it in the vinyl section of the shop upstairs. How come you guys didn’t make more than one?”

  “That’s a question I ask myself every day.”

  “You should try and release it on CD.”

  “Easier said than done, pal.”

  Glick turned to Garriott. “How was Chicago Green tonight?”

  “Great. They draw a nice crowd here when they play?”

  “They do. They’re sort of a house band.”

  “I’ll see what I can do for them.”

  “Nice, kid, nice.”

  Glick took drink orders for the trio—on the house—and then left them alone.

  “Okay, Zach,” Berenger said, “tell us what you know.”

  Garriott nodded and answered, “I’m going to take you to see Joe Nance in a bit. He told us not to show up before eleven. He’s still in mourning, naturally, he’s drinking a lot, and he’s not in the best of spirits. But he can tell you a lot more than I can.”

  “What can you tell us? What’s all this about a ghost?”

  Garriott became sheepish. “I don’t know how to explain it. That’s what the other guys all think.”

  “They believe in ghosts?”

  “Look. There was this girl named Sylvia. A long time ago. Back when The Loop was together, before they split up into Windy City Engine and Red Skyez. I didn’t know her. It was before my time. She was a groupie, I guess. She was also a singer/songwriter. All I really know is that she disappeared in nineteen-seventy. Went missing.”

  “And?”

  The guitarist shrugged. “They think it’s her that’s killing off members of The Loop and the two bands that sprung from it—Red Skyez and Windy City Engine.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I’m not really sure. Maybe Joe can explain it.”

  “Well, I sure hope so. ‘Cause this is just plain nuts.”

  Prescott interrupted. “Excuse me, but are you saying that this girl, Sylvia, is supposed to be dead?”

  “Well, she went missing and was never found. So presumably, yeah, you have to figure she’s dead. Met with a bad end.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I’m not sure. Same age as the guys in the band at the time, I think.”

  “Twenty-one, twenty-two?”

  “Yeah.”

  Berenger asked, “Why would Joe and the others think she’s returned from the dead to kill people?”

  “Apparently she matches the description that witnesses supplied. She always wore a floppy hat that was hers and hers alone. Had blonde hair. I know, it sounds pretty ridiculous.”

  “What about the police? What do they think?”

  “Joe tried to tell them about her, but you can imagine their reaction. So far they haven’t admitted that the shootings are related. The sergeant who’s in charge of Charles’ case is a dick. Sergeant Doherty.”

  “He’s a detective?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a sergeant.”

  “All right. So we’ll talk to Joe tonight. I’ll want to see Harrison Brill and Manny Rodriguez, and also talk to the North Side guys.”

  “As a matter of fact, North Side is playing here at Reggie’s tomorrow night.”

  “Great. We’ll see ‘em here, then.” Berenger drummed his fingers on the table and said, “Okay, finish your drinks, folks, and let’s go talk to Joe.”

  The rain hadn’t let up. Garriott made the comment that they might as well swim to their destination, but no one laughed.

  The Nance residence was a townhouse located on Melrose Street in Wrigleyville, one of the nicer old areas of the city. Just off of Lincoln Avenue, the locale was a hotspot of restaurants, clubs, funky shops, and young people.

  “Joe is still married to Lucy,” Garriott said as he pulled his SUV into the paved driveway. “Thirty-something years, I think. Their three kids are all grown and live elsewhere but I think they’re here for Charles’ funeral.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “What’s today, Thursday? There won’t be a funeral. The cremation is Sunday, and so is a big memorial party that they’ve planned. A wake.”

  They got out of the vehicle and went to the front door. Garriott knocked. The door opened and Joe Nance, looking haggard and disheveled, stood in the light. He was a tall, thin man with a weather-beaten face and silver hair cut short above his ears. The pain and stress of losing his brother was apparent in the man’s sad eyes, but Berenger detected something else in Nance’s demeanor.

  He was afraid.

  “Well, lookie here… Spike Berenger, hello.” he said. “Come in. Hi, Zach.”

  Nance stood aside as the trio entered the house. Berenger held out his hand and Nance took it.

  “Joe, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. God, how long has it been?”

  “I don’t know. Last time I saw you, I was a music manager. That was in the eighties.”

  “Well, pardon me for saying so, but you look older.”

  “I guess we all do. Joe, this is my partner, Suzanne Prescott.”

  “Hi,” Prescott said, offering her hand. “I’m sorry for you loss, too.”

  Nance shook her hand and nodded. “Pleased to meet you. Come into the living room. Can I get you something?”

  “We just had drinks, so no thanks,” Berenger replied.

  They followed the man through a hallway lined with famil
y photographs and into a very narrow living room—as was the case for most townhouses in Chicago—and took seats in various comfy chairs. Nance introduced them to his wife Lucy, an attractive redhead who appeared to be in her mid fifties. There were bags under her eyes, as it had obviously been a stressful week. As soon as she left the room, Berenger’s eyes focused on the handgun that sat on top of the coffee table. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. He chose to ignore it for the moment and then addressed his host. “Joe, as you know, Zach here has hired us to look into your brother’s shooting.”

  “I appreciate it. The police don’t know anything, and if they do, they’re not telling me.”

  “What have they told you?”

  “Some bullshit about it being a drug transaction gone wrong. Charles had some pot in the house. But you’d think if that were the case, why didn’t the killer go inside the house and take the pot? Or anything else?”

  “And they don’t think it’s connected to what happened to Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer?”

  Nance rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. They won’t admit it. I think they believe there’s a connection, though. They’re just not saying.”

  Berenger looked at Garriott and raised his eyebrows. Garriott prompted him with a slight nod. “Joe,” he said, “I understand you have a theory about who’s responsible for this.”

  “Yeah, I do. You’re going to think I’m crazy, though.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “A woman named Sylvia Favero killed Charles. And I think she killed Lew and Sarah Krige, Dave Monaco, and Hank Palmer.”

  “Who is she?”

  Nance laughed a little and bit his fingernails. “She’s a ghost, Spike. She’s been dead for nearly forty years.”

  Berenger tried not to show his frustration. “Please explain that, Joe. I want to know everything you know about this woman.”

  “Right.” At that point, Nance stood and went into the kitchen. Berenger noticed Prescott pick something off of the chair she was in. He gave her a questioning look and she shook her head—I’ll tell you later. Nance returned with a glass full of something—it appeared to be whiskey or bourbon. He had apparently been nursing it before they had arrived. “You sure I can’t get you something to drink? I have beer, whiskey, vodka—”

  “We’re fine, Joe.”

  Nance sat. “Okay.” He took a sip and began the story. “It was back when we were first starting out… in the summer of nineteen-sixty-seven. We’d just graduated from high school. One of our biggest fans was a girl our age named Sylvia Favero. She was talented. Wrote songs, was a great singer. Hot-looking, too. Hippie chick, you know the type. And a groupie. She went everywhere to see us play. And we became friends. All of us. She’d hang out with the band, do drugs with us, you know…”

  “Sex?” Prescott asked.

  Nance turned red. “Yeah.”

  “With everyone?”

  He paused. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, go on,” Berenger prompted.

  “Anyway, in nineteen-seventy, she upped and disappeared. Just vanished. No trace. She had no family here. None of us knew where she went. Finally, she became a police statistic. Missing. Possibly kidnapped. Possibly murdered. Who knows? We never heard from her again.”

  Berenger shifted in his seat and said, “So why do you think her ghost is back and killing members of the band?”

  “Because she appeared to me.”

  Berenger raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “It was just before the Kriges were killed. I was leaving a gig at Schuba’s… that’s a club on Southport, not far from my house. Anyway, I was putting my guitar in the trunk of my car and I looked up. There she was. She always wore this same, floppy hat. It was unique. It was a real ‘hippie’ hat, the kind that some chicks wore back in those days. But this one was special. It had flowers and peace signs all over it. She wore sunglasses all the time, too. And there she was, standing in the parking lot. And she told me, ‘You’ll be the next to last to die. And Stuart Clayton will be the last.’ At first I thought I was stoned or something, but I wasn’t! The shock of seeing her made me reel for a second. I rubbed my eyes and looked again… and she was gone. Vanished. It really freaked me out.”

  He took a swig from his drink.

  “A day later, the Kriges were shot and killed in Evanston. A witness said they saw a blonde woman with a floppy hat. And I knew it was her. Then Dave and Hank were killed and she was seen there, too.” Nance leaned forward and picked up the revolver. He held it in his hand and said, “But if she comes for me, I’ll be ready for her.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Berenger didn’t want to ask how a handgun would be effective against a ghost. Instead, he said, “I hope you have a permit for that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s put it back down on the table, okay?”

  Nance contemplated the request for a few seconds and then complied.

  “Joe, the big question is why would Sylvia want to kill you guys? What’s her motive?”

  Nance’s eyes darted around the room and he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He’s lying, Berenger thought. There’s some kind of guilt in play.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I can’t imagine why.”

  “Did she have a grudge against you guys? Did something happen between her and the band?”

  “No. We were all great friends. We loved her. She loved us.”

  “Then it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. It doesn’t. But I saw what I saw. Heard what I heard.”

  “And you told the police this?”

  “Yeah.”

  Berenger looked at Prescott and she made a face that communicated—The guy is wacko!

  “Joe, do Harrison and Manny agree with you?”

  “Yeah. I told ‘em about seeing Sylvia in the parking lot, and then when the killings started, they believed me.”

  “Joe, what are you not telling me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re holding something back. I can see it. I can feel it.”

  Nance looked away. His feathers were ruffled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Joe, I’m a private investigator. I served as a CID investigator in the army. I’m trained to read people. I have to tell you, and please don’t be offended, but I think you know something that you’re not telling me.”

  “That’s all I know, I swear!”

  Berenger and Nance stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the detective slapped his hands on his knees and said, “All right. I’ll do what I can. Tomorrow I’ll go to the appropriate police precinct and try to find out what they have. The police don’t usually talk to PIs, but you never know.” He looked at Garriott. “We’ll go see North Side tomorrow night, right? I can talk to those guys then. When can I see Manny and Harrison?”

  “They’re playing a couple of gigs on their own in Michigan this week,” Nance said. “They’ll be back for the memorial on Sunday.”

  “And Jim Axelrod? Where’s he at these days?”

  “Los Angeles. I talked to him this morning. He’s flying in for the memorial, too.”

  “What about Stuart Clayton? Have you talked to him?”

  Nance gave Berenger a wry smile. “I haven’t talked to Stu in ages. We don’t get along.” The musician shook his head. “We were so tight in high school and for a couple of years after that. The band tore us apart.”

  “You started the band in high school, didn’t you?” Prescott asked.

  “Yeah. He’d say he started it, and I say I started it. I really don’t remember how it came about. We were both on the school track and field team, so we had to work in band practice between homework and track meets.”

  “You two were athletes?” Berenger asked.

  “We weren’t bad. I played football my freshman and sophomore years of high school. My junior year I dropped out and did track. It was more fun. And Stuart was on the team, so
we were buds together. I won some medals.” Nance shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal.

  “Is Clayton in town?”

  Nance shrugged. “As far as I know. The guy fortifies himself in his house. He probably hasn’t seen sunlight since the eighties.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Garriott answered that one. “He lives in a dump near Portage Park. A street called Mango.”

  Suzanne asked, “How’s his… health?”

  Nance answered, “I don’t know. He lives like a recluse and doesn’t see anyone. I’d say he’s totally bonkers.”

  “Why is that?” Berenger asked.

  “Look, we all did a lot of drugs in the sixties and seventies, right? But this guy... man, oh man. Stuart was always tripping on something. It was like he wanted to change his brain. I know you can’t get addicted to LSD but I’d swear he was. He was tripping every day for a while. That’s got to boil your gray matter in the long run.”

  “But he functions? He lives alone?”

  “Yeah. It’s hard to believe at one time the guy was rich as a skunk.”

  “I heard his family was wealthy.”

  “Damn right! He came from big family money. Clayton owned a yacht at one time. But after his parents died in the late seventies, he sold the family business and squandered all the money. Stuart’s one step away from poverty now.”

  “That’s a shame. Well, I’m going to contact him. Hopefully he’ll remember me. I met him once.”

  “When was that?”

  “Not long after his first solo album came out. Nineteen-seventy-nine, I think. The Fixers were in Chicago and he came to the gig. I met him backstage. To tell you the truth, I was flattered and honored that he came. I used to respect him. He was talented.”

  Nance nodded. “Yeah. That he was. Then he stepped into the Twilight Zone and decided to stay there.”

  “Joe, why are you ‘second-to-last to die, and he’s the last?”

  Again, Berenger sensed evasiveness. “I don’t know,” Nance replied. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  Berenger sighed and looked at his watch. “Okay, folks. Joe, thanks for seeing us. We’ll be in touch. Suzanne and I need to check into our hotel.” He handed the guitarist a business card. “My cell number’s on there. Please call me if you think of anything that might be relevant.”