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

by Raymond Benson

  Reggie’s was crowded for the North Side show. While the band didn’t draw a major venue-sized audience, they enjoyed a loyal following that guaranteed ticket sales of a few hundred people. Berenger had arranged for Zach Garriott to meet them in the balcony, but the place was so packed that it was difficult to find the guitarist.

  “It’s standing room only,” Prescott said. “We should’ve come earlier.”

  “Sorry, I had no idea. I don’t see Zach, do you?”

  “He’s probably in disguise again. He’ll find us, I bet.”

  Sure enough, the superstar showed up wearing wrap-around sunglasses and a cowboy hat. Reggie’s manager Robby Glick was in tow. Berenger didn’t think Garriott’s disguise was very good—any serious fan could recognize him.

  “Hey, Spike, Suzanne,” Garriott said.

  “Zach, how you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. No one’s tried to kill me yet.”

  Glick grinned and held out his hand for Berenger to shake. “Welcome back. Glad to see you.”

  “Thanks, Robby. Say, could you send word backstage to Bud Callahan that I’m here? Suzanne and I want to speak to them when the show’s over.”

  “Sure thing.”

  After Glick left them, Berenger said, “Zach, I’m afraid the disguise is pretty lame.”

  Garriott shook his head. “No one’s going to recognize me. I’ll just stay with you and everything will be cool.”

  Berenger nodded toward the stage. “I haven’t heard North Side in quite a while. They still good?”

  “Sure. Do you know them?”

  “I’ve met Bud and Rick. I’ve never met Sharon or their guitarist.”

  “Greg Cross is damned good.”

  “I’ve heard him, but I didn’t think they could ever replace you.”

  “Aww, shucks, man. I bet you say that to all the guitar gods.”

  Prescott said, “I’m going downstairs to get a beer. You want anything?”

  “Sure, get me one. Zach?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You need money?” Berenger asked her.

  “What am I, your daughter?” She waved him off and moved toward the stairs.

  “That’s a fine-looking woman, Spike,” Garriott said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You sure things are just business between you two?”

  “Yep. We dated for about three months a long time ago. Thirteen years or more. Hard to believe it’s been that long. Strictly professional relationship now. And we’re really good friends, too.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Three young men, most likely in their early twenties, tentatively approached them. One of them asked, “Are you Zach Garriott?”

  “Nope. Sorry,” Garriott said.

  “Oh. We thought… you look like him. Anyone ever tell you that, man?”

  “No, can’t say they have. But thanks, I guess.”

  Berenger subtly shook his head and winked at the trio.

  “You are Zach Garriott!” one blurted. “Holy shit, man! I just want to shake your hand!”

  Completely blown, Garriott smiled and offered his right hand. The three fans eagerly shook it and gushed for a few minutes about the guitarist’s latest album and asked when he was going on tour. Garriott humored them for a few minutes and they went away happy.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Berenger asked.

  “Nah. But I wouldn’t want it twenty-four/seven.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Especially now. You know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Garriott eyed Berenger and asked, “Are you carrying?”

  “Carrying? What, dope?”

  “No, man, a gun! Are you armed?”

  Berenger nodded. “Yeah. I have a special PI license. Class C with a piggyback Class G. I have a gun permit for most states. I try to take a weapon with me when I travel. Flying is a bit of a hassle. I have to check it through security and hand it over before getting on the plane, but then I have my own personal firearm when I get to my destination.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I usually use a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special. The Bodyguard AirWeight model. But for traveling I carry a Kahr nine millimeter because it’s lighter and easier to carry on trips.” He lifted the military flak jacket he was wearing to reveal the Null paddle-type side belt holster.

  “Damn, Spike.”

  “Don’t worry. I know how to use it.”

  Prescott returned with the beers just as the lights went out. The crowd roared as the band took the stage. Bud Callahan, a tall and heavy-set man with a goatee, waved to crowd before taking his place behind an array of keyboards. Rick Tittle, like many drummers, was thin and wiry. Sharon Callahan strapped on a bass guitar and shouted into the microphone, “Howdy-do!” The guitarist, Greg Cross, had put on some pounds since Berenger had last seen the band. All four musicians were in their mid-to-late fifties.

  The band opened with “Blizzard,” one of their better-known tracks from their first self-titled album. Garriott was the original guitarist on the record, and he beamed with pride when Cross perfectly copied the power chord riffs. North Side’s music sounded a bit like the electric incarnation of Return to Forever mixed with a complex style of Chicago blues. As with Rattlesnake and South Side, the star of the band was most certainly Callahan and his keys.

  Prescott spoke into Berenger’s ear. “Do you think any of them are in danger?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied directly into her ear as well. “None of them were originally in The Loop, Red Skyez, or Windy City Engine. Zach is the only member of North Side that was.”

  People all around them were dancing in place and rocking to the music. Berenger took the opportunity to scan the crowd in the balcony. Most appeared to be in their mid-thirties and up, but there were plenty in their twenties.

  Then he saw her.

  A woman with a floppy hat and long blonde hair stood alone against the back wall of the balcony. She wore dark sunglasses and trench coat. She had her arms folded across her chest. More interesting was the fact that she wasn’t watching the band on stage—it seemed to Berenger that she was looking directly at him and Garriott.

  “I’ll be right back,” he shouted to Prescott. “Keep an eye on Zach!”

  Before Prescott could ask where he was going, Berenger turned, pushed his way through the crowd, and headed toward the back of the balcony. But as soon as started moving, he lost sight of the woman. Berenger frantically looked around the place but didn’t spot her. He rushed to the staircase and descended to the ground floor level. The space was more crowded there—if the woman had preceded him by a few seconds, she’d already be lost in the throng.

  Berenger cursed to himself, climbed the stairs, and rejoined his friends.

  “What was it?” Prescott asked.

  “I thought I saw… I don’t know. Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “I saw a woman with a floppy hat and blonde hair. But she was there one minute and gone the next. It’s weird.”

  Prescott raised her eyes. “Was she a ghost, Spike?”

  Berenger ignored the comment and looked around the balcony once again. There was no sign of trouble, so he did his best to concentrate on the music.

  North Side played a two-hour set without stopping. When it was over, Glick escorted Berenger, Prescott, and Garriott backstage to talk to the band.

  “Spike Berenger!” Bud Callahan bellowed. “By God, I think we weigh the same!”

  “I hope not, for your sake!” The two men clasped hands.

  “Have you met my wife, Sharon?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  Introductions were made all around. Glick provided cold beers for everyone as they sat in the dressing room.

  “As you all know, some Chicago musicians have been shot and killed recently,” the PI began. “I don’t want to alarm you. I don’t think any of you are in danger. But I need
to know if you’ve heard or seen anything suspicious. Or if you recall seeing a blonde woman with a big floppy hat anywhere.”

  The band members shook their heads and murmured.

  “Did any of you know a woman named Sylvia Favero? She was apparently a groupie that hung around with The Loop back in the sixties.”

  “I met her a few times,” Callahan said. “Rattlesnake hadn’t started up yet and The Loop was about to split into Red Skyez and Windy City Engine. I remember her but I never knew her very well. Ran into her at some gigs that the band played.”

  “What do you recall about her?” Prescott asked.

  “She was very friendly with the band. Especially Joe Nance and Stuart Clayton. I think they were both bonking her. That’s the impression I got, anyway.”

  “Do you know what happened to her?” Berenger asked.

  “Nope. I remember all the flap about her disappearing. When was it? Nineteen-seventy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right. She just went missing. It got to where you just expected to see her at the gigs, you know, hanging around after the show. Then one day she wasn’t there.”

  “Did anyone in The Loop say anything about it?”

  Callahan scratched his head. “Geez, that was a long time ago. I think I might have asked Joe Nance about her. He just shrugged and said they were all wondering what happened to her.”

  “Did they seem upset about it?” Prescott asked.

  “I don’t really remember. I’m sure they were puzzled by it and they were concerned for her safety. I think they were afraid something bad may have happened to her. Since she never turned up again, I guess something did. I have a scrapbook of clippings and stuff at home you can look at.”

  “That might be useful.” Berenger looked at the others. “Anyone else?”

  Tittle nodded. “I may have met her but I’m not sure. I do remember the ‘missing’ posters and some of the talk. I got into the music scene later than Bud.”

  Sharon Callahan and Greg Cross didn’t know her.

  “I do remember one thing about Sylvia,” Callahan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “She sang like an angel. She wrote her own songs, too. Joe Nance was considering bringing her into the band. He told me so.”

  “What did the others think of that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did she perform on her own at the time?” Prescott asked.

  “Not much. I don’t recall her ever having a show of her own. She opened up for The Loop once or twice—just her and a guitar. Sort of a Joni Mitchell act.”

  “Were you there?”

  “I was. I recorded some of their shows back then. Now that I think of it, I might have that show on tape. I’ll have to look.”

  “Did you hear her sing anywhere else?”

  “There was a party at Charles Nance’s house one night. A lot of people were there. Everyone was high or drunk. She started singing and everyone was mesmerized. I remember thinking, ‘wow, that chick is talented.’ I never would have guessed ‘cause she was such a groupie, you know? Most groupies in those days just wanted to sleep with rock stars.”

  “Interesting.” Berenger slapped his knees. “Okay, folks, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He handed out business cards. “My cell’s on there. Call me if you think of anything—anything at all—that might help.”

  Everyone stood, shook hands, and said goodbye. As Berenger, Prescott, and Garriott left the dressing room and entered the middle section of the building, the guitarist said, “Hey, I want to look for a CD in the shop upstairs. You want to come with me?”

  “Sure,” Berenger said.

  Prescott said, “I’ll meet you guys in the bar.”

  “Okay. Grab a table and order some more beers.”

  Prescott went through the door to the sports bar as Garriott and Berenger proceeded to climb the metal stairs to Record Breakers. They reached the first landing, turned to ascend the second flight, and froze.

  A woman with blonde hair, a floppy hat, sunglasses, and a trench coat stood at the top of the staircase. She held a pistol in her hand and it was pointed directly at them.

  “It’s her!” Garriott whispered.

  Before Berenger could make a move, the woman’s weapon coughed twice. The noise of the gunfire was deafening in the stairwell and at first Berenger was confused by the echo. Had she fired more than twice? Was anyone hit?

  Instinct took over. Berenger tackled Garriott and threw him to the landing. At the same moment, he attempted to draw his Kahr. But the woman fired again, and Berenger felt the heat of the round within inches of his head. Then she rushed down the steps and kicked Berenger’s arm before he had the gun completely out of its holster. The Kahr flew down the steps as the woman leaped over the two men and descended quickly to the ground floor.

  Berenger scrambled to retrieve his weapon and then pointed it at his prey—but she had fled through the front door to the street. He then turned to Garriott.

  “Zach! Are you hit?”

  Blood was spreading across the guitarist’s chest. The man’s eyes were wide with fear and pain.

  “Oh, God. Take it easy, Zach! I’m calling for help!”

  Suddenly the stairwell was full of people. Prescott appeared and rushed up to the landing where Garriott lay.

  “Call nine-one-one!” Berenger barked. “I’m going after her!”

  Garriott clutched Berenger’s sleeve and pulled him close. The PI leaned in to hear what the man had to say.

  “Spike… she is a ghost!” Garriott coughed. “She’s supposed to be… dead… she’ll kill us all…!”

  Berenger lightly slapped his friend’s cheek and said, “Hang in there, Zach. Help is on the way.”

  Then he got up, cut through the crowd at the bottom of the stairs, and hurried out into the night.

  9

  Jumping Someone Else’s Train

  (performed by The Cure)

  It was raining again.

  As it was still fairly early in the evening, South State Street had plenty of traffic on it. But night had fallen and the downpour made visibility a challenge. Berenger peered up and down the sidewalk in front of Reggie’s but saw only a small gathering of winos at the corner in front of a liquor shop and convenience store. A few of Reggie’s patrons were standing against the building, smoking cigarettes.

  “Did you see a woman in a trench coat run out of here?” he asked them.

  “Yeah, man.” One of them pointed across the street.

  Berenger shielded his eyes from the traffic headlights and saw her. She had crossed State Street and was running like a banshee from hell toward Cermak, an east-west thoroughfare at the end of the block. Berenger took off after her.

  When he got to the corner of State and Cermak, she was a good hundred yards ahead from him. Nevertheless, he didn’t slow his pace. Eventually she would have to rest, wouldn’t she? There was no doubt that the woman was in great shape. She ran like a professional marathon contestant. Berenger, on the other hand, was twenty-five pounds overweight and was already out of breath.

  He crossed Clark Street and saw the shooter ascend the stairs to the Cermak/Chinatown El Train station. In horror, he scanned the overhead tracks and saw that, sure enough, a train was about to pull in to board passengers. Berenger poured on the steam and ran with all his might. The staircase was tall, but the PI attacked it with ferocity, taking two steps at a time. When he reached the platform, he encountered another obstacle—the turnstile. He had no rail ticket and it didn’t take cash. There was certainly no time to stop at the vending machine and buy a ticket, so he did what any action hero would do—he leaped over the turnstile.

  “Hey!” shouted a CTA employee who was standing on the platform. Berenger ignored him and ran for the train, the doors of which were about to close. He slid into the last car just as they slammed shut.

  He almost collapsed onto the floor as he tried to catch his wind. Passengers looked at him with little
pity, for they had seen it all on the CTA bus and rail system. Berenger clung to a pole as his heart pounded against his chest. He wanted to catch the homicidal woman, but he didn’t care to have a coronary doing so.

  The train started to move. Berenger scanned the platform as it swooshed by to make sure she hadn’t faked him out and not boarded. Which car did she enter? She must be somewhere up ahead.

  Get moving! he commanded himself.

  Berenger walked unsteadily to the front of the car. The CTA trains were similar to the subways in New York. One could easily open the door at the end of the car, step out onto a small platform, move to the next car, open that door, and enter. It was against the rules and it wasn’t the safest thing in the world to do, but plenty of people did it if one car was particularly crowded. Berenger ignored protocol and slid open the door. Outside, the noise of the rattling train was much louder. It was also on an elevated track, exposed to the rain. He almost slipped on the wet platform, but he grabbed a handlebar to steady himself. Within seconds he was in the next car.

  There were maybe ten people in it and the woman with the floppy hat was not one of them. Holding on to an overhead bar, Berenger made his way through, flung open the door, and stepped outside just as the train made a sharp turn and gradually dipped underground toward a subterranean station. He held on for dear life as the darkness of the tunnel enveloped him.

  Berenger managed to open the door and get inside the car. This one was more crowded than the others. All the seats were taken and several people were standing and holding the handlebars. Berenger quickly scanned the interior but didn’t see the hat. There was a woman with blonde hair, though. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a trench coat. She probably wasn’t the shooter, but Berenger approached her for confirmation. As he moved closer, he saw that she was holding the hand of a small child.

  “Look, mommy, that man has a gun!” the boy exclaimed at the top of his voice.

  Damn! Berenger’s flak jacket had ridden up his waist, exposing the Null holster and his Kahr. The child’s pronouncement caused everyone to perk up and look at him.

  “I’m a police officer, folks!” Berenger called out. It was a lie, but he had been in a similar situation before. It was best to alleviate any fears without having to explain who he really was. He also carried a fake badge inside a wallet in case he ever had to flash it quickly at someone. It was dishonest—and illegal—but Berenger had found that it saved time and trouble. And he’d never been caught doing it.