The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (13 page)

Berenger continued to strum the guitar, every now and then stopping to take a sip of the whiskey. With his throat wet he started to sing some of his old tunes as he played, wallowing in the nostalgia.

The eighties had taken him deeper into the rock music industry. He became a manager and producer for a handful of Texas bands until he decided to move to Los Angeles and try his luck there. For five years he managed a couple of top grade acts and produced a few notable albums. Finally, in 1988, he produced his friend Charlie Potts’ solo album, which made it into the Top Ten. The collective experiences gave Berenger footholds into every aspect of the business. He had gotten to know all the great rock stars and some not-so-great ones, had partied and broken bread with the best of them, and made a name for himself.

Those were the good years. He had even married and had children, but Berenger couldn’t help thinking that had been just a side project. Linda Steinman had certainly rocked his world and for three years it had been a blast. But like his mother, Berenger had wanderlust and couldn’t stay at home.

He had experienced a difficult time staying faithful as well.

Then, in 1991, he met Rudy Bishop. Already an entrepreneur with a successful concert security business, Bishop asked Berenger to help him with a delicate situation. Bishop was working security for Maggie Tantra, one of the hottest heavy-metal performers at the time. She was on the verge of becoming a superstar with a number one album that was popular in the Alternative scene. The problem was Maggie’s ex-husband. The guy, also a musician, was jealous of Maggie’s success and had issued a death threat against her. When Maggie’s band was scheduled to play in the husband’s hometown of Seattle, Berenger was hired as a bodyguard. During the show the husband leaped onto the stage and came at Maggie with a hatchet. Berenger tackled the bastard, wrestled him down, and disarmed him in front of 10,000 screaming fans. Luckily, they all thought it was part of the show.

After that, Bishop made Berenger an offer and Rockin’ Security was born.

His cell phone rang and Berenger stopped playing the guitar. He dug it out of his pocket and saw from the caller ID that it was none other than Charlie Potts.

“Hey bud, I was just thinking about you,” Berenger said after he connected and held the phone to his ear.

“Aw, really? Is that why my ears are burning?” his friend asked. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I was just playing some of our old songs while I got drunk. What’s with you?”

“Just wondering when we’re gonna jam again. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, I know. Later this week, maybe. I’ll have to call you. I’m kind of on a big case right now.”

“No big deal. Hey, guess who I ran into today.”

“Who?”

“Dave Bristol.”

What a coincidence. “Really? What’d he have to say?”

“Oh, the usual. He and the band are having the usual troubles. He was sure bad-mouthing Flame.”

“Yeah? What’d he say?” Berenger asked.

“Some shit like Flame got what was coming to him. Pretty tasteless if you ask me.”

“Hmmm. Well, you know Bristol and Flame. They were natural enemies that happened to make incredible music together. They didn’t have to like each other.”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, he’s playing at Mortimer’s tomorrow night. You wanna go?”

“Blister Pack is playing?”

“Yeah.”

It might be a good opportunity to talk to the band about Flame. “I just might. Can I let you know tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I may bring Suzanne. Listen, Charlie, I’ve gotta go. Right now I just want to finish my Jack Daniel’s, take a shower, and crash. S’ok?”

“Sure, man. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Whatever.”

Berenger hung up and considered what Dave Bristol had said.

Flame got what was coming to him
.

Maybe he did. Maybe he did.

The phone rang again. Berenger quickly picked up the receiver and was bombarded by loud, distorted Punk music coming through the earpiece. He winced and held the phone away from his head. Then someone on the other end added “vocals.” Screaming into the phone in Punk Rock fashion, the caller shouted in rhythm—

“
You’re gonna DIE tomorrow night, mister mister mister, you’re gonna DIE DIE DIE,

you’re gonna DIE tomorrow night, mister mister mister, you’re gonna DIE DIE DIE!”

And the phone went dead.

R
ockin’ Security’s morning began with a team meeting. Berenger dragged himself in with an annoying hangover. It had been a bad night for him but the booze had helped him get through it. The disturbing phone call—most likely the handiwork of the Jimmys—had put him in a foul mood and he had to continue playing his guitar for a while longer before crashing. He seemed to remember the clock reading 3:00 a.m. before he finally went to bed. Seven hours wasn’t quite enough to sleep off the drunk but he’d handled much worse. After a good hot shower and a glass of tomato juice, he thought he could fool his body into thinking he was sharp enough to tackle the day. However, when he walked into the conference room and heard the heavy beat of Rage Against the Machine’s self-titled first album pounding through the speakers, Berenger felt wrecking balls demolishing what was left of his brain. He went over to the sound system and shut off the music.

“Hey, man!” Remix said. “I was diggin’ that!”

“Nine o’clock is too early for Rap Metal, Remix,” Berenger said. He ran his finger down the stack of CDs they kept in the room, pulled out Paul Simon’s
Graceland
, and slapped the disc in the machine.

Remix groaned when the opening track began.

“Sorry, Remix,” Berenger said. “That’s one of the privileges of being the boss. I can pick whatever the hell I want to play during team meetings.”

“I like this album,” Suzanne said. “Good choice, Spike.”

“It sucks, man,” Remix added.

“Yeah, it only won, like, seven hundred Grammys,” Briggs commented.

“Grammys? You put stock in those damn things?” Remix asked. “Grammys don’t mean shit. I gave up on Grammys the year Jethro Tull beat Metallica for Best Heavy Metal Album!”

“Actually, Remix,” Berenger said as he poured a cup of Mel’s coffee, “the category that year was Hard Rock
Slash
Heavy Metal, that is, Hard Rock
or
Heavy Metal. Jethro Tull’s
Crest of a Knave
certainly qualified as a Hard Rock album and it’s a damn good one, too. Frankly I think the Grammys did right that year. Metallica got what was coming to them later on.”

“Well, whoop-di-doo,” Remix replied. “Ain’t you the statistical know-it-all.”

“But to tell you the truth, Remix,” Berenger added, “I don’t put much stock into the Grammys either.” He sat at the table and surveyed his crew. They all looked at him as if they were waiting for some sort of revelation.

“What?” he asked.

Suzanne cleared her throat. “So, uhm, what about those guitar strings, Spike?”

Berenger shrugged and looked at Briggs. “You take a look at ‘em?”

Briggs nodded. “Yeah. It’s from the Jimmys, all right. Any idea why you’re on their hit list?”

“Not a clue. Unless it’s got something to do with the case. Adrian was working for them as a dealer but I don’t see the relevance. Did you find out anything about Snort?”

“Nothing,” Briggs replied. “It’s an alias that’s doesn’t have a record.”

“Hmm. Well, let’s move on. Suzanne, tell me about the Messengers’ place.”

She shook her head. “Whew, what a bunch of strange people. Their so-called church is full of really gross religious paintings of Christ being crucified and all that—stuff that would make even Mel Gibson blanch. I found it pretty sick. And the staff is just too sweet for words. Oh, and Flame’s
ashes
are there, which I find totally weird. I brought back some of their literature, which on first glance appears perfectly respectable. However if you read between the lines you can see they have some pretty strange ideas about religion.”

“Such as?”

“That we’re all the same ‘person’ connected to Jesus once we’ve accepted Him, but anyone who hasn’t accepted Him isn’t a person at all. Heaven is a much more elite country club than is widely believed and space is very limited. You have to be really, really,
really
good to get a reservation and it’s implied that the more rent you pay up front, the better chance there is of you getting a room.”

Suzanne glanced at her notes. “Let’s see, what else… Oh, they don’t have a lot of members, just a little over a hundred. They do have a bunch of services each week and I find that strange.”

“You feel like attending one?”

She snorted. “Do I
feel
like attending one? Gosh, you couldn’t
pay
me to attend one… but seeing as how you
are
paying me I guess I will if you want me to. They certainly made the pitch for me to come and join in on one.”

Berenger rubbed his beard. “I may want you to go to a service but don’t rush in yet. Let’s play it by ear. Did you see Reverend Theo?”

“Yes, I did. I met him and his wife, briefly. Mostly, though, I was in contact with none other than Brenda Twist.”

“And how was that?”

“Strange. It was like being led around by a Girl Scout with a halo. Unfortunately I made the mistake of mentioning something about Flame’s connection with the Messengers. She immediately froze up and told me to get the hell out, although not in those precise words.”

“I understand she’s pretty private about Flame,” Berenger said. “Not a publicity seeker.”

“I got that impression too. She doesn’t like to talk about Flame from what I could gather.”

“You think she’s capable of murder?”

“Gut feeling? No. I mean, she obviously can be a bitch if she wants to, but I don’t think she’s capable of strangling her boyfriend and then stringing him up to make it look like a suicide. She may be crazy, but she’s not a psycho.”

“You think she got the idea you’re an investigator?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Let’s hang loose on them for the time being. There are other angles regarding the Messengers I want to investigate before we rush in and start asking questions they don’t want to hear.” Berenger looked at Briggs. “You got anything new, Tommy?”

Briggs cleared his throat and opened his notebook. “As a matter of fact, I do. I talked to Plaskett at the Bureau and he helped me with some Immigration information on our Reverend Theo. It appears he’s not the saint everyone thinks he is.”

“Do tell.”

“Theodore Ramsey is an ex-con. He served seven years in a Jamaican prison for drug trafficking and assault. This was during the eighties. Before that, in 1973, he was charged with murder but was acquitted. The deceased was a drug dealer. Apparently Theo didn’t find religion until after his release from prison in 1987. Most of his life, though, he was just a common yardie, a Jamaican thug. I think he’s trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble, didn’t Immigration give him a problem when he wanted to enter the US?” Berenger asked.

Briggs shrugged. “Yeah, but he got around it by marrying an American. He was also an ordained minister. He and his wife formed a small church in Ocho Rios in late 1987, after he got out of jail. She vouched for his integrity when they moved to New York in 1990. As I said last time, the Messengers’ church was established here in 1992. As far as we know, Reverend Theo has been a model citizen since then.”

“What about the wife?”

“Juliet Ramsey was born Juliet Hawkins in Valdosta, Georgia. We don’t have a lot on her, she’s squeaky clean. Worked as a schoolteacher most of her life then spent most of the eighties in Jamaica.”

“When did she and the reverend get married?”

“They married while Theo was still in prison! It’s not clear when they met, but the records show they were married in 1985, while Theo was incarcerated.”

Mel spoke up. “I’ll never understand why women marry guys who are in prison. That’s nuttier than an Almond Joy.”