The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (73 page)

He did as he was told. Berenger coughed but continued to inhale fresh air. His eyelids opened and he looked at her.

“Spike? You see me?”

Berenger nodded. “What… what the hell… happened to me?”

“Don’t worry about it yet. You’re still under the influence of… well, of a drug. You’ll snap out of it soon.”

“What… drug?”

“Never mind. Just concentrate on breathing. I’m going to find some water. We’re both dehydrated. I’ll be right back. Don’t move!”

Prescott climbed over him and stood by the bed. She started to move away but found that she was too unsteady. She reached out and grabbed the hookah for support, but she lost her balance and fell, bringing the contraption down with her.

“Suzanne! Are you—?”

“Don’t get up!” she commanded. “You’re too uncoordinated right now, just like me. That’s one of the effects of the drug.”

“What
drug
, damn it!”

“Salvia, Spike. The bitch made us smoke salvia!”

Berenger put a hand to his head. “Ohhhhhh, no. Is that why my head hurts so bad?”

“Well, you were hit on the forehead, too.” Prescott managed to pull herself up and sit on the bed next to him. “You probably have a concussion. Can you feel the bump?”

“Yeah.” He winced. “Hurts like a mother—”

“How did you get it? Do you remember?”

“Uh, yeah. I came in here and found you on the bed. I was attacked from behind. Got hit with something.”

He put his feet on the floor.

“Want to try standing?” she asked.

“Sure.”

They held hands and pushed their butts off the bed. At first Berenger was very wobbly, but she held onto him until his equilibrium stabilized.

“Hey, success!” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “Man, I feel very strange. I’m still stoned, I think.”

“You are. You’ll feel that way for an hour or two.”

“How come you’re not?”

“Oh, I am, but I found a way to combat it.”

“How’s that?”

“TM, Spike. I keep telling you—you should try it!”

“Meditation? Are you serious?”

“That’s how I got us out of this mess. Come on, can you walk? We need to get out of here.”

“What time is it? What
day
is it? Oh, wait, I’m wearing my watch.” He looked at it. “Shit, Suzanne, it’s seven p.m., Friday. That benefit concert is going to start in an hour!” He reached for his handgun and experienced another shock. “
Shit
! My gun’s gone!”

He began to move around the room, taking it all in for the first time. “Is it here somewhere?”

“I doubt it. But look at that cabinet on the wall.”

Berenger walked carefully to the gun case and whistled. “I’ll bet anything that’s the sniper rifle that killed Jim Axelrod.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” She found her handbag on the desk. “Here’s my purse.”

He looked around for a blunt object.

What the hell
—He picked up the guitar and swung it at the cabinet. The glass shattered, leaving a sizable hole in the door. Berenger dropped the guitar, reached into the cabinet, and removed a handgun—a Browning 9mm. He checked the magazine, saw that it was fully loaded, and shoved it into his holster. It wasn’t a perfect fit but it would do. He didn’t care if it might have been the weapon used to in some of the shootings.

“Come on.” He headed for the staircase and started to climb, but he stopped suddenly and sat on one of the steps.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Got dizzy for a second.” He breathed deeply a couple of times, paused for a moment, and then slapped his knees. “I’m all right now.” He stood and ascended to the ground floor. Prescott followed him. They emerged from the storage room and went straight toward the front door. When they were outside, Berenger raised his arms to the sky and shouted, “I love you, sky!”

“Spike! Geez!”

He looked up and down the street, and then he remembered—“Hey, where’s the car, Suzanne?”

Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. I parked it right there in front of the house.”

“Did the perp take it?”

“Want to check the garage?”

“Good idea.”

They hurried to the side of the house and saw that the padlocked garage door.

“Oh, why not…” Berenger said as he drew the Browning from the holster. One shot blasted the lock off the door. Together they pulled the door up and, sure enough, the rental car was inside.

“Do you still have the keys?”

She looked inside her handbag and nodded.

“Can you drive?”

“I think so.”

He felt his pocket and found his cell phone. “Lookie here.” He opened it and saw that Mike Case had tried to call him several times. “Let’s go. I’m going to call Mike.”

They got inside the car; she started the ignition, and backed out. As he was dialing Case’s number, Prescott said, “I’m gonna kill that bitch if I get my hands on her.”

Berenger looked at her in confusion. “That bitch?”

“Yeah.”

He slapped his head. “Holy shit! Didn’t I tell you what I found out?”

“No. What did you find out?”

“About the album cover?”

“What album cover?”

“The one Remix put on our server! I didn’t tell you?”

“No, you didn’t tell me! What? What?”

“Drive. I’ll tell you on the way. Let me call Mike first.”

T
he Park West stagemanager, Gus Watkins, was not in a good mood.

Five more minutes and he would make the call for places. The opening configuration of musicians consisted of Joe Nance, Harrison Brill, Bud Callahan, and Rick Tittle performing a Windy City Engine set. The plan was that Stuart Clayton would join the quartet after three songs and pleasantly surprise the hell out of the audience. Whether or not he would show had been the hot topic for days on prog rock fansites’ message boards. The trio would yield while the legendary recluse performed a short solo set of one or two pieces, and then the new quintet would present Red Skyez and more Clayton solo material. The second half of the show was to begin with the same five musicians on stage, joined by Sharon Callahan, Paul Trinidad, and Greg Cross for South Side and North Side tunes. Headliners Windy City Engine would close the show, but the encore would culminate in one big Chicagoprog jam session. It was supposed to be the wet dream of every progressive rock fan in the Mid-West.

So far, though, things had not gone so well for Watkins. Stuart Clayton had arrived an hour-and-a-half before showtime, which was also at least a couple of hours late for set up and soundcheck. That put everything behind schedule and Watkins was not pleased. Additionally, some of the lighting equipment failed to work and a union electrician had to run out to pick up some replacement parts. Nevertheless, in the eleventh hour the professional stagehands, music techs, and the bands’ road crews, had everything ready to go—lights and all. Sound check went smoothly. Everything was cool.

The other band members made a big show of welcoming the legendary recluse; many of them had not seen Clayton since his departure from Red Skyez in 1973. Joe Nance was the last one to peek out of the dressing room and greet the man with whom he had played in The Loop. He was shocked by Clayton’s appearance, but he did his best not to show it. Clayton was disheveled, frail, and pale, and he leaned on a cane. Nance presumed him to be very ill. He wondered if there was a possibility that his former band mate might not being able to pull off the evening. After all, the rest of the band had
rehearsed
. Could Clayton smoothly fit in to the dynamics of what was happening on stage? What if he was
terrible
?

After the initial greeting and soundcheck, Clayton didn’t speak to anyone. He went straight to his dressing room and shut the door, not wishing to be disturbed until his “places” call. Nance and the others looked at each and shrugged. They would make the best of it, but they weren’t very happy about their old friend’s demeanor.

As for Gus Watkins, he preferred country and western music.

T
he lingering effects of the drug continued to make Berenger quiet and introspective. Prescott merged into traffic on the Kennedy and then looked at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just feel weird.”

She nodded and focused on the road. “I know. Spike, we were exposed to high doses of salvia for hours. I’m surprised we’re not totally loony.”

“If I close my eyes and think about it, I feel it all over again.”

“That’s one of the coming down effects. You just have to think about the here and now, and don’t daydream.”

“You saved my life, Suzanne.”

“I saved mine at the same time, so consider it two for the price of one.”

Berenger didn’t smile. “How about you? You can drive okay?”

“I’m fine. Look, Spike, you’ve also got a concussion. I should take you to an emergency room.”

“No!”

“Spike!”

“Just get to the Park West!”

Prescott made the exit onto North Avenue and turned east. They were ten minutes away.

King Crimson alerted Berenger that he had a call.

“Mike! Am I glad to hear you! Listen, I—what? Uh huh?” He passed on the news to Prescott, “Says he got my message, he’s on his way to the venue, and he let the security team there know what was going on.” Back to the cell. “Mike, listen to me. It’s very important. They have to stop Stuart Clayton from going on stage.”

T
he Park West was sold out, as Callahan had predicted. In fact, it had become
the
hot ticket in town, not to mention a major event in the world of prog rock. Ticketholders came from afar—not only from all over the U.S., but also the UK, Europe, Russia, and as far away as Japan. Scalpers were making fortunes on the street. Hundreds of fans swarmed the venue in the hopes of finding someone selling seats. As a result, people were still pouring into the theater when the clock struck eight o’clock. The audience was made up of a highly diversified mix of ages, races, and income levels (although 92% of the entire house was male). There were longtime fans of the original bands who were in their forties, fifties, and older. A younger crowd appreciated the historical significance of the music but also enjoyed the recent material by North Side or Windy City Engine. There were people who go to rock concerts regardless of who’s playing, and there were the VIPs who attended, wanting to support the bands but also be seen. Just about every musical celebrity who had been at Charles Nance’s wake was present. There were rumors that Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason and The Moody Blues’ John Lodge were in the audience. Excitement in the house was at a high. The diehards recognized the importance of the night’s show and that it was most likely the last time these musicians played together. They were also aware of the recent tragic events, which placed another layer of tension on the proceedings. The large police presence was, for once, understood and welcomed.

Local hometown media had arrived in force. Even though the musicians were not superstars, they were legends in the Chicago music scene. Print, radio, and television coverage was a given. At the last minute a deal was made with a cable channel to videotape the concert and broadcast it at a later date. The various record labels handling Windy City Engine and the other band members struck agreements to record and release a live CD documenting the evening.

Anticipation was at its highest when the stagemanager announced over the PA that no photographs could be taken nor recordings made during the concert. When the lights finally went out, the crowd roared their approval. Follow-spots hit the stage as Nance, Brill, Callahan, and Tittle walked on from the wings. They waved to the standing-room-only audience, took a few bows, and then donned their instruments. Callahan had his own array of gear, including a Hammond B3 organ, a Leslie 145, a Mellotron M400, a Mini-Moog, a Sequential Circuits Prophet 5, an ARP Soloist, a Korg T2, and a Roland S550. Joe Nance used a Fender Strat, a Gibson Les Paul, and a Taylor six and twelve string acoustic. Rick Tittle played a Mapex Orion Series 7 kit and Meinl Byzance cymbals. Harrison Brill’s equipment consisted of a Rickenbacker 4001 and a Korg Prophecy bass synth.