“Look, man,” Mohawk said, “I don’t know if we should be talking to you like this. We could get into some deep shit.”
Berenger held up his hand like a Boy Scout. “I swear I won’t rat on you. It’s for my own information. Like I said, I’m trying to track down a guy.”
The teens looked at each other. Then Mohawk said, “Well, Jimmy is the one who decides when we put on a show.”
“Jimmy?”
“The boss.”
“His name is really Jimmy?”
Mohawk shrugged. “Hell if I know. That’s what he goes by. That’s why—”
“—why you’re the Jimmys,” Berenger finished. “I get it. What does he look like? Who is he really?”
“Never seen him.”
“Nope, we don’t know him.”
“He’s black, that’s all we know about him.”
Mohawk explained as he gestured to the gear around him. “He’s above all this. He just plans stuff and helps with legal problems if any Jimmys get arrested.”
“Kinda like the mafia,” Berenger suggested.
“I guess so. Jimmy’s supposedly real connected.”
“So he has lieutenants and enforcers and so forth, and the orders get handed down to you guys?”
Normal Haircut nodded. “Us and a whole lot more like us. We’re the street soldiers, you might say.”
“And the Cuzzins, they work the same way?”
“Fuck the Cuzzins,” Mohawk said. “Those guys are losers.”
“Yeah, losers.”
“Real shitheads.”
Berenger smiled. He knew enough not to pursue that topic further. “So how do I find Jimmy if I want to meet him?”
“Beats me,” Normal Haircut said.
“Nobody meets Jimmy,” Mohawk replied. “Forget it.”
“Yeah, forget it.”
The driver spoke up. “Better put on the masks, guys. We’re nearly there.”
“Where’s there?” Berenger asked.
Mohawk smiled broadly. “The Jimmys are playing Madison Square Garden tonight.”
“Well, outside of it anyway,” Normal Haircut said.
The four boys put on Jimmy masks as the van parked on 33rd Street. They opened the back and began to unload the equipment. Berenger got out and saw three other Jimmys waiting in the darkness.
“Who’s this asshole?” one of them asked as he picked up the guitar. The three were obviously the band.
“Oh, he’s cool, man,” Mohawk said. “He helped us load the van.”
“Are you a Jimmy?”
“No,” Berenger replied. “Just came along for the ride.”
“Shit, the guy’s a cop!” another of the new Jimmys proclaimed.
“I’m not a cop. Don’t sweat it. I’m just gonna observe and see who shows up.”
Mohawk gestured to the large open area in front of Madison Square Garden that faced Seventh Avenue. “Take a look, man. That’s who showed up.”
Berenger turned and his jaw dropped. There were at least a hundred people standing in the darkness. The lights around the building cast unholy illumination on the motley crew of skinheads, punks, bikers, and just plain teenagers.
Someone shouted, “There they are! The Jimmys are here!”
The crowd roared in appreciation as if one of the world’s supergroups had just pulled up to play a free concert.
The roadies quickly found the power outlets near the building and signaled the band that they were ready to go. The setup was remarkably fast. Berenger figured they had it down to a science. These guerilla-style gigs had to get in and get out before the law noticed. Berenger knew it wouldn’t be long with a crowd this size gathering in front of the Garden at this time of night.
The guitarist checked his mike and then counted off. The band launched into a Metal Rap tune that incited the crowd to “burn down the Garden.” The audience cheered and applauded.
Berenger stood near the van and laughed. The spectacle was simultaneously ridiculous and inspiring. Once again he was impressed with how the Jimmys had tapped into the pulse of the street and created what could arguably be labeled a new art form, albeit an illegal one. It was a party for the underworld.
The band launched into a Grunge Punk number when Berenger noticed a tall thin man approaching the van. He was so tall that the shape was familiar, someone Berenger thought he knew. One of the roadies held up a hand in greeting and the two of them began to walk closer. Berenger drew back into the shadows until they came into better light.
Dave Bristol slapped the Jimmy on the back and handed him an envelope. In return, the Jimmy gave Bristol a small packet. They exchanged a few words and then Bristol walked away.
Berenger set out after him, keeping a safe distance. It was fairly simple to tail the drummer, even in the dark. Bristol walked toward the IRT subway station and went down the stairs. Berenger knew that Bristol lived on W. 74th Street, just west of Broadway. Perhaps he was going home.
For a scary moment Berenger entertained the notion that Bristol was “Jimmy.” But the kids in the van had said that Jimmy was black. Tommy Briggs had also said that the Jimmys originated in the Caribbean, so a black leader made more sense. Added to that was the newfound revelation that the Messengers—another Caribbean operation—were tied to the Jimmys. In all likelihood the leader was indeed a black man. It couldn’t be Bristol.
The drummer was most likely buying drugs from the Jimmys. That had to be it. The Jimmys sold to rock stars. But why would Bristol need to come to the concerts? Couldn’t the Jimmys deliver the stuff directly to him?
Berenger heard police sirens approaching the area. The band had segued into their third number, right on cue. As if on a signal, the crowd began to run about and cause damage to whatever property they possibly could before the cops arrived. They overturned trashcans, broke the glass in bus stop advertising displays, and threw debris at the Garden building.
It was time to split. Berenger looked up and saw a taxi slowly cruising along Seventh, the driver gaping at the marvel unfolding on the street. Berenger held up his hand and called for the driver to stop. At first the driver thought he was being accosted by one of the hoodlums until he realized that it was a middle-aged man flagging him down.
Berenger got in the back seat and said, “Broadway and 74th please.”
The taxi let him off at the corner just as a handful of people emerged from the 72nd Street subway station. Berenger had been lucky. Bristol probably had to wait five or ten minutes for the train and the cab had beaten it uptown.
Berenger hugged the wall in the shadows and waited. After a moment, lanky Dave Bristol walked around the corner and headed down the street to his townhouse. Berenger bolted out of the darkness and approached the drummer.
“Dave.”
Bristol shrieked and involuntarily leaped several steps sideways.
“Hold on, it’s me, Spike,” Berenger said.
Bristol shook his head and said, “Holy fuck, Spike! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to.” Actually he did but Berenger wasn’t going to tell him that.
“What the hell are you doing? You were standing there in the dark, weren’t you! Just waiting for me!”
“I need to talk to you Dave, let’s keep walking.”
Bristol backed away from him. “Nuh uh, Berenger. This is no way to—”
Berenger shoved the P9 into Bristol’s side. “Just shut up and keep walking, Dave.”
“Wha—? Spike?” Bristol looked at the gun in shock and surprise.
“This is just to show you I mean business,” Berenger said. “Let’s go to your place and have a little talk.” He holstered the gun. “Look, see, I put it away. Come on, Dave, we’ve been friends a long time. I need to talk.”
“All… all right, Spike.”
They walked together until they reached the brownstone that Bristol had bought with his music royalties. He wasn’t a superstar in the same league as someone like Flame, bu
t he did very well for himself. When he wasn’t playing in a well-known band like Hay Fever or Flame’s Heat, he was a highly sought-after session man.
Bristol unlocked the door and held it open for Berenger. They stepped into the foyer where Bristol paused to shut off the security alarm, and then he led the PI into the living room. The four-story townhouse was a beauty and Bristol had maintained it well.
“Would you like a drink, Spike?” Bristol asked.
“No thanks.”
“Really? Spike Berenger refusing a drink?”
“Just sit down a minute, Dave.”
Bristol gestured to the sofa. Berenger sat and Bristol took the armchair that faced it. “Okay, Spike. What’s this all about?”
“What do you have to do with the Jimmys?”
The look on Bristol’s face indicated that he hadn’t expected the question. “The Jimmys? Why, I—”
“Don’t lie, Dave. I’ve seen you twice with them. I saw you buy something tonight down at the Garden. What’s going on? Are you on horse again?”
Bristol looked at his feet. He was busted. After a pause, he said, “It’s not H. It’s coke. H brings me down too much. Coke mixes better with the booze.”
“How long have you been dealing with the Jimmys?”
“Not that long. About a year.”
“How did you hook up?”
“You know. Word of mouth. A friend of a friend of a friend.”
“So why do you go to them? Why don’t they deliver the stuff to you right here?”
Bristol shrugged. “Uhm, my, regular dealer, he’s out of town. So I have to go to the shows until he, er, gets back. I’m on the network, you see.”
“Network?”
“There’s an e-mail list—you know, Listserve—it goes out to customers and fans whenever there’s going to be a Jimmys show. The roadies know me. I go, conduct my business, and I’m out of there before the cops show up.”
“That’s damn risky, Dave,” Berenger said. “Suppose you got popped?”
“I know, it’s stupid. What can I say?”
For a moment the two men stared at each other. Berenger could see that the normally volatile Bristol was humbled and embarrassed.
“Why, Spike?” the drummer finally asked. “What’s it to you?”
“The Jimmys have tried to kill me twice in the last week. I want to know why.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Do you know anything about it?”
“Of course not! Why would they want to kill you?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know. I think it might have something to do with Flame and Adrian Duncan. Adrian was dealing for the Jimmys, did you know that?”
“Actually… yeah, I did know that. It was Adrian that hooked me up. That’s why I have to go to the shows to get my shit. Adrian’s in jail.”
“Oh, geez,” Berenger said. “Okay, how about this? Are you aware that the Jimmys are doing business with the Messengers?”
Another look of incredulity passed over Bristol’s face. “What? No! I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true. All right, look. I want to talk to someone in charge. I want to go as high up as I can. I want to meet Jimmy.”
“Jimmy!”
“I want to have a conversation with him.”
“Nobody meets Jimmy, Spike,” Bristol said. “I’ve never met Jimmy!”
“You’ve got the clout, Dave. You’re a major player in the music biz. I think if you had enough of a reason to want to meet the guy, you could do it. I want you to set up a meeting in the next couple of days. Will you try?”
“Spike, I don’t know…”
“I’m going to Jamaica—” He looked at his watch. “—in a few hours. I hope to be back the next day or possibly the day after that. I want to meet Jimmy as soon as I return. Otherwise, Dave, I can make things pretty difficult for you.”
“What do you mean?” Bristol furrowed his brow. Berenger could see the anger building.
“You, the cocaine, the Jimmys. You know what I do for a living.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Look, we’re talking about a death threat on my head, Dave. I have to get to the bottom of it. I’m asking you as a friend. If you won’t do it as a friend, then I have to play it like a hard ass. Now are you going to help me or not?”
Bristol rubbed his gnarly chin. He stood and went to the bar that spanned one side of the living room. He took a bottle of bourbon and poured a tumbler full. He downed it in one gulp.
“All right,” he said. “Call me as soon as you get back from Jamaica.”
24
Stir It Up
(performed by Bob Marley & the Wailers)
The Air Jamaica flight landed on time at the Montego Bay airport, where Berenger rented a car for the drive along the northern coast. Berenger never liked Jamaica much. He believed it to be an island vacation spot that had seen its day and had sadly deteriorated. Because it was generally considered dangerous to step outside of the resort hotels into the poverty-stricken communities, the hotel managers fenced their grounds as if they were stockades. Berenger always felt he was a prisoner when he stayed in one. The resorts were nice, had great food and other amenities—but it was all an illusion. The hotels weren’t Jamaica. They were miniature Disneylands where mostly white middle and upper class clientele could go and pretend they were on an island paradise. It was easy to ignore the country’s crime and poverty while sequestered inside a resort hotel. Berenger preferred the Bahamas and many of the other West Indian stops.
Still, a Caribbean island was a Caribbean island. The sun was hot, the ocean was deep blue, and reggae music filled the fresh air. As he drove eastward along the coast, Berenger rolled down the window and did his best to turn a blind eye to the squalor of the shantytowns along the way.
He eventually reached Ocho Rios, one of the three major tourist areas on the island. Berenger pulled into the Jamaica Grand, a four star all-inclusive resort. He had stayed there before and he figured it was as good as any of the others. After checking in, he dropped the overnight bag in his room and went straight to the bar. The place was already crowded and it wasn’t quite noon. Men and women wearing swimming attire—some of them were barely wearing it—lounged around with their frozen pina colladas, daiquiris, and margaritas. Berenger was dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, sandals, and dark sunglasses, so he looked as if he belonged.
He took a stool at the bar and ordered a pina collada. When in Rome…
“Mistah Berenger?”
The voice had the familiar musical lilt of a Jamaican accent. Berenger turned to see a tall, thin black man with graying short hair. He, too, wore a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals.
“Yes?”
“I’m Steve Baskin.” The two men shook hands.
“Spike Berenger. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Not at all. I checked your flight arrival and allowed time for you t’ drive over dis way.”
“Let’s go over here where we can have some privacy.” Berenger hopped off the stool and carried his drink to a table away from the crowd.
“I understand you’re with the FBI?” Berenger asked.
“No more. I used t’ be. I’m retired. But I still maintain contacts.”
“You know Tommy Briggs?”
“No, never met him. I know of him. My contact in New York knows him.”
“Tommy’s my colleague. We work together. How much do you know about why I’m here?”
“Only dat you’re interested in investigatin’ the Messengers and their church.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Sure. Their property is about ten minutes away from Ocho Rios. Security is very tight there. It’s like one of dese resorts.”
“I don’t doubt it. What can you tell me about them?”
Baskin shrugged and said, “Not too much. Dey a reclusive bunch. It’s a small staff residing there when no retreats go on.”
�
�Do you know Chucky Tools?”
“Yes, I have met him.”
“What’s he like?”
Basked shrugged again. “I never figured him t’ be anythin’. He stays out of trouble. He’s not a tough guy.”
“Was it you that told our people in New York that the Messengers use drugs at these retreats?”
“Dat’s right, man. Dey drink a special wine dat’s made here on de island. Dey lace de wine with some drug dat loosens up people. Makes dem easy, you know what I mean?”
“Yes. I’d like to try and get a sample of it. Oh, and have you ever heard of a gang called the Jimmys?”
Baskin frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Who are dey?”
“They’re in New York but supposedly originated in the Caribbean.”
He shook his head. “Can’t say I know dem.”
Berenger nodded. “Okay. You think Tools will talk to me?”
“Dey don’t like strangers on de property. Dey prob’ly turn you away.”
“Well, let’s try it the polite way first. Then if that fails, we might need to do some sneaking around after dark. Are you up for that?”
Baskin grinned, revealing pearly white teeth. “Whatever you say, Mistah Berenger.”
“Call me Spike.”
The property was off the main highway, marked with a sign proclaiming “The Messengers – A Retreat for the Enlightened.” Baskin drove an old Ford Pinto onto a dirt road that went about a hundred yards in and then forked. Another sign indicated that the path to the left went to the church. The path to the right was marked “Private – No Trespassing.”
“De church is open t’ de public, of course,” Baskin said. “Anyone can go t’ de services, every Sunday.”
“Just one service a week?” Berenger asked.
“As far as I know.”
“In New York they hold them every day, I think. Sometimes twice a day.”
“When Reverend Theo is in town de services are more frequent.”
“What’s the other road lead to?”
“Dat’s where de offices are and where de retreats are held.”
“Let’s see the church.”
Baskin drove to the left and followed the road a half-mile to a small schoolhouse-like structure that was painted white. A large cross adorned the eve. The parking area was empty.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 20