Berenger met Dave Bristol at Washington Square in Greenwich Village at 11:00 p.m. Since there was nothing more he could do that night about Suzanne or his mother, he had called the drummer to inquire about the status of the meeting with the mysterious Jimmy and Bristol replied that he had been successful in setting it up. Bristol told the PI to meet him downtown and they would go together from there.
“Do not come armed,” Bristol warned him. “You will be searched before you see him. If you’re carrying so much as fingernail clippers they won’t let you in.”
Berenger sat on a bench near the arch at the appointed time and waited. The usual crowd of NYU students, bums, and junkies that liked to loiter there still populated the square. A small group of guys dressed like punks hovered around a nearby bench. Berenger wondered if they might be Jimmys but the young men paid no attention to him.
The drummer arrived five minutes late. Berenger immediately noticed that Bristol appeared extremely nervous.
“Hey man,” Bristol said. He and Berenger slapped hands.
“You all right?” Berenger asked.
Bristol sniffed. “Yeah.”
“So what’s the score?”
“We wait here. Someone will come and pick us up.” He sniffed again.
“You been using the candy, Dave?”
Bristol shrugged. “So?”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“I feel like standing.” In fact, Bristol couldn’t stop moving. Berenger could see that the drummer was very agitated.
They waited another minute and then Bristol abruptly kicked the side of the bench.
“Geez, Dave, take it easy,” Berenger said.
“Fuck this,” Bristol spat. “I don’t like doing this. Why did you have to pick on me, Berenger? I thought we were friends.”
“Well, we are. That’s why I asked you.”
“You didn’t ask. You threatened me, remember?”
“Dave, that was just to get you to listen. You think I’d really fuck you over?”
“I don’t know, Spike. I guess I’m just stressed out. Blister Pack is recording tomorrow starting at noon. Al Patton’s producing us and I’m gonna be in the studio all day. It’s gonna be hours and hours.”
“Al Patton? That guy is never in his office. He’s the only person I haven’t talked to about Flame.”
“Drop by Lightning Rod Studios tomorrow afternoon and you can catch him.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
At that moment they both looked up and saw that two of the punks had walked over to them from the other bench. One of them suddenly produced a Colt .45 and pointed it at Bristol.
“You Bristol?” he asked.
Bristol swallowed, raised his hands, and answered, “Yeah.”
They looked at Berenger. “And you’re the PI?”
Berenger stood and held up his hands. “Uh huh.”
“Put your hands down, both of you. Are either of you carrying?”
“No,” Berenger answered.
“Then let’s go.” The punk gestured with the handgun toward the arch.
They started to walk out of the square but Berenger said, “Where are we going?”
The other punk turned and laughed. “If we told you, we’d have to kill you. You coming or not?”
Berenger stepped forward but Bristol didn’t move. Berenger took him by the arm and said, “Come on, Dave. It’ll be fine.”
They followed the two punks to a decrepit Chevy Malibu that was parked on 4th Street. Punk #1 unlocked the doors and gestured for the two men to get in the back. Punk #2 got in the passenger seat. Berenger and Bristol climbed into the back and the car took off, heading south. The driver eventually crossed Houston Street and then turned west. In five minutes they were in Tribeca.
Punk #2 leaned over the seat and handed the two men a pair of blindfolds. They were sleepers, the kind that airlines gave passengers for intercontinental flights. “You gotta put these on,” he said.
Bristol protested. “Hey, I’m not gonna wear no damn—”
“Dave!” Berenger spat. “Do it.” He put his on and made sure that it fit snugly. “See, I’ve got mine on.”
Bristol quietly cursed and grudgingly put on the blindfold.
The car drove on and finally stopped at the corner of W. Broadway and Chambers Street, although the two back seat passengers didn’t know it. Punk #2 got out and opened the back door. “This is it,” he said.
Berenger and Bristol stepped out of the car and the driver pulled away.
“This way,” the punk said. He took both men by the arms and began to walk along Chambers, toward Greenwich Street. When they were halfway down the block, the punk led them into a brownstone. He pressed a call button.
“Yeah?” a voice asked through the intercom.
“It’s Chief,” the punk said.
The door buzzed and “Chief” led them inside. Two African-American men came down the stairs and took over.
“Turn around,” one of them told the men. “Gotta frisk you.”
Berenger and Bristol submitted to the pat down and then they were told, “You’re gonna climb some stairs. Take ‘em one at a time. Hold the rail.”
Berenger and Bristol ascended to the second floor with no problems. A pounding slap-bass line could be heard through the walls of the building and Berenger felt the vibration in the staircase. Wherever they were going, the music volume was pretty high.
The two men led them into a room and shut the door. “You can take off the blindfolds now,” one said. He had to shout, for the Red Hot Chili Peppers were rocking through “Higher Ground” at a tremendous volume.
They were in a large, immaculately decorated loft. Most of the light came from a vast aquarium that was built into one of the walls. Berenger estimated it to be ten feet in length and four feet tall. It was stocked with an amazing assortment of colorful, tropical fish. One part of the floor was occupied by expensive-looking leather lounge furniture. The pieces were arranged in front of a big-screen plasma television and a high-end sound system. The music was booming out of five-foot tall Bose speakers. Another part of the room contained gym equipment. The far side was a kitchen and dining area. Doors led to, presumably, the bathroom and bedrooms. But by far the most outstanding feature of the loft was the abundance of plants—mostly tropical ones, growing out of pots, in trays, hanging from the ceiling, and situated on the floor.
The two men were huge brutes sporting Mohawk haircuts. Bodyguards, no doubt. Berenger thought one of them looked like that actor/wrestler from the 80s, Mr. T, except he had a pink scar that ran from his forehead to the left side of his chin. The other guy was more of a Mike Tyson look-alike. He was playing with a strand of guitar string in his bulky hands, entwining it in his fingers. Both bodyguards packed semi-automatics—they appeared to be Brownings—in holsters on their waists.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Scar said. He pointed to the lounge furniture.
Berenger and Bristol did as they were told.
“Nice place, huh?” he said in Bristol’s ear.
“Fuck this,” Bristol muttered.
One of the bodyguards disappeared through a door near the kitchen. After a moment he returned and pointed to Berenger.
“Jimmy will see you now.”
Both Berenger and Bristol stood but the man shook his finger at Bristol. “Nuh uh. You stay.” He indicated Berenger. “Just him.”
Bristol grumbled again and sat. The bodyguard with the guitar string stood behind the drummer. He looked at Berenger and said, “If there’s any trouble in there, your buddy here gets decapitated with a D string.”
Bristol turned around, a look on panic on his face. “Hey!” he said.
“Be cool, Dave,” Berenger said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” He followed Mr. Scar through the door and into a small dark room illuminated only by mood lighting built into the walls. It was an office containing a large mahogany desk, more leather furniture, and more plants. The walls were covere
d by four rather kitsch paintings of nude black women in tropical settings. The music was now muted, as if the office was soundproofed to an extent.
A man sat behind the desk but he was bathed in shadow. Berenger could barely discern the shape of his head and broad shoulders.
Mr. Scar left the room. The man behind the desk said, “Mistah Berenger, please sit down.”
Berenger took the chair facing the desk.
“I’m Jimmy,” the man said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have. Your reputation precedes you. I know all about Rockin’ Security. It’s de best concert security outfit in de business. You never would have got in here to see me without dat.”
“Thanks.” Berenger once again recognized the musical lilt of a Jamaican accent. He cleared his throat. “You have quite an impressive loft here.”
“Thank you. I worked hard for many years t’ get it.”
“I can see that.”
“Shall we get down t’ business?” the man asked smoothly. Berenger felt no threat from the man, but even Jimmy’s silhouette exuded a powerful, menacing charisma. He was not a man that one wanted to cross. “I understand you wanted t’ see me.”
Berenger leaned forward. “I understand that the Jimmys have a contract out on me. I want to know why.”
Jimmy took a moment to examine the fingernails on his right hand and then said, “I am de only one who can issue an order like dat. I have issued no such order on you.”
“You… you haven’t?”
“No. Why should I? I have nothing against you.”
“But I got the guitar strings. You know, the package of broken strings. It was delivered to my office. And I got a threatening phone call. But more importantly, twice now, a Jimmy has tried to shoot me.”
“If dat is true, de man who did dis is not a Jimmy. You are being deceived.”
“Yeah?”
“I give you my word, Mistah Berenger. And my word means a lot.”
Berenger wished he could see the man’s face. Even so, there was something about the man’s voice and manner that Berenger found sincere. Jimmy might be the leader of a peculiar organized crime outfit, but like the mafiosos of old he was a man of honor. Berenger believed him.
“All right.”
“I suggest you focus your investigation elsewhere,” Jimmy said.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Is dere anything else?”
“I’m working for one of your… dealers. Adrian Duncan.”
“I know that. I hope you can help free him,” Jimmy said.
“His lawyer will have to do that but I’m beginning to feel more confident that I’ll be able to provide what he’ll need to get Adrian off. The thing is… Adrian might not be in a position to work for you anymore. I hope you won’t… hold that against him.”
“I understand. If he had been arrested for dealing den I could have used my people t’ obtain his release—and for dat he would have been in my debt. But seeing as how dis is a case dat doesn’t involve de Jimmys, I believe I can turn a blind eye to his… resignation. I have other people dat can take over his territory. Is dat all?”
“Just one more thing. I understand you do business with the Messengers.”
Jimmy paused a moment, as if he were thinking about what he should reveal. Finally he said, “Maybe.”
“I need to know what business you have with them.”
“Is dat really your concern?”
“It would help in my investigation.”
Jimmy exhaled loudly and then shrugged. He said, “We pay de Messengers a tidy sum for a space where we store some equipment. Musical equipment. I understand you already know of dat place. Dat’s why I’m telling you dis.”
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Dat’s it, Mistah Berenger. Dat’s our only connection wit’ de Messengers.” Jimmy chuckled, as if something amused him. “Dat Theo, he’s one crazy bastard, ain’t he?”
“Oh, you know the reverend?” Berenger asked.
“Know him? I shared a jail cell with him for four years!”
“In Jamaica?”
“Dat’s right. He was a two-bit yardie dat got into some trouble. I was serving time for… well, a number of things. I got out in 1984. Theo, he was in a little longer after dat. He wasn’t a preacher when I knew him back den.”
“That explains the Caribbean connection. Do you know much about his operation? Or about his assistant, Ron Black?”
Jimmy paused and said, “Mistah Black I know about but I never met him. He came to de prison after I was out.”
“So he was in the same prison that you and Theo were in?”
Jimmy nodded. “Not only that, but he occupied the same cell I once did. He was Theo’s cellmate for a short time.”
This jived with what Chucky Tools had told Berenger. “He’s not who he says he is. Do you know his real name?”
“Well, I don’t know if it is his real name, but when he was in Jamaica he was called Paul Daniel.”
“Paul Daniel?”
“Dat’s what I said.”
“Okay. Thanks. That might help.”
Jimmy stood in the darkness, indicating that the meeting was over. Berenger could see that the man was taller than Dave Bristol, and that was saying a lot. “Mistah Berenger, I do hope that in light of my cooperation wit’ you dat I will have no trouble from you in de future.”
“I’m not a police officer, Jimmy.”
“But you could tell de police things about me.”
Berenger said, “You have my word.”
On cue, the door opened and Mr. Scar gestured for Berenger to exit. Berenger did so and found Bristol sitting nervously on the sofa. The Chili Peppers were still blaring out of the speakers at deafening decibels.
“Let’s go! We’re done!” Berenger shouted.
The two bodyguards outfitted them with blindfolds again and led them down the stairs to the street. Chief met them there and ushered the two men to the Chevy. Once they were in the back seat and the car was driving north, the driver told them they could remove the blindfolds.
He dropped them off at Washington Square.
There wasn’t much that could be said. Berenger shook hands with Bristol. “Thanks, Dave. I appreciate this.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but you should probably stop buying shit from the Jimmys.”
“I know. I’m gonna try. I just don’t know if I can.”
Berenger nodded.
“I’ll see ya, Spike.”
“See ya, Dave.”
The two men went their separate ways uptown.
28
Nothing is Easy
(performed by Jethro Tull)
After the trip to Jamaica and then the emotional rollercoasters of the previous day’s hospital visits, not to mention the dramatic meeting with Jimmy, Berenger was dead tired. But he slept hard for the remaining hours of the night and woke up surprisingly refreshed and ready to unravel the various mysteries surrounding the murders—for he was convinced they were murders—of Flame and his second wife Carol. Not to mention Suzanne’s shooting and the two attempts on his own life. They were all related. He was certain of it.
The first thing he did was pick up the phone and order Tommy Briggs to find out anything he could about “Paul Daniel.”
“How’d you find that out?” Briggs asked him.
“I’ll tell you later. Just get on it. Any word on Suzanne?”
“No word on her condition but we heard from Detective Sharpe—the guy who’s investigating the shooting—he says a witness came forward late last night to say that the shooter was driving a black limousine.”
Berenger’s heart skipped a beat. This prompted him to say goodbye to Briggs and then dial Detective McTiernan.
“McTiernan,” the gruff voice answered.
“It’s Spike Berenger.”
“Oh. What is it now?”
“You heard about my partner?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Is she gonna be all right?”
“It was touch and go, but it looks like she might make it.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Thanks. Listen, a witness has come forward and said that someone in a black limousine did the shooting. A black limousine, McTiernan. What does that tell you?”
“That the shooter is a rich son of a bitch?”
“Ron Black, McTiernan. He drives a black limo for the Messengers. And he was Flame’s driver for a few years.”
“There are a lot of black limos in the city, Berenger,” McTiernan said.
“Look, you gotta pull Black in. I just got back from Jamaica, doing some snooping. I talked to one of the Messengers’ main men down there and he says Ron Black isn’t the guy’s real name and that he was in prison with Reverend Theo. The guy’s got a criminal past. And I’ve learned, uhm, from another source that his name is Paul Daniel. That mean anything to you?”
“We had a couple of interviews with Ron Black, Berenger. The guy checked out okay. There was absolutely nothing that indicated he might be dirty. But I gotta admit, you’re throwing some new light on all this. All right, Berenger. We’ll see if we can find him.”
“Great. I tell ya, Billy, if Ron Black is doing all these killings, who knows who might be next? Joshua Duncan? He’s the heir apparent to Flame’s estate.”
“Yeah. I’ll see if I can find the kid today, too.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
“Sure.” The men were silent for a few seconds. It was the first time they had actually seen eye to eye on something.
“You still think Adrian Duncan is guilty?” Berenger asked.
“I don’t know. You’ve raised some doubts.”
“Good.”
They signed off and Berenger looked out the window onto 68th Street and considered everything he knew about Ron Black. Why would the guy want to kill Suzanne? And if he was responsible for the other murders, what was the motive? Flame was his employer. Carol Merryman was no threat to him. It didn’t make a lot of sense but did it have to?
Another thing puzzled him. What was Ron Black’s connection to Al Patton? Tools had told him that Black and Patton were very “friendly” during Flame’s Jamaican retreat with the Messengers. Berenger remembered Patton speaking to Black after the reading of Flame’s will. Patton had leaned into the limo window and had a conversation with Black. Berenger didn’t tell McTiernan about the Patton angle because he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He wished to hell he could find Patton and have a face to face but the record mogul had a convenient knack for avoiding him.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 23