The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (28 page)

So much for Brenda’s faithfulness to Flame’s memory,
Berenger thought. He knew she had been hiding something and he wondered how long this had been going on. If he were to venture a guess, Berenger would have bet that poor Flame had been a cuckold long before his death.

He quietly moved away and down the hall to another open door. It was an office, presumably Brenda’s. The computer was on, work materials were spread over the desk, and the décor was decidedly feminine. Her heels were on the floor underneath the desk.

Berenger risked the time to examine some of the papers. Brenda had been working on a spreadsheet when she had decided to pay a little visit to her boss’s office. With a cursory glance, Berenger determined that the document was an inventory of newly purchased supplies. They consisted of the usual items—paper goods, office materials, and other ordinary expenses needed to run an organization.

But one thing stood out that struck him as odd. Most everything was listed under the heading “44
^th
Street Address.” There was another heading that read, “22
^nd
Street Address.”
What the hell was that?
Did the Messengers have another property that Briggs or no one else knew about? What was even more perplexing was that nothing was listed below the heading. What could they use the space for?

Berenger took the liberty to open the drawers of the desk. He rummaged around the expected supplies until he found two sets of keys. One was marked “44.” The other was labeled “22.” He pocketed the latter set and left the room.

Once more he quietly moved toward the stairs. He paused long enough to peek into the reverend’s office. They were still at it, but now Brenda was standing, leaning over the desk. The reverend was behind her, grasping her hips with his hands. Their animalistic grunts would have made Berenger ill if he hadn’t found them so funny.

He carefully descended the stairs, went down to the basement, and exited through the door he had used earlier. When he was on the street, he quickly walked to Ninth Avenue to catch a taxi going downtown.

He didn’t realize that he was being watched… and followed.

I
t was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Berenger got to the area of Manhattan known as Chelsea, although technically the place was too far west to really qualify as a Chelsea address. Being so close to Eleventh Avenue, the spot was next to the West Side Highway and, beyond that, the Hudson River. It wasn’t a residential area, although there were buildings on the street that surely contained apartments and lofts. Eleventh Avenue was home to several warehouses and commercial businesses. The address Berenger had noted was indeed a commercial warehouse with a roll-up steel door in front of the pedestrian entrance. Another barrier also shut off a driveway leading into what he presumed to be a loading dock.

He went to work on the padlocks that secured the roll-up door. Brenda’s keys weren’t marked but he got the right one on the second try. Throwing caution to the wind, he then pulled the chain that raised the door. It was terribly noisy but at this point he didn’t care. All he wanted was a look inside and then he would get the hell out.

Another key opened the front door. He scanned the street to make sure he hadn’t aroused anyone’s suspicions and then stepped into the building. Using the penlight again, he made his way along a corridor, through a door, and into an office. Berenger found the light switch and turned it on. There wasn’t much there—just a desk and chair, filing cabinets, and a phone. He shut off the light and continued into the main warehouse area.

Bingo. The place was full of musical instruments and equipment. Guitars, amps, drums, microphone stands, power cords—whatever it took to put on an impromptu concert. Some of the stuff looked used and battered while the rest appeared to be brand new. It was stolen merchandise—he was sure of it. Every now and then the music shops in town reported a breakin and theft of equipment and instruments. The police always thought it was the work of the Jimmys or the Cuzzins and sometimes the stolen stuff was recovered when one of the bands left it behind after a street show.

And here was a cache of it.

Berenger rummaged through the place, making a mental inventory of what was there. At the back of the space he found a padlocked trunk against the wall that aroused his curiosity. None of Brenda’s keys fit it, so he drew his P9 and shot the damned lock off. The noise of the handgun echoed loudly in the warehouse but Berenger was certain he was alone. He kicked away the padlock debris and opened the trunk.

It was full of Jimmy masks.

The discovery felt so good that Berenger wanted to laugh. The Messengers owned the building and they stored equipment for the Jimmys. It was irrefutable proof that they were in bed together.

And then Berenger nearly jumped out of his skin when the sound of a second gunshot reverberated through the space. The round hit the open trunk lid next to where he was standing. Reflexively, the private investigator jumped to the side and hit the floor.

BAM!
Another shot, a foot over Berenger’s head. He quickly wormed around the trunk and peered across the room. Another blast of gunfire forced him back behind the meager cover. With the P9 in hand, he lifted his arm and blindly fired the gun over the top of the trunk. Then he bolted out from behind it and ran to a set of large Peavey amps that stood seven feet away.

Another shot missed him but now he was in a better position to defend himself. Berenger carefully looked around the amp and saw his opponent.

He was a Jimmy, although an unusual one. The man wore the grotesque mask, but he wasn’t wearing the punk clothing. Instead he had on what appeared to be a long-sleeved dress shirt and black trousers. Was it the same man who had shot at him the other night?

Berenger raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. The Jimmy leaped behind a pillar, avoiding the shot, and returned fire almost immediately. The slug ripped into the amplifier in front of Berenger with a loud thud.

It was a stalemate. Both men were behind adequate cover and it was up to one of them to make a move to exit or try to gain a better position. Berenger looked at the ceiling and counted three work lights. He carefully aimed the pistol and shot out each lamp one at a time. The room was plunged into darkness.

He then squatted behind the amp and waited. All was silent. He thought he could hear his opponent breathing but it was unlikely—the man was thirty feet away at best.

Then there was scuffling across the room. The Jimmy was moving. Berenger peeked around the amp but couldn’t see a thing. Nevertheless he pointed the Kahr and fired at the sound. Suddenly, the warehouse door flung open and the figure darted through it. Berenger leaped to his feet and gave chase.

Before he could reach the door, however, the loading dock door creaked and started to move. The thing was opening! Berenger froze like a deer caught in headlights.

The heavy door continued to rise, revealing four teenagers dressed in jeans and Tshirts. Two of them had shaved heads, one had a blue Mohawk, and the other had a normal haircut. A van was backed up to the dock, its back door open and ready to receive a load.

“Okay, you get the guitars and we’ll get the amps,” Mohawk said. Then he saw Berenger standing there, the gun in his hand.

“Shit, who are you?” he asked.

The only thing Berenger could think of to do was to point the gun at them and shout, “Hands up!” All four boys raised their hands.

“What the fuck?” one of the shaved heads muttered.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” the Normal Haircut pleaded. They were truly scared.

“Are you Jimmys?” Berenger asked.

None of the boys answered.

“Well?”

“We didn’t do nuthin’,” Normal Haircut said.

“Yeah,” the others mumbled.

“I don’t care. Did you see one of your guys run out of here just now?” Berenger asked.

“No,” Mohawk said uncertainly. He turned to the others. “Did you?”

They shook their heads.

Berenger stood for a moment, allowing their fear to build. Then he holstered his weapon and said, “Have a good show, boys, wherever it is.”

He then walked past them, out onto the loading dock, and jumped down to the street. The four Jimmys watched him in confusion, shrugged, and proceeded to load the van.

Berenger ran to the corner of 22
^nd
and Eleventh Avenue and saw the taillights of a car speeding uptown. It was too far away for him to determine the make and model. Was that his assailant?

He scanned the street back toward Tenth Avenue and saw no other movement other than the Jimmys loading their van. Berenger returned to the warehouse and approached Mohawk.

“Hey,” he said. “You got room in the van for one more roadie?”

T
he van drove north on Eighth Avenue with one of the shaved heads driving. The four Jimmys had loaded it with two amps, a guitar and bass, a drum kit, and a microphone stand.

“So, like, who are you, man?” Mohawk asked Berenger.

“I’m a private investigator,” he replied. He sat on a spare tire in the back of the van, holding on to the side of the vehicle for support.

“Whoa, no shit?”

“No shit.”

“What were you doing in there? You’re not gonna bust us are you?” Normal Haircut asked.

“I don’t have the authority to bust you. I’m not a cop. Like I said, I’m a PI. I’m not after you guys. But there’s one Jimmy I’m looking for. He was using me for target practice tonight.”

“You know, I thought I heard gunshots before we opened the loading door,” one of the shaved heads said. “I thought it was just noise from the door or something.”

“So you wouldn’t have any idea who that might have been?” Berenger asked.

“No, man, we didn’t see a thing,” Mohawk said.

Berenger gestured to the instruments. “So what instruments do you guys play?”

“Oh, we’re not the band,” Normal Haircut replied. “We’re just the roadies. The band will meet us at the gig.”

“How are these things set up, anyway?” Berenger asked.

“We get orders down the pipe.”

“Yeah, orders.”

“From who?” Berenger asked.

“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.”