The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (33 page)

“Well, actually, yeah. They say mom’s gonna need some extra help at Franklin Village. You know, a hired nurse to work part-time. It might be expensive.”

“You know I’ll help with the cost, Spike.”

“I know. I’m just telling you. The thing is, I’m really busy on this case and with Suzanne in the hospital and all—”

“I’ll hop on a plane and be out there tomorrow.”

“Can you? It would really be a big help if you were here with mom.”

“No problem. I don’t have anything on my plate that can’t wait.” Carl Berenger was an entertainment lawyer who had done pretty well for himself.

“You sure?”

“Hey, I handle movie stars and their agents. I can
always
put them off!”

“What about Sarah and the kids?”

“They’ll be fine with it. Let me make the arrangements and I’ll call you back in a jiffy to let you know when I’m coming.”

“Thanks, Carl. You’re a pal.”

“Pal, shmal, Spike, I’m your brother.”

I
t was nearing sundown when Berenger drove into Manhattan. He went straight to the Upper East Side and found a street parking space a block away from New York Hospital. As he walked toward the massive structure, he phoned Mel at the office to get an update. He was told that the five-hour surgery was a success. She gave him the name of the surgeon and said he was still in the ICU. Berenger made his way into the building, up to Intensive Care, and found the surgeon.

“I’m Doctor Chang,” the man said. He was Chinese, obviously, and appeared to be ten to fifteen years younger than Berenger.

“Spike Berenger. I’m Miss Prescott’s employer and friend.”

“Yes, your office called. I’ve been expecting you.”

“This is the second ICU I’ve been to today,” Berenger said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. How’s Suzanne?”

Chang nodded. “Doing very good, all things considered. She was very lucky.”

“How can being shot be lucky?”

“I meant she was lucky that the bullets didn’t hit her heart or the larger portion of the lung, which might have resulted in massive hemorrhaging.”

“Bullets? Plural?”

“Two. Both in the chest.”

“So she’s gonna make it?”

“Yes, I think so. But she’s going to be out of action for at least a couple of months, maybe more. We had to repair one lung and remove the bullet. The other bullet entered just below her left collarbone and exited out her back.”

“So you retrieved one of the bullets?”

“Yes. The police already have it. I can give you the detective’s name and number. He gave me his card.”

“Thanks. Can I see her?”

“I’m afraid not. She’s still under and will be for some time. Maybe tomorrow for a brief time. We have to keep her very still and very calm. You understand.”

“Of course. Just one other thing—was she able to talk at all? Did she say who did this to her?”

“No. She was unconscious when she was brought into the ER. I imagine she won’t be able to have a conversation of any kind until tomorrow.”

Berenger shook the man’s hand. “You rock, doctor. Thank you. You saved her life.”

“Like I said,” Chang said. “She was lucky.”

B
erenger 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 4
^th
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 semiautomatics—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 covered 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.”