The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (42 page)

Note: Jim Axelrod and Dave Monaco were rotating members of The Loop with Harrison Brill and Manny Rodriguez between 1969-1970.

Key: g = guitar

v = vocals

k = keyboards

b = bass

d = drums

“Rock ‘n’ roll—the most brutal, ugly, desperate, vicious form of expression it has been my misfortune to hear.”

--FRANK SINATRA

J
oe Nance had blood on his hands.

He hadn’t realized it until he threw his guitar pick into the crowd and waved goodbye. Two streams of liquid crimson trickled down his palms and over his wrist. It meant he must have played a good show.

Nance turned to his bandmates and nodded.

Let’s get the hell out of here!

The crowd of two hundred-or-so fans shouted for a second encore but Nance wasn’t having it. He was sixty years old, tired, and hungry. The rest of the members of Windy City Engine were roughly the same age and just as weary and famished. The gig was done. Time to chill out.

Nance led the other three guys off the stage and through the door to the dressing rooms. Martyrs’ was a small club on the north side of Chicago, not far from Wrigley Field. It was a pleasant enough venue and the owner was friendly to classic Chicagoprog bands like the Engine and North Side.

As lead guitarist and vocalist, Nance had led Windy City Engine since 1970. For a band that had been around so many years, it was important to maintain a solid, professional live show to give them longevity. In fact, most of their current income came from constant gigging. They made very little money from CD sales. Except for a few of the classic albums from the 70s, the rest of the band’s catalog was rare and out of print. Their last studio album of original material was already ten years old. It, too, was out of print. Nance and the rest of the band had to face it—they were a nostalgia outfit and they just barely made a living at it.

Charles Nance, the band’s drummer and Joe’s brother, noticed the blood as they slogged into the green room.

“You all right?”

Nance nodded. “’Course.” He examined his fingertips and cursed. There were thin slices in the skin. “Damn it. This is gonna hurt like hell tomorrow night.”

“We could rearrange the set so you just play keyboards.”

“Are you kidding? The fans’d freak out.”

It was true. Although Nance occasionally played keys, people went to see Windy City Engine expecting him with a guitar around his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Charles said, “I guess you’re right. It’d be like going to see Santana and watching Carlos shake maracas for the whole show.”

Manny Rodriguez, the bass player, and Harrison Brill, the rhythm guitarist, collapsed into easy chairs. They already had cold beers in their hands.

“I’m gettin’ too old for this shit,” Brill muttered.

Charles laughed. “Come on, Harrison, you’re never too old to rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Yeah? I’m sure old enough to
die
. I’ve got heartburn like a son of a bitch.”

“My back was hurtin’ again tonight, too,” Rodriguez added.

Charles rolled his eyes. “You guys. What’s wrong with you? Don’t be such old men! Come on, that was a great gig we just played. The audience loved it.”

“What audience there was,” Joe said. “That was the smallest crowd we’ve had in a long time.”

“Well, it’s raining. Kept people away.”

“Didn’t keep ‘em from going to see the Cubs.”

Charles shook his head. “Well, boo hoo. You guys are pathetic. You should be happy we’re still playing at all. I’m going home. I’ll see you in Milwaukee tomorrow.”

The drummer grabbed his gig bag, saluted the other guys, and left the room.

“How come he’s always so cheerful?” Rodriguez asked.

Joe Nance cleared his throat, spit into a paper cup, and replied, “I don’t know, but it’s always made me want to puke. When we were growing up he drove me nuts. My little brother never got mad, never got upset, and never was in a bad mood. Sometimes I just wanted to kick his ass.”

Nance went into the bathroom and ran cold water over his bleeding fingers. He washed them with soap, wrapped them in a paper towel, and then took a leak. When he was done, he went back into the green room, where Ray, the club’s owner, was waiting. He had a stack of cash in his hand—a very small one.

“Here’s your take of the door, Joe.”

“Thanks, Ray.”

“Not many people tonight.”

“I guess not.”

“Probably the rain.”

“That’s what we figured. Where’s the first aid kit?”

Ray nodded toward the white box attached to the wall and handed over the money. He left the room as Nance stuck the wad into his bag. Making payroll was going to be tougher this month.

“How many roadies we got now?” Nance asked as he retrieved some Band-Aids.

“Three,” Rodriguez answered. “You know that.”

“We might have to let one go.” He managed to apply two bandages to his fingers and then said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night in Wisconsin.”

“Bye, Joe,” the other two spoke in unison.

When the band’s leader was gone, Rodriguez and Brill looked at each other and sighed.

“You get the feeling Joe’s gonna cut loose pretty soon?” Brill asked.

“Yeah. But I’ve been feeling that for ten years.”

“What’ll you do if he does? We both know there’s no Windy City Engine without Joe.”

“I know. I guess we’ll do what the guys from Red Skyez do—we form splinter bands, play sessions, you know. I wish Zach needed a bass player. I’d probably leave the Engine myself.”

“Zach Garriott doesn’t need
you
, partner. Trust me.”

“Screw you, too!” Brill finished his beer. “How come Zach Garriott’s the only musician in the Chicagoprog scene who made it big?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “I don’t know. Because he’s good?”

Brill grunted and stood. “Well, I’m out of here. I thought it was a good show. See you tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, I’m leaving, too. Bye, Harrison.”

The two worn-out musicians gathered their stuff and shuffled out of the club without saying another word to each other.

They couldn’t know that the demise of Windy City Engine was closer than they imagined.

C
harles Nance drove his ’03 Toyota Highlander south on Damen to North Avenue, took the right turn, and then made a left onto Claremont. He lived in a pre-war townhouse that was desperately in need of repairs and fixing-up, but since he was a divorced man of fifty-eight with a limited income from music, he didn’t care much about appearances. He was simply happy that he still made a living in the band with which he’d been playing since he was a teenager. It was all he ever cared about and he was sure that his brother Joe felt the same way. He knew Joe got tired of never making good money, but in Charles’ opinion, Windy City Engine was doing very well for a band that had been around for four decades. They were gigging and he was playing drums for a living! That was all that mattered to Charles Nance. Just put him behind a drum kit—anywhere, anytime—and he had a smile on his face. He knew, though, that many of his contemporaries were ready to throw in the towel. Not him. As far as he was concerned, if the band could afford a couple of roadies to unload, setup, strike, load, and carry the equipment from gig to gig without the band having to do it themselves, then they were doing all right.

Nance slid the SUV into his driveway and parked in front of the separate garage. He’d lived in the pocket east of Humboldt Park and west of the Kennedy expressway since the early eighties and it suited him just fine. It was quiet, the neighbors were friendly, and he wasn’t far from his brother. Charles was a man of few complaints.

He got out of the vehicle and took a deep breath. The rain had ceased, so the late April night air was pleasantly cool and moist. It was the time of year he enjoyed the most. Seeing that Chicago realistically had at the most only a month or two of spring and fall, three months of hot summer, and nearly six months of winter, residents had to relish what good weather they could get. Charles had a good mind to sit out on his back deck, smoke a joint, have a beer, and listen to the crickets before turning in.

But as he stepped toward the front porch, he noticed that the side gate to his fenced backyard was ajar.

That’s odd
, he thought. He hadn’t remembered going through the gate any time recently.

He took a few steps toward the gate and peered into the darkness behind the house. He wasn’t worried about burglars because he had an airtight security system in his home. Nevertheless, it was possible for someone to enter the backyard through the unlocked gate if they wanted.

“Someone there?” he called.

Silence.

He shrugged, pulled the squeaky gate closed, and turned toward the front porch once again. Charles bounded up the wooden steps, removed the keys from his trouser pocket, and stood at the door to unlock it.

The side gate squeaked again.

What the…?

Charles looked beyond the wooden rail that lined the porch and saw that someone was standing just outside the gate. He couldn’t see who it was, but the dim moonlight revealed the intruder to be a woman wearing a floppy hat. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and she wore a trench coat—the kind private detectives from the old
film noir
flicks favored.

“Who are you?” Charles asked. “What are you doing in my backyard?”

The figure remained still and silent.

Charles took a step toward her, the rail of the porch between them. “I asked you a question, miss.”

The woman raised her right arm and there was no mistaking the glint of black metal in her hand.

“Hello, Charles,” the woman said. “Remember me?”

She had a low, throaty voice. One that he recognized. Charles’ eyes went wide and he gasped.