The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (55 page)

“Oh, sure. I can drive my old car that’s in the garage. I try not to, though. I still have a license but my reflexes are not what they should be. I drive pretty slow. Other drivers get mad at me and honk their horns. I only go out when I absolutely have to.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how do you support yourself?”

“Oh. I have some money from a trust that my family set up when I became disabled in the seventies. It’s not much, but I can live on it if I’m careful and don’t spend too much each month.”

“Do you still have family that help out?”

“No, they’re all gone now.”

Berenger nodded. “I see. Okay, then. Stuart, do you have any idea why someone is killing Chicagoprog musicians?”

Clayton made a face. “I hate that term. Chicagoprog. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know who coined it. We sure didn’t. Probably some fool music journalist.”

“But do you have an idea why this is happening?”

Clayton spoke slowly and hesitantly as if he had to think about what he wanted to say before he said it. “Well, sure. It’s Sylvia. She’s come back from the dead to kill us. It’s that simple.”

Berenger and Prescott shared a glance. “Tell us about Sylvia.”

Clayton sighed and closed his eyes. “She was a young, beautiful girl. Very talented. She wrote wonderful songs and sang beautifully. I thought she could be the next Judy Collins. I wanted to take her under my wing, so to speak.” He opened his eyes. The images he had conjured in his mind were gone.

“When did you first meet her?”

“She started coming to some of our early gigs. Nineteen-sixty-seven, I guess. She wasn’t shy about being a groupie.”

“I understand the entire band became very friendly with her,” Prescott said.

“That’s right. She dated Joe Nance, I’m pretty sure. I dated her. I use the word ‘date’ loosely, if you know what I mean. We all discovered drugs in sixty-seven and she was one of our suppliers. And don’t ask me where she got them. I don’t know and never asked. If I did know, I’ve forgotten.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“That first time she left town, she said she went to Europe to see her mother. The second time, well, I think she was abducted or something.”

Berenger frowned. “Wait. You said ‘first time.’ What do you mean?”

“Oh. She left Chicago for several months in… I
think
it was late sixty-eight, early sixty-nine. We didn’t see her for a long time and then she pops up again. Said she was in Europe.”

“Where in Europe?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Okay, go on.”

“So, she was back with us and things were just like they were before she left… and then one day she was gone again. We didn’t think about it at first. Figured she was kind of flighty, you know? But after a few weeks we got nervous. I went to the police and filed a missing person report. They didn’t do much. And I never saw her alive again.”

There was a short moment of uncomfortable silence.

“So, Stuart, if Sylvia is a ghost and she’s really come back, why would she want to kill you all? I thought she was your friend.”

“Oh, she’s come back, all right. I’ve seen her!”

Berenger raised his eyebrows. “Tell us about that.”

“It was right here in the house. I was in bed. I woke up and there she was, standing at the foot of the bed. She was wearing that floppy hat she always wore. And sunglasses. It happened
twice
.”

“And you’re sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I wasn’t dreaming, Mister Berenger. I was wide awake. And scared out of my wits.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Yes. She told me that I would be the last to die.”

B
erenger and Prescott stayed longer at Clayton’s house than they had planned. After talking for a while, Clayton mentioned that he hadn’t eaten. Berenger offered to send out for a pizza and Clayton accepted. While they were waiting, Clayton suggested that he show them his home studio.

Unlike the kitchen and what they had seen of the house so far, the studio was clean and neat. It consisted of an extremely small soundproofed room containing a Yamaha baby grand piano, three different electronic keyboards, drum machines, amps, and microphones. All of the equipment was jammed tightly together and Berenger wondered how anyone could manage in there without becoming claustrophobic. The recording booth was big enough for two people to sit at a mixing board. Clayton explained that he usually did all of his own producing and mixing. He had to painstakingly walk back and forth from the booth to the studio as he set levels before actually sitting down to lay tracks.

“I never got along with outside producers,” he explained.

Berenger noticed a door next to the studio and reached out to open it, but it was locked.

“Oh, that’s just a storeroom,” Clayton said. “I keep master tapes in there. Recordings of shows we did back in the sixties. That kind of stuff.”

“You have recordings of any Loop gigs?” Prescott asked.

“Yes, I do. A few. Most of them are terrible quality. There are a handful of good ones.”

“I’d love to hear one.”

Clayton seemed to take pleasure in her request. “I don’t normally dig those things out for people… but for you, my dear, I will.”

The man hobbled to the door, reached into his pocket, and removed a ring containing several keys. He fumbled with them until he found the right one, and then unlocked the door. As Clayton went inside, Berenger got a glimpse of the interior. The storeroom was as big as the studio and mixing booth combined. It appeared to contain nothing but shelves filled with cartons of all shapes and old reel-to-reel tape boxes. Clayton grabbed one of the latter, emerged from the storeroom, and locked it behind him.

“I’ll put it on in the studio, but you’ll be able to hear it in my living room.”

Unfortunately, the “living room” was as dusty and messy as the kitchen. Berenger found it strange that Clayton kept the music side of his residence sparkling, and yet the personal areas were pig sties.

Prescott sat on a couch after brushing off a layer of dust. She sneezed and pulled a tissue out of her handbag. “I’m not sure I can stay in here very long,” she whispered. “Allergies.”

“I know what you mean.”

The music drifted through speakers that were attached to the upper corners of the room. The source was definitely an old tape of bootleg quality, but considering the time frame and primitive equipment upon which the concert was likely recorded, it sounded remarkably good. After an announcer introduced the band to scattered applause, The Loop launched into some old-fashioned Chicago Blues but with decidedly up-tempo and technically-proficient musicianship. Blues with a progressive slant—the cradle of what became known as Chicagoprog—and it was fabulous. Berenger felt as if he were listening to a piece of musical history that few people would ever experience.

Clayton entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane. “Is it too loud?” he asked.

“No, it’s great,” Berenger said.

“This sounds really good!” Prescott remarked.

“It does, Stuart. You should
release
this stuff. It’s amazing!”

“Thank you. No, no, I don’t think I can release it. It’s too painful, really. I find I can’t listen to it for very long. But we did play some pretty good music back then, I must say.”

Berenger, who was still standing, wandered over to a fireplace that was full of ages-old ash and debris. Above it was a mantle upon which dusty framed photographs sat. Berenger picked up one that caught his attention. It was a picture of The Loop onstage, probably circa the same time as the performance they were hearing. Clayton stepped over to join him.

“Ah, yes. That’s us. I think that photo is from nineteen-sixty…nine. Maybe.”

Berenger pointed to the various members. “That’s you on keys, of course, and there’s Joe Nance. Charles is on the drums. Let’s see, is that Harrison Brill and Manny Rodriguez?”

“Yes. That was taken before Dave Monaco or Jim Axelrod were part of the band.”

A portion of the audience could be seen in the photo. A woman with a floppy hat and sunglasses stood against the edge of the stage, staring up at the band.

Berenger indicated her. “Is that…?”

“Sylvia? Yes, that’s her. I think I have another picture…” He went to another side of the room and picked up a frame from a cluttered desk. Berenger joined him and saw that it was a later photo… this time with Monaco and Axelrod instead of Brill and Rodriguez. The band, dressed in swimwear, was on the deck of a boat. They were holding up beer bottles and smiling at the camera. Everyone looked as if they were having a good time. Three women were also in the picture—including Sylvia. She still wore the hat and sunglasses, but this time with a one-piece bathing suit.

Sylvia Favero was model material.

“That’s a nice picture,” Berenger said.

“I wanted to use it for the cover of our album, but it turned out that The Loop never made one. That picture was in… late nineteen-sixty-nine, maybe early nineteen-seventy… just before Sylvia went missing.”

“Where was it taken?”

“Lake Michigan. That was my boat. I had a nineteen-sixty-eight luxury yacht, sixty-two footer. It was a… uhm…” Clayton snapped his fingers. “My brain can’t remember things anymore. Pos…Posillipo! It was a Posillipo.”

“Looks nice.”

“I had to sell it when I… became ill.” He put the photo back and then eased himself into a cushy chair. Berenger continued to stand as he examined the other photos and listened to the music. After a while, there was a loud knock at the door.

“Must be the pizza,” Prescott said. “I’ll get it.” She got up and left the room.

Clayton struggled to stand. Berenger offered his hand but the man wouldn’t take it. He relied upon his cane and stubbornly did it himself. “Let’s go back to the kitchen to eat. You can still hear the music in there.”

The three sat around the table with the food and glasses of fruit juice, and ate as they talked about mundane things such as the price of gasoline. When they were nearly done with the pizza, Berenger asked, “Stuart, you never answered my question.”

“Which one was that?”

“Why would Sylvia want to kill you all? She was your friend.”

Clayton took a long time to answer. “I think perhaps we hurt her in some way.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wanted to make a record of her songs. She wanted me or Joe to produce it. She wanted the band to play on it. We kept putting her off and putting her off. She was upset about it. One night, we were all pretty drunk and stoned. We were that way a lot, I’m afraid. She got mad at something. I can’t remember what it was. It’s all very foggy. She threatened us with violence if we didn’t help her. She cursed us. I’m pretty sure that was the last time we saw her before she disappeared. That’s one reason why I personally felt so bad about it. I didn’t get a chance to make it up to her. I was… well, I can say this, I suppose… I loved her.” Clayton gave a wry smile—as much as he could with a corner of his mouth paralyzed. “So did Joe. I think Sylvia was one of the reasons Joe and I didn’t get along too well there toward the end. Don’t get me wrong—we each wanted different things with the band. He wanted to be the leader. I didn’t mind that, but I wanted to leave Chicago and go to Los Angeles. He didn’t. There were a number of problems, too. So, in nineteen-seventy, The Loop split into two bands.”

Berenger thought of the CDs in the possession of the police and asked, “Did Sylvia ever make
any
recordings?”

“I recorded her a few times. Demos. Very early on after we’d met. I don’t have them anymore.”

“You don’t?”

Clayton shook his head. “I abandoned many things in the seventies. After I… was ill, I guess you could say I made a lot of changes in my life. I only kept the things that were most dear to me—and there weren’t a lot. I lived in Europe for most of the eighties and got rid of even more trappings. By necessity I had to live simpler, and I’ve continued to do so since coming back to the States.”

“Where did you live in Europe?” Prescott asked