The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (77 page)

“I also wanted to say it was a surprise seeing you and Suzanne in Chicago, but it turned out all right. It was actually kind of nice to see you. Richard liked you a lot. I had to suffer through him going into the Virgin Megastore to find some of the bands you mentioned. I hope you haven’t corrupted him, Spike, I really do.

“Anyway, we’ll come back to New York after a short honeymoon in Vegas. I didn’t want you to wonder where I was. I hope you solved your case, whatever it was. Bye.”

And that was it.

That was it? She tells him she’s getting hitched in Vegas and that’s it?

Berenger played the whole message again to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Nope, she didn’t say “hope to see you again soon,” or “love you,” or “I’ll talk to you later”… not that she was obligated to do so. He wasn’t sure if she had been flaunting her decision to get married immediately, of if she was simply informing him. The latter was, of course, the right thing to do. He supposed it could have been both, but Linda wasn’t the type to say, “
nyah nyah nyah, look what I’m doing and you’re not
.” They had moved past hurting each other for sport a long time ago.

He supposed he wished her well. But how could he send flowers or a card if he didn’t know where they were getting married? Maybe Pam would know.

Funny thing, that. Linda was marrying Mr. Clean. His new best friend.

Berenger sighed heavily and took a look at the mail. He then went back to the entry hall, picked up his suitcase, and took it to the bedroom. Thirty minutes later, he had unpacked, watered the two plants he kept in the living room, and then went back into the kitchen for the phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Yeah?”

“Charlie, it’s Spike.”

“Hey, Spike. What’s up?”

“I just got back from Chicago.”

“Chicago? Were you on a case?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

“Not so good.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“You want to come over and jam?”

Berenger could
hear
Charlie Potts stretch the way he did—like a cat waking from a nap. “Oh, I don’t know, Spike. I’m kind of settled in for the evening. It’s a Monday. I’m watching TV.”

“Okay. Some other time.”

“Some other time.”

He hung up, stared at the phone, and dialed another number he knew from memory.

“Hello?”
“Suzanne?”

“Yeah?”

“You made it home all right?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I was just calling to make sure. Hey, you feel like going out for a meal or a drink or something?”

“Spike, you can’t have a drink or something.”

“Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting.”

“Well, remember. It’s important.”

“So how about a meal? Split a pizza or something? I hated that Chicago pizza we ate. New York will always have the best pizza, don’t you agree?”

“I do agree, but Spike, I’m exhausted. I just got home and I am
dead
. Really, I can’t imagine how you’ve got the energy to want to go out.”

“I don’t know, I just walked into my apartment and it felt strange. Like I needed to get out of it for a while.”

“You were just out of it for a whole week, Spike. Geez. Listen, you still have a head injury and, face it, you went through some serious psychological torture the other night. You can’t take it for granted or poo-poo it. That was some heavy shit Stuart Clayton did to you—to
us
—and I think it’s okay that you feel strange. I feel strange, too. But I also feel very tired. So I’m going to hang up, and I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Spike?”

“Yes, Suzanne. I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Berenger hung up, opened the cabinet, removed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured himself a couple of inches. He set down the bottle, picked up the glass, put it to his lips…

…and remembered that he wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol for three weeks.

“Shiiiiiiit,” he groaned.

He tried to pour the whiskey back into the bottle, but ended up spilling most of it. He cursed again, washed his hands, put the Jack away, and opened the refrigerator. There stood a carton of Pulp Free Minute Maid orange juice. The expiration date was still good, too.

He rinsed out the glass and filled it with juice. He took the glass and went straight to his music room, a space that he had converted into a small recording studio and practice room. It’s where he and Charlie always jammed. It’s where he spent many a night laying down guitar solos or pieces of unfinished songs with a glass or two of Jack or bourbon or beer or wine or vodka…

Berenger turned on the mixer, the amplifiers, the microphones, the recording equipment, and then moved to the middle of the studio. He sat on his stool, placed the drink beside him on a small table that was there for that purpose, and picked up his DBZ acoustic guitar from its stand.

It had been an extraordinary, frustrating week and he felt very unsettled about it. It was possibly the most disturbing case he’d ever worked on and its closure was far from pleasant. Berenger wasn’t sure if he could call the job a success simply because the perpetrator was dead. Eleven other people were also gone—ten men and a woman who were talented musicians. And then there was the legacy of what happened to Sylvia Favero and everything it wrought. It was almost as if a curse really had befallen the members of The Loop and its two offspring—Windy City Engine and Red Skyez.

Had he failed? Could he have stopped Stuart Clayton from killing the final few? Had he not worked hard enough or fast enough? He didn’t know the answers to those questions, but he also figured there was nothing more he could have done to identify Clayton sooner.

Prescott was right. They had been through something remarkable and possibly significant. Perhaps the biggest question Berenger needed to ask was—had the experience changed him in any way?

He didn’t know the answer to that one either, so he strummed an A minor seventh chord, held it, and then played a D minor seventh. The combination had enough of a melancholic quality to suit his mood, so he continued to alternate between the two. It eventually worked its way into an old prog ballad that he had written with The Fixers—it had been their attempt at something similar to one of ELP’s vocal numbers like “Lucky Man” or “From the Beginning.” The song was called “I Crossed to the Other Side,” and it was a personal favorite of Berenger’s repertoire. In his low, gravelly, Beefheart-like voice, the PI sang the tune.

And then he sang another.

Raymond Benson is the author of six original James Bond novels, including the three recently re-printed in the 2008 anthology
The Union Trilogy—High Time to Kill, DoubleShot,
and
Never Dream of Dying.
He also novelized the screenplays for three 007 films. His Bond short stories have been published in
Playboy
and
TV Guide
magazines. He wrote the non-fiction books
The Pocket Essentials Guide to Jethro Tull
and
The James Bond Bedside Companion
(the latter was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Biographical/Critical Work in 1984). As “David Michaels,” Raymond penned the first two
NY Times
best-selling action/adventure novels in the
Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell
series. More recently, Raymond has written original suspense thrillers such as
Sweetie’s Diamonds
,
Face Blind
, and
Evil Hours
. His best-selling novelization of Konami’s popular videogame,
Metal Gear Solid
, was published in 2008. In addition to his work as an author, Raymond has extensive experience directing stage plays, composing music, teaching film studies, and designing and writing adventure computer games. And he performs on piano at a cocktail lounge on Mondays and Tuesdays.

www.raymondbenson.com