The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (51 page)

Berenger heard the man sigh wearily. “I don’t know anything. Jesus.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but I’d like to ask you a few questions anyway. More about the past than about today.”

There was silence at the other end. For a moment, Berenger thought the man had hung up. “Stuart? Mister Clayton?”

“I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m… I’m not well, you know.”

“Do you think we could come by and have a chat? It wouldn’t take long.”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is good. I have an appointment in the morning, but then I’m wide open the rest of the day. How about I give you a call after lunch?”

“That’s fine. Listen, I don’t remember a lot. My mind… I just don’t remember a whole lot. I’m… not well.”

“That’s quite all right. We’ll see how we get along tomorrow, okay? Don’t you worry about it. Is there anything we can bring you? Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. I have a lady that comes twice a week with stuff. And I can go out on my own if I have to. I just don’t… like to.”

Sheesh, the guy sounds like an invalid-and-a-half
! Berenger thought.

“All right. Thanks, Stuart. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Berenger closed his cell and Prescott asked, “Well? What’d he sound like?”

“He sounds like he could die tomorrow and he wouldn’t care. It was like talking to a very old man in a nursing home. It was kind of scary.”

“Geez. He must be pretty bad off.”

“Well, we’ll see tomorrow. You hungry?”

“Famished.” She looked at her wristwatch. “But it’s a bit early for dinner. Want to walk along Michigan Avenue for a while? We have nothing else to do.”

“Sure.”

And that’s what they did. The private investigator and his assistant walked north past Millennium Park and the Art Institute and up into the Magnificent Mile, Chicago’s equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue. Prescott
ooh’d
and
ah’d
at the clothes in store windows while Berenger enjoyed the people watching. The spring day was cool but pleasant—at least the torrential rains had ceased.

Berenger figured they’d grab a nice meal somewhere and then go back down to Reggie’s for the North Side show. He didn’t want to tell Prescott that he didn’t know where to begin on the case because there was so little to go on. Depending on what Sergeant Doherty would share with him, it was entirely possible that they were spinning their wheels in Chicago.

The key would be to crack Joe Nance’s wall of silence. Berenger was certain that the man wasn’t revealing everything he knew about the woman named Sylvia Favero.

R
eggie’s was crowded for the North Side show. While the band didn’t draw a major venue-sized audience, they enjoyed a loyal following that guaranteed ticket sales of a few hundred people. Berenger had arranged for Zach Garriott to meet them in the balcony, but the place was so packed that it was difficult to find the guitarist.

“It’s standing room only,” Prescott said. “We should’ve come earlier.”

“Sorry, I had no idea. I don’t see Zach, do you?”

“He’s probably in disguise again. He’ll find us, I bet.”

Sure enough, the superstar showed up wearing wrap-around sunglasses and a cowboy hat. Reggie’s manager Robby Glick was in tow. Berenger didn’t think Garriott’s disguise was very good—any serious fan could recognize him.

“Hey, Spike, Suzanne,” Garriott said.

“Zach, how you doing?”

“Okay, I guess. No one’s tried to kill me yet.”

Glick grinned and held out his hand for Berenger to shake. “Welcome back. Glad to see you.”

“Thanks, Robby. Say, could you send word backstage to Bud Callahan that I’m here? Suzanne and I want to speak to them when the show’s over.”

“Sure thing.”

After Glick left them, Berenger said, “Zach, I’m afraid the disguise is pretty lame.”

Garriott shook his head. “No one’s going to recognize me. I’ll just stay with you and everything will be cool.”

Berenger nodded toward the stage. “I haven’t heard North Side in quite a while. They still good?”

“Sure. Do you know them?”

“I’ve met Bud and Rick. I’ve never met Sharon or their guitarist.”

“Greg Cross is damned good.”

“I’ve heard him, but I didn’t think they could ever replace
you
.”

“Aww, shucks, man. I bet you say that to all the guitar gods.”

Prescott said, “I’m going downstairs to get a beer. You want anything?”

“Sure, get me one. Zach?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You need money?” Berenger asked her.

“What am I, your daughter?” She waved him off and moved toward the stairs.

“That’s a fine-looking woman, Spike,” Garriott said.

“Tell me about it.”

“You sure things are just business between you two?”

“Yep. We dated for about three months a long time ago. Thirteen years or more. Hard to believe it’s been that long. Strictly professional relationship now. And we’re really good friends, too.”

“That’s cool.”

Three young men, most likely in their early twenties, tentatively approached them. One of them asked, “Are you Zach Garriott?”

“Nope. Sorry,” Garriott said.

“Oh. We thought… you look like him. Anyone ever tell you that, man?”

“No, can’t say they have. But thanks, I guess.”

Berenger subtly shook his head and winked at the trio.

“You
are
Zach Garriott!” one blurted. “Holy shit, man! I just want to shake your hand!”

Completely blown, Garriott smiled and offered his right hand. The three fans eagerly shook it and gushed for a few minutes about the guitarist’s latest album and asked when he was going on tour. Garriott humored them for a few minutes and they went away happy.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Berenger asked.

“Nah. But I wouldn’t want it twenty-four/seven.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Especially now. You know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Garriott eyed Berenger and asked, “Are you carrying?”

“Carrying? What, dope?”

“No, man, a gun! Are you armed?”

Berenger nodded. “Yeah. I have a special PI license. Class C with a piggyback Class G. I have a gun permit for most states. I try to take a weapon with me when I travel. Flying is a bit of a hassle. I have to check it through security and hand it over before getting on the plane, but then I have my own personal firearm when I get to my destination.”

“What do you have?”

“I usually use a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special. The Bodyguard AirWeight model. But for traveling I carry a Kahr nine millimeter because it’s lighter and easier to carry on trips.” He lifted the military flak jacket he was wearing to reveal the Null paddle-type side belt holster.

“Damn, Spike.”

“Don’t worry. I know how to use it.”

Prescott returned with the beers just as the lights went out. The crowd roared as the band took the stage. Bud Callahan, a tall and heavy-set man with a goatee, waved to crowd before taking his place behind an array of keyboards. Rick Tittle, like many drummers, was thin and wiry. Sharon Callahan strapped on a bass guitar and shouted into the microphone, “Howdy-do!” The guitarist, Greg Cross, had put on some pounds since Berenger had last seen the band. All four musicians were in their mid-to-late fifties.

The band opened with “Blizzard,” one of their better-known tracks from their first self-titled album. Garriott was the original guitarist on the record, and he beamed with pride when Cross perfectly copied the power chord riffs. North Side’s music sounded a bit like the electric incarnation of Return to Forever mixed with a complex style of Chicago blues. As with Rattlesnake and South Side, the star of the band was most certainly Callahan and his keys.

Prescott spoke into Berenger’s ear. “Do you think any of them are in danger?”

“I don’t know,” he replied directly into her ear as well. “None of them were originally in The Loop, Red Skyez, or Windy City Engine. Zach is the only member of North Side that was.”

People all around them were dancing in place and rocking to the music. Berenger took the opportunity to scan the crowd in the balcony. Most appeared to be in their mid-thirties and up, but there were plenty in their twenties.

Then he saw her.

A woman with a floppy hat and long blonde hair stood alone against the back wall of the balcony. She wore dark sunglasses and trench coat. She had her arms folded across her chest. More interesting was the fact that she wasn’t watching the band on stage—it seemed to Berenger that she was looking directly at him and Garriott.

“I’ll be right back,” he shouted to Prescott. “Keep an eye on Zach!”

Before Prescott could ask where he was going, Berenger turned, pushed his way through the crowd, and headed toward the back of the balcony. But as soon as started moving, he lost sight of the woman. Berenger frantically looked around the place but didn’t spot her. He rushed to the staircase and descended to the ground floor level. The space was more crowded there—if the woman had preceded him by a few seconds, she’d already be lost in the throng.

Berenger cursed to himself, climbed the stairs, and rejoined his friends.

“What was it?” Prescott asked.

“I thought I saw… I don’t know. Never mind.”

“What?”

“I saw a woman with a floppy hat and blonde hair. But she was there one minute and gone the next. It’s weird.”

Prescott raised her eyes. “Was she a ghost, Spike?”

Berenger ignored the comment and looked around the balcony once again. There was no sign of trouble, so he did his best to concentrate on the music.

N
orth Side played a two-hour set without stopping. When it was over, Glick escorted Berenger, Prescott, and Garriott backstage to talk to the band.

“Spike Berenger!” Bud Callahan bellowed. “By God, I think we weigh the same!”

“I hope not, for your sake!” The two men clasped hands.

“Have you met my wife, Sharon?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

Introductions were made all around. Glick provided cold beers for everyone as they sat in the dressing room.

“As you all know, some Chicago musicians have been shot and killed recently,” the PI began. “I don’t want to alarm you. I don’t think any of you are in danger. But I need to know if you’ve heard or seen anything suspicious. Or if you recall seeing a blonde woman with a big floppy hat anywhere.”

The band members shook their heads and murmured.

“Did any of you know a woman named Sylvia Favero? She was apparently a groupie that hung around with The Loop back in the sixties.”

“I met her a few times,” Callahan said. “Rattlesnake hadn’t started up yet and The Loop was about to split into Red Skyez and Windy City Engine. I remember her but I never knew her very well. Ran into her at some gigs that the band played.”

“What do you recall about her?” Prescott asked.

“She was very friendly with the band. Especially Joe Nance and Stuart Clayton. I think they were both bonking her. That’s the impression I got, anyway.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Berenger asked.

“Nope. I remember all the flap about her disappearing. When was it? Nineteen-seventy?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. She just went missing. It got to where you just expected to see her at the gigs, you know, hanging around after the show. Then one day she wasn’t there.”

“Did anyone in The Loop say anything about it?”