 
# The Worlds Greatest Crime Stories

By Darryl Harrison

Copyright 2014, 2015 Darryl Harrison

Smashwords Edition and Wipe Your Booty Publications

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

# Table Of Contents

Chapter 1: The Disappearance of Maya Dunford

Chapter 2: Anzugto's Graveyard

Chapter 3: The Wife's Bullet

Chapter 4: The Oversexed Crime stopper

Chapter 5: 17th Century Theft

Chapter 6: The Situation of the Auto Part Bandits

Chapter 7: Exactly Where Is Lubert Benitez?

Chapter 8: The Lethal Adventures Of Don Ivanis

Chapter 9: A View From The Courthouse

Chapter 10: The Self-reliant Pop Star

Chapter 11: The Unforeseen Predator

Chapter 12: A Dagger for Seven

Chapter 13: Problems In P.I. Computer Systems

Chapter 14: What Exactly Happened To Rowena Howard?

Chapter 15: The Toll Booth Shooting

Chapter 16: They Need Heart

Chapter 17: Exactly where is Patrick Vize?

Chapter 18: One Week

Chapter 19: The Ghetto Killer

Chapter 20: Castello's On The Move

About The Author

# Chapter 1: The Disappearance of Maya Dunford

"Please...help me, brother!" Mrs. Dunford cried out. "Please find my baby. Child, I do believe something's happened to her."

"Okay, Mrs. Dunford. Please, try to settle down," Jackson stated strongly with sadness on his face, "and tell me what happen."

Mrs. Dunford was approximately forty-seven and five-foot-six. Her hair was in fact lengthy black and eyes were weathered nut-brown. She dressed in an alkanet-looking variegated knit top and Riders 5-pocket jeans. He wore a cerise-looking plaid shirt and dark jeans.

"My daughter's name is Maya Dunford and she's already been missing for several weeks. She traveled to Penbroke, Nevada to take picture of spooky wax figures. They're said to be probably the most scariest beast in the world. Bro-bro, I would've gone with her however I was required to work," she explained sharply with tears in her eyes.

He poured her some Chivas Regal and himself too.

"Did she go alone?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Yes," she snapped.

"Did she phone you?" he asked firmly, guzzling his drink.

"No," she said.

"Has she at any time before called?" he asked strongly and took a long drink from his glass.

"Hell, yeh. A week ago," she snapped.

"How was she?" he asked firmly, poring himself another drink.

"She sounded fine," she stated strongly and gulped the entire drink.

"Did you ever hear from your daughter again?" he said.

"No," she said strongly, pouring herself another drink.

"Did you contact the authorities out there?" he asked firmly.

"Hell, yeh. Those dudes hadn't seen her. She never came back to her hotel room," she said firmly, taking sip from the glass.

Right now, they had been hitting the whiskey fairly hard. After that, Jackson lit a crack pipe.

"Did you call her friends?" he asked strongly, blowing smoke towards her.

"Yes, and they also hadn't seen her," she stated frantically, wiping her eyes with Kleenex.

"I'm going to need their names and addresses," he said firmly and took a long sip.

"Kimberly Ostomel, Andrew Tarner, Carol Wilkinson and Bonnie Stout," she stated solidly.

"What about her enemies?" Jackson asked firmly, taking a lengthy drag from the crack-pipe and began coughing.

"Her dude was in fact obsessed and neurotic. From time to time, he was very easily aggravated. I caught this scum-bag beating on Maya most of the time and had him arrested. Her face was in fact all bloody and then there were bruises on most of her body. She always had black eyes. Kent swore he'd kill her if he ever caught her, speaking with the mailman ever again," Mrs. Dunford explained strongly, guzzling her drink.

"What's this cat's full name?" Jackson asked harshly before taking another strong hit.

"Kent Jattros," she stated strongly with her face a study of desolation.

"Where is he now?" he asked sharply.

"Lord, I don't know. That man got out of jail two weeks ago," she said sharply, finishing off her whiskey.

"Did you give me just about all the folks she knows?" he said.

"Try a Laura Cleary, Janice Bueoy, Joe Atwell and Heather Deneka," she said strongly.

Mrs. Dunford started to appear just a little tipsy she stumbled in the toilet to pee. Jackson smoked up all of the crack and taken care of the Chivas Regal.

She returned and sat down.

"What are her hobbies?" he asked firmly.

"Maya loves to take photographs and dance. She's assertive and pleasant. She's worldly and informative. She loves to consume pizza and drank wine," she said cheerfully with hunted eyes.

"Where did she stay?" he asked, looking at her cheap paintings.

"Penbroke Hotel," she snapped.

"Nice place," he said with a half smile.

"Of course. Precisely nothing but the best for my baby," she said, trying to smile.

"Does she know anybody in Penbroke?" he asked.

"No. This has been her first visit to Penbroke," she said firmly.

"Did she go alone?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

Mrs. Dunford acquired her checkbook and kept dropping it. She was in fact hella bombed. He helped her out. She made the check out for $3,500---her lifesavings and passed it to him.

"Baby, you're filthy drunk," Jackson stated dramatically.

"Hell, yeh. Yo, bro-bro, I'm truly sorry," she said sadly with face drawn.

"It's all good. I feel your hurt, baby. I had been only playing. I'm just as bent," he stated clearly.

She took out a picture from her purse. She handed it to him. Maya Dunford had a coco brown skin tone having gray eyes as well as an electrifying smile. She wore a flavin-looking dress.

"How old is she?" he asked cheerfully, looking at the photo with reverence.

"Twenty-two," she said strongly.

"Does she go to church?" he asked, putting her photo in his pocket.

"We're Baptist," she said firmly with half smile.

"I'll need to find out her medical history and banking account details," he said.

"Sure, that would be no trouble," she said strongly.

"Well, I'll get directly on this and keep you posted," he stated firmly. "Fine. This is actually the best whiskey that I've ever sampled."

"It's some decent stuff, boo," she said firmly, trying to smile.

They staggered into his pimpmobile and back out of his office parking area, practically hitting a moving vehicle with ranting teenagers. He drove out to Mrs. Dunford's house.

Once they arrived, she'd pasted out and he transported her into her house and layed her down on the bed. He seriously considered pulling that dress up and raping her. At that moment, the phone rang and he jumped. She started out switching but didn't wake up. The phone kept ringing loudly. By this time, Jackson had been out the door and into his car.

Jackson stopped by the Harrah's casino and had breakfast. He sat at the blackjack, drinking Crown Royal until he threw up all over the table. He stayed there the majority of the day, slot machines.

Keith took a shower and shaved. He put on a battleship gray plaid shirt and baggy black jeans. He shoved shirts, pants, socks, underwear and T-shirts, a toothbrush, Rite Aid mouthwash, Norelco, toothpaste along with a comb right into a suitcase. He snapped up a big boneblack bag and unzipped it. He placed a CZ TT .45ACP, a Kimber Pro Carry 11 .45ACP and some more firearms like the bum was ready for World War 111. He visited the toilet.

The very next day Jackson put all things in the trunk of his car. He drove towards Penbroke, which had been ten miles from Reno. In route, there he pasted oodles of RVs, big rigs, minivans, trucks U-hauls, motorcycles and cars. Furthermore, he pasted farms, hotels, casinos, motels, restaurants, big companies and gas station. They were also Greyhound and gambling buses.

Once he arrived in Penbroke, he parked in front of the Penbroke Hotel. He snapped up his bag and suitcase from the trunk. The structure was obviously a mahogany-colored with mullioned windows. A pair of black guys, two Indian-looking fellas and a Mexican came up to greet him.

"Hey, homeboy," the Indian dude said politely with a smile.

"What's up with ya?" Jackson stated happily with a big grin.

"Dude, turn around and return to Reno," the Mexican guy said bitterly to him with an evil stare.

"I'm afraid I can't. I'm searching for a young lady," Jackson said sharply.

"Don't they've enough women in Reno?" the black guy stated sharply, peering down his nose.

"Dog, not the woman I'm looking for," Jackson snapped.

"Bruh. Let me show you what I'm talking about, dog," the Indian dude said sourly.

The Native Indian threw a right cross at him and Jackson moved aside to avoid the fist. Jackson jammed his black bag into the mans gut and he flung backwards, falling on his back. Keith kicked the Mexican in the side of the ribs and quickly swung the tote hard into the other black guy's face not giving them any chance to recover and the man went down. Another Indian snuck up behind slugged him in the back twice before he could react and Jackson winced. While Jackson was worried, about his back, the black man punched him in the stomach, he fell over forward, and eyes brim with tears. The Mexican snapped up him right arm and black guy his left. Jackson was obviously a little shook up and felt sick. They held him. The Indian started out beating on him just like a slimeing crazed boxer on speed. Twenty or so minutes later on the Squaw finally stopped because he was getting so tired. Jackson face was a bloody mess beginning to swell and his ribs had been broken. He fell right down to his knees, vomiting and coughing.

"Hey, booty-breath. Stop that or I'll call the cops," a woman in the hotel window shouted harshly.

"Later, dude. This ain't over homey," the Indian guy said strongly as he kicked Keith in the face. The black man had pissed just about all over him. Next, they ran off.

The hotel clerk rushed up to him to help him up.

"Are you all right?" he said franticly.

"Hell no, but I'll live," Jackson explained weakly with a half smile.

"Those idiots enjoy playing just a little rough," the clerk said firmly, helping Jackson up to his feet.

"Hell, yeh. Aimed to eliminate me," Jackson said bitterly, trying to walk.

"If they wanted to kill you they would've," the desk clerk said strongly. "They're a bad bunch and you should stay clear of them."

"Well, thanks to that fly lady in that hotel they didn't have the opportunity," Jackson said cheerfully and spit blood.

Jackson checked in room 4. He sat his tote in the sorrel-looking chair. He left his suitcase by the door. The clerk had dark thinning hair and a gnome-like face. He was approximately fifty-two and also over six feet. He wore a luteous-looking marled polo shirt and white cargo pants. He was a easygoing fella.

"I'll have to have a week in advance," the clerk stated firmly.

Jackson got four crispy hundred-dollar bills along with a fifty-dollar from his wallet and handed it over to him.

"Dude, I hope you appreciate your room," the desk clerk said cheerfully.

"Dude, I do. It's nice and clean," Jackson said, trying to smile.

"Great if you need me, I'll be at the front desk," he said smiling.

"I'm trying to find a girl," Jackson said firmly.

"Aren't we all?" the clerk said firmly with a smile.

"Naw. I'm serious, baby," Jackson said strongly, showing him the picture.

He looked at the photo for a moment, nodding as he brought on a smile.

"Oh, yes. Miss Dunford's residing in room 7," the clerk stated calmly.

"Was Miss Dunford alone?" Jackson said strongly.

"No. She was in fact with Mr. Bill Nabong and so they had been dancing together while listening to loud rap music," he said strongly.

"Okay, thanks," Jackson said firmly.

"I'll be at the front desk," he stated cheerfully, wandering out.

Jackson went up to Miss Dunford room and knocked. Not anyone answered. He utilized his lock picks to get inside and seemed like another person did the same thing. The lock grooves had been messed up. He stepped in and closed the door softly. The room was obviously a chaos: clothing was all over the place. The stuffing was ripped out of mattresses and pieces of furniture broken. He didn't find Miss Dunford or Mr. Nabong. What were these folks searching for? He ended up being struck on the head.

Keith took two flexeril pills for the body aches. He snatched up a DW Patriot .45ACP on the way to the Penbroke Police department. Once he stepped beyond the hotel, he heard a deafening explosion. He crouched down behind some vehicles. A sniper had been shooting a rifle. The bullets blow out a vehicle window. Much more explosion type sounds came from a cheesy looking motel called Low Motel. He got in a ferocious gun battle against this bum. Folks in the way ran for cover in the hotel, bar, and store. Once the shooting stopped, Jackson ran into the motel. The clerk was reading a newspaper.

"Excuse me," Jackson shouted sharply.

"Yeah. What's up, brother?" the clerk said calmly.

"Did you listen to the shooting?" Jackson said franticly.

"Yeh, I did," the clerk said relaxed.

"Aren't you planning to make a move?" Jackson asked hotly.

"Like What?" the clerk snapped.

"Call the cops, punk!" Jackson said harshly.

"That thing was simply a car backfiring," the clerk snapped hotly.

"That wasn't any car, baby. A rifle," Jackson said firmly.

"Rifle?" the clerk snapped.

"Did you actually see anybody come out of the motel having a rifle?" Jackson asked sharply with eyes seething.

"Hell, no," the clerk snarled.

Jackson ran upstairs in the motel. He stepped over a few drunk folks passed out in the hallway. The spot smelled just like piss and burnt Hamburger Helper. As soon as he arrived at the top of the motel the gunman vanished, yet he left the rifle a Mauser Model 66 SP Match .308 Winchester. There were clearly used rubbers, empty Coke and beer cans almost everywhere along with cigarette butts, drug needles, and potato chips bags. He grabbed the rifle using a handkerchief. He strolled down the motel stairs and came out lugging the rifle, moving for the police station.

It had been late October and the trees had been bare with orange leaves everywhere. There had been Halloween decorations on many of the homes and businesses. A K-9 barked at him from a black and white unit as he passed by. The police facility was built with a cadmin yellow finish and square tinted windows. He carried the rifle inside.

Officer's leaped directly into action aiming their 38's at his confused face.

"Drop the damn rifle, sir," they stated bluntly with eyes blazing murderously.

"Don't shoot, baby. I'm not really planning to harm anybody," Jackson explained clearly.

"Put the weapon down now! Or you're dead, dude!" the police said sharply.

Keith sat the rifle straight down gradually and put his hands on top of his head. One police officer snapped up the rifle and backed away. Four officers rushed Jackson and began whipping the crap out of him like he was dog meat.

"Take it easy, bruh. Are you crazy? This is definitely police brutality," Jackson said gruffly, panting.

"Hey! What exactly in the hells taking place here?" the sergeant said sharply.

"This dirt-bag entered right here, pointing a rifle at us," one policeman stated firmly as he stopped punching Jackson.

"Stop! Don't beat up on the man anymore," the sergeant said strongly with his arm out.

The police officers halted and moved away from the bloody and battered Jackson.

"Say, man. Exactly why did you bring this rifle in here?" the sergeant asked strongly.

"Well, Lieutenant. It's evidence. Some crazy butt worm made an effort to kill me," Jackson said maliciously, panting.

"I'm a sergeant. Furthermore where did you get it?" the sergeant asked firmly to the riffle.

"On the roof of the Low Motel," Jackson said strongly with his face contorted in agony.

"You poop-breath. You destroyed our crime scene," one officer said candidly.

"I'm sorry, dog. Even so the man's fingerprints are on the weapon," Jackson said weakly.

"Thanks for making an effort to assist homeboy," the sergeant said sharply with a half smile.

"No problem," Jackson said firmly with a weak smile.

"Tell everything in my office," he stated firmly, motioning him inside. "I'm Sgt. Eric Sinko."

Sgt. Sinko dressed in a saffron-looking suit, most likely from the Men's Warehouse. His hair had been caramel looking and slimy. He'd a bulldog face having larkspur eyes. He was husky and six feet tall. He sat in a teal-looking desk chair. His office was filled with third-rate furniture. There had been thousands of photos of missing children on the walls. There were ugly family photos on his desk.

"So. Let's focus on who you are?" Sinko asked firmly.

"I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm a private investigator," he stated with a street thug tone, showing his ID.

"From Reno, huh?" Sinko asked sharply.

"Hell, yeh. My license is good in Nevada and California," Jackson said firmly.

"Well, just what is a PI doing in Penbroke?" Sgt. Sinko inquired sharply picking a slimy green bugger out of his nose.

"You're not really likely to eat that?" Jackson asked snugly.

"You want it?" Sinko snapped.

"Hell, no. Sick fart-brain," Jackson said bitterly his eyes narrow with disgust.

Sinko stuck it in his mouth and Jackson looked away.

"Yummy," Sinko said cheerfully, licking his lips.

"Dude, I'm looking for Miss Maya Dunford," Jackson stated strongly, displaying the picture.

"Yes, a really sexy black broad. Miss Dunford is right here in the city. Yet I don't know where. Her mother's already been swamping us with calls," Sgt. Sinko said sharply, chewing on more buggers.

Jackson almost threw up.

"Dog, I was in fact in her room. It appeared as if a tornado attacked it. She wasn't there," Jackson stated firmly to him.

"Brother, I'm going to send out a team of crime folks to go over the place," Sinko stated strongly.

"I choose to file a complaint against a couple of buttholes who beat me real good," Jackson said vociferously.

"What do they look like?" Sinko asked firmly.

"One was a Indian, a black man, china man and Mexican," Jackson said sourly.

"Sounds just like the Vien's Gang. We'll have these punks gathered up for questioning," Sinko said ruthlessly.

"Can I go bruh?" Jackson snapped.

"Let's go to Miss Dunford's room," Sinko said strongly.

Once they checked inside her room, everything was in fact ideal.

"How would you explain this, homeboy?" Sinko asked with eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"The house maid. Dog, I don't know," Jackson said sharply.

"Officer Jones---get the house maid," Sgt. Sinko requested sharply.

After they found the house cleaner, she said excitedly she never went in the room. Sgt. Sinko was upset. He believed Jackson made up the hold thing.

"What are you, Jackson? Are you some kinda crackpot?" Sinko asked bluntly with bunch fists.

"I'm on the level, baby. Maybe I should've taken a photograph of the room," Jackson said firmly to him.

"I ought to lock your crazy butt up, homey," Sgt. Sinko stated harshly, strolling out of the room. "I'm keeping my eye on you, Jackson. If you slip up I'll be there." He picked his nose, shoved his finger down his mouth, and walked off.

Jackson came by Penbroke casino and enjoyed blackjack. He flirted with all the cocktail waitresses and drank plenty of Crown Royal. He travelled upstairs for the Belcher's Coffee shop. He ate Steak Medici having fries and drank shots of Wild Turkey. Why would some person clean the room? Is somebody making an effort to drive me crazy? He was thinking. After his meal, he went back right down to enjoy much more blackjack, and search for Miss Dunford, yet she wasn't in the casino.

Jackson met a girl in the casino. They went along to her motel and began smoking crack cocaine for some time. Next, they drank Chivas Regal and experienced wild sex, she got much more hotter if he beat on her some...and he did that. They smoked more crack cocaine and did some Meth. They made love some more for a while. He took a lengthy doo-doo. She pissed. He pissed. She pooped, showered. He showered. They watched TV. They made love again and did much more Meth. They finished a second bottle of Chivas Regal and went to sleep.

For Sunday morning, Jackson had been hangover and sexed out. But he was able to arrive at a Baptist church service. The place was huge and white. A big white cross set on top. He shuffle up to the door and pulled it back. He stepped inside and shut the door. A minister having short brown hair stood at a fancy oak wood pulpit. He looked black with Mexican-Indian. He appeared to be six-foot-six, wearing cudbear-looking suit. He preached in relation to the ugliness of gambling and drug-use in our communities. Every word this dude stated, the huge crowd nodded. Some said, "That's right, too." Or "Amen." Each of them kept their eyes on him the hold time and didn't even know Jackson came inside. Once the preaching was over women and men---white, black, yellow and brown approached the pulpit having instruments, dressed up just as if these folks were picking up diplomas. They started playing good gospel music. Everybody was bouncing about, and some folks foaming at the mouth just like crazed animals. Some lady's wigs fell off. They sung about twenty songs and quit. They all prayed. He advised everybody to attend the next service and promise it would be far better. There were goodies in the back---like Nut brownie cake and ice cream. Everybody stood up and headed for the back. The pastor had been there shaking everyone's hand. He shook Jackson's hand and began chatting at him.

"Hey, brother. I saw ya come inside here," the preacher said cheerfully.

"I try to make it to church every Sunday," Jackson stated politely.

"Good to hear that my brother," the pastor said cheerfully.

"Dog, I appreciated the service," Jackson stated happily.

"Will you come to the following?" the pastor asked.

"I'll try, baby," Jackson said firmly.

"I've never seen you before, brother," the preacher said firmly.

"I'm from Reno," Jackson said strongly.

"I've been there too. And Carson City. They need the Lord bad in that territory," the pastor said strongly, grinning.

"Brother, did you like it there?" Jackson said strongly.

"I'll go anywhere the Lord sends me," the pastor said firmly with a grin.

"Hey, old-blood. I'm trying to find a Miss Maya Dunford," Jackson said firmly, showing him the photo.

The pastor analyzed it for quite a while and his chocolate eyes moistened with joy.

"Oh yes. I recall this sweet little thing. She came in here with a bald headed young man. His name was Jack Cassio. I've known him since he was a child. She wore a Pentax IQZoom EZY-R camera around her neck taking pictures at every service. She seemed to be inquisitive and her face always flushed with happiness. She told me that she would definitely check out the Wax Museum. I told her not to because it's the devil's home. But I don't believe she heard a word I said," the pastor explained sadly, strolling towards the back.

"When did you last see her?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Wednesday," the pastor said strongly.

"All right," Jackson said, nodding.

"Do you want some cake?" the pastor asked nicely.

"For sure," Jackson snapped with a smile.

He ate some cake and ice cream. He had taken a runny doo-doo and looked down at it. Next, he threw up the cake and ice cream. After that, he left the church.

Jackson was cruising down 12Th Street and there was a deafening explosion under the hood. Fire and black smoke came up from the engine. He slammed the brakes and made an effort to get out of the burning vehicle. The doors---those things wouldn't bulge. The flames had relocated to under the dashboard. The smoke made Jackson cough. His pants were on fire. He shot the window out using his gun and climbed out franticly. He took his shirt off and beat at his pants until the flames went out.

The car exploded. Metal fragments flew everywhere. Folks turned out to assist with deep concern on their faces; him being black didn't seem to matter.

"Are you all right, young man?" one said sadly.

"Hell no. But I'll make it, baby. I'm sexy," Jackson stated weakly, trying to smile.

Some folks utilized fire extinguishers to put out the burning car. The Penbroke Fire Department turned up and bugger eater Sgt. Sinko too.

"So, homey, we meet once more," Sgt. Sinko said cheerfully, chewing on nasal mucus.

"Hey, dude. I see you're still eating your nasty buggers' bruh," Jackson stated bluntly, spitting.

"Better as opposed to that fast-food stuff you eat," Sinko snapped with smirk.

"What are you planning to do about this?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Well, our amazing fire fighter will take a look at your burned up vehicle for starters," Sinko said cheerfully.

"The darn Vein's Gang did it. Every bum in this town knows it," Jackson said indignantly with black man tone.

"Easy, dog. We're looking for them and Miss Dunford too," Sinko said sharply.

"Lucky for me the Vein's Gang sucks at bomb making or you'd be collecting the pieces of my funky body everywhere in America, man," Jackson said defensively.

"Hey, homeboy? The lab found absolutely nothing in Miss Dunford's room that might be helpful," Sinko said firmly, picking his nose.

"That figures, baby," Jackson said firmly, shaking is head.

Jackson hobbled up to 7-11 to take a much needed doo-doo. Once he finished he went up to the counter and acquired five hotdogs and a big Gulp. He sat down on a filthy sidewalk in front of the store. He called Mrs. Dunford to inform her he was still on the case and hadn't discovered her daughter yet. Mrs. Dunford sounded sad and drunk as usual.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Dunford. Baby, I'm likely to locate your daughter. I'm not returning to Reno until I do," he stated strongly and hung up.

He shoved those hotdogs straight down his throat, watching pretty girls wander by. He washed everything down with the Big Gulp.

Once he finished eating, he slipped right into a taxi and headed for the Penbroke Wax Museum. They drove down the road with probably the most traffic lights; so he'd have to pay more money. The taxi was in fact known as Denio's Taxi Service. Away from nowhere, a henna-looking Cadillac closed in behind the taxi.

Next, the Caddy started ramming into the taxi. They flung forward and back, just as if they were humping. The taxi began weaving from side to side to avoid the Caddy. Jackson got his weapon and fired. The bullets ripped into the windshield. The taxi sped up alongside them and passed. The back window of the Caddy rolled down and a Kalashnikov AK47 7.62mm stuck out and spit an array of bullets at them.

The bullet tore through the cab door and windshield and the cab veered-off the highway into a ditch. The Caddy slowed up down the road. A loud siren was in fact drawing near. The Caddy sped off. Jackson suffered bruises on the forehead and had been shook up. The cab driver was lifeless. Bullets had ripped through his face, neck, chest, and blood everywhere.

The NHP stopped to assist him---another unit sought out after the Caddy.

"Are you all right?" the NHP said sadly with a stricken look.

"Dude, I'm cool. A little bit shaken," Jackson said weakly.

"Let me take you to the hospital," the officer stated firmly, grabbing him gently by the shoulder, trying to lift him.

"How's the driver?" the other officer said strongly.

"His birthdays are over," Jackson said sharply, holding his head.

Well, Jackson said excitedly who he was and why he was here. Next, the Penbroke Paramedics came and took him away.

After the Penbroke Hospital fixed Jackson up and was discharged, he had taken another Taxi to the Penbroke Wax Museum. Just before he got halfway to the museum, the Caddy returned, ramming the taxi. Jackson rolled down the window and started shooting his gun. They shot back. The taxi rammed the Caddy for some time. This bull went on for a few more miles. Jackson fired at the tires. There had been a loud explosion because of this. The Caddy began to fall back as Jackson kept shooting at the vehicle---planting a load of bullet holes in the car and engine. Black smoke came up from the hood. The driver couldn't see.

The Caddy jerked-off the highway, down the embankment, rolled a bit, before exploding.

"We got those ignorant-punks," the taxi driver stated with joy.

"Dog, I would like to make certain. Go down there," Jackson stated greatly.

The taxi was filled with holes. It smoked, and made rattling noise as it drove along down the bridge. "Look, there they are. Stop. Let me out. Here some dough," Jackson said strongly, passing the driver a fifty-dollar bill.

Jackson ran across the mountain towards an Asian and white cat limping away. The black dude must have died in the crash. They kept running straight down towards some big rock near a stream. He kept chasing right after them.

When Jackson finally caught up to them, they had been resting on rocks by the stream, panting. They were seriously messed up with bruises and burn marks on their faces and arms.

"Tell me who you are working for jerk-offs," Jackson stated harshly, panting.

"Slime you, dog," they said strongly with a frigid stare.

"Where is Miss Maya Dunford?" Jackson snapped.

"Kiss our butts," they stated bitterly.

Jackson had taken out his gun and shot both of them execution styles in the back of the head. After that, he strolled up to the bus stop and threw up. He took the following bus to the museum.

The Penbroke Wax Museum was in fact a medium-sized aubergine-looking cement building having oriel windows. He drawn back the heavy oakwood door and stepped inside. The door closed behind him. He stepped onto cerulean-looking floors. It absolutely was quiet. The place smelled like wax, sweat and death. He looked at the wax figures for some time. All of them had been scary with devilish stares. There was a lizard-like creature, transporting a dead woman. She'd a terrible corpse odor. There was a monster having massive eyeballs surrounded by globe-like head; long fuzzy tendrils hang straight down over body. A large clay man having expressionless face, dark gray color. A giant breast with big erect nipples. There was in fact a farmer, holding a bloody pitchfork. A horrifying creature across between a bloodhound and a mastiff. Black and large like a lion. Its face glowed in the dark. A super robot, with multiple arms, bizarre array of futuristic gadgetry covering body (for all sorts of scientific projects). Proceeds on steel base with wheels. There had been a big penis monster. A Gorgosaurus, historic dinosaur creature, much like tyrannosaurus rex, only much larger and meaner; green; scaled; jaws that might consume a car; pulled-back ears. A gaggle of witches sporting black robes. They'd pasty faces without eyes. There was Dracula, Jason, Frankenstein, Mummy, Zombies, Chucky, Michael Myers, Predator, Alien, scream guy and Freddie Kruger.

Somebody caressed his shoulder and he jumped out of his skin. He turned to look. It had been a thing with a ghoulish face and appeared as if it had been dead sixty years. This ugly dude was more than seven feet.

"Hey, man. Are you crazy sneaking up on a brother?" Jackson stated bluntly, looking up at this man.

"Good. Now we all know I haven't lost my touch," he stated sharply, beaming.

His clothes were boneblack. "Who are you?" Jackson asked bitterly.

"I'm Delcon Fright at your services," he said strongly in a spooky tone.

"The name suits you nicely," Jackson stated nervously with a smirk.

"You're early. Come back at six, dog," Fright said firmly.

"Naw. Hey, baby. I'm not really here for the cheesy spook freak show. Dude, I'm searching for a girl who came some time ago," Jackson said strongly, showing her picture. He looked over it just like it was a steak, licking his black lips as he drooled. His eyes beamed at it fondly.

"Miss Dunford was here a week ago. I recall her well. She took photographs of all the creatures. She appeared to be captivated by the whole spooky scene," Mr. Fright explained happily.

"Bruh, I know. Did she come with anybody?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Yes. She came with Victor Maveal, Jake Pongasi and Shiree Tarleton," Fright said firmly.

"She never came back?" Jackson said.

"Hell no," Fright said sharply with annoyed look on his ugly face.

"Do you know what became of her?" Jackson pressed on with his questions.

"No," Fright snapped.

"What are these dumb figures?" Jackson asked strongly looking around.

"They're famous. They've killed many folks. They come to life at midnight, strolling about searching for unsuspected victims. The mayor really wants to shut down the museum due to the large number of missing children," Fright explained calmly.

"Don't worry, babe. Those freaky wax things couldn't have harmed the children," Jackson stated firmly, strolling towards the door.

"I hope you're right," Fright stated firmly.

Jackson called a homeboy he knew Kerman. He requested him to check out some names.

Keith rented an amethyst-looking Buick and headed to Penbroke Foto. The venue had been small and created from brick. The windows were square and tinted. The building had a Congo red-coloring. The Buick was totally jam-packed with fancy buttons on the door arms and under dashboard like a spaceship and seats were very comfy. He almost fell asleep at the wheel a couple of times. He got out of the car and wandered up to the busy Foto store. He shortly got tired of waiting and left.

He drove to Mr. Nabong's home, yet he wasn't home. He went by Victor Maveal's house and he vanished too. Jake Pongasi and Shiree Tarleton was in fact nowhere to be found either.

Keith dropped by McDonald's and sat in the corner by the window. He ate a Big Mac, having fries and drank a Coke. He observed children play basketball across the street. Every woman entered the place appeared to be Miss Maya Dunford but wasn't. When he finished he throw everything in the garbage but the cup. He got a refill on the way out.

Jackson was back again at the Foto store conversing with a fox haired broad, sporting a heliotrope-looking crewneck tee and faded blue jeans. She was chewing gum and blowing bubbles.

"Hey, baby, I'm searching for a lady," he stated happily.

"Well, Dude. You've arrive at the right town. Quite a few of the most stunning women in the world are from Penbroke," she said cheerfully.

"Dog, I'm only thinking about one," he said strongly, showing her the photo.

"Oh, yeh. I remember her...Maya. She delivered a roll of film to get developed, yet she never came back to get it, man," she said firmly.

"How long ago?" he asked.

"Last week," she said strongly.

"Was anybody with her?" he asked firmly.

"No," she said firmly.

"Can I've the images?" he asked kindly.

"Are you a relative?" she snapped.

"Hey, baby, I'm a private investigator," he stated sharply, displaying his ID.

She kept blowing bubbles and popping the nicotine gum and it was driving Jackson crazy. "Yeah. The Penbroke Police were right here searching for her too, dude. Allow me to get the photos," she said strongly and wandered off into the back. Jackson looked at her ass and seriously considered raping her, but those jeans are really tight, it could take him a year to get them off. So he made the decision against it.

She returned with a glazed look upon her face and without the pictures.

"They're gone. I almost forgot. Over the weekend, there seemed to be a break-in. Someone took them, dog," she stated hotly.

"Slime!" he screamed.

"There had been outright creepy-looking wax statues," she stated strongly.

"Why would anybody go through the trouble to steal them?" Jackson asked firmly with a puzzled gaze.

"Dude, I don't know!" she snapped.

"Girl, I'm the detective. You best split. Go stay with your parents. There you ought to be safe. They might think you saw something in those images. Did you see all of them?" Jackson said firmly.

"No...Certainly not all of them," she said firmly, starting to be annoyed by the questions.

Well, Keith went back to the hotel, no messages. He went by Miss Dunford's room, yet she wasn't there. He went along to his room to relax. There was a dead unclothed teenage boy in his bed. His throat was ripped opened like a wolf got to him. There wasn't a lot of blood on his pillow, so he calculated the boy had been killed someplace else and brought here. He took out his firearm and searched the place. He phoned the police and was placed on hold for quiet some time. Right after greater than an hour of holding out, he decided to go straight down there.

Well, the wind started up, blowing dirt and orange leaves everywhere. Jackson stormed into the police station, looking for Sinko.

"Have a seat, brother," one officer stated greatly. "Sgt. Sinko will probably be out."

Jackson sat for two hours eating Nabisco crackers and drinking Coke. Next, the bugger eater finally showed his face.

"What is it, dog?" Sinko snapped.

"Dude, I believe I stumbled upon one of your missing children," Jackson stated strongly.

"Oh, yeh? Where?" Sinko said franticly.

"Dead---in my bed. His throat cut," Jackson said firmly.

Sinko stuck large green slimy snot in his mouth. "Let's go to your hotel," he ordered strongly.

Once they got there, the body was gone.

"Is this some damn joke, homeboy?" Sinko stated brazenly eyes narrowing with contempt.

"Hell, yeh. And the jokes on me," Jackson said sharply gawking in disbelief.

"Homeboy, I do think you're a loony. First, you storm into my station with a crazed-look flashing a rifle at my officers and now this stuff," Sgt. Sinko said caustically.

"Hey, sergeant! I say we run this frog-brain out of town," one officer said bitterly face turning red, then purple.

"Slime you, dog-breath," Jackson stated sardonically, punching the policeman in the face. The cop went down hard on his back.

The officer got back up quickly removing his weapon.

"Enough of this gangsta jazz. However, you know he's right," Sgt. Sinko said frigidly, researching him acutely.

"Slime you, both. Hey, dog, I know what I saw," Jackson said coldly.

Another officer (who had been African American) came in. "Nobody in the hotel had seen anything, sir," he said sharply.

"Admitted, bro-bro," Jackson snapped, pointing a finger at him.

"So this dead teen just walked out," the black officer said candidly.

"It sure seems like that booger man," Jackson stated firmly.

"Get the lab team up here and shake this mother," Sgt. Sinko suggested bluntly.

Jackson jived the bank folks into, showing him the account records of Miss Dunford. She drew out everything in the morning---from an ATM on Bess street. There were several apartment complex's and houses near by. He knocked on over eighty doors, showing the picture; only one person recalled observing her. She had been with a black man sporting a tropical shirt and baggy denim shorts.

Two Philippino's drove by in a blue Hummer stuck a semiautomatic out of the window and opened fire at Jackson who had been standing by a vehicle. He dodged their bullets and fired back as he ran for the Penbroke Middle school. The school was closed down for the day. He hid behind building, searching around corners. He saw the Hummer past by. These bird-poops kept circling about for some time. Jackson put a full clip in his firearm.

The fellas got out of the vehicle and started strolling towards the school, with mean faces, carrying semiautomatics. Jackson noticed them and made a move to place himself behind them punks. These folks were looking around for him.

Jackson sprang up behind them. "Hey, bums," he said boldly.

They turned around and he shot both of them in the chest using a powerful CZ TT .45ACP before they could react. They dropped dead with a shock look on their face. His troubles had only begun. The Vein's Gang turned up, heavily armed this time. They were looking around piercingly.

Jackson hopped up onto the school building roof. There he surely could see them. They separated. He saw the black man running around with a Savage Model 720 12-gauge. He jumped down on him and he dropped the weapon. Jackson smacked the black dude. He threw Jackson off like he was feather. He then reached for the rifle, which were a few inches ahead of him.

He snapped up the rifle. Jackson quickly shot him in the upper body before he could aim the weapon. The Indian heard the shots and sprung around the corner, firing a Beretta Cougar .32 auto. Jackson avoided the bullets by dropping on the grass and rolling over like in the movies. Next, the Indian made an effort to reload, but Jackson shot his head off and his headless body fell. It shook for several minutes.

Once Keith heard footsteps, he ducked behind the building. The Mexican dude ran past. He looked down at the dead leader, his face twisted in anguish. Jackson snuck up behind him and smashed him in the head using his gun. The Mexican fell forward on his tummy. Jackson started kicking his head in until blood and brains gushed out.

Jackson acquired his gun, an Uzi Submachine Gun 9mm Parabellum. Once the remainder of the sorry Vein's Gang turned up, Jackson opened fire upon them, slicing those punks right down to the ground. Next, he heard police sirens and thought to jet.

When Jackson went back to his room, it was dark. Those lab guys had been long gone. He entered the lavatory to consider a long runny doo-doo. Two hours later on, he emerged away from the toilet. There was a knock on the door. He opened up it. It was that broad that saved him from a swim in a blood bath with those Vein's Gang pricks. She'd long burnt almond hair with blond strips. She'd lagoon green eyes and turned out to be gregarious. She was five-foot-four and around forty. She wore a thistle-looking picot trim tank and blue chintz-looking pants.

"Hi, I'm your neighbor. My name is Brandi Hixenbaugh," she stated cheerfully regarding with open fondness.

"Oh, yeh. You're that woman who actually saved me," he stated strongly, trying to smile.

"That's right. Dude, I always make an effort to end violence whenever possible," she said strongly with a smile.

"Dog, I love a girl that's got my back," he said cheerfully. "Why don't you come in?"

"Thank you," she said firmly.

She did. She sat a large container of food on my table. The strong smell filled the room.

"That stuff smells good," Jackson stated cheerfully.

"Are you hungry?" she asked firmly.

"Hell, yeh," he snapped with big grin.

Miss Hixenbaugh set up the table. She served Ham Steak Hawaiian, Eggplant Parmigiana and sourdough bread. She poured two servings of Pinot Grigio. He put Hawaiian Fruit Salad on the kitchen table. They prayed and began eating.

This cat tore directly into his steak just like an animal. She began having the salad. Jackson had been making a real hog out of himself.

"I'm sorry, baby. I haven't had a first rate meal in years," he stated strongly, with a mouthful of food.

"Dude, it's fine," she said with a laugh.

"Do you generally cook dinner for strange dudes?" he asked sharply.

"No. It's my fist time. So what?" she said strongly.

"I'm glad you can see it that way," he said strongly and drank down his wine.

She ingested some ham steak and started on the eggplant parmigiana.

"What's your name?" she asked strongly with a smile.

"Keith Jackson," he said firmly with a grin.

"Nice title," she said firmly with a mouthful eggplant parmigiana.

"Are you Hawaiian?" he inquired strongly, shoving a pile of eggplant parmigiana in to his big mouth.

"On my mother's side," she answered cheerfully and drank down some wine.

"Girl, you're hella fly," Jackson said cheerfully.

"Thank you," she snapped with a big smile.

"Did you know Miss Dunford?" he asked firmly.

"The girl in room 7?" she asked firmly.

"Yep," he said.

"Not really. She came across as spontaneous. She stayed out more often than not and she ran about accompanied by a couple of boys in the neighborhood," she described firmly, finishing her eggplant parmigiana.

He finished his ham steak and Hawaiian Fruit Salad and the rest of the bottle of wine.

"Did you speak with her?" he asked strongly while opening up another bottle of wine.

"Yep. Virtually all she brought up was those creepy wax figures," she stated firmly with a frown.

They finished their dinner. They both finished off the third bottle of wine. Jackson lit some pot. Up coming, there was clearly a scream, coming from downstairs. They leaped and sped downstairs.

Once they got downstairs, a smallish crowd was standing around. Their faces had been recoiled in horror. Jackson forced his way through. It was in fact a woman, badly beaten from the waist up. From the waist down, she was completely burned or fried and smelled just like chicken.

"Who is she?" Miss Hixenbaugh asked sadly.

"I believe it's Miss Dunford, y'all," Jackson stated firmly with sadness on his face.

"How did she get here?" one woman inquired sharply.

"Miss Dunford crawled up to my desk and died," the clerk said sharply.

Jackson strolled up to him and hit him in the face. "Why did you do that, Jackson?" the clerk said bluntly, holding his mouth.

"You should've assisted her punk," Jackson said spitefully.

"I was scared," the clerk stated nervously.

"Call the cops!" one African American man stated highly.

"How come this woman's all burned up like this?" A young black kid said crudely.

"Good question," Jackson said clearly. "This jerk we're dealing with is sure out-of-pocket. He get's his rocks off cooking folks."

"This kinda torture is totally new for this town," Miss Hixenbaugh said greatly.

The cops made a powerful entrance.

"Hey, booger-eater. What's up?" Jackson stated strongly.

"I'm pleased to see you too, homeboy," Sgt. Sinko said contentedly.

Sinko brought with him the crime scene artist, still photographer, forensic psychologist and technician arrived to perform their thing.

"It's Miss Dunford," the clerk said securely.

"We have to be certain. We'll have our Penbroke deputy coroner work on the body. He's the very best. He's prompt," Sgt. Sinko explained firmly.

"Hey, dog. I'm sure you got some sick brat in your file that fits this MO," Jackson said harshly.

"Dog, I've never seen this. But I'll examine my psycho records for somebody we could have let out," Sinko stated firmly, chewing on buggers.

"Well, I'm going to cut," Jackson said firmly, heading for the door.

"We discovered the Vein's Gang. They were slaughtered by some bad dude. We found a couple more dead bodies. They ended up shot to death. They were pedophile punks," Sinko stated firmly with a big frown.

"That would be me, baby," Jackson said cheerfully, strolling off with Miss Hixenbaugh.

They didn't get far. That bugger eating dude stopped them. They couldn't depart until everyone was questioned.

Right after everybody was able to go, Jackson and Miss Hixenbaugh went right up to her room for desert. They ate Floating Island and Chocolate Angel Pie. They drank a fourth bottle of wine. They smoked dope for a while.

Next, they wobbled up to her gamboge-looking batiste sofa and cuddled up. They watched Seinfeld.

"Baby, I'm stuffed," Jackson said strongly with a smile.

"Me too," she barked with a big grin.

"Everything was in fact fantastic!" he shouted, rubbing his belly.

"I'm pleased you liked it," she said happily.

"This cat is rather hilarious," he said strongly, laughing hard.

"This is my favorite episode," she stated cheerfully.

Once Seinfeld was over, they began kissing for a while. Next they disrobed and made love just like beast. She made purring sounds the whole time.

In the early morning, Keith returned to his room. He took a long shower. Next red water came down and he jumped back. He turned the shower off. He opened up the nozzle. It was a plastic-type container with some red dye. There was a piece of paper that said, "Next time it will be acid." he put the note and red dye in a plastic bag for the crime lab.

Keith dressed up in a carmine-looking flannel shirt having an ebony-colored baggy angora pants. He sat a blue cap backwards on his head. He called Mrs. Dunford to break the news he always hated this part. He went through it more often than not when he was a policeman. No matter how many times you did it, it never got any less difficult.

"Hi. It's Keith Jackson," he said sadly into the phone.

"Child, I recently been trying to call you. So what's up, boo?" she said franticly.

"Well, I do believe I came across your daughter," he said firmly.

"What do you mean, believe?" she snapped.

"Last night we found a young little sister. She'd been recently beaten horribly, and a large portion of her body cooked in oil. We believe the description fits Miss Maya Dunford, her height and all. Penbroke's experts are checking this out. You hear what I'm saying?" he explained strongly.

"Yeh, baby. I got you. This body might not be my girl. So I'll keep hope alive," she said sadly.

He heard the TV coming from the background.

"Good thought," Jackson stated plainly.

"Do you know who did this scandalous stuff?" she said harshly.

"Not yet," he said firmly.

"If that's my baby on that slab you find those bums and check them real good. You hear what I'm saying?" she snapped loudly into the receiver.

"Don't worry. I'll bury these butt worms. That's real talk," he said strongly.

"Do you require extra money?" she said strongly.

"I'm fine, sister," he stated strongly and hung-up.

Kirman his friend accustomed to roll with was on the cell phone.

"So what's up, bruh?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Hey, dog. I have already been checking a few of these homeboy's out. Now, Mr. Jattros is back in jail for sexual assault. Andrew Tarner was discovered outside his apartment dead, which could be gang, related. The talk is some booty-face poured Pennzoil down his throat. Everybody else is cool," he explained plainly.

"Not everybody here, brother. I do believe Miss Dunford is deceased," Keith said sadly.

"You find her body?" Kirman asked strongly.

"Hell yeh. Hella bad. Some screwball beat her bad and fried her in oil!" Jackson stated bluntly.

"This stuff sound real scandalous young-blood," Kirman said strongly.

"I expect you to get a couple of big punks to watch over Mrs. Dunford," Jackson stated sharply.

"Okay. Want me to come up there?" Kirman said strongly.

"No. Not yet," Keith snapped.

Jackson sat in his room for some time smoking crack cocaine and drinking gin. He seriously considered Miss Hixenbaugh's beautiful body. He hoped that body wasn't Miss Dunford. He so deeply wanted it to be somebody else. It had been very early. He took a long runny poop. He got just a little lonely and went up to Hixenbaugh's room. She liked to makelove. She made love to him just like a monster. Jackson liked women that like it rough.

Keith made love to while she made breakfast. They sat, eating Scrambled Eggs Archduchess, having gin in the nude. They'd made love again before he left.

Keith strolled right down to Jack Cassio's home transporting a Browning BDA .38 Super Auto at his side. It was windy with dirt blowing in his face. The house had maroon-coloring. He walked through the fence and down a pathway filled up with cracks. He beat on the door for twenty minutes. Then Mr. Cassio opened up the door. He was white with a shaved head, like skinhead. He wore a sumac-looking rayon shirt and tight white jeans.

"Dude, what hell is it?" he barked.

"Are you Cassio?" Jackson snapped.

"Hell, yes," Cassio said sharply.

"I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm a PI," he said strongly.

"Hey, homeboy. Dude, I don't dig real cops," Cassio stated dramatically.

"It's about Miss Dunford. She was possibly killed," Jackson stated regretfully.

"Oh, my God! Maya is definitely dead," Cassio said sadly. His face twisted in anguish. "Who would likely do this?"

"Dude, I was thinking you knew," Keith said strongly.

"Dude, I don't know. Dude, I didn't do it," Cassio stated firmly.

"I think your lying player. You were with her," Jackson said strongly. "She was killed last night."

"I was in Vegas, baby. And I can verify it, dog," Cassio said hotly with eyes sharping.

"Who in the hell are them guys?" Jackson snapped.

An ecru-looking 1978 Jaguar parked close by. A variety of dudes carrying semiautomatic weaponry started out strolling towards them with eyes smoldering.

"Holy molly, dude," Cassio said strongly, slamming the door in Jackson face.

As the shooting began, Jackson dove away from the door, into some bushes near by. He quickly rose to feet and began moving swiftly around the house as the men kept firing. There had been a concession of loud popping sounds in the night air. Bullets had been soaring everywhere. Out of all the commotion two guys dropped.

And then the shooting stopped. Jackson had leaped amazingly over the fence and hid by the empty doghouse with his gun. The moon shining he could see anybody who came into the yard. Next, he heard two loud explosions in the house. Then an Asian dude came out the back door. Jackson shot him dead in flight. And a Mexican dude who was climbing the fence was shot in the chest and face.

Jackson heard a Jaguar start. He swiftly hopped up and ran outside around the house. He fired a whole clip at the vehicle as it made an effort to drive away. His bullets must of got the person because the vehicle veered off the street and crashed into somebody's truck. He checked the driver a black man. He was dead. The driver of the truck was ok---little shook up. He ran into the house. He discovered cassio hiding underneath the sink having a bullet hold in the head and chest. He was dead too. Jackson took a face towel out of the bathroom and wrapped it around his arm to quit the bleeding. It was a flesh wound.

Well, Mr. Bill Nabong's was on Cachou Street. His house would be a small cerise-looking place with one-car-garage. There was big oak trees by the side of the house. There was an ice-blue Lithia parked in the front yard. Newspapers had been mounting up on this dude's porch. Jackson utilized lock-picks to get inside. The stench was nasty, just like ninety dead skunks. There was blood smeared all over the walls, which they call art these days. He found Nabong's body on the floor by the TV. He was definitely dead, with a bullet in the head and chest.

Jackson came back to his hotel room only to be given a thrashing by a big ash blond dude. He wouldn't give him time to recuperate. He just kept hitting him in the head and chest and throwing him around the room. He then stopped. The man stood there panting. Jackson had been on the floor panting too.

"What the hell, man?" Jackson snapped.

"The children belong to us?" the man said harshly with evil blue eyes.

"What children?" Jackson snapped, standing up.

"Go back to Reno!" the man said strongly.

"And if I don't?" Jackson said firmly.

"You'll wind up worst than that black woman!" the man said firmly.

"Slime you, punk," Jackson stated sharply.

The ash blond guy strolled up to him and grabbed him by the shirt. Jackson swiftly smacked him in the face with a hard right. The blow didn't seem to faze him he just hit Jackson back even harder. Following, he snapped up Jackson by the neck and squeezed. Jackson made an effort to break free, but couldn't because the man was so strong. He then made a decision to bring that right leg up into the man's nuts. The man whined and let go. Jackson jumped up, Kong fu kicked the man in the chest, and he fell back into the wall. Jackson walked over to the man and grabbed him up. When Jackson threw a punch, the man blocked it. He grabbed by the arm flung him over the bed and ran out of the room.

Jackson got up and limped after him. He heard footsteps going upstairs. So he followed. He found his firearm. When he got up on the roof, he saw the man tugging on a robe that didn't look to secure. It had been a construction site. They were doing some sort of work on the roof.

"Freeze butt worm!" Jackson stated hotly with the gun.

The man turned around for a second but wasn't afraid of the gun. Then turned back around and snapped up the rope to climb down. But the rope wasn't even attached to anything at all and the dumb fell to his death. Four police units turned up down below. Their lights flashed on the buildings. Jackson shoved his gun into his pocket and went downstairs.

Sgt. Sinko and four officers had been standing by the body. The body had been lying down on its backside. A lot of blood ran from his busted head.

"Now what went down?" Sgt. Sinko said sharply.

"This dude broke-in my room and began beating me. Then he ran upstairs and leaped to his death," Jackson explained crudely.

"A damn suicide?" one of the officers stated firmly.

"No, Dumb. The man attempted to get away by climbing down from the rope, yet it wasn't secure. You know what I mean?" Jackson said strongly.

"Go look it over," Sinko said strongly to the Mexican officer.

"The dude said they own the kids. This stuff may fit in with your missing person cases, baby," Jackson stated firmly.

"Who is this screwball?" Sinko snapped.

"Conrad Andrion," the white officer stated sharply.

"Do you recognize him?" Sinko asked sharply.

"Hell no. I've never seen this punk," Jackson said clearly.

"Dude, I really like the body count. You're some kinda gunslinger," Sinko said strongly with smirk.

"Dude, I was thinking you would bugger-eater. Those awful people were after Cassio---I just happened to be there," Jackson stated firmly.

"The dead black girl is or was Miss Maya Dunford. We've got a positive ID by fingerprints," Sinko said strongly, eating snot.

"Well, homeboy. Your task here is over," the white officer stated sharply.

"Not yet. Dude, it's only begun. I'd like Miss Dunford's killer," Jackson said clearly.

"Those men you wasted were child molesters," the Black officer stated firmly.

"What does this stuff have to do with Miss Dunford?" Sinko asked strongly.

"Bruh, I don't know yet I'm planning to find out," Jackson said strongly as he was walking off.

Jackson came by the Penbroke Coffeehouse to eat. He enjoyed a Croque Monsieur sandwich with fries. He drank two Cokes. He took three Fiorinal tablets for pain. For dessert, he ate Rocky Road Brownie Pizza. He proceeded to go downstairs to try out blackjack. There were only three other folks playing. He kept obtaining a great deal of low cards and hitting only to bust. The lovely cocktail lady brought him Jim Beam.

Well, he finally placed a beat-down on the clever dealer. He won $1,493.00. He lost a $156.00 in a dollar slot. He went along to the bar and kept drinking Jim Beam for awhile. He met this bookish-looking dude, around forty. He dressed in a dimity cinnabar-looking shirt and demin shorts. This dude had a cheerful expression. He drank Bud draft.

"Do you like kids?" he inquired happily.

"Love them. Yet I don't have any," Jackson stated strongly.

"Dude, I am talking about for lovers," he said sharply.

"Maybe," Keith snapped.

"Dude...I know exactly where beautiful boys and girls are generally. Would you like a taste?" he asked firmly with a big smile.

"For sure," Keith said strongly.

"Let's go to the bathroom, much more private," he stated strongly, strolling off to the restroom door.

Jackson followed. He wasn't sure why. They both took long pisses. They waited for everybody to go away. Next, he handed over a business card with the name Joanne Ierulli.

"Who is this lady?" Jackson asked sharply.

"The madam," he said strongly.

"Is this a child whorehouse?" Jackson said firmly.

"You could say that," he said, laughing.

"Do you suggest anybody?" Jackson asked.

"Josh is blond and delightful. Anytime I go there I make love and sniff his pretty little booty all night," he said strongly with delight.

"You sick slime-brain," Jackson stated harshly, punching him in the face.

The man's fist came back fast and harder. Jackson spit out blood to the floor. He charged the dude. He pushed him back into the stall, up against the wall. He punched the guy in the face his glasses flew off. He didn't give the poor man an opportunity to recuperate good. He stuck his head in the toilet for some time. It was full of piss and doo-doo. Next, he shoved the butt-brain into the sink. When Jackson attempted to grab up the man he kicked him in the stomach. Jackson keeled over down to his knees and threw up. While Jackson was on his knees, the man threw a left kick at his head. Jackson moved away to avoid it, slipping on Jackson vomit and the man flung down on his back.

Once Jackson got on top of him, he started feeding the man hard lefts and rights, blooding up his face real bad.

"You punk. You killed Miss Dunford. You child raping moron," Jackson stated ruthlessly and kept beating the dudes face in like some coked up animal until his eyeballs popped out, along with teeth, you could see his brains and blood leaked out of his mouth and ears.

Jackson stood there panting as he looked down at what appeared to be a clump of bloody flesh that was once a face. He threw up on the floor at the sight of it. He got up and weakly wandered out of the restroom, still panting. He left the casino and returned to the hotel.

He went up to Miss Hixenbaugh's room. They'd wild sex for a while. They rested, talking and drinking drank Crown Royal.

"You were such an animal," she stated sharply with great cheer.

"Baby, I don't like that. That sounds racist," he said strongly with a smirk.

"Dude, you know what I'm talking about?" she said strongly.

"Baby, it's just the way you said it," he said firmly.

"Man I'm sorry," she snapped.

"But you were great too!" he said strongly, lighting a joint.

"Dude, what the hell happened to you?" she asked firmly.

"I fell down outside someplace. But I'm sexy. I'm cool, baby," he said, trying to smile.

"Let me fix you up," she said softly.

"Hey, baby. I wish to certainly be a ghoul," Jackson said strongly, blowing smoke to the ceiling.

So she got some makeup from last years Halloween and fixed him up a bit. She wasn't quite sure why. So this dude ran around the hotel scaring everybody for awhile.

Jackson parked in front of Miss Joanne Ierlli's house a spooky-looking joint. One would think Boris Karloff resided in this joint. It took three hours to get out here. The nearest neighbor had been five miles away. Horse Chestnut trees surrounded the place. There were thousands of acres of green land with cattle and horses. So he got out of the car and strolled up to the door. He beat on the door. Next, the squeaky door opened up slowly. A woman about fifty stood by the door. Her hair was flaxen and crinkly. Her pea green eyes analyzed him acutely. She wore a black plus-size stretch woven shirt and cambric skirt.

"Is this the house of Joanne Ierulli?" he inquired sharply with a smile.

"That's right," she stated strongly in a creepy tone.

"I'm Tom Kucala. Baby, I really like to have sex with children. John Mendonza provided me with your card," Jackson said firmly, showing her.

"Well, you've arrived at the right spot. We've large selection of boys and girls---from age's four to twelve."

"That's real cool," Jackson said strongly with a big smile.

"I see you're all set for Halloween," she said strongly with a half grin.

"Hell yes," he snapped, beaming.

"I like your teeth. Are they real gold?" she said firmly with a smile.

"For sure," he said firmly.

"You want boy or girl?" she asked strongly, playing with her hair.

"Boy," he said.

"One thousand---payable right now," she barked, holding her hand out.

"Definitely," he said sharply.

"Wait here," she said strongly and her creepy butt ran off into the house.

Thirty minutes later on a big Tonga guy came out. He searched him for weaponry. He seemed disappointed not to locate any.

"Follow me bruh," he stated strongly, turning with his arms stretching inside. "You go first."

Jackson strolled through the house with the Tonga cat right behind. It had been somewhat dark and spooky. There was clearly a large number of men and women armed, just like these folks were guarding gold fortress. There were folks moving shopping carts full of candy, soda, cookies, McDonald's mini-meals, toys, electronic games and EX-BOX 360. The furniture was early-18th-century English style characterized by fine upholstery and wood inlays. There were hundreds of rooms. This big cat pointed to room 110.

"Here's your room, man," he stated strongly.

"Great," Jackson said calmly.

"No rough stuff," the Tonga dude stated greatly.

"I'm cool," Jackson stated sharply.

"You got three hours homeboy," he said sharply with a long stare.

"Dog, for $1,000?" Jackson snapped.

"This little dude is going to mess you up, bruh," he stated strongly, shutting him inside the room.

The room had been filled with toys. There was Game Boys, EX BOX 360s, PlayStation 3, Scooby-Doo books, Uncle Milton Planet Frog and Ant Farm Village. There was Wild Planet Spy Tracker System, Leap Frog stuff, Hulk-dolls, Spiderman-dolls, Furby, Monster High Dolls. There was LEGO Friends, Angry Birds Star Wars plush toys and battle games. There was Polly Pocket Wall Party Ultimate All-in-One Playset, Nerfoop, Figit Friends Yuppits, Nickelodeon Plush Bubble Guppies, Playskool Sesame Street LOL Elmo, MEGA BLOKS Skylanders Giants. There was Tablets for toddlers, including VTech's MobiGo 2 and InnoTab 2, and LeapFrog LeapPad 2, boys Stacker bikes, Snickers, Reeses, Gummy Bears, Brach's candy corn, Skittles, Starburst, Shasta soda, clothes, Elmer's Glue, Crayola markers, Fashion Notebook and many other kids stuff. A kid's fantasy comes true.

A lovely blond kid with bright blue eyes sat nude on a bed having Bailey's Point denim comforters. He smiled spastically.

"Are you the boogeyman?" he said firmly with a shy smile.

"Hell yes," Jackson stated strongly with a grin.

"Do you want to do the nasty?" the boy said strongly.

"Hell no!" Jackson shouted firmly scaring the kid.

"I will do my best to make you happy," the kid said strongly with his face growing haggard with worry.

"Like the other pedophile dirt-brains," Jackson said haughtily.

"Yes, sir," he snapped.

"How old are you, kid?" Jackson asked strongly.

"I'm eight," he said.

"How long have you been here?" Jackson said firmly munching on gummy bears.

"I don't know, sir," the kid said sharply, shaking his head.

"Where are your parents?" Jackson asked.

"My mommy's Joanne," the kid snapped.

"Joanne is surely an evil woman. She's not your real mother," Jackson said harshly.

His face grew chalky. "Who's my real mommy?"

"Dude, I'm planning to take you to her," Jackson stated strongly, eating a Snickers now.

"Why?" the boy said with a puzzled look.

"You can't stay here. Miss Ierulli will kill each and ever child that turns thirteen," Jackson said strongly.

"Dude, I love food and candy too much to leave," the kid said strongly.

"Slime all that. This is no place for a child. Do you ever go outside?" Jackson asked strongly drinking a Coke.

"No. Mommy doesn't let anyone go outside," he said sharply.

"These pedophiles don't love you. That's not the kinda love a boy and girl really need. You require a mother and father love. Go to school and play with other kids," Jackson stated strongly.

"Can I go home?" the boy said firmly with face drawn.

"Yep. I guarantee we'll find your real parents. Little-dude, I'm sure they miss you," Jackson said strongly.

"What about my friends?" the boy snapped.

"All those kids are coming too. Don't tell anybody our plans. I mean anybody. That big Tonga either!" Jackson said and finished his Coke.

Once the three hours were up the door opened up, and the Tonga dude came in.

"Let's go, homey," he stated firmly. "Did you have a good time?"

"For sure," Jackson said strongly with a smirk.

The Tonga dude closed the boy inside. He snapped up Jackson's arm squeezing it as he and forced him down the hallway. The place was beginning to smell like a hamburger joint. We stopped at the door.

"What's up, player?" Jackson said firmly with a grin.

"Take off the make-up, dog," the Tonga guy said sharply.

"Naw. I'm on my way to some Halloween party," Jackson said sharply.

"I don't care, bruh. Take off the stuff! Dog, I want to see your ugly face. The next time you return don't wear this," the Tonga guy said irately.

Jackson removed the make up on half of his face. The Tonga dude did the other side. He checked him again for hidden camera's and wires.

"Now, I got to go all the way home, to put it back on again," Jackson said hotly.

"Besides, you do look better with it on," the Tonga dude said strongly with a smile.

Next, this dude strolled in. He looked at Jackson's face. Just great! It was the dude with the rifle on top of the motel.

"Hey, man. What's this slime-breath doing here?" he said bluntly.

"You know this cat?" the Tonga dude snapped.

"Hell yes. He's that slimy PI who's searching for that black girl we fried the other night," he stated bluntly.

"Oh, yes?" the Tonga guy said.

"I'm certain of it," the man said strongly.

"You failed the mission, baby," the Tonga guy said bitterly. He got a lengthy knife from his back pocket. He jammed it into the stomach of this man. He pulled it up to his throat---blood, guts, stomach-contents spilled out onto the floor. At this stage, Jackson had run out of the house, before the man's body even dropped.

Jackson discovered his Buick threw up before he got inside and sped away from there fast. He didn't look back. Nobody chased after him. Once he got back into town, he called Sinko and told him everything. He snapped up his big sack of weapons from the hotel and was to meet Sinko at the courthouse.

Sinko left the Penbroke County Courthouse having a warrant and an army of officers. They all drove out to Miss Ierulli place armed and dangerous. Once they arrived, everybody took their positions outside the house. Jackson brought his babies---a CZ TT .45ACP and Glock Model 20 10mm.

Det. Vincent Herzbrun and Off. Gus Johnson went up to the door and knocked. Miss Ierulli opened up the door and Herzbrun served the warrant. The Tonga dude produced a Heckler & Koch HK53 5.56mm opened fire cutting both officers to pieces. Miss Ierulli slammed the door. Sinko ordered his officers to shot and they opened fire at the house for a while.

Some folks turned up on the roof. They immediately started shooting at the officers, cutting down several before Jackson opened fire from another angle killing a fat man and a woman that were doing all the heavy shooting. Sinko shot a black man and he fell off the roof. It had been a loud concession of popping and explosions through out. The noise was giving Jackson a headache. He threw up the rest of the candy. The bullets tore through the doors and windows.

"Are you crazy? They're kids in there," Jackson stated frigidly.

"Don't you believe I know this," Sgt. Sinko stated hotly.

"Then why were you shooting dumb booty-head?" Jackson snapped.

"You were shooting too!" Sinko said harshly.

"At the roof booty-breath. Not the windows and doors punk!" Jackson said defensively.

A side door opened up from the house and nude children ran out franticly, screaming. The pedophiles ran out---men and women of all ages. The sheriff's Dept. and NHP came to help. The guards were so busy shooting at law enforcement they didn't notice the kids running from the place.

Once they had been confident, the majority of the kids got out officers fired teargas. Later a few of the guards ran out---men and women. Some of them fired at the police. Officer Quinden cut them down with an M-16 5.56mm. A female sheriff shot straight down a Mexican who shot a NHP officer. A NHP officer shot a liver-spotted man in the walnuts and chest, killing him. The rest of the guards came out with there hands up, strolling towards the police, looking defeated. The shootout lasted three hours.

"Jackson, this is the biggest case I've ever solved," Sinko stated happily with a look of bliss.

"The biggest missing persons case that I solved, bruh. Dude, I put this little town on the map," Jackson stated sharply.

"We both did it. We thank you for your help," Sinko said strongly with a smirk.

"For sure," Jackson said.

"We found that boy in your bed. He had been lying down in a gutter on the outside of town," Sinko said sadly.

"Great. Now, I'm not a raven lunatic," Jackson stated strongly.

"Why did they kill Miss Dunford?" Sinko inquired strongly eating his nose.

"Man...don't you get full of eating buggers!"

"Never my friend. So delicious!" Sinko said happily licking his lips.

"She loved to take photos of scary stuff. Somehow, she discovered this spooky house her dream come true. She didn't realize this had been a children's whorehouse for pedophiles. So they killed her to keep their secret," Jackson explained clearly.

"How did they burn her?" Sinko said firmly.

"Well, they got a huge fryer in the kitchen. They cook hamburgers and fries all day. They stuffed Dunfords in there. These people come off as real psycho-poops," Jackson explained strongly.

"Dude, I'd have never thought of such a horrible place would ever exist. I didn't even know there were anyplace out here but farms," Sinko stated bitterly, shaking his head.

"Well, Miss Dunford didn't die in vein she may have saved the lives of many children," Jackson stated strongly.

The police accumulated at least 501 boys and 478 girls, all under 13 years of age. There were still many kids missing.

Sadly, 27 police officers, 12 women, 18 men, 7 kids and 10 pedophiles lost their lives in this gun battle.

Unsurprisingly, this old creepy house had been here since 1872. Miss Joanne Ierulli's family started out pimping kids ever since then. There a lot of kids murdered after they reached 14 years. Not a counting for the brave ones who made an effort to escape and had been captured. They dug up her huge backyard. They discovered hundreds of bodies dating back to more than 100 years. Also many of them were slaves too. It will require years and years to identify all the remains.

Miss Joanne Ierulli faced the death penalty for multiple counts of murder. And kidnapping, child endangerment, child molestation, child pornography, child abuse and prostitution.

# Chapter 2: Anzugto's Graveyard

Mr. Parnell Anzugto had been digging a hole on the large field off 4th Street. He'd cease from time to time to get rid of sweat from his forehead. It had been not easy to believe a man in his seventies could possibly dig such a deep hole. He was baldheaded, with striking green eyes and thin lips. He wore a T-shirt and old white pants, discolored with brown paint. The night sky was black, but with a moon glowing on him, he didn't require a flashlight.

Mr. Anzugto stopped excavating, after the ditch had been deep enough, and then threw aside the shovel. He had taken a lengthy suck from a bottle of Bacardi. And got down on his knees to capture his breath. He'd to rush, knowing that his lovely wife had dinner on the stove. The ditch, the trunk open, parked his white 1994 Caddy. He slowly and gradually rose to his feet, wincing. He strolled up to the car trunk. He pulled out a body; a snarl of agony spread over his face as he dragged it to the hole, and then pushed it into the hole.

It took Anzugto another hour or so to cover the hole. He took a long guzzle from the rum bottle, grabbing hold of his chest, panting. The dearly departed man was his tenant, Michael Sharp. Anzugto had gone into Sharp's home with a passkey, carrying a .32 Cougar using a silencer and fired two shots into his tenant's chest. He discovered the guy was registered sex offender and with no family or friends, Anzugto had been sure no one would miss the dead man. He thought he would be giving worried parents and children all over the world a big service. He got into his Caddy and drove off.

The fields off 4th Street were an area with limitless acres of dirt. It had been an abandoned place, and no one ever visited, an ideal spot to dispose of a bodies. Not anyone would be caught dead up there during the night. Perfect. Occasionally young people cut class and went up there to have sex and smoke dope. Because the ground was littered with candy wrappers, used condoms and empty beer cans.

Parnell Anzugto was in a fit condition for his age. He'd a membership at 24-Hour Fitness. He spoke both English and Spanish. Married to Paula Millet, they'd three grown children and four grandchildren. He ended up being an accomplished man having served in Korea as a pilot. He held a degree in business and at present owned casinos, restaurants and apartments.

As a pilot in the war, he'd been the leader of his regiment and completed hundreds of missions efficiently. He did observe a lot of his close friends die. It afflicted him profoundly. He left Korea as a war hero. Most of the men served under him loved and highly regarded him. Nevertheless, the war modified him. He wasn't quite the same person ever again. He was consuming a lot of rum and using Paregoric.

Mr. Anzugto had been in trouble. In 1964, he attacked a woman on the street for no apparent reason. In 1967, he shoved and kicked a black man nearly to death because he didn't want him in his casino. In 1972, he had been sued, when he declined to rent a house to a heavy-set woman with dwarf husband. In 1977, he brought a gambling establishment and fired three Mexican women, simply because they refuse to have sex with him. In 1985, he drastically beat a gay man, who rented a condo from him, because he didn't like the man flirting with him all the time. He spent some time in a mental hospital for evaluation. He ended up being charged with assaulting a black tenant, Nancy Evans, due to the fact she wouldn't make love to him. He dumped her unconscious and naked body on a snowy hill in Sun Valley, Nevada. She survived, suffering only frostbites on her toes and fingers. Miss Evans Attorney sued for $3 million, but acquired merely $150 thousand. He released acid through the apartment of a tenant, Fausto Oraftik, dissolving him completely because he wouldn't laugh at the landlord's pranks. He forced another tenant, Charles Oats, to eat his entire families' bowels and pets at gunpoint, simply because he didn't like Mr. Oates visiting the beautiful blond next door all the time.

Mr. Anzugto was sued several instances. Even though reported to the BBB, he still held a business license. The Haven Apartments seemed to be his baby---seven nicely painted buildings: ten units in each, five one- bedrooms, five two-bedrooms. He'd paid a lot more than $3 million for the apartments and signed a legal contract with the Housing Authority. The buildings were painted brownish-yellow with doors in dark chocolate. The apartments acquired both good and poor qualities: plenty of parking, a tiny Laundromat, yet no recreation, no pool. Three big trees stood in front of each building with shrubberies and green grass everywhere. Two barbecue grills were provided for each building, and a giant yellow Dumpster was in the back.

The following victim was Eliza Bohn, a forty-four-year-old with real short black hair, with blond strips and a hard-looking face. She lived in a one-bedroom unit in building 2130, unit 6. She let drunk-ass Mr. Anzugto into her apartment for tea and cookies. He had taken an immediate dislike to her in an unsightly dress with flowers and had dreadful body odor.

"Baby, I hate to toss you out," Mr. Anzugto stated regrettably with a half smile. "I really like you. However, this is a business. Man, I've a family to feed, and you're three months behind."

"Dude, I know, sir," she said slowly with a frown. "Things happen to be pretty rough, but I'll get your money. I'll ask my mom."

He held his empty cup in the air. "Can I have some more?"

"Sure," she stated politely.

She grabbed his cup and went along to the kitchen. Mr. Anzugto leaped from his chair and followed her. He had taken out a small hammer from his pocket; he raised it and struck her on the back of her head, leaving a nasty gash. Blood spurted in his face and on the wall behind. She hadn't seen the blow coming, and dropped to her knees and made an effort to fight back. He made ten up-and-down motions with the hammer to her skull, right up until she appeared to be dead. He spent several hours cleaning up the evidence. He wrapped the body in a carpet and utilized a dolly to haul it to his truck and dump it.

Anzugto buried Miss Bohn in a hole away from 4th Street, then went home and slept just like a baby. She'd no friends or relatives, so the Reno police finally gave up on the case.

A black man, Eddie James, lived in building 2110, unit 3. He constantly wore poor clothes and heard voices. He had no family, no friends and liked McDonald's food. About the third of the month his Social Security check didn't come. Okay fine, however it didn't come on the fourth or fifth, either. When he told Anzugto on his cell, the landlord said, "Don't concern yourself with it." Two month later, he had been caught up on his rent. Mr. James purchased a new computer and played his stereo a little loud, so a neighbor complained. One night Anzugto snuck into Mr. James' bedroom, exactly where he was sound asleep. Anzugto put a pillow over his face, and fired two shots from a Browning Baby .25 auto into it. James seemed to be dead in a second.

Anzugto's rage had taken on a new high-drunk and loaded with Quaaludes, when he began dusting off entire families. One night Anzugto and two Mexicans high on atropine and drunk off Chivas Regal, barged into apartment 2214, unit 1, equipped with firearms. Kelly Woodlief, her boyfriend, Don Horta and three kids, Justin, Bree and Randy were all sleep. They awakened with guns in their faces. In shock, the youngsters began screaming.

"What's this?" Horta asked bitterly.

"Dude, I want all my money," Anzugto stated hotly. "You're six months late."

"That's a lie. We already paid you, sir," she pleaded.

"Dude, I want more money, man!" Mr. Anzugto said boldly.

"You'll get your money," Miss Woodlief pleaded.

"Get that gun out of those kid's face," Horta urged. "Are you crazy?"

"Dude, I don't like the fact you've such a pretty daughter," Mr. Anzugto said sarcastically.

"Dude...you're doing all this because of that," Horta said firmly.

"Yeh, because my wife never gave me any girls, only boys," Mr. Anzugto said clearly.

"Dude, you're messed up," Horta said highly.

"Get dressed. We're going for a ride," Anzugto ordered, guzzling Chivas Regal.

"We're not going anywhere, old man," Horta snapped, giving him an evil eye.

"Well then, I'll kill all of you here," Anzugto said, looking venomously at them.

The Mexicans manhandled Bree into the bathroom. Horta and Kelly fought.

"They'll rape and kill her, if you don't come quietly," the landlord insisted.

"Anything you say," Horta said weakly. "Dude, don't hurt the children!"

At gunpoint, they marched the family out, all in tears. They shoved them into the truck bed and drove off, heading for South Virginia, with the Mexicans holding weapons on them, as the children cried. They drove slowly---no traffic, no police. They had taken the interstate right down to the West highway, which goes to Sacramento. They exited on 4th Street, drove a mile, and then turned off onto a dirt road. Somewhat farther along, they halted in front of a hole and forced everybody out of the truck. The Woodlief Family lined up against a dirt hill. Anzugto and Mexican dudes stood a few feet back, aimed their guns at the family, and opened fire. Bullets ripped through the bodies, blood bursting just like a faucet. Bodies dropped to the ground and the shooting stopped, however the odor of gunpowder hung in the air. The Mexicans examined the bodies to make certain everybody was deceased, then dumped them into the hole and poured a whole bottle of Chivas Regal on them, threw a match and watched their bodies' burn

Mr. Anzugto and the Mexicans watched, laughing. Mr. Anzugto, his son Tony and the Mexicans cleaned out Woodlief's apartment and sold everything. They moved in another poor family.

The Sanchez family lost their housing assistance. Ada Sanchez had a daughter Marisa and two young sons. Frankie and Juan. They lived in building 2075, unit 8. Miss Sanchez got behind in rent---way behind. Yet what truly fueled Mr. Anzugto had been that Miss Sanchez stopped him and his son from raping Marisa anytime they felt like it. He and two Mexican men armed with bats forced the family out of their apartment, kicking and screaming. They took them to the holes on 4th Street and started busting them with the bats. Loud screaming and begging followed, all bloody, yet still alive, they were plunked into the hole, and covered up.

Many months later on Miss Bohn's mother, Mae Ann Bohn, turned up. She was a gray-haired woman, sporting a light-brown suit from the forties with a pit-bull face. She moved about with the aid of a cane. She confronted Mr. Anzugto about her daughter.

"I told you, Ms. Bohn. Your daughter went away with a man...said she was in love," Mr. Anzugto stated greatly, frowning.

Her mother gave him a furtive look. "What man?"

"A man...young and kind of handsome," Mr. Anzugto stated securely.

"That's a lie," she said bitterly with an evil glance. "She's a lesbian. All of her existence she's been attracted to girls."

"Who cares?" he stated acidly. "She's long gone. Now, excuse me, yet I've got a business to operate." He wandered away.

She stood there, screaming and cursing. Mr. Anzugto got in his Caddy. Tires spinning, he pulled out of the driveway. Ms. Bohn called the cops on her cell phone. They spoke with Mr. Anzugto's son, but he wasn't beneficial. He enable the police question the renters, however they suspected nothing or were too afraid to talk if they did. The law didn't have enough evidence to search. When the cops left, Ms. Bohn cried, as the case had been closed. Anzugto and his son rejoiced.

Quite a while later on Anzugto's had been finally caught dumping a body onto the side of the rode. It had been his wife. Once she discovered just what he was doing, she wasn't a really good sport about it and refuse to cook him breakfast. The jury found Mr. Anzugto, his son and the Mexicans insane and ended up being delivered to a Nevada mental hospital for the rest of their lives. At Anzugto's Graveyard, the bodies had been dug up and given proper burials.

# Chapter 3: The Wife's Bullet

"Howdy," the sheriff stated happily.

"What's happening, baby?" the driver said strongly.

"Why are you in a rush, boy?" the sheriff said hotly.

"I have a sickly wife," the driver said regrettably.

"I see," the sheriff said strongly, nodding. "What are you doing in my town?"

"For some medicine," the driver snapped.

"Brother...lets see the medicine and invoice," the sheriff ordered harshly, holding his hand out.

"I didn't get it. Evidently you're sold out," he stated hotly.

"From the looks of you boy you look just like you came here to score some drugs or rip my town off," the sheriff said strongly.

"Hell no, sir. But you're breath smells just like whiskey. When did Sheriff's start drinking?" the driver snapped.

"Dude, I ask the question boy." The sheriff stated gruffly.

"Just give me my ticket so I can go." The driver stated sharply, regarding bitterly.

"Can I see your driver's license?" The sheriff stated strongly, looking over him as if he saw dirt on his new carpet.

"Sure sheriff. But...please don't shoot me," he said sharply, slowly reaching in his pocket and produced a driver's license. He passed it to the sheriff. He viewed it very carefully.

"Did you know you nearly struck that little girl riding a bicycle?" the sheriff snapped, handing him back his license.

The man's name was in fact Tony William.

"There wasn't any girl," William said strongly to him.

"Calling me a liar, homeboy?" the sheriff snapped.

"No, sir," William said sharply.

"Get your black butt out from the car, now!" the sheriff stated crudely.

"Man, I didn't break any kind of laws, sir," William said sharply with eyes narrowing with disgust.

"You got drugs in your car," the sheriff said indignantly.

"No," William snapped.

"Let me see now boy. Be quick right now," the sheriff stated harshly and threw his registration card at him. Then press the gun barrel against his face.

"No, sheriff. I don't have drugs. Due to the fact I'm black doesn't mean I'm a thug...and sell drugs. Now, will you get that gun out of my face?" William ordered harshly as his face stricken.

"Step out of the vehicle! Come on...move!" the sheriff barked, stepping back from the door.

William opened up the door slowly slid off the seat and rose up to his feet.

"Just give me the ticket so you can kiss my Arkansas butt good bye!" William stated venomously to the sheriff.

The sheriff grabbed his arm and flung him around so he was facing the back door. The sheriff shoved William against the vehicle a couple of times as William grunted.

"Put both your hands behind your back, boy!" The sheriff said strongly. "This ought to be nothing new to you."

"Up yours dude," Mr. William snapped.

The sheriff hit him in the back of the head with the gun barrel. The man rapidly flipped around, snapped up the gun...but the sheriff wouldn't let go which followed was a serious struggle. The strong black man brought the big sheriff down to the ground on top of the gun. Then there were to loud pops like a firecracker and the sheriff rolled off. William lay still not moving with to large bullet holes to the chest. William wasn't breathing and seemed to be very dead. The sheriff had taken the four thousand dollars in cash that William had and shoved it into his pockets.

Sheriff Ermer Bigneck dragged Mr. William's body up to the trunk of his car, tossed it in, and closed the trunk. Afterwards he'd a tow truck get rid of William's vehicle.

Subsequently the hog face sheriff dumped William's body in a hole at the edge of town.

Cripple Creek was a small town, of 300 hundred folks. There was clearly just one black family. Four Mexicans and two Asian families.

Ermer stopped another vehicle with an interracial couple with kids passing through town.

"Children...my foot! Those are little half-breed animals," Ermer stated dramatically as his lips curled in disgust.

"You frog-brain,"the black man said defensively.

"Get your stinking butts out from the vehicle and start strolling," the sheriff snapped.

"Are you kidding?" The white woman said hotly.

The sheriff fired two warning shots in the air.

"Baby, does it look like I'm kidding?" the sheriff said harshly.

Everybody quickly hurried out of the car as the kids screamed franticly because their parent's practically pulled off their arms dragging them out of the vehicle. The couple had gone through racism in the past by police but never like this.

"Now give me everything you own or I'll kill all of these nasty kids," the sheriff said strongly with a horrible tone like he really meant it.

"Yes sheriff. Anything you say," the couple said sharply as their eyes took on a hunted look.

Well the terrified couple had granted the sheriff their car and all their cash before he allow them leave town. He managed to obtain $24,145.23 from them. The vehicle could go for five Gs.

The sheriff resided in a large brown house on the border of town. He'd a lovely, chubby wife...her name was Flow---his two sons were Toe Boy and Fess Roy. All of them had a genuine down to earth farming look to them. They ate Southern fried chicken for supper, each and every Thursday night.

"Well, dear, you're up for reelection," Flow remarked happily.

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" Mr. Bigneck said cheerfully.

"You're up against Mr. Rathers Mott. Isn't he black?" she asked clearly.

"So what? Dear...a man's skin doesn't matter nowadays. So he's African American, he could be purple or red, it wouldn't make a bit of different." The sheriff stated strongly, biting into a drumstick.

"You're not afraid?" Flow inquired strongly, drinking milk.

"Why should I be? I've been examining the polls...I'm leading. And...you know why? Since the two years I've already been sheriff crime has remained low. Cripple Creek has produced a huge amount of funds, as a result of tougher crime laws," he stated boldly, washing his food down with beer. "This fantastic towns likely to be back on it's feet in no time flat."

"Hey, dad, you have done a great deal for this town. Cripple Creek owes you plenty," Fess said cheerfully, as he took the final bite of spinach.

Toe stood up and wiped his face with his arm.

"Are you done, son?" the sheriff asked firmly.

"Yes, sir. I would like to go beat Antrawn in PlayStation 3, NFL," he said strongly.

"You finish all of your vegetables boy?" the sheriff said strongly.

"Yes, sir. See papa!" Toe said sharply with a smile.

"Okay, boy. You can go!" the sheriff said strongly with a smirk.

So Toe ran off, through the living room and the door made a loud smash behind him.

"That boy has sure grown." Ermer said cheerfully picking his teeth.

Fess finished his supper and left the table too.

"It's that girl---Maria. I do believe she's a little old," Flow said sadly with a worried look on her face.

"Nah. I do think Maria's fine gal. She'll make Tess a fine wife someday," he said with a smile.

The sheriff and Flow made an effort to have sex, but things didn't go so good. So Elmer rolled his fat butt off and went to sleep.

The sheriff stopped an old black woman driving a white Lexus. As soon as he ordered her to pay $2,000 for a bogus traffic ticket, poor old woman kneeled over and died. He dumped the body in a hole outside of town and sold the vehicle for $9,278.00.

The sheriff had been stoned on Atropine and Budweiser when he pulled over a Chevy Silverado, having three young Mexicans. He ordered the Mexicans to get out. And he phoned his deputy to help. The three men stood there terrified smelling of marijuana and tequila. When his deputy arrived, he searched the truck and found large bags of marijuana, cash, four bottles of tequila and cocaine.

"Well...look what we have here," he stated strongly with a sly grin, waving the bag of marijuana in front of his deputy and the Mexicans began to looked sick.

"Hey, wait a minute. That's not ours. We never seen that in our lives..."the older Mexican said strongly as his lips twitched.

"Hey, sheriff, you planted that stuff there." The younger Mexican said bluntly to him.

"You're calling my boss a liar, homeboy?" the deputy said savagely, punching the man in the gut.

"That's my little brother, pig," the older Mexican said defensively, launching at the deputy and was hit in the face with his rifle.

"You guys better cool it," Elmer ordered harshly. "Don't let me spread your carcasses all over this road."

"Just take it all dude," the older Mexican said fiercely.

"That's what we plan to do boys," Elmer said sharply savoring every minute of this scenario.

At gunpoint, the Mexicans had been instructed to drop to their knees and place their hands behind their backs. The deputy put handcuffs on the men. The sheriff read them their rights. Then they were forced into the squad car. Then they were driven to a location surrounded by buildings. Next, they were forced to line up behind a brick building. The sheriff and deputy opened fire ripping the Mexican's bodies to pieces with bullets. When they were sure the men were dead their bullet riddled bloody bodies were dumped in a big hole near by and set fire.

The sheriff station was a small building, painted dark peach. The floors were made of cheap wood and badly squeaked whenever walked on. The walls were no better. Everything had been old dusty and cheaply manufactured. This included fax machines, computers, and filing cabinets. There was an old color TV, sticking out of a wall, screen flickering. There was a small toilet in the back overflowing with doo-doo. A giant cell, full of crazy whores mostly Mexicans and blacks. These folks were cheerful smoking weed and drinking Olde English. His deputies' name was Vince Tange, a big Indian. He stood 6 foot 5 inches, 236 pounds, built powerful...and seemed somewhat dumb. He has a white wife and three children.

A handful of properly dressed up men came in. One was black and the other was white. The sheriff had taken a lengthy gaze at the black man. He seemed to fear black men greatly. They struggled to harry around big expensive cameras.

"Well, boys. Exactly what can I do for you?" The sheriff said strongly with a smile.

"How do you do? I'm Fred Wicker and this is my partner Rampel Maftall. We're your photographers," Mr. Wicker said cheerfully. They both took turns shaking the sheriff's hand.

"Great. Come over here...I would like you to catch me in front of my desk," Ermer said strongly with a big smile as he moved from around his desk.

Both men took turns snapping photos of the sheriff. He made several unique poses friendly yet mainly frightening having scared the photographers.

"Dude, I would like to let the voters and also the criminals---I want them to understand I mean business in this town. Man, I don't mess around! That's why I had been voted in this office two terms already," the sheriff stated firmly.

Well photographers came across as truly convince. They had taken much more pictures right up until the sheriff suggested they pack it in.

"You guys make sure you cast your vote my way, you hear?" he said sharply with a grin.

"Oh, yeah, sheriff. You can count on our vote. The way you dealt with crime this year---you're the most effective candidate for this valuable position. Keep up the good work, we hope your campaign goes well," they said happily as they headed for the door.

"Thanks a lot, gentlemen," the sheriff said calmly as he waved.

Who is the sheriff? Well this old fat dude was born Ermer Wheeler Bigneck here in Cripple Creek, yet he went along to school in Reno, San Diego and Los Angeles. He got a degree in criminology and joined up with the LAPD...made Sergeant swiftly. Once he found out the mayor of Cripple Creek, Ronald Forsyth, term was in fact ending---he didn't intend to run again. Bigneck thirstily ran for mayor but lost, not even close. Angry and bewildered, he returned to policing at LAPD right up until Sheriff Aart Torres of Cripple Creek chose to retire but many folks believe it was because of cancer. That opened the door for Bigneck. He campaigned hard, spending a lot of time from work and family. He won in a landslide, beating some funky northerner with no political record. He met and married Flow Sayles, daughter of a local painter. Bigneck had served in the Gulf War. He had been a bad MP, and had a fantastic arrest record.

Sheriff Ermer Bigneck sat in his squad car watching Cripple Creek's Department store drinking from a longneck bottle of Budweiser. He already smoked a couple of joints and eaten four sub sandwiches. A red-haired fat lady came out, having a shapeless figure, sporting a pink dress, accompanied by a dark-skinned gentleman---dressed for a trip to Hawaii, transported large bags to a 2009 blue Cadillac.

The Caddy headed out of town swiftly with loud rap music coming from it. The sheriff followed. Just before they reached the edge of town, loud sirens came from the sheriff's vehicle, forcing the caddy to pull over to the side of the road. He got out of his vehicle, removed his pistol from it's holster, hustled up to the rear of the Caddy just like a raving Nazi. He kicked the left taillight right up until it crack and fell to the ground. Then moved over to the left window of the vehicle, where he saw a black man grinning.

"What can I do for you, sheriff?" he said strongly with a big grin.

"Hey, y'all. Dude, I need to see a driver's license and registration," the sheriff stated strongly.

"What did I do?" The black man asked his face turned serious as he retrieved the registration and license.

"Did you realize you've got a smashed taillight?" Bigneck asked strongly pointing towards the rear of the vehicle.

"No, I didn't. In fact, I'm sure I didn't." the black man stated sharply, handing over both license and registration.

"Are you calling me a liar, sir?" Ermer inquired maliciously, studying the two cards carefully.

"No, sir," he said seriously.

"Why don't you come out and see for yourself," the sheriff stated harshly, handing back both cards and then moved back from vehicle.

"Why are you pointing a firearm at us?" complained the woman.

"Just take it easy, ma'ma," the sheriff said strongly.

The black man got out of the vehicle just like he had been advised without argument. Ermer followed the black man to the rear of the vehicle. The black man was in shock once he saw what the sheriff said was in fact true.

"What the hell is this? You---you did this on purpose," the black man said hotly.

"Relax---relax, boy." Ermer said boldly.

The black man shook his head with frustration. "That's why I despise coming to these towns...always hassling us black folks," he said frigidly, walking back to the left side of the door.

"You got any cash boy? You've got any kind of jewelry. If you give me everything you got I'll just forget about all this stuff," the sheriff stated calmly.

"You racist..." the lady shouted firmly.

"Come on people your possessions...are they that important?" The sheriff snapped.

"This is scandalous. This just isn't the law. We're law biding citizens," the white woman said sharply in tears.

"Stop your tripping. Give me the money, jewelry and your vehicle so I can go bums. My wife has dinner waiting baby," the sheriff said firmly. "This is my town, punk. Boy, I run it any way I see fit."

Well the tearful couple finally gave in handing over everything.

"That's everything, sir," the black man stated sadly.

"Thank ya, son. If I catch you in this town, again...I'll carry out the same thing. You folks have a nice day now!" the sheriff said strongly.

Both of them wandered out of town weeping with all the clothes on their back. The sheriff pocketed over $46,738.78.

Throughout the last couple of weeks, the sheriff had stopped a huge selection of motorist, passing through Cripple Creek. He seized jewelry, cash, weapons, and drugs---even expensive vehicles. The majority of the folks had been blacks---some Mexicans---even if they were with white passengers it didn't matter. The sheriff wasn't prejudice, he thought. He just believed that blacks had been usually up to no good and didn't think it was proper for them to be in the company of white females either. He believed this has been a sensible way to generate profits since the government wasn't helping too much because it was run by Negros and Jews. He didn't think he was doing anything terribly wrong since he believe the folks were scum.

The sheriff began preparing for his campaign for a reelection. He gave a series of fiery bull speeches.

Subsequent day, the sheriff stood on a large platform in downtown Cripple Creek sporting a third-rate uniform. He was truly drunk and possibly high on bufotenine yet continued to speak. The dudes words were slurred, yet understood by the anxious audience supplying huge applauses. This time he gave an even more bull speech focused on many topics but clearly leaning much more on ending crime. The massive crowd chanted at his each and every word. KTYD News 4 was in fact there, (they covered nearly all of his campaign), and KITY News 8, Fox News 11. There were numerous folks having camera phones and camcorders.

Right after the sheriff's address, he spent a couple of hours shaking everyone's hand. An unhappy dark-skinned woman donning a red blouse and blue jeans approached him.

"Hello, sheriff. I loved your speech," she said strongly with a half smile.

"I did, too," he stated cheerfully, grinning.

"How about lunch?" she said sharply.

"My dear lady...I'm married. Baby, I don't do those sort of things," the sheriff stated strongly using a short chuckle.

"Big-dog, I observed you shoot down that black man---Williams in cold blood," she stated sharply with a sly glance.

"What is this? Blackmail?" he snapped.

"Call it anything you like. I know you don't wish to chat in front of these folks." She pushed him up to a private spot away from the audience. "Don't play games with me sheriff. I've got it all on video tape. I'd like a million dollars, or the video tape goes to the media. You feel me? I'll be having lunch in the Cripple Creek Café."

"Million? That much---it might take me a bit of time," he explained strongly, frowning.

"You've got an hour baby. Incidentally William was in fact my brother fat ugly frog-breath," she stated defensively.

"You'll bring the original?" he snapped.

"Sure, and there's no copies," she snapped.

"Okay, one million. No more, I mean it. You crazy girl!" he stated strongly.

"You've got my word. Let's go, we're wasting time. You'd better not tell anybody, alert anyone---I'd better not see any police, in the café, or anywhere near or around, or you're finished butt worm. You feel me?" she said vociferously.

"Yes, baby," he said weakly.

The sheriff snapped up a million from the property room, funds from a recent drug bust. On his way over there, he'd considered doing away with this broad. Nevertheless, he definitely couldn't get it done in the café. As soon as he got up to the café, the woman had eaten half of her cheeseburger.

"You're just the man I want to see," she stated cheerfully, sipped her diet Coke.

"Where is the video tape?" the sheriff asked strongly, setting down the briefcase on the table and opened it.

She looked at the cash her eyes illuminated just like it was the most money she'd seen in her life. When she nodded and gave a satisfied look, he closed the briefcase.

"You're beautiful baby," she said sharply with a big smile.

"Where is the video tape baby?" he snapped.

"Easy fat boy. I might keep blackmailing you. Due to the fact all the money in the world won't bring back my brother," she said harshly as she began to sob.

"Why are you such a conniving girl?" he asked brazenly.

"You killed my brother punk. So that gives me the right hillbilly," she said sarcastically.

"Baby-girl, I tell you it was an accident---an accident! He grabbed my gun..."

"Why would you pull a gun on my brother? Simply because he's black? Come on, sheriff. Do you truly believe I'm that dumb? I know how you KKK bums roll out here," she said defensively.

"All right you've made your point. Give me the disc! Get your ass out of my town!" he said hotly.

She removed a DVD from her tote and handed it to the sheriff. She snapped up the briefcase and stood up.

"See you in hell fatso," she stated ruthlessly and stormed out.

The sheriff observed her leave. She got into a silver Caddy and was on course out of town. Ermer phoned his deputy and told him that a black woman driving a silver Caddy stole a million dollars from Cripple Creek bank.

Deputy Tange stopped her close to the fringe of town. Bigneck turned up shortly parking behind Tange's vehicle. He got out and strolled over to Tange who had Miss William in handcuffs (she was in tears) leaning against Tange's squad car.

"Good work. Dude, I'll handle this. You've got the money?" Ermer asked firmly.

"Yes, sheriff," Tange said sharply, seizing the case from his vehicle and gave it to the sheriff.

"You racist frog-poops...you won't get away with this. You killed my brother. You must pay," she said sardonically as she cried.

"Shut your mouth, child," the sheriff said bluntly as he smacked her in the face and she spat at him. "Take the money back to the office," he stated firmly to Tange.

"Okay, sheriff," he said firmly.

Miss William put up a battle as the sheriff forced her into the trunk of his vehicle. The sheriff drove over to a remote area, far away from town, or anyone. He listened to Miss Williams' threats while chuckling the whole time.

The sheriff dragged Miss William from out of the trunk. She was in fact screaming and kicking. "You're likely to meet your brother, in hell---baby!" He forced her straight down on her stomach, placed his knee in her back, and her face down in the dirt. He then took a large stone, and started smashing her head in, laughing hysterically as blood spattered in his fat face. Once he realized she was deceased, he dumped her lifeless body in a hole and threw up on her. The fear and the booze took it's toll. He covered the hole up.

The sheriff impounded Miss William's vehicle, searched it...discovered that there wasn't anything in it. He delivered the vehicle to Cripple Creek Auto Yard...to be dismantled.

The DVD had practically nothing on it. It had been worthless.

The sheriff helped a couple of black kids that were stuck in a tree.

On Election Day Bigneck sat in the office along with deputy Tange viewing the results on television. "Looks just like you got it in the bag, sheriff," Deputy Tange said cheerfully at the Television set, drinking Bud.

"I'm not prepared for a victory speech yet. Three hundred votes for me, good. Seventy votes for my friend, Mr. Mott. There's still plenty of election left," the sheriff strongly, snorting cocaine lines spread out on his desk.

By the end of the day, the election was in fact over. All of the ballots had been counted for. The sheriff won by an over whelming victory---2710 to 862. The sheriff and his family went along to a fancy restaurant ate a lot of seafood, and drink a lot of wine.

Several hours later on, the potbelly, hella stoned sheriff was in fact back on the platform...to convey his gratitude for the folks voting him into office for a fifth term---he did congratulate Mott for a great race and wished him well. He looked straight down at many happy faces---people screaming at him and chanting. He gave his best triumph speech ever. He then shook hands right up until daybreak. There were fireworks. And great folk music. Folks were cheering and dancing drunkenly through the night and day.

A few weeks later on the sheriff had been relaxing in his Jeep Cherokee, chugging on a bottle of Vodka using a speed gun. A purple Jetta flew just like lightening past him. The speed gun read 114 mph. The fat sheriff jerked into alertness and he chucked the bottle aside. Then he did the same for the speed gun. Then he slammed the vehicle into gear, his big foot squashed the accelerator, and the jeep jerked onward knocking the sheriff back into the seat. Tires spinning kicked dirt fifty feet into the air. The sheriff snapped the lights and sirens on. Yet the Jetta was in fact slowing instead of speeding up.

The Jetta stopped close to the borderline. The sheriff pulled up behind it, parking. He forced his big body out of his vehicle, removing his pistol...he moved swiftly to the left window. Due to the fact he spotted an African American woman behind the wheel, he was in fact ready to use his pistol. Once he got to the window and Halley Berry-looking black chick sat there relaxed. He looked inside at a big-face blond with blue eyes.

"Well, hello, ma'am," the sheriff said stiffly with his gun at his side.

"Hello, sheriff. How are you?" She stated calmly with a smile.

"Are you in a hurry, ma'am? Did you know you were doing over seventy miles in hour? That kind of speed is incredibly dangerous in Cripple Creek," the sheriff said sharply with a grin.

"I'm sorry, sheriff. Well Big-dog I was merely testing out my new car," the black woman stated cheerfully.

"I need to see your license and registration," he said firmly.

"Sure baby. Well...let's see. Where did I put it? Oh here it is," she said strongly with a smile, pulling something from the left visor. Then she flung her arm out the window with a .25 auto, firing three shots into the sheriff's chest. The gun made three soft pops like fart sounds. The sheriff dropped his gun and went down with a surprise look on his face.

"William was my husband sugar," she said firmly.

She turned up a radio that screamed out a rap song. Then she spit out the window directly at the sheriff and casually drove off towards the next town.

The sheriff lay there gurgling and coughing up blood like some sick old wale. Blood began to form through the holes in his cheap uniform. With a bit of pain and time he managed to remove his radio to call for help.

Deputy Tange found the sheriff's body lying helplessly in the road. He was barely alive. He'd lost an awful lot of blood. Tange rushed him to Cripple Creek Hospital. He died two hours into surgery.

# Chapter 4: The Oversexed Crime stopper

Mr. Tyrese Girn was obviously a good person yet a decent congressional representative. He had been good-looking, with coffee skin. He had been convivial. He had been rational. He sometimes used crack cocaine and drank Buchanan's Scotch. He had lengthy shaggy hair full of grease. The stuff dripped and left horrible stains in his clothes. He had been married to some wonderful black woman. She had been artistic and strong. He had three stunning teenage sons.

He had his large powerful arms wrapped around a young high school student Steve Brodt. They made love all day.

"Hey, baby, why don't you go cleaned up," Mr. Girn said cheerfully to him.

"Yes, sir," Brodt said strongly, smiling.

"I enjoy you, dude," Girn stated cheerfully, kissing his face as he pulled his jeans up.

"Dude, I had fun, too," Brodt said, smiling.

Sometimes they met in a sleazy motel in East Oakland. The congressional representative dressed up just like a rapper, wore dark shades, checked in with phony names. Nobody ever identified him. Brodt had been white with bad acne. He had been lanky. A smart geek type. He would be a science major at Oakland High. He fell in love with the child rapist congressional representative on one of his speaking engagements at the school about crime. Mr. Girn and Steve have had a romantic relationship for a year. Girn was using psilocybin and drinking a lot of Miller beer.

Once the congressman pulled into his driveway, in an upscale neighborhood in Oakland, a bizarre looking dude, sporting a wrinkled orange suit stood there. He had been smoking marijuana. Mr. Girn got out of his vehicle. The man smelled as though he hadn't a bath in a year. He'd a plain face. His name had been Mr. Lee Klump. He labored on the City Council. He made an effort to get everybody to smoke marijuana.

"Remember me?" Klump said cheerfully.

Mr. Girn stared for some time. "Nah, sorry. Am I supposed to know you, dude?" Girn said hotly.

"You ought to. You appointed me to work alongside you on the Oakland crime concern," Mr. Klump stated sharply.

Mr. Girn looked over him long and hard. "Yeh. Sure. You're Klump, right?"

"Lee Klump," Girn said firmly, grinning as he lit a joint.

"When did you get out?" the congressman asked firmly with a half smile.

"Yesterday. Dude, I'm good now. Dude, I'm all set to go back to work," Mr. Klump said cheerfully.

"Man, that's good to know. Dog, I'm guessing you'll find work," Girn said clearly.

"Man, I had been pondering about you, you getting me back on the council. Crime is quite bad in Oakland, most detrimental as compared to before I entered the hospital," Mr. Klump explained firmly, blowing smoke from his joint in Girn's face.

"I can't hire you back, dude. You made an effort to kill Tokema. She was just carrying out what she advocated," Girn said strongly.

"The dumb woman attempted to halt legalizing marijuana. She received exactly what she deserved. Dude, I declare we legalize it. Many folks concur. Homeboy, I had been very popular on this issue," Klump explained strongly. "And you smoke it too baby!"

"Dude, you smell just like you lived in a cow's butthole for a year. Bruh, you're messed up. You can't work for the city of Oakland. Dude, you can't ever work for the city," Mr. Girn said brazenly to him. "Besides I'm here to stop crime-not encourage it."

"Bro, I won't attempt to kill that woman ever again. Dude, I'm cool now," Mr. Klump said strongly, taking a long draw from his joint.

"Dude, I'm sorry, Mr. Klump," Mr. Girn said sadly, hitting his joint.

"Listen you child molester. Raping children is much worst than smoking pot," Mr. Klump said defensively to him. "You call yourself a crime advocate."

"It's not rape. Baby, it's love. You hear what I'm saying? Bruh, you wouldn't understand," Girn said firmly to him.

"Your wife wouldn't understand either," Klump said sharply.

"You wouldn't?" Girn snapped.

"Get me on the council, brother. Or I'll inform everybody about your sick game. Do I make myself crystal clear, slimeball?" Klump said maliciously.

"Hell, yeh. Please give me some time. Dude, I'll let you know when you might begin," Girn said firmly, finishing his joint.

"You might contact me at my room, Elter Motel," Klump stated firmly.

"Dude, don't tell anybody," Girn snapped.

"Don't be concerned bro. Man, I won't let the cat out of the bag," Klump said explained cheerfully, putting out his hand for Girn to shake.

Mr. Girn looked over his hand just as if it had been dog poop and strolled off towards his home.

Later on that morning, the oversexed gay congressman had been enjoying sex at the Marriott Hotel with a youthful second-rate rapper. The congressman produced bizarre animal noises.

Mr. Girn's cellular phone rang.

"What is it?" Girn snapped into the receiver.

"It's Steve. Dude, I must see you, sir," he said franticly.

"Dude, not now. Baby, I'm trapped in a pathetic conference. Dude, I'll get back to you later on," Girn explained sharply.

"Okay, but shortly," Steve stated firmly.

Girn hung up.

Later that evening Girn sat with his wonderful family in a pink marble kitchen. They ate fried chicken, greens, black-eyed peas, yams and drank lemonade. He made an effort to inform his family about his homosexual tendencies, yet couldn't. His sons thought of him as the coolest dude on this planet. Everybody in the city believed he was a heroic brother. His father believed he had been an African dictator. If he explained to them the truth, they'd surely kill him.

Following dinner, Girn went along to a classy bar in San Leandro called Fergus's Spot. He dressed in a peach-colored suit with a purple tie. The spot had been clean. You could drink the water from the toilets. The barmaids put on long green dresses and seemed intimate. Their doo-doo most likely smelled and tasted just like apple-pie. The counter tops had been clean. The floors had been marble. The bartender smelled as though he took a bath in cologne.

The men and women were nicely dressed. They smelled great too. The bands performed classical music. The congressman drank scotch for hours. It had been the only method, he could cope with this double life he lead. What had been wrong with being gay? It's the 90's. Man, it's acceptable. It's today. Many gay folks had come out of the closet. Yet why couldn't he? There are good gay and lesbian politicians and nobody cares about their lifestyle. He just kept drinking. And thinking about it.

Around the morning, Mr. Girn met with leading city officials in the plush state offices of Alameda. On the massive plate had been squashing crime. Furthermore, they fought the legalizing of marijuana. He sat there with city council members---Lisa Gashaw, Elaise Bohn, Ross Trimbur, Cesar Jacob, Bik Chou, Kazuhiro Shibayaku and Ayasha Mura. The strategist had been Archie Ehya.

"How can we stop crime?" Bohn inquired hotly.

"The Purple Warriors," Ehya stated firmly.

"No way. Those evil bums carry Charter Arms Model 79K .380 autos," Girn added bluntly.

"Great, I declare we erase each and every gang of criminals in the Bay Area," Bik Chou stated strongly.

"The marijuana problem?" Mrs. Shibayaku mentioned.

"Slime it. Dude, let's all get high and shoot each other," Mr. Trimbur stated cheerfully.

"So you're declaring legalize pot?" Mrs. Shibayaku snapped.

"Sure. Furthermore, increase tax on it. Spend on education. Spend on social programs to help keep teenagers out of crime. Folks are likely to bleeping carry on and smoke the stuff whether or not we do anything or not," Girn said sharply.

"But nobody under 18 may smoke it," Chou stated strongly.

"Bruh, I got high once I had been twelve," Girn said firmly.

"Bad idea. I believe legalizing marijuana will certainly boost crime. This stuff can make savages out of folks," Mrs. Bohn stated harshly.

"We may employ much more police. The Anti-Crime Lovers Committee has donated $30,000,000 for that police budget fund," Girn mentioned strongly.

"That's awesome," Trimbur stated cheerfully.

"Let's all go get high," Mrs. Jacob proposed cheerfully.

"Good idea," Mrs. Mura stated cheerfully.

"Don't ignore the Blue Angel's are usually on board," Mrs. Gashaw claimed strongly.

"They're fantastic. We can sure rely on them," Ehya added calmly, grinning.

Attired like a clown Mr. Girn managed to get into motels without being discovered. He lay in bed with his young sweetheart Steve. After they made hella wild lovemaking, he looked up at him adoringly.

"Gay bullying is really a crime too. What are you doing about this?" Steve inquired firmly.

"Well, I haven't considered it. Yet it's crucial for all of us," Girn stated dryly.

"When I called you the other night it had been due to the fact I got shoved about by black guys, white guys, Asian guys and Mexicans. But this woman punched me in the face," Steve said with frigid stare.

"I'm sorry, baby," Girn said sadly, rubbing his back.

"Yeh."

"Dog, I'll take action so each and every gay man and woman can hold their heads up proud," The congressman stated boldly, smiling.

"It's got to be achieved quickly," Steve snapped.

"Dog, it will certainly, baby. It'll," Girn said positively.

"Homey, I had been pondering. Dude, I'm destined to be eighteen in a year in a half. So why don't we elope to Las Vegas and get married?" Steve stated cheerfully.

"That's good but I'm currently married," Girn stated sharply.

Steve moved up alongside him. "Oh, dude, I understand. However I believed you adored me."

"I do, youngster. But I'm not really planning to marry you. Steve, I'm not really likely to abandon my wife," Girn stated strongly to him.

"Dude, I'm truly deeply in love with you. You have to leave her," Steve pleaded strongly.

"Never sport. Dude, I can't do that. Baby, It'll destroy my loved ones. My career could be in the toilet. You must realize this boy," Girn stated hotly.

"Listen, you sweetie-cakes. In the event you don't marry me I'll notify the law that you've raped me since I had been ten. Dude, You'll just need to abandon that woman," Steve stated candidly. "Everybody will be aware you're the biggest queen in the Bay Area."

"Baby, you loved it you little punk," Girn stated acidly, grabbing Steve by the neck, squeezing. "Dog, I'll see you dead before I go out like this."

Steve jerked and kicked for some time. Yet the congressman had been merely too strong. Once the boy quit shifting, he let go of his neck. He lay there panting. Next, he got dressed. He looked over the boy for the last time. His blue eyes stared into the ceiling. Girn grabbed his mouth and left.

Mr. Girn had never murdered anybody before and wasn't certain how to handle it. He felt sick. And once he got outside of the motel he threw up.

One thing around killing somebody the second time came across as simpler. Mr. Girn got a bit of champagne. Using a syringe, he injected cyanide into the bottle cork to commemorate Mr. Klumps employment on the city council.

One or two days later on Girn stopped by the Elter Motel, dressed up just like a clown, transporting a bottle of champagne. This spot had been filthy. And even smelled just like cow doo-doo, spoiled food, marijuana and sweat. There had been Budweiser beer cans, rotten food everywhere, and other trash. A giant rat ran under the bed. Ants had taken control of some purple pizza.

"Are we heading to the circus?" Mr. Klump inquired sharply, grinning.

"No moron. This is really a celebration," Mr. Girn snapped cheerfully.

"You mean I got on the council?" Mr. Klump said sharply beaming.

"You're destined to be our own strategist baby. Dog, you're gonna direct the fight against legalizing marijuana," Girn stated cheerfully, beaming.

"This is fantastic, bro everybody in the Bay Area is certain to get high and not need to be worried about the cops," Klump stated happily.

"The cop's will be getting high too," Girn said happily.

Girn virtually hated to kill him. Yet he realized he couldn't place this kind of psychopath on the Oakland City council.

"Champagne?" Girn asked sharply.

"Hell yeh, dog," Klump said strongly.

There was clearly no glasses therefore they were required to utilize empty dog food cans. Mr. Girn popped the cork and poured the bubbly. He handed Mr. Klump a can. They made a toast. "Here's to an excellent year!" Girn stated cheerfully and guzzled his down.

"Well, that had been awesome," Klump said happily as he gulped his down quickly.

"Another?" Girn inquired happily.

"Why not?" Klump shot back.

Klump guzzled that down even faster. Next, his eyes widen with alarm, as he appeared dizzy, dropping the can, turned about and looked over at Girn.

"What is it, Klump?" Girn asked sharply.

"Gee...I don't understand," Klump stated strongly with a confused look and fell forward.

Once Girn had been sure, Klump was dead. To eliminate any kind of evidence he set the hideous room on fire.

Once he got outdoors, he enjoyed one side from the building go up in flames from a distance. He soon began chuckling. He heard sirens. And folks shouting. He got directly into his vehicle left a couple of blocks away and drove off into the night.

The following year or two the congressman's battle to end crime had been on its way accurate. He reduced crime in Oakland by 82 percent. The death toll remained at below 8 that year. Folks could possibly leave their homes again and their doors open never be scared. The police had been getting uninterested. Yet legalizing marijuana remained a major problem. He carried on his many affairs with young boys, unnoticed.

Unfortunately, the congressman's super sex lifestyle with young boys would end when he met a fifteen year old on the internet and wanted to meet for sex. The boy's father turned out to be an Oakland police detective.

# Chapter 5: 17th Century Theft

Last night the Indian Painting was in fact swiped from the Weisz Art Gallery. Mr. Weisz would like the Keith Jackson Detective Agency---which is not actually an agency, to search for the portrait.

Keith Jackson parked his pimpmobile, a 1975 Dodge Dart in front of the large yellowish building, on Second and Lake Street. He went in, treading in the extravagant azure carpet. He dressed in a long white jersey, over real baggy jeans and Nikes tennis shoes. He was in fact half-smashed, finishing some Crown Royal earlier and large quantities of crack-cocaine. He appeared to be a thugged-out pimp straight from the hood. And in many cases the hood couldn't tame this fiery homeboy. The fancy folks in there had taken one look at this dude and started to back away with frowns. Clutching their purses just like this cat was in fact planning to rob them all. He cased the great paintings just like he was going to purchase one.

An uppity-looking black man strolled up to him, sporting a silk blue suit and white-silk tie.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Weisz inquired snugly.

"Hey, big-dog. I'm looking for Mr. Weisz," Jackson stated politely.

"I'm him. You have to be here to stick up the joint. Because I don't believe you really can afford anything in this gallery, brother," Weisz stated firmly.

"Hey, pimp, I'm not here to knock over this joint. I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm a private detective," Jackson stated strongly. "So don't hate on me bruh."

"I didn't know that PI's dress just like thugs," Weisz said sharply with stone expression.

Mr. Weisz came across just like some stiff suit bum without any sense of humor. And that he most likely was in fact the only homeboy in the private school.

"Well, now you know. Bruh, I didn't really expect a homeboy to be running a superb gallery. You've got a pretty fly hustle," Jackson stated cheerfully, looking around.

"You smell like a stiller. I don't hire drunk folks, but I don't have the time to consider somebody else," Mr. Weisz stated dramatically.

"What in the hell am I looking for, gee?" Jackson snapped.

"17th century portrait," Weisz stated strongly.

"Do you have a photo?" Jackson asked sharply.

"Of course," weisz said harshly and ran off to get it.

Some of the folks had left.

He returned with the picture. It had been merely an Indian on a white horse to the majority of folks, yet to a collector a masterpiece.

"Are you serious, bruh? This is undoubtedly an Indian on a damn horse." Jackson said harshly glaring at the photo with extreme dissatisfaction.

"Not just simply an Indian, baby. It's Joe White Feather. He had been a great pioneer and respectable warrior. He saved his people from an ugly battle in 1812 called The Battle of Sioux. He was in fact seriously near death, yet somehow he pulled through. That's why this painting is really so important---and very pricey," Mr. Weisz explained clearly.

Jackson had a bored look on his face.

"Who painted it?" Jackson asked dryly.

"Victor Ugo," Weisz said strongly with a smile.

"Don't you possess an alarm system in this joint?" Jackson asked sharply with a thug tone.

"Of course. Allow me to show you," Mr. Weisz said clearly.

Weisz made a decision to close early, sending everyone home. It was just him and Jackson.

He showed him the alarm system that has been state-of-the-art. The painting set on a fancy stand, with invisible tractor rays surrounding it---and all through the gallery---windows too.

"No human being could possibly ever pass through without triggering the alarm," Weisz explained firmly.

Jackson kept nodding.

"Are you sure it was on?" Jackson snapped.

"Of course. I switched it on myself. My assistant sometimes stays past nine," Weisz said sharply.

"What's his name?" Jackson asked.

"Graham Lascot," Weisz said firmly.

"Exactly---how much is this painting really worth?" Jackson said firmly.

"250 million or so," Weisz said strongly.

"The thieves won't try to sell it. Due to the fact, it's too popular. The custom agents and cops will probably be everywhere. Is it insured?" Jackson said firmly.

"Of course," Weisz snapped.

"Dog, I figure they'll try and make a deal---sell the painting back to you," Jackson said strongly to him.

"Ok. But we've got to get going. Homey, I require the painting back in 24hours," Weisz said bluntly.

"What's up with it?" Jackson said sharply.

"We have a major exhibit-exclusive folks invited. So I trust your ghetto agency doesn't let us down," Weisz said boldly.

"What is this? It looks just like some frog-brain smeared feces on a boy and girl." Jackson said harshly with a frown.

"Doo-doo, it's not really. Well, it is actually doo-doo. The Joy Painting by Mr. George Burkard sold several million copies worldwide," Weisz said cheerfully.

"Some of those art connoisseurs must be from mental hospitals," Jackson stated firmly.

"Well, many might be weird to you," Weisz said strongly, grinning.

"Bro-bro, I believe it was in fact an inside job. So provide me a list of your employees," Jackson said strongly.

He stared for some time at a two-headed black woman in the nude with one giant breast, playing with herself. And dwarf with a huge head raping a blond boy.

"Hey, brother, I don't suspect any one of my trusted people," Weisz said boldly.

"Then who, baby?" Jackson snapped.

"James Pierman," Weisz stated with conviction.

"The famous art thief?" Jackson said strongly.

"That bum is here in Reno. He was in fact here the other day looking over the place," Weisz said sharply.

"Ok. I'll check him out too," Jackson said firmly.

When Jackson got outside a meter maid was giving him a ticket.

"Hold up, baby," he protested harshly.

She just ignored him and wandered off. He followed her, holding on to the ticket giving her an evil protest. She got inside a vehicle that looked just like a box and drove off, leaving him standing there babbling like some fool.

Keith learned from a crack cocaine addict that owed him money that Mr. Pierman was in fact staying in Holiday Towers. The place was a fancy joint---no blacks and Mexicans stayed there. The place had been loaded with overpriced luxury suits. Jackson nearly broke the front desk clerks arm when he finally told him Mr. Pierman was in the hospital.

Jackson discovered Pierman relaxing in a wheelchair at the Brook Bear Hospital waiting room. He was watching tv and looked bored. He looked like a playboy, a male model and tall. He was real tan like some Mexican and about fifty-seven. He appeared to be far from the cat burglar type.

"What in the hell do you want, homeboy?" Pierman inquired harshly.

"Dude, I want to have a word with you," Jackson stated strongly with a smirk.

"Hey, homeboy. Get lost. Can you see I'm sick," Pierman stated bluntly with an evil stare.

"I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to find a painting," Keith said strongly.

"Oh, yeh. The Indian Painting. Well, I don't have it. Dude, I didn't take the thing," Pierman explained bluntly, keeping his eyes on the Television set.

"You were in the art gallery, dog," Jackson said firmly.

"That's true. But not to steal. Hey, brother, I needed to observe the priciest portrait in the world. Man, I could've stole it. But what would be the point? The painting is simply too well-known and nobody could keep it. No fence would likely touch it. Besides, I'm too sick to steal candy from a baby. I have major kidney issues," Pierman explained sharply, brushing back his silvery hair from his face.

"Then how else?" Jackson snapped.

"Man, I don't know anyone as good as me," Pierman stated frankly, "Or dumb enough or maybe reckless to steal such a painting."

"Dog, there must be somebody," Jackson said sharply, still not satisfied.

"Homeboy, you're the detective," Mr. Pierman stated firmly. "All this bullt has made my head hurt."

His Nurse a sexy blond having big breast wheeled him off to his room. She'll most likely give him head the rest of the day.

Jackson returned to his car and drove to Harrah's. The nigga went directly for the blackjack table. He sat beside a fat black lady. She had been stressing about how much money she lost. The table was a ten-dollar minimum. He kept betting ten-dollar chips. He was losing for some time. Next, the dealer busted. He won $263.00. He then cashed in his chips, went to Tony's Snack bar, ate a huge club sandwich, and drank a beer. He returned to his office, a veterinarian clinic---no longer in use. He painted it ten times and still couldn't get out the animal stink. He ran a background check on Mr. Weizs. He learned he's an artist too. But what really pinched his nuts had been his criminal past. He was arrested for firing a weapon at an art gallery.

Jackson made his way to a small gallery on 165 Center Street---called The Levy Art Gallery. A short woman having buckskin curly hair wore a flower silk dress---had a pudgy face strolled up to him frowning. She didn't seem to be too delighted to have a black man in her joint. But Jackson didn't care.

"Yes?" She said having a forced smile.

"Baby, I'm a private investigator," he explained strongly with a grin, showing his ID.

She frowned and turned around and wandered away. She disappeared in the back. Then thirty seconds later on a potbelly Mexican came out with a fathead with an evil look planning to stomp him just like a frog.

"Get lost, man," he stated boldly, peering down at him just like he was a bug.

"Slime you, punk!" Jackson said bluntly in a thug tone.

The Mexican snapped up Jackson by the arm, lifting him just as if he was a feather and launched him into the wall like a rocket, leaving a big gash. Jackson scarcely had an opportunity to recuperate when the man grabbed him and threw him across the floor. The folks observed in horror and several ran franticly out the door. Jackson stood up and moved away from the man as he was flying at him so he could regroup. The dude was in fact moving towards him just like a damn speed freak. He picked up a near by gold-colored beam. He swung this big thing just like a baseball bat at the dudes head, nailing him pointblank in the side of the face. He collapsed like a leaf to the floor. The slime-breath was out cold. Jackson stood there panting and still held on to the beam. Nearly all of the folks had already run out.

"You bum. Look what you've done to my business!" Mrs. Levy said venomously.

"Then answer my questions. What are you hiding?" Keith snapped, replacing the beam.

"You're black. I assumed you were planning to rob my gallery," she explained strongly.

"Mrs. Levy, I'm here about a painting that has been ripped off last night. Do you know anything about it?" he said sharply.

"Dude, I heard about it. The Indian Painting. It's the most expensive painting on the globe. If you think maybe I boosted it I didn't," she stated truthfully. "I'm glad it's gone. I'd gladly lick the person's booty who stole it," she stated using a harsh grin.

"So you don't like Mr. Weisz?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Hell no. The crazy slimy bum fired a gun at me and my son, while in front of several witnesses. Am I trying to get even...no," she said clearly.

"For the record---where were you last night at about nine?" he snapped.

"Sleeping, sweetie," Mrs. Levy said firmly.

"Was your son with you?" Jackson asked firmly.

"In his room the whole time," she said confidently.

"What in the hell is that?" Jackson asked sharply.

"Sexual expression," she said cheerfully.

"It looks just like a blond dude sucking on a bull," Jackson stated firmly having a peculiar glance.

"The artist, Justin Hibser, is gay," she stated sharply with smile.

"Why did Mr. Weisz make an effort to kill you?" he asked strongly.

"Dude, I told you that ignorant-poop is certainly nuts," she said hotly, brushing the hair back behind her to make a ponytail.

Kirman, an old pal from the academy was in fact looking into all the employees at Weisz Art Gallery. Sgt. Mark Newsham had the Reno airport smothered with undercover cops. Meanwhile Jackson had been on the search for a fence named Tony Franco.

He found Franco at a Baptist church on Wedekind Road. He went inside and saw Franco standing by a pulpit practicing his bull sermon. Jackson strolled down the aisles towards Franco. He looked up, saw Jackson, and wandered up to him happily. But to Jackson he was just a demon dressed up just like a bishop. "Hello, my brother. Welcome to the house of the Lord," Franco stated strongly with a big smile, holding his hands out like he was begging.

"Cut the bull, homeboy," Jackson said strongly, discovering the con from a mile away.

"Please don't use that kinda language in the house of the Lord. Besides I've gone straight," Franco stated sharply.

"You stole that Indian Painting, bruh?" Jackson said bitterly.

"Dog, I heard about that. Too bad. I didn't swipe it. I've gone straight. I mean it, brother. Besides, it's too hot for anybody to touch. Dog, I don't fence any longer. I've devoted my life to the Lord, baby," Franco explained sharply with conviction.

"Who took that painting, gee? Who made an effort to fence it?" Jackson demanded in a harsh tone.

"Man, I don't care about that stuff no more. You shouldn't worry about that evil mess either. Come on, brother. Let's pray together," Franco said with good cheerfully, grabbing Jackson by the arm and forcing him to kneel right down to the floor.

"Dog, you're going to tell me what I want to know or I'll beat you!" Jackson said harshly.

"Calm down, bruh! Let us pray," Franco said strongly.

Jackson strolled through Weisz's Gallery up to the back office. Weisz had been sitting behind his desk drinking coffee. He dressed in a silk gray suit having a white tie, looking and smelling just like an uppity black dude. His office was in fact tidy and smelled fresh with high-class furnisher. "Have you uncovered my painting?" Weisz stated worrisomely.

"Hell no, dog," Jackson snapped.

"Then get your butt out there and locate it. Your times running out!" Weisz said spitefully elevating his tone.

"First let me know why you like shooting at people," Jackson stated strongly.

"Oh, that. You've been checking up on me," Weisz said strongly having a sly grin.

Jackson nodded.

"That fat lady didn't tell you her lousy son slashed all of my Rolls Royce tires," Weisz said sharply.

"Dude, I have to check up on everybody I work for," Jackson said strongly.

"Man, I didn't think my criminal past was important. Besides, I didn't hire you to check up on me. I suggest you bail my brother, times running out," Weisz said harshly, pushing Jackson out the door. "By the way my assistant didn't turn up today---he's not answering his phone either."

"I got you on that one," Jackson said firmly.

Jackson had stuff some weed in a fat cigar and lit it. With lock picks, he let himself in Graham Lascot's plush apartment. But the spot was in fact vacant aside from a half a bottle of Christian Brothers on the self. He had taken a lengthy guzzle from it. After that, long hit from his big joint. Then he left. Jackson sat at Kirman's cramped up apartment smoking dope and eating chili.

"Bruh, I checked out all these cats. Bro-bro, it's likely to run you, babe," Kirman explained sharply, guzzling Crown Royal.

"No doubt," Jackson said strongly.

"The phone records about this Lascot's dude," Kirman said firmly, handing him the papers.

Lascot made a call to a beauty parlor. But most of the calls to Scott Ledoux, who lived in North Reno. Call to some tax place. In addition, flight reservations.

Reno Air folks said Mr. Lascot never showed up for his flight. Scott Ledoux turned out to be his gay lover. He was nowhere to be found. This bull was pissing off Jackson.

Lascot had a cell phone---like many folks do. Yet this bum had his cell rigged up in such a way that Jackson's good friend at Metro PCS couldn't get nothing on his calls. But things clicked once he checked out Mr. Ledoux's cell phone---he made several calls to a house in Spanish Springs.

Once Keith got to the house, everybody was gone. The place was in fact cleaned out with the exception of a few crummy art magazines, some cheap portrait on the wall. He smelled something funky. He had taken out his gun, a CZ TT .45ACP. He wandered towards the kitchen, walked through to outside in the garage where he discovered a body. It was Mr. Lascot's body covered in a blanket. He was in fact deceased. Two-bullet holds in the head. Jackson called the Spanish Springs Police.

Well Jackson strolled into Weisz gallery, smoking marijuana.

"Are you crazy?" Weisz screamed.

"Hell yeh," Jackson stated sharply, grinning.

"Put that out!" Weisz said harshly.

"Want a hit, cuz?" Jackson asked strongly all ready stoned.

"No. quit fooling around, man," Weisz said harshly.

"Your boy's dead. Mr. Lascot is on ice," Jackson said sharply, taking a huge hit from a massive joint.

"Oh, my Lord. When did you find this out?" Weisz said sadly as he put his hands over his face for a minute.

"Shortly. The dude ripped-off your painting. On the flip side, those poop-brain's used him to steal your painting and killed him so they didn't have to pay him. And he planned to leave the country," Jackson explained firmly.

"Are you sure?" Weisz snapped sharply, finding it hard believe.

"Hell yeh," Jackson said strongly.

"I can't believe it. Lascot had been a trusted friend for over twelve years," Weisz said sadly, looking shocked.

"Friendships don't mean nothing not when you're talking about $250 million, baby," Jackson stated firmly.

"By the way the burglars phoned. They really want $3 million," Weisz stated firmly.

"Do you have it?" Jackson asked.

"I could get it," Weisz said strongly.

"Where is the exchange?" Jackson asked softly.

"They said no cops. Or they'll destroy the portrait," Weisz said bluntly.

"Where?" Jackson snapped with an evil tone.

"Pat Baker Park. It will be at 7:00pm. You know the place?" Weisz said sharply.

"Of course," Jackson said firmly.

Kirman and Jackson turned up several hours early. He was at one end of the park and Jackson was at the other---they could bother see people coming and going. But Kirman could see the spot where the transaction would come about. Once a green Mercedes ML 320 pulled up, he informed Jackson by cellular phone. Two minutes later on, an orange Rolls stopped at the end of the park. Weisz got out transporting a dark briefcase. He nervously strolled towards the Mercedes.

Two dudes sporting black got out of the Mercedes. One snapped up a huge square object from the vehicle. Weisz handed one of the men the briefcase.

"Hey, bruh. You need me to move?" Kirman stated keenly.

"Not yet," Jackson said strongly.

The other dude handed down the painting to Mr. Weisz just like it had been an old shoe. While the other man counted the money. Weisz remove the wrapping from the painting inspecting it. Shortly after, he nodded his head in an approval. The men seemed enthusiastic about the cash, moving about with big smiles. Weisz strolled happily back to his vehicle carrying the painting just like the bum just got laid. And the dudes got back in the Mercedes and sped off.

"Should I go now?" Kirman inquired strongly.

"Nah. We don't know if there's some dude hiding in the bushes somewhere. But I do want you to follow them and call me when you get settled. Bruh, I'm going back to the gallery.

Well, Jackson followed Mr. Weisz back to the gallery---and they went inside.

"Well, big-dog. Is everything cool?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Yes. But there's a few scratches on the painting. But I'm confident nobody will know the difference," Weisz explained cheerfully.

"We'll get your money back bruh. Dog, I got my trusted homeboy watching those folks," Jackson stated firmly, with a gorilla stance.

Jackson's cellular phone rang.

"Yeh?" Jackson said sharply.

"Those dudes are held up at a house on 1461 West Fourth Street," Kirman stated powerfully.

"Bro-bro, I'll be there with the police. Should they leave, follow them," Jackson stated boldly.

"For sure," Kirman said firmly.

He hung up.

Sgt. Mark Newsham and five black & whites parked outside the church. Jackson got out of his car. He was in fact carrying a PM Series 9mm with 3.0" barrel strolling with a military driven ego. The officers were utilizing assault rifles. Newsham spoke through the bullhorn.

"Hey, you in there! This is the police! You're all surrounded. Come out with your hands up!" Newsham said bluntly.

There had been silence for just a moment. Next the sound of glass breaking from a near by window. The barrel of a rifle stuck out of the window and firing began. The bullets cut into the police units, disabling units and knocking out windows. The cops returned fire. A concession of popping noises went on for twenty minutes just like some fireworks display. Then there was silence.

"Dude, we're getting nowhere," Jackson stated bitterly, showing anger on his face. "Bruh, I believe that you should utilize some teargas."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. Dog, I know this," Newsham snapped at him.

"Dude, I'm merely trying to help," Jackson said firmly.

"Use teargas!" Newsham finally stated.

A police officer shot a canister through a window. Two minutes later on a side door opened and a guy ran out shooting wildly at police. The officers opened fire cutting him straight down. Jackson shot another man who came out shooting. After that, a dark figure ran out transporting a briefcase jumped into a car and quickly sped away. Jackson ran up to his pimpmobile and began a chase.

The chase was short lived once Jackson took a shortcut cutting off the Mercedes. He got out shooting dramatically at him. Jackson hid behind his car to avoid the bullets. Once the man in black made an effort to run away Jackson shot him and he dropped the briefcase as he went down.

Well all the money was in fact returned to Weisz gallery. The exhibit proceeded as planned. It's was actually jam-packed.

"How do you like the show?" Weisz inquired cheerfully.

"It's hella gangster. How could somebody possess a painting like this? Dude, I would be afraid my house would certainly get broken into," Jackson stated strongly with a smirk.

"Many collectors really feel different. Having such paintings just like the Indian portrait is off-the-chain," Weisz said happily.

"Hell yeh! Well, I better cut," Jackson said strongly with a smile.

"Not yet. I've got a gift for you. You did a wonderful job," Weisz said happily.

"You paid me $1,700.00," Jackson said strongly.

He moved in the office and came out having a painting of an orange two headed dog pissing in it's owner's bowl of chili while he eats it.

"What the hell is this?" Jackson snapped with a smirk.

"The portrait is known as The Dogs Revenge by Steve Colbruno," Weisz stated cheerfully, beaming.

"Oh thanks. This thing ought to go good in my office," Jackson stated strongly, smiling.

# Chapter 6: The Situation Of The Auto Part Bandits

"It's quiet, dog," Chris Ortiz stated strongly, smoking a joint. "It's the best time to steal, dog. You feel me? The spot is definitely closed. We've circled around this area a couple of times already, practically nothing going down."

"Okay, then, dog," Hoggah said sharply, drinking a forty-ounce Olde English. "Stop fronting homeboy."

The old Ford van halted behind the Tony Auto Parts Store. It absolutely was nine. It was dark and chilly in Sparks, Nevada. The small shopping center surrounding the neighborhood was in fact closed as well. No folks had been jogging or walking dogs outside as usual.

Ortiz and Hoggah were out of the van looked about and next approached the rear of the van. Hoggah opened up the rear doors. He brought out a ladder. The two had been dressed up in black. They also dressed in ski mask. Ortiz wandered off browsing for the alarm box.

The structure was obviously a soft peach color made from brick, big tinted windows. Ortiz soared up a ladder angling up against the side of the building up to the black box. He opened up the box and began on the wires. There were pink, white, black, orange and blue. Ortiz studied electrical stuff at community collage. He did severe damage to innovative security systems in the past.

In ten minutes he was done. He climbed straight down the ladder and placed it back in the van. Hoggah picked the lock on the door. Ortiz opened up the door, sporting gloves. Hoggah stepped in. Ortiz followed, and closed the door behind.

"Hell, yes, dog," Hoggah said cheerfully with eyes dazzling.

"A lot of nice stuff in here, bruh," Ortiz said strongly with a smirk. "Bruh, you begin over there. I'll start over here." He hit his joint once more as he grabbed a shopping cart.

"We want starters, homeboy," Hoggah said sharply with ghetto slang, having a lengthy suck from the bottle. "You feel me?"

Ortiz nodded. "I feel you, dog."

The spot was in fact packed with parts: starters, spark plugs, batteries, hoses, carburetors, tires, rims, fuel pumps, water pumps, transmissions, distributor caps, engines, even paint, oil filters, tools car mats, nuts and bolts.

There fence from Nigeria wanted starters, batteries, transmissions, fuel pumps and paid top dollar. They crammed two shopping carts full to the brim with auto parts. They'd just a little difficulty moving that damn shopping cart to the van. Dog, it had taken them an hour to unload the goods. After that, they were off into the night.

The following night they did the same thing in North Reno. This time around, they snapped up a few alternators, Deco batteries, and a rebuilt engine, fuel and water pumps, brake pads, a power steering device, wrenches, screwdrivers, and tires. It had been simpler on this occasion.

Chris Ortiz was in fact small, thick, Spanish dude, around thirty-four years old, having green eyes. He seemed like a short order cook or gardener. He was married. He'd seven kids. He'd already been arrested a couple of times for burglary. He met Darryl Hoggah whilst serving time in Carson Prison.

Darryl Hoggah was approximately forty-three, black guy, having a beaver face, shaved head, goatee and horse teeth. He'd a bad stroll that made him look tough. He'd a girlfriend who had been twelve. He has twenty kids from six different women. He did time for rape and burglary.

The two ran their schemes from an auto body shop on Sutro Street, which set in back adjacent to a lousy furnisher finishing shop. They did auto bodywork enough to fool individuals.

A few days later on, a big white Chevy van backed in their garage and parked. It had been Mr. Buday, their fence. He had been tall, darkish as chocolate fudge, around thirty. He dressed in a natural cotton white suit in badly demand for pressing with black silk shirt, white tie, gold jewelry, black socks and white loafers.

The guy opened up his back doors. Ortiz and Hoggah started out loading the van.

"Well, boys," Buday said strongly in a heavy Nigerian accent. "How are ya?"

"Great, chief," Ortiz said strongly, glistening. "Homey, we're sure glad to look at you."

"Homeboy, we didn't think you were planning to show," Hoggah said sharply with a sly grin.

"A great deal of traffic these days," Buday answered firmly.

Hoggah and Ortiz nodded.

"What you've got for me boys?" Buday said happily, searching. "Good stuff I really hope."

"Always my dog," Ortiz said strongly and took a long guzzle of Chivas Regal. "A lot better than the last time."

"Good that's precisely what I love to hear," the Nigerian said cheerfully, beaming.

"Fifteen G's," Hoggah said firmly, sucking on a can of Steel Reserve beer.

"Dude, I provide you with a big bonus on this occasion," Buday stated cheerfully. "The last stuff was of impressive quality. I give you seventeen G's."

"That will work," Ortiz stated cheerfully.

Right after they jam-packed up the van, the man paid out them in cash and drove off smiling.

Hoggah and Ortiz had been getting supper in Ganther's Coffee Shop in the Reno Casino. They were organizing their up coming burglary. They sat in a booth by the restroom for more privacy. The dining tables were blue, and chairs too. The walls were white. The food servers and busboys wore blue and white. There were clearly photographs of celebrities on the walls such as Bill Cosby, Milton Berles, Bob Newhart, Jay Leno, Daryl Hall and John Oates, James Brown, Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Red Foxx, Johnny Cash, Tom Jones, Bob James, Spyro Gyra, Bobby Bland, SWV, Tag Team and Gladys Knight and the Pips. The customers had been vacationers and casino dealers. Hoggah was consuming deep-fried chicken having french-fried potatoes. Ortiz was eating enchiladas with refried beans and rice. Ortiz drank a Corona. Darryl drank a bottle of Country Club beer.

Once they finished dinner, the fat face waitress delivered them two cups of coffee, snapped up their empty plates, and entered the noisy kitchen. They observed dishes smashed with Servers and cooks screaming at one another and what sounded like fist fighting too, silverware falling on the floor.

The server came back carrying a plate of banana cream pie for Hoggah and lemon pie for Ortiz. "Tonight...the Red Baron," Ortiz said having a surge of elation.

Hoggah frowned. "That cheap spot, bruh!"

"Dog, I heard from Andy dog that they got some brand new parts dude. Having far better quality, dog," Ortiz said sharply as chewed on a mouthful of pie.

"Who is Andy?" Darryl snapped as he stuck a forkful of pie in his mouth.

"Some dude used to work there," Ortiz said sharply. "He informed me everything, dude."

"Bro-bro, I still think the Red Baron sucks," Hoggah said vociferously with a mouthful of pie. "All the very best thieves never go near that spot."

"Yo, man, I know stupid," Ortiz snapped, finishing his pie. "That's exactly why we're going to hit the site. Clean that joint out!"

"What about Andy?" Hoggah snapped, taking the final bite of his pie.

"What about the dude?" Ortiz shot back.

"He may desire a piece," Hoggah said sharply.

"Slime him bruh," Ortiz stated caustically. "Homey, it's all ours for the taking."

"Okay man," Darryl stated strongly. "I'm in."

It was 9:30 and dark on Fourth Street and Sutro, once the red van made it's way to the back of the Red Baron building. The red building was in bad demand for paint. Across the street was in fact the Fourth Street Motel and Ray's Transmission just a little farther down the road, the Holiday Hotel Casino set on the other side of the place. There seemed to be mainly a variety of shabby motels and apartments along the street. It had been quiet and hardly any traffic on the street.

"This will certainly be a cinch," Darryl said cheerfully, searching the structure.

Chris produced straightforward work of an historical burglar alarm. Darryl got into the spot having lock picks. They cased the venue for some time searching for costly parts. Quickly they'd four shopping carts filled with alternators, Deco batteries, sparkplugs, water pumps, fuel pumps, engine jacks, paint, tools, brake pads, and so they quietly made a couple trips.

The two returned to the shop and unloaded everything.

They returned to the Red Baron to get two snowmobiles. After that, everything switched sour. A young white dude having a long face came out of nowhere.

"What the hell is this!" he shouted hotly.

"Oh man," Darryl said sharply to Chris.

"Easy gig," Chris stated strongly with a smirk. "This dude can't take us."

"What are doing in here?" the white dude asked sharply.

"We're robbing the joint, dude!" Darryl stated, regarding with hauteur.

"The hell you are dude!" the white boy said bluntly, as he grabbed hold of Darryl.

He began slugging Darryl until he flew backwards into some boxes. At this time, Chris had grabbed a wrench from a shelf. As Darryl was recovering the white boy lunged at him not seeing Chris come up behind with the wrench. Chris had smashed the white boy over the back of the head as he was about to leap up on top of Darryl. The impact made the white boy fly with his legs moving forward while his head and back went downward soon crashing hard on the floor and his body slid under some boxes.

"About time you got here homeboy!" Hoggah stated bitterly.

"Slime you, bruh! If your butt could fight this wouldn't have happened this way!" Ortiz said maliciously.

"Is this dude dead?" Hoggah asked strongly staring saucer-eyed.

"I don't think so. I just knock the homeboy out," Ortiz stated sharply.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Hoggah suggested.

The two got inside the van and took off.

Reno Police Detective Thomas Balmat and Sam Applestreet, from homicide had been working with Sergeant Michael Sunban and Vincent Alwater of Burglary Division.

Det. Thomas Balmat had been a small thin light-skinned African American dude, having bullfrog face and dressed in dark suits most of the time. He labored in homicide for fifteen years. He has a massive arrest history. He'd already been shot several times. He's a wife and five kids.

Sam Applestreet worked in homicide for seven years. He was in fact fatally shot during a serial killer case and didn't seem like he was going to make it. However, he did. He has wavy red hair, reddish skin and a small scar on his left cheek and abrasions on his chest from the shooting. He always dressed up nice. He has a wife and young son.

"What ya got?" Balmat asked strongly, sitting in his office to Applestreet

"Nothing but a corpse," Applestreet stated sourly. "His name is Oats Rock, thirty-three, white, six-foot-two, and 179 pounds. He lived at 1624 Wedekind Road, along with his wife and three kids. He returned to his job at Red Barn Auto Parts store to look for his wallet and probably caught thieves in the act."

"I want these buttwipes," Balmat said hotly. "This young kid had a family."

"Me too," Applestreet snapped. "I'll have to notify his family."

"I wish to know what was taken. I want the forensic team there," Applestreet requested sharply.

"Who do you think did it?" Balmat inquired firmly.

"Ortiz and Hoggah spring to mind," Applestreet said firmly.

"Murder's not necessarily their M.O.," Balmat stated strongly.

"Then who?" Applestreet snapped.

"Maybe Joe Alesi," Balmat said sharply.

"Yeah, bring the duck-brain in for questioning," Applestreet said gruffly.

Balmat nodded and left.

Det. Balmat dragged Joe Alesi into the Reno Police Department. He'd a bowling pinhead, having auburn hair, one eye was in fact blue the other brown. He wasn't really tall. He dressed in an inexpensive blue shirt, white shorts, dark socks and white hard sole shoes. He appeared as if he couldn't acquire work as a begger. He had been imprisoned several times for burglary---the last time burglary and murder and he'd done the ten years stretch Balmat pushed and shoved Alesi into Applestreet's office and forced him in a metal chair.

"What the hell is this?" Alesi complained icily. "I had guest over my house."

"Well you'd better tell me what I want to know or they'll be waiting thirty years for you to comeback," Balmat explained harshly.

"I didn't do anything butt worm!" Alesi said boldly.

"We would like to know where you had been at nine." Balmat inquired firmly.

"Oh I know what you're getting at," Alesi stated strongly having a half smile. "I read the papers. Man, I enjoy the news. I didn't kill that kid. Dude, I was nowhere near that area of Reno. Besides there is nobody in this business would go near the Red Baron. Too cheap."

Applestreet gave him a hard stare just as if he was lying.

"Honest," Alesi pleaded strongly. "I don't swipe auto parts anymore."

"You didn't answer my question, scumbag," Balmat stated sharply.

"I was in fact shooting a game of pool with my wife at Bob's Arcade," Alesi said firmly.

"Who do you know would likely do this? Ortiz?" Applestreet asked strongly.

"Chris Ortiz? I don't believe so. Or that friend of his either. They wouldn't mess with the petty stuff and murder too. Murder is too bad for business. I think your burglars some crack head, a clumsy butt junky like Smith," Alesi said firmly.

"John Smith. That punk couldn't tie his own shoes never the less plan a heist," Applestreet said strongly.

"Then who?" Balmat inquired bluntly.

"Dude, I don't know," Alesi said strongly.

"Get out of here maggot," Balmat said in a violent tone.

Darryl and Chris weren't through yet. They struck Rathers Auto Parts store in Sparks, Nevada. They practically wiped clean Newsham's Auto Parts in Elko, Nevada. They hit a number of Pep Boys in Reno, Carson City and Minden. They did all this within a month.

They had taken more than a million dollars worth of car parts.

Chris and Darryl fallen out of sight for nearly a year for things to cool off. They spent considerable time with their families. Darryl stayed in a nice white house in Lemon Valley. Chris has a small brown house in Spanish Springs, Nevada. They fairly stayed at their homes didn't talk on the house phone or cell phone. They ordered food out a lot. Did some much needed work in the yard.

The Reno and Sparks Police acquired each and every car part store under surveillance not less than seven months without any luck.

Right after everything chilled Chris and Darryl had been back in town. They were eating breakfast at Della's Coffeehouse, in Sparks, straight down the road from the Nugget Casino. Chris was in fact having a couple of eggs over hard. He had lots of sausage, whole wheat bread and milk. Darryl was in fact having scrabbled eggs. He had them over easy and bacon with English muffins, orange juice and coffee.

"What about Allen Auto Parts?" Darryl mentioned strongly with a grin.

"Hell, yeah," Chris agreed happily. "There pretty large my dude!"

"I got you," Hoggah said strongly. "They received first class stuff, baby."

"Sounds great!" Chris stated cheerfully. "Dude, you want to hit it?"

"Hell, yeah," Darryl said with delight. "But I don't feel it'll be effortless."

"Nothing good ever is," Chris said strongly.

"Do you know how to crack a safe?" Darryl inquired sharply.

"I don't know, bruh," Ortiz said firmly, arching his right eyebrow. "We'll bring a firearm and shoot the lock."

"Good thinking blood," Darryl said strongly.

Around nine Darryl and Chris drove up in a white 1987 Chevy van into the rear of the Allen Auto Parts store and parked. The massive white brick building had a lot of big shaded windows in front.

Regardless of how elegant the security system had been Chris was still able to whip it. Darryl opened up the door with lock picks as usual. They soon took in the large storeroom. Next jam-packed a few shopping carts with alternators, Delco and Interstate batteries, transmissions, radiators, brake pads, carburetors, fuel pumps, air and oil filters and paint. They made several trips.

Chris and Darryl heard hacking and coughing originating from an office upstairs. Darryl got the gun, a 32 auto. In addition, the two creped up the stairs, moving swiftly by the three offices and a restroom, they were empty.

"The cough came from that office in the back," Darryl insisted strongly.

"Are you sure boo?" Chris asked strongly.

"Hell yeah!" Hoggah said sharply.

Chris kicked the door opened. A dude having reddish skin jumped up. He must have been six-foot-seven, sporting a red-checkered bamboo shirt, and dark jeans. He looked just like a former NCAA basketball player but gone country. Darryl aimed the gun at him.

"What the hell!" the man complained fiercely with face a dark mask.

"Do everything we tell you and you won't get hurt," Chris stated sharply.

"You're a big turd-breath," Darryl stated bluntly.

"Dude, I ate a lot of vegetables and drank beer when I was a kid," the man explained strongly. "What do you want?"

"For starters," Darryl stated frigidly. "Empty your pockets. Give me your watch and gold necklace and money too."

"Fine," the big man stated strongly. "Just don't shoot me."

Once he did, all that Chris advised him to. He told him to open up the safe.

"Let me think," the man said nervously. "I'm not sure I remember it!"

"Don't mess around, or I'll shot you," Hoggah stated spitefully.

The dude quickly opened up the safe and took out the cash.

"You're those hotshots that had been knocking over auto parts stores," the big man stated sharply with a smirk.

"That's right," Darryl said cheerfully.

"You won't get anything for my parts. They're defective and also of substandard quality," the big man said strongly.

"You're simply kidding big man," Ortiz said strongly, laughing.

"No. I've top brand names on secondhand parts. I come up with a great deal of money being disloyal to folks," the big man said firmly.

"Why are you telling us?" Hoggah asked sharply.

"I just like you fellas," the man said strongly with a smirk.

"Bull," Chris stated gruffly. "Let us ripped-off you and except it and move on."

"Hell yeh," Hoggah agreed sharply. "Come here and get down on your knees."

"Man, I'm certainly not sucking you," the big man said boldly with a scorching look.

"Shut up," Ortiz said bitterly, frowning. "We're not into that. Get your butt down there!"

The big dude got straight down on his knees and Ortiz hit him in the back of the head, not hard enough to kill him. After that, they cleaned out the place and left.

Sadly, for Mr. Ortiz and Hoggah they'd produced their last theft. Their Nigerian fence didn't find the brand new batch of parts really funny and shot them both to death. After some duration, later on the law caught up with Mr. Buday from Nigeria and then he was in fact found guilty of murder and buying stolen merchandise.

# Chapter 7: Exactly Where Is Lubert Benitez?

Lubert Benitez disappeared three nights ago. Melvin Hernandez paid Keith Jackson $750.00s (his savings) to locate his friend.

Jackson's start was in fact a dud. Benitez wasn't at his girlfriend's Lynne Imfield house just like he expected him to be. He wasn't in his favorite hangout Twohy's Arcade. His blue 1992 Ford Ranger vanished too.

Jackson was in his office making love to Marisa. The girl hollered just like an opera singer until it was over.

"Bruh, I learned Mr. Benitez had $5,710.21 in his saving account five days ago," she mentioned strongly in an opera tone.

"How much money did he have in his account prior?" Jackson inquired firmly as he continued to pump her harder and harder, panting.

"That dude only had $202.00 in his account," she stated strongly, making loud orgasmic sounds.

He was still panting when he seized the Wild Turkey bottle on the shelf. Miss Gidel went into the bathroom. Once he got the cap off he took a long swig from the bottle.

"Hey, baby. That doesn't look too cool," he said still panting.

Miss Giden came out of the bathroom dressed in a purple dress, smelling strong just like a high price lady. "Yeh I know. Is it drugs baby?" she snapped.

"Dog, I'm planning to check that possibility too," Jackson said strongly, lighting a joint. Put on some aftershave and leaded out the door.

Jackson appeared as if or maybe more similar to DMX but on crack cocaine and speed. He sat at Sgt. Newsham's desk eating jelly donuts getting the stuff all over papers.

Newsham strolled into his office. He was singing Lights, Camera, and Action! By Mr. Cheeks. Once he saw Jackson sitting at his desk, he became stormy.

"What in the hell do you want homeboy?" Newsham said moodily.

"Baby, I'm starving," Jackson snapped chewing.

"Get up from my desk!" Newsham stated bluntly, shoving Jackson's legs off his desk.

"You're really messing up, dude," Jackson said hotly, getting up from the chair and strolled up to the window.

"Dog, you're on that stuff again?" Newsham asked harshly

"Dude, if I deal with your butt I got to be," Keith shot back.

"Look at this! You got jelly all over everything man," Sgt. Newsham said boldly. Then he lit a cigarette.

"I'm sorry babe," Jackson said strongly, lifting the window open.

"What did you come right here for, dog?" Newsham asked sharply blowing tobacco smoke towards the window.

"What do you have on Benitez?" Jackson inquired firmly.

"Benitez is actually dead. We identified his body in a field on Sixth Street. He received multiple stab wounds," Newsham said strongly, blowing smoke in his face. "A real horrific scene."

"Well, I'll need to break the news to Hernandez," Jackson said sadly.

"Well whenever you find the homeboy let him know I'm looking for him," Newsham stated hotly and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"You think Melvin killed his best friend, dog?" Jackson said firmly.

"The dude's pearl handle did," Newsham mentioned sharply, blowing smoke rings as he strolled over to the window.

Shortly Keith found himself back in the police station with a gloomy Hernandez going through the booking process.

"Homey, I didn't kill my homeboy. You know I wouldn't. You've got to help me," Hernandez said harshly as he was being fingerprinted.

"Is that pearl handle knife yours?" Jackson inquired firmly to him.

"Hell yeh! Oh good you found it. Dog, I'd been trying to find this thing all over. Every poop-brain homeboy knows I'm never without it," Hernandez said strongly.

"Did you know Lubert had hella dough in the bank?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Naw. I didn't realize that man," Hernandez stated strongly, as they were taking him away. "Dog you got to help me!"

Jackson had been conversing with an old potbelly bum in Tony Auto parts he was the dispatcher. Benitez worked as a salesperson here.

"Man I knew him when he was obviously a driver. He was in fact a good kid. He did his job well. I just learned he was killed and Melvin did it. I couldn't believe it," the dispatcher explained sadly, shaking his head. "He screwed up a lot sometimes but a real kidder. That's why he didn't stay a driver too long."

"Was he into any thing dirty?" Keith asked calmly.

"Are you kidding? Just like I said he's a good kid," the dispatcher explained strongly, eyeing a chart.

Drivers arrived in to grab orders placed and leave.

"Old-gee it gets pretty busy around here," Jackson stated firmly, looking around.

"Yeah. It gets busy all right," the dispatcher said firmly with a smile.

"Does Benitez have a locker here?" Jackson asked.

"Yeh. Everybody does sir," the dispatcher said clearly, walking towards a small-looking hall.

Jackson followed. He walked up to a bunch of blue lockers. The dispatcher called John over to unlock the locker called Lubert Benitez. Inside the locker were in fact a number of clean shirts using the logo Tony Auto Parts. In addition, there was a black comb, a variety of Playboy magazines, and a key.

"Well?" John said cheerfully.

"What is this key for?" Jackson asked firmly studying it for a moment.

John studied it for just a moment too. "I don't know," he stated strongly, shaking his head.

Jackson checked all the other lockers with the key but it didn't fit.

"Hey, old-dog. Can I keep it? Or borrow it?" Jackson asked strongly. "I'll bring it back."

"Man, I guess so," the dispatcher said strongly, nodding head.

Jackson delivered the key to Miss Gidel to perform a trace on the numbers on the key and also to checkout all of the Tony Auto Part employees. Meanwhile he took a trip right down to the Washoe Country Coroners office.

Jackson sat with Deputy Coroner Jack Lee on behalf of the Benitez case. Lee was eating soup. Jackson was drinking a Colt 45.

"Lubert Benitez received multiple stab wounds to the peritoneum. This caused him to bleed to death," Lee stated strongly.

"How can you eat in this joint, man?" Jackson inquired sharply looking ill.

"It's really the only place I can stand to eat," Lee said sharply with a grin.

"How long has he been dead?" Jackson asked strongly and took a lengthy swig of his beer.

"At least 2 or 3 days. I'd say he died during the night. 9:00 to 10:00pm," Lee said strongly and sipped his soup.

"All right, dude," Jackson stated clearly, heading for the door.

Jackson learned that Benitez had a friend Gaspar Rabadan who lived on a lousy farm on East Mill Street. He left his pimpmobile a 1976 red Dodge Dart parked by way of a barbwire fence with cows, chickens, goats, dogs, cats, horses and pigs running about. A Mexican using a ponytail exited a chicken shed-looking house. He'd oak wood skin.

"Hello," Jackson stated strongly with a smile.

"What's up, player?" Rabadan stated firmly, smiling. He lit up a joint.

"Dog, I'm searching for Gaspar Rabadan," Jackson said strongly.

"Well, you've found him, bruh. If you're selling insurance blow baby. In the event you got a bit of weed we can party," Rabadan said sharply, blowing smoke in Keith's face.

"No man. Homeboy, do I look like a damn insurance agent?" Keith snapped.

Rabadan looked him up and down and said, "I guess not."

"I'm right here because of your friend Lubert Benitez," Jackson stated strongly as he guzzled Colt 45.

Rabadan took a long drag from his joint.

"Yeah, I heard that on the news. That bum-breath ain't no friend of mine. He burned me on a restaurant deal of 50Gs. Dude; I just got caught up on my finances. Whoever did this punk I'll kiss his butt on Main Street during rush-hour," Rabadan explained sharply, blowing smoke out his nose.

"Well, simply because you said that---maybe you took him out," Jackson said firmly, finishing his beer.

"Homey, I didn't kill the bum! I really should have though dog," Gaspar explained bluntly and took the last hit from his joint.

"Where were you between nine and ten a couple of nights ago?" Jackson asked firmly.

"What are you, homes? Are you the po-pos?" Rabadan snapped.

"Naw. I'm private baby," Jackson said firmly.

"I don't dig private pigs either, bruh," Rabadan said harshly.

Rabadan threw a punch at Jackson's face. He stepped to one side in order to avoid it, and came back using a right into the gut, following a couple of quick left to the jawbone. The impact had shaken up Rabadan falling back on the ground as he held onto his jaw.

"Ok, dog. I was with my lady. We ate at Miguel's," Rabadan stated weakly with face contorting in agony.

Jackson strolled back to his car. A number of ranch hands came out right after him clutching pitchforks and cursing. He pulled out his Ruger GP-100 .357 Magnum and the men backed off. Jackson got into his car and drove off.

Well, Jackson was back in the county jail with Hernandez eating burritos and drinking Colt 45.

"Where Benitez get $5,000?" Jackson inquired hotly to him.

"Man, I don't know his business," Hernandez snapped sharply, chewing on a burrito.

"Does this cat sell drugs?" Jackson snapped as he guzzled beer.

"Hell no. Bruh, this homeboy's clean as a newborn baby," Hernandez said strongly and guzzled his beer.

Jackson finished his burrito.

"Nobody's that clean bro-bro! Do you know he'd a key in his locker?" Jackson asked sharply.

"No, I didn't," Hernandez snapped.

"Man, you better not be lying to me punk," Jackson said sharply as took a lengthy suck from his beer can.

"Dog, I swear. I don't know Lubert's business," Hernandez said firmly, blinking excessively.

"Did he ever come home late?" Jackson asked strongly as he finished his beer.

"On Thursdays," Hernandez stated sharply and took a long swig from his beer can.

"Dog I don't believe you've lived with this man for three years and don't know nothing. If I find out you've been holding out on me you won't even be safe in here," Jackson said bluntly.

"Hold up. All right. He came to me one day and told me that he had this big score. We were planning to retire. No more bull! He wanted to take me to the Bahamas---die making love to some women and drinking fruit drinks," Hernandez stated strongly, finishing his second burrito.

"This dude robbing banks or selling dope," Jackson said sharply, watching out the cell bars.

"Dude, I don't believe my amigo stole any money. He's just a dreamer just like many of us," Hernandez stated strongly, washing down his food with beer.

Keith met Miss Gidel in the 4 Storage Warehouse.

"This is the garage where this key fits," she stated firmly.

"Auto parts?" Jackson said surprisingly.

"Yeh and they're just about all brand new," she said strongly. "Why are they right here? Why didn't he bring them home?"

"You said he owned a truck," Jackson stated firmly with a joint dangling from his mouth.

"Yeah he did. Well the transmission, starters and carburetor won't fit a truck. So what exactly are these parts for?" she said.

"What if they're stolen?" he snapped.

"Well they could be," she said firmly.

"Baby, I do believe Benitez stole them to sell them. We better get the po-pos straight down here to confiscate all of this stuff," he stated sharply, looking it over as he blew smoke out of his nose.

Now Jackson was in Benitez girlfriends' home watching her fill her fat face with chocolates, it had been just about all over her mouth looking hella nasty. She was heavyset with blond hair and blue eyes. She fixed him an egg sandwich.

"Man, I don't suspect Melvin killed Lubert. They were such close friends," she stated strongly, drinking milk with her chocolates.

"Well, don't worry the cops are likely to release Melvin later on today for lack of evidence," he stated strongly, finishing his sandwich.

"Do you want another egg sandwich?" she inquired cheerfully.

"No thank you. That stuff was in fact hella good. Do you know anything about auto parts? Why did Lubert possess a number of them in a storage locker?" he said firmly.

"Dude, I didn't even know the man had storage," she said boldly, shoving more chocolates in her mouth.

"Did you know he had 5G's in the bank?" he inquired strongly, taking the final pull from his joint.

"No, I didn't know he'd a bank account," she stated surprisingly and guzzled more milk.

"What do you know?" he snapped.

"He gets a huge discount on parts for his truck," she said.

"Well, he had parts that didn't fit his truck. Why would folks buy stuff they can't use?" he said strongly.

"He often gets parts for his friend's man," she snapped, finishing her milk.

"Did he give the perception that he was coming into any money?" he asked firmly.

"Well, he said he was saving some money so we could go on a holiday," she stated firmly, brushing back her hair from her face.

"Who might want to waste him?" he asked strongly.

"Dude, I couldn't imagine anyone wanting him dead. He cherished youngsters and they felt the same way. He always had taken them on picnics sometimes blowing his entire paycheck. He gave butthole's rides home and never complained. He'd give you the shirt off his back no matter how cold it was outside. He won the award for the best salesman of the year five times," she explained strongly as she began, sobbing.

"I'm sorry for your loss. I promise I'll get Benitez's killer," Keith said strongly.

Jackson was back in the office taking a doo-doo. When he wiped as he looked out the window, he noticed two men moving along side the building. They were carrying pieces. Jackson zipped up and seized his gun. He relocated quickly over by his desk, kneeling straight down with his gun. At this stage, the lads had been tapping on the door.

When Jackson didn't answer the door one of the men came in.

"Hey?" Jackson inquired harshly.

The man fired a number of shots in the desk until his bullets ran out. Then Jackson returned fire hitting one of the men in the chest as he was trying to reload. When he dropped, the other man took off. Jackson ran after him, but when he got to the porch, the bum was in fact dashing off in a white Caddy. Jackson called the police.

Sgt. Newsham emerged singing My Band by D12. Jackson gave him the license number.

"Dude, you make delightful homeys," Newsham stated sharply with a smile.

"For sure," Jackson snapped.

"The serial numbers on those parts happen to be filed down. But the owner of Taylor Auto Parts claims many parts have been missing from his inventory. We also found Benitez truck left by Fourth Street, and a comb inside belonging to a Dorothy James Marcus," Newsham explained sharply, blowing smoke in Jacksons face.

"Who the hell is he?" Jackson snapped.

"This punk works at Taylor Auto Parts too. Dude I intend to bring him in for questioning," Newsham said firmly, finishing his cigarette.

"Let's do it right now!" Jackson said strongly.

"All right," Newsham said strongly.

Newsham and Jackson turned up at Taylor Auto Parts to talk with DJ Marcus the snake (known to all his friends).

"Where is he?" Newsham asked strongly.

"He's over there by the register. You can't miss him a six-foot-seven blond dude," a driver stated sharply with a grin.

"Man, I don't see a blond dude," Jackson snapped.

"Maybe he went along to the toilet," the man said strongly.

"There's a big blond man outdoors strolling towards a bright red Dodge Challenger," Sgt. Newsham said sharply, looking in that direction.

"I got you," Jackson stated strongly, moving towards the exit. Newsham quickly followed. "Let's get this bum!"

When they got outside Marcus was initially driving off. After he noticed Jackson and Newsham moving towards him, he floored it out of the parking lot, leaving black tire marks.

"That slime ball seen us," Jackson stated savagely, slowing behind the car.

"Will, just find out where the bums lives," Sgt. Newsham snapped.

Jackson came across Mr. Marcus residence in Sun Valley it had been protected by an elegant alarm system. His car was gone. Jackson utilized lock-picks to get in. He moved across the room swiftly with his big gun by his side. Mr. Marcus wasn't home-no-one was in fact there. There were lots of auto parts in the bedroom brand-new and surely stolen. He heard sirens drawing near and made a decision to split.

Well, heading back to town Jackson acquired a tail the dude in the white Caddy. Soon after, he soon started ramming into the rear of his automobile. Following, he soon began firing what seemed just like a Freedom Arm .454 Casull at Jackson's car. A number of bullets took out the back window he began weaving laterally to avert this crazy punks bullets.

Then abruptly Jackson made a sharp right and the car spun around. This caught the white Caddy off guard it smashed into the side rear of the car. Both cars now stalled. Jackson got out of his car just a little shook up and with his gun staggered his way to the Caddy. The black man was obviously a little shook up since his head slammed into his stern wheel pretty hard. He had been moaning, groaning, and rambling on. His revolver was on the seat near by. Jackson pushed his gun barrel up against the mans head. Some nosy lady saw the whole thing and called the cops because the sound of sirens was in fact getting close. "Oh man. Where am I?" the black man stated weakly.

"Hey, Homeboy. Why did you try to get rid of me?" Jackson asked bitterly, panting.

"Dog, I don't know," the man said sharply, looking confused.

"Tell me dude! Bruh, I'll blow your head off," Jackson stated hotly, pushing the gun up against the man's head. This did actually jar his memory. "You want a damn doctor?"

"The auto parts...I'm expected to meet Kirk Lauti Jr., he's a smalltime fence...we'll make so much money," he said slowly.

The man was passing out and Jackson would keep him awake poking the gun barrel into the man's face.

"What happened to Lubert Benitez?" Jackson inquired sharply.

"They...they killed him!" the man said weakly.

"Why homey?" Jackson snapped.

"The auto parts...because of the auto parts," he said just before passing out.

Jackson found out that a Mr. Kirk Lauti Jr. had a farmhouse off highway 680. It had taken him quite some time to locate the spot flanked by lots of trees and bushes. Jackson got out of his bullet-riddled car, smoking badly, carrying his weapon as his eyes searched the area franticly. He saw Marcus's Dodge parked by the house. But on the other side lay Marcus's body face down in a large puddle of blood. He was absolutely dead with two slugs in the back.

Keith approached the building with extreme caution. When a curly haired brown-skinned dude came around the house shooting, a Browning Auto-5 12-guage Magnum Jackson dove on the ground rolling in order to avoid the bullets. He returned fire nailing the dude in the chest and he fell dead. The noises of sirens were approaching.

He kicked the farmhouse door in and dived onto the floor rolling as Lauti Jr. fired shots at him missing as they stuck in the wall. Meanwhile Jackson had crawled underneath a couch. Lauti Jr. started firing into it.

"Come out bruh!" Lauti jr said vociferously.

"Come get me dude!" Jackson said strongly.

"There's noway out homes," Lauti jr said firmly. "Come out and we can talk about the money. We're going to be partners!"

"Slime you, Lauti. You hear that? Our boy's in blue. You're the ones stuck baby-boo!" Jackson said sharply.

When Lauti Jr. heard the cops outside the house, he ran off like a little coward.

Jackson followed him outside running straight down the grassy field shooting guns at each other just like the classic westerns. The cops learned of this and came around the back. Lauti Jr. ran in some small shack. Jackson stayed outside behind some old Chevy truck. The cops made their way up to where Jackson was. Before long, Lauti was in fact shooting out the window. It was obvious this fool-ass punk wasn't likely to last at this.

Newsham instructed his officers to burn the damn shack to the ground but made a decision to utilize teargas. They soon shot these canisters in the window. Soon smoke billowed out from the place and the fool ran out shooting at the police like he had some death wish! Jackson shot him right down. He had been barely alive when the paramedics had taken him away.

Later on Jackson and Miss Giden were having prime rib dinner in Harrah's Garden Room. They washed straight down the food with red wine.

"How's Melvin doing?" she asked strongly with a grin.

"Not so great. But he's thankful this whole thing is now over. He's still grieving for his best friend," Jackson stated sadly.

"What happened with this Lauti dude?" she inquired calmly, drinking her wine.

"Mr. Lauti Jr. presented a full confession on his hospital bed. Unfortunately, he's likely to live. Marcus was stealing parts from Tony Auto Parts store. He was making big money selling them to a fence, Lauti. When Benitez found out, he threatened to go to the cops so Marcus killed him with Melvin's knife. Simply because this idea was in fact making such a lot of money Lauti made the decision he didn't want Marcus for a partner anymore and killed him which I thought was hella ignorant because how could you get more parts," he explained firmly, shaking his head.

"Well, I'm glad it's over and these crazy folks are going to prison. Also I hope Melvin could possibly get back to his life and Tony Auto Parts will certainly move ahead," she stated, pouring herself one more glass of wine. "Do you really want desert?"

"Hell, yeh," he snapped.

The waitress brought the bill. She examined it for just a moment after that her eyes sprang out of her face.

"Fifty dollars!" she snapped sharply.

"Well, in that case along the way back home we can stop by McDonalds for just a sundae," Jackson stated strongly with a smile as he finished dinner.

"Oh ,yeh. It's merely a buck," she mentioned firmly.

They got up, paid the check, and left.

# Chapter 8: The Lethal Adventures Of Don Ivanis

Freddy Norbell pulled up in a red Porsche and parked in front of an abandon purple motel, in West Oakland, California. He was to meet Don Ivanis, a cocaine dealer. He was Spanish-Irish, stylish-looking, dressed up just like he was planning to vacation in Hawaii. He removed a blue bag from his back seat. He searched for Don Ivanis. It had been 5:00pm. Warm and sunny. Tranquil. He wandered up to a 1984 baby blue Caddy, having shaded windows, figuring it was Ivanis's ride. He searched inside but the windows were to dark to really see anything. And he wasn't sure if he was inside or not. He knocked on the window. No one came out of the vehicle.

"Hello, baby," Mr. Norbell stated happily, swelling with good cheer to the window. "Homeboy, I bought a present for ya."

"Hey, baby," a friendly voice stated behind him. "Dude, I have a present for your ass, too."

Mr. Norbell turned around. Mr. Ivanis was standing there with a Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum. "Yo, dog, I adore presents, baby," Ivanis stated cheerfully, chuckling.

Norbell was standing there. His blue eyes had taken on a hunted look. Ivanis pulled the trigger three times. The firearm produced three muffled sounds as Mr. Norbell let go of the tote and went down just like a leaf. Mr. Ivanis looked over him for moment, after which stepped over the body. He acquired the blue tote and went through it.

There was clearly a hundred thousand dollars in cash and a Sauer H.38 .32 auto. He looked around to make certain nobody had been there, watching. No-one was observing. He kept the cash and dumped the weapon. He dressed in a red silk shirt, baggy jeans and white Nikes. Don left Freddy's body in a field by a burned out hotel. He got inside his car and left.

Ivanis cherished ripping off drug addicts. He'd enjoy to observe their faces once they get home and find the cocaine is barely 8% pure and the rest is salt and sugar. To him it had been merely a lethal adventure. He believed this stuff would make them reconsider purchasing drugs. In addition, due to the fact drug addicts murdered his sister. He constantly needed to be on his toes simply because this business was just crazy.

A few days later on, the Oakland police take away Freddy Norbell's decaying body. An elderly woman walking her dog discovered Norbell's body lying down in the field. Freddy's body ended up stripped right down to his underwear. His money, Porsche and ID had been gone. He was obviously a playboy who actually threw lavish coke parties. He'd already been busted many occasions for drug possession. His girlfriend, a supermodel, Kay Devrs, resided with him in the Oakland hills. The cops called it their fiftieth homicide of the year so far. It went down in the books as a murder-robbery.

Ivanis left his vehicle by the side of his humble red brick home. He lived in East Oakland on 82nd Ave. Lower class community, rundown properties, as well as apartments. Lousy schools, along with a liquor store on each and every corner. He had been African American having rich brown skin, and a patch over his left eye, around thirty, five-foot-nine, medium built, sporting a low-cut afro. He never dressed up really elaborate. He lost his eye once he had been seven. He was playing at an East Oakland Playground. There seemed to be some turmoil over the outcomes of a basketball game. Just before anybody realized it, bullets had been flying. Young Don Ivanis seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong occasion. He had taken chemistry at high school. He was really wise at a young age that he give up school early on. He decided to go to work at a biscuit factory right up until they cut his hours. He required more cash so he began producing drugs in his garage.

Once he lost his favorite sister who actually marketed drugs and had been ripped-off and killed by an addict. It messed up him. The big-dog desired payback.

When he got out of his car, his young teenage daughters greeted him---Tyressa and Michelle. His wife was Rita, a tall lanky dark skinned woman, having a fish face, around thirty-three, labored at Walgreen's. His lawn had been cut low, half-green and yellow. The pathway acquired crevices. The windows had been large. Orange plastic-type chairs on the porch. A mango tree was in front. The air smelled like gunpowder.

They sat at the table ingesting fried chicken, yams, mustard greens and cornbread. Girls drank some pink soda. Don and Rita drank Olde English (beer). She dressed in a pink shirt and tight blue jeans. Tyressa dressed in a white blouse and tight dark jeans. She'd a mousey brown face, with blond hair, gigantic lips, and horse teeth. Michelle wore a red tank top and tight white jeans. She'd a kind chocolate face, pug nose, huge lips and lots of teeth.

The home had been filled up with third-class furnisher. Many family pictures were on the walls. PlayStation, CD's, DVD's and books had been crammed on drooping shelves. The kitchen experienced cracks on the walls and floors. Sagging cupboards, and scraped up counters. China had cracks. The kitchen table and chairs were outdated. Furthermore, they was battling huge roaches, rodents and ants.

"What did you get?" Rita inquired enjoyably.

"Hundred grand," Ivanis stated cheerfully, his one eye dancing. "The fool made an effort to kill me. Norbell had been transporting a Sauer .32 auto."

"You got blessed this time around, baby," she said having a smile.

"A brother got to have a little luck every now and then," he said securely.

"Why do you do it, daddy?" Michelle asked strongly. "It sounds too dangerous."

"It is baby-girl," he said sharply. "But life without some risk isn't worth living. Remember that."

"Bruh, I'd like to go shopping," Rita said happily.

"Blood, I'll give you some money after dinner," he said happily, licking his greasy fingers. "This chicken is great, baby. Like mamma used to make it."

Ivanis met Rick Foss at the back of an abandon white house boarded up on E14th and 22nd Street. You wouldn't want to be caught there at night or even just in the day for that matter. Foss was obviously a heavyset light-skinned black man, having a fathead, and platinum teeth sporting a T-shirt a size too big, sagging jeans, and white Reeboks. He wore a purple cap backwards. He appeared to be a regular rap artist or music producer. There was another black man, bovine with a high forehead and darkish skin, wearing dark clothes and lots of gold jewelry. He held a black suitcase. Ivanis held one too. They swapped cases. Made some African American humor and went their separate ways. These folks were from L.A. They analyzed some of the cocaine powder and nodded in approval before leaving the location.

Mr. Ivanis ripped off them, the 3 kilos of cocaine was merely 10% genuine. The remainder was powder sugar and salt. He wandered away with two hundred and fifty G's. He was savoring this. Maybe they'll gain knowledge from this and quit utilizing drugs.

Mr. Ivanis consented to meet up with Nathaniel Cano, an ex-football player, at this moment businessman. He turned up on a Harley, transporting a black leather suitcase. He had been big, black and even ugly. Dreadlocks were lengthy having a touch of gray. A lot of gold teeth. He wore all black leather. He searched for Mr. Ivanis at an abandon building...once a Safeway. He noticed a baby blue Caddy. He approached it. Mr. Ivanis leaped out from behind the dwelling. Mr. Cano switched around and looked over him hard. Ivanis held a Beretta. Furthermore, was dressed in surgery gloves.

"What is this?" Cano stated acidly. "A damn rip-off."

"It's payday, big-dog," Ivanis said cheerfully, beaming. "Give me the case, black brother."

"Slime you, frog-brain," Cano stated candidly. "Be a man. Come take it, dog!"

"You lose, brother," Ivanis said cheerfully, aiming the firearm.

Cano ran at him like a big elephant, yelling. He fired the firearm into his chest and head. It produced six loud pops and Cano grabbed hold of him, fought, for a few moments, and fell to the ground on top of Ivanis wincing, big dark eyes bulging, blood leaking from his mouth and nose. Ivanis rolled the big dead homeboy off of him and got up and nabbed up the suitcase, and moved rapidly to the hood of his vehicle.

Don opened up and went through the case. There was clearly a hundred and thirty thousand in cash along with a Silver Colt Model 1917 Army .45 ACP. He tossed it away.

He searched the body, had taken a Rolex, gold jewelry and a $1,000 in cash.

Don had taken Rita and the youngsters to Jamaica. They checked in to the lovely Jamaica Inn.

"Baby, I really like this place," Ivanis stated face radiant with good cheer. "The black folks are so gorgeous."

"This is really a paradise, mama," Tyreesa stated enjoyably.

She nodded. "It's good to escape from the ghetto. You hear what I'm saying?" Rita said cheerfully.

"I really like the clothes," Michelle stated happily, bouncing on the bed.

"I love the herbs," Ivanis said cheerfully.

They were giant beds, huge washrooms, and a spa, a shower the dimensions of a football field, tables, chairs, some type of computer, a large flat scene TV with Direct TV, and a closet. You actually got your money's worth. There seemed to be HBO. A phone and the internet. The curtains and bedspreads had been Jamaican style.

"Have you ever enjoyed their food?" Tyressa questioned cheerfully, grinning.

"Hell, yeh, baby-girl," Ivanis said strongly.

"I'm tired," Rita said weakly.

"Me too," the kids said sharply.

"We'll go out tomorrow," Ivanis said firmly.

Right after 14 days of enjoyment under the sun, they were all set to go home. They'd one last huge Jamaican breakfast. Certainly, they went swimming, and to a live performance, a museum, drank from coconuts and ate Jamaican cuisine. The girls had taken pictures of everyone and thing.

"Yo, baby. I'm bored," Ivanis complained dryly. "Bro-bro, I never thought I'd miss the ghetto."

"Hell, yeh. I'm prepared to go home, too," Rita stated strongly. "Hey, blood, I don't believe the girls wish to go."

"The girls will need to go back to school," he stated firmly. "I don't want no stupid homegirls."

Gregory Fidrych agreed to meet with Don Ivanis behind a boarded up blue house on E. 14th and 83rd Street. Don had been likely to deliver 20 kilos of cocaine. Mr. Fidrych decided on seven hundred thousand. The time would be 5:30 p.m. This bum ran a modeling agency.

A white Mercedes with shaded windows pulled up into the driveway, continued into the back, and parked. The surrounded homes were for sale. No folk was in the vicinity. The housing crises hit the neighborhood hard.

Fidrych, a white man having a boyish face, emerged from the vehicle. He looked around. He was transporting a brown duffle tote. He wore a sultry shirt, white slacks, and hard sole shoes. He'd a female manner about himself as he strolled into the yard.

"Hello," he stated in a girl's voice. "It's me, Gregory. Exactly where are ya, baby?"

Silence...more silence.

Fidrych wandered into the center of the yard stepping on trash. The grass had been yellow piled with dog poop. It smelled strong scent of crack cocaine, black men sweat, marijuana, and gunpowder in the air. There were clothes and shoes, spread about. He presented a Glock Model 20 10mmm. He strolled slowly, quietly. Looking around.

Mr. Ivanis showed up from under the house, having a Ruger .357 Magnum, on Fidrych left side.

Fidrych turned, fired. Had missed. Ivanis pumped a multitude of bullets into his figure. He dropped the weapon and tote, his pretty face recoiled in horror and he fell forward.

Ivanis got up from his belly brushed his clothing off. With his foot, he pushed over Fidrych's body. His lifeless blue eyes stared into the sky. Blood ran out of his many wounds like a paint can. He was in fact deceased.

He snapped up the duffle bag, unzipped it. He dumped everything out of it: a bunch of money and a rattlesnake jumped up at him. Don leaped back quickly. The snake struck as Don moved his body smoothly away, avoiding it. The snake moved through the grass, hissing. It's rattler sounding off.

Ivanis dived for his firearm scooped it up. The snake was in flight. He fired one shot, the head exploded and body went down in the grass. He hurried up to the money and counted it swiftly. Somebody must have heard the shots and could be phoning the cops.

He put all the cash into the tote and left.

It had been only ninety thousand dollars.

Mr. Ivanis and his family spent six months away. They traveled to Bahamas, Cap Town and Hong Kong.

12 months later on in Oakland, Ca, Ivanis's enjoyment had been done. Federal agents swooped down on him for moving counterfeit money, which ended up being the cash stolen from Fidrych. He opened up for the killing of Fidrych, Norbell and Cano.

Don Ivanis tried and found guilty of several counts of murder, and illegal manufacturing of drugs.

# Chapter 9: A View From The Courthouse

"Baby, you murdered Atkinson Gates because he signed a proposal that may hurt you and all hotel laborers in Reno," Mr. Mark Jones stated harshly.

Miss Harris stamped her fist on the table. "Sure I wanted to eliminate the homeboy, yet I didn't---hotels aren't my entire life, dog. Dude, I possibly could get a job in any field," she said harshly degenerating to a guttural rasp.

"Where had you been around the night Gates had been killed?" he inquired firmly.

"Dude, I was in fact in a bridge game at my sisters, just like I shared with the Reno police," she stated bitterly. "Dog, I've nothing more to say to you creep." She opened the door. "Get the hell out, homeboy!"

"I'm not done yet," he stated sharply. "Do you own a weapon, girl?"

"No, generally if I did I'd shoot you right now," she stated bluntly her eyes narrowing with contempt.

"Thank you, Miss Harris," he said strongly and walked out the door. She slammed it behind me.

Once Jones reached his automobile, a brown and white 69 Volkswagen, a couple of mean looking dudes had been waiting by the car. They'd weapons. They forced him behind a gray building.

"Mr. Jones," one of them stated bluntly. "This case you're focusing on could possibly be risky for your health."

"Sounds just like a threat, bruh," Mr. Jones said strongly studying them critically.

"Take it anyway you desire, punk," the other guy explained vociferously, hitting him in the tummy three times. Furthermore, another dude struck him in the back of the head once he had been on his knees. "Leave this Gates affair alone, dog!" They said harshly as they wandered off.

Mr. Jones sat there for some time. His face twisted in pain and threw up all over the place.

Jones got in his car, very shook up, proceeded on course straight down Lake Street and switched left on Second Street. He parked in front of the Reno police station and put his fake disability sign on his windshield.

Mark headed for Sergeant Jaime Dates office in the back. He had been standing by the window chewing bubble gum. He sung Black Velveteen by Lenny Kravitz. Jones sat in second hand metal chair.

"What the heck do you need?" Dates snapped.

"Bro-bro, I would like to make a complaint," Jones snapped feeling a trapdoor open in the floor of his stomach.

Dates checked out a collection of brown lightly folders on his desk. "Dude, I'm busy dude and so make it fast," Sgt. Dates said bitterly.

"A black and Spanish cat pulled a weapon on me and punched on my butt for a short time and made threats," Mr. Jones stated greatly to him.

"Were they tall or short?" Dates said firmly.

"The black dude appeared to be tall and Mexican was small. These folks were dressed up just like rappers," Jones said strongly.

Sgt. Dates jammed a yellow sheet of paper in the typewriter and began striking keys. "That's it?" Dates said strongly.

"Dog, I am aware it's very little, dog," Jones said sharply. "But that's all I know. All this stuff happened so fast."

"You're just high on that stuff again," Dates said strongly and popped his bubble gum.

"Naw. I ain't got high yet but I think I should," Jones said firmly.

"That description fits a lot of homeboys in Reno, dog," Dates said in a whiskey voice.

Jones started for the door. "Dog, I know---but you're Reno's finest. Apart from that I got to take a doo-doo!"

Jones came by McDonalds. He ordered a double Quarter Pounder, fries and a Coke. He headed back in his office on Sutro Street. It had become a big brown barn. Once he strolled in the door Janet Jackson (not the singer) had been there, an alluring black girl having burnt almond-hair, and fly body. She was his assistant for two years.

"Where is mine?" she snapped cheerfully.

"At McDonald's, baby," he said sharply.

"You're messed up, dude," she said sadly.

"Suck my knob sometimes baby and perhaps I'll get you something," Jones stated defensively with a scorching.

"Hell, no. You need to go play with yourself," she stated boldly with a frigid stare.

"Baby, I would like you to checkout Miss Nancy Harris. She works at the Harrah's Hotel," Jones said calmly.

"Fine," she said having a smirk.

"Take an hour lunch break, boo," he said firmly, sipping his Coke.

Right after she left a tall lady having lustrous hair and Nordic, blue eyes started in the office. "Are you Mark Jones?" she asked frantically.

"Depend on who wishes to know," he shot back with a smirk.

"I'm Tammy Colts," she said sharply with saucer eyes.

"Hell, yeh. Miss Colt. Have a seat. I don't have too many white girls in my office," Jones said cheerfully.

She sat. He stared at her pasty white legs and she growled.

"Dude, I would like you to locate my sister," she said sharply as she took out a photo.

"Baby, I'm sorry, yet I'm on a case now," he said cheerfully, shaking his head as he looked at the picture. It was a young blond girl, having an oval face.

"Please sir," she stated urgently. "It's the money. Or perhaps because I'm white."

"Hell, no," he stated strongly and handed her back the photo. "I love white chicks, too."

She put ten hundred dollar bills in front of him. He jammed a handful of fries in his mouth.

"It's not the cash, baby," he explained nicely with a mouth full of food. "Dude, I can only focus on one case at a time."

She began to weep. "Homeboy, I'll go crazy if I can't find her," she said frantically.

He offered her a handkerchief.

"Miss, I'd love to help you however I can't that's all," he said softly, still chewing his food. "Baby, I can recommend someone else."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," she said harshly, threw his handkerchief on the floor as she walked out.

Miss Colt, if that had been her name got into a pink Lexus and driven off. Mr. Jones made a decision to follow her. He believed she was trying to get him off this Gates case like other homeboy. She was proceeding west of Reno. He was doing 87mph yet still seemed to be two car lengths behind her. She turned on to W I-80 in route to Sacramento and he followed until she discovered him.

She moved swiftly across the highway, weaving back and forth in between vehicles and her velocity elevated to 127mph, racing just like some NASCAR driver. He was able to achieve 90 and once his car began trembling, he made a decision to cease and head back.

Back again, in the office, he ran a background check up on Atkinson Gates. He'd been in state politics for along time. He served in the city council for more than twenty years. He was a county prosecutor. He'd already been married for twenty-five years. His wife's name was Sophie Jahne Gates. He'd absolutely no criminal background nor did she.

The license plates on Miss Colt's vehicle had been registered to Foreign Auto Works.

He drove out to Spanish Springs were the Gates resided. All of the properties out there were outstanding. He sat on the buckskin couch, drinking costly whiskey. Mrs. Gates had just returned from her husband's funeral.

"Is this essential?" she barked firmly.

"Yep," he stated regrettably. "Girl, I won't keep you long. Did you kill your husband?"

"Of course not, homeboy," she stated haughtily with a scorching look. "Dude, I cherished my hubby."

"Where were you right at that moment he was killed?"

"Alone?" she snapped thick with insinuation.

"No, with servants," she explained candidly.

He guzzled his drink.

"Do you know who seem to wish your husband wasted?" he inquired firmly.

"Hell, no," she answered bluntly. "He did a lot for the city of Reno."

"Did your husband ever have an affair?" he asked strongly, finishing up his drink.

"No never," she snapped hotly.

"You seem very certain, baby?" he said clearly.

"I'm certain," she said defensively.

"Well if you think of anything else contact me," he said sharply and gave her his card.

Gates proposition wasn't helpful for the hotel workers. He brought up hotel and casino taxes and cut many folks pensions, so that you can pay money for street repaving. And to build much better freeways.

Mr. Jones got out of his car and strolled up to the foreign auto works building. A dude came out coated in greasy. "Hello," Jones stated cheerfully. "Dude, I'm Jar Piper. I'm at the Diamond Jewelers. A young lady with dark hair started in to buy earrings and left without them, therefore I ran right after her she had taken off in a pink Lexus from here."

He stood there for a couple of seconds, scratching his blond head. Then said, "Oh yes, It's Miss Jenny Anderson, a real hotty isn't she? We're taking care of her transmission, so we loaned her a vehicle," he said cheerfully.

"Where must I locate her?" Jones asked happily with a big smile.

"Hold on. Dog, I got her address in the office. The bling is rather pricey. She's most likely having a fit over this stuff, dude," he said sharply and rushed off into the office and came back with some documents. "She lives at 537 Ralston Street, apartment 2."

"Thanks, sonny," Jones said softly and left.

Once Jones reached her apartment, she was in fact dead: An apparent suicide. The broad was dangling from the living room chandelier. He dial emergency from his cell phone, which can be usually difficult to get through for him. Jamie Dates came and Reno Fire Department and paramedics.

"What the hell have you been doing here, dog?" Dates snapped with a dubious expression.

"Dude, I'm being a good citizen by reporting a crime, homey," Jones said bitterly.

"Why don't you just cut the bull, dog? What's up?" Dates asked harshly with a spasm of irritation crossing his face.

"Bruh, I do believe this dead woman fits in with my case," Jones said strongly.

"Who is she, baby?" Dates said chewing gum.

"Jenny Anderson," Jones said firmly.

"What an attractive white-girl. So young. Why would she commit suicide?" Dates snapped, looking up at her body.

"Dude, I do believe Miss Anderson was murdered," Jones stated firmly.

"Boo, so why do you believe that?" Dates asked firmly regarding quizzically as he popped his gum.

"She came to my office, pleading with me to fine her sister. However I declined and chased this girl halfway to Mexico," Jones said strongly.

"You smell like weed boo," Dates said bluntly.

"Well, a homeboy got to get high sometimes," Jones stated sharply.

"Man you can't be doing that stuff in Nevada!" Dates said firmly, dripping with spite.

"Slime you, gee. You do it too," Jones said strongly.

"So somebody hired her to mess with your case?" Dates said firmly.

"Hell, yeh. And killed her to keep her quiet," Jones said clearly.

"Suicide, huh?" Dates stated sharply, looking at the body.

"Miss Anderson...she couldn't have got hoisted herself way up there, G," Jones said firmly.

"So somebody put the broad up there," Dates said bluntly. "Hey, you guys. Get this woman down from there. Demonstrate some respect, huh?"

"Yes, sir," the officers said firmly as they move swiftly to the body.

"Well, may I go bruh? Am I a suspect?" Jones asked sharply.

"Okay, fool. You can bounce for now. But be handy if I need you. You know what I mean?" Dates said sharply to him, blew a big bubble, and popped it.

"Yes, sir," Jones stated firmly walking away.

Mark was back speaking with Janet.

"Man, I check everybody on the list of hotel workers from every casino and also other hotels and motels, even folks that left, quit, or simply fired and also retired. Nobody had criminal records. And a few folks acquired minor offences," she explained strongly.

"Did anybody have weapons, baby?" Jones asked firmly.

"Maybe four people did," she said firmly. "Only one person had a .32, it had been Mark Vargas. He moved away from Nevada several years ago. Currently he lives in Michigan."

"Alibi's?" Jones snapped.

"Everybody checks out," she stated clearly.

Mr. Jones chatted with Dates for a couple of hours. He learned that Jenny Anderson was murdered since the coroner discovered bruises on her arm, indicating a struggle and other evidence. She was from Wyoming her parents reside there. She was twenty-six, and was busted for prostitution. She currently labored in the Dar Modeling Agency around Hollywood, California. As a result, Janet and he invested several days checking these folks thoroughly.

Well, they checked out everybody in the modeling place and it was a dead end. But James Dar's wife worked on the Reno council board, her names was Lynne Dar. She declined to speak to him. But Mr. Dar finally did.

"Well, yes," Dar stated having a smile. "Man, I'm sorry she's dead."

"How well did you know her?" Mr. Jones asked in a ghetto tone.

"Not well," Dar said firmly, smoking a pipe. "Dude, I don't discuss much with all the models."

"Do you possess a firearm?" Jones asked strongly.

"Certainly not," Mr. Dar snapped hotly, turning a cold eye on him.

"Does your wife?" Jones asked firmly.

"Yes," Dar stated firmly.

"What kind?" Jones snapped.

"Dude, I don't know, man. Dude, I don't know a lot about weapons," Dar stated strongly fixed with a level stare.

"Why won't your wife speak with me?" Jones said sharply.

"Dude, I don't know, man. Maybe she's frightened of your kind," Dar stated strongly.

"Dude, I do think your lady killed Gates," Jones said firmly.

"No way, brother," Dar stated acidly puffing on his pipe. "Lynne acquired the most admiration for that guy. My wife isn't a killer."

They chatted a lot more after that, before he had him thrown out.

Mark was relaxing in his car downtown Reno in front of the county building the location where the council folks hangout drinking Sailor Jerry. Next, somebody started shooting at his car and he lay down on the seat. Next, he heard tires squeal, and a vehicle sped past him. He jumped up from his to see a black Caddy. He discovered just what she looked like, a real classy looking woman. He met her outside the building and the police and sheriff's swarmed him, asking questions about the shooting.

"Dog, I don't know," Jones said firmly. "I just saw a black Cadillac turn down First Street. Man, I didn't obtain a license plate."

"Homey, I do think you're lying," the sheriff stated hotly with a stony expression.

"Get lost, PI," the officer said savagely. "Or I'll run your butt in."

Mrs. Dar vanished. He went back in the building and had no luck. She faded away in a puff of smoke. He went and got a club sandwich and a Coke in the snack bar inside of Eldorado. He then enjoyed some blackjack for a while. He returned to the Reno police station.

"You're always having your butt in something," Sgt. Dates said sharply, chewing bubble gum and blowing bubbles.

"Hella stuff," Jones said strongly. "Never a dull moment."

"The bullets we pulled out of your car had been from a .44 Magnum," Dates said strongly.

"Yo, some homeboy loves to have fun with big guns," Jones said securely with a half grin.

"Homey, I really want you to keep off this case before you're dead my pal," Sgt. Dates stated sharply, patting his back.

"Now you're calling me your pal dog? You know I can't back off when homeboys are trying to snuff out my candle," Jones said sharply.

Well, Jones was in fact relaxing in his office when Mrs. Dar strolled in and sat in the client's chair.

"You desired to speak with me?" Mrs. Dar said firmly with a smile.

"Hell, yeh," Jones said strongly with a street tone.

They shared a bottle of Sailor Jerry.

"What do you wish to know?" she said gently.

"Dude, I thought you disliked my butt," he stated firmly and sucked on the bottle.

"No. I get along fine with your kind," she said cheerfully, sipping from the bottle.

"Do you know anybody driving a black Caddy? And Shoots 44 Magnum pistols at homeboy's?" he inquired boldly.

"Sorry, no," she stated strongly, and took a longer sip from the bottle. "Dude, is there anything else?" she handed the bottle back.

"Did you kill Gates?" he asked bluntly, taking a guzzle from the bottle.

"No, I cherished him. Dude, I mean I'd been crazy about him," she said passionately with breathing ragged with desire.

"You were having an affair, babe?" Jones snapped and took a huge drink.

"For six years, man," she said firmly with pitiful look of appeal.

"Does your wonderful husband know?" Jones asked strongly handing back the almost empty bottle.

"No, Jim doesn't," she stated regrettably. "We had been really discrete. His wife didn't know, either."

"Well somebody knows, babe," Jones said strongly.

Jones needed to go have a piss. Once he came back, he asked her a few more questions, stumbling back to his desk.

"Do you own a gun?" he asked sharply lighting a joint.

"Yes, a .32 Cougar, honey," she said boldly, fining the rest of the bottle.

"This things really getting ugly. Baby, I've already been shot at by the same sort of pistol," he said harshly, blowing smoke her way.

"Dude, I better not drink anymore. Dude, I've got to drive home," she said firmly, in a sluggish voice, trying to get up.

"Does your husband know the places you kept your gun?" he asked firmly.

"Yes, of course," she snapped.

"Was your husband in the home on the night of Councilman Gates death?" he asked firmly and suck on his joint.

"No, Jim was in New York for business," she stated.

Jones seriously considered everything long after she left. Sergeant Jaime Dates had long hair with no shortage of grease. He met him once he had been a busboy in the Mint casino. He'd a job being a boss over the dishwashers for a while. Dates went through the Academy, and moved up swiftly through the ranks. He's already been in the Reno station for fifteen years.

Mark Jones had black freakish hair resembling the look of a janitor. He labored being a busboy, a pilot, security officer and police officer, yet ended up being often let go as a result of his drug abuse and heavy drinking.

Jones was back at Mrs. Gates house drinking 15 years old bourbon. "You have got good news for me?" she asked cheerfully.

"Not truly," he stated sadly. "Your bum husband was having an affair with Lynne Dar, a State worker."

"Never. You're telling lies, punk," she snapped bluntly and threw her drink in his face.

"No, it's true," he said strongly, wiping the liquor from my face.

"Do you think that Jim's dead for this reason?" she asked bluntly.

"Maybe," he said firmly and took a long swig from bottle. "Dog, I'm not necessarily sure."

"Well go seek out," she said strongly, opening the door. "Man, I don't pay you to stand around. And leave the bottle. Good day Mr. Jones."

Jones soon began straight down a dirt road bringing about the freeway. He spotted that black Caddy in the rearview mirror, moving quickly. He punched it; his car jerked forward, and shortly arrived at 66 mph. The Caddy swiftly caught up to him and started ramming Jones's car. He rammed into the Caddy. They took turns ramming each other for several miles. Next, the gun came out of the window, and started shooting at his car.

Jones rammed in the Caddy hard and it went off the side of the highway and flipped several times. He slammed on the brakes. He jogged up to the vehicle as it started to catch fire. He managed to pull one of the guys out, dragged him to safety before the Caddy exploded.

"Help me, man," the black guy pleaded sharply, bleeding from the nose and mouth. "Get me a doctor, dog."

"Who retained you, baby?" Jones asked strongly staring at him hard.

"Dar-James Dar," he explained having clamped teeth. "He killed that council dude."

"Are you positive, homeboy?" Jones snapped.

"Hell yeh," he stated sharply as he was getting weaker by the minutes.

"Will you supply a statement to the cops?" Jones asked firmly.

"For sure."

He called the cops and paramedics. He remained and gave a statement to the police then he left.

James Dar was at the Model agency. He flew the Cessna 72 to Las Angeles, and taken a cab to the agency. James Dar was in his office.

"Hello," Jones said cheerfully. "How's it going, dude?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing here, brother?" Dar stated bitterly.

"What kind of greeting is that?" Jones said strongly with a half smile.

"You're that Jones, dude," Mr. Dar said incredulously.

"For sure," Jones said strongly. "And you're going to jail for killing Atkinson Gates."

"Bull," Dar stated fiercely with implacable expression. "You are ridiculous. Get the hell out!"

"You learned he had been having an affair with your wife. You check into the Martin Motel across the street from the county building, where Gates office was in fact. Dude, you utilized a bogus name and everything. Once he stepped out from the building you shot him with your wife's .32 Cougar," Jones explained sharply.

Dar was standing and shook his head.

"You paid for this girl Jenny Anderson to hire me to locate her phony sister only to get me off this case. Then when that didn't work your slimy-butt goons made an effort to frighten me off and kill me when I declined to give up," Jones explained farther sharply.

"Dude, you've got nothing," Dar said bitterly. "You haven't any proof."

"How do you reckon I came across you? Your pet donkey tried to hit me again and failed. One died and the other sang just like a bird. Dude, I'm pretty sure you'd Miss Anderson murdered and your dude is certainly perishing and has absolutely nothing to loose and at this very moment he's give the police a statement that's likely to fry your peckerwood-butt," Jones said frankly.

Dar had taken out a gun. "You're through Homeboy. Let's go outside," Dar ordered maliciously.

"The LAPD are on their way, Dar," Jones stated firmly with a grin. "Besides your butt can't take me out of here at gunpoint, there are also folks in the studio."

"So move, boy," Dar stated strongly.

The phone ring, jarring Dars attention for one second allowing Jones shove a desk over Jones shoved the desk over on him. The impact of the desk knocked him reeling back into the wall, dropping the firearm as he sunk down to the floor and passed out.

James Dar was in fact extradited back to Reno to face trial for First Degree murder and several counts of attempted murder and another count for conspiracy to commit murder.

# Chapter 10: The Self-reliant Pop Star

Miss Laura Geegan had been on stage in the cabaret in the Mint Casino. She was singing Respect by Aretha Franklin. She swayed her big-butt hips as she sang into the mike. The stage shook from the force of this unique hefty lady. The large audience went nuts. They couldn't believe this white woman five-foot six and puffy had a voice more soulful than Mary J. Bilge. She dressed in a long pink dress over a shapeless figure. She'd been performing here two weeks already. She was agitated and feared her guest, a huge black man known as Kermit Showhouse. This big black dude had been making undesired advances in direction of her. He kept delivering her pricey bouquets and candy. She didn't want anything at all from him. She feared for her life.

She'd a couple of more nights left. She continued to perform to a crammed showroom her favorite songs by Whitney

Houston and Elvis, Britney Spears, Madonna and many more. After that, she sang songs from her brand new CDs.

Following the show, Miss Geegan signed countless autographs until she became dizzy. Subsequently she passed out her most recent CDs. Her manager Joe Saari assisted her for some time before going to the nearest bar. He was an older dude having a fierce face and a thick brownish skin, bark orders sort of chap. He'd tobacco smoking stained teeth and breath to match. He had been five-foot-nine or so. He dressed in tropical shirts and dark slacks and brown or black loafers on a regular basis.

Three hours later Miss Geegan entered her dressing room. She had been a weighty woman without any neck, and a burning desire to be the greatest musical talent ever lived. There was a variety of giant roses and a multitude of chocolate candy boxes on the dresser. A dude came up through the door. He was a well dressed up white boy, about medium height, maybe twenty-five. He'd a hard-looking face and a fraudulent personality.

"Hello, Miss Geegan," he stated cheerfully, beaming jauntily. "Dude, I loved your show."

Geegan gave him a scorching look. "Dude, don't you know how to knock?" she said caustically.

He didn't say anything at all just grinned.

"Did your boss send out all these flowers?" she asked strongly.

"Mr. Showhouse is in love with you, baby," he said to her in a rough voice. "He would like very much to meet with you."

She snapped up the roses and candy boxes and shoved them in his chest. "Take this dude's sstuff back to him," she stated sardonically. "And tell him to leave my butt alone."

"Okay ma'am," he stated sharply, starting for the door. "Mr. Showhouse won't like this." He opened up the door.

"Dude, I don't give a damn!" She said bitterly.

"Baby, I hope you change your mind," he said strongly and left.

Miss Geegan changed into a pink blouse and blue jeans. She'd frazzled auburn hair, big brown eyes. Furthermore, poise of worldly experience. She dressed in vibrant jewelry on a regular basis. In addition, a Timex watch. Next, she met Mr. Saari at the casino bar. The bar had been half-full. A tall Mexican with an insect face tending bar. He wore green and white. Kermit was seated in the lounge gazing at her fondly. He dressed in a purple suit with white strips, a white silk tie, large sunglasses, and white socks and loafers. He'd a shaved egghead. He seemed like an elegant record producer. Also with him was the guy in the dressing room and a thick-looking short black dude, sporting a dark suit.

"Hey, Miss Geegan," Kermit shouted cheerfully. "Hey, girl, I really like your work. Dog, I would like to meet you."

She looked back at him having a stony expression.

"Baby, I'll make this snot-poop go away," Saari stated acidly.

Geegan held onto his arm real tight. "Homey, I'll deal with this," she said calmly, rising from her seat.

"Do you need me to phone security, Miss?" The bartender said bitterly.

"No thanks," she stated firmly, starting for Kermit's table.

Faces from the bar looked on. Saari rose up to his feet and gave a scorching look at Kermit.

Miss Geegan stood in front of Kermit's table. Saari stood close to her. Kermit's bodyguard was standing up ready for anything to go down.

"Hello, Mr. Showhouse," she stated happily, having a half smile.

Kermit rose to his feet and nodded with a smile.

"Baby-girl, I adore your show," Kermit stated face beaming. "In fact I enjoy each and every show baby."

Showhouse had been big and thick. He must have been six-foot-seven and 270 pounds. He spoke with a deep African accent. He'd as much charm as a herd of elephants.

"Thank you," she said calmly. "We're delighted you like the show."

"Baby-girl, I would love you to marry me?" he stated gently.

"No," she stated firmly. "You ought to stop harassing me," Miss Geegan said significantly. "No more bouquets, sweets and presents. You hear what I'm saying?"

"Baby, nobody says no to me," Kermit said boldly to her.

"Go to hell," she said frigidly, and started to walk away.

Showhouse snapped up her by the arm yanked her around to face him and abruptly kissed her face. Miss Geegan retracted and spit on him and he shoved her right down to the floor. Saari struck Showhouse using a chair from behind. His two bodyguards leaped on Mr. Saari and began beating him. Miss Geegan hit one of the dudes with a beer bottle in the back of the head and he went down. Showhouse removed the table from the floor, tossed it at her, she move away to avoid it and it crashed down onto the floor. The other bodyguard had been slugging on Saari like he was a slab of raw meat.

Seven security guards rushed the lounge area like mad men. Everybody in the gambling establishment stopped to observe in shock. Showhouse took two security folks and threw them over the bar like they was rocks. One sprayed mace in his face and he growled as he placed his hands over his eyes. Next hoisted another guard in the air and chucked him at the remaining four security dudes, knocking them to the floor just like bowling pins.

Showhouse compiled his men. "No lousy lounge singer does this stuff to me," Showhouse said vociferously on his way out the door.

Mr. Saari helped up his singer. "Are you all right?" he asked strongly.

"I'll live," she stated weakly her nose had been bleeding.

Saari had a big gash on his forehead.

The Reno police turned up, a fire truck and paramedics. The paramedics compelled them to go down the Saint Mary's Medical center for treatment. The law made an effort to get their statement.

Miss Geegan was healthy enough to produce another sold out performance at the cabaret. Saari stood at the bar watching and drinking whiskey like it was water. She had been pleased not to see Mr. Showhouse in the audience. She didn't remain in the hotel, the Mint casino was smaller than average and didn't have one.

Miss Geegan was scheming to make it as a singer since that time she was a little girl once her mother ran her from one talent show to the next. She'd gone through two hundred towns in year. She missed a lot of school and her friends. She had been really miserable for some time. Yet she got use to it. She was battling with her weight for quite some time.

Stuff got much better once she met Joe Saari he found something in her very few folks did. She appeared to be so horrible at first. He'd taken care of her voice lessons. By the time she was twenty she sounded far better. He's been with her every since.

Miss Laura Geegan stayed in a penthouse on B Street a reddish brick building having dark blue doors. It had been a modest-looking place. Nice and tranquil. Saari walked her to the penthouses right after her show. It was 10:30. It was the middle of March, there was still patches of snow on the streets and sidewalks, so they really needed to be watchful not to ever slip.

Saari sat on the red chair and fixed them a drink. She required some cocaine to get her through the performances. He did a little coke too, occasionally an excessive amount. The spot appeared to be medium-size. All of the furnisher was pink just the way she liked it. The walls were dark cherry red and the floors marble white. She'd a bar and small icebox, a large screen TV, having HBO and pay-per-view. An enormous mattress for multiple sex partners. There seemed to be a big picture of a blue walrus on the wall for what purpose not known. They'd drank most of the Wild Turkey and accomplished several lines of coke. He tried some sexual moves on her she rejected and he eventually left angry.

Miss Geegan neglected to show for her much awaited performance. "Where is your girl?" the stage manager complained franticly. "Everybody would like their money-back."

"Dude, I don't know. Tell them homeboys to stop tripping," Saari stated acidly. "Just give her a little more time."

"Man, it's already 9:00," he snapped and went back stage.

Saari snuck off and away to her hotel. The spot had been all messed up like some tornado blew through. The furnisher was tossed about and just about all broken. Her bloody body had been on the floor by the phone. Her violet luxuriant outfit was ripped and there bruises all over her. She'd been probably raped. The stereo was playing Point Of No Return by Expose. He turned off the stereo and left in total shock.

Mr. Saari had taken public transit right down to East of Reno to score some coke. He purchased several grams from a dude on Montello Street and returned to his hotel at the Nugget Casino. Still in great shock did three lines of cocaine. He guzzled from a bottle of Crown Royal for quite a while. After that, he cried for some time. He laid down on his King size bed for two hours. Everything Furnished Oakwood. It was a spacious site with, a big screen TV, with HBO and internet access. A white and gold bathroom. He went in to poop. Once he came out of the bathroom, a tall attractive fella behaving just like a homosexual delivered him a club sandwich from room service.

Saari didn't really feel much like eating. He just drank bourbon, snorted coke, and cried all day long and night. He was Miss Geegan's manager for five years. He had been crazy about her. He met her singing on the corner for dimes. She was living in a shelter, doing Meth and probably hooking. He let her stay with him for quite a while. He paid for her singing coaching. He got her booking at major casinos and nightclubs. They grew close over the years yet she'd never give him sex. He seriously considered the good times they'd, and some bad times too. He cried the whole time.

Three days later on, he got himself together, showered, and shaved. He dressed up and packed his bag. He was hungry right now. He ordered room service. The gay dude returned with breakfast: six runny eggs, a rare New York steak, a massive load of golden brown hash browns, three stacks of butter soaked wheat toast, six sausages, seven slices of bacon, a large orange juice and five tall Bloody Mary's.

Once Saari finished breakfast, he did a couple more lines of coke, and began on a bottle of Canadian Mist and left the Nugget kinda messed up. He proceeded to go up to the Mint casino, sat at the bar, and started drinking whiskey doubles with Budweiser. Next, a man having reddish skin dressed up just like a fed, having dark red hair, kind of tall and English looking...introduced himself as a Sparks cop by the name of Det. Ivan Shorttop. Saari frowned and was instructed to sit at a cubicle in the back.

"The damn po-pos," Saari complained dramatically.

"Dude, I won't keep you," Shorttop stated having a smirk. "Dude, is it quite possibly to ask you a couple of questions?"

"It's with regards to Laura, huh?" Saari mentioned unfortunately.

"Yeah," Shorttop stated sadly, drinking a Sprite. "We discovered her dead in her penthouse, a couple of nights ago."

"Wow, Saari said sadly. "Dog, I didn't know. She had been with this particular cat, Tony."

"Tony? Does he possess a surname?" Det. Shorttop inquired plainly.

"Man, I think Johnson. Some black guy," Saari said harshly.

"Where does he live?" Storttop said clearly.

"Man...I don't know," Saari snapped.

"Where were you Thursday night?" Det. Shorttop said strongly.

"Baby, I was here drinking," Saari said clearly.

"You're Miss Geegan's manager," Shorttop stated sharply, eyeing him suspiciously. "Didn't you understand she was to show up on stage that night? Once she didn't show why didn't you visit her place and check on her? Call her cell?"

"Dude, I figured she was with this creep," Saari stated critically. "Man, I'd been way too intoxicated that night. Dude, I don't remember anything. Please leave me alone, I'm gonna be sick." He slid from the cubicle and ran towards the restrooms.

Saari didn't want to admit to being in Miss Geegan's penthouse. He wouldn't phone the law because he was high on drugs and had some on him. In Nevada, you can find stiff penalties for getting pinched.

Saari sat in his Nugget hotel room for three days snorting coke weeping and drinking whiskey. Once he returned to the Mint Casino capture the comedy act of James Booker, he had been a hot-mess. He'd a five-day beard. He smelled worst than two-week old garbage. He'd exactly the same tropical white shirt and poop-stain dark slacks. He decided he needed a good laugh.

Following the jam-packed stand up comedy show he sat at the bar drinking double bourbons. Folks got up complaining about his terrible scent and loud rambling. He enjoyed video poker. Then Det. Shorttop made an appearance sporting a white jacket, white shirt, with blue tie, and dark pants. He had been sipping on a Sprite.

"Hey, dog, I've been searching for you," Shorttop stated cheerfully, wiping his mouth.

"So I've noticed," Saari remarked snugly. "Didn't my story check out?"

"Hell no," Shorttop snapped, examining intensely. "Why have you been lying?"

"I'm not, sir," Saari insisted bluntly.

"A witness in her apartment building noticed you leaving the place at about the time we identified the body," Shorttop said strongly, drinking his Sprite.

"It's true," Saari said remorsefully to him. "Man, I saw her body all bloody and she had been dead already. I didn't kill her. Dude, I treasured her. It had been too much for me to take. I ran away from there."

"Why didn't you call the police?" Shorttop snapped.

"Bro, I was really high on coke at the time. And I still had some on my butt, baby," Saari said sharply, playing video poker. "Dog, I was scared the police would certainly run me in for possession."

"You planned to rape that unwanted fat broad?" Det. Shorttop inquired sharply.

"Hell, yeh. I wanted to hit it," Saari said boastfully.

"Miss Geegan wouldn't let your butt have any. So that you beat her real good and raped her," Det. Shorttop said bluntly to him and finished his Sprite.

"Slime you, dude," Saari stated defensively. "Dude, I didn't kill her."

Saari soon began to cry.

"Who would probably do such a horrid thing to this young woman, dude?" Shorttop said strongly.

"That scum-butt, Showhouse," Joe answered sarcastically.

"The damn drug pusher?" Det. Shorttop snapped.

"Who else? The creep came to her show and started a fight," Joe said bluntly, wiping his tears. "This cat threatened her in front of a lot of folks. Don't you have it in your police report, homeboy?"

"Hey, homey, I'll check that out," Shorttop said strongly and guzzled his second Sprite. "How did you know Showhouse murdered her? Have you got evidence?"

"Hey, dude. You better lay off that stuff. You're driving aren't you?" Saari said strongly with a smile.

"Answer my questions," Shorttop snapped.

"Dude, I saw the brass knuckles marks on her body," Saari recollected. "He had that same stuff in the cabaret that night too."

"Will you come down to the Sparks police station and provide a statement, homeboy?" Shorttop said strongly.

"Dog, I don't know," Saari explained firmly, supplying a glance of uneasy puzzlement.

"Don't you want justice, dude?" Shorttop asked strongly.

"Hell, yeh," Saari snapped.

"Let's shut the books on this," Det. Shorttop said firmly, rising from the bar stood. He places a couple of bucks down on the counter. "Put this bad butt dude away for a longtime."

"Okay, sir," Saari stated strongly and got up from the bar stool as well. "I'll provide you with one hell of a statement, baby," they wandered out to the door.

"Dude, I've an unmarked squad car outside," Shorttop said truthfully. "Dude, I'll supply you with a safe transport to the station. The windows happen to be bullet proof."

They got into a gray Ford sedan, just like law enforcement utilize. Before long Det. Shorttop had firearm pressed against Mr. Saari's head.

"What is this, baby?" Saari barked.

"Mr. Showhouse sends his best wishes!" Shorttop said cheerfully.

# Chapter 11: The Unforeseen Predator

A young Mexican fired a 12-gauge at Keith Jackson and Janet Todard once they stepped out of the Livestock Center and everybody got straight down, screaming. Jackson returned fire just like it was a daily occurrence. The Mexican flew behind his vehicle a brown '64 Chevy low-rider to avoid the bullets. Following he got inside and sped off quickly straight down the road. It was so low the thing drew sparks as it moved quickly down the street.

Lucky for them nobody got hurt. It was clearly this fool was no hit man. Security turned up on the scene, grabbing Jackson and tossing him to the ground because the homeboy had a piece (gun). They thought he was perpetrating. They bounced him around up against the unit before shoving him in the back with a Nazi attitude. They took him right down to the Reno jail and booked him. They shoved him into cell D-125. Before his butt hit the bed, a Sgt Tony Newsham came in.

"Keith Jackson?" Newsham stated strongly, sounding annoyed.

"Hell, yeh. That's what's up, snowman," Jackson stated sharply in his ghetto tone.

"Well a smooth talking Homeboy. We don't get many PI's right here in Reno," Newsham said sharply lighting a Marlboro.

Newsham looked just like a circus clown dressed up in a blue suit but came across as some hard nose Nazi.

"Aren't you the brother of that German-butt who's Mark," Jackson stated sharply using a puzzle stare.

"Yes. Mark has informed me plenty about your butt," Tony said frigidly, blowing smoke in his face.

"Good things, I hope," Jackson stated strongly, smiling.

"Dude, I wouldn't say that," Sgt. Tony Newsham shot back, taking another hit from that cigarette just like it was a joint.

"Hey, dude. Dude, I didn't shoot at those people they're my friends," Jackson stated strongly.

"Ok. I'm working on your release. But you can't do your stuff in this town," Newsham stated sharply.

"Hey, punk. My license is definitely good in Nevada too, baby," Jackson said caustically, shaking because of a much need for some weed.

"What the hells a matter with your butt?" Newsham snapped.

"I need a beer or some weed. I need it bad. This things too real for me to handle," Jackson said strongly with a weak smile.

"Damn junkies!" Newsham said sharply. "How can you work?"

"I get major results baby-boo," Jackson said firmly with a smile.

"So I here you saw a Mexican shoot at you. Those folks out there collaborated your story. So I'm going to let you out," Sgt. Newsham stated strongly, pulling hard on his cigarette. His teeth had been heavily stained with tobacco.

"Dog, you got another one of those cigs?" Jackson asked nicely.

"Yep," Newsham snapped.

"Well..."

"Big dog, I know your reputation and you better not go after these Mexicans---they're in tough- gangs," Sgt. Newsham stated strongly, finishing his second cigarette.

"Man, I come from Oaktown. You feel me?" Jackson stated savagely.

"Who was the shooter after?" Sgt. Newsham asked clearly unlocking the cell so Jackson could walk out.

"Tony, I don't know. Maybe it had been Janet. So I can't leave her alone, G," Jackson said firmly, shoving a joint in his mouth.

"You can't do that stuff in here! Maybe he was planning to kill someone at that cheesy- dog show. And my boys will look into that too! So enjoy your vacation, homey," Newsham stated sharply having a dry smile.

Keith met up with Miss Todard at her Office on Mill Street. Her brick building was pink and all her furniture. Jackson sat on the sofa and smoked some weed. She was in fact drinking a beer. She was tall and thick. She looked more like Greek than black. Her manner wasn't very feminine. She sold insurance to every sucker who came in there.

"Did you mess up some Mexicans on a policy?" he inquired harshly.

"Hell no. I run a solid business here, dog," she barked and took a long guzzle of beer. She pasted the beer to Jackson. He pasted the joint to Janet. She took a powerful hit and pasted it back.

"Then who was that fool-brain shooting at?" she asked strongly, finishing it off.

"Bruh, I don't know," he snapped and started coughing. "Have you seen that homeboy before?"

"Hell no," she snapped.

"Maybe the punk is a hit-man? Do you have any enemies?" he asked sharply.

"Well...it was Miss Carole Gjenre. She hated my butt because I took her man---I slept with the homeboy. It absolutely was good. Dude, I can't help that," she explained snootily. "Guys just dig me!"

Jackson lit up another joint.

"Where do I find her?" he inquired firmly as he began to take a drag on the joint.

"At Reno Casino she's a cocktail waitress---or was," she stated dryly.

Well, Mrs. Carole Gjenre was in fact staying in a lovely cottage on 1174 Wells Ave. But she wasn't home. Her husband wasn't there either.

After burning up a lot of shoe leather, Keith found the woman in the Mint casino serving drinks. She'd a face just like a chipmunk. She'd a body like a man so the cocktail uniform didn't look too fly on her. And she had a grumble tone yet her bouncy hair did wonders.

"Hey, baby. Get me some Crown Royal," Jackson stated strongly with radiant tone.

"Yes, sir," she said firmly and wandered off carrying a tray.

Jackson sat a table playing blackjack for quite a while. After all, he was in Reno on vacation. Mrs. Gjenre delivered his drink. He guzzled it down. He lost a couple of hands and won five. He got up from the table having $341.00s.

He confronted Mrs. Gjenre at the bar.

"Why did you attempt to kill Miss Janet Todard?" he inquired in an ugly black dude tone.

"Who in the slime is that?" she snapped ready to smash Jackson in the head with a bottle.

"The woman who bleeped your husband," Jackson said firmly.

"Oh that broad! Too bad he missed," she stated critically.

The bartender gave an evil glance because she had been standing there too long talking.

"Yesterday, at the Livestock Center," Jackson said strongly, flagging down the bartender for another drink.

"Dude, I never drop by. Who tried to kill her?" she asked bluntly.

"Some Mexican kid," he said.

The bartender delivered his drink and gave Miss Gjenre dirty look. "My husband is without a doubt Mexican and French. He wasn't in the Livestock Center he was with me shopping at Safeway. We cashed a check there---the black lady will remember us," she explained strongly and walked off.

Keith found her husband at Circus-Circus washing dishes his name was in fact Rocardo Gjenre. He punched in his timecard at 2:35pm we came out of the dog show at 2:45pm so there's not a chance he could have been there. Besides, the man appeared to be smaller than pinscher crossbreed. And he looked much older.

Keith went back to the Livestock Center to speak with some of the folks who run the joint. The heads of this event was in fact Mrs. Polly Jacobs and Walter Deardoff. They seemed just like a couple of stuck up wasp pricks.

"I think some homeboy hated the show," Jackson stated firmly.

"Oh, what went down yesterday? It was just some crazy gang member. There's a lot of gang shootings in Reno now," Mr. Deardoff said strongly using a grin.

"Dude, I'd like the names of Latin folks who lost in the dog show," Jackson ordered harshly.

"Well that's confidential," Mrs. Jacobs stated sharply, peering up at him with an evil glance.

"This is attempted murder baby!" Jackson shouted harshly.

"Ok. I'll get the file," she said lastly.

Ten minutes later on, she rushed back having a stuffed tan file folder.

"Everything is definitely in here," she explained calmly.

"Good looking out," Jackson said sharply, taking hold of the folder.

Jackson spent some time checking out the names---no Mexicans names but maybe he doesn't have a Spanish name. He spent the day drinking and visiting each person on the list and everybody had been cool.

Next, he checked out all Mexicans he put away. He then went out to Janet's office. The spot had been messed up as if tornado went through it. The filing cabinets were turned over and paper everywhere. There was graffiti on the walls and smeared monkey dukey. Janet wasn't there. She was at home. She was ok right up until I told her about the office. He called Sgt. Newsham to get his butt out here to check for prints.

One of the nosy neighbors Mrs. Chirino saw a Mexican boy running out of there. Also, he found out that two Mexicans are out of jail who may want revenge. There names were Juan Nogales and Delmar Henriquez.

The results turned out hella stuff. Juan Nogales had been deported back to Mexico. Delmar Henriquez was staying at an Alameda Drug Rehabilitation Facility. He'd been there the past four months. Jackson made a decision to consult with a former gang member Luis Aguilar. He lost his younger brother in a drive-by shooting. That's when he woke up and decided to go straight. Jackson found him in The Nevada Youth Center. He was in fact teaching a couple of teenagers with unkind faces to fight.

Even though Aguilar was out of the gangbanging business, he still dressed up the part. He talked just like he never left.

"Hello, Mr. Aguilar," Jackson said strongly with a grin. "This homeboys going to be another Oscar De La Hoya."

"Dog, I try. What's up with ya?" Aguilar stated cheerfully.

"Well, dog I do believe I'm the target of a gang member," Jackson stated strongly with a sad tone.

"You brothers are always making enemies," Aguilar said sharply, beaming.

"Bruh, I need your help," Jackson stated firmly.

"Do you know this homeboy?" Aguilar inquired, pulling up his sagging jeans.

"He's young and dark skin. He carries a 12-gauge shotgun just like a marine. He doesn't shoot like he's out of practice either," Jackson said firmly, turning his hat straight.

"Big dog, I think so. I know every fool in the hood. All these homeboys I see everyday," Aguilar stated strongly.

"Well, bruh? Hey, I know you don't head on down that snitch route. But I need you brother. It's personal. This kid trashed my Girlfriends office and if she had been there probably would've killed her. This punk loves to fire shotguns in populated areas. Dog, we can't have this bull no more. That fools have to be stopped before some innocent people get killed. You know what I mean. You want to help these kids it's got to stop right here, baby," Jackson explained sharply, looking down at him raising his left eyebrow superciliously.

"The kid you're preaching about is Roberto. Roberto Hernandez was here a lot a while back. He wanted me to teach him to play soccer," Aguilar said calmly.

"Do you know where I can find him?" Jackson asked calmly.

"Are you planning to blast him?" Aguilar snapped.

"Dog, I hope I won't have to," Jackson stated firmly.

Jackson started cruising up a street called Sutro when a black & white moved swiftly up to his rear. But Jackson kept driving the speed limit. When he pasted a 7-11, the red light came on. Jackson stopped to the side without an issue. A wrathful white dude and black cop wandered up to his vehicle opened up the door wildly and grabbed him just like some madman from the wheel. The white dude shoved him hard against the car. The black cop delivered his ugly face up to Jackson's face as if he was planning to kiss him.

"Are you Keith Jackson?" he inquired hotly in a deep vicious tone.

"Dog, it depends who would like to know," Jackson stated firmly with his street mentality.

The black cop punched Jackson in the stomach. Next, he stooped over with brows furrowed deeply.

"Don't get flip with me dog," he stated sourly, punching him quickly in the face and stomach. Jackson sunk right down to the ground and a snarl of agony spread over his face.

The white cop lifted him back up and turned him around putting his hands behind his back, cuffed him, and turned him back around.

"What is this?" Jackson snapped still wincing in pain.

"You are under arrest," the white cop stated sharply.

"For what, dude? Jackson snapped.

"For the murder of Robert Hernandez," the black cop stated bitterly, shoving Jackson into the backseat of the squad car.

Meanwhile Jackson set with Newsham in his junky office.

"Are you crazy, homeboy?" Jackson stated fiercely.

"You were obviously looking for him---possibly to kill him," Sgt. Newsham said firmly, lighting up a cigarette.

"How did it go down dude?" Jackson stated still very much angry.

"We found Hernandez with a big hole in his chest and your business card on him," Sgt. Newsham stated strongly, blowing smoke into his face.

"You know you're just like your slimy brother. Tony, I didn't kill this boy I didn't even know him," Jackson stated hotly.

"Then somebody's framing you," Newsham said, pulling hard on his cigarette.

"Dude, I've been straight down that road before," Jackson said firmly.

"We dig just a little deeper to found out his associate is Ronnie Salter," Newsham said strongly, pouring to cups of coffee.

"Dude, I don't really want none. Man, I require a drink homeboy," Jackson snapped, turning his hat backwards.

"Fine more coffee for me," Tony stated firmly with a smile, taking a cup with him towards the window.

"By the way I never heard of this Ronnie Salter cat," Jackson stated firmly.

"He was just released from the Nevada Juvenile Detention," Sgt. Newsham stated, lighting up another Marlboro.

"Wait a minute...now I know. A few years back I was focusing on a missing person's case while I was in fact in Reno. I ended up bring in Salter and his brother for vandalizing houses (including my office) my temporary office on Gould Street. He swore he'd get even. He was a frog-poop yet I never dreamed he'd be capable to murder. Dude, I guess I had been completely wrong," Jackson explained strongly.

"Where are you going dog?" Newsham inquired snugly.

"To find Salter before he kills me," Jackson stated acidly, starting out the office. "Maybe even get stoned!"

Ronnie Salter's last known address was 1710 North Virginia Street apt. 5. He left his rental at the Gold Rush Apartment a tan brick building. Salters analytical mother opened the door.

"Hi, I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm with the juvenile dept.," he stated strongly with a big smile.

"Is Ronnie in trouble again?" she inquired dryly. Her breath smelled of alcohol.

She'd the manner of spaced out person. "No not really. I would just like to speak with your virile son," he stated firmly.

"He isn't here, sir. He's playing basketball in the park," she said calmly, brushing back her ropy filthy hair.

"Ok thanks."

Well, he found Ronnie playing basketball in the park a little one-on-one with a couple of black kids. He had taken out his Browning BDA .38 Super Auto remembering that Salter could possibly be armed and dangerous. Once he saw Jackson he went for the 12-guage lying on the grass.

"Hold it, punk!" Jackson stated firmly directing his pistol at him.

His friends got scared and runaway.

"Slime you, bro. Dude, I figured you were rotten in jail," he snapped venomously, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Baby, you thought wrong. The jail can hold me but can't keep me," Jackson said strongly.

Salter just up and ran off. Jackson ran after him.

The blockhead punk ran right in front of a slow moving blue Chevy, hitting him. The impact bumped him a couple of feet forward but not enough to do any serious damage. Jackson ran up to him the man got out of his car to assist with a worried look on his face. But Salter was already standing up and began running once more, but limping. Once Jackson caught up to Salter he began throwing wild punches at him---left, right, left, right, left, right. Jackson stood there weaving from side to side avoiding the easy-throwing fist coming at his head. Before too long, the chubby dude stood there wobbly and panting just like he'd been through a twenty round bout. Jackson just decked him using a soft right into the left cheek and he went straight down just like a whale and didn't get back up.

Jackson was attempting to straighten up Janet's office when she strolled in with terrier that was mixed with German Sheppard. She seemed upbeat dressed up in a bright colored dress. She brought some Crown Royal for Jackson.

"What are you doing homeboy?" she stated happily.

"Bruh, I'm cleaning your spot," Jackson stated sharply with a smirk, panting heavy.

"Well thanks!" she stated with radiant cheer.

"You're welcome," Jackson snapped with a grin, reaching for the bottle of Crown Royal.

"Yeh that's for you," she said still grinning.

"Nice dog. Does he get high?" he explained cheerfully, removing the cap from the bottle.

"Boo, you're not giving my dog drugs," she snapped sharply, giving her dog a protective embrace.

Jackson opened up the bottle without hesitation getting a lengthy swig. He poured some into the dogs bowl yet Janet gave an evil stare. He passed it on to her.

"You're going to be alright. That little scum ball is actually behind bars," he stated grinning with confidence.

"That little kid?" she snapped sipping from the bottle.

"The little monster wanted me for putting him and his bad-poop brother in the detention. It's a shame that somebody had to die because of this," Jackson explained harshly, taking another long swig from the bottle.

"What's likely to happen to the kid?" she asked calmly, guzzling from the bottle.

"Well Salter is twenty so he's going to do a hella long stretch. They'll add on to his sentence because of his earlier offences. Once you began your life straight down the wrong path there's sometimes no coming back," Jackson said sharply, burping loudly.

"I'm glad it's over," she said calmly, patting her dog.

"Hold up, dog. I'm certainly not cleaning up that doo-doo!" Jackson stated hotly.

# Chapter 12: A Dagger For Seven

Albert Barriga always arrived at the Robert J. Gamil Jr. Park for seven almost every other evening. It had been quiet. He wasn't big on people. He usually brought his McDonald's bag: Quarter Pounder, large fries and a diet Coke.

Once he turned up on Monday evening at seven things was in fact very wrong. Some homeboy chopped just about all the park benches with an ax dumped human feces and pig guts all over the lawn and left Nazi hate messages on the building.

Some homeboy snuck right up behind him and shoved a dagger in his back. He'd a glance of surprise on his face as he fell forward straight down on his face still clutching his McDonalds bag.

The following morning a couple of teenagers discovered the body on their way to school. They called the Oakland police.

Oakland police detectives Mike Amoheb and James Yalwitt had been assigned to this case. They both had around a 92% arrest record. They questioned both of the young boys. This became the cities 76th homicide of the year.

The crime scene was cluttered up with black & whites at 8:00am and forensic technician, crime scene artist, medical examiner, crime scene still photographer, forensic psychologist along with Detectives Yalwitt and Amoheb invested long time accumulating evidence and finding clues.

Crime scene evidence was obviously a little tough when collected outdoors because animals and folks can certainly trample through the area and weather can pose a serious problem too.

Lonell Delfino was the park keeper. He finally turned up at 9:30am.

"What the hell is this?" Mr. Delfino inquired bitterly looking around.

"A man had been murdered," Det. Amoheb stated sharply to him.

"Who are you?" Det. Yalwitt asked strongly.

"I'm Lonell Delfino. Man, I'm the damn park keeper," Delfino stated sharply.

"Dog, you got any identification?" Amoheb asked firmly.

"Sure," Delfino said strongly, handing over his driver's license.

Amoheb analyzed it for some time and then handed it back.

"Ok," Amoheb said, straightening up his.

"What in the hell happened to my park?" Delfino inquired using a disappointed look.

"Dude, I think some Nazi-poops did your park real ugly. And we believe they committed a murder. And we're planning to nab those dudes just for this don't you worry Mr. Delfino," Det. Amoheb said sadly.

"Have you been drinking?" Delfino asked strongly.

"Had a number of brew skies," Amoheb snapped.

"Are you sure you're the right detectives for the job?" Delfino asked strongly.

"Don't worry, sir," Yalwitt said firmly.

Mike Amoheb was in fact 43 and black as coal. He still dressed in an afro and wore decent clothes. He has two kids. He's been married fifteen years. He's worked in homicide for twelve of them. He had issues with crack cocaine.

James Yalwitt was 46 around five-foot-ten with cherubic face, dark blue eyes, buckskin shaggy hair and skin pigmentation. He's separated having three kids. He wasn't perfect either. He liked to drink Crown Royal. Det. Yalwitt met with Det. Amoheb in his third floor office. He was in fact smoking crack cocaine and had already finished his lunch from McDonald's. Once Yalwitt sat down on cheap state furnisher, he nearly fell on his butt because of that Crown Royal buzz he was having. Amoheb had the dead man's file in front of him. Albert Barriga had been arrested for the sell and use of crack cocaine. He also did some time for rape. He also spent some time in Freedman Drug Free Program.

The woman he raped was in fact Gwen Ellzey---Caucasian, and a crack cocaine, and Meth abuser. She'd been dead for several years. She was very high on rocks when she fell out of an apartment window. She'd gone through an abusive relationship with Barriga---prior to her death, he had given her drugs and had her out whoring.

"As we all know Barriga loves to go to McDonalds to get quarter Pounder, large fries and diet Coke. His sat in the park every Monday evening to eat but this time some Nazi punks came there and killed him and trashed the place," Det. Yalwitt explained firmly. He lit a cigarette.

"Is Barriga Jewish?" Amoheb inquired calmly.

"Dude, I don't think so," Yalwitt stated sharply, blowing smoke.

"Dog, I got Nancy looking at the Fascist Movement that is operating in the Bay Area," Amoheb said strongly, finishing his crack cocaine, rose to the window and opened it.

"Homey, I'll find out if there's a connection with the Gamil family other than race," Yalwitt stated, putting out his cigarette.

"Cool. I'm going to the drug free clinic," Amoheb said calmly, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

The Freedman Drug Free Clinic was a small white cement building. There had been a small grouping of young folks, primarily blacks and Hispanics observing a black man rap on stage. The spot was in fact staying afloat by donations. Det Amoheb strolled through unnoticed to a room in the back.

He revealed his identification to a Mr. George Noval, who's assistant coordinator sat behind a scratched up long metal desk, packed with file folders and family photos. He appeared as if he came in off the streets to place his head for the night.

"Man, I found out about Barriga's death," Naval stated sadly, shaking his head. "He's a crack cocaine addict. He's in and out of the program. Some pusher he ripped off must have taken him out." He stood up wearing a dark cheap shirt with flowers and faded jeans.

"Man that's a possibility," Amoheb said strongly with a half grin.

"I really can't help you on Barriga," Noval stated sharply, holding his hand out.

Amoheb shook it.

"Did you know a Gwen Ellzer?" Amoheb inquired strongly.

"Hell yeh. Miss Ellzer was a sweet girl until Albert had everybody on the street raping her and beating her and got her on that junk. Joe Wowbrown's the only cat who really cared about her. All of us labored hard to keep her clean but Albert kept bleeping her up again," Noval stated roughly, brushing back his dirty oily hair from his face.

They walked outside where the singing was. When a tall light brown-skinned man stopped rapping and a large crowd started applauding and he bowed and made a quick exit.

Mr. Noval and Amoheb were standing by the exit when he strolled over there.

"Great show," Noval said cheerfully, clapping.

"Yo, I like to showcase my talents for a good cause," he said firmly with a half grin. He dressed in a big red cap that sat on his head backwards, with oversized t-shirt and baggy jeans that he kept pulling up all time. He carried himself just like a street pimp looking to murder someone at the drop of a hat.

"Joe...this is the police," Noval said sharply, smiling.

"For sure," Joe stated strongly, smiling. "Bruh, I got to roll."

"All right, gee. I'll holler at you later," Noval stated firmly, waving.

"That black dude seems just like he's got his head on straight," Amoheb stated strongly.

"He's been clean and sober for five years," Noval said honestly.

"I hope the little homeboy stays that way," Amoheb stated firmly, strolling towards the exit.

The dagger had a print on it. Michael Arnerich was charged with Public Intoxication. Det. Yalwitt went up to his apartment on 117 E. 12th Street, Oakland, Ca. He resided in a purple 4-plex building. Yalwitt knocked on the door.

A heavyset man with long red hair, wearing tattoos came out on the porch drinking a Budweiser. Having a strong scent of marijuana blew out the door, loud scratching referred to as music came from a stereo somewhere in the house. He appeared as if the typical trailer park trash.

"Hey, cop. What do you want? I paid all my tickets," Arnerich stated harshly, sniff haughtily as he guzzled his beer.

"Why did you kill Albert Barriga?" Yalwitt snapped.

"Who's that?" Arnerich snapped, sipping his beer.

"Are you trying to be a dirty-little punk?" Yalwitt said strongly.

"Dude, I swear I don't know any Barriga," Arnerich stated candidly.

"We found a dagger with your fingerprints," Det. Yalwitt said firmly.

"Oh that. It's mine. I reported a dagger stolen from my car," Arnerich said sharply, finishing his beer.

"Where were you at between six and midnight?" Yalwitt asked firmly.

"Dude, I'd been at work," Arnerich said.

"Where?" Yalwitt snapped.

"Wal-Mart!" Arnerich said firmly.

"Stay close creep. Dude, I might need to speak with you later on. Thank you," Yalwitt said and strolled off.

The Oakland police arrested Pete Vralli yesterday evening. The moron was in fact caught vandalizing a home owned by Hispanics. They also wrote neo-Nazi hate stuff all over the place. They broke windows and dumped pig feces on the lawn.

Vralli was about twenty with light skin and blue eyes. He'd a shaved head just as if nearly all skinhead Nazi's did. He sat in the interrogation room with Det. Yalwitt.

"You're real proud creep," Yalwitt stated sharply, offering the skinhead a cigarette. He lit a cigarette.

"Yeah. Dude I'm proud to be white," Vralli stated strongly, laughing as he lit the cigarette.

"Are you proud to become a murderer?" Yalwitt stated sharply blowing smoke in his face.

"Murderer?" Vralli snapped hotly.

"Cut out the bull, kid. We all know you murdered Albert Barriga," Yalwitt said bluntly and took a lengthy drag from his cigarette.

"Dude, you mean that dude in news reports?" Vralli snapped.

"That's right," Yalwitt said strongly, blowing smoke rings.

"Dude, I didn't kill anybody," Vralli said firmly, blowing cigarette smoke towards Yalwitt.

"Where were you between 6:00 and 8:00 last night?" Yalwitt said strongly.

Vralli thought about it for a moment. "Oh yeah. I was getting laid," Vralli said firmly with a smile.

"Listen punk. We all know about the park you poop-brains trashed," Yalwitt said sharply, lighting up another cigarette. Then he took out a small bottle of Crown Royal.

"Dude...can I have one of those?" Vralli said strongly.

"Slime you, punk." Yalwitt snapped and took a long suck from the bottle.

"You pigs can't drink on duty?" Vralli said sharply.

"I can punk!" Yalwitt said strongly as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

"That park?" Vralli snapped with a smirk.

"Rober J. Gamil Jr," Yalwitt said firmly and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Yeh, I'd been there. It required just a little beautification. But we didn't kill anybody. When my white brothers arrived, there was clearly nobody in the park," Vralli explained seriously.

"You have anymore knifes?" Yalwitt said strongly putting out his cigarette.

"Only the one your partner took off me," Vralli explained firmly.

"Ok creep!" Yalwitt stated sharply and stepped outside the office.

Det. Amoheb was standing outside the office when Yalwitt came out. He was in fact sporting a bright blue suit and smelled just like crack cocaine.

"What's up?" Amoheb inquired calmly.

"Dog, I am aware the piece of doo-doo skinhead didn't kill Barriga yet claims liability for the damage in the park," Yalwitt explained indignantly and took a long swig from a bottle of Crown Royal.

"Well, Mr. Arnerich was at work like he said," Amoheb explained strongly, straightening up his purple tie.

"Well, our phone records demonstrates that we got a call about a stolen dagger last month," Yalwitt stated as he took another swin from the bottle.

"All right. But I want you to take some officers with you to Arnerich's neighborhood and knock on some doors. Dude I know some old lady saw somebody break into this dudes car," Amoheb stated sharply, pulling out a crack pipe.

"Ok brother," Yalwitt said strongly.

There were gunshots reported on 80th Street. OPD unit's responded to an old-butt blue apartment. They found a man in there lying on his stomach wasn't moving. He was in fact surely dead. Two bullet holes were in his back. The suspects were long gone.

The dead man was Eric Tamano, white about sixty, six-feet wearing a blue robe. He had an arrest record longer than a pool stick, mainly drug offenses. This homeboy sold crack cocaine and Meth. He demolished many lives along with his own.

"Anybody could have killed Tamano," Yalwitt stated sharply, guzzling Crown Royal.

"Hell yeh. Some rival drug dealers or relatives of people who died on junk," Amoheb stated strongly and took a long pull from his crack pipe.

"But my friend one person had the guts," Yalwitt said calmly, finishing off his whiskey.

"Dog, I pulled Gwen Ellzey's sheet, busted for drugs and intoxication. Barriga raped and beat her. She's been dead for two years. Her last known address was at 1170 West 7th Street. I'm likely to look it over," Amoheb said strongly, blowing smoke from a crack pipe.

Gwen Ellzey resided in a brown apartment. The same owner Mrs. Vivian Demmons met with him outside. She was a sickly elderly woman dressed in a long white flowery dress.

"Oh yes. I recall Miss Ellzey. She stayed on the fifth floor. She was really pretty. She always had these losers coming around on a regular basis," she stated savagely as they strolled around the building she waved at some of the neighbors walking by.

"Do you know any names?" he asked clearly.

"Not really," she said strongly with a half grin.

"There was this creep who was always mean to her smacking her around on a regular basis. Nevertheless the black man was always nice to her," she said clearly.

"Do you remember his name?" he asked strongly as he took a long pull from his crack pipe.

"I believe it had been Joseph," she said.

"Who was the cat which had been beating on Miss Ellzey?" he asked firmly.

"Man, I don't know his name," she stated sharply.

"If you saw him again would you recognize?" he asked strongly, blowing smoke in the air.

"What's that smell? What's that stuff you're smoking? It smells awful!" she snapped.

"It's crack cocaine!" he said strongly.

"Yes I think I can remember that man," she said, brushing her silver back from her face.

Amoheb brought Mrs. Demmon right down to police headquarters to go through the mug books.

Meanwhile he pulled Joseph (Joe) Wowbrown was in fact thirty-four about five-foot-ten and 180 pounds. He was arrested ten years ago for under the influence of Crack (rock cocaine). He was a good friend of Arnerich and Amoheb learned that they often discussed the use of daggers. And how awesome they were. So it might be obvious that he stole it.

Wowbrown lived on E. 14 and First Street in a red and cheap-butt looking apartment. Amoheb and Yalwitt had a search warrant. They beat the hell out of the door. Nobody answered. The cops kicked the door in.

They searched the small room very alert with shotguns drawn. There wasn't any sign of Mr. Wowbrown. The place was filled with lots of empty Olde English beer cans scattered about, with dirty magazines. Also stacks of Chinese porn movies on the TV.

"Look at all these dagger magazines?" Yalwitt stated sharply drinking Chavis Regal now.

"Yeh. The homeboy was in fact crazy about the weapon," Amoheb said calmly, nodding his head.

"Here are some gloves," one uniformed officer stated firmly.

"Those gloves were most likely used in the crime. So bring them to the lab," Amoheb said firmly.

Det. Amoheb was back in Mr. Noval's face.

"Gwen left Albert for Joe," Noval stated sharply. "He loved her so much. He visited her grave everyday."

"Did he like Albert Barriga?" Amoheb asked strongly.

"No he hated him," Noval snapped.

"Where is Wowbrown?" Amoheb asked strongly.

"Bruh, you think that he killed Albert?" Noval said sharply.

"Dog, I'm fairly certain he did," Amoheb said clearly.

"Well, Joe might be in Rock Café. He works there a lot. I can't believe he killed Albert. I know he hated him, but murder," Noval said sharply.

"Thank you, man," Amoheb said strongly, rushing off.

When Det. Amoheb, yalwitt and several uniform officers show up, Wowbrown was on stage rapping to a standing room only crowd.

The officers gradually moved through the folks to the stage. Wowbrown dressed in a tan tweed jacket over a white t-shirt and baggy jeans. He had a white wool cap on backwards. His band was in fact largely black aside from a fat white dude and a short Mexican guy. He noticed the cops looking on.

Right after the rap song was over; he placed the microphone down and ran down the stage nearly stumbling because his jeans kept falling down. The large crowd applauded loudly as he jumped off the stage and ran for the exit. The cops followed quickly. When Wowbrown got outdoors, he grabbed a small Spanish girl at gunpoint. The cop's couldn't get him now.

"Stay back homeboys!" Wowbrown shouted hotly backing away.

More police units pulled up in the parking lot behind Wowbrown.

"Give it up, bruh. You're surrounded," Amoheb stated sharply in to the bullhorn.

"Slime you, bro. I'll kill this woman!" Wowbrown stated harshly, pushing the gun barrel in her ear. "So you pigs better stay back."

Just incase Yalwitt had a sniper on the building waiting for a signal. Amoheb didn't want him to kill Mr. Wowbrown.

"Let the girl go. She didn't do anything to you. Man, she has absolutely nothing to do with this," Yalwitt stated calmly. "Put the gun down no ones going to hurt you."

Wowbrown started crying.

"That punk took my lady. Albert turned Gwen right into a junkie letting her get raped by every suck-poop in the world, ruining her life. That bum treated her like doo-doo! She was beautiful lady and didn't need to be treated like that. She was my queen. Nobody like Albert deserved to live," Wowbrown stated strongly, backing away and looking around.

"You're right, bruh," Amoheb stated gently.

"Man, I'm not necessarily planning to jail over this. I want a mother car so I can cut. Then I'll let this lady go," Wowbrown said sharply, pressing the barrel deeper in her ear.

Amoheb told the police sniper to take shot. It was becoming apparent that Wowbrown wasn't likely to surrender.

"Where's my car homeboy?" Wowbrown inquired hotly.

"All right, man," Amoheb snapped.

Once the car showed up the sniper took the shot hitting Wowbrown in the upper portion of his left shoulder. He dropped the weapon, spun around, and fell over onto his back. The woman ran towards the police crying and they consoled her. The cops snapped up Wowbrown with blood running down his arm. He was placed onto a stretcher. They wheeled him into a paramedic wagon.

Joseph Wowbrown gave a statement to the cops confessing to the murder of Albert Barriga and Eric Tamano.

The jury quickly reached a verdict of guilty of murder. Wowbrown was presented with 10 years with the chance of parole in five years.

# Chapter 13: Problems In P.I. Computer Systems

Electronic specialist Hannah Thibodeaux was in fact ran down as she crossed the road to her vehicle. She died shortly after admittance into Book Bear Hospital. The vehicle was registered to her husband Zan Thibodeaux who now sits in jail. Well Mr. Thibodeaux has little cash requested Keith Jackson's, a poor-butt PI to clear him of murder but he claims he was with his son at Six Flags.

Well Jackson was back in town in the police station with hopes of helping this homeboy. Thibodeaux appeared as if the typical bad dude in a cop show.

"Hey, homey. I didn't kill my wife. Dude, I had been in Lee's Bar getting tore up. When I got outside my car's frontend was in fact smashed. And so I drove home," Thibodeaux explained strongly to Jackson as he paced back and forth.

"And your butt has witnesses that can collaborate your story that you had been sitting down in the bar drinking the whole time," Jackson stated firmly, following him around with his eyes.

"Dude maybe not really the whole time I did take a massive doo-doo and that was really the only time I left the bar," Thibodeaux stated sharply.

"How long did that take?" Jackson snapped.

"Man, I don't know perhaps an hour or so," Thibodeaux answered sharply, stopping in front of the cell bars.

"Did you tell the bartender?" Jackson snapped.

"I might have," Thibodeaux stated strongly, sitting down on his bed.

"Did you ever fight with your wife?" Keith asked strongly.

"Hell yes. Who hasn't? We're divorced. We'd some trouble with our children---custody battles that got ugly sometimes. We argued. I knocked the her around sometimes---maybe more than I should," Thibodeaux said strongly.

"When did you arrive at the bar?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Three or so," Thibodeaux said sharply.

"Dude, you might have had somebody else knock off your old lady," Jackson said strongly, lighting a joint.

"Can I get a hit?" Thibodeaux said firmly eyeing him with desperation.

"For sure," Jackson said strongly.

"Dog, I couldn't have had anybody. Man I don't have any friends or money to pay anybody," Thibodeaux stated strongly.

OK, dog. Here you can have it," Keith said firmly, handing over the rest of his joint to Thibodeaux.

Jackson went along to Sgt. Newsham's office but it was locked. Lt. James Betha came out of his, a big homeboy.

"Hey, brother, what's up?" Keith stated strongly with a smile.

"Don't hey brother me, dog. Bro-bro, I don't have time for your scheming butt," Lt. Betha said incredulously. This big man appeared as if he was prepared to squash Jackson just like a frog. "And stop smoking that stuff in my police station."

"Where's Mark?" Keith snapped.

"He's in San Diego helping out there. We officers are brothers around the globe and we help each other out when we can," Betha said strongly with pride.

"I've heard about you bruh," Jackson said snugly. "You messed up, bruh!"

"Slime you, homeboy," Betha stated sharply, balling his fist with an evil stare.

"I'm here about that hit-and-run case, bro-bro," Jackson stated calmly to him.

"That case has already been solved, brother," Betha stated firmly, straightening up his purple tie.

"Blood, I don't believe it," Jackson snapped sharply, rolling his eyes.

"There is no evidence point to any homeboy than Thibodeaux---plus his blood level was 1.9. He was in fact legally drunk. Now excuse me I've some stuff to do," Lt. Betha stated hotly and stormed away.

"Well if Thibodeaux was as drunk as you say he couldn't have preformed this murder so effectively," Jackson shouted back at Betha.

Jackson sat in his 1975 Dodge Dart drinking Crown Royal. He was thinking about the case, looking at his yellow grass filled with piles of pig-poop. There was a bunch of racist graffiti on his office building.

Well, Keith finally strolled in to the office and his sexy assistant Marisa Gidel had been there. Last night, she was selling herself and gotten stoned with some homeboys. He opened the window because the office smelled just like a hundred animals farted in there. Jackson continued to guzzle from a bottle of Crown Royal walking around his cluttered office and rapping songs.

"Hey girl, I really want you to check out Mrs. Hannah Thibodeaux, Zan Thibodeaux, and everybody in PI Computer systems," Jackson said sharply to her.

"Ok boss," she said firmly smoking a cigarette.

"You got a new tattoo, boo?" he inquired nicely.

"Yeh, a spider. You like it?" she snapped.

"It's all right," he said strongly as he took a lengthy swig from the bottle.

Well Keith was in the Washoe County Coroner office making love to Dr. Patricia Tumer---the deputy coroner while she ate a sandwich. She looked just a little rough. When it was over, she finished her sandwich.

"What's up? Dude I am aware you didn't come here to make love to me," Dr. Tumer said strongly with a smirk, straightening her skirt.

"What's up with ya hit-and-run?" he asked strongly as he pulled up his baggy jeans.

"You mean Mrs. Hannah Thibodaux?" she stated sharply, placing a cigarette in her dour mouth.

"Yep," he snapped sharply, trying to light up a crack pipe.

"Mrs. Thibodeaux suffered serious internal injuries---crushed viscera, consistent with a blow by an automobile," she said seriously, blowing smoke towards the door.

"Mrs. Thibodeaux was a beautiful lady," he said sadly, looking down at her.

"She was. Would you make love to her?" she snapped with a smile.

"Hell yeh," Jackson stated firmly with a half grin. "The dead ones don't fight and try to push a homeboy off!"

Jackson was in the police yard where Mr. Thibodeaux's baby blue 1968 Mustang having little damage to the frontend. He got inside and the seat had been pulled up just like a person maybe five-foot-eight or nine. It was a little too far up for Jackson since he was six feet. Mr. Thibodeaux was at least six-foot-two or three. Therefore, he would begin looking for a smaller person possibly a woman. Judging from this vehicle and the way this thing looked inside it was totally obvious that Mr. Thibodeaux loved this car and wouldn't have used this classic in this way.

Jackson was about to get in his pimpmobile when a speeding white Buick came full speed at him and he quickly dived over the hood of his vehicle in order to avoid the Buick, scrapping the side of his vehicle as it sped by. When Jackson recovered and brought out his gun the vehicle was already gone.

Keith was playing blackjack in Fitzgerald casino when Miss Gidel sat at a table next to him as he received an ace and king for blackjack winning $324.00s.

"All those people check out---with minor offences," she said strongly.

"Nobody's squeaky clean, baby. Girl, I don't trust those geek homeboys. There was a pretty fly alarm system in Mr. Thibodeaux's car and only some homeboy hella skilled would've been able to disarm it without drawing any attention," Jackson explained sharply as he cashed in his chips at the window.

"Mrs. Thibodeaux fired a man name Nicky Perry in PI Computer systems and he made a big stink about it," she said sharply, standing next to him.

"Check out guys and girls that love to make use of vehicles as weapons," Jackson said strongly, shoving money into his pockets.

"Yes sir," she snapped cheerfully, walking towards the exit.

Nick Perry was living in an atrocious flat on Center Street. Jackson sat in his car, smoking crack cocaine right up until he'd the courage to go pound on Mr. Parry's door.

"Are you Nick Perry?" Jackson inquired to the man that opened the door.

"Maybe it depends. What are selling dog?" Perry stated firmly with a frown.

"Dog, I'm investigating the death of Mrs. Thibodeaux," Jackson said firmly.

"Slime you, dog," Perry stated harshly, slamming the door on Jackson's foot.

Jackson forced the door open knocking Perry back several feet, stumbling he landed on his butt. He strolled inside. There was a powerful scent of marijuana. Perry got up and leaped at Keith with his right fist landing into Keith's jaw. Keith winced as he held on to his jaw while Perry was trying to push his butt out of the door.

Jackson hit Perry in the face with a couple of quick hard rights and the impact moved him back a few feet into the wall. When Perry made an effort to recuperate Jackson kicked him in the tummy. Perry sunk right down to his knees gritting his teeth as blood dripped from his mouth.

"Dude, I don't care about that broad. You can beat me all you want player," Perry said sharply, wiping blood from his chin.

"You bug-poop! If you killed Mrs. Thibodeaux you're going to jail," Jackson said bluntly with an evil stare.

"I didn't kill nobody brother. Baby-boy, I been here getting stone B," Perry explained critically, pulling up his baggy pants.

"Where were you at between six and seven last evening?" Keith asked strongly.

"Dog, I had been at work. Dude, I work at Ben's Liquors," Perry said firmly.

"Why did she fire you?" Jackson inquired firmly.

"That broad fired me because I took an ashtray---the coolest job I ever had," Perry stated hotly, lighting another joint.

"You're a ignorant-poop! Why would you throw away your job baby?" Jackson asked sharply using a half grin.

"You know what? Get out of my house homeboy! I'm done speaking to you, bruh," Perry shouted irately, pointing towards the door.

Jackson walked out and Perry slammed the door behind him.

When Jackson got into his car, the white Buick emerged out of nowhere and stopped in front of Jackson's car so he couldn't leave. A black man got out of the car and unloaded a clip from a Mauser Luger 9mm Parabellum bullets sprayed through the door and windows. Jackson ducked straight down lying down across the seats covered in glass up until the shooting stopped. He still had his Coonan .356 Magnum by his side.

After the black man unloaded the clip, Jackson heard him get back into his car, backed up swiftly, and sped off down the road. Jackson sat up in the car brushing off glass. He wasn't hurt just a few cuts that's all.

Jackson found out from Miss Gidel that a Paul Weiss was in fact totally against woman executives he believed men were most suitable for those jobs. He did some time for attempted murder with a truck as the murder weapon. His last known address was at 1310 Clear Acer Lane. But the punk wasn't there. He tried a carwash on 1928 Oddie Blvd. He'd no luck placing this creep at the crime scene. His boss had him buffing car past eight.

He was back in the Reno jail in Mr. Thibodeaux face this homeboy had doo-doo breathe. He was upset.

"Well homey?" Thibodeaux snapped having an evil glance.

"How you hanging dude?" Jackson inquired with a half grin.

"The food sucks. Frog-breaths are harassing me! Dude, I require a drink brother," Thibodeaux said sharply, shaking body.

"Dude I don't think you killed your wife. I do believe a woman or a short man because your seat had been tampered with. And some homeboy pretty smooth with an alarm disconnected it. And I don't think you would wreak your beautiful car," Jackson explained sharply to him.

"Yes, I love my car. But you don't know who did this?" Thibodeaux inquired sharply standing up as he brushed his hair from his face.

"Why don't you tell me a little bit about your ex-wife," Jackson stated strongly, taking out some cigarettes---Kools. He handed Thibodeaux one and Jackson wedged one in his big mouth. Using a Bic lighter, he lit Thibodeaux's and himself.

"Thanks man. This may help my nerves," Thibodeaux said calmly, finding a smile finally.

"Cool. Tell me more about Hannah," Jackson stated, blowing smoke through the bars.

"Hannah left E&W Electronics for a CEO Job, standing on top was always important for her and for women all over the place. She revived a sagging-butt computer company---reinforced it switched it into a money making machine," Thibodeaux explained firmly, choosing a big drag from the cigarette.

"Man it doesn't explain why anybody would kill her," Jackson said, blowing smoke rings.

"E&W entered the toilet. The stocks proceeded to go straight down to my feet the same day my wife left the corporation," Thibodeaux said strongly, blowing smoke at the floor.

"Dude it's someone at E&W Computer systems who could have killed her or had her knocked off. There's a lot of homeboys that are going to lose their jobs---pensions maybe. This really is hella stuff," Jackson said, finishing his cigarette.

Zan finished his too.

"Why don't you speak to Ronnie Corten? He's CEO of E&W. He labored very closely with Hannah and was naturally upset when she left the struggling company. Dude, I once strolled in the office and the two were really going at it, fighting," Mr. Thibodeaux said very seriously, pacing back and forth.

"Why didn't you tell this stuff before?" Jackson inquired hotly lighting another cigarette.

"Dude I don't know," Thibodeaux said sharply, stopping his pace and turned to look through the cell bars.

Jackson blew smoke into his face.

"My hella dope lawyer's going to get you out of here. They don't have anything on you bruh," Jackson stated, standing up. He had taken one final hit from his cig, dropped it on the floor, and started for the cell door.

Zan picked it up and gave Jackson a crazy gaze. The cop let him out of the cell and he went along to the lavatory to take a doo-doo.

Unfortunately, Nick Parry's story checked out at the liquor store.

Keith left his car at the front of the building of E&W Computer systems. He saw that white Buick parked by the garbage containers. He strolled through the quiet hallway to the receptionist desk. The woman wasn't there. An office door had been open and Jackson wandered in, a man who appeared as if Jesus was standing by a liquor cabinet serving himself some brandy.

Jackson smacked him in the back of the head and the dude fell forward, hitting his face on the cabinet as he went straight down to the floor. The E&J Brandy bottle was in fact tipped over on the cabinet, spilling on to the floor. Jackson snapped up the bottle. He saw Mr. Corten laying face down on the carpet out cold. He turned him over and poured some of the brandy in Corten's face. Then Corten leapt forward just like he'd awaken from a bad dream, shaking his head, green eyes popping out as he brought himself in a upright position against the cabinet.

Corten wiped brandy from his face and made an effort to make out this black blurry figure, standing before him, guzzling his fine brandy.

"What the hell is this? Please don't kill me! You can have the brandy and my wallet," Corten stated weakly, grabbing at his coat pocket.

"Don't do that stuff! Keep your hands exactly where I can see them," Jackson ordered firmly and took another long swing.

"I don't possess a firearm," Corten stated firmly, with eyes widen with alarm.

"The way homey's come at you it might be wise to strap down," Jackson stated strongly, placing the bandy bottle down on the cabinet.

"What the hell do you want?" Corten stated hotly.

"I'm searching for Ronnie Corten," Jackson said sharply.

"I'm Ronnie Corten," Corten stated firmly.

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a mother PI," Jackson stated sharply with an evil ghetto tone.

"What would a PI want with me?" Corten said strongly.

"Man, I'm investigating the murder of Hannah Thibodeaux," Jackson said firmly.

"Dude I found out about that. I'm deeply saddened. Homeboy, I worked closely with her when she worked here," Corten said sadly still sitting on the floor.

"Dog...I think you killed her," Jackson said strongly.

"That's insane, dude. I loved her," Corten snapped.

"Bull, dude!" Jackson said harshly.

"Can you prove it?" Corten snapped.

"You tried to run my butt down the other-day. Earlier you fill up my pimp-ride with bullets," Jackson stated ruthlessly.

"That's a lie, man. Dude, I haven't left my office today," Corten stated harshly, trying to get up.

"You drive a awful white Buick, don't you?" Jackson said strongly.

"No. I drive a blue Rover," Corten stated sharply, snatching the bottle of half-empty brandy from Jackson.

"Where were you between 6:00 and 8:00pm?" Jackson inquired firmly lighting a joint.

"Here stuck in this office," Corten stated, guzzling from the bottle.

"Do you own a gun?" Jackson said.

"Hell no! I told you I didn't have a weapon," Corten said hotly, scratching his beard.

"Well, there must be some other homeboy who works here could've done it," Jackson said firmly.

"There were a number of extremely upset people when Hannah left. All of us felt betrayed. This corporation is actually in bankruptcy because of her. But she's a grown woman. Hannah can to what she feels best," Corten stated strongly, holding tightly on the bottle.

"Well somebody in this joint did it," Jackson stated firmly, finishing his joint.

"Well, it wasn't me," Corten stated firmly.

"How tall are you? Are you five-seven or five-ten?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Man I don't know!" Corten snapped.

"Stand up!" Jackson said bluntly.

"Hell no!" Corten said hotly.

"Are you less than six feet?" Jackson inquired finishing off the brandy.

"I don't know, dude. I guess I'm six," Corten snapped.

"Do you have a homeboy working for you?" Jackson asked harshly.

"I don't know each and every slimeball working for me," Corten snapped.

The cops came in. Three uniformed police along with Lt. Betha.

"Are you all right, sir?" Lt. Betha said sharply with a chalk smile to Corten.

"Yes I'm cool," he stated strongly.

"Let's go dog," Betha said sharply, grabbing Jackson by the arm.

"I'm not really finished yet, gee," Jackson said firmly.

"Let's go homeboy," Betha insisted hotly. "We got a call some black man bust in her robbing people!"

"I just wanted to ask this punk some questions. I seriously think he killed Mrs. Thibodeaux," Jackson said firmly.

A short fat black man was in fact checking out the trunk of the white Buick. Jackson ran over to him.

"Hey man. What's up?" Jackson asked strongly.

The man turned around.

"Say man. Do I know you?" he snapped.

"Didn't you try to kill me earlier, bruh?" Jackson said sharply.

"Hey dog. I've never seen you before," he stated sharply.

"You wasn't on Center Street earlier?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Hell no. will you excuse me I've got to go back to work," he stated sharply, slamming the truck door. He strolled around to the driver side, got in, and sped off.

Jackson returned to the crime scene. He saw some broken taillight pieces. It all happened on First Street. The businesses would've already been closed by 6:30. He stood in the street. Folks had been fairly pissed honking their horns and cursing to indicate their frustration. He delayed traffic for thirty minutes. He'd a photo of Corten and Thibodeaux showing it around to some people that looked just like neighborhood folks.

"Hey, sir. Are you the po-pos?" a Mexican woman stated harshly to him.

"Naw," Jackson snapped.

"Why are you standing in the streets?" she asked sharply.

"What the hell do you want, lady?" he asked hotly.

"I had seen who ran over that lady. I was standing by the Laundromat when it happened," she stated seriously to him.

Jackson snapped up her by the arm and strolled back across the street standing on the curb he lit a joint.

"What did you see, baby-girl?" he asked and took a long draw from the joint.

"Hey, dog. Don't let a cop see you," she said sharply, brushing her hair from her face.

"Bruh, I don't give a slime!" he said harshly.

"Well...I saw this butthole run down this beautiful lady," she explained regrettably using a stricken look.

"What did he look like? Was he black or white?" he asked.

"He was white," she said strongly.

Jackson had taken out the pictures as the joint dangled from his horrid mouth. She looked at them for some time. After that, she shook her head.

"It wasn't any of those men," she said truthfully.

"Are you sure? Look again!" he snapped.

"Dude, I'm sure," she said sharply.

"Would you know this dude if you saw him again?" he asked.

"Hell yes," she stated firmly.

"Let me take you to police headquarters," Jackson insisted strongly, drawing hard on his joint.

"Isn't smoking dope illegal in Nevada?" she asked firmly.

"Hell yeh. I am aware but I don't give a damn," he stated forcing her to his car.

Jackson dropped this Mexican broad in the police station to look through the mug books. Then Miss Gidel phoned him on his cell phone to tell him that the owner of the white Buick was in fact a Gatto Beal. He had no criminal history. Jackson swung by E&W Computer systems trying to find the dude but he wasn't there. He went by his house he wasn't there either.

Jackson went back to the office to get stoned. When he started eating a hamburger Mr. Corten came inside holding a Beretta Minx .22 short. "Get up, dude," Corten stated sharply, pointing the gun at Jackson's face.

"Hold up, slime-breath," Jackson stated harshly, puffing on a joint as he raised his hands.

"Move away from the desk," Corten stated firmly with a half smile.

Jackson rose and strolled away with his arms up in the air and continued to puff on his dope dangling from his mouth. Corten moved up to him and hit him in the face with the gun. Blood ran down Jackson's nose and onto his XX large white shirt.

"Still sore about earlier?" Jackson snapped.

"A little. Homeboy, you're not so tough right now," Corten said, stepping back with a grin.

"What's up? What's on your mind, dog?" Jackson said strongly.

"Killing your butt homey," Corten stated strongly with a grin.

"So you did kill Mrs. Thibodeaux?" Jackson said.

"I did. The broad ruined my life. We built that company together. We've been a team. She'd to mess all of it up by leaving to sign up for some fly by night P. I. Computer systems. Those punks couldn't make chocolate chip cookies and their lousy monitors don't last a week. Their stuff is certainly overpriced, worthless and marketing strategy is ill conceived. That's how you repay a company that made your butt! You see I couldn't let this horrible lady live any longer. If E&W Electronics can't have her neither will P.I. Computer systems," Corten explained harshly with a monstrous glare.

"Dude, you don't own homeboys. Your butt can't tell folks just where they can work, dog," Jackson said defensively.

"Come on, man. No more chatting. We're likely to take a trip," Corten said firmly, shoving the pistol in Jacksons back.

"Where's Mr. Beal, Jesus?" Jackson inquired firmly.

"He's dead. I shot him with this gun. He required much more revenue the little homeboy was in fact planning to blackmail me," Corten explained strongly, shoving Jackson towards the door.

"Ok I'm going player," Jackson said. "Look, pay me $200,000 and I'll move on and you'll never ever see my butt again."

"Man, I don't need another blackmailer. You'll just keep coming back just like all of them do," Corten said strongly.

When the phone rang Corten's concentration had been lost for just a moment. Jackson snapped up the arm holding the gun and two shots went into the ceiling. While Corten was trying to free his hand, leaving his face wide open. Therefore, Jackson hit him in the face with a hard left. Corten flew back dropping the firearm. He landed on his back on the floor. Once he tried to get back up Jackson rammed his big Nike foot into Corten's face and he fell back, passing out. Jackson picked up the gun and stood there panting. He then decided to go up to his desk and phoned the police to pick up Corten.

Jackson, Mr. Thibodeaux and Miss Gidel had been in Roy's Bowling Alley.

"Bruh, you didn't have to take me bowling," Jackson stated strongly with a smile, lifting a bowling ball.

"Why not? Homeboy, you saved my butt. You're the very best low rent detective I've ever seen," Thibodeaux mentioned cheerfully and guzzled his beer.

"Miss Gidel ain't too bad herself," Jackson said firmly.

"Roll a strike baby," she stated cheerfully.

Jackson made an effort to toss the ball straight down the lane but it wouldn't leave his finger.

"What the hell?" Jackson said harshly trying to remove the ball from his fingers.

"What happened?" Thibodeaux snapped, looking at the bowling ball dangling from Jackson fingers.

"Dog, I do believe the ball is actually stuck. Does anybody have any grease?"

# Chapter 14: What Exactly Happened To Rowena Howard?

He'd already been working the case for three weeks until his fantastic detecting brought him to the Bently Hotel. That's exactly where he identified her lifeless unclothed black body on a foreign reddish carpet. He phoned the police.

The Bently Hotel was obviously a good establishment, fifty stories high, constructed by Harrah's Casino two years ago. He passed some famous people in the hallway. Sergeant Mark Newsham met him inside. News 4 and Kolo News 8 were on the scene, taking photos. The Reno Fire Department and paramedic came.

"What's your butt doing right here, baby?" Sgt. Newsham inquired bluntly.

"Yo, man, up the crime scene for you," Mr. Jackson stated evidently.

"Dude, I notice that poop-eyes," Newsham stated harshly.

"I called your mother slime-breath," Jackson said hotly.

"Who is this nude broad?" Sgt. Mark Newsham asked sardonically.

"It's Miss Rowena Howard," Mr. Jackson said firmly. "Her sister employed me to locate her."

"Homey, you'd better break the good news to her," Newsham stated sharply, blowing cigarette smoke in his face.

"Cover this lady up too," Jackson said firmly.

News 4 made an effort to speak with him but he told them to get lost. He shoved his way through the nosy crowd. Furthermore, He made it back to his car.

Out of the blue, an excellent day in Reno converted into poop. Melady lived on 324 Ralston Street, in a tiny purple house. She had been young, black, overweight, and unsightly.

"Bruh, I'm sorry to tell you this," Jackson explained sadly to her. "Your sister is definitely dead."

"Oh, my God! Not Rowena! Lord-Jesus! Help me!" She stated sadly, putting her head in his chest and sobbed for some time.

"Dog, let it all out," he advised strongly. "This was in fact obviously not a goodtime to chat, so I'll come back later."

"Don't leave me, dog! Don't leave me!" she pleaded sharply.

"You mean spend the night, dog?" he said strongly.

"Hell, yeh. Bro-bro, I don't strive to be alone," she said strongly still in tears.

Jackson slept on her Russian sofa and stared at her paintings and sculptures---all African stuff. She didn't say anything just looked at her coffee cup. She fixed him eggs, bacon, and coffee. He smoked crack cocaine for a while. Next, he left.

Keith Jackson was in fact back in the Bently Hotel conversing with the Manager for quite a while...then this Mexican maid.

"I didn't actually know her," she said in a thick accent. "Miss Pounder didn't like to talk much."

"Did she have any friends?" he questioned strongly.

"A man came to see her," she said firmly.

"What man? What's his name?" he snapped.

"Dude, I don't know," she snapped.

"What did he look like?" he inquired firmly.

"He really was cute. Tall and blond," she stated firmly.

"All right. Thanks," Jackson said firmly.

He called Melady and she informed him she didn't know the men her sister dated and hung up.

Jackson went by Reno Coroner Dept. He spoke with Deputy Coroner Lubert Brodt.

"She was in fact strangled," Brodt explained strongly, eating a salami sandwich.

"So when, baby?" Jackson inquired softly.

"She's been dead overnight. She's been deceased since eleven," Brodt said strongly.

"She was obviously a pretty girl," Jackson said sadly.

"She was," the coroner stated sadly.

"Well thanks, dog."

Rowena Howard had been a lounge singer. Who'd want to kill her? Was her music and singing that bad? Exactly why was she at the Bentley? Too costly. She was obviously a blues musician but sure wasn't big time yet. She didn't have many boyfriends. She'd no children. She was twenty-seven. She'd no criminal history. Her boyfriends name was Toad Mantis. Why does a good-looking white-boy want a sister? He lived at 311 Sullivan Lane, in Sparks Nevada. However, once he got there he vanished...had moved out.

Jackson ran a background check on him. This homeboy ended up arrested for assault. Case dropped. He wasn't married. He was in fact from Utah and his folks were living there. He'd a brother Howard Mantis, who lived in Oklahoma, a sister Aleen, who lived in Minnesota.

Jackson invited this girl up to his office having a big horse ass. They smoked crack cocaine together and drank Chivas Regal. He later on made love to her just like some beast, smacking her about she usually preferred it rough.

Miss Howard's stage manager had been a genuine frog-poop. His name was Faber Kang. He was charged on May 6, 1992, for assault using a deadly weapon. Charges dropped. Arrested for assault on February 20, 1997. His wife declined to press charges. Case dismissed. She loved him. She'd been with him for 11 years.

Jackson wandered in the Harrah's cabaret office in which he discovered this scumbag Mr. Kang. Kang had been a tall athletic dude. Kang greeted him with two hard punches in the jaw. Next, he pushed Jackson up against the wall before he could possibly recover well. Kang threw a punch but Jackson moved his head away to avoid it and Kang's fist smashed through the wall. Next, Jackson kneed him in the abdomen. Kang sunk down to his knees coughing. Then Jackson shoved the bottom of his shoe into the man's face and he fell back. Jackson moved up to him but Kang shoved his boot into Jackson's crotch. The impact brought Jackson reeling backwards over the desk. Kang got up and moved quickly around the desk as Jackson was getting up with his Browning Hi-Power 9mm Parabellum.

"Don't move bruh!" Jackson stated firmly, panting.

"Homeboy...that pistol don't terrify me. Dude, I'll shove it up your ear!" Kang said savagely.

"You just try it, baby," Jackson said bitterly. "I'll blow your butt away."

"What the hell you want, homeboy?" Kang snapped.

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a PI, baby. I'm investigating a murder," he said strongly, displaying his Identification.

"Who got burned?" Kang snapped.

"Miss Rowena Howard," Jackson stated firmly.

"No bull?" Kang asked strongly.

"No bull," Jackson said firmly.

"How did it happen?" Kang said sadly.

"Somebody strangled her. Miss Howard's body was discovered in the Bentley Hotel," Jackson said seriously.

"What creepy homeboy could possibly try this?" Kang stated sadly, dropping his face in his hands.

"Do you know who did it?" Jackson asked gently lighting a joint.

"Hell no," Kang said sharply. "Rowena was cool broad. All people dug her."

"Were there any weirdo's hanging around her shows?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Dude, I don't know. There had been so many folks came to her shows," Kang said drastically.

"Where were you at eleven last night?" Jackson asked firmly.

"I've been trapped in this office forever, gee," Mr. Kang said hotly.

"By yourself?" Jackson snapped.

"Yes," Kang said bluntly.

"Do you know a cat name Toad Mantis?" Jackson asked strongly.

"That blond creep?" Kang snapped.

"Yep," Jackson said.

"Yeh, I've witnessed this scumbag hanging about. You think that he killed Rowena?" Kang said firmly.

"I'm sure likely to learn," Jackson said sharply, wandering out.

Jackson sat in his Dodge Dart outside of the police station smoking crack cocaine and sipping off a bottle of Chivas Regal.

Jackson turned up in the Reno Police Dept. in Sgt. Newsham's office. Newsham ate donuts and drank coffee. As well, he sung Blue Money by Van Morrison. Jackson was seated there kind of stone.

"Miss Howard was in fact at the hotel a couple of days. She made a handful of telephone calls: 5 calls to her sister, 10 calls to an apartment in San Diego, 6 telephone calls to a cell phone from a Toad Mantis and the rest had been room service," Newsham outlined firmly.

"Ten calls to San Diego? Exactly who lives there?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Tony Teller Agency," Sgt. Newsham answered strongly.

"What about folks that strangle women?" Jackson inquired strongly.

"Well the vast majority of those dirt bags have been in jail, excluding one: his name is Tom Daza. His last known address was at 4059 S. Center Street---apartment 7," Newsham said firmly.

"Is there more my homeboy?" Jackson asked strongly with a smile.

"No more," Newsham snapped. "This isn't an information bureau for PIs, dog."

"You're a great man, Mark," Jackson said firmly and kissed him on the forehead.

"Get off me! Are you nuts?" Newsham snapped. "And stop smoking that stuff in my town."

Jackson had known Sgt. Mark Newsham for ten years. He met him once he labored as a busboy at the Tomkin's Club, he had this slimy band referred to as the Blue & White Jag Band. The group stunk worst than doo-doo and folks threw tomatoes and rotten eggs at them once they performed. Mr. Jackson went through the Academy with him. He moved up speedily to sergeant.

Jackson few F-14's during the Persian Gulf War. He'd his own Cessna 72 and he few it to San Diego. He had taken a cab to Tony Teller's Agency downtown.

"I'd wanted to phone you, dog?" Jackson stated happily.

"Homeboy, I still don't want to speak to you!" Teller said hotly. He had brownish shaggy hair, brown eyes and a face just like a beaver. "Johnny, get rid of this bonehead."

A dude with long black hair, built just like a football player strolled up to him. "Get lost jerk-off!" he said boldly.

"Lick my slime!" Mr. Jackson stated firmly.

"No way, punk!" the big dude said candidly.

The big fella threw a punch at him and he moved away to avoid it. Jackson brought his foot up into the homeboy's shin just like a skyrocket and the big man stood there smiling widely like a little girl had kicked him. The dude picked Jackson up and chucked him across the table and he slid onto the floor. The guy moved quickly around the table and snapped up Jackson as he was trying to get up. The man grabbed Jackson by the throat but he reached down and grabbed the phone. He began smashing the man in the face until he let go of him. The man's face was bloody and he was shock up. Then Jackson picked up a paperweight and smashed the man's head with it until the big man passed out onto the floor. Then Jackson grabbed Teller and punched him.

"Are you crazy, dog?" Mr. Teller snapped.

"Hell, yeh," Jackson shot back.

"Why do you need to chat, homeboy?" Teller said firmly.

"Dude, I want talk about Miss Rowena Howard," Jackson stated greatly.

"What about her?" Teller snapped.

"She had been slain," Jackson said strongly.

"When?" Teller said sadly.

"Last night. At approximately eleven," Jackson explained clearly.

"No wonder I couldn't get her. Dog, I kept calling and calling that woman," Mr. Teller said hotly, pounding the wall.

"Why?" Jackson snapped.

"I'm her agent, homeboy. We communicate a lot. Dog, I'm hoping to get her a gig on the Tonight's Show, and possibly Letterman," Teller stated clearly.

"Where were you all this time?" Jackson said sharply.

"At home with my lady asleep," Teller said sharply.

"Can you confirm that punk?" Jackson stated bitterly.

"Hell, yeh. You can speak to my lady, man," Teller said strongly.

"Why was she at the Bentley Hotel?" Jackson asked firmly.

"I put her in that gorgeous hotel," Teller stated sharply.

"Did anybody else know she had been there?" Jackson asked.

"I-I don't know. I don't believe so," Teller stated nervously.

"Mantis---Toad Mantis?" Jackson said sourly.

"Oh, yeah. Her dude...I do believe he knew. Well, I'm certain he'd be the very first to know," Teller said firmly.

"Do you know who wanted her dead?" Jackson inquired clearly.

"Boo, I don't know. You know...Rowena had been a great kid. Dude, I couldn't imagine anyone wanted her dead," Teller said sadly.

When Jackson got out of his automobile and began walking to Daza's apartment. Then all of a sudden, shots poured out what sounded just like an Armalite AR-15 .223 at him, or not. He ran behind a van to avoid the bullets. He had taken out his gun and returned fire when possible to. There seemed to be one more session of bullets at his direction. The shots originated from a vintage white building that was previously a television station studio.

Jackson hustled up to the building, climbed the steps, and had a battle against rodents. The placed smelled just like rat urine, poop, and mildew and mold like the place had been closed for many years. Destitute folks ended up surviving in there, with clothes scattered around. Once he gotten to the top, nobody seemed to be there just shells. There was a fire escape along the side of the building. That may be how the homeboy escaped. He returned downstairs and ran across the street.

There was police sirens approach. He snapped up Daza from out of his apartment he had been sporting boxers. Jackson started beaten up on Daza just like some madman high on coke. Daza wouldn't fight back. Jackson pushed him up against the building. He appeared to be a manipulative sort of person.

"You made an effort to kill me, punk," Jackson explained caustically.

"No," Daza said bitterly. "Dude, I don't know you. Dude, are you crazy?"

"You didn't fire a rifle at me?" Jackson asked hotly.

"No, I don't even possess a weapon," Daza snapped.

"Did you hear gun shots?" Jackson snapped.

"Yes. I telephoned the cops, homeboy," Daza said dramatically.

"Do you know Miss Rowena Howard?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Of course," Daza said hotly.

"Did you kill her, dude?" Jackson asked sharply.

"No never. Homey, I've never gone to her show. Dude, I personally like heavy metal," Daza said strongly. "Can I go man? I'm frosty."

"Daza...if you're not straight with me a cold will probably be your least worry," Jackson stated haughtily. "Where were you last night at about eleven?"

"I've been here watching TV," Daza said strongly.

"You're scum, Daza," Jackson stated snugly.

"Dude, I haven't broken any rules. Dude, I've carried out absolutely nothing. Leave me alone," Daza said maliciously.

Three Reno police units turned up, alone using a grey Ford sedan...Sergeant Mark Newsham got out of the car.

"What are you up to?" Newsham asked firmly. "We reported gun shots in the neighborhood.

"Some homeboy made an effort to take me out, G," Jackson said hotly.

"Did you see him?" Newsham asked firmly.

"Man, I wish I did so. Dog, I'd bust a cap in him," Jackson said testily.

"Do you know the location where the shots came from?" Newsham asked.

"Boo, the roof top," Jackson explained strongly.

"Dude, I want a forensic team on the top," Newsham said sharply to the police officers.

Jackson wandered up to his 1975 Dodge Dart.

"Where are you going, homeboy?" Newsham said firmly.

"Back to my office, boo!" Jackson said crudely.

Jackson sat in his office having KFC and drinking a Olde English. Marisa appeared to be eating a chicken salad she purchased at Jack in a Box. His office was at an old veterinarian clinic. Marisa was beautiful, having long soft buckskin hair and brown eyes and an oval face. She'd been with him for a couple of years. He met her in the casino, exactly where she labored as a food server.

"This was a very difficult job, Keith," she complained firmly.

"Well, that's the thrill thing about this task, boo," he said cheerfully.

"Your Mr. Toad Mantis had taken a flight to Tulsa Oklahoma," she said softly, chewing her salad.

"Okay---will you phone and have my plane gassed up, baby?" he said calmly.

"Yes, sir," she snapped.

Keith had taken a doo-doo and combed his hair in the mirror. His hair was darkish and bizarre. He always dressed up vibrant: blue sports jacket, orange shirt, white tie, baggy dark brown jeans, gray socks and brown scuffed loafers.

Jackson travelled up to Tulsa in less than two hours. Oklahoma was a beautiful State. He took a taxicab to Howard Mantis's house.

Jackson pointed his gun at Howard once he opened the door.

"Where's your brother?" Jackson asked sharply.

"Inside," Howard said nervously. He seemed like a businessman. "Don't kill me, gee. We all dig your people. Here's a hundred dollars."

"Relax, I don't want your money, punk," Jackson stated politely.

Jackson sat on a hard azure couch, Toad sat in a loveseat, and Howard sat in a plastic chair. We all were drinking Budweiser.

"Dude, I never ever tried to kill you. Dude, I don't even know you. Dude, I've never seen you before. Dude, I haven't visited Northern Nevada in some time now. Thus definitely couldn't have fired a gun at you last night, brother," Toad said strongly. He appeared to be tall, having blue eyes and looked Scandinavian. Jackson just couldn't picture this dude with Rowena.

"Why did you leave Nevada?" Jackson inquired sharply guzzling his beer.

"My brother got me a job out here, dude," Toad explained strongly.

"When was in fact the very last time you seen Miss Rowena Howard?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Dude, it's already been a couple of months," Toad said strongly.

"Did you know somebody murdered her?" Jackson snapped.

"Oh, my God," Toad said harshly, bolting out of his seat. "Rowena is actually dead. Why has anybody informed me? No wonder she didn't answer her phone."

Howard reeled with astonishment.

"How did she die?" Howard asked sharply with a look of mute appeal.

"Strangled," Jackson said strongly as he put away his firearm.

"Dude, I didn't kill her. I adored her. Rowena was in fact a cool chick. Man, I'd loads of fun with her. The very first black girl I ever fell in love with. Dude, I wasn't actually into blues, yet that didn't matter," Toad said sadly with his face ashen.

"You're lying, Toad. Dude, you had been in the hotel. The manager observed you," Jackson said frigidly with a sneer.

"Okay, I'd been there. However, I didn't kill her. She was alive. We made love. I told...I told her about my unique job Howard got me. Rowena was thrilled. We went out to supper. Dude, I brought her back to the hotel and I left," Toad stated strongly.

"Was there any individual loitering once you brought her back?" Jackson asked firmly.

"No," Toad said firmly.

"Who would kill her?" Jackson asked.

"Dude, I don't know anybody that could try this dreadful thing to Rowena. Dude, she was a beautiful person. She had been good to me and everybody she met," Toad said strongly with a hangdog expression.

"There should have been somebody. Come on, uh, think," Jackson stated forcefully.

Toad seriously considered it, while taking a lengthy sip of beer. Howard thought about it too.

"Come to think of it...there was a dude. An oily haired homeboy, he seemed inarticulate and in all probability harmless," Toad said firmly.

"Do you know who this homeboy can be?" Jackson snapped.

"Homeboy, I do believe it's Mark Waizer. He almost always came around to see Rowena perform," Toad said strongly.

"Do you know anything else about him?" Jackson asked strongly.

"No, sorry," Toad stated sadly with features fallen.

"Well, thanks. Sorry, I scared y'all with the gun," Jackson stated strongly, rising from his seat.

"Bye-bye, Mr. Jackson," Toad said strongly.

Jackson was back in the air heading back to Reno. He contacted Mark and told him about Waizer. It turns out that he had been charged with loitering a number of times---that was seven years back. He functions in the Barnes and Nobles bookstore. His last know address was at 374 N. Virginia Street.

Keith drove right down to the bookstore, which was based in the Meadwood Mall. He found that Waizer had the day off. And he had moved up a ways to 698 N. Virginia Street, by the University.

Waizer wasn't home so he broke-in and searched for a short time. The place had been small. There was clearly photos of Rowena Howard on the wall; she was nude in several of them. He actually acquired newspaper clipping of her on the beach and at concerts. Many letters stated, "Dude, I love you Rowena. I would like your children. I would like to have sex with you on the bus stop bench. I'm going to buy us a big house."

The place was obviously a mess---clothes everywhere and takeout containers on the floor, dishes in the sink. A bunch of empty Budweiser and Pepsi cans on the floor. And some poopy girl's panties laying on the chair. He identified the rifle that he utilized on him: Armalite AR-15 .223. He was correct. He sat down and waited for him to show.

Waizer came through the door at 7:23. Jackson had his firearm on him.

"Hello, baby," Jackson stated politely with a look of delight.

Waizer threw the bag he was hauling at him and ran out of the door. Jackson chased right after him. "Stop! Stop!" Jackson said sharply firing the gun in the air. Waizer stopped in the parking lot with his hands up in the air. Jackson hurried up to him and slugged him in the face and he fell on his back. Jackson stomped his foot into the man's back a couple of times before bringing Waizer's arm behind his back. Then Jackson put the rope he found in Waizer's room to tie his wrist and legs just like he was some rodeo animal.

"What are you nuts, homeboy?" Waizer stated harshly bellowing ferociously.

"Hell, yeh," Jackson stated boldly his eyes narrow disdain. "Bro, I don't like homeboys shooting at me."

"Man, I didn't shoot at you, sir," Waizer said strongly. "I didn't do anything!"

"Why did you run?" Jackson snapped. "That was you running from that building. Don't lie homeboy."

"Dude, all right. I was scared," Waizer said harshly.

"You tried to kill me. Am I right?" Jackson said acidly with a scorching look.

"Yes."

"Boo, I know I'm right. I came across the gun in your house that you simply utilized to shoot my poor butt. The cops will match the bullets and shell casing with this rifle, baby. And your ugly hands using the markings you left on Miss Rowena Howard's neck," Jackson described dramatically.

"Dude, I cherished her. Why didn't she appreciate me? I used to be at each lousy show. Not any of those other creeps...they didn't love her like I did. Dude, I went to see her right after her lousy boyfriend left. I tried to prove this, to demonstrate I loved her. Once I kissed her...she screamed. She kept screaming. Oh God please be quiet I told her but she kept screaming and screaming. Oh, God, I didn't choose to kill her. The lady simply just wouldn't shut up. I put my hands around her very small neck, squeezed and squeezed as I cried. Once the yelling stopped, I cried after I laid her body down on the floor," Waizer explained sadly with a wounded look in his eyes.

"Come on. Come on. Let's go," Jackson stated regrettably pulling Waizer up from the ground onto his feet.

"I'm glad it's over," Waizer said sadly with his face etched with sorrow.

Jackson phoned Sgt. Newsham; he came to get this rubbish-ass Waizer.

Keith was back at his office completing the paperwork on this case. Marisa was here, having a salad and producing bird sounds---she seemed to be really gifted.

There was a knock on the door. He opened up it. A number of folks came with their animals: two moose's, three German shepherded, and a skunk.

"This is definitely an animal medical center, isn't it?" They said cheerfully.

"Was?" Jackson snapped.

"You're kidding around, huh?" They said sharply.

"Would I kid you?" Jackson stated strongly.

"I don't know," they said clearly.

"Read the signs...you can read?" Marisa said sharply.

"But those...those folks claimed this was..."

"No, sir. No. No. Dude, I really promise. Now will you please get these animals out of my office? They're destroying my spot!"

# Chapter 15: The Toll Booth Shooting

Mrs. Sanja Marshall was in fact shot three times while on duty in a tollbooth. She died two hour later on during surgery in a San Francisco hospital. The Oakland and San Francisco police investigation exclaimed the assailant was in fact dressed up in blue ski clothes---tall maybe even blond. He made his get away from over the Bay Bridge utilizing mountain climbing gear right down to a speedboat waiting below. The whole scene was straight out of a Bond movie. The victim's sister Norma had been a buddy of Keith Jackson, a local PI.

Jackson shaved his head, he wasn't tall, he dressed in a lengthy white shirt over baggy blue jeans and blue Addidas. Norma Oceanic had charcoal bouncy hair stunning red eyes and sporting a brown dress. She looked just like one of those porn dancers. They spent last night making love and drinking Crown Royal. So she took him out for breakfast and coffee at Starbucks.

"The sex was great just like always, boo," Jackson said cheerfully, shoving eggs into his mouth.

"Bro-bro, I had fun too. It's been a very long time since we last kicked it, Keith," she stated happily, sipping her coffee.

"For sure. What's up?" he asked firmly.

"Dog, you realize I need you," she said sharply.

"If it's about Sanja you know I can't mess with open cases," Jackson said boldly, guzzling his coffee using a serious stare.

"So you want me to trust the hating cops," she stated hotly, brushing her long braids back from her face.

"My homeboy down there will assist you. This is real talk," Jackson said strongly, finishing his eggs.

"Blood, I know Sorika killed her. That homeboy loved to beat on her, bruh. And she was in fact planning to leave him," she said bluntly, finishing her last piece of bacon.

"But they said a skier did it most likely a white boy," he said clearly, finishing her coffee.

"Maybe the homeboy hired someone," she said firmly.

"A white dude?" he inquired sharply with a puzzle look.

"Why don't you find out, dog? We go way back with that weed stuff. You feel me?" she stated strongly, finishing her eggs.

"Oh, you still on that, huh?" he snapped.

"Dog, I just really want you to talk with him, dog," she pleaded strongly, pushing the empty plates to edge of the table.

"Ok. For old-time sake," Jackson stated strongly using a dry smile.

"Here's a couple hundred," she said clearly, handing him two crispy bills. He gave it an awful look like it wasn't enough.

Keith found Sorika Marshall in an office downtown on 1171 Broadway. It had been known as African Independence. Mr. Marshall was a buckskin dude having wavy hair and gray eyes. He dressed in African clothes all the time. He'd a heavy African accent. His office was designed West African style. The area smelled just like somebody was in fact burning African plants.

"Hello, bruh," Jackson stated strongly with a big smile, looking around very captivated about the whole room.

"What's up, brother?" Marshall stated strongly with a grin.

"Baby, I'm Keith Jackson," he stated.

Marshall seriously considered it for a minute. "Yeh, you're Norma's friend," Marshall said firmly.

"Yep," Jackson snapped.

"Have a seat, bruh," Marshall stated firmly with a smile, pointing to a chair.

Jackson sat down in an African design chair.

"You want to join us?" Marshall said strongly.

"Naw," Jackson said sadly.

"What then?" Marshall snapped.

"I'm sorry about Sanja," Jackson said sadly.

"Me too. The police are likely to find that peckerwood that did her," Marshall said brazenly. "Or I will."

Marshall was acting like some war chief and very zealous about his people.

"Well, Norma seems to think you did it, dog," Jackson stated sharply, looking stoned.

"What kinda crazy stuff is that? I loved her." His manner took to a bitter rage. "I hate dudes coming in here hating all the time."

Men dressed up in African clothing kept coming in and leaving papers on his desk, looking over and nodding.

"She was likely to leave you," Jackson stated strongly, studying some of the fly Africa art pieces in the room.

"Bruh, I talked some sense into her and she made a decision to stay," Marshall snapped.

"By beating her, dude," Jackson stated firmly.

"Dog, I hit my lady around sometimes. That woman needed it---all women need to have a knock around from time to time," Marshall explained defensively. "Like everybody say I beat her but she was in fact shot to death. Dude, I don't possess a firearm. As you see I'm not real tall." He stood.

He must have been five-ten or six feet, Jackson thought. Or a little shorter than the ski dude.

"What do you do here, brother," Jackson stated firmly, shaking just like he was truly in need of a drink.

Marshall sat back down and began fiddling with the papers on his desk.

"Man, I help African's who come to the United States to find work and housing. It's a good thing for our people. It keeps them from committing crimes out here. You know what I mean?" Marshall said with conviction.

"For sure, bruh," Jackson stated strongly, standing up. He understood very well.

"If anybody killed my wife it was Norma she owned over $20,000 dollars to her," Marshall explained sharply.

The Coast Guard discovered the boat that the skiers used to get away in floating around the bay just like a lost puppy. There was a dead man in the boat that was later identified as Girmay Parikh, a West African who worked in a tollbooth for three years right up until a month ago when he was fired. The weapon had been a Cougar .32 auto found at the scene which belong to Miss. Oceanic.

The Oakland police arrested Miss Oceanic so Jackson went out there to see her.

"What's up, girl?" he inquired seriously.

"You know what's up, dude," she snapped back harshly.

"Hell yeh. You lied to me baby. That's what's up," he said sharply.

"So I'd a gun. Dog, you know what it's like to live in Oakland," she said bitterly, looking over piercingly.

"For sure. The cops said you wasted Sanja," he said firmly.

"If I killed my sister why would I hire you?" she stated using that evil black woman stare.

"A lot of homeboys hire PI's for many reasons---many sick," he stated firmly, looking back at her with a mean thug stance.

"Bro-bro, I wouldn't kill my sister over $20,000 or a million. Dude, I cherished her and that black dude took her away from me," she said bluntly, looking at him just like he was human waste.

"Do you know a cat name Girmay Parikh?" he asked firmly.

"Yeah, he came from Africa. Sorika got him a job at the toll booth," she said in calm down tone.

"Bruh, I think he was in fact involved in your sisters' death because the law found him dead with your gun. The cops ought to let you go any moment. This means that you didn't do it," Jackson explained sharply. "Every things going to be cool for you girl."

"Dude, I know I didn't kill my sister with God as my witness," she stated sharply.

"Marshall said you lied about your sister wanting to leave," he said firmly. "Is this true?"

"That punk is without a doubt the liar, dog. She found this white-dude she liked his name was in fact Ernest Secor. He works in the SPCA," she said firmly.

"I'll keep at it some more," he said, getting ready to leave.

Jackson went by Secor's apartment on 32nd and East 14th Street but he wasn't there. He sat on Mr. Marshall's porch on Evan's Ave and the two men drank Olde English for a while.

"Do you know Girmay Parikh?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Should I know this dude?" Marshall snapped hotly, going for a long swig from his beer can.

"He's from West African. He was also one of the Africans from African Independence and he worked at a toll booth where your wife did," Jackson stated strongly, lighting a joint.

"Dog, I might know him by sight. There's countless Africans coming and going in my office to remember everyone. You dig?" Marshall explained firmly, looking down at his beer can.

"He's dead," Jackson said sharply, taking a long pull from his joint and quickly followed by a swig from his can of beer.

Marshall continued to guzzle beer.

"Then my wife's killer is definitely dead. The case is finished," Marshall stated with some satisfaction.

"Why would he kill your wife?" Jackson inquired strongly not necessarily convinced with the outcome.

"Sick homeboy," Marshall snapped finishing his beer.

"Did you know your wife was in fact seeing Ernest Secor?" Jackson said firmly.

"Yep. He's a punk," Marshall stated bitterly, squashing the beer can.

"What do you know about him?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Nothing really," Marshall snapped.

Jackson stayed right up until he finished his joint and another couple more beers. Jackson strolled away unsatisfied just like he wasn't stoned enough.

Well Jackson was talking with Sgt. Paul Chow.

"We found an African dead of a drug overdose from heroin," Chow stated sharply.

"Ok," Jackson said.

"Do you know Kevin Cano?" Chow inquired chewing on a donut.

"Hell naw," Jackson snapped.

"His prints were found in the boat. We check the stuff out with Washington they came back telling us he's wanted for murder in Seattle, three murders St. Joseph Missouri and broke out of prison while doing a five year stretch on drugs trafficking charges," Chow explained strongly using a firm stare.

"What does he look like?" Jackson asked clearly.

"A blond dude. The surfer type. He's most likely that skier that killed Mrs. Marshall," Chow stated strongly.

"Why these homeboys want this woman dead? What did she do or know?" Jackson asked strongly.

"We don't know yet," Sgt. Chow said strongly.

Jackson returned to his office to get even more weed and Janet was there his assistant. She made-out with him and they got high together for a while. He then ran a background check up on everybody.

Sanja Marshall was in fact arrested for prostitution ten years ago and since then she's been clean. Mr. Marshall had done ten years for drug trafficking since then he's lived a trouble free life. The remainder of those people was arrested for minor offences.

Cano was staying in a pad in the Asian district on First Street. Jackson brought his gun a Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum, but Cano wasn't there. The fat Asian girl who runs the place told him he was probably at his girlfriends' condo.

She lived in downtown Oakland. When Jackson turned up to speak to him Cano came out blazing a Colt Mustang .380 auto. The girl and Jackson dropped straight down low to avoid the bullet shower. Jackson returned fire. Cano fired back. They were firing at each other so tensely that there was no accuracy to their shots. There was a short-lived gun battle when Cano ran out the back, shooting as he ran away. Jackson pursued right after him. Cano hopped a fence. Jackson dived over the fence. Cano fired back. Next, he ran through a yard. Jackson fired back. The guns made loud explosions through the neighborhood---dogs had been barking and folks cursing. Cano cut between a number of houses and vanished. Jackson hung around for twenty minutes yet no sign of Cano. So he left.

Jackson returned to Cano's girlfriends---kicked the door in and stood there panting with a gun aimed at her just like a wild dude. She sat in a sagging flowery sofa very terrified. She continued to stare with fascinated horror.

"Dude, I don't know nothing! Dude, I only met the bum yesterday," she stated seriously, brushing back his blond hair from her pretty face.

"Hey, baby. Your boyfriend is certainly in a lot of trouble. He killed a woman who's a mother, a wife, a cousin, a sister, someone's daughter and friend. She's a righteous lady definitely not a drugged-out whore," he explained hotly, with a harsh glance.

"No man. I don't know. He'll kill me if I talk," she stated sharply in a shaky tone.

"Baby, I'll kill you if you don't. I'll kill you right now, boo," Jackson said gruffly, pushing the barrel into her head.

"Dude, I didn't know anybody was going die. Kevin is at an airfield in North Oakland. Him, Sorika and some West Africans are transporting drugs from Africa to California. That Sanja woman found out about the shipments from a dude name Parikh," she explained strongly, still shaking.

"So they killed Sanja to silence her," Jackson stated firmly.

"Dude, I'd absolutely nothing to do with this," she stated sadly.

Jackson kept looking around for a bottle of whiskey.

"Baby, you knew. You didn't call the cops. You might have saved me from all this bull," Jackson said defensively, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," she cried.

"What time is usually the next shipment?" Jackson asked calmly.

"Three," she said strongly.

"Come on, baby. Get dressed so we can meet this cat," he ordered with fiery eyes.

Jackson called Sgt. Chow to tell him what was going down and he'd meet them there.

Sgt. Chow, Lt. James Betha and many uniformed offices dispersed about the small hill around the airfield. Jackson joined in waiting for 3:00pm. The officers sat joking around right up until the players turned up.

Well, a huge white plane landed shortly after three. Then out of the woodwork come Sorika Marshall, Kevin Cano and several West Africans heavily armed. Some folks pull up in a large van. Some Africans opened up the rear hatch of the plane and began unloading the cargo.

"Hold it! This is actually the police! You're all surrounded!" Sgt. Chow stated strongly into the bullhorn.

The men swiftly turned their attention towards the cops and began shooting. The cops started shooting too. There was a concession of popping sounds just like fireworks going off. Bullets were flying everywhere and a couple of Africans dropped. The smell of gunpowder and sweat in the warm air. Some of the Africans hid behind the plane and started reloading. The police hid behind the hills to avoid the massive bullet attack like some Pearl Harbor jazz. The shooting continued for thirty minutes. Several Africans lay dead along with some good police men and women. Jackson shot Sorika in the leg once he made an effort to make a run towards the van.

Cano tried to take off in the plane. Everybody began shooting at the front of the plane. The plane began to pick up speed but the cops kept on shooting. "Hit the blades!" Chow said strongly.

"Hit the mother engine!" Jackson snapped.

Bullets tore through the windshield, blades and engine that began to smoke from the plane. Next, the plane finally veered off the runway. Meanwhile Jackson had been fighting with Sorika beating him just like a step monkey. Sorika's tough mentality in fact smelled like doo-doo. Jackson turned Sorika just like he was planning to hump him in the booty drawing his arm back and cuffing his wrist together.

It was hard to believe Cano survived the multiple wounds he obtained during the gun battle. But it wouldn't mean nothing spending your life in a prison.

Jackson and Miss Oceanic sat in Dee's Coffee Shop eating fried chicken laughing and drinking Colt 45. Dee's fried chicken was the very best in world.

"It's over baby. All them homeboy are going to do hard time for murder and drug trafficking," Jackson stated sharply with a grin and guzzled his beer.

"I'm just sorry that once my sister found out she didn't go straight to the cops," Miss Oceanic stated sadly, munching on a thigh.

"Well, she just wasn't the snitch type," he stated firmly.

"I'm leaving, dog," she stated harshly.

"Where, boo?" he asked sadly.

"Africa. I'm planning to start over," she said clearly, guzzling her beer.

"That's a great idea. Bruh, I wish I could go," he stated sadly, finishing his chicken.

"I'm sick and tired of those homeboys out here. You feel me?" she said irately.

"No doubt. But before you go back to Africa you've got to let me hit it again, boo," he stated strongly with a big grin, showing all that gold teeth.

# Chapter 16: You Need Heart

"Help! Miss Deborah Leyba has been murdered," an old woman cried out, running from the stairs.

"Call the police! I'll be right up!" Jackson stated sharply rushing towards the building.

Jackson ran up to the apartment and the dog followed.

A young woman about twenty-four, having long dark hair was in fact lying down in an ocean of blood. Some blood was initially smeared all over the walls. The dog had been licking the woman's bloody face. Her eyes were gorged out and looked just like her heart was missing too. She was most likely a nurse from Brook Bear Hospital according to her blood stained uniform. Jackson knew her---or thought he did. The horrible scene made Jackson throw-up.

"It's awful," the old woman stated sadly, covering her mouth.

"Hell yeh! Dog, it's just like some horror movie," Jackson stated weakly, wiping his mouth.

"Who on the globe would do this to such a pretty girl?" the old woman inquired harshly, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Some homeboy not really human," Jackson stated firmly.

"You mean a monster?" she snapped.

"Yeh. A monster!" he said sharply.

"Maybe a crazy person," she said strongly.

"That's what I said, baby," he said sharply.

Twenty minutes later on Sgt. Mark Newsham and a fleet of officers stormed in with their weapons drawn. At this time, the dog was in fact pooping on the body.

"What the hell is this?" Sgt. Newsham asked hotly pointing at the bloody body.

"Some horror show, German homeboy," Jackson stated strongly.

"What is your butt doing here?" Mark snapped, putting his pistol back in it's holster.

"Dog, I followed my dog in here," Jackson stated strongly.

"You call me, punk?" Newsham stated bluntly.

"Naw. She did," Jackson stated strongly, pointing at the old hag.

"This old broad called me?" Sgt. Newsham asked sharply.

"Hell yeh. She's her neighbor," Jackson said strongly.

"Are you high?" Newsham asked firmly.

"Not high enough, bruh," Jackson said strongly.

"Man you can't do drugs in my town!" Newsham said bitterly.

The forensic technician, crime scene still photographer, forensic psychologist, print specialist and videotaping specialist squeezed their butts in there to complete some work. These cats had taken much-needed pictures of the crime scene. A number of officers threw up in the process.

"Do you know this bloody girl?" Sgt. Newsham inquired firmly smacking on bubble gum.

"Yes. Her name is Deborah Leyba. She worked in Brook Bear Hospital," the old woman stated sadly still very shook up.

"Do you live here, mama?" Sgt. Newsham inquired firmly.

"Downstairs," the old lady barked.

"Do you have a name?" Newsham snapped.

"Albertina Tramvel," she said sharply.

"I found her purse but her wallet is gone," one officer stated strongly.

"People we're searching for are a thief and murderer," Sgt. Newsham said strongly.

"What kinda burglar takes the time to do this horrible thing?" Jackson inquired sharply puzzled by that statement.

"Good question. Now get lost homeboy. You're not on a case I don't need your ass around here or that dog. Get that dog out of here he took a doo-doo on the woman. Who's mutt is that?" Newsham stated savagely regarding with cold speculation. "Show some dignity for the dead!"

"It's my responsibility. Dude, I was on a case, big-dog," Jackson stated strongly.

"Oh yeh. Your slimy-butt had been asking me to help you find this little demon leaving little slimy turds around the crime scene," Sgt. Newsham stated hotly.

"That would be the one. Dog, I'm gonna jet," Jackson stated and left.

Jackson returned to his apartment in Gangland Village. He entered and heard noise in the kitchen he had taken out is gun CZ TT .45ACP, aiming it at the door. He flew through the door just like a lunatic, wailing the gun wildly at a woman. She was so scared she dropped a bottle of champagne.

"Keith?" she asked recoiled with horror.

"Oh, Sharron. Hey, girl. Dog, I didn't expect you today," Jackson stated strongly, having a dry laugh. "A beautiful woman cooking dinner in my spot doesn't happen everyday."

"Will you get that gun out of my face, boo?" She snapped with an evil black woman stare.

"Oh yeh," he stated happily, putting the gun on the counter.

The dog came in barking.

"Bro-bro, I didn't know you got a dog," she stated sharply with eyes beaming.

"It's not really my dog baby. Bruh, I had been working on a case," he said strongly, petting him.

She was coco butter-black, about twenty-six, five-foot-ten. She dressed in a blue fashion knit top and side-elastic jeans. She looked just like she'd make a great runway model but was forced right into a life on welfare with showed in her manner.

Sharron served Steak Medici. And marinated artichoke hearts and mushrooms salad, Okra Vinaigrette and Zucchini bread. She put two bottles of Gewurztraminer on the table and glasses. He poured their glasses full. They ate and drank in silence for some time. He shared his meal with the dog.

"This is the hood baby. There had been a series of burglaries in this neighborhood---even murder," he explained strongly, chewing his food, looking down at the dog.

"Are you sure it's fine to give the dog wine?" she inquired sharply using a curious glance.

"Sure it's cool, girl," he said happily, sipping wine.

"You're a detective?" she asked firmly, drinking wine.

"Yeh!" he snapped.

"What are you going to do now?" she inquired, munching on zucchini bread.

"I am curious about a recent murder that just took place right before I came in the door. I knew a nurse. She used to patch me up all the time in my office---freebees. In this business I'm always getting messed up," Jackson explained clearly, chewing on a mouth artichoke hearts.

"You figure you owe her," she stated calmly, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Blood, you could say that," he said.

She lit a massive joint, taking a giant hit from it and pasted it to him. They sat there for a while getting stoned.

After they finished the joint, they ate Galatoboureko for dessert. She cleaned the kitchen. They finished off the wine and smoked another joint.

They mosey in his bedroom, removing their clothes. They were kinda high. She liked to be spanked so he spanked her for an hour just like a sex-demon. You could hear the sounds of smacking flesh all through the neighborhood. They made love. The bedroom rocked just like an earthquake of 7.5. She rolled over and lay beside him---they both started panting. Then they dosed off at some point.

The next morning once Jackson woke up Sharron vanished. He entered the bathroom and threw up. He showered and shaved, doo-doo and showered again. He put on a short-sleeve pieced knit shirt that was two sizes too big and some baggy cargo pants. He put a Kimber Pro Carry ll .45ACP in his back pocket. He opened up the door and Mongrel ran out. He ran and jumped on some grey poodle and started him.

"No dog! No boy. Come on, homeboy. We've got to go," Jackson stated sharply, pulling the dog by the collar.

"Ey, you bum! Get your dog off mine or I'll shoot it," the old man said coldly.

"Ok, sir. Come on, dog," Jackson said firmly.

The old man came down off the porch. He kicked the two dogs locked in the heat of passion. They broke free.

"You get out of here jerk! You go hump a Mongrel!" he said hotly still kicking the dog.

"Dude, you shouldn't have done that, sir. That dog's not mine," Jackson stated defensively with his street tone.

Oh, yeah. Slime you, scum bag," the old man stated bluntly, punching Jackson in the face. The impact was in fact just like a bug punching him.

Jackson hit the man back but not hard. The old man stumbled over backwards straight down onto his butt. Jackson snapped up the dog and shoved into his pimpmobile. Next, he got himself buckled in good. Then he lit a joint. Then he backed out of the parking lot. By this time the old fart, back was using a revolver bigger than him. Once Jackson slammed the car forward, the old cat began firing that monster. Wildly flying bullets had taken out the rear window of his automobile as he sped off to safety.

A blue Volvo had been pursuing him. Once on 6th street it started out ramming into him, leaving behind big gashes in his door panel. Some butt licker started out firing semiautomatic pistols at the car. The bullet were tearing into his stuff. The vehicle kept ramming into him. He'd pull ahead each time to avoid it. Jackson quickly turned down Valley Road the Volvo followed. He had taken out his weapon, stuck his arm out the window and started firing at them. They pulled up alongside him he unloaded a clip at them and the vehicle veered off the road into a ditch.

Keith parked by along side the ditch. Smoke came from the hood of their car. Two homeboy's quickly got out of the vehicle running and shooting wildly towards Jackson. Jackson shot the moving targets precisely. They both dropped dead. A light-skinned black man was stooped over in the steering wheel seemed to be unconscious. Jackson took the dead men's wallets and left.

The dog had been good once Jackson stopped at the Silver Ridge Apartments, on 1555 Sky Valley Drive. The spot was nice-looking, with breath taking city views. The dog was thrilled. He jumped out of his arms running for his apartment. There were two kids on skateboards jumping off ramps. Those bums all had their protective gear on.

The dog was at the door barking and jumping up and down as Jackson beat on the door. When Mrs. Betha opened up the door, the dog jumped on her. She elevated him up to her face and began licking it. The woman's eyes sparkled.

"That's my baby. That's my girl! Do you know mommy loves you? And mommy misses you? Mommy is so happy to see you Tiffany," she said happily with a big smile.

Once she sat the dog down, he ran off though the apartment. She invited him in. He sat in an amethyst-looking recliner chair. She sat on a pink leather sofa. There was a tray filled with brownie ice-cream sandwiches, which sat on marble table. She was obviously a beautiful caramel skinned woman, slightly on the heavy side yet in a good way. She was about seventy-six, but looked maybe thirty-eight. She dressed in a Guernsey and dungarees, which fit snuggly. They ate brownie sandwiches, laughing and talked about the case. She paid him and he left.

Well Jackson had been enroute to Frank Leyba's home. He was happy about a mother $456.00 dollars. He almost got his head shoved up his booty, trying to find that mutt. A mother million dollars and a whole load of brownie sandwiches wouldn't have been enough. But he did realize that the poor elderly black woman was trying to make it in these challenging times just like everyone else and on social security too.

Mrs. Leyba fixed up his fractured arm in Brook Bear Hospital once her badass husband Frank came in fussing about money. Things were really off-the-chain right after he soon began beating on her just like she was an evil stepmother. Security escorted him out of the hospital a number of times. Deborah refused to press charges. The very next time he beat the hell out of her like some vicious coke freak in front of the hospital staff. The cops came and dragged him out in handcuffs.

Jackson parked in front of an immaculate single story celadon-looking house. The landscape was in fact wonderful, with covered patio and raised flowerbeds. A Datsun parked with a tea rose color in the driveway. Brook Bear hospital was across the street. Mr. Leyba opened up the door after ten knocks. He was stocky homeboy, about thirty-five, bald-headed having blue eyes and fair skin. He gave the impression that he'd beat up his own mother. He dressed in a white T-shirt and green shorts. Jackson sat in his air-conditioned house drinking Budweiser.

"Well, well. If it isn't frog-breath," Mr. Leyba stated strongly with a smile. "It's been a while."

"Not long enough, snowman. What's up with ya?" Jackson inquired firmly. "Are you still beaten up on ladies?"

"Nope. Are you still wishing you had women to beat up your meat?" Mr. Leyba said sharply drinking Budweiser.

"Let's cut the stuff and get down to business. I think you killed your wife punk," Jackson explained firmly, guzzling his beer.

"You're out of your mind, homeboy. Dude, I didn't kill Deborah. I didn't even know she was dead. When did this happen?" Leyba said sadly as his jaw dropped.

"Last night. Some psycho homeboy ripped her eyes out and her heart," Jackson said sharply, guzzling his beer.

Leyba looked sick as he rose up and threw up as he made an effort to make to the sink. Jackson looked at a sculpture of a caryatid standing by the wall. He came back panting and pacing.

"The coroner stated she died between 7:00 and 8:00pm. Where had you been?" Jackson inquired strongly, finishing up his beer.

"Slime you, dog. Get your butt out of here!" Leyba stated sardonically wiping barf from his horrid mouth.

"Dude, you robbed her too?" Jackson snapped using a gangsta tone.

"You crazy homeboy!" Leyba screamed.

"Where did you hide her wallet, punk?" Jackson snapped.

Leyba snapped up Jackson by the collar and was about to rip him to shreds like paper but he pulled out his gun and Leyba knocked it away to the carpet. Lifted him off the carpet and threw Jackson into the wall, leaving a big gash in as he slid down to the floor on his butt. Jackson rested on his butt all shook up. Leyba strolled up to him to finish him off. Jackson swiftly rammed his foot into Leyba's nuts. He went down face contorted grotesquely, holding on to them as he sunk right down to his knees. Jackson stood kicking Leyba in the face for a while. His face began to swell and blood oozed out of his nose, cuts and mouth.

The portly homeboy wouldn't give in, grabbing onto his foot, pushing Jackson backwards into a chair. He got up and charged at Jackson just like a crazed bull. After that, Jackson moved away from the chair and Leyba flipped over it onto his back very hard. He laid there panting. Jackson decided to go over where the gun had been sitting by the table and picked it up. He rushed up to where Leyba was he was still sitting there, panting. Jackson aimed the gun at his head. The house was nearly junk from the fight.

"So you're likely to shoot me, dude?" Leyba stated weakly.

"For what you did to me, I should take you off," Jackson said sharply, panting. "Where is the wallet?"

"Dude, I didn't take my wife's money. Take a look at my place I don't need nothing from that woman," Leyba said savagely.

"Where were you last night?" Jackson asked firmly.

"Come on, slime ball. Put that gun away. You're so tough. You're scared huh? You can't fight. You're just talk," Leyba said spitefully, regarding with hauteur.

"I ain't got the time poop-breath. Answer my questions before I put bullet in your ugly fat face," Jackson mentioned harshly.

"Homey, I was with my brother in Jasper's, bowling," Leyba said finally showing fear.

Just before he left, Leyba instructed him to check out some skid row bum name Lito Baragia who was an orderly she snitched on when she caught him drinking on the job. He swore he'd get even. Well the weather was very good with temperatures pushing 98 degrees. The ice cream and soda shops had been loaded with shirtless folks. The kids ran through sprinklers giggling loudly. Elderly folks sat under big trees, drinking tall glasses of ice tea.

Keith discovered Baragia's small apartment on 9566 Sky Vista Parkway. The place was decorated brown, looking fairly new. The neighborhood was convenient, having easy access to business and community activities. It seemed just like a great place to raise children. Jackson got out of his pimpmobile, strolled up to the door, and began bashing on it.

A man opened the door. He'd a bloodhound face and Prussian blue eyes. He dressed in camp shirt and chinos.

"Sorry. Dude, I don't want to buy drugs today," Mr. Baragia stated harshly, slamming the door on Jackson's foot.

"Slime you. Bruh, I'm here because of a brutal murder, baby," Jackson said strongly, shoving the door open. He forced himself in.

"You crazy homeboy," Baragia said crudely, stepping back in a fighter stance.

Baragia hit Jackson in the mouth. Jackson quickly hit him back harder. Baragia spit blood on Jackson's shoes.

"You hit just like a woman," Baragia said strongly with a smile.

Jackson hit him in the face once again. A vicious slugfest started out for some time. Both men were beating each other just like vicious lunatics, getting bloody faces. Baragia spit out a tooth and had an ample amount of Jackson's face sinker. Then he pulled out a Taurus knife; he waved it using a menacing look on his badly beaten face.

"Dude, I'm planning to cutoff your communist nuts," Baragia said firmly, panting.

"Ok, you homeboy," Jackson stated snugly panting and pulled out a gun. "Put that knife straight down gee or I'll blow you through the next three apartments."

"Ok, brother," he stated calmly dropping the knife.

"Dude, I simply needed to ask you some questions---not have a boxing match," Jackson said hotly, panting.

"You homeboy! I'm bleeding," Baragia said bitterly.

"Hold up dude," Jackson stated, removing the man's shirt wrapped it around the arm. "That should stop the bleeding dog."

Jackson started out searching the man's house.

"What the hell are you doing homey?" Baragia snapped, watching Jackson's movements.

"Dog, I'm Looking for Mrs. Leyba's wallet," Jackson mentioned firmly, searching franticly through drawers.

"You won't find it right here bro. Dude; I haven't seen that lady in a year since she got me fired. My wife left me and I started drinking," Baragia explained strongly.

"Someone cut her eyes out. And ripped out her heart," Jackson stated strongly.

"Brother, I would have skinned the woman alive!" Baragia proclaimed gruffly. "But I wouldn't go that far. You've got to be hella messed up to do that sorta stuff."

"Just for the record where had you been between 6:30 and 8:30?" Jackson said, giving up on the search.

"Busing tables in the Mint Casino," Baragia said sadly.

Jackson left with the man's knife for comparison. He said he'd bring it back.

Jackson stopped in Brook Bear hospital to check out a potential brain injury. A lovely black woman wheeled him into room 21, as an EEG patient. He'd to lay on a long gurney while she put electros on head and chest.

"Lord, I know her. I liked her too. I do believe everybody did," she said sadly, shoving his head into a huge bowl.

"Who hated her, there must have been somebody?" he said strongly.

She then switched on the machine and it made an awful rattled. Jackson lay still for forty-five minutes.

Right after the CAT scan Jackson got dressed and sat in the lobby waiting for the results.

"Who hated her?" he stated firmly to the woman.

"I think Nicky Cardiel. It was over some promotion she was in fact expected to get," the woman said firmly.

She brought him a tan folder of his test on the way out he bumped into Miss Cardiel. She was a hella fly purple-skinned lady.

"I'm Keith Jackson. Baby, I'm a private investigator," he stated strongly with a smile.

"It's about Deborah?" she asked strongly.

"For sure," Keith said firmly.

"It's pretty messed up the way she went. I didn't do it," she stated sharply, having a sad look on her face.

"Where were you on that night?" Jackson inquired firmly.

"Here. I had to work for Deborha since she didn't show to work," she said sharply, brushing back her hair.

"Ok. That's all, baby-girl," he finally said with a smirk.

Jackson scan wasn't too pretty the homeboy had blood in his brain.

All of this work was giving him an appetite. He stopped in Cal-Neva for some breakfast. He ate a dozen scrambled eggs, with many slices of bacon, sausage and giant stack hotcakes, floating in syrup. He went downstairs to play blackjack and got bored speaking with an oilman with a huge cowboy hat. He had cold-ass hands and as a result lost $174.00s.

Keith entered the restroom to take a much needed poop. A guy busted in the stall with woolly hair. Before Jackson could re-act the man grabbed and dragged him away from the toilet turds still shooting out of his booty. The man began beating on Jackson like he was a drum set. But when Jackson got his turn the event became a slug fest. After Jackson was victorious, he headed back to the stall but was distracted by a big fist into the side of his ugly face, sending him flying down on his side. Once the black dude came towards him, he planted his right foot into the man's stomach, thrusting him backwards into the wall, sliding down on his butt. One dude snapped up Jackson by the throat, squeezing. Poop coming out into Jackson's hand he smeared it into the man's face, blinding him. Then he released his grip on Jackson's neck. Next, Jackson kicked him in the balls and he dropped to his knees, coughing. Once the Mexican dude made an effort to get up Jackson planted his foot in the man's face and he fell back down. Jackson tried to continue the fight but it really was just too many homeboys coming at him and doo-doo and piss all over the floor made him slip and slid out of control. He managed to get his seat back on the toilet.

Next, a black man shoved a .22MAG Taurus Model 981 using a 12-inch barrel in his face with a grin.

"Hey, stinky homeboy," he stated harshly, with a foolish grin. "You about finish? Hey, dog, stop wasting time and wipe your butt. Dog, I want to speak with you. You hella messed up my men," he explained harshly with his homeboy tone.

"Dog, you like watching my runny boo-boo come out?" Jackson snapped as he stood up and wiped his booty.

"Not as much as I'm going to like watching you die," he said with a menacing laugh.

"Do you want cash?" Jackson asked sharply pulling up his baggy jeans.

"We want you to quit asking questions about that dead nurse," the Mexican stated brazenly, peering down Jacksons nose.

"And if I don't?" Jackson shot back, flushing the toilet as blood ran from his nose and mouth.

"Baby, you'll end up worse than she," the black man stated strongly, grinning.

"Who's your boss? The slime-butt ain't going to get away with murder," Jackson said strongly, walking out of the stall.

The Mexican pulled his pants back down. The black dude got straight down and shoved the gun barrel up Jackson's booty. He winced in pain just like a pig. They all laughed loudly. The black man had taken the bloody barrel out.

"What do you think about that homeboy?" the black man inquired with extreme confidence.

"Suck my broom!" Jackson stated hotly, giving him an evil stare.

"Dog, I'll tell you what you suck mind," the black guy said sharply.

Jackson shoved him into the Mexican dude knocking them backwards into everybody standing there. They fell over on to the floor like dominos. Next Jackson pulled up his pants and ran out through the casino. When he got outdoors, he went along to his car and removed the gun from under his seat. He went back into the casino. The men had been on course towards the parking garage.

Keith got in a gun battle with those homeboys in the parking garage shooting the black dude in the ass and laying out the Mexican with a bullet between the eyes.

Jackson found himself at Sgt. John Newsham's smokey office, coughing. There was so much smoke; he'd to put on a mother gas mask. Jackson could hardly see him. Newsham was singing Laundromat Blues by Albert King for some time.

"Can I open a window homeboy?" Jackson inquired sharply pointing to a window.

"Hell yeh," Newsham stated strongly, blowing smoke in his face.

Jackson opened up the only window in the small office with delight. A beautiful black officer entered and left some folders on Newsham's desk, already super cluttered.

"So what's up?" Jackson asked.

"Well, my homeboy. We identified another body. Dude the scene looked just like a Steven King movie set. Dr. Floyd Corbett was in fact cut open with a lancet or scalpel. They ripped out his heart, liver, duodenum, kidneys, cecum and jejunum. The bum smeared everything all over the walls," Sgt. Newsham explained strongly, lighting up another cigarette.

Jackson ran for the window stuck his head out and threw up. The puke nailed some dude with a cowboy hat, scrolling past the window. Jackson stumbled back to his chair using his arm to wipe barf from his mouth.

"Did he work in Brook Bear," Jackson stated weakly.

"Of course," Newsham snapped.

"A burglar did this?" Jackson snapped.

"No never. Dude, I do believe we're dealing with a serial killer. And I'm going to check the files on all of the psycho's that fit the MO," Newsham stated firmly, blowing smoke towards Jackson. "Nothing was stolen from Doctor Corbett's office.

"So you're going to rule out burglar? Dog how would you explain the missing purse?" Jackson said strongly wincing as he stood up.

"What's a matter with you? What's up your butt?" Newsham said bluntly.

"Nothing baby. Nothing but dukey!" Jackson said sharply.

"Good. I need you completely focus on this situation. I think some mother dope addict wandered in on the crime scene and grabbed the purse. Of course you need to exhaust every possible lead in this case," Newsham explained strongly, putting out his third cigarette.

"Dude, I'm solely interested in Mrs. Leyba's murder," Jackson stated sharply, pacing.

"We just put some scum thugs into the meat wagon we located on Valley Road earlier. This doesn't seem to have anything to do with the case nor does it?" Sgt. Newsham said strongly lighting another cigarette.

"Yes they're trying to keep me off the case. These bums have to be working with or for the killer," Jackson said strongly, strolling towards the door.

"You created this body count," Newsham said hotly, blowing smoke towards Jackson.

"Those homeboys shouldn't have been with the kid baby," Jackson said boastfully.

"You'd better watch yourself out there," Newsham stated sharply, blowing smoke towards the window. "And no more bodies I getting my booty chewed on by the mayor."

"Man, I see you don't have too much left!" Jackson said strongly.

"Get your butt of here!" Newsham said firmly.

Jackson entered the Mead's Casino a blue brick building he then went straight for Shelby's Coffee shop upstairs. He got a table in the back by the restroom. The black waitress having the big booty dished up him Mussels Mariniere, Halibut Steak with Eggplant Sauce and fries. He drank a couple of Michelob's.

Well Keith went down to the crime lab with that knife he had taken from Mr. leyba's house. "What the hell is this?" Craig Drinkwell asked hotly peering at it as if it were a turd.

"The potential murder weapon," Jackson said clearly, cheerfully.

"For which murder---we've been obtaining a lot of them lately," Drinkwell said sharply, studying it.

"Nurse Deborah Leyba," Jackson said sharply.

Mr. Drinkwell studied the blade. Next, he put some clear liquid on the blade. He placed it in a microscope. It looked just like live cells humping each other.

"Why don't you take a look?" Drinkwell said strongly, stepping back so Jackson could look. Jackson moved up to the microscope not sure what he was looking for. He looked through the scope seeing the same thing Drinkwell saw.

"What is this?" Jackson inquired sharply, lifting his head away. He looked confused.

"There's no trace of blood on this knife. There's only ketchup on the blade and the live organisms are merely beef---hamburger maybe," he stated efficiently, nodding his head.

"So you're saying this isn't the murder weapon?" Jackson snapped.

"That's right. And even if he wiped it off this test would've still revealed the blood sample of Mrs. Leyba," Drinkwell stated positively.

"All right, man," Jackson said strongly, travelling to the entrance.

Jackson was back in his office Janet when Kirman started in.

"Damn, homeboy don't you ever knock," Jackson said hotly, looking up at Kerman.

"Dog, I'm sorry," Kirman said strongly, covering his eyes with his big black hand and the other hand he sat down a bottle of Chivas Regal.

Jackson rose up off Janet's sweaty coco skinned body, panting. Janet swiftly got up from the desk snapped up a big folder to cover body parts and running in to the bathroom.

"What does you want?" Jackson inquired frigidly taking hold of the bottle of Chivas Regal.

"Hey, big-dog. I thought you wanted to perform some work," Kirman said sharply, radiating with cheer.

"Yeh. I need you to check all of the mental hospitals for recently released patients. And Janet's planning to take a look at burglaries," Jackson said strongly, pouring a glass of Chivas Regal.

"Are we getting paid for this gig?" Kirman snapped, wandering up to the bottle.

"Don't worry about it homeboy. Dog, I'm doing this as a personal favor. You'll still get paid," Jackson stated highly and gulped down his drink.

"Oh yeh. That mother Brazell case where your butt got hella messed up, gee," Kerman said strongly, grinning. He lit a cigarette and seized up the bottle.

Janet came out spraying Lysol everywhere.

"It smells just like a dog's booty in here," she complained sharply, spraying the stuff in Jackson and Kirman's eyes.

"Why don't you homeboys go to lunch?" Jackson snapped wiping his eyes.

"All right, boo," Miss Todard said calmly.

Jackson went in the toilet to poop. His face contorted in agony as each turd dropped out. His butthole had been still sore from that gun barrel. He felt bad just like a gorilla raped him. When he finished wiping his booty, wincing in pain throughout the whole process he pulled his pants up and walked up to his desk opened the drawer, took out a gun, and was upset because his weed wasn't there. It was an S&W 625-10. 45ACP. He washed down two Orphenadrine tablets with the Chivas Regal. That will actually remove the pain in his butthole. Before leaving, he fired up the sprinklers, for very yellow grass permitted to water on odd days only. He parked in front of Aviara at Tuscany Apartments on 7000 Mae Ann Ave exactly where Eddie Corbett was in fact. The place had an umber color along with unique exterior designs and panoramic mountain views. Just like some rapper lived here. He strolled over to the door a couple folks passed by transporting tennis rackets.

Well, Mr. Corbett was home and invited Jackson in. He sat on a black leather recliner chair. He drank 25-year-old bourbon with Corbett for a while. Mr. Corbett seemed to be smashed.

"I require a Private detective to work for me," Corbett stated desperately, slurring his words. He'd a drink in his hands and eyes had been watery.

"I can do that baby," Jackson stated sharply, sipping from his glass.

"I'll pay you $12,000!" Corbett stated strongly filling his glass up.

"Sorry, dude. Dude I'm doing this gig for the lady. This really is personal," Jackson said strongly, sipping this old great tasting bourbon.

Corbett wore a marled polo shirt with assorted colors and Timber creek gray casual pants. He had teal colored eyes and his face remained twisted in anguish. He was in fact very much the uppity conservative type.

"I'm sorry about the nurse my brother liked her a lot," Corbett stated regrettably.

"Man, don't be concerned. I'll find your brothers killer and Mrs. Leyba's too which is most likely the same," Jackson said firmly, sipping his fourth drink.

"Do you think we have a serial killer running around?" Corbett suggested as he gulped down his drink.

"It's a possibility. That's what I'm investigating. But I'm checking all angles," Jackson said calmly.

"Floyd was initially very perceptive in the field of medicine. He could be dogmatic to some people. He got his ass beaten by Mr. Joel DeMars outside a bar," Corbett explained sharply, pouring another drink.

"Why?" Jackson snapped.

"He was being sued by Mrs. Rosemary DeMars because of an awful procedure in plastic surgery. If you should run into that bum I hope you have your gun," Corbett said firmly.

"Man, I'll keep that in mind baby," Jackson stated firmly, finishing his drink. "This is hella good!"

Corbett had taken out a handful of cash from a safe. He walked up to Jackson and shoved it into his pocket. "Dude, I only drink the very best bourbon. Dude this may hold you. You'll need money to really make it in this dreadful business of yours," Corbett stated sharply with a half grin.

Well Jackson moved through the casino towards the cabaret. He stood there for some time listening to a foul rock band. Next, he went to the diner for a chicken sandwich and fries. He drank two Cokes with some Oxycodone tablets once the pain in his butt returned. He played video poker and before long, he gained $865.00s. He left before putting it all back.

Jackson walked into American Family Insurance Company. Jackson sat in front of Mr. DeMars desk. His hair had been peroxide blond. He had a baboon-looking face. His eyes were pea green. He gave the clear impression that he ought to be working at a hair salon.

"Hi, what kinda insurance are you interested in?" DeMars asked in a soft tone.

"How about Mr. Corbett's insurance?" Jackson snapped.

"What the hell is this?" DeMars snapped.

"I want to know about Dr. Corbett's insurance policy homeboy," Jackson said harshly as he stood bring out a gun.

"You know it's against our policy to give out information about our policy holders," DeMars said strongly.

"I'm talking about a murder bruh!" Jackson said sharply, putting his gun barrel in Mr. DeMars's mouth.

DeMars nodded. So Jackson removed the gun from DeMars mouth.

"Ok, sir. Will you relax? Don't kill me!" DeMars pleaded sharply.

"Then answer my questions babe," Jackson said firmly. "Or I'll make you eat this gun dude!"

"What about Dr. Corbett?" DeMars snapped as his face grew chalky.

"Somebody played doctor on him, slicing him up with a lancet and ripped the bum's eyes out," Jackson said strongly.

"Well the punk gets what he deserved playing doctor with my wife's face," DeMars snapped using a monstrous glare.

"Then you did kill him?" Keith said strongly.

"Dude, I didn't sir. I haven't seen the slime-breath in a couple of years---never visits the Dave's bar anymore," DeMars said strongly.

"Where were you at 11:00am?" Jackson inquired sharply lowering the gun from DeMars's face.

"Dude I was here. Everybody will tell you this," DeMars stated strongly, standing up. "Good day Mr. Jackson."

Jackson nodded. "Okay, I'll check this out," Keith stated firmly, strolling towards the door.

Keith was called into Sgt. Newsham's messy office. The German homeboy was in fact radiant with cheer. He was singing On Broadway by George Benson. And still chain-smoking as usual. Kirman was there too he'd a big bandage across his shoulder with snarl of agony spread over his fat face.

"What's up, dude?" Jackson said strongly with a big smile as he sat in the interrogation room with Sgt. Newsham.

He arrested Charles Jossis. His fingerprints were discovered on Mrs. Leyba's purse.

"Yeah. Dog I took the broad's money but I didn't do her ugly," Jossis stated hotly, peering about wild-eyed.

Newsham looked hard in to the man's dark face. "Don't feed me lies homeboy!" Newsham stated harshly.

"It's the truth baby. Once I got there this broad had been hella tore up. I grabbed the purse from the kitchen table, and took all the cash---that's it. I was hungry man I hadn't eaten in weeks," Mr. Jossis explained sharply with face etched in desperation.

"Hey, old-blood, did you see anybody come out of there?" Jackson inquired firmly to Jossis.

"No, sir," Jossis replied sharply.

Newsham nabbed up Jossis from the seat by his cheap dirty shirt collar, dragged him to the wall, and shoved him up against it. "Homeboy, I know you loves to carve up old ladies and snatch their purses. So don't give me any more lies," Newsham stated harshly, shoving him harder against the wall.

"Easy, man. Are you crazy?" Jackson asked defensively snatching Newsham away from Jossis. "Dig yourself baby."

"Man, I didn't do it. Bruh, I swear," Jossis pleaded sharply.

"Ok. Officer." Newsham stated strongly advising a uniform officer to take the man out and book him.

"What's the charge?" the officer snapped, grabbing Jossis by the arm.

"Theft," Newsham said strongly.

Viola Watkin was in fact the subsequent victim brutally murdered in her home on Sutro Street. The woman's eyes had been snatched out of it's sockets and her heart was in fact missing too. The mother scene appeared as if somebody dumped a bucket of blood on the floors and walls like some ritual. And no homeboy claimed to have seen anything.

Jackson was in the Washoe county Coroner office. R. J. Perez came to claim the body. He was Spanish looking and dressed up just like a rapper with the street mentality.

"Dude, I can't believe any homeboy could do this," Perez stated sharply, shaking his head with his face twisted in anguish.

"Dog, I know we live in a sick world," Jackson said sharply to Perez.

"Homeboy, I don't like the way you look at me. Bruh, I didn't kill my woman. If I did, you think that I'd be standing here. Dog, I'd of left town dog," Perez said gruffly.

"I'm not accusing you my dog. I'm just hella pissed," Jackson said firmly.

"Who the hell are you, bro-bro?" Perez snapped.

"I'm a private detective baby," Jackson said strongly.

"In that case dog I want to hire you," Perez said strongly.

"Already have a client, dog," Jackson stated.

"If you're doing work for Mrs. Leyba I do believe this punk dog who's killing folks is the same," Perez stated firmly.

"Hey, man, was your lady working in Brook Bear hospital too?" Keith asked strongly.

"Hell yeh! For many years right now," Perez said strongly, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Where do you work?" Jackson asked.

"Laurent Tex Tile Company," Perez said firmly.

"All right, dog," Jackson finally said, as he was ready to leave.

"Dog, you need to check out this broad Moesha Rallens before I check her. She works at Zanis Ice Factory. She hated Viola, more than enough to kill her," Perez said sharply.

Jackson strolled through the Zanis Ice Factory it felt good in comparison with outdoors. He saw a dark skin woman standing by a big machine that dispensed large blocks of ice onto a converter belt. The machine was in fact making hella noise. She was wearing gray coveralls.

"Hello, baby-girl," Jackson shouted sharply with a smile.

"Sir, you're not supposed to be in here," she said irately to him.

"Hey, baby, I'm searching for a Miss Moesha Rallens," he shouted over the machine.

"That would be me sir," she said strongly, turning off the machine.

"I'm a PI investigating the brutal murder of Mrs. Watkin. Her boyfriend seems to think you'd to do something with it," he said firmly to her.

"Bruh, I didn't kill anybody, sir. As for Perez he's a punk he don't know nothing. He doesn't know what a trifling slime she is or was. She loves to take peoples men. Dude, I beat her last week ever since then I hadn't seen her. If somebody killed the barf-butt I'd love to buy them a big steak dinner," Miss Rallens explained harshly, brushing back her blond straight weave from her face.

"Where were you at 3:00pm yesterday?" he inquired firmly.

"Dog, I was here. You can check up at the office," she insisted sharply.

"Girl, I will," he said strongly.

On his way back to his car, there were gunshots. Jackson dropped straight down low pulling out his gun as he looking around for trouble. Then he heard the noise of a motorcycle tear off. Jackson slowly stood up catching the glimpse of a person wearing all black fading away. He was blending into Fourth Street traffic.

Keith got into his pimpmobile and chased after the cycle. The motorcycle was in fact heading east running each and every traffic light, creating accidents with some motorist crashing into one another, cursing and honking horns. The traffic was becoming heavy and making it extremely challenging to keep up with him. That punk was able to maneuver in between vehicles with ease. Jackson forced into driving on sidewalks, if he had any chance of keeping up.

Finally, Jackson lost the motorcycle in traffic. Exactly who was he? Was he or she the killer? But whoever's doing this can't be a woman he thought.

Jackson was back at Brook Bear hospital a little sleepy after drinking several Colt 45 Malt Liquors talking to Dr. Mark Durand. He was on a coffee break eating doughnuts.

"Well you've lost a doctor and two nurses from this hospital," Jackson stated strongly to him.

"Yes that's true. All of us are still in shock over this," Dr. Durand stated testily, chewing on a jelly donut.

"Dude you can easily end this bull. Give me a list of patients those nurses and doctors worked on---better yet every homeboy needs to be checked out," Jackson said sharply with a street tone.

"Are you drunk?" Dr. Durand asked firmly fixed with a level stare.

"Hell yes!" Jackson said strongly. "And I'm getting even drunker later."

Doctor Durand looked just like a mad scientist.

"You know I can't do that. All information on personnel and patients are confidential," Durand stated firmly, finishing his donut.

"Doctor, I understand this but another doctor or nurse's life could possibly be at risk," Jackson said seriously, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Ok my friend," Dr. Durand said sharply, strolling off to fetch a list.

The doctor came back forty-five minutes later on having a file folder.

"Dog, where the hell you been?" Jackson screamed with fists convulsing with suppressed rage.

"These things take some time," Durand stated sharply, handing over the file.

Jackson sifted through the pages very carefully paying close attention to every name although many of them staff and patients.

"This stuff could take a cat many years to go through. What about any patients who was unhappy with their service?" Keith asked strongly leaving the folder on a counter.

"Well now that you mention it. We'd a dude come in here with a gunshot wound and he didn't want no police involved. The man claimed that he shot himself by accident. It wasn't a serious wound but they discharged him because he didn't have any money or insurance," Dr. Durand explained strongly. "The crazy bum threatened to sue the hospital I didn't make much of it."

"What's this creeps name?" Jackson snapped strongly turning his hat straight.

"Give me the folder. Is he in here?" Durand stated strongly

Jackson handed over the folder. He opened up it browsing it frantically.

"Well?" Jackson said harshly.

"Oh yes. He was in room 203. His name is John Devlin," Duran said strongly.

"All right, dude," Jackson said firmly, hurrying away.

It took a little while but Jackson found out Mr. Devlin was in fact staying in Truckee River Inn. Jackson knocked on the door---hard. Right after five minutes pasted he took out his gun a Coonan .357 Magnum and kicked in the door.

He looked around the cheap room, pointing the gun just like a detective should. It smelled like sweaty walnuts, doo-doo, stale weed, rotten takeout and lots of hog farts. He saw the motorcycle and black uniform but no sign of Devlin. There were empty Budweiser and Redbull cans everywhere.

Once he looked in the small closet before he knew it some homeboy leaped out from nowhere quickly stabbing him in the arm with a large blade. Jackson dropped the gun as he fell back in to the wall. He looked up and caught the figure of a white man running out the door, most likely Devlin. Jackson reached right down to get his gun. Blood was in fact running down his arm dripping onto the floor. He picked up his gun and staggered out after him. When he got outside the motel Devlin was long gone.

Jackson went back to Devlin's motel and called the police. He tore open his shirt and found a towel in the bathroom.

"Hey, John, I do believe Devlin's are man. This fart-breath made an effort to slice me up. And I don't feel like being sliced and diced right now, bruh," Jackson stated haughtily into the phone as he wrapped the towel around his arm.

"Where are you, dog?" Newsham inquired firmly.

"Truckee River Motel," Jackson snapped.

"What does Devlin look like?" Newsham asked strongly.

"He's about five-nine having red short hair, wearing a t-shirt and green jeans," Jackson said weakly.

"Stay there we'll send some help!" Newsham said strongly.

This psycho homeboy had his victim's photos pin on a wall. There was a black line possibly from a marker through the dead. The next nurse to die was in fact Kay Oring. Jackson was delivered to Saint Mary's Hospital on Sixth Street, which was a lot closer than Brook Bear was. Nrs. Bertain was patching him up.

"All the doctors here are police officers," she stated strongly with a smirk.

"Even you?" Jackson inquired dryly trying to smile.

"Yep. Even me. We can't be too careful," she said firmly. "That ought to do it."

"The murders were at Brook Bears," he said boldly, turning his hat backwards.

"We're just trying to be safe, sir. There we go you're good to go. Let me get you some Tylenol." She said happily, storming off.

Jackson took out his cell phone and called Kirman Boniske, a big-ass dog that helps him on cases from time to time. He's a retired police officer from San Diego. Well the simple truth is they let him go as a result of his drinking---see he lost his son to gang violence and he hasn't been able to recover from it.

"Hey, homeboy, what's going on?" Kirman inquired into the phone cheerfully, sounding drunk.

"Big-dog, I need you to watch the Brook Bear Hospital," Jackson said strongly to him.

"All right, all right baby," Boniske stated sharply with a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Devlin's our man. He's five-nine or five-ten with short red hair. He was donning a t-shirt and green jeans---I'm sure he changed by now," Jackson said firmly.

"Ok, I got you. But the honkey probably won't show," Kirman stated strongly.

"Hey, dog, get some homeboys to cover the exits just encase," Jackson said strongly.

"They ought to be hella po-pos there," Kirman said firmly.

"I know homeboy. Bruh, I want my people there too." Jackson hung up.

Jackson swung by Nrs. Kay Oring's apartment on B Street in Sparks Nevada. Her pad was messed up, everything destroyed, showing signs of a struggle. But Devlin got the best of her. She lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood just like the others with buckets of blood everywhere with eyes and heart gone.

"Hey, German homeboy I got a dead nurse here in Sparks. Her name is actually Kay Oring," Jackson stated to Newsham on his cell phone.

"That's in Sparks homeboy. You've got to call the Sparks police and get out of there," Sgt Newsham said firmly.

"Yeh, for sure," Jackson said firmly.

"Devlin's absolutely no dumb. He was at the hospital he had taken out two paramedic people. The bum is dressed up just like a doctor," Kirman stated strongly.

"Ok, dog. I'll be over there yesterday," Jackson stated and hung up.

Earlier Jackson did a background check on John Devlin. That punk was obviously a real loon. He was arrested for digging up bodies at the San Diego Cemetery and having sex with them. He spent a considerable amount of time in a California Mental hospital. He attempted suicide several times---once using a gun. He broke out of the hospital overpowering the staff and had been on the lamb for two years.

Doctor Mark Durand wasn't in the hospital didn't show up for work probably scared. Just incase Devlin knew this Jackson made a decision to check the doctor's house.

Once he got to the doctor's house, he saw through the window the doctor on the floor and Devlin was stabbing him. Jackson kicked in the window open shattering glass that fell on the ground. He climbed inside.

"Drop the knife, Devlin," Jackson said venomously, pointing the weapon at the back of Devlin's head.

Devlin stopped and turned his head back to see Jackson standing there. Devlin gave an evil glimpse.

"You don't understand my friend. Dude, I must take his heart and fix it. His eyes too for him to see more clearly what he's been doing and to seen beyond are financial situation. Once I repair them, they'll be a little more considerate for medical uninsured folks. They'll all be treated for free," Devlin stated strongly, folding the knife in a threatening manner over Dr. Durand, with blood dripping from the blade.

The doctor was in fact covered in blood because of several knife wounds to the chest. Luckily, Jackson turned up when he did before Devlin could begin detaching the eyes and very soon after his heart. Luckily, the doctor was still alive and weeping at this point which was hard to believe.

"Dude, come on. In the event you remove his heart, he'll die---just like the others. Man, you can't operate on people in their houses it's not sterile enough and you don't have any equipment, and certainly not with that dirty knife," Jackson explained sharply still aiming the gun at him. "Your butt ain't no doctor. Your ass is a nut."

"I'm a very good surgeon. And I will clean the instruments and prepare to operate. They need heart. And this is the right way to do it," Devlin said sharply with a wicked grin.

"Dude, I'll talk with the congress about passing a law that will force hospitals to except patients without insurance and threat them the same as insured folks. You know what I mean?" Jackson said strongly.

"Really?" Devlin stated excitedly with eyes beaming.

"Hell yeh, dog. Just put the knife down, please," Jackson said calmly.

"Well, you put your gun down," Devlin said strongly as his face-hardens.

"All right!" Jackson said calmly lowering the gun.

"Did you mean what you said?" Devlin asked strongly almost in a child's voice.

"Yeah," Jackson said calmly, putting away his gun.

Devlin chucked the knife as he rose up from Dr. Durand. He then turned to face Jackson and began strolling towards him. Jackson called the police. While he anxiously waited for the cops, Jackson held the doctor who was simply going into shock. He comforted the doctor with encouraging words as well as Devlin, which kindly stood by the wall. Once the police arrived, Devlin went with them quietly.

Dr. Mark Durand lost a great deal of blood but still survived. He'll be able to return to work in a couple of weeks. John Devlin was likely to spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital. The cops found everyone's hearts and eyeballs in glass jars in a refrigerator at Devlin's motel. The hearts were useless for any transplants and eyeballs for blind people but none of the victims were donors anyway.

# Chapter 17: Exactly where is Patrick Vize?

Gene Flax was seated in his rundown office saddened drinking a big bottle of Mickey's. Tanja Xu, his secretary strolled in dressed up just like some porn star.

"Oh, man! Dude, I didn't know you were coming in today," she stated strongly, pulling on a joint.

"Dude, I wouldn't be here if my partner turned up," he explained strongly.

"Did you call the dude?" she inquired firmly, combing hair from her face.

"Of course," he snapped.

"It's been five days, baby," she said sharply.

"Something's hella wrong," Mr. Flax stated sadly, guzzling his beer. He really looked worried.

"Maybe there was an accident in the mine," she said sadly.

"If so, why haven't I heard kid?" he said strongly.

"Dude, you ought to go check it out." She insisted sharply.

"Baby, I do believe I will," he said firmly, rising up.

He walked by Miss Xu, smacking her booty.

"You're really looking hella sexy today baby," he said sharply.

Well Flax got into his blue 2002 Buick and drove out to Goldville Nevada. It is deemed an old mining town just outside of Reno. Vize went there to see the old mine and under ground railroad, yet he was in fact suppose to come right back.

Well the fat fool left his car and wandered up to the Goldville Hotel, a vintage structure that looked just like it had been utilized in a Hollywood western in fact the whole town seemed that way. He found a tactful-looking dude at the front desk humming a song he couldn't quite remember.

"Hello, welcome to Goldville Hotel," the guy stated cheerfully. The man gave a clear expression that he could possibly be homosexual.

"I'm Gene Flax. Dude, I'm trying to find my friend. His name is Patrick Vize. He should have checked in five days ago," he stated firmly.

The man looked through the guest list casually.

He looked up shaking his head. "No, no such name," he stated dryly.

Mr. Flax took out a photo and handed it to the man. He studied it for some time. Shaking his head, he handed it back.

"Well?" Flax said sharply.

"That face...those blue eyes. Dude, I would have noticed him," he explained sharply with a smile.

"Ok thanks. If he comes in here call me," Flax said strongly.

"I definitely will," he said cheerfully, smiling widely.

He drove up to the Goldville Police dept. He spoke with a black cat name Lt. Eric Atherton.

"I hoped you might let me know what happen to my friend," Mr. Flax stated firmly, showing him the photo.

"Who is this homeboy?" Atherton asked hotly with a thug tone.

"Patrick Vize. Dude, he's a PI," Flax said strongly.

"What is a PI doing in Goldville? G, we don't get many private cops in here. And we really don't want none. You feel me?" Atherton said harshly.

"Big-dog, he was in fact looking over your mining and railroad stuff," Flax said sharply. "He came here for a vacation. He wasn't working on any cases."

"How long has he been missing?" Atherton asked.

"Five days," Flax said firmly.

"Why are you searching for him?" Atherton asked boldly.

"We were going fishing but he didn't turn up," Flax said sadly.

"Who are you?" Atherton asked firmly.

"Gene Flax. Dog, I'm a PI too?" Flax said strongly.

"Well I'll get this photo over to our missing person folks. Ok big-boy?" Atherton said strongly showing little interest.

"For sure, homeboy," Flax said and left.

Flax charted a Cessna 72 to Stockton on a rainy day. The rain came down hard in some places that it became difficult to see and Flax virtually crashed into some trees. And Flax getting hella stoned before the flight didn't help either.

Shortly after he arrived in Stockton, California he checked in to the Stockton Inn with some homegirl he picked up on the street. That fat butt made love to her right up until the bed broke down. The loud sexual acts they performed made all the neighbors complain. Next, they sat there panting for quite a while. Flax lit a huge joint and they smoked that and drank Wild Turkey through the evening.

Gene chucked up in the backseat of an Indian cab. He got out in front of a blue house called Patrick Vize Investigations. He disarmed the alarm and utilized lock-picks to get inside. Someone brought in a stack of newspapers. His closets had been bare. The milk was in fact spoiled and food was purple. But the bottle of Christian Brothers was great.

He met with Vize's secretary, who called herself Daina Green, in McDonald's. She was fly-looking having stunning buckskin hair, and poise of worldly experience about her. She dressed in a tight blue dress. She seemed too young to work in any office.

"You have big blue eyes," she stated cheerfully, chewing on a cheeseburger.

"Yeh. Thanks to my mother," he stated strongly, and took a long drink of Budweiser like it was water.

"Dude, I was thinking Patrick was with you," she stated strongly, sipping her diet Coke loudly.

"Naw. I hadn't seen him," he stated dryly and guzzled his beer.

"Dude, I just spoke to him an hour ago," she said strongly.

"Where is he?" he said franticly.

"He's doing fine," she stated calmly.

"Dude...I want to talk to him," he stated boldly, finishing his beer.

"He's back in Nevada," she said clearly, finishing her burger.

"Then I better get my fat-butt back there," he said sharply, standing up as he squashed the beer can.

"Dude, I hope we'll meet again," she stated happily.

"Yeh. I'm sure we will boo," he said sharply with a grin.

Well Gene was back in Reno in his apartments---Gang Land. You could smell the gunpowder and marijuana in the air. He took a bath. He checked his phone messages. Vize never phoned. A couple had been from tax people, credit cards, mouthy whores and dope-pushers. Miss Xu called to check up on him. He called the Reno coroner but no Vize was there. The cops still hadn't found him either. He called the Goldville Hotel, but he never turned up. He called Miss Green yet her phone went to voicemail.

Back at the office, an African American woman came in. She'd honey-colored skin. And she claimed to be Daina Green.

"Child, that's right," she said sharply.

"Hell no. It can't be dog," he stated using a high thug tone. His face became glazed with shock.

"Here's my ID homeboy," she snapped hotly, handing it to him.

Flax looked over it long, shaking his head. He gave it back.

"Well, you're the real Miss Green. A white broad claims to be you. I met her in Stockton," he said strongly, drinking whiskey and becoming clearly stoned.

"Well, the girl is really a phony," she snapped sharply, giving him the black woman evil stare.

"Do you know where Patrick is?" he asked firmly.

"No. I thought you did. That's why I came right here. He was expected to go with you on a fishing vacation. But I haven't heard from him since his trip to Goldville," she said strongly.

"Well, the homeboys got to be there," Flax stated strongly.

Next, there was a phone call. It was Mark Decker from the Reno Police.

"Are you Flax?" he said strongly.

"That's right, son," Flax said sharply into the phone.

"Dude, I heard you had been hunting for a PI, Patrick Vize," Decker said sharply.

"That's What's up, big-dog," Flax stated strongly, sounding just like a black man.

"He's dead. My boys fished him out from the Truckee River, two or three hours ago. He'd two slugs in the chest," Decker said sharply.

"Are you sure?" Gene snapped.

"Hell yeh! His identification checks out. He's a PI from Stockton California. You know what I mean?" Decker said bluntly.

"For sure, dog," Gene said firmly.

"Why don't you come down and make a positive identification?" Decker stated strongly.

"Definitely," Flax said strongly and hung up.

"What is it?" Miss Green inquired sharply.

"Patrick is dead," he stated sadly.

Miss Green's face twisted in anguish. Flax had a stricken look for a while.

Well Flax met with Sgt. Decker in the coroner Dept. The body sure was in fact Mr. Vize. There was a wet matchbox from the Goldville Hotel. This was the last place he had been. This was a vital clue.

Flax attempted to run his game on Miss Green but she wasn't interested. They spent a considerable amount of time going through Vize's case files to discover if anything in there might help them solve his murder. Miss Green smoked cigarette after cigarette. Flax drank Vize's Christian Brothers, sobbing at times. "You got to take it easy on that stuff, white-boy," she said bluntly.

"Let me hit it. Come on, pretty black momma," he said strongly growing drunker than a brewer's fart.

"Come on, dude. There's practically nothing here," she said with frustration.

"Bruh, I didn't think Patrick would likely go on vacation in the middle of a case," he said sharply, guzzling the bourbon.

Miss Green seized it away from him.

"What now?" she snapped.

"Many of the scum homeboys Patrick put behind bars are still there," he said clearly, lighting a joint.

"Byrd's not," she said firmly, putting her cigarette out.

"Who is that?" she snapped harshly.

"A hit-man who swore he'd get even with Patrick for getting him busted," he said strongly.

"His full name?" she asked firmly.

"Noam Byrd," he said.

"OK, baby," she said. "What now?"

"I'm planning to get high, baby. Do you want to kiss me?" he inquired strongly, grinning.

"Hell no, dude!" she snapped.

"Girl, you're no fun," he said strongly.

"Man, I'm sorry. But a man is definitely dead. Bro-bro, I really dug him," she stated sadly, standing up and moving towards the door.

"Hey, homegirl. He had been my friend too. That's exactly why I'm investigating his murder. You feel me?" he said strongly.

"Okay I got you,' she said firmly.

Gene passed out in Vize's office. Once he woke, Miss Green was gone. He stumbled into the bathroom, looked into the mirror. He saw his beat up old fat face and strange blue eyes. He appeared as if Mike Tyson put a beat down on him. He felt sick. He sat on the toilet and doo-doo ran out just like a faucet. Sweat dripped from his fat face. When he finished it looked like purplish soup. He threw up all in it, and then flushed the toilet. Getting all of it out made him fill just a little better.

Flax brought his Walther PP .380 auto with him when he kicked opened the Blue Inn motel door. That's where Mr. Byrd had been staying. He reached for a Remington Model 742 .30/06.

"You won't make it, Byrd," Flax stated sharply, aiming his gun pointblank at the man's head.

"Who are you, fatboy?" Byrd asked roughly.

"Flax," he stated strongly.

"Well, you best use that cannon effectively," Byrd stated harshly.

"What are you doing with a weapon?" Flax said sharply.

"To protect myself from fools just like you," Byrd snapped, moving slowly away from the rifle.

Flax walked up to him. He snapped up Byrd's arm, squeezing it as he flung him into the wall. Next, he punched Byrd in the face until he drew blood from his nose.

"Hey, dog. You're not so tough," Flax stated strongly, grinning.

"What do you want, fat boy?" Byrd said spitefully.

"What are you doing in Reno?" Flax asked in a thug tone.

"On holiday," Byrd stated sharply with a smirk, fixing himself a drink.

"You killed Vize?" Flax said bitterly, lighting a joint.

"No. Dude, I didn't make the hit. But dude he needed a bullet from me up his booty," Byrd said firmly, guzzling his drink.

The dude had buckskin eyes, a craggy face. He wasn't tall. He appeared as if he ate his own poop for a living.

"Man, I didn't kill the maggot PI," Byrd said testily, pouring another scotch.

"Ok. I believe you," Flax finally said, pulling hard on his joint.

"Get out of my room! Dude, I don't have a beef with you. And I want to keep it that way. Fat boy you can't smoke that cheap weed in here. Dude, I'll get arrested. Cops are serious about drugs in Nevada," Byrd said bluntly.

"All right, dude. I'll go," Flax said strongly, walking towards the door.

Flax identified Mr. William Roeper working in Harrah's casino as a dishwasher. He dressed in a white uniform. He appeared as if he was a schoolteacher. But he came across as an illiterate fool. Flax snatched Roeper away from the dishwasher machine just like he was a two pound weakling. He slammed him into a wall a couple of times.

"Hello, Roeper," Flax said harshly, sneering.

"Are you crazy, man?" Roeper snapped having a look of terror.

"Hell yeh!" Flax stated confidently.

"Who are you?" Roeper snapped, clearing throat excessively.

"Gene Flax, a PI," he stated sharply, releasing the grip from the mans uniform.

"A lousy PI. Pork-butt, I don't have a beef with you. Dude, I don't even know you," Reoper said bitterly, panting.

"Dude, you did have an issue with Patrick Vize. You killed him the other night," Flax said hotly.

A number of dishwashers approached Flax with evil faces, but he put his weapon in their ugly faces and so they backed off. He placed the gun under Roeper's shin.

"That's bull! I was here. Dude, I heard that stuff in news reports. I started laughing, as I was getting high with my lady making out with me. Man, I'm doing this awful job because of him. I had a wonderful check cashing scheme right up until that rotten fart-breath messed it up," Roeper explained sarcastically, shaking just like a real coward.

"No, dog. You in this position, because you're a moronic-poop. And you got caught," Flax stated firmly, with a laugh.

Security rushed Flax he aimed the gun on them, stopping them in their tracks.

"Back off, G! I'll cut down all of you homeboy's up in this joint," Flax said stubbornly.

"Easy, man. Dude, the police are on there way," one security guard stated strongly, holding his hands out just like the dude was begging. Flax was backing away towards the exit.

"Hey, fat-boy. You can check my story out with my supervisor. Dude, I had taken the place of Mr. Orinkale," Reoper stated firmly.

Flax slipped out the side door.

Gene was back in the ugly face of the desk clerk in the Goldville Hotel.

"What do you want now?" he asked harshly.

"I would like honesty, baby. You lied about Mr. Vize being here," Gene stated bitterly, showing a matchbox from the hotel.

"Dude, you picked that up just now," the clerk snapped, glaring at it.

"No, poop-weed. The homeboys wet. Bruh, I got it off the very dead Mr. Vize, dude," Flax said caustically.

"I'm sorry. Dude, I learned about his death on the news. He may have been here. He may possibly have snuck in grabbed a matchbox while I was busy---or my back had been turned. Someone could've given it to him," the clerk stated nervously. "We get busy around here sometimes so I'm not always in a position to catch people coming and going."

"Why are you perspiring, baby?" Flax asked firmly.

"I'm sweating...oh yes. It has to be influenza running around," the clerk explained, patting his face with a cloth.

"You know you're full of poop dude," Flax stated strongly.

Three men dressed up in black came out and weren't smiling. They snapped up Flax having intent to squash him just like a frog. They appeared to be very fraudulent. Two held him as the others began laying heavy blows into his stomach. Flax's face contorted in agony. The men dragged him outside behind the building and carried on beating on him just like he was a useless slab of meat. Flax became sick and threw up all over the place. Once he finally sunk right down to his knees helplessly, the beating stopped. "Don't you get it fat homeboy? We don't need you here," one of the men stated crudely, looking at him piercingly.

"Hey, Mack. Dog, I'm merely trying to get a room," Flax said weakly, panting as a tear ran straight down his pudgy face.

"Don't lie. You're asking questions about a dead PI. You have to stop this. Or we're likely to beat you to death," the other man explained sharply, in a gangsta tone.

"Yeh, sure," Flax stated weakly, panting with his hand out.

Then everything went black.

When Flax came to, he had been in his 2004 red Toyota truck. He was parked along the side of the road towards I-80 West freeway.

Once he got back in the office, Miss Xu had him nude on the purple sofa. She wrapped white bandages around his stomach, where a few of his ribs were busted, and showing purple bruises all over. She kissed on his tummy. He moaned. She moaned.

"Not now, baby," he stated weakly, shoving her face away.

"These butt worms worked you over pretty good," Xu stated strongly with a look of sorrow.

"But I'm on to something baby. Vize died because of something in that mining town. And I'm heading back," he said sharply, wincing.

"They'll kill you, dog," she stated greatly.

"They'll try. I'm certainly not leaving that town until I found my friend's killer, girl," Flax said firmly, pointing to a bottle of Chivas Regal.

Xu brought him a bottle of Chivas Regal. He was battling somewhat with his attempt to take off the cap. Once he got the cap off he had taken a lengthy swig like he was drinking water. Xu lit up a massive joint. He drunk half of the bottle and smoked the joint with Miss Xu. He struggled to get dressed. He took some aspirins and went out the door.

Gene strolled through the Goldville casino having a bottle of Budweiser in his hand. He stopped at a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, and began playing. Shortly after three Wheel of Fortune symbols showed up, paying off $545.00. He undoubtedly wished he'd put more coins in the machine.

Gene drank whiskey and aimed to focus while playing blackjack but all he could think about had been the good times he'd with Vize. They fished a lot but played more tennis mostly stoned. Vize had a monstrous forehand that hit through the ball like a rocket. This made it hard for him to read it particularly his serve. And Flax often lost many matches for that reason. But fishing was Flax's game catching 400 pound bass like it was nothing.

Vize had been a good detective too. He solved a big case that made national attention---solving a puppy theft case. Flax had the pleasure of working with him on a Casino betting scheme, which landed him in a Nevada mental hospital. But those had been great times, getting hella girls. They were always intoxicated quite often.

Flax strolled away from the table, losing $146.00. He ran into the toilet to doo-doo but not in time leaving the majority of the stuff on the floor. When he finished he met a guy sporting a peach-colored cowboy hat and leather cowboy boots.

"Is there a rodeo in town, son?" Flax inquired sharply with a grin.

"Can I trust you?" the cowboy inquired strongly.

"Hell yeh. What's up big-dog?" Flax said happily, patting the man on the back.

"Do you dig peepshows?" the cowboy inquired in a strange manner.

"Maybe. Tell me more," Flax stated strongly with complete interest.

"There's a sex store called Child-Peepshow. It's in the valley. The site can't be seen, flanked by trees in all. There's a great reason behind that. The building represents adult sex, yet it's actually kiddy porn. Are you interested?" the cowboy said strongly, beaming.

"Dude, of course. Take me there!" Flax said strongly with laughter.

"My name is Andrew Maimon. And yours?" the cowboy said strongly.

"Gene Flax," he stated firmly.

Well, Mr. Maimon drove Mr. Flax over to the sex store. Maimon continued to fill Flax brain with perverted bull.

Gene walked over to one of the machines. He put a quarter inside and looked through a small window. He witnessed a Mexican boy making love to an eight years old girl. Then the peepshow scene went blank.

"Well my friend?" Maimon asked strongly with a smirk.

"Not bad," Flax said firmly.

The place was heavily guarded and Maimon had to show a pass card for the guards to let them in and declare Flax a new member.

"One more for the road," Maimon said firmly with a big grin.

"For sure," Gene said strongly, moving up to another machine.

Flax put a quarter in that one and looked though a slit window provided. This time he was a thirteen-year-old blond boy making love to a seven-year-old black kid. Then the Damn machine screen went black, asking for more coins to continue. Flax decided not to. The whole experience was making him very sick.

"Let me drive you back," Maimon stated strongly with a grin.

"Ok, dog," Gene said firmly.

Well once the guys started out the men in black turned up.

"Hey, I know this fat cat. He's that PI. The bum that's recently been snooping around," one of the men explained harshly, pointing a gun.

"We killed that punk Vize. He discovered the show and planned to blackmail us. He wanted $60,000 a month or he was going to the cops. We made the decision otherwise. But we've something more special for you fat boy. We're going to fry you," another guy in the black said in a demented grumble.

"Yeh, that's right! We're taking your big for the Fry Mill," the other guy in black stated cheerfully, grinning and jumping up and down just like some 8 year old.

Well, they strong-armed Mr. Flax over to the mill while he fussed and battled which did little good. They buckled him down into to a chair sitting above a metal container filled up with boiling hot oil. It was set to a timer---when it reads 00, the seat would give way dumping Flax into the fiery oil, frying him to death just like some big chicken.

"Come on, dude. This stuff ain't funny," Flax said nervously.

"Don't try to con me into letting you free, coward," the tall guy in black stated strongly. "Dude, take it just like a man."

They set the timer for just one hour and left. Flax made an effort to break free. However, the straps had been too restricted. He felt similar to some pig being sent to a slaughterhouse.

Thirty minutes had past no way out yet. Flax was in fact perspiring badly, mostly by the intense heat. He threw up on himself. He was whining and begging God for forgiveness. Then fifteen minutes then it mounted up to him as his wrist were becoming sweaty. He began working his wrist right up until one of his sweaty hands slipped through. Next, his other.

Then the timer was right down to a minute he just had a leg free. Next, the door busted open and he heard footsteps. At first, he thought the homeboy's came back, and his heart started to sink. But it was Lt. Eric Atherton and a couple officers. He breathes a sign of relief. It was twenty seconds and ticking away loudly.

"Come on guy, hurry!" Flax shouted nervously.

When he got completely loose, it was 5 seconds. By then Lt. Atherton was at the top of the stairs. He began helping Flax straight down the stairs. Once the timer struck 00, the chair gave way into the burning oil. The chair floated in the oily mess and began to fry. The burning wood began to stink up just like French fries. Flax and Atherton made it right down to the floor.

"Are you all right, big man?" Atherton inquired strongly with a smile.

"I'll live, dog," Flax stated weakly, nodding.

"Dude, I never seen such a contraption," Lt. Atherton said firmly, studying it strangely.

"Me neither," Flax said strongly, shaking his head.

"You may have been deep-fried pork chops," Atherton said sharply with a laugh.

"Well, how did you find me?" Flax asked firmly.

"We tailed you to a sex shop and back to here. We detained those fart-bags dressed up in black for kidnapping, and attempted murder," one officer stated firmly.

"Big-dog, you're forgetting murder, too. They killed my buddy Vize. He went along to the sex shop looking to get a thrill, yet uncovered child porn and was in fact enroute to tell you but those homeboys stopped him with two bullets to the chest. You examine the guns those dudes had and you'll find the bullets match the ones took out of Vize," Flax explained strongly still panting.

"Boo, you mean to tell me the peepshow is kids?" Atherton stated harshly.

"No doubt, dog. I say we bust a cap in these poop-breaths," Flax stated using a sudden burst of energy.

"Hold on, homeboy. This is my town and my show," Lt. Atherton stated snugly.

"Yo, Vize was my folks," Flax said sharply.

"Ok. Let's roll," Atherton said sharply.

"One more thing we got to pick up that child raping bum Maimon," Flax said sharply.

"All right. Let's do this," Atherton said strongly.

Well, Lt. Atherton, Flax and the remainder of Goldville Police raided the sex shop. They astonished the guards---but a number of cops had been killed in the vicious shootout---along with quite a few guards too and many of the pedophiles in there were killed because they were firing back or were caught in the crossfire and the rest gave up.

Flax was back in the office after returning from Vize's funeral. Miss Xu was there drinking Southern Comfort.

"Well, funeral's make me sad. Dude, I need to drink," she stated sadly, hurrying to the liquor cabinet.

"Baby, I was surprised at how many people came out," he said strongly.

"Me too. Dog, I'm keen on the food afterwards," she stated strongly with a smirk.

"Didn't you like my eulogy?" Gene asked firmly.

"Oh that. It was hella fly," she said dryly.

"It was in fact great!" he said sharply.

"There is a peepshow on channel 5. I was hoping we could watch it while getting stoned?" she said cheerfully.

"Baby, are you trying to be funny?" he snapped.

"No," she said firmly.

"I got to take a doo-doo real bad. I'm definitely not coming out of the bathroom forever, baby," he stated strongly, running to the restroom.

# Chapter 18: One Week

Jamie Dates's brownish face grew haggard with worry since he sat in Oakland's Cancer Clinic in California. He continued to wait for doctor David Waas, an authority in cancer treatment. Dr. Waas had been thirty-seven. He was tall, resembling Jerry Steinfelt. He came out of the office having a despairing appearance, possessing a tan folder. He sat down alongside Dates.

"I'm sorry, kid," Waas stated regrettably. "It's curtains for you."

His brown face recoiled with terror. "You mean I'm likely to kick the bucket, homeboy?" Dates snapped.

"That's right," Waas explained sadly. "Dude, you've got perhaps a week, baby." Dr. Waas rubbed his back.

"What is it?" Mr. Dates inquired firmly.

"Lung cancer," Dr. Waas stated plainly.

"Slime," Dates said irately, gawking in disbelief. "Are you positive, homeboy?"

"Yeah," Dr. Waas said sadly. "You're welcome to another opinion, brother."

Mr. Dates began coughing badly. "Okay doc," Dates stated strongly and stood as he was about to leave. "Thanks."

"The most crucial thing," Dr. Waas said sadly, "Don't give up. We're talking about your life."

"Well I'm not," Dates said sharply.

Dates dug up a long directory of cancer doctors in San Leandro, Berkeley, Walnut Creek, San Francisco, Hayward, Richmond and Sacramento. He invested the entire day checking out physicians and throwing up. Some of them scheduled him for one month. Nevertheless, Doctor John Chew from Alpha Beta would certainly see him without an appointment. Dates underwent some basic test.

"I believe you've lung cancer too," Dr. Chew said unfortunately. "But we have to examine farther to make certain."

"Fine," Dates said weakly, coughing and threw up blood on the floor. "Oh, damn! Man, I'm sorry. Allow me to clean this up, dog."

"It's okay, my friend," Dr. Chew stated generously. "Just go home now you must rest."

Mr. Dates went along to the Alphabets Clinic for chemotherapy. He spoke with the same sick patients every week. Some had prostate cancer. Bone cancer. Neck and throat cancer. Breast cancer and ovarian cancer and brain cancer. He disliked the medications, they made him sick, but if he desired to live...It had taken about three hours to administer the drugs from a drip bag by intravenously through to his vein.

Jamie Dates had been forty-one, tall and thin. Also he was darkish. He wore his hair shaggy and long with plenty of grease. Dark brown eyes. A fantastic dresser. No arrest record. He labored at Chevy's for two years as a waiter. He worked a few weeks as a delivery driver at Napa Auto Parts. He worked for a little while for some old black dude at a Harrison's Car Wash. He currently worked at Bank of America. Residence: San Leandro Inn 232 E. 14th and Barring Street. San Leandro, California.

Mr. Dates ate Manhattan clam chowder at Louies' Beef Stroh. Each and every Thursday. Usually alone. He often viewed sports on the big flat screen TV at the bar, smoking weed and drinking Country Club beer. Along the way home, he threw up. He was terribly weak. Once he got home, he went directly to bed.

The following morning he'd a light breakfast, instant oatmeal. Orange juice. Half a glass of milk. Dates took several different pills. Pink. Red, brown, black, yellow, purple, orange, green and some blue. The names had been chlorambucil, cytoxan and mercaptopurine. These drugs made him fell really sick. He'd a loss of desire for food always nauseous and vomiting. But he still had to eat. Furthermore, possibly even stomach ulcers and increased levels of uric acid in the blood. After eating, he struggled to get dress: a dark pink shirt and blue jeans. His room had been big having a scraped up dresser draw and a king-sized bed. Color TV and HBO, a small bathroom and shower. New brown carpeting. It's was 72 dollars weekly.

Dates wandered into Hojati's Liquor Store. His black stud mindset was obviously a plus. His stomach was aching once more. An Arabic fella having a horse face, paced back and forth behind the counter. Dates snapped up a small bag of Doritos, and made his way to the counter. He watched two black girls with tight booty's leave the store, giggling. Now they were alone. He set the Doritos bag on the counter. The Arabic man's eyes probing him.

"Is that it?" he asked nervously.

"E&J Brandy by way of the fifth," Dates stated sharply.

He ringed the two items.

"Fifteen-twenty, sir," he stated strongly.

"I have got cancer, bruh," Dates said bluntly.

The Arabic man's expression seemed to be lost. "I'm sorry to hear that, brother," he said sadly, as he placed the items into a bag.

"I don't have a lot of time, homeboy," Dates snapped, grabbing the bag.

"I'm sorry, sir," he stated sharply with face muscles twitch nervously. "You owe me $15.20!"

"Give me a break, dog. I'm dying. Lung cancer. I despise coming to this damn store you always clown me," Dates stated caustically.

"I'm sorry, sir," he stated sadly. "But that's a lot of money."

"Slime you, boo," he screamed defensively, turned and strolled out of the store.

The dude ran out of the store, shouting that he would definitely phone the cops.

Dates ran straight down the street, didn't look back as he moved quickly down E. 14th Street and 150th. Felt sick, but kept going. When he came across an abandon white house, off Bancroft Street, he went in. He hid in the basement. He drank brandy and dined on Doritos. He saw what seemed like a handgun. It was...silver Sauer H.38 .32 auto.

Homeless folks must have been staying in the house since there had been human wastes everywhere and dirty clothes. And hella trash everywhere. He held the gun, appreciating it. He dreamed about Sally Lynn, a banking representative in the bank he worked at. He fell in love with her. She had been a drop-dead hotty. He'd always chat with her, jokingly. He knew she hated dating black men. He loved watching her in tight dresses and mini skirts. And the scent of her hair drove him like a mad animal. He desired to rape her. He coughed. Spat blood. Sipped a bit more brandy and ate chips. He stood up, coughing and left the house. Dates stood in front of the rappel Hayward Apartments. Almost every unit had big windows, with blinds. A great looking place. The rent must have been at least $2,500 monthly. He checked the mailboxes for a second. He found Miss Lynn's unit no. 11. He set foot around the back, coughing. It actually was getting dark. He stopped in front of the glass door, thinking. You needed know the code number to get in the place. He pushed all the buttons for a little while. Nothing. Following that, some dude came and punched a code, Dates stood on the side so he couldn't see him. Once the man went in Dates caught the door with his foot.

He didn't need to knock, the door was opened. He strolled in and stood in the living room. Miss Lynn walked in and jumped reflexively when she saw him.

"Jamie?" She asked nervously.

"Yeah," he stated firmly, nodding.

"What are you actually doing in my home?" she asked sharply, staring saucer-eyed.

He closed the door and locked it.

"I'm sick," he said regretfully with a sheepish. "I'm dying. I require your help, baby."

"I'll contact you a doctor," she said sharply, running for the phone.

"Stay away from your phone," he barked. "Are you alone?"

"Yes," she said sadly.

He soon began out hacking and coughing. She was dress to go to bed. She started weeping.

"Don't cry, Miss Lynn," he stated softly. "Girl, I don't enjoy seeing you cry."

"I'm sorry, but I'm scared," she said sharply, shaking.

"Don't be I won't her you. I love you. I always did," he said passionately.

Lynn back away towards the bedroom. Dates followed. She grabbed an ashtray and tossed it. It hit Jamie in the face. She ran in the bedroom and locked the door. He fired up the stereo halfway to a rock song. He had taken out the gun and kicked the room door open. She was on the phone trying to call for help. He snatched the receiver and ripped the phone out of the wall. He grabbed her by the arm, squeezing.

"Why did you hit me? I love you!" he snapped.

"Please don't hurt me!" she screamed.

Dates grabbed her, dragged her to the bed, and threw her on top of it. She battled and screamed. He placed the gun to her head. "Shut up, baby!" he said bluntly with a withering stare. "Don't make me kill you. Hey, baby, I just want to have a bit of fun before I die."

"Please don't Jamie," she pleaded franticly.

He ripped her clothes off as he coughed. He soon was making love to her. She began fighting him, whacking him with her arms as hard as she could as she screamed for him to stop.

"Damn girl. Stop fighting me. It will be over soon I promise!" he said strongly.

"Please Jamie. You were always such a nice boy," she cried.

"Shut up!" he said harshly, pulling her arms back.

She pleaded with him to stop. Nevertheless, he kept on. She pleaded. After it was over his face lay in her sweet smelling hair, panting. She just lied there like a dead fish. He started coughing and got up off her as he wiped blood from his mouth. He looked directly down at her for one last time with an angelic smile. She just laid there out of sorts. He left the house.

Dates came forth on Davis Street, in San Leandro. He felt awful as to what he'd done. He always respected Miss Lynn. Already with lung cancer things changed. Cancer had converted him into a monster. He coughed and spat up blood. He set foot into the Bank of The West his brown eyes sparkled. He'd absolutely no fear, a result of the firearm and cancer.

He forced the banks bulky glass door open and stepped inside. It was a little busy. He gave a prompt glance at the black security guard. He elevated from his post with a slow appraising glance. Soon he was up and move towards Jaime was at time filling out a deposit clip. He wrote on the back "$25,000 in cash into a paper bag I've a gun don't be a hero!"

"What's happening brother?" the guard inquired nervously.

"All right, bruh," Dates responded calmly.

Once he made it to the counter, he handed a Chinese woman the note. She stared at him with enthralled horror, trembling. He coughed and coughed. She looked at the note and made an effort to behave normal. She put bundles of twenties, fifties and hundreds directly into the bag. A medium-sized Italian chap dressed up just like the supervisor, came over, eyed the transaction suspiciously, and went back to his desk. She put the full bag on the counter.

Dates seized the bag and began out for the door.

"Help! We're been robbed," the Chinese woman shouted franticly.

"Hey, man," the security guard shouted as he reached for his gun.

"Don't do it bro-bro!" Dates said sharply as he was forced to fire the gun.

As the guard was attempted to return fire the bullets ripped through his chest. The impact knocked him down. Everyone stood in shock, some crying.

Dates ran away from the bank and ran down the street, ducking into an alley. Hopped a fence, ran down amongst some homes, and hid in a yard. He heard police sirens and a helicopter hovered around for a while. When things calmed down he finally left after dark.

Towards the final day of his life, he sat in a cab parked in front of an East Oakland Park. He monitored poor black, white, Asian and Spanish kids as they simply played on the swings. Some played horseshoe basketball and tag. Certainly was a warm day. He got out of the cab, well dressed up and reeked of cologne. He slowly made his way up to the fence.

"Hey, kids," he shouted cheerfully, eyes beaming.

At the beginning, the kids ignored him at some point he mentioned State Fair. Next, they stopped and studied him acutely.

"Hey, guys," he stated louder. "State Fair? No jive."

The youngsters gazed at one another. After that, one finally stepped forward. "Do you mean it, old-dog?" he asked sharply with a long searching look.

"Hell, yeh," Dates said strongly to him. "Baby-boy, I've got a cab waiting for us."

"Are you a child rapist?" one of the kids snapped.

"No way," he stated strongly. "We're going to the fair not to my house for sex." He opened up the cab backdoor. "Baby, I'm not aiming to harm you. Lets have hella fun!"

The children finally crawled into the backseat and Dates got in the passengers side. The kids had been very quiet. Scared at times. The cab drove through traffic in Berkeley. Once the kids saw the rides, they were blissful. The taxi stopped in front of the fair and kids hopped out. They ran for the fence like stoned sugar freaks. The sounds of the rides hypnotized them.

The kids rushed the ticket booth. Dates purchased a handful of tickets and gave them and their eyes were really like saucers the whole time. He fed them with cotton candy chocolate bars and hotdogs. They washed all of it down with Coke, fruit punch and water. Jamie coughed and spat blood.

"Are you all right, sir," one kid stated sadly.

"Yes, I'm fine son," Dates said sharply, having a dry smile.

A number of the kids got on the snowmobile ride that travelled 235 mph. everybody on the ride screamed with pleasure.

Dates had taken a few of the kids on the Ferris wheel; they got very terrified when it stopped in mid-air. In a couple of hours, the machine was in fact fix and running again. Next, the children went through the haunted house maybe once or twice, went along to the shooting gallery, and won a giant polar bear. Jamie had been having as much or more fun then the kids were. He enjoyed helping the kids since he realized their parents couldn't because they had been on unemployed because of the economy.

Once it got dark, Dates took them to Wal-Mart to get some toys. They bought I pods, school supplies, DVDs, shoes, PlayStation 3, bicycles, dolls, and electronic games. After that, he brought the children home and he checked into a rundown motel referred to as Oakland Inn. He knew and trusted the black man that owned the spot.

Dates awakened the following morning, worked out. He threw water on his face. His stomach hurt. He struggled to be dressed up and headed for Alta Bates Summit Medical Center. It absolutely was a chilly morning. Everybody he noticed dressed in jackets. He decided to go into the cancer specialist's waiting room. He asked the receptionist for Dr. John Chew. He ended up being with a patient. Thus, he sat and waited, reading magazines. There was in fact a blond guy with prostate cancer and a red head woman having cancers of the breast waiting too.

Thirty-two minutes later on Dr. Chew came out, wearing a long white jacket. Once he saw Dates, his eyes danced.

"Hello! Doc," Dates stated firmly using a dry smile.

"Boy am I pleased to see you," Chew said sharply with joy. "Come outside with me!"

They set foot out in the lobby. The physician had a medical report in his hands. "You've good news," Dates stated cheerfully.

"Great news," the doctor said happily. "You don't have cancer."

"You mean I'm not necessarily likely to die?" Dates snapped with a look of delight.

"That's correct," Dr. Chew stated strongly, patting him on the back. "You possess a bleeding ulcer along with a slight cold."

"Wow," Dates stated firmly. His face became radiant with good cheer. "I'm going to live doc. I'm gonna live!"

"Whoever examined you was not a cancer doctor, but a fool. I'll right you a prescription for Zantac," Dr. Chew said firmly.

Dates turned up in the Oakland Cancer Clinic, eyes blazing murderously. He stormed into the waiting room, startling everyone in there. He stormed pasted the secretary and she chased him straight down the hall to Dr. Waas office. Dr. Waas came out of the door.

"It's okay Ruth," he stated sharply to her. Baffled she started back down the hall.

"So I'm not planning to kick the bucket after all, doc," Dates stated harshly.

"No, Mr. Dates. You only had a chest infection," he explained strongly with a grin.

"You realize what you put me through, man?" Dates said harshly with a withering stare.

"Yes," he said strongly, chuckling. "It was just a joke. Dude, the hospital wards tend to be depressing. How else could we maintain our insanity? I was in fact merely having fun with the other doctors."

Dates acquired the firearm and directed it at Dr. Waas.

"Maybe you'll find this situation funny," Dates stated strongly, shot him three times, and ran out of the clinic.

Sadly, for Jamie Dates he was in fact captured and reprimanded for his crimes.

# Chapter 19: The Ghetto Killer

"Hey...girl, did you know that homeboy struck again?" the neighbor stated, screaming out her window.

"The Ghetto Killer?" Mrs. Flavio stated firmly.

"Hell, yeh. It's so messed up that black woman can't stroll the pavements at night!" she said bitterly.

"Will you leave me alone?" Mrs. Flavio said harshly sweeping snow from her pathway.

"Nora...you're not the only person terrified around here," she said fiercely.

"Girl, I'm simply just exhausted okay," she stated brazenly.

"Girl, I can't believe there's snow in Oakland," the neighbor stated firmly with a smirk.

"It snows in California sometimes girl," Mrs. Flavio said strongly and went inside.

"Burnt toast again, girl?" Javier Flavio lamented to his wife. "And those eggs I possibly could sip through a straw." He looked at his plate, frowning.

Mrs. Flavio gave him a hard look. "Always hating," she said to him. "Stop yelling at me, bruh. Stop being mean!"

"What do you expect me to do, dog? I get up in this homeboy every morning to a awful breakfast," he said harshly.

"Dog, you're just mad because you didn't get that supervisor job, homeboy," she said sourly.

"Well, I can't help it if my boss happens to be prejudice of Mexicans," he said defensively.

"Well, it isn't fair to take it out on me, dog," she stated hotly.

"Boo, I almost forgot you've been under a lot of stress," he stated strongly. "I know this Ghetto Killers got you homegirls stressed out. So I'll give you a break."

She poured his coffee. He snapped up a couple of pieces of bacon.

"The ghetto killer just murdered four women down the street and all the women he killed up to now had been on 82nd Street," she said firmly.

"Well get some more damn locks on this thing if it will make you happy," he said gruffly, sipping his coffee.

"Can you work days? That would certainly make me happier," she stated softly.

"Hell no, girl," he snapped.

"The killer usually strikes during the day," she stated sharply, picking up the dishes.

"Dog, you know I can't work dayshift I haven't been there long enough, girl," he said irately with a dirty look.

"I would like cable TV, baby. So I can see soap operas and news," she said happily.

"Baby, I left the money in the top draw," he said softly, chewing on his bacon.

"Finish your breakfast!" she said firmly.

"How can a man eat when you're tripping?" he asked harshly.

"I'm sorry, dog," she said.

"Did you get my shirt from the cleaners, boo?" he asked clearly.

"No I forgot, boo," she said sadly.

"Damn," he stated acidly. "Bro-bro, I need those clothes for work, bruh." He rose from the table.

"My mind's recently been so scrambled because of this ghetto killer," she said sadly.

"Just don't forget this time," he stated spitefully, starting for the door.

"Dog, I won't honey," she snapped.

"Bye-bye," he said.

"See you later on," she stated.

He closed the door.

A dark skinned woman came to the door, about sixty and looked just like a truck driver, wearing a simple flowery dress.

"Hello, I'm Kay Chatmon from three doors down," she stated cheerfully.

"Yeah. What do you want?" Mrs. Flavio stated sounding annoyed.

"Girl, I figured I'd check up on you. Girl, I notice your always home alone, baby," Mrs. Chatmon said softly.

"Girl, I'm fine," Mrs. Flavio said bluntly.

"Child, you don't want me to sit with you?" Mrs. Chatmon strongly.

"No Thanks. Girl, I've got to go now," Mrs. Flavio said sourly and closed the door in Mrs. Chatmon's face.

This time around, a short Mexican carrying a box of light bulbs came to the door.

"Hello, I'm Pascal Blonco. I actually do maintenance here," he stated cheerfully with eyes beaming.

"What do you want?" Mrs. Flavio snapped.

"I have got to put light bulbs in your house," he stated strongly with a smirk.

"As you can see idiot I don't need any bulbs," she snapped.

"Please senora. These bulbs are unique, for saving energy. At least by 86%," he said sharply.

Mrs. Flavio let him in and left the door opened. She watched him place bulbs in the living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom.

"The weather is definitely cool today," he stated cheerfully.

"Just hurry up and get out!" she snapped.

Once he left, she locked the door behind. She entered the bedroom to get dressed.

Blonco returned having a brown bag full of locks. He put a couple of deadbolt locks---and a more robust chain on the door. Mrs. Flavio was still feeling strangely disembodied.

The Martin Apartments had been not too long ago painted red with black doors. There were rectangular windows. There were four units upstairs and four downstairs. The one-bed units were upstairs and the two bedrooms were downstairs. A one-bedroom was $700 monthly. A two-bedroom was a $1,500 a month. Many folks in the building worked, the few others stayed inside smoking crack cocaine throughout the day. Drug pushers sold their product on the corner near by almost daily. There was little recreation for children mostly busted up swings and basketball hoops without rims. There have been gangs shooting every other day on the block.

Nora Flavio was tall, dark skin tone, and also thin, having a drop-dead figure, she looked just like a runway model and didn't fit the housewife type. Her and Javier had been hitched three years. They had no children as of yet. He labored in the Sizzler as a dishwasher, making $9.50 an hour. He'd worked there ten years.

Mrs. Flavio glided by Comcast to pay for their past due bill then swung by the Annett's Meat Market to acquire pork roast---Javier's favorite.

At 4:30, Javier was sitting at Talford's Bar & Grill, drinking a Corona while an old buddy from school, Ivan Treehouse sat alongside him. Treehouse was really a bronze skin black man who proved helpful as an account for a law firm in Oakland. He dressed in thick glasses and a well hard pressed blue suit. He had been unobjectionable flirtatious. He requested Olde English. The bar was half-full of off duty businessmen and women.

"Hey, old buddy, how's my dog?" he asked, smiling.

"Over worked, bruh. That's what's up," Flavio stated moodily, sipping his beer.

"Tell me about it, brother," Mr. Treehouse stated cheerfully.

"They would like me to work tonight due to the fact Seagrave called in sick," Flavio said sharply.

"Tough break, baby." Treehouse guzzled his beer.

"I have to have the extra bread, bro," Flavio stated firmly.

"The Ghetto Killer's lost his touch he hasn't murdered anybody for a couple of weeks. They hardly mention this psycho-poop on the news anymore," Treehouse said strongly.

"Well, even a killer needs a few days off," Flavio said firmly.

"What's up with the homeboy? He's only killed the most beautiful black girls in the ghetto," Treehouse said, grinning.

"Dog, I know," Flavio stated, finishing his second beer. "Nora's black. That's exactly why I worry about her."

"The ghetto killer is obviously white and prejudice," Treehouse clearly.

"I must disagree, brother. Dog, I don't think a white guy would be caught dead in our neighborhood---day or night," Flavio said strongly, starting on his third beer. "It's some crazy crack-head."

"What makes a person take another life?" Treehouse inquired cheerfully finishing his beer.

"I don't know, boo," Flavio stated sharply, guzzling his beer.

"Bruh, I wander what it's like to strangle someone. The peak of the moment. He looks in their face as their life's ending. And a person's spirit actually leaving their body. Wouldn't you be afraid of their ghost haunting you for eternity? What sort of person gets fulfillment killing folks?" Treehouse stated sharply with a smirk.

"The Ghetto Killer doesn't fully grasp this just like you and I. He's completely unhinged---his thoughts all slimed up. Bro-bro, he is definitely deranged," Flavio explained sharply, lighting a Black and Mild cigar.

"Is it a little cold for California?" Treehouse asked clearly, sipping his second beer.

"No doubt," Flavio said firmly. "I'm fed up with sporting heavy jackets in August---it's supposed to be summer. You know what I mean?"

"Dog, I can't believe that it has taken 270 cases this year and we've merely produced $1.4 million," Treehouse stated hotly, shaking his head.

"Everybody knows you has been skimming 30% of the profits," Flavio said strongly with a smirk.

"To be specific, my brother, 33%," Treehouse said firmly, grinning.

They both laughed.

"Homey, I'm really worried about Nora," Flavio said sadly.

"Dog, I really could swing by there as soon as I finish up at the firm," Treehouse said calmly.

"Would ya?" Flavio snapped with a smile.

"Sure, old buddy. It's long been a little while since I seen Nora. We'll chat old times," Treehouse said cheerfully.

Mrs. Flavio dropped by Wong's Cleaners on Bancroft.

"Hello!" Wong barked.

"Hey, man, I'm here to pick-up my husband's clothes," she stated strongly, handing him a ticket.

"I believe I've a strategy to stop the Ghetto Killer," he stated strongly, chuckling.

"Dude, I don't want to hear it!" she said haughtily.

He wandered off into the back. A moment later on, he returned without the clothing.

"Mrs. Favio, your clothes aren't ready yet," he said sadly.

"Damn---well how long?" she snapped, looking over piercingly.

"Can I've your name and address?" he asked softly.

"What in the hell do you want that for?" she snapped.

"I get off work in three hours I'll carry it to you," he said strongly.

"Never mind, I'll return later on," she said bluntly and stormed out.

When Mrs. Flavio returned to the house, she had been stunned to discover Ivan Treehouse appearing out of the kitchen having a chicken salad sandwich and an Olde English beer.

"Hello, baby-girl," he stated cheerfully.

"What in the hell are you doing in here?" she snapped with an evil stare.

"Boo, I missed you," Mr. Treehouse said happily.

"Bull!" she said hotly.

"Javier asked me to check up on you," he said strongly, moving into the living room.

"Homeboy, I really want you to get out!" she said crudely, pointing at the door.

"Dog, don't be like that," he said sharply with a smirk.

"Get out, bruh!" she said with a scorching look.

"At least allow me to finish my sandwich, huh?" he snapped as he sat down on the sofa.

Mrs. Flavio went immediately to work on dinner, pushed the pork roast in her very small oven. She'd the Mustard greens cleaning in the tiny scratched up sink. He finished his sandwich, snapped up another beer, and sat on the sofa alongside Mrs. Flavio.

Mr. Treehouse walked up to the stereo. "This is a bad piece of equipment," he stated firmly with a smile.

"Leave it alone, dog," she stated stubbornly, pushing him away. He shoved her down and turned up the stereo on to a rap song.

When Mrs. Flavio stood, he yanked her near to him and forced her to dance.

"Bro-bro, I don't want to dance!" she said strongly, trying to break free.

"Don't be such a bore boo. Blood, you had been always so awesome in high school," he said sharply with a grin.

Mrs. Flavio fought with Treehouse as he made an effort to kiss and lick her face. "You were always so terrible, even when you were a little boy. You cut Mrs. Dervs's cat's hind legs off," she said strongly, trying desperately to fight him off but he was so strong.

"The old woman called me a chicken-eater, for nothing. Girl, I had been minding my own business," he said crudely, forcing her closer.

"You're still a hateful homeboy," she stated boldly finally, pushing her self away from him.

He pressed her straight down on the couch. "Baby, I'm not going to harm you, I'm simply just playing, girl! Don't treat me just like the Ghetto Killer," he stated sharply.

"Just get out, please," she said firmly, peering about wild-eyed.

"You know the Ghetto Killer may be nice just like me and you. He would like his children to go to school and be safe too," he said strongly, forcing her down on the sofa.

"So dog you going to rape me?" she asked harshly.

"I call it love, baby," he said strongly, trying to hump her.

Then there was loud banging on the door, which sounded like the maintenance guy. "Senora, senora!" he said sharply.

Treehouse seemed to be discouraged by the knocking and yelling and got off Nora. She got up from the couch. She opened up the door. Blonco and a couple of neighbors had been standing there with monstrous glares.

"Can you turn your music down, please?" he said strongly.

"Okay, sorry," she stated calmly and turned the stereo off.

"We're just having a little fun," Treehouse stated strongly, grinning as he stood up.

"Bruh, I do believe you better leave, man," Mrs. Flavio barked.

"I'm sorry, Nora," he explained sadly, walking towards the exit.

"Good night, everybody," Treehouse said strongly moving out the door.

"Good night, Ivan," she said firmly.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Flavio?" he asked sharply.

"Yes I'm fine," she said sharply, fixing up her hair.

"Good," he said strongly, turning to walk away.

"Could you run to Wong's Cleaners for me? My husband's clothes are there," she said calmly.

"I'd love to senora," Mr. Blonco stated calmly with a smile.

Everybody else left but Mrs. Chatmon.

"Girl, sister's just like you give this place a bad name," she said harshly.

"You crazy old bag!" Mrs. Flavio said strongly.

"That's why the ghetto killer stays employed. He only kills women who deserve it," Mrs. Chatmon stated irately.

"You don't know nothing!" Nora stated vociferously and slammed the door.

At 7:00, Nora had been taking out the pork roast from the oven. After that, she turned the greens off. She made certain the bottle of Veuve Cliquot was cold enough. She checked out the jumbo Poms and smiled.

She put Javier's clean clothes on the bed. There was a knock on the door so she hurried out of the room. It had taken her an hour to remove the locks. The TCI cable man had arrived.

"Hello, TCI cable," he stated happily. "Is this the Flavio address?"

"Yes, that's right," Mrs. Flavio said strongly as he eyes brighten up.

"Boo, I'm sorry to be so delayed, yet it's been a hectic day," he said sharply with a grin.

"Fine. Come in. My TV is over there," she said strongly.

The cable guy sat his gear on the torn carpet. Before too long, he had been fiddling with the back of the set. The phone rang taking Mrs. Flavio's attention away.

"Hello, baby girl," Javier stated gaily in the phone.

"Hello, baby. I've got your dinner on the stove," she said cheerfully into the receiver.

"Dog, I just phoned to let you know that I won't be home until morning," he said sadly.

"Slime!" she snapped.

"Baby, I'm sorry, is Ivan still there?" he asked calmly.

"No, I sent him away. You sent that creepy-fool over here," she said hotly.

"Yeah, I didn't want you to be alone, boo," he said strongly.

"I'm not alone the TCI Cable guy is here," she said firmly.

"Did you say the cable man?" he snapped franticly into the phone.

"Yeah," she said.

"No! Baby-girl---Didn't you see news reports? The Ghetto Killer is utilizing his job in the cable company to murder women," he said sharply.

"Damn!" She stated bluntly, turning slowly.

"Baby! Are you there?"

Loud screams were the final noises she could get out before the cable man wrapped the black cord around her neck and squeezed the live from her.

Soon after, the Ghetto Killer was in fact seized once he made an effort to strangle an off duty black policewoman. He advised the judge during his trial that he considered that eliminating all African American women was sensible, because doing so would likely end a new generation of suffering, poverty and racial injustice for blacks. The jury found the Jules "Ghetto Killer" Bentin quite definitely insane, and he would likely spend the rest of his life in the California Mental Hospital.

# Chapter 20: Castello's On The Move

Adriano Castello sat at Lester's Bar. It had been 7:00. He had been consuming a Corona and observing the Lakers clobber the Pistons on a 32-inch flat screen TV that stuck out from the wall.

"Why are you so jumpy, man?" Lester inquired sharply. He was a charcoal skinned black man with large brown eyes. He'd a disfigured face. He wasn't very tall. His big afro had been turning gray. He wore a silk white shirt, a black bowtie and dark slacks.

"Nothing, bro-bro," Castello finally said strongly. "Dog, it's just something I ate."

"You don't owe Mr. Betha, dog?" Lester inquired solidly.

"Look man," Mr. Castello stated fiercely. "You just keep the cold beer coming, boo."

"Yo, listen-up, homeboy. Man, I don't need that pigheaded homeboy come in here and bust up my place," Lester stated gruffly. "I spent a king's ransom putting this joint back up and running last summer."

"I got this old gee. Don't worry," Castello stated clearly.

The bar had been half-full. There were folks throwing darts. There had been folks enjoying pool and smoking dope. Lester didn't care if you smoked a little weed. There had been folks sitting at the other end of the bar chatting loud and laughing about the upcoming basketball game. The bar was made of oak wood. There had been pictures of R&B singers on the walls and nude hot black girls too.

Hank Betha stormed into the bar. He was really a big, black ugly homeboy---like some bouncer. He was well dressed, wearing a lot of bling-bling. He didn't really want to hear the usual bull from Mr. Castello and dragged him off the barstool. Mr. Betha manhandled him through the bar and out the back door. All of the folks in the bar had been transfixed with horror. No homeboy offered a hand.

Then Betha's big black ham fist connected with Mr. Castello's light brown jaw, just like music symbols. He flew backwards into a green dumpster.

"Where is my money, homeboy?" Betha stated caustically.

"Homey, I bet it on a basketball game, dog," Castello explained weakly, holding his chin.

Betha snapped up Castello by the jacket and elevated him up to his feet. "Why did you do that, homey?" he said icily.

"Dog, I'm likely to win a $100, 000," Castello said critically. "The Oakland Trailblazer by ten points. There planning to cream the Las Vegas Hawks, dawg."

"How the hell do you know this? You've got some inside information, dawg?" Mr. Betha stated sharply.

"Maybe," Castello said strongly with a laugh. "Dude, I just know there going to succeed. Man, I have a sixth sense homey. Then when I win I'm giving you $20,000, and I'll keep seventy grand."

"All I know is that you bet my ten grand on a lousy basketball team," Betha stated incredulously and slugged him in the face and he fell back, hitting his head on the garbage can. "I'm fed up with waiting for my cash, bruh. Cancel the bet or die punk!"

"Amigo, it may be too late, baby," Castello pleaded and picked up a large rock.

"Hurry," Betha said irately. "Boo, you've got until tomorrow. You feel me?"

Castello got up from the ground. Betha turned and started to walk away. Castello threw the stone and it crashed into the back of Betha's head and rolled off.

Betha turned around holding the back of his head, smiling wickedly; he snapped up Castello by the jacket. Together with his right arm, he brought it through Castello's legs, elevated him over his head, and threw him into the dumpster. Then Betha strolled off.

Adriano Castello was approximately thirty-four, six-foot-one, and 170 pounds. His hair had been black and dropped to his shoulders like some rockstar. He had big weather nut-brown eyes. He spoke both English and Spanish. He'd a boxer's nose and fishy lips. He'd a lean body. He was from Honduran. He was charged with fixing bets; served only six months of a three-year sentence. He Relocated to Oakland, California five years ago. He'd never been married, yet had three daughters and one son. He met Hwei-ru Liao at a horse race. He'd major issues gambling.

Castello had taken a cab to his girlfriend's house. She stayed at a white crummy apartment building on West 7th Street. He had been bleeding at the nose and mouth. He'd a couple of damaged ribs. She wore an Oriental pink housedress. She was about four-foot-twelve, small with black hair that dropped to her butt. She removed his shirt and placed bandages on the bruises. With one hand, he held a bag of ice on his head and the other a bottle of Chivas Regal.

"What the hell happen to you?" She inquired sharply, smoking a joint.

"Nothing baby," he said weakly.

"Nothing," she snapped having a thick Chinese accent. "Don't give me that homeboy. Dude, you look like a trash compactor ate you and spit you out. Homeboy, you promised me you wouldn't get involved with those loan sharks any longer."

"Boo, I just fell straight down some stairs," Mr. Castello responded harshly, guzzling whiskey from the bottle. "Bruh, don't make a big issue out of it."

"Adriano, I don't want cops hanging around," she said strongly. "Mindy hid a few bags of coke in the cabinet."

"Don't worry that poop-brain isn't going to find me here," he stated sharply and sat up on the red sofa. "Go get me some of that coke; Dog, I would like to do a couple."

Miss Liao got up and proceeded to go in the room. The spot appeared to be design Oriental style and all the furnisher had been secondhand and dark red. There were numerous photos on the wall of her family, six generations of Chinese immigrants. He made a couple of calls on his blackberry, searching for somebody who'd loan him money. He'd no luck. He continued to sip from the whiskey bottle. Then Hwei-ru arrived on the scene and brought him some coke. They snorted a number of lines. He handed the whiskey to her and she took a long swig.

"Do you have some cash baby?" he inquired casually.

"Darn," she stated bitterly. "You're gambling?"

"No nothing like that honey." He put the bottle down on the table and got up from the sofa with clamped teeth as he struggled to get up. He winced as he wandered up to the window. He observed ugliness: blue rundown tenements across the street. Folks screamed at each other on the corner in front of the liquor store. Two black guys selling dope to two white guys, who actually could be cops. He turned away from the windows, frowning and started back to the sofa with more pain than he had before came. "Well do you have any?" he asked weakly.

"How much?" she snapped.

"$10, 000," he said strongly.

"Do I look like I have that sort of money?" she stated hotly and stormed off into the bedroom. Once she returned, she chucked five one hundred dollar bill on his lap. "Take it and get your sorry booty out!" She went back into the room and slammed the door.

"This ain't nothing, baby," he snapped.

"Get the hell out!" she screamed.

"Can I at least stay over night, baby?" he said sharply, having a half a grin.

Hank Betha had been forty-two with a long scare along the side of his face, most likely from a bottle. He had a pigheaded mindset. He had negative years as a child. He's been a loan shark, taxi driver, a bookie, a bouncer, mailman, drug dealer, a dancer, a football player and hired killer. He murdered a man for a two-dollar debt; yet served only two years on the twenty-to-life sentence. He's already been married many times and possesses nine children.

Betha put his firearm a Ruger GP-100 .357 Magnum into his back pocket. He made a phone call to Little Ken from his cell phone. He wanted him to keep an eye on Castello. Betha appeared to be on way to East Oakland to make collections then spend the rest of the day with his children.

Adriano Castello had gotten up from the sofa and extended his arms. His side continued to be irritated. He entered the kitchen to make coffee. He then entered the bathroom to wash up. He threw up. He combed his hair in a feather style just like Farrah Fawcett. He dressed in a blue shirt, and an orange tie, dark pants and orange socks and scuffed up brown boots with took him almost two hours. He consumed his coffee and snorted coke. He searched out the window and noticed a white 2003 Buick Century parked down the street, it had been there all morning.

Castello wandered down the street passing a number of black guys that had accumulated around the liquor store simply because it appeared to be opening to beg. He gave a nod as he wandered by. He got on a crowded bus number 19 and road it into downtown Oakland. He then transferred to bus number one, went down E. 14th Street, and got off on 22nd Street. He wandered up to Mr. George Shoehorn's office on top of Joe Nails Liquor store. The building had a 1930's style. The top had been decorated blue and the bottom was beige. Castello wandered in on him he was counting a bundle of cash beaming as he wrote figures on a spreadsheet. Shoehorn looked up at Castello and frowned. He swiftly reached for his gun on the desk. Shoehorn had been a short man having a craggy face, with a big green cigar hanging from his thin mouth, and a beer keg belly, sporting a white shirt and suspenders, which held up brown silk pants.

"You come to rob me kid?" Shoehorn stated slyly, aiming the gun at him. "Guess again, little-G."

"No jerk-off," Castello said brazenly. "Yo, old-blood, I want to cancel my bet."

Shoehorn stood up from his desk and gave him a hardcore look. He walked up to him and patted him down for weaponry.

"Bruh, I'm unarmed homey," Castello stated having a smile.

He leaned against his desk, directing the firearm.

"Homeboy, I remember you, kid. You dropped 10 grand on the Trailblazer game," Shoehorn said sharply.

"That's right," Castello said firmly.

"Homey, you knock before you decide to come in here, fart-brain," Shoehorn stated snugly. "Next time I'll shot you. Dog, I don't give a damn if you're here to place bets or collect. You hear what I'm saying?"

"Hell, yeh," Castello stated strongly swallowing dryly.

"I'm sorry, kid," Shoehorn said regrettably. "Man, it's too late to stop that bet now. All bets are final!"

"Big-dog, I'm afraid you don't understand you fat-face bum," Castello said harshly, regarding critically. "If you don't give me my money, Betha's likely to kill me."

"Castello," Shoehorn shouted firmly. "Don't try to get tough with me dirty little punk. All bets are final. It's the rules frog-breath. Now get out before I shoot you!"

Castello walked out in tears. He was standing at the bus stop, weeping. The Buick circle around repeatedly right up until he got on bus number 1R, proceeding back in town. He looked out the back window and noticed the Buick pursuing close behind. The bus didn't make too many stops. There had been many folks. The bus stopped and an old Chinese man in a wheelchair boarded. The Buick sped passed. The short black lady strapped the man in and made her way back to her seat. The engine roared as the bus pulled forward into traffic. Ted got off in the center of town and vanished in the work herd of folks. He was chatting on his cellular phone.

As he reached the Federal buildings, he caught a taxi. There wasn't any manifestation of the white Buick. The taxi dropped him off on the corner of Telegraph and 37th Street, in front of Ngyuyen's pool hall. He discovered his old pal Paulie, a young adolescent having a chipmunk face and a whippet thin body. He was shooting a game of nine ball with an old black dude. He seemed to be hustling him out of his Social Security check. Paulie sunk the nine ball in the corner. The old cat shook his head and face glazed with shock. He brought out his wallet and laid three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table. After that, he strolled away.

"You should really be ashamed, boy," Castello said jokingly to him.

Paulie shrugged his shoulders. "A kids got to make a living too," he stated sharply.

"For sure," Castello stated cheerfully, nodding. "You had got to acquire paper and pencils for school."

"You got my two hundred, bruh?" Paulie snapped.

"Hell, yeh. You still have my gun?" Castello said strongly.

"In the bathroom," Paulie said strongly, grabbing his jacket. "It's more private."

Castello followed him in there. It had been empty. Paulie produced a Sauer H. 38 .32 auto from his jacket. Castello checked it over beaming. "Yeah, this is it," he said strongly.

Paulie wandered out. Castello went along to the toilet to doo-doo. As he left the poolroom, he got into a taxi out front. It took him to the Guys and Dolls bar on the corner of Telegraph and 56th Street, a gay bar. He believed Hank wouldn't think to search for him there.

Castello decided to go in and sat at the bar. The chubby bartender, sporting a pink shirt and purple leather pants delivered him a Budweiser. He sat fixed to some giant flat screen TV, drinking beer. He seemed to be just in time, considering that the Oakland and Las Vegas game had initiated the first quarter. Vegas got off to some fantastic commence getting back in the post and scoring. Trailblazer's defense had been asleep. By the end of the quarter, the Hawks had been leading 21 to 9.

In the midst of the second quarter, McNair was on fire knocking down threes. The nicely dressed up black coach having the blue frazzled hair was fuming. He didn't like the fact Brownman wasn't guarding him successfully. The Hawks coach had been a white dude having an inverted pear head, and horse teeth, sporting a gray suit loved every minute of his team's success. Castello started to perspire as he commenced his fourth beer.

At this point, it had been 40 to 17, Hawks leading. Well Miller from the Blazers decided to go for that basket, and Janto in fact stripped the basketball and he launched it across court to Kent, who has been beneath the basket. He produced a simple lay up. Castello changed his drink to Wild Turkey on the rocks.

Two male model-looking gay men were shooting pool.

During halftime, Castello drank much more whiskey, snorted an enormous quantity of coke and kept watching the door franticly, incase Betha turned up. On the other hand, more gay and lesbians started in.

Things didn't turn around until the third quarter. Walter in the Trailblazers hit a lengthy three pointer and the crowd came alive. Thomson hit a two pointer from downtown making it 65 to 70, Oakland seemed to be closing in. the gay folks were cheering loudly. Castello stopped drinking whiskey and started on coffee.

The fourth quarter began with the Trailbrazer's with 72 and the Hawks having 88. After that, the Hawks players started getting frosty, and missing simple baskets. The Trailblazers took advantage and when Baily nailed a three in the corner, the arena went nuts. All of the gay people started out leaping about and spilling beer everywhere. At last, Castello had a pleasant expression.

Unexpectedly, the most popular Hawk players had been fouling out. And the Trailblazers were shooting 74% at the free-throw line. It was now 93 to 90. Oakland was in the lead the very first time in the game. The Hawk couch seemed unwell and called timeout to stop the rhythm of the Trailblazers.

Well the Hawks had tied it with Howard nailing a three pointer, and had been fouled too. Oakland called time out. The basketball was back on the floor and was passed to Baily and he shot a turn around jumper for two. The score was now 102 to 100. It had been 1:54 on the clock.

It was 107 to 107. There was clearly 57:08 on the clock. Las Vegas in bounded the basketball to Miller in hopes of him shooting a quick three. He had been a 72% free-throw shooter. As he caught the ball, was immediately fouled. He made both free throws. The score was 109 to 107. Oakland called their final timeout. Their plan was to get it to Baily. He appeared to be an outstanding shooter at 87%.

The ball was in bounded to Baily standing in the corner, yet he swiftly gave it away to Walter, who wasn't a really good shooter at 43%. He was wide open. He caught it and launched a lengthy three and it bounced up on the rim and rolled in. The crowd went nuts. The Oakland team was bouncing up and down. The clock read 0.24 seconds. The score was currently 109 to 112.

They swiftly got the ball over to Miller, he proceeded to go for the three, it went in and out, and the buzzer sounded. The final score was 112 to 109 Trailblazers over the Hawks.

Ray's Taxi Service dropped Castello off in front of Mr. Shoehorn's betting establishment. He went in and brought out a check for $100,000. Two men got out from the Buick. One appeared to be tall and black. The other was white and puffy. The black guy was baldheaded. The white guy had a short brown hair. They were dressed up just like Fed's. Castello was in fact amazed, Betha's collectors generally seem like thugs with single digit IQ's.

They strolled up to Castello standing on the corner.

"Hey, guys," Castello stated having a smile. "Dude, I got your cash. Let me cash it at the check cashing store over there."

"We know, homeboy," the black guy stated harshly. "A $100,000."

"Hell no," Castello said securely. "You mean 10 G's, eh?"

The men revealed their badges. "We're from the Treasury Department," the white guy stated strongly, snatching the check out of his hand. "You owe us $100 grand in back taxes."

Castello's jaw dropped. "This is insane, dude," Castello stated bluntly.

"Thank you, homeboy," the black guy stated cheerfully, patting him on the back. "We'll send you a receipt, bruh!" the men strolled off.

Then appeared out of the blue had been Betha.

"My money, boo!" he stated bitterly.

Mr. Castello brought out the firearm. Hank put his arms around him and squeezed tight. The gun went off into his chest several times. Hank clammed down on his teeth but kept squeezing. Castello kept shooting. Mr. Betha squeezed tighter and more tightly.

The tight squeezes made Castello's bones crack madly his eyes bulging as he dropped the weapon and blood began to pill out of his mouth. Hank let Castello go considering he was very finished and would be no more threat. Castello sunk right down to the ground coughing loudly for a moment before dying.

But Hank Betha was in no better shape either with blood oozing quickly from massive wounds in his chest. He staggered down the street a few feet before he fell dead in front of a donut shop.

THE END

# About The Author

I live somewhere in Berkeley and have lived in Nevada. I worked as a busboy while writing stuff about Russia. From there I studied writing at a community collage but because of alcohol problems, I missed a lot of classes. I wrote a potent small collection of stories called The Crimes In File No. 9. My goal is to get a million readers because reading is very important and so many people can't read. I want to end this especially in poor neighborhoods. If you have a copy of this book, I want to thank you your support.

