 
# Terror in Reno

By Darryl Harrison

Copyright 2014, 2015 Darryl Harrison

Smashwords Edition and Blood Eye Publications

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Many thanks for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your buddies. This book may be duplicated, reproduced and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book stays in its complete original style. In the event, you enjoyed this book, please come back to Smashwords.com to explore other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

# Tables of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

About the author

For Mom

# Chapter 1

That night turned into a real slime-poop once Jackson stepped out of the courthouse. He strutted down the steps like some street pimp until bullets spray at him from a speeding blue Buick. Jackson had barely enough time to dive down the steps to avoid the bullets. Yet he came out okay.

# Chapter 2

It was 4:00 am when Keith Jackson got up and made coffee. Once the coffee maker was done gargling loudly in the peaceful morning. The strong horrid smell of black coffee woke him up and probably every poop-brain in the neighborhood. Jackson poured him a cup from a kinda dirty cup and spiked it with Chavis Regal. He couldn't get through the day without being a little twisted. Four in the morning is a dead lingering silence foreign to him since he normally gets up at 10 by this time the neighborhood is slammed with traffic and screaming kids on their way to school. The reason he was up was to complete a long over do divorce case which has spilled over into two months. He was in deep sorrow thinking about his often sick aunt Natalie Day who's being beaten down by gout causing extreme joint pain.

By ten o'clock, he was very done with his report. The air coming in from his open window brought exhaust fumes and eggs, bacon from the nearby restaurants. Also piles of dog poop everywhere because ill responsible lazy mindful butt worms wouldn't clean up behind their little fury monsters. There were cracks made in the walls of his apartment, with cheesy furnisher, which made the front room hella ugly. There were hella dirty clothes all over the place, with tons of empty Olde English beer can, and used condoms on the scratch up hard wood floors. A slimy homeless dude would be certainly terrified to step into side this funky palace. He didn't shower he simply ran out of the shabby room with a massive joint dangling from his horrid mouth. He dressed in a large T-shirt, with baggy blue jeans.

# Chapter 3

Jackson pulled into the raggedy garage of his office building. The damn clouds had snuck up on him turned what appear to be a banging day was going to be a rainy poop fest. He got out of his car, walking through the yellow lawn hopping over piles of dog poop to get to the door. Raindrops began to pounce on his big bald egghead. Why did this bum come to work? All he did was smoke crack cocaine and drank all day raising hell with his secretary Miss Tangy Miller and the fact she wouldn't give him a kiss.

A woman with long auburn and sky blue eyes and a banging body was sitting on the wet steps. She appeared to be sobbing. Jackson emerged from his pimpmobile, clinging to a bottle of Chavis Regal. Also the black man had a joint dangling out of his horrid mouth.

"Hey, baby-girl! What's up?" he asked strongly with a serious stare.

"I need help," she said sadly.

"What kinda help, baby?" he snapped.

"My friends missing," she said sharply.

"Here, drink some boo," he said firmly and handed over the bottle.

The woman took a long swing from the bottle and wasn't out of practice as she handed it back. She wiped her lips with her sleeve.

"Thank you, sir! I really needed that," she said sharply, trying to smile.

"Come inside. It's raining like cats and dogs!" he said strongly, moving past her to the door, unlocked it, and pulled the door opened. "Come on, babe. Hurry up!"

She got up and ran it. She sat down in a cheap-ass hella squeaky wooden chair. Jackson gave his joint to her and drew on it hard as he poured her a glass of whiskey.

"My name is Sherrie Graham," she said sharply as she took a long suck from the joint.

"I'm Keith Jackson," he said strongly in a strong ghetto tone.

The building was made of brick and badly brick layered; tinted windows were crack, pathway and steps too. Shrubberies were hella ghetto needing to be cut. The inside of the spot wasn't any better. His scratched up desk took up half of the small shabby office. Cheesy filing cabinet was in the corner Salvation Army-looking furniture. The best thing occupying the lousy room was the big pictures of nude black women on the walls. There was a bunch of empty bottles of whisky and Country Club (beer) scattered about the place. There was a trashcan full of used condoms. There were seven huge piles of Playboy and slutty black girl magazines. They were stacked high against the wall. The place smelled like a dead dog's booty because this very building used to be a veterinarian hospital. He painted the inside with multiple coats of paint but nothing. He was better off smearing the walls with shit. Because of this, Tangy kept a case of Air fresheners handy.

# Chapter 4

"So who's missing?" Jackson asked strongly as he guzzled the bottle of whiskey.

"Belinda Sands," she said, finishing off the joint. "Dude, are you afraid of getting busted?"

"I don't give a damn! All the po-pos know my butt gets hella high everyday. Them poop-brains do the same too baby," he said strongly, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"How much do you charge?" she asked.

"I'm not sure that I'm taking this, bruh," he said sharply and took a long suck from the whiskey bottle.

"Please brother!" she pleaded strongly.

"Why me?" he snapped.

"They say you're the best. And you like to get high like me too," she said as she combed her wet hair back.

"Hell yeh!"

"So will you help me?"

"Why don't you tell me everything," he said strongly as he lit another joint. "Then we'll see."

"Belinda's a singer, and was performing at the Mint Casino with her band The Sunshiners," she said sharply.

"Cool band. I've heard of them, but have never seen them perform," he said strongly with a smirk.

"The final show ended at about 2:30 am. Then she'd leave right away, getting into her cab, 115. He always waited for Belinda outside the casino. She would get home by 2:45," she said calmly.

"Is Miss Sands staying with you?" he said, taking a huge hit from his weed.

"That's right. I began to get worried when five came and she still hadn't come in the door," she said strongly, taking a long suck from Jackson's joint.

The rain continued to come down hard, creating loud thumping sounds on the roof.

"Would anybody else give her a ride?" he asked sharply.

"No. If they offered she'd say no especially if she didn't know them," she said sharply.

"So she's not the type to get in vehicles with stranger?" he asked clearly.

"Hell no."

The loud sounds of thunder crackled through the sky, making everybody jump. Then the lights began flickering like some spooky haunted house stuff. Jackson walked over to the window and looked out.

"The rains really coming down hard huh?" she said, lighting a cigarette.

"For sure. I won't be able to play basketball today," he said strongly.

Miss Graham laughed.

"Maybe tomorrow will be a better day," she said strongly, blowing smoke into the air.

Jackson took out a bottle of Country Club beer from the small icebox. "Let's hope tomorrow's better, baby."

Jackson removed the cap from the bottle and started guzzling at this time Miss Graham had moved up to his face. She started kissing his horrid lips. For what reason he didn't know.

She continued kissing him passionately. After that, she grabbed the bottle of beer and began guzzling. When she got her fill she gave it back to Keith.

"You said this happened earlier this morning?" he said sharply as he took a long suck of his beer bottle.

"Yes that's right!" she said.

"Did you call the police?" he asked firmly.

"Of course! They're just ignorant-poop!" she cried sharply and took a long pull from her cigarette.

"yeh. Lt. Betha is a big ignorant-poop. What did they say?"

"Dude, I don't know!" she said harshly, blowing smoke out her nose.

"You didn't even call the butt worms, dog! I can't go looking until 24 hours. Besides I don't normally work on open cases," he said sharply, finishing the beer.

"The weather sucks!" she said, finishing her cigarette.

"For sure," he said firmly with a smirk.

"I like the snow better," she snapped.

"Snows always good. It may do just that in a few months," he said sharply with a smile.

"Your weed is good and your whiskey too," she said strongly, removing cash from her purse.

"I aim to please," he said, grinning.

"Here's a thousand to start off. They'll be much more if you need it," she said strongly, placing a check on the table.

"All right! You can go now baby," Jackson said strongly as he grabbed another bottle of Country Club beer from the icebox.

"You're going to work now," she said sharply.

"When I get ready too baby. I'm going to get high right now. Then I'll go see what's up," he said and took a long guzzle from the bottle.

# Chapter 5

Finally after an early drinking binge Jackson was moving through the Mint casino he stopped at a blackjack table where a man dressed like an oilman with a woman who's butt shouldn't even be there. She was dressed like she knitted sweaters for a living. Jackson sat down with a stack of chips.

After a while, those chips were fading away. The others weren't having much luck either.

"Hey, man. I'd kiss you if I could get a better hand," the oilman said sharply, frowning at his cards.

"Man get the hell away from me dude," Jackson snapped sharply.

"Yeh, my cards have gone to sleep too," the woman said sharply.

Then some more time went by and Jackson's stack began to sprout up a little. The dealer began to look like a fool out there.

"I need a drink up in this joint," Jackson shouted bluntly.

"I got water in my car. I forgot to put the top up," the oilman said strongly with a smirk.

"Dude, you're hella dumb," Jackson said firmly.

"Then what do I do, dude?" the oilman asked strongly.

"Dog, just get a big vacuum strong enough to suck up all the water from your seats and floors," Jackson said sharply.

"Wow. Why didn't I think of that?" he said.

"That's why they invented me bruh," Jackson said strongly with a smirk and guzzled his whiskey.

Jackson received a king of hearts as his face card. He was hoping he had an ace underneath. The woman had a two of clubs on top and the oilman had a five a diamonds. Everyone asked for a hit but Jackson because his bottom card was an ace of hearts. The dealer had a five and hit himself too only to bust and everyone else did so.

"Slime you guys! I'm a winner again," Jackson said strongly with a big smile gathering up his chips.

"You sure are a lucky black man," the oilman said sharply.

"Yeh. I'm almost done here. I've got to win a damn hand!" the woman said sharply.

"Hey! Did any of you catch the Belinda show last night?" Keith asked strongly.

"Yeh. That awful show. My grandson beating pots and pans together sounds better than that stuff," the oilman said harshly.

"Great show. I'm planning to see her again," she said strongly with a smile and took a long drink of some white chalky stuff.

"Anybody seen her around today?" Jackson asked strongly.

"Naw," the oilman snapped.

"Nope," she said calmly.

When Jackson started to win that's when he decided to get up and cash in his wining before he puts it all back.

# Chapter 6

Jackson walked around the not-so busy casino. It was early noon and the people didn't start rolling in until about maybe four or five. He grabbed a drink off the waitresses tray and cut away down by the showroom. It was a small glass of whiskey.

He stood there drinking whiskey while watching the stage. The huge curtain was drawn now, nothing but silence. He thought about eight o'clock when everything might be popping-off with huge crowd, dancing to awesome jazz-blues band.

There was loud noise coming from a machine behind the curtain. Then the curtain opened. A couple of Mexicans were working hard, cleaning the stage with a huge shampoo machine. They spoke Spanish loudly over the machines noise. They were a hall on the side of the stage. Keith started down it.

A homely woman came out of one of the green doors. The sign read in bold white letters "Booking Agent" she was tall and lanky about forty with white streaks in her coal-looking long black hair. Her eyes were a cold blue, wearing big white sweat with tight red jeans. She seemed like a cranky broad and had enough of her job.

"Do I know you?" she asked sharply.

"I don't think so baby," he said strongly.

"What are you doing back here?"

"I'm looking for you," he said.

"Are you a performer?" she said sharply.

"No baby! I'm a friend of Miss Sands," he said.

"What's your name?" she said.

"What's yours," he snapped.

"Anna Weakland," she snapped.

"I'm Keith Jackson, a private investigator," he said strongly, lighting a joint.

"What happened?"

"Miss Graham believes something happened to her," he said, blowing smoke out of his nose.

"Well she isn't here yet. Her show doesn't start until six," she said firmly. "You may check back then."

"Well she's worried about her," he said strongly and took a long drag from his joint.

"Wouldn't she be with Sherri? She's supposed to be staying there," she said sharply.

"But she's not!" he said.

"Is that weed you're smoking?" she said strongly.

"Yes. I'm really sick bruh. I need my medicine," he said.

"Well drugs are illegal in the state of Nevada," she said sharply.

"Dude I already know that!" he said hotly, finishing his joint.

"Let me call her," she said strongly as she dialed the numbers on her cell phone.

She tried several times but the phone just kept going to voicemail.

"Well?" he snapped.

"Nothing. Just her message box," she said sadly.

"Does she pick up strange men?" he asked firmly.

"No, Belinda isn't a whore. She's worldly young lady," she said sharply. "Why don't you wait around until six? That's when Belinda's show starts. I know she'll be here," she said sharply and walked off.

# Chapter 7

Jackson parked his pimpmobile in front of the River's Taxi Company, an old brick building with square windows. He sat in the car watching the place and drinking Beefeater. The lot was huge with several taxi's parked there, many brand-new. There was a guy pimping gas into his vehicle ready to start his shift.

Jackson finally got out of the car and approached the building. He went inside. He smelled a cigarette coming from a room down the hall so he took a stroll over to the door, which was open. There were two long white tables, and two big vending machines one with chips and candy, the other was soda. He put a long brown joint into his horrid mouth and lit it. The coat rack was full. There was nobody in there just a cigarette left burning in the ashtray.

While outside a medium sized man, about fifty walked up to Keith, carrying a cup of coffee. Taxi's were pulling off quickly onto the highway.

"Hi, what can I do for you?" he said strongly with a smile.

"I'm looking for a friend," Jackson said strongly, blowing smoke out of his mouth.

"Does he work here?" the man said firmly and took a sip of his coffee.

"Yeh. Art," Jackson said strongly.

"Well...it's seven-forty-five. Art should be here already. His shift starts at eight. Just wait around for a while have some coffee.

"Ok," Jackson said.

"Hey, man! Your cigarette smells like weed," the man said sharply.

"It sure in the hell better," Jackson said strongly.

The man gave him a strange look.

"You can wait in the break room and put that weed out!" the man said sharply and walked off.

All of a sudden, a bunch of ratty looking people came in the break room carrying brown sacks, with Pepsi and Coke cans. They were of all races and sizes. An assortment of perfumes blended in the air with horrid body odor. But he noticed a an old booty-face that looked like an Art come rushing into the break room stepping on Keith's toes. He wore a red flannel shirt and faded blue jeans.

Jackson grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Hey, Mac. What the hell!" he snapped.

"Are you Art?" Keith asked strongly.

"Yes. What's up?" Art asked firmly grabbing a coffee pot to pour him a cup.

"I want to know about a girl you picked up this morning," Jackson said sharply.

"I pick up many girls, bro," Art said as he sipped his coffee.

Jackson took out a photo and shoved it in Art's face. Art nodded at the photo.

"Oh yes. This broads very pretty," Art said strongly with a smile, moving out of the room.

"Where did you drop her off," Jackson asked sharply, chasing after Art.

Art found a new-looking cab and throw his stuff in the front. Then moving to the side, opened the gas tank and shoved a nozzle into the hole.

"This crazy broad! She told me to drop her off at the Wells Overpass," Art said firmly.

The smell of gas was making Jackson sick.

"Hey, Art. I had a great time beating your butt in poker," one cabdriver said sharply.

"Next week I'll get my money back poop-face!" Art said strongly.

"Art, I'll see you at the Reno Airport," another driver said firmly with a smile as he was rushing to his cab.

"You better not take my spot dog-poop," Art said strongly replacing the nozzle.

"Are we going to bowl tonight?" one driver gassing his cab said strongly.

"Not with your ugly face. I'm going with Flow," Art said sharply as he finished off his coffee.

"Did you leave Miss Sands at the overpass?" Jackson said sharply.

"Well, sure. I waited for a while. I couldn't understand why a hot-looking chick wanted to wander around there at 2:45 at night. You know there is hella bull up there. Damn rapist, bums and crack heads," Art explained calmly.

"So your ignorant-butt just left her there?" Jackson said to him.

"Miss Sands paid her fare. She didn't want me to stick around," Art said firmly.

"She better not be hurt punk!" Jackson said harshly.

"I've got to go now," Art said strongly as he got inside his cab.

# Chapter 8

Jackson awoke the next morning not looking forward to doing anything but getting high. He sat on the edge of his bed for a while. Then he went through the drawers looking for his joint. When he found it, he jammed it in his mouth and lit it.

His assistant Tangy Miller helps him from time to time when she's not on the street selling her body. But she's beautiful at 5'7, with long black hair and dark-blue eyes. He found her face down in vomit from a drug overdose. But thank God she survived. She is extremely remarkable at investigating.

Well he had Tangy showing Belinda Sands photo around bus terminals, airports and train stations, different casinos with cabarets and places where musicians would hangout. She had no luck nobody ever saw such a woman and probably wouldn't forget if they did. So maybe Miss Sands left Reno. She could have gotten a ride from somebody. Then why would she just get up and leave town? She still has more shows to perform.

Keith ran into the kitchen and started a pot of black strong coffee. He was planning to visit the Reno police department to find out anything regarding the disappearance of Belinda Sands. And if so maybe they could compare notes. Since now, it's been over twenty-four hours. And Miss Sands hasn't turned up. The coffee was now ready.

Keith poured some Midnight Moon into his coffee and began sipping. Then he got dressed up in a large white T-shirt over XX large baggy blue jeans and some Nikes. He turned on some jazz music while he thought about how he'd approach the day.

After his fifth cup of coffee now nearly drunk, he tried to finish his fourth bowl of cereal. He had a tall glass of orange juice but didn't really touch it. Also four stacks of wheat toast. He changed the music to rap.

# Chapter 9

Jackson parked his pimpmobile between two police units...one with a K-9 who kept barking his butt off.

Well he staggered into the police station with the upmost confidence. Not at all thinking about being arrested for intoxication. He just had this bug-off attitude about rules.

Well Lt. James Betha was a large man, always wore suit two sizes too small. So It made him look kinda sloppy. He smoked cigars bigger than Jackson's arm. He was dark-skinned with rats face, making his dark-ass eyes look hella evil. His teeth looked messed up and made his breathe smell like spoiled sausage.

"Is that fat head black man in the office," Jackson said strongly to the lanky officer at the desk, with a slur in his voice.

"Are you drunk?" the officer snapped.

"Hell yeh, poop-face! Gee, just get this fat punk. You know me," Jackson said harshly.

It was hard to imagine how this black man stayed a patrol officer long enough to tie his shoes. He leaped all the way to lieutenant, stomping over racism.

His strong character would probably push himself into being the governor of Nevada.

# Chapter 10

"Easy Ofc. Bradly," Ofc. Janet Cannon said strongly.

Bradly let go of Jackson.

"This Creep is drunk!" Off. Bradly said harshly.

"Please let me handle this!" she said firmly.

"Ok." He walked off down the hall.

There were several folks sitting in the hall as they waited for Bradly to solve their problems.

"So what's up, Keith?" Janet said firmly with a smile.

"It's nice to see you baby-girl," he said cheerfully. "That booty sure filled out."

"So you like that?" she said strongly with a smirk.

"Hell yeh!"

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked firmly.

"No thanks baby. I'd rather have you," he said, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"So what's really up? I know you didn't come here just to gaze at my booty-luscious body," she said.

"Actually I did. No, I'm looking for that big head fart-breath about a missing person case," he said, lighting his joint.

"You mean Lieutenant Betha?"

"Yeh that ignorant-bulldog," he snapped.

"Well he's at a murder scene!"

"What popped off," he said and took a long drag from the weed.

"They found a young woman at the overpass," she said strongly.

"Was she dead?"

"Yes, I believe so," she said, brushing back her hair.

"The overpass on Wells Ave!"

"That's right!"

"Ok. I will holla at you later," he said sharply as he strolled off towards the door.

"Take it easy!" she said.

"For sure!"

# Chapter 11

When Jackson arrived at Wells Ave Overpass, traffic was so fucked up. Hella backed up all the way to Taco Johns. So he parked in Taco Johns. And he strolled down the street towards the many police units scattered about the area with their red, yellow and blue flashing.

He was so jumpy lately whenever there's been any crime committed or murder since Belinda Sands had been missing. And he was surely hoping it wasn't her eating the bullet this time.

And for him no murder was cool whether it was her or some messed up black man who probably deserved it.

It was difficult for Keith to get through to the action with nosy folks hanging around many appeared to be homeless people that frequented this area often. Also threw in a few casino works that on their way to work.

Now to make matters worst the rain started to come down a little bit. There was a load of uniform officers. Everywhere you turn, with medic people and forensic folks. The officers were trying to keep people back. Jackson was looking around trying to find Lt. Betha.

# Chapter 12

Jackson took out his Sony DSC-F707 silver camera. He was sure who'd be on ice in this horrid area. Many bums and lousy HIV hookers turn up dead over here all the time. Keith wouldn't expect a fairly decent girl to be in these parts like Miss Sands but you never know.

Jackson was getting a little stoned at this point. He took out a huge joint and shoved it into his mouth. He lit it while his ugly face was searching for Lt. Betha. He was getting a little wet because he didn't bring a jacket.

Well he shoved his way through the crowd up to where an officer was holding people back. He stopped at the crime scene tape. He took a long pull from his joint as saw Betha standing there barking orders like some bullfrog punk. The coroner's were pushing a stretcher through the muddy hill, sliding down sometimes onto the mud but kept getting back up like some comedy routine.

"Hold it!" the officer said harshly to Jackson.

"Get the hell off me!" he said sharply. "I'm here to see Lt. Betha."

"Who are you, homey?" the officer snapped.

"Keith Jackson. That ignorant pit-bull knows me," Jackson said firmly, blowing smoke into his face.

"Ok. Let me confirm this," he said strongly.

"Go confirm it, dog-face."

The officer casually strolled over to Betha. There seemed to be an argument before Betha finally moved towards where Jackson was standing. The coroners finally got the stretcher over to the wagon after it tipped over twice. The body almost rolled into the lake.

Lt. Betha stopped in front of Jackson huffing and puffing. He was getting soaked.

"What is it, dog?" he said harshly, snatching the joint from Keith's mouth and he tossed it on the muddy ground.

"Black man, are you crazy? That hella some good stuff!" Jackson said vociferously.

"What are you doing here, bruh?" Lt. Betha said sourly.

"Who is on that stretcher?" Keith asked firmly.

"None of your business bruh!" Lt. Betha snapped.

"I'm working on a missing person case," Keith said strongly, pulling up his jeans.

"Then take your butt on to your case, baby."

"I'm looking for a woman named Belinda Sands."

"You think this her?" Lt. Betha snapped.

"I'm really hoping brother it's not," Keith said strongly.

"We don't know. We haven't found her identification yet. But it is a young woman about twenty to thirty years old," Betha said sharply.

Betha shoved a big cigar into his bullfrog face and lit it. The rain began to let up.

"Stop the wagon. Let me see the body, dude!" Jackson demanded harshly, rushing over to the wagon but it took off down the busy street.

"Hey, bruh. Why don't you go handle your business? You have my permission to photograph the body," Lt. Betha said sharply, puffing on his massive cigar.

# Chapter 13

Jackson stopped at the Reno Coroner building. It was a small brick-looking job on E. Second Street. Jackson walked through smoking a joint. The staff there didn't even notice him. The Deputy coroner was a Keith Black. He was a little mouthy black dude. He always munching on fried chicken and drank a little Heineken while performing autopsies.

Jackson strolled into his office with his pimp-walk. There Mr. Black was standing over a body, eating fried chicken. He was drinking Olde English (beer) this time. The body was ripped open from the upper chest area down to the stomach. The intestine was hanging out of the side of the body.

Jackson took one look at this and threw up on the floor.

"You're cleaning that old-blood," Black said strongly.

"Man, you're a sick, Gee!" Jackson said sharply wiping his mouth with his arm.

"Yeh maybe, bruh. So what's up with ya?" he said firmly and he sucked on a wing bone.

"I want to know about that body you just got," Jackson said and took another big hit from his joint.

"Oh yeh. You mean that white girl," Mr. Black said strongly, took a long sip from his beer, and walked with Jackson outside his office before Jackson got sick again.

"You want a piece of chicken, bro-bro?"

"Hell no, dude!"

Jackson was staring at the many different shapes and colors of bottles on the shelves. And an assortment of strange instruments place neatly on the table. They often were dancing for him as he was now getting hella stoned again. But the stink of dead was making him sick again.

Mr. Black stood over a body motioning Jackson to come over. Jackson was shaking his head.

"Well baby. What do you think?" Black said firmly with a smile.

"I think this girls has seen better days," Jackson said sharply, pulling out his camera. He soon began taking shots and trying not to belch.

He took out the photo of Miss Sands.

"This could be her," Mr. Black said, studying it.

The woman was very pale. Her buskin hair was mixed with dirt and leaves. Her throat was grossly ripped out. And part of the windpipe was sticking out.

"What can you tell me man?" Jackson said sharply.

"I don't know bruh. I just got her an hour ago," Black said sharply as he bit into a thigh.

"What can you tell me by glance?" Jackson said and took the final hit from his joint.

"Well...she wasn't sexually assaulted. But the killer or animal is a sick psychopath. I'm thinking some kinda animal gee. I'll know more after the autopsy," he said firmly as he took another huge bit from his piece of chicken thigh.

"What sorta damn animal?" Keith asked strongly.

"A dog or wolf maybe!" Black said sharply finishing his thigh.

"What about a knife or razor?"

"That's a possibility bro-bro. Like I said I'll know more after the autopsy," Mr. Black stated strongly.

"All right. I holler at you later," Jackson said and walked out.

# Chapter 14

Jackson was back at the crime scene. Many of the folks had already left. And the police and forensic people had gone too. So Keith took out his camera and began taking pictures of the crime area. Sometimes there is something that was overlooked, not all the time but some of the time.

Well Jackson walked along a metal fence. It went down the river. He noticed a necklace with an ugly eye on it preserved in some sorta of bloody liquid. The thing was hella scary. The rain had stopped for a while. The area was muddy. There were signs where some of the police staff had slipped, leaving marks. And a lot of muddy footprint. Made it difficult was his investigation.

The necklace was hella rare and some evil bull. None of the people investigating this crime scene wore such a necklace. Nor did any homeless folks but he had to find out. He wasn't even sure the body laying in that smelly morgue was Miss Sands. They didn't find any identification. Her purse if she had one was gone.

Behind the fence, there were several factory buildings. Maybe somebody saw something. There was some homeless encampments along the flowing river. So maybe they saw something too. There were clothes everywhere earlier and trash. Everything is gone now. The police lab is going through that stuff.

# Chapter 15

Jackson soon found out the brutally murder woman was Miss Belinda Sands. Now he was parked in from of a five-story brown brick building called Chrystal Apartments with windows shaped like igloos and panoramic mountain views. The rent must have been about $850.00 a month. This is where Miss Graham was staying.

He was in the area of S. Wells a few blocks away from the murder scene as he sat in his pimpmobile, a Dodge Dart 1976. He drank from a huge bottle of Colt 45, thinking about how he would break the bad news to Miss Graham. He could have called. But he thought a more personal touch would be better.

It was noon. The rain started back up, slowly. Jackson sat in his car drinking beer and watching folks running into their homes to escape the rain. Some people were smart carrying huge umbrellas. It was good that it was rain because Nevada needed it. Their had been a drought for so long.

Well he got out of his car. He walked over to Miss Graham's door and knocked. After about ten thrashings on the door, it finally opened. Miss Graham stood there with a smile on her face. She wore a pink sweater and blue jean. She had a beer bottle in her hand.

"Well, Mr. Jackson. How are you?"

"It's all good," he said strongly with a smirk.

She invited him in and he sat on her brown leather sofa. He wore a blue sports shirt with very baggy grey jeans. Keith looked at many paintings around the room going back to 400 years or more. There were plants everywhere. The walls were colored pink and yellow. There was a pink cat scratching a black chair in the corner.

"Would like a beer?" she said cheerfully.

"Hell yeh!"

She went into the kitchen. Jackson got up and walked over to a purple plant that was making strange noises. He touched the purple bud and it bit his finger.

She came back with a beer, a Budweiser. "Here you go."

"That booty-face bit me!" he snapped.

"Oh, that's Alexy. She's not too taken by strangers. I'm sorry," Miss Graham said sadly.

"It's cool. I shouldn't have been messing around with her," he said strongly sucking on his finger.

"Can I get you a Band-Aid?" she asked softly and took a long swig of beer.

"Nah!"

"You have news," she said.

"Your friend is dead!" he said strongly and took a long suck from his beer bottle.

"Dead?" she said bluntly.

"That's right!" he said sharply.

"Are you sure, man?"

"Yes!"

Miss Graham became hysterical and threw the beer bottle at the wall. It shattered and beer ran down the wall. She took a knife and began cutting into one of her fancy paintings of a three-headed duck. She hella shredded that worthless thing.

Tears ran down her face as she lifted over a table full of fancy dishes onto the floor, making a loud crashing sound. She smashed her lamp. With a baseball bat, she smashed her sculpture of George Clooney.

Miss Graham had spent the lunch hour turning living room into junk as she cried over her friend. The pink cat went into his bedroom. Jackson sat there watching her as he finished his third beer.

Then he finally got up and grabbed her, pushing her face into his chest. She cried for two hours. He just rubbed her back.

"It's going to be alright. I'm going to find the poop-face who did her. That's real talk," he said strongly.

# Chapter 16

Miss Graham was pushing on Jackson's chest. She wanted him to go. So he did just that.

"I need a drink. Do you want one?" she said strongly.

"For sure," he said softly.

Miss Graham fixed two drinks of bourbon. She handed Jackson his. His shirt was soaked with tears and sweat. He pulled the shirt off and tossed it in the chair. His chest was sorta built tough. It was amazing he had taken the time to workout because he spent most of the time getting stoned.

Keith guzzled that drink down like it was nothing. Miss Graham continued to sip hers as she watched Belinda's painting with her playing a pink guitar.

"I hoped you liked your drink!" she said sharply.

"Can I get another one?" he said strongly.

"Yes. Help yourself."

Jackson poured himself several as the afternoon rolled on. He stuck a massive joint in his mouth and lit it. She was just finishing up her third drink.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act up and tear my living room. You must think I'm a mad lady," she said with a little laugh.

"Nah. I think you're hella sexy," Jackson said firmly and took a long drag from his joint. "Anybody would react this way losing a loved one. That's straight up."

"When I was in your arms all that time I felt real safe. You made me feel like nobody in the world would hurt me," she said strongly and guzzled her drink.

"I try to please," he snapped as he handed over the joint. "Hit this weed. You'll feel better."

She took a long drag. "You're right. This is some good stuff!"

"It's Ganga with a blend of LAD," he said with a laugh.

"I was thinking about all the great times we had. Belinda used to teach me how to play the guitar, sing and dance. She always laughed at my harebrain jokes. She dated a lot of my ugly male friends when I knew how much she hated it. We celebrated when she started performing at better casinos like The Mint. We laughed and cried a lot together," she explained sharply as she guzzled her sixth bourbon.

"I'm sure you had hella good times and you'll miss her," Jackson said sharply and lit another joint.

"How did she die?" she asked firmly.

"Her throat was ripped or cut open," he said strongly and took a long pull from his joint.

"Sounds like a fucking animal did this," she said strongly.

"That's what coroner thinks," he said strongly, blowing smoke in the air.

"What do you think?"

"I was just up there where her body was found. I didn't see no dog or any animal footprints," he said clearly and took another hit.

"Where did you find her?" she asked.

"At Wells Overpass."

"That's near here."

"Did she go there to meet somebody?" he asked firmly, staring at a grand piano cover with sheet music.

"I couldn't imagine why," she said, pouring herself another drink.

"You don't know?"

"She doesn't tell me everything."

"I think some homeless slime wasted her," he said strongly and took another huge hit from his joint.

"That could be true," she said, sipping her drink. "That is a dangerous place to be."

"What do you make of this?" he asked firmly, producing the necklace.

She studied it for a moment.

"Yuck, dude! That thing is horrible. Take that away dude," she said haughtily with a frown.

"This thing doesn't belong to Miss Sands?"

"Hell no! She doesn't wear awful jewelry like that," she said positively.

"Does Miss Sands do any drugs?" he asked strongly.

"No really," she snapped.

"Where were you between 2:00am and 7:00am?" he asked firmly, blowing smoke a towards her.

She became angry and threw her glass at Keith, hitting him in the hand as he was trying to protect his face.

"Screw you, homeboy!"

"Dude, I gotta ask. Nothing personal I need to know everything about her, her friendships and business partners. Anybody that might want her dead," he said strongly, taking a huge pull from his joint. "Everybody's a suspect dude."

"Well mister big-shot detective I was calling the Mint casino all morning trying to get a hold of somebody. I did get a hold of Mrs. Weakland," she said strongly, pouring herself another drink.

"What did she say?" he asked, pulling his baggy jeans.

"Belinda had left already. She thought she was with me," she said and took a long swig from her glass.

"Well you could have killed her. And made the cell phone call standing over her body," he said firmly.

"I didn't kill Belinda! She was my best friend," she said sadly.

"Did anybody threaten Miss Sands?" he asked, finishing his weed.

"Ray?" she snapped acidly.

"Who the is that?" he said sharply.

"Ray Feinstein's the owner of The Madhouse Blues," she said, finishing her seventh drink.

"What did this man do?" he asked firmly.

"Ray was going to cut her face up real nasty so no one would ever come to her shows if she ever left," she said.

"Go away, baby!" he said to the corner where a crocodile head on a woman's body dress in a bikini.

"There's nothing there," she said, staring into the corner.

"Man I'm sorry. It must be something in this damn weed," he said strongly.

"Weed?" she snapped.

"What's this cat like?" he said, looking at some guitars against the wall.

"Ray was very controlling. And always deep into everyone's pockets," she said.

"Did Mr. Feinstein know she was performing in Reno?" he asked, pouring himself a glass of bourbon.

"Everybody knew," she said.

"The Madhouse Blues is in California!" Jackson said and took a long guzzle from his glass.

"Yes, San Francisco," she said sharply as she brushed back her hair.

"I go there and see what I can turn up," he said, finishing his drink.

"You'll take a flight in coach. I'll get you some money," she said, slurring her words. She stumbled around as she went for her purse.

Well Keith saw how messed up she was. She fumbled through her purse recklessly. She soon discovered her small red change purse. She dragged out a bundle of green cabbage. She tossed it over to Keith.

"This should cover any of your expenses. If you need more just call me," she said sharply as she tossed her purse onto the sofa.

Before he walked out the door, he called Reno airport to make reservations to fly to San Francisco.

# Chapter 17

Jackson's aunt Natalie Day Candee was 5'4, 75 years old, with bouncy silver hair, honey-golden brown eyes, rounds nose, and veal colored lips, square chin, pudgy cheeks, and body stood straight up. But she carried a rough personality.

Aunt Natalie lived in Sparks Nevada, alone. Her husband James Candee passed away on September 12, 1998.

She remarried twice. Her second husband was retired lawyer Frank A. Nolan. He passed away on November 28, 2001. Her third husband was a retired casino manager Al Kaiser. He passed away on June 9, 2006. His aunt didn't seem to have much luck with husbands but financially she benefited handsomely.

Aunt Natalie was suffering from gout. Her arteries were in constant pain. Whenever he'd visit there were hundreds of medicine bottles on the table. His thoughts were on her most of the time. Her doctors want to perform heart surgery, for the third time. But she is extremely against it.

Aunt Natalie gets out with her old friends from back-in-the-day as well as some new one she picked up along the way. They all love to go to The Cedar casino in Sparks Nevada. They'll play day and night. She certainly has the bucks to do it. They win big and put it all back.

She could also take down several Tom Collens and still get around for her age.

Aunt Natalie lived on Sullivan Lane, Sparks Nevada. The house was a three-story job, pink brick, about thirty-years old. The place was about worth a million. There were bulletproof tinted windows all around, a wonderful landscaping. There was Pergo flooring, security and central air. She always did have great taste. Keith parked his Dodge Dart next to her white caddy.

The rain had finally stopped leaving many areas flooded. But it had been quite a while since Nevada had seen rain. Water restrictions were already in the works. Nevada is a darn desert with needs water.

Keith had to beat the hell out of the door because Aunt Natalie was hard of hearing. Her TV was also blasting...most of the time game shows. He walked around the place beating on the windows for a while. He finally ringed the buzzer, which he forgot was there. Well she was an old woman and obviously scared.

After a while, he finally heard footsteps slowly approaching the door. Then it took her another twenty-five minutes to remove the locks.

# Chapter 18

When the door finally opened, she stood there watching Keith soon after her smile grew large. She was always happy to see people come around. They both hugged each other real tight for a while rocking back and forth.

When the hugging was over, they stood staring at each other for a moment. Keith was wandering whether she was going to invite him in or just continue a star game.

"Who are you?" she finally asked sharply, looking puzzled.

"It's me auntie. It's Keith," he said strongly with a big smile.

"Oh Keith! My love!" she said strongly. "Come in love!"

Keith sat on her sofa, which was Victorian like everything else.

"Is so nice to see you," he said cheerfully.

"You too, boo-boo," she said strongly, walking slowly toward the sofa.

"You look hella fly," he said cheerfully.

"Would you like a sandwich?" she asked sharply with a smile.

"Yeh. A ham &cheese," he said firmly.

Well she turned around slowly and began moving towards the kitchen. Keith stared at the wall filled with family photos. Keith was in many of them all colored. There were photos with aunt Natalie on horses. Many of the family photos were taken from all over the world. A brown oakwood case was filled with lots of books, mostly law. He saw the large den and office in the back.

The noise from the TV set caught his attention. There was a game show called Joker's Wild. A strange-looking black dude wearing blue suit was playing against a dwarf with loads of blond hair. He looked like a hairy ball. The black dude was a head with winning over $4,000. The dwarf had 1,029. After a couple of good spins from the black guy. His winning had reached 6,000. The dwarf had a couple of good spins too. He was moving up quickly.

Then the black guy pulled the handle for his next spin but received the devil, losing everything.

Aunt Natalie returned struggling to move forward as she carried a silver tray with two sandwiches and two sodas.

"Oh auntie! Let me help you," Keith said strongly.

"No! I'm fine. Keep your butt back!" she said harshly.

Keith pushed away some stacks of Inquirer magazines and empty soda cans. He dropped the tray there. The were ants everywhere. Keith sprayed Raid on those butt worms.

It seemed like an hour had pass by as Natalie sat in her sofa. Keith had already eaten most of his sandwich and drunken his cheap grape soda.

Aunt Natalie wore what she always did sweat suits. Her favorite colors were pink and green.

As she was chewing her sandwich, she said she had gotten sick.

"When?" Keith asked strongly, looking at painting and sculptures throughout the living room.

"Oh the other day," she said, washing down her sandwich with cheap root beer.

"Why didn't you call me?" he said strongly as he finished his sandwich.

"I didn't want to worry you," she said as she bit into her sandwich.

"No problem. You know we're family. You can always count on me," he said and took a long swig from grape soda.

"That's good to know," she said.

"What happened?" he said.

"Norma and I were at the Royal Casino. We were playing the quarter slots," she said.

"Again!"

"Yes again!"

"Was it the ones with the Jokers?" he said, finishing his soda.

"Yes. Those machines tend to payoff better," she said.

"Nothing serious!" he said.

"At the time I thought so. I got real weak, like never before. I began to sweat badly. Then I felt really dizzy and collapsed to the floor next to the slot machine," she said clearly, finishing her sandwich.

"What was wrong?" he asked.

"I think it was low blood sugar. I was a little exhausted. Norma and I did shopping all-day and late into the night. And I hadn't eaten anything," she said strongly.

"Aunt Natalie, you really should get more rest. You should take better care of yourself," Keith suggested strongly.

"I know, child. You're totally right!" she said.

"Do you finally go to the hospital?" he asked firmly.

"Yes. They kept me for a couple of days," she said.

"What about heart surgery?"

"Hell no! They aren't cutting up on my butt!" she said sourly.

"You could die!" he snapped loudly.

"I could die during surgery too!"

"Maybe so. But how would you know if you don't even try," he said strongly.

"Keith I'm almost 85 years old. I'm just not strong enough anymore man," she said, lighting a cigarette.

"For sure," he said.

"Oh, damn! My left leg is starting to hurt. A sharp pain is right through my leg. Oh Lord!" he said, wincing.

"Want me to call your doctor?" he asked with a worried look on his face.

"No baby! Just get my pills," she said harshly.

Aunt Natalie grabbed hold of her legs and began rocking back and forth as if that would help. Keith leaped up and pulled up his baggy jeans. He moved quickly towards the brown oakwood cabinet.

The cabinet had hella pills of many kinds. He wasn't which ones were the pain ones.

"Aunt Natalie! Which ones?" he shouted sharply.

"The big pink ones baby!"

"Ahh. These ones!" he said firmly. And rushed back over to her.

She swallowed one with her root beer.

"Child, It will take a short while to kick in," she said weakly.

"Yeh. I know that's right," he said.

"Do you have a job?"

"Yeh."

"I mean a real job young-blood. Not that detective mess!" she said harshly.

"Aunt Natalie! You know I love this stuff. I couldn't see myself doing anything else. You want a black man to sell drugs?"

"Hell no!"

"Then What?"

"Something more stable. Why don't you work in a casino for at least 10 years? So you can draw social security," she said, blowing smoke towards him.

"Sure. But I never have any luck with casinos," he said sharply, frowning.

"I'm not telling you what to do. Just give it a try," she said.

"Okay, baby! I will for you," he said sharply not really meaning it. He figured Aunt Natalie knew that too.

"Keith, I feel much better now!" she said, lying back onto the sofa.

"I'm glad!" he said.

It got quiet for a while and Aunt Natalie dosed off to sleep. Keith ate a couple more ham cheese sandwiches as he searched around for some booze. His hands were shaking again.

# Chapter 19

San Francisco, California

Ray Feinstein: Madhouse Blues Club.

Keith Jackson's last trip to San Francisco was a couple of years ago. He helped the police catch an extortionist and murderer. The results turned out to be hella devastating. Mr. Lotter refused to surrender on top of a crappy motel building. Frog-lips opened fire on everybody with an Uzi Submachine gun 9mm Parabellum. Ten police officers lost their lives. About a dozen were injured.

Because of this, they had no other choice but to take this psycho-poop out. So the police opened fire cutting this slime-ball to pieces as he took a dive off the building. There was blood and guts everywhere. The whole affair made Keith sick.

The cab he took dropped him off right in front of the club. He tipped the driver so small he flipped him off.

The Madhouse building was on the corner next to Foster's Auto Body Shop. The smell of paint coming from the place made Jackson throw up.

The rocking place was a small red building made of brick with big square tinted windows. On the roof were drums, saxophone, trumpet, guitar and piano. The were picture of blues artist on the windows. The baked bread smelled great coming from Don's Bakery across the street.

The weather was 65 degrees. Jackson wore an oversized red shirt and baggy white jeans. He looked like a strung-out DMX.

Well 3:00pm was a little early for any of the shows and the place was empty except for a few people beginning to set up. Keith saw a large man behind the bar who may have been Mr. Feinstein. The tables and chairs were hella classy, matching the blues atmosphere. The strong smell of wax came from black floors.

The walls were covered with pictures of major blues singers of the past and present. Johnny Lee Hooker was one of them.

Ray Feinstein was about six-foot-two, probably forty-seven. He had bushy-coffee colored hair, with electric-blue eyes, Arabian nose, and round shoulders. He wore a blue three-piece suit. He had on lots bling.

"Hello," Mr. Feinstein said cheerfully.

"Yeh, what's up with it?" Jackson said with a smile.

"You're a little early for the show friend," Feinstein said sharply, as he was cleaning glasses.

"I'm not here to catch a show," Keith said strongly.

"Then what is it?" Feinstein snapped.

"I want to talk!"

"What are we doing?"

"I'm looking for a girl?"

"This girl got a name?" Feinstein said strongly.

"Belinda Sands," Keith said firmly.

"Belinda don't work here no more!" he said harshly and threw a glass at the wall. It broke into pieces.

"Man, I'm sorry bruh. I didn't mean to upset you," Keith said strongly.

"The sound of here name upsets me!" he said sourly as he moved slowly around the bar. His cologne smelled like his ass fell in the bottle.

"Why?" Keith snapped.

"I just hate that lady," Feinstein snapped.

"So you came to Reno and killed her," Keith said sharply, shoving a big joint in his mouth.

"I don't like the way that sounds yuck," Feinstein said spitefully, bashing his fist on the bar counter.

"I don't give a damn, bruh!" Keith snapped as he lit his joint.

"You can't smoke that stuff in here!" he said sourly.

"Slime you, fat boy," Keith said firmly.

"You ain't no friend!"

"I'm a PI," Keith said strongly.

"A butt-worm PI. Well I think your smelly butt better leave," he said sourly, looking hella mean. "Or I'll make chocolate milk out of you."

"Where is your knife, Feenstein?" Keith said with a smirk.

"Feinstein, turd face! Get lost maggot," he said maliciously.

"Slime you!"

"Doo-doo-eater!"

"Slime you!"

Feinstein hit Keith in the face with a hard left. The impact knocked Keith back onto the floor. He didn't see that coming or expect it to come so quickly from a fat boy.

Keith tried to get up but was a little shook up and stayed down for a moment longer. And a trickle of blood ran down his nose. This big idiot could really hit.

"Get up, coward!" he said gruffly. "You black guys ain't tough!"

"All right. Fat turd. Let's rock & roll," Keith said bluntly.

Keith quickly stood to his feet. That remark seemed to give him a little strength.

"All right! Big boy," Keith said strongly with boxing stance.

Feinstein threw a quick right. But this time he missed Keith's face. Keith struck him with two quick right jabs to the man's flabby jaws.

This seemed to confuse Mr. Feinstein for a moment. Keith kicked him in the shin as hard as he could with his right foot like some machine. Feinstein winced in pain as he grabbed hold of his shin.

Keith had begun hitting Feinstein with hard blows with his left and right fist to his face. His hard blows didn't seem to have too much of an effect on Feinstein, even though his face was becoming badly bruised but his will to keep going was dangerous.

# Chapter 20

Keith was moving in too close as he was landing deadening knuckles into Feinstein's bloody face. He made a serious mistake by leaving his stomach open. Feinstein planted an uppercut into Keith's stomach. He flew back into some tables, knocking everything down, crashing onto the floor. Some of the workers just stood there watching in horror. They made no effort to help. Feinstein limped over towards Keith. He was lying down on his back, wincing as he held his stomach.

Feinstein grabbed hold of Keith and lifted him up over his head. He launched Keith into the wall and he slid down to the floor. The hard hit shook him up a bit. As he was slowly trying to get back up Feinstein had produced a knife.

"I'm going to cut you up real good, brother," Feinstein said indignantly, moving up towards Keith.

"All right! Bust a move hog-face!"

Feinstein swung the knife wildly at Keith's face as he quickly moved his head away. As Feinstein move forward, Keith moved back. Keith grabbed a chair and when Feinstein launched at him aiming for his right eye Keith moved to the side to avoid the long blade nearly miss his right eye.

Before Feinstein could regroup, Keith had already had the chair moving quickly at Feinstein's head. It smacked into the side of his face and he dropped the knife. He was breathing hard. Keith was barely breathing. He continued to smash that chair into his face creating big gashes into the skin. Blood ran out down his face and puffing like a basketball.

Feinstein was hardly moving anymore and was sweating badly. Keith hit him in the soar shin and Feinstein yelled out in pain. Keith threw down the busted up chair. He picked up a table and smashed it over Feinstein's head and he went down onto his stomach.

A tall skinny black man wearing coveralls with the name Madhouse Blues came at Keith swinging wildly at his head. Keith kept weaving his head like a boxer to avoid the punches.

When the dude launched like a speed freak at Keith moved a side and the man flew forward onto some tables.

One of the workers came at him, Keith karate kicked him into the head, and he went down hard onto the floor. At this time, Feinstein was getting himself back up to his feet.

"So I see. You've proved your point, hog-nose!" Feinstein stated weakly.

"My head and body are hella messed up. You're a touch hog-booty," Keith said strongly.

"Look at my place! You've destroyed it booty-face! I have a show tonight," Feinstein said sadly and started to cry.

"Slime you, Feinstein! You should have told me what I wanted to know, without this stuff," Keith said strongly.

"Damn you and that Sands lady!" Feinstein stated haughtily.

Keith pulled out this awful necklace.

"Did you lose this big boy?"

"Hell no. I wouldn't ever wear that ugly trash on the worst day of my miserable life," Feinstein snapped sharply.

"All right, Gee."

"Where did you get that thing?"

"Where Miss Sands was killed."

"I've known her for quite a while she wouldn't wear that evil thing, bro," Feinstein

"It's probably hers man."

"No, it's not."

"Were you in Reno the other night?" Keith asked sharply lighting a joint. "You owe me for my other weed, bruh!"

"I wasn't in Reno. I haven't been there," Feinstein snapped.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I've never been to Reno. I've been to Vegas," Feinstein said firmly.

"Where have you been lately?" Keith asked firmly and took a long drag from his joint.

"Here of course," Feinstein said, wiping the blood off his face.

"Any slime nuts see you?" he said, blowing smoke in Feinstein faces.

"Yes, everybody, baby. We were very slow the last few nights," he said strongly.

"Did you threaten Miss Sands with a knife?"

"Yes. The knife I tried to gut you with," he said.

"Why?"

"She refused to perform at my club anymore. Belinda was the only broad who could really pack a darn house," Feinstein explained strongly.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Keith said strongly and took a drag from his joint.

"Belinda had such a beautiful voice, man," he said sadly.

"Well you won't have to worry about her performing at anymore clubs," he said, taking a really long hit.

"How did she go out?" Feinstein asked firmly placing a broken guitar onto the counter.

"Her throat was eaten away or carved, probably by some type of blade," he said firmly.

"Sounds like Belinda was worked over pretty good. It sounds like a real vicious animal did this. I don't do folks with any kinda blade. Not in that gruesome fashion," he said firmly. "If you ask me it sounds like an animal did her."

"Like a dog?"

"Yeh or wolf."

"It wasn't no animal bruh. I didn't see any animal prints just smudged shoe prints."

"Damn!"

"Who would murder Miss Sands?" Keith asked, finishing his joint.

"Belinda's old man was pretty rough," Feinstein said strongly.

# Chapter 21

It was six. Tangy Miller and Jackson were having dinner at the Snake Pit Restaurant. The place was known for it's great rattlesnake dishes. Many of the fantastic places to eat were in the casinos like The Mint.

Unfortunately, they didn't eat any rattlesnake. They tried the roast beef special, which was just as good. It came with sweet potatoes and vegetables. And they drank plenty wine.

Tangy dressed in black silk and red shoes. He had a large necklace around her neck. It was worth quite a bit too. Her pimp black dude paid for everything.

Keith wore a brown suit that was three-sizes too big. So it made him look very sloppy.

The very strong smell of rattlesnake meat full of garlic and onions blew through the place all the time, drowned out everything. But it always smelled so good.

This evening there weren't too many people for a Wednesday. There busiest days are on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It was the worst time for Jackson. He preferred the quietness. But on the other hand Tangy loved the folks piling in like cattle.

All the tables and chairs had snakes made on them. Many folks say they were real snake's skin. And a creepy dude dressed like a snake would perform often bad jokes. But the woman that came in there on Thursday nights only. She was the real deal. She performed with live rattlesnakes and was often bitten. But she would fall dead. They would get a doctor. But she would always awaken by the time the doctor got on stage. Many people thought the snakes weren't even poison. And the whole thing was fake. Then there were people who believed it. And there hella terrified when she performed the show.

When Keith and Tangy were halfway through their meal, they started joking about their vacation. Tangy spent the whole time riding on a Whale at SeaWorld. And which this stuff was hella illegal. Tangy could've been killed as she was thrown into the crowd several times. She walked a way with no injuries. Keith just got hella stoned the whole time. He probably didn't know where he was.

After dinner, they enjoyed wine. Keith stuck a joint into his mouth and lit it.

"You talked to the coroner?" Tangy asked firmly.

"Yes, I did," he said firmly.

"What did that black dude say?" she said firmly, sipping her wine.

"Miss Sands died between 2:00am and 3:00am," he said sharply and took a long drag from his joint.

"Is that so?" she said sharply.

"That's right!"

"You mean that woman sat on a muddy hill until 7:00am?" she said harshly.

"Yeh."

"Who found her?"

"A jogger."

"Not a bum!"

"No bum. I know that's hella strange," he said firmly and took another long hit.

The Mexican busyboy stared at Keith as he smoke his weed but didn't do anything. And none of the people complained.

"There's lots of homeless people frequenting that area all the time. Somebody should've heard her screams," she said strongly and guzzled her wine.

"I and many of the other investigators believe Miss Sands was murderer by homeless people," Keith said, blowing smoke in the air.

"That could be very possible," she said.

Mel the new waiter came by and removed their plates. He came back with another bottle of wine. He didn't seem to care about Jackson smoking dope.

"How was your meal?" he asked firmly with a smirk.

"Everything was good!" Tangy said strongly and took a long sip of wine.

"Hell yeh. Fantastic!" Keith said cheerfully.

"Great!" Mel said sharply with a bigger grin. He rushed off back into the kitchen.

"Mel is hella nice-looking," she said strongly, brushing back her hair.

"I noticed the way you looked at that pretty-boy," he said sharply and took a long hit from his joint.

"You're jealous?" she snapped.

"Hell yeh. I hate that pretty candy-punk," he said sourly and took a huge gulp of wine.

"You're my dream boat!" she said cheerfully.

"I better be broad," he said strongly.

Jackson was always staring at Mel. But Mel didn't look like a killer. He was too pretty. If the sugary-slime ball did kill her he would've got caught standing there looking in a mirror until the cops showed up.

"You say she was a musician?" she said, finishing her wine.

"Hell yeh," he snapped, finishing his joint.

Mel returned with some chocolate mousse.

"There could've been someone in her band," she said strongly and took a huge mouthful of mousse.

"Or a rival club act," Keith said sharply and stuck some mousse into his mouth.

"A jealous lover!" she added strongly.

"Bruh, I don't know why the killer didn't dump the body in the river," he said sharply.

"It would've taken longer to find," she said, finishing her desert.

"I think so, bruh," he said firmly.

"Or maybe the killer wanted to show his talents," she said.

Well folks started to clear out slowly. Busboys moved in for the kill, meaning to clear all the tables. And the busgirls pushed a carpet sweeper throughout the restaurant.

"Do you think we're looking for a serial killer?" she asked firmly as she took out a makeup kit.

Mel had just brought Keith a double whiskey.

"Nah. There hasn't been anymore murder's related to this one," he said strongly and gulped his whiskey. "Also there was no obvious evidence like in most serial profile killings. There is always some type of damn signature."

"How did she die?"

"Her throat was ripped open or cut. Some of it was gone," he said firmly.

"Sounds like some damn dog got her like a pit-bull," she said strongly as she put on lipstick.

"I didn't remember seeing any animal prints."

Keith took out this necklace and placed it on the table.

"What is that ugly thing?"

"I found this thing at the murder scene. The killer must have dropped it," he said strongly.

"It looks like some evil looking necklace. It's a big eyeball in---"

"That's blood baby!"

"Blood! Oow. How gross player," she said strongly eyes narrowed with disgust.

"No wander this booty-face killed someone. I bet when you put this horror around your neck it makes zombies out of folks," he said sharply with a laugh.

"Get that thing away from me bruh!" she snapped.

"I want you to keep it. Find out all you can about this bruh and get back to me."

"Hell no!"

"Please!"

"All right!"

Well Miss Miller and Jackson sat quietly for a while watching busboys and girls clean up the restaurant. It was about to close soon. The cooks were preparing their final orders. There was surely less noise in the kitchen.

Keith continued to drink double whiskeys. Miss Miller started drinking coffee.

"How did it go in San Francisco?" she finally asked firmly.

"Not so good," he said sadly and took down his seventh whiskey.

"Dude, I sorry to hear it," she said.

"Fat-lips Ray Feinstein gave me a pretty good beating. Maybe my butt deserved it," he said strongly.

"Oh you poor thing," she said sadly.

"Bruh I'm going to make a nice bath," he said firmly.

"That should help," she said.

"Dog, I did beat the poop out of Feinstein. And I broke one of his workers back."

"Bruh do you think Feinstein killed Miss Sands?" she asked strongly, sipping her coffee.

"Nah, I talked to some of the folks that work with the fat frog-breath. And they claimed he was here during the murder," he explained sharply and lit a small joint. "I don't think the necklace would fit around his neck."

"No doubt."

"And this fat slobs not the black magic type," he said sharply and took a long drag from a joint.

"So what does your butt do now?"

"Dog I think Miss Sand's father may have killed her. He was very abusive. He was totally against her being in the music business," he said, blowing smoke towards her.

"Besides shoes there must be evidence at the crime scene that could've been overlooked," she said strongly as she finished her coffee.

"Bruh, I'm going back there too," he snapped.

Well after dinner, Jackson left the restaurant with Miss Miller to her crib. He called the airport. He made reservations for a flight to LA. They slept together but Keith was too messed up to do anything.

# Chapter 22

Well Miss Sand's parents lived in a house on 220 West 6th street in Los Angeles California. The place was an expensive two-story job. There were igloo shaped tinted windows at the top. At the bottom were windows shaped like bullets. A beautiful lake near by and 6th green, 3469 sq. ft, good place to play golf. A couple of large peach trees stood in front.

Jackson always thought California had the coolest homes. And he wanted to come here come day and buy a home. Then spend his days getting high and banging the hottest babes.

Well Keith wore a pink hoodie over large baggy black jeans with green Nikes. He had a hella large pure gold chain around his neck. Also was a big gold sparkling watch on his wrist. He brought along his trusty Colt Model 1917 Army .454 Casull.

He gazed at the two-luxury car in the big ass garage. There was a yellow porche and green Lamborghini.

A couple of young kids were loaded up a black Chevy Suburban that was attached to a bright-yellow speedboat. It appeared that they were going on vacation in September.

They were all dressed up in tropical bright colors. They smiled at Keith as they were getting into the truck. He waved.

He watched them drive off slowly down the crooked street, passed Booby blond that were smaller than pencils as they walked their dogs smaller than walnuts. He thought about being on a speedboat with Miss Miller naked. And her butt was so big that it made the boat come close to tipping over and a forty-pounds of cocaine.

For Keith LA was full of fake folks. Nobody had real lips, chins, faces, noses and personalities. And everybody's an actor. Were the Sands really themselves? Are they actors too?

It was just after seven in the morning. Keith walked around the property. It was quiet. How would the neighbors feel about a black man being here? He walked around the house. There no people anywhere. No noise came from the house. Nobody was up yet he thought.

He went around the front and beat on the door. He stood there waiting for a while. But nobody came to the door. But the house was kinda big and maybe no one heard him. So he moved around to the back of house.

He walked through the yard. There was no one in the yard. There were toys stuck in the very green lawn. There was a huge silver barbecue grill, a white plastic table set, lawnmowers, rakes and weed eaters. Everything a typical yard would have.

Keith beat on the back door. He stood there looking at the swimming pool. Nobody came to the door. He knocked for about ten more minutes. Still there was no answer. So he walked away.

Then he felt a hose tightening around his throat as he was strolling beside the house. He was trying to get back to the front. He was wincing. He grabbed the hose, trying to pull it off but no such luck.

"Well, well. I got me a burglar," a male voice said sharply.

This turd-breath boy's grip was like an oxen. And he lifted Keith off his feet. Keith couldn't speak.

"I think I'll save the taxpayers some money killing you poop-brain."

This hating whale-poop sounded retarded. He squeezed tighter. Keith gasped for air. Keith swing his arms at the man's face but he kept weaving head from side to side to avoid his hands.

"Have you ever seen a man hung before?" he said harshly. "Well you're going to find out how it feels."

After the man brought Keith back down so his feet touch the ground. Keith pushed back with all his might. The man fell backwards to the grass and Keith fell on top of him. But this action did nothing to deter the mans grip on Keith's throat. He felt his life slipping away.

Then a voice near by that sounded old. "Stop! Please stop, Willard."

"Uncle Sam! This is a madman. He's one of those damn drug dealers trying to rip-off the house," he said sourly.

"Let him go! Let the man speak!"

So the big ignorant-booty Willard released the garden house from Keith's neck. Keith began a series of coughing and chocking motions. He was gasping for breath.

"Willard, go inside. I want you to help Aunt Mary with breakfast," Sam said strongly to Willard.

Willard put down the hose and strolled off.

Willard was a big dumb-face. He was about six-six, 237pds and wearing dirty-blue coveralls. He brown hair was thinning at the top. He was about as smart a tree. Or maybe a tree might've been smarter. Luckily, the old man came when he did. Or Keith would have been a fond memory.

"So what do you want, boy?" Sam said strongly.

"Bug off, dude!" Keith snapped, rubbing his throat.

"Yeh. Willard's got quite a grip. If I hadn't some around when I did you'd surely be turd-pie," Sam said sharply.

"Thank you!"

"Don't have me call the police."

"I don't give a damn, bruh!" Keith said sourly.

"You want something to eat. You want money," he said, pulling out a bunch of bills.

"Dude, I don't want your money!" he said, pulling up his baggy pants.

"What do you want?"

"Your daughter is dead!"

"What?"

"Belinda Sands is dead. She was murdered," Keith said strongly and lit a crack pipe.

"What's that awful smell?"

"Crack-cocaine."

Sam sat down on a big rock. His face took on a grief stricken look. He had a leathery complexion, with silver-Carmel short hair. His watery eyes were gentian. He wore a light blue sweatshirt and no shoes.

"When did this happen?"

"A couple of nights ago," he said sadly and took another drag from his pipe.

"Are you a drug addict?" Sam snapped.

"Hell yeh!"

"Is that how you knew Belinda?"

"I'm a private investigator," he said, blowing smoke.

"I'm sorry about Willard. Since Belinda moved out he's been looking after us. My wife and I were vacationing in Hawaii when our house was being burglarized. Willard surprised the bums as they were trying to move expensive sculptures. He nearly beat one of them to death," Sam explained strongly.

Jackson continued to smoke his crack pipe. The smell of breakfast came from the house.

"Old Gee. I could sure use that big frog-breath for a bodyguard. But I don't think I could afford to feed the brute. He must eat 20 pounds of beef a day," Keith said sharply with a laugh.

"Sixty pounds of beef."

"Rabies shots too."

"Or course."

"Well I wanted to ask you some serious questions," he said firmly, taking the last drag from his crack pipe.

"Fine. Why don't you come inside?" he insisted strongly.

"For sure."

# Chapter 23

They all sat at a large Oakwood table. There were several plates full of food enough to feed an army. There was thirty-five eggs, twenty-seven slices of bacon, and fifteen sausage links. Two large pitchers was filled with milk and orange juice. Seven sticks of butter. And forty stacks of toast.

Willard had already been stuffing his huge jaws. And still looked like he could eat a freight train.

Keith had placed five eggs and four slices of bacon. There were sausages and stack of bread on his plate. He poured himself a large glass of orange juice and milk.

Sam took three eggs and two slices of bacon. and three pieces of toast. His wife poured his milk and coffee.

Willard began letting out loud farts as he guzzled milk. He chuckled. Mary though it was distasteful. Willard didn't apologies. Sam just shook his head.

Keith just shoved truckloads of eggs and hash browns into his big mouth like the slime-breath hadn't eaten in months.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked sharply with a laugh,

"Hell yeh," Keith stated firmly with good cheer.

The kitchen was expensive-looking. Everything was made of white marble but the cabinets were made from the finest oak. All the appliances were well known.

Mrs. Mary Sands was about 58, 120 pounds with silver-mocha-downy hair, dark blue eyes, round nose, gaunt body and wearing pink sweat suit. She seemed to be a well-mannered lady not stuck up like Keith would have expected.

Well into the breakfast Keith, say some that would destroy the easygoing mood. He began accusing Sam of killing his daughter. Sam became angry. He smashed a plate of eggs over Keith's head.

The plate shattered into piece. And eggs ran down Keith's face. Then he served up two quick right jabs into Keith's face. He didn't even see that coming.

The impacts of the punches knock Keith back on to the floor. The pain hit his face like a lightening bolt.

"How dare you come in here and accuse me of killing my daughter!" Sam said defensively.

"Belinda's dead!" Mary stated strongly.

"Yes," Sam said sharply, standing over Keith with his foot on his head.

Willard stood up, frowning. He had a fork in his hand. He was about to shove in Keith's eye.

"Why did you tell me?" she snapped as she stood up.

"I was going to tell you woman," he said sharply.

Keith pulled out his gun.

"Get off me old frog-butt!" he said brazenly.

Sam removed his foot from his head and stepped back. And so did Willard. He dropped the knife too. Keith stood up to his feet. He was a little shook up.

"So you going to shoot us, man," Sam said sharply.

"No. Just sit your butts back down and finish your breakfast. It's nothing personal. I'm a detective. I have to ask these questions. I know you're hurting but I don't want a boxer nose," Keith explained strongly, wiping eggs from his face.

Sam, Willard and Mary sat back down to eat. But they didn't seem too hungry now. Things seem to change when this black man pulled a gun on them.

"I didn't kill Belinda," Sam finally said harshly.

"Mister when did are daughter die?" Mary asked softly wiping her tears.

"At about 3:00am," Keith said sharply and took a long drink of milk.

"We were already in bed before ten," Sam said strongly.

"Ever seen this?" Keith stated firmly.

"What the hell is that horrid-looking piece of jewelry?" Sam snapped loudly.

"It's a necklace bro-bro."

"So it is. Who's?"

"Your daughter's."

"That's not hers. Not that doo-doo. That thing belongs to the devil."

Willard began shoving eggs down his mouth. The yoke was dripping down his chin. He looked like some giant three-year-old slob.

"Willard dear. Please wipe your chin. Where is your manners?" She said sharply.

"Oh. I'm sorry Aunt Mary," he said strongly as he wipes his chin.

"Did you ever hit your daughter?" Keith asked firmly.

"None of your business buddy," he snapped.

"Feinstein told me," he said, sipping his orange juice.

"Feinstein is a smelly hog," Sam snapped.

"Bruh I believe him."

"Ok. So I beat her. She deserved it most of the time. She was a hard headed little brat," Sam said bitterly.

"For what reason?" Keith snapped.

"We have a construction business. And we know that show business stuff doesn't last. Beside our business has been picking up.

"That's Miss Sands dream. You have to let her live it," Keith said strongly.

"Maybe so. But this maybe why she's dead, sir," Mary said firmly.

Sam urged Keith to go in the living room. He took out some photo books. He opened them to show Keith pictures of Belinda as a child. Some of the pictures were Belinda, her sister and brother on a swing. There were family picnics. Many were her high school and college photos.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Sam said cheerfully.

"Yes. She is hella fly," Keith said sharply.

"Here's my other daughter," Sam said strongly, handing over the photos to Keith. "Amanda Sands McCarthy owns the radio station called The Stoner. It's in San Francisco."

"Hell yeh. I've heard of it," Keith said firmly, nodding his head.

"She doesn't care about the family business either."

"Do you know who killed your daughter?" Keith asked firmly.

"Man, I don't know," he snapped.

"There must be somebody. A jealous boyfriend," Keith said strongly.

"Shawn Adair!" he said sharply.

"Who is Shawn Adair?" Keith snapped.

"He dated her. He was obsessed with Belinda. I mean in a strange way."

"Where do I find him?"

"Don't really know. It's been a longtime," he said sharply, scratching his chin.

"Try and think. This shit is really important. You do want to find your daughter's killer?"

"The school might have an address."

"What school?"

"The Hollywood Dance and Theatre School. It's located on West 3rd Street, downtown. That's where Belinda met the creep," Sam said harshly.

"Who do I talk to?"

"Dude, I believe his name is Henry Egghart," he said, walking Keith to the door.

"Thanks for breakfast," Keith said as he walked out. "Do you know anybody that sells crack-cocaine in this town?"

"No."

# Chapter 24

Jackson sat in a blue Buick he rented. He was drinking Chavis Regal. He was thinking how he would approach this situation. It was already 10:00am.

He stared at the parking lot full of cars, vans, Rvs and trucks. The Hollywood Dance and Theatre School was very busy. The big brown brick building was full of tinted windows to keep the sun out. The grass was well-kept along with shrubberies. Next door was an auto insurance office. A Wendy's across the street.

You could walk to here from the Sands house because it was only a few blocks away. So this probably the reason Miss Sands chose to attend here.

Keith was not so happy. He wanted to see some celebrities. The folks out here really do it big. He saw a lot of Lexus, Audi's, Ferraris, Rolls Royce's and Mercedes-Benz.

But none of the folks looked like celebs. Just some rich snobs. He continued to guzzle his Chavis Regal and watch the hot ladies going into the theater.

He felt a little messed up. His neck was red and very sore. His body was hurting too. But this setback wouldn't stop him from trying solve this case. Besides, the whisky was easing the pain.

The weather was very nice about 72 degrees. Everyone was wearing hardly anything. Keith was still wearing a hoodie. So he kinda look out of place. He sat the bottle of whiskey down and got out of the car.

He walked through the glass doors of the dance school. The place was hella spacious. Everything was made of hardwood. The was a huge stage and a purple certain that was down. The school was hella fly.

On this time of the morning the school was surely packed. The students were gathered on the floor. Everyone was talking at the same time. It was so noisy because of that. They seemed to be waiting for the teacher for guidance. Everyone was dressed in their dance stuff. Keith looked like a cheeseburger stuck in a fruit basket trying to blend in.

An older cat came storming out of an office. He had a head like a darn moon. His mustache was thick; his lips were firm, eyes brown. He wore a pink top with black tights. He was already to teach the class.

"Are you a new student?" the man asked firmly.

"Nah!" Keith snapped.

"Then what do you want?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Egghart," Keith said sharply.

"Dude, I'm Egghart."

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator," he said firmly.

Egghart wandered away from the crowd of students. He stopped in front of Keith.

"What is wrong, man?" Egghart stated sharply, looking puzzled.

"Miss Belinda sands was murderer," Keith stated sharply.

"Oh my God! When did this happen?" he said sadly.

"At three am the other night, in Reno."

"Was Belinda doing a show there?"

Egghart looked shock and was about to cry.

"Hell yeh," Keith snapped.

Egghart walked over to a piano and sat. He began playing sad jazz melodies. Keith felt like his butt was at a dental visit.

"Belinda was one of our best students."

"I'm sure she was."

"Why did you come all the way here to tell me this?" he said sharply as he played the piano.

"I'm curious to know who would waste her," Keith said strongly, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Dude, I sure didn't kill her!" he said bluntly, as the music began to sound violent.

Keith took out the necklace.

"Is this yours?"

Egghart studied it for a moment frowning.

"Nah. That's not my necklace. I don't wear jewelry."

"All right."

"How did it happen?"

"She was gruesomely murdered. Her throat tore open."

Egghart stopped playing the piano. He began to tremble and possibly throw up.

"My, my! What an awful way to die. Belinda was such a pretty girl," he said sadly.

The students were talking loudly. And some were horsing around.

"It was a horrible way to go for anyone."

"What can I do? I haven't talked to Belinda in several years," he said and took a long sip from a water bottle that sat on the piano.

"But what did you talk about?"

"Let me think. Oh, yeh. Belinda had some gigs."

"Where?"

"At various clubs," he said, playing sad music again.

"That's all!"

"She just thanked me for making it all possible."

Well the class got bored and began practicing some dance moves. Egghart continued to shoot out sad notes on the piano.

"Dude, the real reason I came here is to get some information on one of you students," Keith said firmly.

"Can't do that," Egghart snapped.

"I thought you wanted to help," Keith said strongly.

"Oh, but I do. But not by violating our policies."

"Do you understand sissy-breath? We have a killer running around out there. Put slime all over your policies dog!"

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Well."

"Well what?"

"Please cooperate fully, man," Keith snapped.

"One of my students is a murderer? Who is it?"

"Mr. Shawn Adair."

"Oh, yeh. Shawn was one of my students. He was kinda strange. He seemed to be crazy for Belinda."

"Dude didn't she feel the same way?"

"No. She was scared of him. The punk was pushy. He kept asking her out and she kept saying no," Egghart explained sharply.

"Would he killer her?"

"It's possible. As I remember Shawn was sort of a creep."

"Did Adair carrying any weapons?" Keith asked firmly gazing at the impatient students.

Egghart stopped playing the piano for a moment. He turned to face Keith, putting on his thinking cap.

"Oh, now I remember, actually he did. He carried around a ratty pocketknife. He told me that cutting off turkey heads gave him great pleasure."

"What a sick punk!"

"Yes he sounds pretty unstable."

"For sure."

"But the way you describe Belinda's death it sounds like some animal murdered her like a dog."

"It wasn't a dog, dude!"

"You seem sure."

"I am gee."

"You probably want to know where that sick punk lives," Egghart stated bluntly, as he stood up from the piano.

"Hell yeh," Keith snapped.

"Shawn teaches now."

"For sure?"

"Oh yes."

"Are you going to tell me where, dude?"

"He owns the Adair Dance Studio on 7001 Sunset Blvd."

"Thanks."

"Do you know I could be sued?" Egghart said strongly as he was heading back to his students.

"Hell yes. But it's better than having your sissy-face rotting in jail," Keith snapped.

"I hope Shawn kills you!"

"I'm sure the beast will try," Keith said sharply, walking out the door.

# Chapter 25

The Adair Dance Studio was a White cement building with tinted windows. There were lots of small oak trees around the building. A big brown ugly dumpster was in front. A big ashtray was filled with butts. Next door was a fitness place. A Safeway was across the street at the Beverly Hills shopping center. Troy's Chicken shop was down the street. Keith planned to drop by there on the way to the airport.

The parking lot wasn't very full. He figured most of the folks were at Egghart's studio. Keith sat in his rental smoking some crack. He watched babes come and go. He thought about playing with himself.

After finishing his crack-cocaine, he got out of his car. He started moving slowly towards the dance studio. He wasn't happy because he wasn't stoned enough. He shoved the glass doors opened.

While inside he took in the view. A large oakwood stage was full of dancers. They wore radical attire. They were young and mostly white. They dance to one side and throw up their left leg. Then move over to the other side and toss up the right leg. A couple of them fell to the floor. Many of them were hella out of step. And many didn't seem to know what the hell they were doing. There was no music. And that could've been the problem.

But this studio had rows of metal chair with booty's in them. Family members were cheering them on. And some folks were booing them. Some just sat there stun. This whole show looked pretty messed up. Keith wanted to go pull the curtain on the thing.

Keith learned that Adair was 6'2 and 190 about 37. He had kinky carrot hair. He wore a tight black dance outfit. And this slime-brain was hot for Miss Sands. This cat could have been jealous because she was more lady-like.

Adair walked over to him.

"Welcome!" he said cheerfully.

"What's up with ya?" Keith stated strongly with a smirk.

"We're in the middle of a class," he said sharply with a grin.

"For sure."

"What is it?"

"Dog I want to talk to you."

"Dude you don't want to join my class!"

"Nah. It looks sucky bruh."

"Are you kidding me? This class is topnotch. We're having positions on Leno, Letterman and even Vegas."

"Good luck, bruh."

"Who are you?"

"Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator."

"What happened?"

"Miss Belinda Sands was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"Hell yeh!" Keith said sharply pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Are drunk?"

"Hell yeh."

"Dude I thought police don't drink."

"But I do."

"When did she die?" Adair stated strongly.

"The other morning at 3:00."

"Do you really think our dancers suck?"

"Suck is an understatement, dude."

"Man I take it that none of your family members are on stage."

"Nah. If they were I'd shoot them."

"How did Belinda die?"

"Some psychopath ripped open her throat."

"You mean a wolf or something!"

"Nah, dude! I mean a sick-slime Gee!" Keith stated harshly.

"Only animals go for the throat of their pray," Adair snapped.

"And black men with razors too."

"Sounds like the killer had no heart for human life."

"For sure."

"Well I hope you find the killer."

"Bruh I think I may already have."

"What in the hog-farts is that suppose to mean?"

"Dude I think you killed the broad," Keith said harshly.

The dancers stopped moving. They just stood there staring at Keith and Shawn.

"I wasn't anywhere at 3:00. Besides where did all this happen?"

"In Reno."

"I've never been there."

"What were you doing at 3:00am?"

"In LA sleeping like everybody else," Adair snapped as he began to ball his fist.

"Can you prove it?"

"If you aren't here to learn how to dance I suggest you blow," he said bitterly.

"And if I don't?"

"Dude I'll throw your black butt out!"

"A piece of scab-face like you slime-poop," Keith said sourly. "Your butt must be getting the whole sorry class."

"All right, mister detective. We'll see how tough you are," he said strongly and wandered over to the stage.

He took out the necklace again.

"Is this your sweet pie?"

"No I hate jewelry. Jewelry is for girls."

"I wear bling too."

"Someone will steal that man."

"They will not be successful, dog."

Keith followed him. Adair hopped on the stage and moved quickly to the rear. Keith did the same thing. Adair went into an office where a big Mexican sat at a desk.

"What's up, Mr. Adair?"

"This man! Throw him out."

"All right, sir!" he snapped standing up. His big moved away from the desk.

Adair walked out. Keith pulled out his gun. As he raised it up the Mexican batted it out of his hand. He grabbed Keith lifting him over his head.

The Mexican threw Keith onto the stage. He slid several feet down. The Mexican came at Keith to fall on him, but he moved away. The man fell down onto his stomach. Keith got up. And so did the Mexican. They stared right into each other's eyes.

The Mexican threw a right, missing Keith's face. He threw a left punch. Keith moved away from that. After a bunch of missed punches, the Mexican became angrier, panting hard. He then charged Keith. Keith moved out of the way.

The Mexican slammed into the stage wall and fell back on his butt. The dances stared in horror. As the man was getting up Keith kicked him in the face. And a spin kick to the stomach. But this didn't really have much of an effect. The Mexican just got up. Keith did another spin kick into the man's chest.

But he kept coming. Keith did it again but this time his shoe landing in the man's face. He continued with a series of punches to the face. But the big beast kept coming towards him as blood ran down his chin and his face began to puff up. He grabbed Keith and threw him down the stage again.

Keith recover quickly and stood there waiting for this beast poop-breath to come up. He was panting some. But well focused. When he finally got to Keith, some more spin kicks he learned from watching so many Kung fu movies, landing in the man's face and stomach.

And the Mexican started punching Keith connecting with the jaw knocking him off the stage.

As Keith was slowly getting back up the Mexican grabbed whole of him and tossed him into some metal chairs. There was a loud crash. Luckily, nobody was even sitting there. Well, Keith managed to get back up now limping into the restroom, holding on to his hip.

"Don't worry Mr. Adair. This punk's finito," the Mexican said strongly, walked towards the restroom.

Keith had closed and lock to door. His mind was racing. As this big, Mexican was beating on the door. His nose was bleeding. The man lost a couple of teeth. There was a nasty cut on his eye. But he was determined to wipe the studio with Keith. He knew this job best.

By the time, the Mexican had kicked the door opened Keith had been standing there with a bottle of liquid soap.

"What are you going to do with that stuff? Are you going to clean the floor, hoto?"

He came at Keith. Keith chucked the bottle forward. The blue liquid flung out into the Mexican's ugly face. As the man was rubbing his eyes, Keith spin kicked him into the chest with one of those high ones sending the man flying into the wall.

"How do you like me now, dog?" Keith said bitterly.

"You slimy punk! I can't see!"

"For sure."

While he was sitting on his butt, Keith finished him off by planting the bottom of his feet in the center of the man's face. You just heard these loud smacks. And the Mexican winced and cried out. When Keith got tired of kicking him he began jabbing the Mexican's face in. The Mexicans face began to get very ugly, puffy and blood was just running out.

The Mexican finally gave in kneeling over onto the floor. Keith kicked him a couple of more times and said, "Slime you in the face punk!"

Keith stumbled out of the bathroom. He headed towards the stage to get his gun. He looked pretty beaten down but still aware of his surroundings.

He shoved his gun back into his pocket. He gave Adair the evil eye.

"Bruh, I'm not playing around with your butt."

"Bug off, man!" Adair stated harshly as he produced a knife.

"Bad move worm-breathe," Keith said strongly.

Adair charged Keith with the knife. He moved away. Adair tried the same thing but this time Keith grabbed his arm and flipped him over his back. Adair slammed into his back the impact made him let go of the knife and scream out like a little girl.

Keith went over to him. He kicked him hard into the side. The man gritted his teeth and screamed out loudly again.

"Quit whining you little baby!"

"Don't kick me no more, sir!"

"Dude I want you to answer my questions. Or I'll beat your butt again," Keith stated firmly.

The class had nearly emptied out. There were just a couple of students left. Why they stayed, he couldn't imagine. He stuck a small joint in his big black bloody mouth.

"Look what you've done to my class, dude," Adair cried.

"Slime them, bruh. They sucked anyway."

"You ruined my class so beautiful!"

"You and your boyfriend messed up my mouth!"

"Dude I don't like punks coming into my class and accusing me of murdering that tramp!" he said bluntly, trying to sit up.

"Ok. I'm sorry player. Then prove to me you didn't slice up Miss Sands," Keith said sharply and took a long drag from his joint.

"I don't fell well," Adair said weakly and threw up pink and purple stuff onto the floor.

"You wanted Miss Sands but she didn't want your coward butt," Keith stated strongly.

"Homeboy, I did want her. She was real cool and pretty in her own way. She always made everyone laugh. She refused my advances. That really pissed me off. So I beat her. But you said she was murdered the other night at 3:00am. I hadn't talk to Belinda since we were in class together. That has been quite some time," Adair explained strongly wiping barf from his lips.

"You're hella tight with that knife."

"The way dude you describe he murder like some damn animal attacked her."

"Don't blame it on no animal, sir!"

"Dude I've gotten over her already I have a wonderfully girlfriend. We're very happy now."

"Well who do you think would kill her?" Keith asked sharply and took a huge hit from his joint.

"That crazy Foulk. I can't believe she was going to marry him."

"Who is this punk?" he snapped, blowing smoke in Adair's face.

"He's in her band or was," Adair stated strongly and tried to stand up.

# Chapter 26

Keith Jackson returned to the Mint Casino. He stopped at the bar to get a beer. He was directed back outside to the tennis courts where Miss Sands guitarist Steve Foulk played tennis.

Keith stood there guzzling his beer while he watched Foulk hit balls down the court by himself. A big hella noisy machine sat on the other side of the court. It spit out balls down the court at Foulk. He smashed them back with his tennis racket as if he was in a real match.

Back in Sparks Nevada, it was cloudy. The court was still wet from a heavy rain before. But Nevada really needed the rain. And nobody seemed to be complaining.

Foulk was smiling as he moved back and forth hitting balls. Keith could see traffic above the courtyard on I-80 East. Al's gun shop was next door.

Steve Foulk was about 6'2. And 35, 170 pounds with peroxide blond hair, which he wore in a ponytail. English steel-rimmed glasses had rested on a Roman nose. Also he had an anchor beard. He was wearing a Jockey Club shirt, white shorts and tennis shoes.

After finishing his beer, Keith decided to walk through the gate onto the courts. Foulk looked at him but didn't really care he just kept hitting balls.

"Hey, man! Are you Steve Foulk?" Keith asked firmly.

"That's right! Who wants to know?" he snapped.

"Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator," he said sharply, showing his ID.

Foulk didn't even look just nodded his head and kept hitting balls.

"Bug off, PI," Foulk said acidly, hurrying towards the machine.

He turned the damn thing directly at Keith. He turned the damn thing on high so the balls shot out like rockets.

As Keith was trying to move away he wasn't fast enough because he was hit in the face, chest and arm by the balls. He screamed out in pain.

Foulk ran out into the street, dodging traffic. Keith couldn't figure out why he did that. Horns were honking and folks were cursing. Keith ran after him, limping down the street through traffic. And the motorist were just as angry.

Foulk ran into the Crystal Hotel casino. Why was this snake-breath running? Was it because Keith was black? Keith ran inside the casino after him. It was a little busy in the place. Foulk was bumping into folks and pushing some people over. Keith shoved his way through.

When Keith began closing in on him, he grabbed a tray from a cocktail waitress and threw it at Keith. There were a lot of glasses of liquor on it. And all of the many different drink were dumped all over him. He was soaked.

Security was on the scene. They tried to scoop up Foulk but he pushed some old Chinese dude on them, blocking their path. Keith kept after him too.

Keith was still hella pissed about his Hoody. There was strawberry daiquiri, and black Russian all over it. And some pink drink stained his jeans and Nikes. He wanted to shove the cleaning bill up Foulk's butt.

The chase continued with Foulk pushing and knocking people over in his path. Keith was trailing through as delicately as he could. Keith was hoping this dude would stop at some point. He didn't want to run anymore his body was still sore from fighting earlier.

Well a couple of security guards grabbed Keith. He broke free. He kicked hard one of them in the stomach and he flew backwards into some folks knocking them down. He did his spin kick with his Nike shoe resting in the other ones chest. He flew back on top of a roulette table, knocking over everybody's chips.

Security wore light-blue shirts and dark blue pants. The ignorant-slimes didn't even carry guns.

Keith was closing on Foulk again. But that wouldn't last. Foulk shoved an old white man into Keith knocking him down. And security was probably hoping that they both would get the hell out of the casino.

A nice man playing slots stopped to help Keith and the old man up. Keith shoved him out of the way, as he was getting up and he ran towards the exit where he saw Foulk running.

Foulk pushed opened the doors and flew outside. Keith knew if he didn't get there soon the man could disappear quick.

Keith ran out of the door. He noticed Foulk running through the parking lot. So Keith pulled out his gun. And boy could this chicken-poop run. And Keith figured by now the security had already called the po-pos because of all this.

Keith fired two shots in the air. Foulk stopped, holding up his arms up to the sky. Keith limped up to him. He was panting as Keith was too.

When Keith caught up to him, he was angry. He slugged Foulk in the face. The impacted jerked his head back and he stumbled backwards but didn't fall over. Foulk grabbed his face.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Foulk screamed sharply.

"That's for making me run, butt worm," Keith stated harshly, panting.

"You're a black guy! I thought you were going to rob me," Foulk stated sharply.

"Slime that! You know I'm a PI," Keith said strongly. "My lungs are trash, bruh. I shouldn't have smoked so much crack cocaine."

"How does a drug addict become a cop?" Foulk snapped, panting.

"They train you at the police academy poop-breath!" Keith said acidly.

"What do you want?" Foulk said still panting.

"Belinda Sands is dead."

"Yeh. I know. I heard some animal attacked her in the woods," he said sadly, crying.

"That statement was bull!"

"Oh yeh?"

Keith took out the necklace.

"Is this yours?"

"Nah. I wish it was. That eyeball looks pretty creepy."

"Hell yeh. Dude I found it at the crime scene," Keith stated, panting.

"Well I know it's not Belinda's."

"Are you sure, bruh?"

"Totally."

"What does it mean?"

"Dude I don't know."

"Maybe it belongs to a homeless person."

"That may be."

They walked over by an orange tree. The clouds were coming back and were probably going to rain in 30 minutes.

"You were in love with Miss Sands?"

"Yeh. I still am. We were going to get married but she backed out at the last minute."

"I'm sure that pissed you off," Keith stated sharply and shoved a joint in his mouth.

"Yes, it really hurt. I couldn't play in the band. I couldn't look at Belinda. The whole thing didn't seem to faze her."

"Did you kill her?"

"Hell no!"

"Where were you after the show?"

"Out side in the parking lot."

"Did anybody see you?" Keith blew smoke in the air.

"Not really."

"What were you doing in the parking lot?"

"Just stretching. I needed some fresh air. All those folks smoking and the cheap perfume was making me sick."

"Did you see Miss Sands?"

"Can I have a hit?"

"For sure," Keith said strongly, passing the joint.

"I saw Belinda going around towards the front of the casino, as she always did after the final show," Foulk stated strongly, took a long drag from the joint, and passed it back to Keith.

"What time was that?"

"Oh, about 2:20am or something."

"Was there anyone with her?"

"Not that I could see. Belinda always left by herself," he said sharply peeling an orange.

"That may have been a gift for the killer," Keith said and took a long drag from the joint.

"Totally."

"Why did you run?"

"I'm wanted for outstanding parking violations, gee."

Foulk kept looking at his watch.

"Am I keeping you?"

"Well I got a show later."

"Why did Miss Sands go to the Wells Ave Overpass?"

"Dude I don't know."

"So you're still doing a show?" he snapped and took the final drag from his joint.

"Yeh. Belinda would've wanted it."

"Do you know who'd want to kill her?"

"I'm not sure. She was good people."

"Somebody didn't think so."

"Please find the killer!"

"For sure."

# Chapter 27

Well Keith Jackson sat at home. He was feeling a little down on himself. He began smoking some crack-cocaine he had leftover from the other day. He was staying at the Casino Apartments, a three-story tan duplex. It was owned by a couple of gay guys. There was security. And A banging weight room, swimming pool, pool tables, a SPA. Jay's Laundry mat was across the street. A 7-11 down the street.

It looked like hella poop but the rent was cool. When you rent houses by gay people, they're hella cheap.

After smoking crack-cocaine, Keith started on some Gin. He felt like he let everybody down. He was nowhere on the case. He wasn't sure if he was looking for an animal or a crazy man. Whom the hell rips folks throats out but some type of animal? But there's no evidence to show an animal was even at the murder scene.

The killer is running around free, laughing. He having beer and sleeping with girls. He is watching the news, laughing at our dumbness. He walks his kids to school everyday. He's on Facebook. He's on Twitter.

Keith continued to drink gin while he thought about the murder investigation. It was 7:00pm now. He grinded up some cactus stuff he got from Mexico. He wrapped it up in brown paper and lit it looking like a cigar but smelled hella different.

Keith took huge hits while he watched an episode from Murder, She Wrote: about a murder and jewelry heist. But his mind was on the case.

Well he figured the parents didn't do it. Even though they didn't dig what their daughter choose for a living. And too there was a hella fly gun cabinet in the living room to show his murder weapon choice would be a gun.

He checked out Miss Sherri Graham she had been arrested for cat fighting in some bars. She never used a weapon in any of those encounters. She didn't use beer bottles either. But the way she tore up her apartment showed she was no pussy cat. And she really didn't have any beef with Miss Sands that was proven. So he decided to leave her out as a suspect.

He was still wearing his nasty hoody and jeans. He didn't feel like changing them. He just sat there taking huge drags from this cactus plant. It seemed to be pretty banging. He was getting hella high.

He began to have nightmares from the murder; he kept seeing Miss Sands throat ripped out repeatedly. And he was just frozen and couldn't do anything to help her. Like a strong-ass, force was holding him back. Then the funky music came on. And the windpipe began to dance around snake to the melodies, shooting out blood like piss. He saw a figure dressed in dark clothes with a big lizard head. Green slimy stuff was dripping from his mouth. Then the dude, bit into Miss Sand's throat pulling out a huge chunk of flesh. Then that dude started chewing it. The whole thing made Keith sick and threw up on the green carpets.

After smoking that entire cactus-weed, he contemplated on Adair. He didn't believe Adair killed Miss Sands even though he wanted her and she hated him. The butt worm did stalk her and tried to rape her too. But the punk never used a weapon on her like his pocketknife. Adair came across too sweet-cakes to pull off this murder. He managed to get a report on Adair from LAPD. He did beat a guy badly at a bar over a girl which Keith found hard to believe.

Mr. Ray Feinstein a blimp-poop. He didn't think he killed Miss Sands either---course he sure had the temper for it. And motive. The monkey-breath sounded controlling and had been abusive to musicians in the past. And LAPD told him that Feinstein had stabbed a guy for stalking his daughter. The man survived.

The killer probably used a razor the kind used in barbershops. Tangy was checking out barbers with criminal records. But she had nothing yet.

The Sands family is waiting on the completion of the autopsy. Then they will surely made arrangements to transport Miss Sands body back to LA.

After Keith had drunken all that gin, he was hella messed up. It was 11:00pm and news 3 was coming on. So he sat up watching it. They were talking about the murder of Miss Sands.

# Chapter 28

Keith Jackson was summons to the police department. The police were very excited that morning. They were high on doughnuts and coffee. But Keith was hangover.

He stood with Lt. James Betha in front of a large glass window. It was 7:01am. A deranged-looked dark haired man sat on a crummy state chair. He clothes were bloody and smell was quite noticeable.

"So that's the booty-face?" Keith snapped, sipping on coffee.

"Hell yeh. Mr. Timothy Brooks," Lt. Betha said strongly, sipping coffee.

"How did you catch this fool?"

"One of my officers saw him wondering around the bridge where Miss Sands body was found," he said firmly.

"What was he doing there?"

"Mr. Brooks was walking around carrying a knife. He was all bloody. He was threatening folks," Lt. Betha explained sharply.

"Why did you just pop the butt worm?" Keith snapped, sipping his coffee. "You would've if it was a black dude."

"Don't tell me how to do my job, frog-breath!"

"Bruh, you're hella ignorant. This dudes dangerous."

"You're right, man. But were able to handle this in a good way. And nobody got hurt."

Keith was wearing a big black jacket. He was dressed for a snow blizzard. Lt. Betha was dressed in a cheap brown suit with an orange tie. He had a huge cigar in his big ugly mouth.

"You look like poop!" Betha stated sharply blowing smoke in the air.

"Bruh, I feel like poop," Keith said strongly, finishing up his coffee.

"You can smile now. The case is over. The Sands family can now find closer."

"Well I hope so."

"Why don't you go home, brother?" Betha suggested strongly.

"Bruh I want to holla at this slime-butt," Keith said sharply.

"Nah. You can't," Lt. Betha snapped.

"Dog, I didn't some all the way to this joint with the biggest hangover in the world to look at this dude through a glass and go home," Keith stated bluntly.

"All right, man!"

Keith went in the interrogation room and sat in a cheap metal chair across from a deranged killer. He was locked inside with this turd-breath. But Keith didn't show any fear.

"What's up with ya?"

"Hello!"

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator."

"I'm Timothy Brooks. I'm a killer," he said strongly with an evil gaze.

"Why are you here?"

"Because of a murder!"

"Who did you murder?"

Brooks glanced at Keith as if he was stupid.

"Well you know...that girl."

"What's her name, gee?"

Keith stuck a joint in his mouth and lit it.

"I already told that ugly black dude cop," Brooks said strongly.

"Belinda Sands?" he asked sharply. He took a long drag of a joint and passed it on to Brooks.

"Yeh that's it," he said and took a pretty good hit and gave it back.

"What do you think?"

"This isn't bad. I never smoked any stuff like this before."

"How did you kill her?"

"Man I cut the broad's throat," Brooks said harshly.

Keith took out the necklace.

"You ever see this?"

"Yeh?"

"Where?"

"I don't remember."

"Is it yours?"

"I think so."

Keith looked at Brooks's neck. It was brown from the sun. There were no marks on his neck where a necklace would've been.

"You'll get it back later," Keith said strongly, putting the necklace away.

The room was small like most interrogation rooms are. There were no windows just an ugly boring wall to look at.

The cops must have trusted this maggot. Because his wrists were free but his legs weren't.

He was sorts long, weighed about 173 and could reach over the table and choke Keith to death. Way before Lt. Betha or any officer could get inside to save him. On the other hand, would they. Lt. Betha wasn't actually in love with Keith and neither were the other officers. But just encase Keith had his gun.

Brooks had made no such moves and better not either. Keith was ready to blow his butt away. They share the weed until it was all gone. Brooks just kept that devilish smile but looking hella stoned. His fingers began to tap on the metal table.

Mr. Brooks asked for some cigarettes. And Lt. Betha had one of his officers go to a 7-11 down the street because the machine in the station wasn't working.

While the officer was fetching the cigarettes Keith had ran down to the restrooms to take a much needed doo-doo. He threw up too. Keith still had some cactus weed and smoked some before going back to the interrogation room. He apparently wasn't high enough.

Brooks violently picked up the pack of Marlboros and he tore into it with his ugly teeth. He spit out the wrapper. He put one into his mouth. He lit it and took a long strong pull from it.

"Did it feel good when you cut Miss Sands throat?" Keith asked firmly.

"Sure. And all the blood oozing out, man. Oh, dude I was really excited," he said strongly, laughing.

"Dude, you hella sick, bruh."

Brooks just sat there smoking one cig after the other. The interrogation room was smoky as hell worst than a nightclub.

"I'm getting hungry," Brooks complained sharply.

"Dude I won't be much longer," Keith stated firmly.

Brooks stared at Keith with his evil smile while blowing smoke in his face. He was like a stone. He wasn't afraid of Keith. His dark skin didn't have an effect.

"I killed that tramp. She deserved to die---all the whores do."

How many other women did you kill?"

"Hundreds!"

"What does Miss Sands do for a living?"

"A whore!" Brooks said, taking another long suck from his cigarette.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I kill people, man!"

"Did you kill her inside your car?"

"Dude I don't have a car."

"Well how did you get Miss Sands to the Truckee River?"

"How do you think I did, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Bruh I don't know. You tell me dog," he snapped.

Brooks bounced the thought around in his mind a bit before answering.

"Carried the lady!"

"Dude you're hella strong."

"Yeh. That's what the girls tell me all the time."

"How did you get all that blood on your shirt?"

"It's all her's."

"Why did you carry her to the Truckee River?"

"She must be cleansed of evil. The river would wash away the dirt and ugliness," he said strongly and lit another cig.

"Did you use a knife?"

"No. A razor," he snapped. "See that's my weapon of choice."

"The lieutenant found a cheap knife on you," Keith said.

"Screw you both! I had a beautiful razor," Brooks said, blowing smoke towards Keith.

"Then where is it?"

"I must of dropped it, dude."

"Where?"

"I don't know, man!"

"Where did you get the razor?"

"Dude I stole it from a barber shop," he said firmly, blowing smoke towards Keith.

"Which barbershop?"

"Don't know," he snapped, finishing his cigarette.

The interrogation room was beginning to look hella cloudy. Keith started coughing and fanning the smoke. And the punk lit up another one.

"Dude, can we wrap this up! I'm hungry," Brooks complained bluntly.

"Bruh you must be pretty hungry to eat the poop they serve in this place," Keith said strongly as he stood.

"I'm so hungry I can eat your smelly doo-doo."

Keith walked around fanning smoke. He was trying to find the door. He felt his way around until he found the door and exited.

"All that smoke. How in the hell can you breathe?" Lt. Betha stated strongly.

"Hell yeh, bruh. It was hell trying to find the door," Keith said bitterly.

"Let the slime-fool get cancer I could care less," Betha said firmly.

"I found a necklace," Keith said sharply, pulling up his jeans.

"Oh did you?"

"Hell yeh. It was under Miss Sands body by her hand."

"You black fool! So you stole evidence from a crime scene. Are you crazy?" Betha said sarcastically.

"It's an evil necklace with a deep red eye. I think it's some Satan stuff," he said, placing a joint in his mouth.

"Where is it?"

"At my house."

"You'd better bring it back to the property room."

"For sure."

"Well, what do you think?"

"About what?" Keith snapped, lighting his joint.

"Bro, you know. What about Mr. Brooks?" Betha said firmly puffing on his green cigar.

"Dude, I don't think Brooks murdered Miss Sands. He may have killed somebody else though," he said strongly and took a long drag from his joint. "This frog-poop is pretty far out in the ocean on the insanity level."

"Dog, I told you about smoking that stuff in my station," Lt. Betha stated testily.

"For sure," Keith snapped, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"What's with all the clothes? It ain't winter, blood," Lt. Betha stated harshly.

"Leave me be bruh!"

"We're going to find out whose blood Brooks is wearing."

"I tell you Brooks didn't kill Miss Sands. He couldn't have carried her body all the way to the underpass without being seen. Besides he doesn't look that strongly," Keith explained clearly and took a big hit from his joint.

"Man, Psychopaths are hella strong," Lt. Betha said strongly, puffing on his cigar. "Besides it's hella slow on a Wednesday morning at 2:00am."

"Maybe he's lying. Maybe he drove her there," Keith snapped.

"Yeh, maybe."

"What else puzzles you, bruh?"

"The killer wore that necklace I found. And Mr. Brooks doesn't wear jewelry."

"Keith I'm sticking with Brooks as the killer. So take your butt home while you still got one. Reno is a safe place now."

"I hope you're right, dog!"

# Chapter 29

Keith got the call from Norma about his aunt. It's a call many folks can do without. Norma was a close friend of Aunt Natalie. She looks after her a lot when Keith can't.

She was at the Brook Bear Hospital in the intensive care unit. This meant some serious stuff. Many folks die in there. And his aunt had been sick. She had heart problems. And won't take her medicine.

But Brook Bear is hella tight. It's considered one of the best hospitals in the world. There staff is high recommended. Their intensive care unit survival rate was more than 95%.

But still Keith was concerned. He forgot about the murder and nightmares. He didn't care about getting high or about getting laid. He only cared about his favorite aunt.

He met with Norma in the lobby, sitting in a brown smelly chair. There were a lot of sick folks sitting there wincing in pain. Hospital's are on fun. Norma was very sad. Keith had his fingers crossed.

There were a number of magazines scattered about the table. There was Gun Digest, Home Gardening, US. News, Playboy and Enquire. You know the usual in waiting rooms.

"What happened?" Keith asked strongly with a sad face.

"Miss Natalie was trying to ride a wild horse," she said weakly.

"Riding a horse!" he snapped, giving her an evil stare.

"That's right! I told her not to. But you know how she is?"

"Damn! Black folks don't go riding wild horses. She's not in a damn rodeo. Especially old folks," he said sharply.

"That's supposed to be true," she said, squeezing Keith's hand. "But Miss Natalie is planning to enter a rodeo for seniors."

"Not if I can stop it bruh," he snapped.

"Good luck with that child," she said sharply.

"How bad is it?"

"The doctors told me her right arm, and left-leg is broken and tailbone," she said strongly and began to sob.

"Just great!"

Norma was wearing a pink raincoat over a white sweater. A gold pin of a piano stuck into it. She plays the piano in the church choir. And the thing sparkled. Her face was round and tired-looking. She wore new white pants. She really looked classy.

Keith wore his A's hat backwards, a large T-shirt and oversized tan pants with black Reeboks. One good thing might be the case was over. Mr. Brooks was the killer. So Keith could now focus on his aunt.

A young black woman came in the lobby with a screaming baby and sat by a fat Spanish woman. The black woman tried to quiet her baby. But the baby kept screaming even louder. The fat Spanish woman got up angry and walked away.

"After the ugly horse threw Miss Natalie hard onto the grass I thought she was going to have a heart attack," Norma said sadly.

"Good thing that beast threw her on grass and not concrete," Keith said strongly.

Miss Norma started crying again. Keith gave her his handkerchief. She wiped her tears, blew her nose, and handed it back to him.

Five hours later on the doctor moved Aunt Natalie to a room. Keith and Norma were able to check on her.

Aunt Natalie lay helplessly on a long bed with a deep blue sheet. Her right arm and left leg were in a cast. Keith felt sorry for her. He wished she was well again and talked about the good old days over lemon tea.

"I didn't mean to cause all this," Aunt Natalie said weakly.

"I know. But you wanted to have fun like the good old days," he said firmly.

"Hell yeh and did too," she said, trying to laugh.

"You feel better, honey?" Miss Norma said softly with a sad expression.

"Yes. But they got me a little doped up. I might fall asleep on you."

"You shouldn't ever feel pain," he said strongly.

"But when this stuff wears off..."

Keith went over to a soda machine where kids were playing some tag game around it. He got a Sprite. The kids had spilled their soda everywhere, staining the blue carpets.

Keith opened his soda and returned to the room. He took a long sip as he sat in a chair.

There was a small white table beside her. And a light-blue cup sat on it. Norma stood up and walked over to her. She gently picked up Aunt Natalie's wrinkled arm. She began stroking it.

"How long will you be here?" she asked sharply.

"Probably a week," she said weakly.

Keith cut in. "Longer than that more like a year!"

"Don't say that Keith!" Norma snapped loudly.

Aunt Natalie's face turned serious. "I'm not staying in a hospital for no damn year or even a week," Aunt Natalie said harshly.

"With that attitude you'll be home sooner than you think," he said strongly with a smirk and took a long sip from his soda.

Aunt Natalie's face became firm. Keith thought she was going to remove her cast and walk out of the hospital.

A black woman came into the room with a big smile. She offered drinks. She told funny jokes that had everybody rolling. She fixed her pillow. She wore a light-blue uniform and was small with a pretty face. She turned on the TV before leaving. Norma and Keith thought that move was rude. They weren't done talking.

One the big black RCA TV there was a game show coming on a good color picture. The sound was clear too. Aunt Natalie loved game shows.

On the wall was a large glass cabinet packed with medical supplies. A metal small sink was underneath. It was a small bathroom too. A big blue curtain covered the only window under a big white heater.

Keith looked out of the window. The rain was starting to come down again.

"It's raining again!"

"Again! I thought we'd enough for the season," Norma said sharply.

"At least you've got your raincoat," he said firmly.

"Where is yours black boy?"

"At the store," he said.

Keith looked down out of the window. They were seven flights up. The folks and vehicles looked a little small. He watched folks run for their vehicles and some into the building.

"My horse is in the stable," aunt Natalie said strongly, drowning out the sound of the game show.

"Who cares?" he snapped, finishing his soda.

"I do."

"Your horse is fine!" Norma said bluntly.

"Aunt Natalie that beast could've killed you," Keith stated strongly.

"He could have. But horses are like people. They've got their mean streaks too. I don't give a damn what any of you think. I'm not going to stop riding wild horses. I'm entering the rodeo for seniors," she stated harshly.

"Are you crazy boo?" he snapped.

"Not now. When I get better," she shot back.

Norma kept stroking Miss Natalie's hand softly.

"Keith, are you still a private investigator?" Norma asked.

"Hell yeh. Nothing else I'd rather do. I sure don't want to sell drugs," he said strongly, pulling up his baggy pants.

"Man, I think your job is creepy."

"Some may think so."

"Keith is you working on anything?" Aunt Natalie asked weakly.

"I was. The killer of Miss Sands is in jail," he said firmly.

"It's over. Everybody can now sleep. You can walk down the streets at night and have no fear," Norma said sharply.

"That's how it's supposed to be," he said.

"Dog, I hope they have the right man," Norma said strongly.

"Bruh, I don't think they have. I think the real killers out there," he said bitterly.

"What makes you think this boy?" Aunt Natalie asked strongly, showing some strength in her voice for the first time.

"A lot of things I'd rather not discus. Mr. Brooks doesn't wear a necklace. And he didn't have a murder weapon to prove he was the killer. I think this poop-breath is just a crazy dude not a killer," he explained sharply.

"Then you think the real killer is still out there?" Norma said firmly placing Natalie's hand back down softly.

"Hell yeh. I do."

"Well I hope you're wrong!" Aunt Natalie said sharply.

"I do too."

Keith was trembling again. He was in need of a smoke. He couldn't smoke in the hospital. So he'd have to wait.

A blond nurse came in and took Aunt Natalie's blood. She clearly hated that judging by the look on her face. She probably didn't like needles. Keith sure didn't either.

They all continued to talk until aunt Natalie went off to sleep and Norma and Keith left.

# Chapter 30

Well it was another busy Friday night at the Sunshine Hotel casino. It was a nine-story, dark brown building. And lots of round windows. A large parking garage was across the street just as big as the casino. The casino was full of crazed gamblers wishing for their dreams to come true. And Many probably did.

But Keith wasn't here to gamble. He was here because of the murder of Miss Nicky Gady.

Many people come to Reno Nevada to win millions. But this individual came here to kill assuming Miss Gady's death was related to Miss Sands. Lt. Betha wouldn't say he just wanted Keith to show up. This woman should know by now that Keith prefers to work on closed cases.

Well there were more folks here tonight than any other Friday because of a murder. Keith pushed through a crowd of noisy people to get to Miss Gady's dressing room.

When he did get there, the colorful coroner was wheeling out the body on a stretcher. Keith stopped the men. He assured them that he was with Lt. Betha, by showing his ID. One of the guys unzipped the black body bag for him.

Miss Nicky Gady had an angelic face and ash blond hair. Her throat was grossly ripped open, showing some bone, like some damn wolf bit into her. Part of her vocal cords and windpipe were missing. Keith turned away and threw up on this man's shoes standing next to him. There was a lot of blood that ran down her throat pass her breast to her stomach and on the floor of the dressing room.

"All right," said one of the guys as he was ready to zip the bag.

"For sure," Keith said sharply, nodding his head as he wiped barf from his mouth.

The man zipped the bag back up and pushed forward through the cluster of nosey punks.

Keith stared inside the dressing room. The forensics folks were going over the place. Lt. Betha was there too. He wore the same suit he'd been wearing. He was still smoking them dreadful cigars.

"Well, you finally show, bruh," Lt. Betha snapped, puffing on his cigar.

"Well, you know the traffic. And other bull!" he said strongly.

"Dog, you just went to score some crack-cocaine," Lt. Betha stated firmly with a smirk.

"Bug off, dude. You should try it will help you solve your cases a little better," Keith said sharply, looking around the dressing room.

"You'll never catch me doing that stuff. If you do shot me brother. Just shot me!" he said hotly.

The dressing room smelled of death and Miss Gady's stale perfume. There no physical evidence other than the huge blood spot on the floor. But where was the missing skin on her neck? Did the slime-breath eat it?

"So let me brief you on Miss Gady's murder," Lt. Betha stated firmly.

"Bruh I already know. I seen the body dude," he said strongly. He took out a small bottle of Chavis Regal and took a long suck from the bottle. "It's just like the others."

"Well I now know Mr. Brooks didn't kill her. He's still in jail," Lt. Betha said firmly, blowing smoke into the air.

"What's with all that blood?"

"The blood on Brooks is just goats."

"Goat's blood?"

"Hell yeh. We found a dead goat near by."

"What a horrible thing to do to animal? Dude I tell you Brooks is a messed up individual," Keith said bluntly and took a long swig from his bottle.

"Yeh. He's being sent to Nevada mental health in a few days," he said, finishing his cigar.

"When did she die?" A Mexican cop asked strongly.

"At 9:45pm. It was shortly after the show," Lt. Betha said sharply.

"Did anybody see anything?" Keith stated sharply finishing his whiskey.

"Like what?" the Mexican cop asked strongly.

"Like a homeboy come out of this joint. Or see somebody go inside with her?" Keith asked sharply.

"We asked the staff. Nobody seen anything. Bruh it was a lot of turd-breaths hanging around after the show," the Mexican guy said sharply. "This was the busiest night."

"Some dude who's good with a razor," Lt. Betha stated sharply.

"Hell yeh. A crafty gee with a razor," Keith said sharply.

"A damn animal, bruh. Come on man! Somebody's nasty pit-bull ran up in here," the Mexican stated bitterly.

"Nah. A dude that's decent with a blade. Ain't a dog going to run up in this place," Keith explained clearly. "Somebody would've seen the mutt, dog."

"Where is the slab of flesh, bro-bro?" the Mexican said sharply.

"Well, homeboys! The man or woman could have walked away with the piece of flesh," Lt. Betha stated.

"Yes, that's right. Can't leave any evidence boo," the Mexican cop said firmly.

Well forensic started packing up stuff. They seemed to be done. And they seemed to be eager to get home to their families. They looked hella tired too.

Keith grabbed a Budweiser from the bar near by. He removed the cap and began guzzling. Then he moved over to the dressing room.

Well it clearly wasn't robbery. An expensive saxophone sat in the corner with three guitars. The walls were covered with hundreds of Musician who played here. Many well-known ones too. And musical notes were scattered on the floor.

"Who is this Gady broad?" Keith said strongly and took a long sip from his beer bottle.

"She was the lead singer of The Vogues," Lt. Betha said, lighting another cigar.

"Bruh I don't think I know them," Keith said, pulling up his pants.

"They're pretty big now," the Mexican cop said cheerfully. "Where you been homey?"

"Man I don't dig these two-bit bands bruh."

"Gee, this bands hella tight," the Mexican cop stated strongly.

"You questioned the band members?" Lt. Betha said sharply.

"Were in the process of doing that stuff now," the Mexican cop said firmly.

"Well both cases are related. And both murders involve singers," Keith said firmly, guzzling his second Budweiser.

"What are you saying?" The Mexican cop snapped.

"That we might be dealing with a serial killer, a motherfucker that hates singers," Keith snapped.

"Well we better check everybody that has keys to the dressing rooms. And anyone that hated her enough to kill her," Lt. Betha stated clearly.

"Are you going to close the casino?" Keith asked strongly and took a long swig from the beer.

"It might be advisable. Or maybe close off the section where the murder took place," Lt. Betha said clearly.

"Bruh, I'm done," Keith stated bitterly.

"Hell no. We need you brother. We may have a serial killer running around in Reno," Lt. Betha snapped.

After they had finished they put crime scene tape around the dressing room area. They wandered off towards the bar for drinks.

# Chapter 31

At 7:00am, the Sunshine Hotel casino looked quite different. There were more employee than tourist. There were a bunch of people wearing yellow coveralls, surrounded by security guards. They were carrying around huge blue bags, draining coins from slot machines. Nobody could play them they had crime scene tape blocking off the area. They were making a lot of noise. Whenever the slot machines get full they empty them on a weekly bases.

Keith wore a white cap turned backwards, a long blue shirt with baggy white pants. He was determined to find Miss Sands killer.

He looked hungrily at the blackjack tables. He had much love for the game and spent many hours playing. Many of the dealers stood there at every table lonely. It was still early and not many players as of yet.

He lost several thousand dollars last week. But he got most of it back a couple of days ago. He needed it after spending so much on vacation.

The reason he was here was to see Mrs. Judy Bernstein. She was Miss Gady's booking agent. He ran a background check on both of them. They were both arrested for fighting, over a man. Mrs. Bernstein was arrested six years ago for stabbing a man into the neck. She claimed he tried to rape her. Every person is a suspect.

They weren't doing shows this time of morning and there is nobody in the dressing rooms. The band members were staying in the hotel as well. He planned to holla at them later.

Judy Bernstein was on the twentieth floor in room 221. She must have just finished her breakfast because a large metal tray with yellow stained plates was left there. The hallway smelled of eggs and coffee. Some Japanese tourist carrying umbrellas and big-ass cameras on their shoulders passed by, smiling.

Keith rang the doorbell. Soon he heard footsteps approaching the door. Then the door opened. A very tall middle-aged woman stood in the door. She was about six-feet tall. She had long shaggy hair, wearing pink-silk nightgown. He yellowish green eyes stared at him welcoming.

"Yes?"

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator," he said strongly, showing his ID.

"Ok. Come inside," she said sharply, motioning him in.

She closed the door behind. The smell of breakfast smacked him in the face. He sat in a white chair. She sat on the bed. There was somebody in the shower.

"Who else is here?" Keith said firmly.

"Oh that's my husband in the shower," she said happily.

"What's his name?"

"Burt."

"So you've had breakfast."

"Oh, man. I couldn't start the day without it," she said cheerfully.

"Well I'm investigating the murder of Miss Nicky Gady," he said sharply.

A middle-aged man came out of the shower, wearing a black-silk rob. And slippers. He glared at Keith with murder in his eyes.

"What in the hell is this black dude doing in our room?" Mr. Bernstein said acidly.

Keith stood up. "I just want to ask a couple of questions about a murder."

"We don't feel like answering any. It's too early for this jive," he snapped.

He grabbed Keith by the neck and squeezed.

"This is what I do to deaf idiots," Bernstein said harshly.

Bernstein started lifting Keith off his feet. And was choking him as he began to ram him into the wall. This went on for a while until the man got tired and let go. Keith fell to the floor, holding on to his throat. Mrs. Bernstein sat on the bed terrified.

Keith stood up a little shook up. Bernstein walked over to him. Keith did his famous spin kick. His foot landing in Bernstein's chest and he flew back onto a brown table, breaking it in half. He just lay there and didn't try to get up.

"You crazy slime-breath! Do you want a heart attack?" Keith snapped.

"Up yours, cop!" Bernstein snapped.

His wife rushed over to him to help him up. But he made quite a fuss.

"Enough of this stuff. I want to get out of here," Keith said sourly.

"My husband and I didn't kill Miss Gady," she said strongly. "We loved her."

Keith took out that ugly necklace. They stared at it in horror.

"What in the hell is that ugly thing?" she barked loudly.

"It's a necklace."

"It isn't mine," she snapped.

"It ain't mine neither," he said coldly.

"Just wondering," Keith said firmly.

"I'd never wear any trash like that," she said strongly.

"I think I've lost my appetite after looking at that thing, brother," Mr. Bernstein said hotly.

"Maybe a band member?" Keith asked putting away the necklace.

"Nah. The lead singer is the breadwinner. Nobody would dare do it."

"You seem sure."

"I am."

"Yeh. She's sure punk," he snapped, trying to sit up.

"Did she have any enemies?"

"Not really."

"Man I think you messed up my back," he said sharply.

"You're a damn baby, Bernstein!" Keith said bitterly.

"Maybe the former drummer."

"Who's that?"

"Chuck Totten."

"Why would he kill her?"

"Nicky fired him."

"Why?"

"Chuck was unreliable."

"Do any of these folks carry weapons?"

"One of them carries a gun maybe," she said sharply.

"But not a knife?"

"I don't think a knife," she said.

"Are you sure, baby?"

"Yeh."

"I don't either, mister," Bernstein said firmly.

Mr. Bernstein grabbed a bottle of Sterling wine and popped the cap. He poured himself a glass. Keith stuck a joint into his mouth. Mrs. Bernstein lit a cigarette.

Keith grabbed a big black purse that was on the bed. He dumped it and all sorta junk came out. But he was only interested in a long butcher knife and some sharp teeth.

"What the hell is this?" she snapped, blowing smoke towards Keith.

"Why do you have Vampire teeth?" he said strongly.

"Don't go through my wife's purse homeboy!" Mr. Bernstein said gruffly and took a long swig of wine.

"For a party next month. I may go as the daughter of Dracula," she said and took a long pull from her cig.

"You didn't use them on Miss Gady?" Keith stated firmly and took a long drag from his weed.

"Are you crazy?" she said venomously.

"Well I'm just asking bruh," he said strongly.

"My wife wouldn't kill the kid. Besides she's her booking agent slime face," Mr. Bernstein said sardonically.

"Dude, I don't like being accused of murder," she said sharply, blowing smoke in his face.

"You've got a record."

"Who doesn't?"

"Well you tried to kill somebody," he said strongly and took a long drag from his joint.

"What was I suppose to do? Let the frog-poop rape me!" she stated vociferously.

"I guess not babe."

"And a damn woman tried to steal my husband. So I beat the crap out of her," she stated bitterly.

"You're a pretty tough broad!"

"When I have to be."

# Chapter 32

Back at the Sunshine Hotel Casino but was in the video room. Keith didn't think about it at the time but every casino has a video camera. When the killer came into the casino, he would have been caught on tape.

Keith Jackson met with Mr. Sean Walker of security. They sat in the video room, a small place. He looked at the dozen TV screens, picking up every angle of the casino floor. There were more folks in the casino now than before when he came by earlier.

Well Walker was a husky guy, not real tall, but looked to be dangerous. He wore a white shirt with suns on it. And black slacks and dark shoes. His black belt held a gun and radio. So this dudes business.

There were two boxes of donuts on a small table. A bunch of Styrofoam cups stacked against the wall by a coffeemaker. And extra radios hung on the wall next to casino newsletters. And lots of photos of blonds and brunettes and babies pinned to the wall, showing the family members of the security team.

"Want some coffee and doughnuts?" Walker said sharply.

"For sure," Keith said with a smirk.

Walker took two Styrofoam cups from the pack and placed them side by side. He poured coffee from the coffeemaker into them. Keith grabbed a couple of sugar donuts from the box and bit into one.

When Walker replaced the coffeepot, he grabbed a jelly donut. Keith dumped some Midnight Moon into his coffee for more flavor.

"Dude, look! The best surveillance equipment in the world," he boasted sharply with a sly grin.

"Hell yeh. You got some fly set-up here," Keith said cheerfully and took a long swig from his coffee.

"What do you want?" Walker said firmly as he studied the video screens.

"Want to catch a killer," Keith snapped, glancing at the screens.

"And you will," he said, chewing on a jelly donut.

"Do you remember the night of the murder?"

"Yeh. It was Friday night. We were very busy. Nicky Gady and The Vogues put on a great show," Walker explained clearly, finishing his second donut.

"Do you like the Vogues?" he asked firmly, finishing his coffee.

"Dude I wanted to have sex with Nicky Gady," he said strongly, pouring himself more coffee.

"Very simple, bruh. Just go down to the morgue," Keith stated strongly pouring himself more coffee.

"Hella sick dude but I like it. The lady can't say no," Walker said happily.

"There you go, gee," Keith said.

"Man I hate the fact that some sick-fart killed her."

"Me too."

"Can I have some of that stuff in my coffee?"

"For sure."

Keith poured some Midnight Moon in both of their cups.

"That's what I'm talking about man," Walker stated cheerfully.

"They let you slime-brains in these casinos drink?" Keith asked sharply drinking his coffee.

"Hell no! But I do, bro," Walker said boastfully and took a long sip from his coffee.

"Hell yeh. I like you homeboys," Keith said sharply and took a long swig of coffee.

"I didn't get your name," he asked and took a big swig from his coffee.

"Private investigator. Keith Jackson."

"Who are you working for?"

"None of your business, man," Keith snapped and took swig of coffee.

"I thought you liked me."

"I do but not that much baby."

"Well I know dude we're on the same page on solving the murder of Nicky Gady," Walker said strongly, sipping his coffee.

"Dude I think you have the killer on tape!" Keith said sharply, finishing up his coffee.

"That's right. We should have it," Walker said, chewing on a donut.

Walker took one last sip from his coffee cup and stood up. He walked over to a Metal cabinet full of keys. He casually went through it until he found the right keys. He stuck the key into the lock, turning it until it opened.

Walker carefully looked through the videotapes in the cabinet. He took out one he believed dated back to Friday night.

"This is it," Walker said strongly, heading over to a VCR.

He stuck it into the VCR and turned it on. The VCR made a squeaky sound as he rewind the tape. Then the VCR made a loud click sound when it was finished rewinding. Walker pressed play. Keith started guzzling the Midnight Moon.

"Yo, Walker. Don't go too far back! Please began after the show," Keith snapped sharply.

Walker fast-forwarded the tape until he reached the part after Miss Gady left the stage heading to her dressing room.

"Okay! Now are you happy?" Walker snapped.

"Dude I'll be more happy when I catch this barf-brain," Keith said strongly.

"Dude the dressing room hallway is coming up," Walker said firmly.

"Well it better punk."

They watched the dressing room using five screens. A black dude came in to watch the other screens. You surely couldn't rob the casino blind.

"Hey man look! A big yellow afro's heading down the dressing room hallway," Walker said sharply.

"Yeh. I see that," Keith said strongly and took another swig from the bottle. "This could be the icing on the cookie."

"That clowns over six-feet tall," Walker said sharply.

"What the hell is a clown doing there?" the black security guard stated strongly.

"Maybe the killer will show up after the clown leaves," Walker said firmly finishing his coffee.

"Was the clown part of the show?" Keith asked sharply.

"I didn't see a clown in the show dude," Walker stated bluntly.

"Are you sure?" Keith snapped.

"I'm sure dude!" Walker said firmly.

"Where did the clown come from?" the black security guard snapped.

"Looks like the entrance by the sports bar," Keith said.

"Look the clown went inside!" Walker said, pointing to the screen.

"Didn't you turd-breaths notice this?" Keith asked harshly.

"I didn't work on Friday, bruh," the black security said firmly.

"It was busy man. I was shorthanded," Walker said strongly.

"Hell no. You were probably in here humping each other gee," Keith said sharply.

"Bug off, dog!" the black guard said defensively.

"Yeh. Slime you. You didn't do anything to save her," Walker said hotly.

"How could you drink that stuff on top of donuts?" The black security guard said firmly.

"Very simple, bruh," Keith said strongly.

The clown went inside the dressing room. Shortly he came out, chewing something. No one even noticed him. He walked into the crowd towards the exit and vanished. Keith wanted to reach in the screen, grab the dude, and bite his head off.

"Well?" Walker snapped.

"Run this thing again!" Keith stated with a ghetto tone.

"All right, man," Walker said firmly.

"Now I know it wasn't no animal. Course I always knew it couldn't be no dog or wolf. A crazy punk dressed up like a clown," Keith said strongly.

"And he didn't have a blade," the black security added.

"That thing could've been in his pocket, dude," Keith said, drinking whisky.

Well they sat there for hours looking at the video hoping to find something they could find some more clues.

"Did you check the trash?" Keith noted clearly.

"Well no!" Walker snapped.

"Then we better check, baby," Keith snapped.

"Why the trash?" the black security asked sharply.

"Well I don't think he's going to walk down the street in a clowns outfit after murdering someone. That punk knows you saw him in the cameras," Keith explained clearly.

"Good point, brother," Walker said firmly.

So they went outside. The rain had stopped and left it sorta wet.

"Check all these dumpsters near the casino. If we're dealing with a serial killer he's bound to leave evidence," Keith explained strongly.

So, a few of the security guards dug into the trash. Keith got in one of the other ones. The guards complained about the smell. Folks walked by glancing.

"Dude I can't stand the smell of this garbage. I think I'm going to puke," Walker stated bluntly, squinting.

"Bruh I can't stand the smell of any garbage. But hang in there," Keith said strongly.

They continued to sift through the trash for some time. They complained about their clothes being ruined. Keith's clothes were messed up too. At least the security guards got their stuff cleaned by the casino for free.

"Man I found something hella gross," the black security guard stated strongly as he held up this sickness.

"What the hell is that stuff?" Keith stated sharply with a frowned.

Well Walker held up the items, which looked like a clowns' outfit and a very dirty yellow Afro.

"This looks like the stuff this punk wore," Walker stated firmly.

"Will have to send that funky stuff to the crime lab," Keith said strongly.

As Walker climbed out of the trashcan, the black security guard had a big plastic bag waiting for him. They put the awful smelling stuff inside.

"They won't find anything. There is cottage cheese and barbecue sauce all over everything," Walker complained harshly.

"That stuff doesn't matter. Because Reno's finest lab technicians in the world will fix it," Keith said surely.

"Look at our clothes!" The black security guard said firmly.

"We look hella fly don't we," Keith said with a smirk.

# Chapter 33

Well he arrived in Las Vegas, Nevada on Monday morning. The last time Keith was here, he played the roulette wheel at the Plaza casino. He won hella big. But when he tried to cash out $200,000 the security there began giving him a hard time. They thought the black dude was cheating. So they threw him out. He kept the money.

Keith was wearing a baseball cap with the letters KILLER THUG on it turned backwards, an over-sized black sports jacket. He also wore a white T-shirt with a machinegun stenciled on it. And baggy jeans.

The taxis dropped him off on 215 E. 3rd street in front of a white house, with 4000 sq. f. all on one level. There were oak trees in front. There eight round circles of grass patches everywhere. He'd never saw that before. There were big tinted windows all over the place. The neighboring homes were pretty much the same worth probably $800,000.

Well he walked up to the door and knocked. When the door finally opened, a tall, slim man stood there. He stared at Keith with friendly dark-brown mink eyes. He wore a big white shirt with drum sets all over it. Also he had faded blue jeans. He looked hella unemployed.

"Yes, what's up?"

"I'm looking for Chuck Totten," Keith said firmly with smirk.

"I am he. And you are?"

"I'm Keith Jackson, a private investigator," he stated firmly, showing his ID.

Totten nodded as he handed the ID back. A blond woman came to the door, wearing a pink shirt and tight blue jeans. She smiled at Keith. He smiled back.

Mrs. Totten was straightening a flowery dress on her daughter. And two boys were dressed up nicely: Jersey shirts and shorts. They were waiting for their sister. They must have been going to school. Their beautiful lunch pails sat on an oak table along with books and binders.

Totten closed the door and his long legs carried him over to a tan sofa. His kids hugged and kissed him as they made their way over to their mother to do the same thing before heading off to school.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked firmly.

"Hell yeh," Keith snapped as he sat down in a leather chair.

Keith glanced at a lovely set of drums in the corner of the spacious room. Many photos of the Vogues and Totten playing drums and was his family too. Big oakwood shelves were stack with novels and cds. A shinny black piano sat by a stacked bar. A basketball sat next to a stuffed pink elephant. The place smelled of blueberry pancakes, whip cream, syrup, eggs bacon and toast. To the left there was a big sword on the wall. To the right there were a bunch of vampire posters.

Totten returned with a double glass full of bourbon and a tall glass of milk. He handed Keith the bourbon. He immediately took a long swig from the glass.

"Hey, dude. This is some good shit," Keith said strongly with a grin.

"Well it should be. It's twenty years old," Totten stated cheerfully and took a long drink of milk.

"Age does bring the best out of things," Keith said happily.

"I'm glad you like it."

"You have a cool-ass family."

"I know."

"You like vampires?"

"Yeh. It's something about biting people and things," he said in a creepy voice.

"Have ever bitten anyone?" Keith asked strongly and took another big gulp of bourbon.

"Of course. My dog. He turned into a vampire dog," he said strongly with a laugh.

"Not a human, dude?"

"No. Not yet."

Mrs. Totten glanced at him strangely.

"I'm investigating the death of Nicky Gady," he said sharply, finishing his bourbon.

"Oh yes. I heard about that."

"That's why I'm here."

"Oh. I get it. You think I killed her!" he snapped and finished his milk.

His wife gave Keith an evil stare.

"Well she fired you."

"You seem to be well informed."

"I'm a detective man."

"Well that's very true, dude. She told me that things just weren't working out," he said sadly and rose from the chair.

He strolled over to the wall where his sword was. He removed it from over the fireplace. He shoved it in front of Keith.

"Like my sword, dude?"

"Get that weapon out of my face!" Keith snapped.

"It's been in the family for centuries," Totten boasted sharply, dangling it in Keith's face.

"Get that thing out of my face, dude!" he said brazenly as he rose.

Totten moved the sword around swiftly like some Excalibur dude. Keith brought out his gun.

"Drop the sword, bruh! Let the thing drop!" Keith shouted.

"Don't worry, man. Everything's cool!" Totten said clearly.

"Stop messing around Charles!" Mrs. Totten said strongly with a frown.

"I'm just sporting my sportsman skills," Mr. Totten snapped with a smile.

"Drop the sword or I'll shoot off your narrow head," Keith stated testily.

He started whining like a baby as he moved back over to the fireplace. He placed the sword back. Keith put his gun away.

"Totten if you didn't kill Miss Gady stop bugging," Keith said firmly.

"I'm not mad. I was only showing off. I do it with all our guest," Totten said clearly. "Also in my spare time I do a little fencing."

"Dude I'm not here for entertainment. I'm here on business, baby," Keith said sharply.

When Totten came back over to sit down Keith punched him in the face and he landed on the sofa holding his jaw.

"Damnit! I think you broke my jaw," Totten screamed.

"Better you than me player," Keith snapped with smile.

Totten stood up and spit out a tooth.

"Man, you're a jerk!" he screamed sharply.

"Where were you Friday night?"

"Here watching the fights."

"Who was fighting?"

"Meriwether. The black man. He was fighting some Mexican guy," he said strongly still holding on to his jaw.

"Alone?"

"Yes. She was playing bridge with her friends. And the kids stayed with grand mom," he said.

"I need the names and addresses baby," Keith said strongly, standing.

Keith walked over to the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam. He removed the cap and poured a glass of a double amount.

"Screw you pal! I don't get theses questions. I didn't kill Nicky," Totten said maliciously.

"Nothing personal Totten. I'm just doing my job. And most of the time this is the worst part," Keith said strongly and took a big swig from the glass.

"Look, man! I didn't kill Nicky. She did have her bad moments. And you'd want to strangle her. And then many times you want hump her brains out. No disrespect to my beautiful wife," he said sharply, pouring himself some bourbon too.

"Do you know anyone that wears a clown suit?"

"Hell nah."

"Do you, bruh?"

"Nope!"

"Do you carry a knife?"

"Hell nah."

"Who hate Miss Nicky enough to kill her?" Keith asked sharply and took another big swig of bourbon.

"I don't know dude. Maybe Nicky's wacky brother," Totten said clearly and took a long gulp of bourbon.

"So she has a brother?" Keith asked sharply guzzling his whisky.

"That's right. He was in Reno catching her show."

"How did you know this?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a liar, man," Keith stated harshly and finished his glass.

Totten gulp the whole drink down. "Ok, man. I was there too. I caught the show. It was my band. And I still like it. By the way, I was there on Thursday. After the show Nicky was arguing with her brother in the hallway," he explained strongly, pouring himself bourbon, making it double this time.

Keith lit a joint. He followed Totten over to huge desk with photos on it.

"Are crazy man?"

"I've been called worst, Gee," Keith snapped.

"You can't smoke that stuff," Totten snapped sharply.

"Relax, dude. It's a medical thing."

"Bull. You're a drug addict!"

"So?"

"How do you function?"

"Much better!" Keith said strongly looking at photos.

"You're looking at the best days we ever had," Totten said strongly and guzzled bourbon.

All the photos were band members of The Vogues. Miss Gady was vocals playing a pink guitar. Totten was jamming on the drums. It was the early times. They were real young. They wore cheesy costumes. They played in garages. They played in basements and in crummy clubs.

There were more pictures of the band as they progressed to playing better and bigger arenas. Looking at these photos made Totten very sad and so continued to drink bourbon. Keith just kept smoking his weed. Mrs. Totten started vacuuming the carpets.

"What the brother's name?"

Totten began to stagger around the room.

"Mike Gady," he snapped loudly.

"Where does he live?"

"In Oakland, ca."

"What did they argue about?"

"Money!"

"All right, dude."

"So you're finally leaving?"

"Hell yeh. I going to cut this spot," he said sharply, hurrying to the door.

# Chapter 34

Keith was running late for a date with Miss Tangy Miller at Sea Crest Restaurant. It was because of the slow DMV operation. He just wanted to get his Dodge Dart register.

They had recently remodeled the place. And hired more folks. Had much better looking waitresses. The lines were still too long.

Well the Sea Crest was one of the best seafood restaurants in town. The delicious shrimp platters specials were everyone's favorite. The place was only four years old and already sensation. Next to the pet shop was on S. Virginia Street and Boston eatery. The Park Lane Mall was down the street. This was a hella beautiful area.

He walked around the restaurant looking for Tangy. He hoped she hadn't left. He probably would've. The place looked like an old sea movie set. There were sailboat everywhere, big-ass dead crabs, fish, whales, sharks, a huge stuffed pirates standing around everywhere hella scary looking. There were lifejackets too. The place was hella busy for a Monday night but since this was the best spot in town to kick it, he wasn't surprised.

He found Tangy in the back by the kitchen. She was along and frowning. She had eaten most of her seafood platter. A half full bottle of red wine sat in a bucket of ice. She was wearing a slick silk black dress. Her hair was looking like a big beehive. Keith wore a long white shirt and baggy dark jeans.

He sat there going over the menu but already knew what he wanted. There was lots of noise coming from the kitchen. Miss Miller stared with her moldering green eyes at Keith as he placed the menu back down on the table. He pour him self some wine.

"Bruh, I know what I want," he said sharply with a smirk.

"Do you know what time it is?" She snapped, pushing her platter away.

"Dude I know I'm hella late and I'm sorry," he said strongly, sipping his wine.

"You're two hours and thirty minutes late," she screamed sharply.

"I told your butt I was sorry. The DMV, their slow as hell," he said strongly with a thug tone.

"Bruh I wonder why? The DMV did get a facelift."

"I know. They should be hella faster. After all, we paid hella high taxes for this. We own that joint. You feel me?"

He poured wine in her glass before pouring some in he's. She seemed ready to leave. And the waiter was coming over.

The lights were dim to make it more romantic. He scooted over to Tangy and put his arms around. She seemed like she didn't want to be bothered. He tried to kiss her but she backed away.

"I'm sorry, boo," he said softly.

"Yeh."

"You taste better than the wine," he said cheerfully.

"I'm sorry about this table."

"Hell yeh. We're practically in the kitchen. But I'm not tripping. Besides there are no more tables," he said sharply and took a long swig from his wine.

Every table was full. All the food servers were running around like chickens cut off. And the lines at the door were miles long, leaving folks standing as far back as the parking lot. And some folks were getting hella pissed. Hostesses were trying to calm folks down.

"Where's our waiter?" Keith screamed.

"Here take mine. I haven't been too hungry."

"Well, why not?"

He pushed her platter over to himself. And was already digging into the platter.

"What is this?"

"Oh this? It's a file. I've been working on it for you," she stated firmly.

"So what's up?"

"That necklace is evil, dude. One of the palm readers I know said that the blood in the eye represents the rebirth of the wolf. And the one who wears it becomes cursed."

"Well that explains why a clown could savagely murder a woman," he said, chewing on a shrimp.

"A clown?" she snapped, looking puzzled.

"Yeh, our latest victim was slain by a clown."

"Well see what I mean, gee."

All the servers were cruising by wearing sailor uniforms. They dotted back and forth carrying trays full of food. And made some quick jokes with each other.

A black waiter approached the table. He looked a bouncer with a clean-shaven head. And a shin mustache.

"What's up man?"

"You're hella busy tonight, bruh?" Keith said cheerfully.

"Bruh it's like this every night."

"How the Lakers'?"

"Damn the Lakers'. I'm digging Chicago," he said sharply with a smirk.

"Them cats play good ball out there too," he said firmly.

"What is it you want to eat bruh?"

"Fetch me another shrimp platter bro-bro," Keith snapped.

"All right," he said as he wrote it down on a notepad. "Anything to drink?"

"Get me a beer!"

"All right. Anything for you baby?"

"Hell nah!"

"All right," he said sharply and hustled back to the kitchen.

"Why don't you drink some of that water too?" he snapped, sipping his wine.

"I will."

"Is all that stuff true about that necklace?"

"Well I don't know bro! The necklace is The Bleeder eye of The Demon. Whoever looks in the eye will be cursed. And must eat the flesh of the neck of lounge singers to receive immortality and break the curse," she explained clearly.

"What else would break the curse?"

"Death!"

"Death?"

"You have to kill him dude."

"How many singers?"

"Maybe ten."

The waiter came out of nowhere and placed the platter on the table. He quickly opened the bottle and pour into the glasses. Keith ignored him. He didn't say anything to him either. There were just too busy to do anything. He quickly finished and left.

The smell of clams hit the dinning room hard. He smelled great and wanted to change his order.

"Bruh I think this whole affair is bull! That guy is hella crazy. That's all. You feel me?" he said harshly as he shoved huge shrimps into his mouth.

"I don't know bruh. But we have a killer out there who believes this stuff and his live has been changed," she said strongly, sipping wine.

Keith washed down the food with a bottle of Miller beer.

"You notice this dude strikes at night," he said sharply.

"That's probably why."

"Nah. This crazy creature works days," he said strongly and took a big swig of beer.

"And everybody so far worked at casinos. There must be some connection there. "

"Well he wouldn't be dressed like a clown at work."

"Well I don't think he or she would be that ignorant."

"But not just lounge singers perform in casinos, baby," he said strongly.

"Yeh I'll make a note of that," she said firmly.

"How does the killer know where the singers are?" he asked.

"That creepy necklace."

"Is there more of these cursed folks?"

"Could be."

"Where do we find the dude?"

"He's probably under are noses, bruh."

"I know who he is?"

"Who?"

"Miss Gady's brother."

"Are sure?"

"I'm not sure about anything yet."

"What are you going to do know?"

"I'm flying to Oakland to see Miss Gady's brother. I have to sow up all possible leads," he said finishing up his platter.

"How can he help?"

"Keep looking into that necklace stuff."

"Did the clown leave any evidence?"

"Hell yeh. It's being analyzed at the crime lab."

"Be careful I hear Oakland's really rough."

"I'm even rougher, baby-girl," he snapped sharply.

"Have a safe trip!"

# Chapter 35

Gady Iron Works Inc. was a big grey building with tinted windows. There was a lot of men burning iron to make strange shapes for many companies. The noise was hella loud. The smell of burning metal was burning Keith's nose. Most of the men weren't wearing shirts. And they were hella built. They were hammering on smoldering sticks of red metal, making shapes. Loads of sweat was pouring out of the men. He was sure Tangy would like to me here.

Keith wore an orange hoody, and large black jeans. He had a joint dangling from his horrid mouth. He had his gun. It was somewhat chilly there. It seemed like every time Keith came to Oakland it was cool.

He lit he's joint and strolled up to the first man he saw. He was holding a clipboard standing next to a pile of iron.

"Excuse me, bruh!" Keith said firmly.

The homeboy looked like a wrestler and was capable of squashing him. He looked at him with cold brown eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for Gady," Keith said strongly and took a long drag from his joint.

"Yeh. He's in the office I'll get him," he said sharply and walked off towards a building.

Keith stood there smoking his weed, watching ironworkers load iron on big trucks using some sorta crane. They were making hella noise.

Then two big black men were walking towards him. Those cats weren't smiling. And the man with the clipboard was coming back but without the clipboard. He was now carrying a blowtorch. Gady wasn't with them. Something was starting to pop-off.

Behind him was the sound of a big engine. He turned to see. A big truck was coming at him. Keith just stood there expecting the truck to veer off. But he kept coming faster like a truck on steroids. Keith finally dived out of the way landing hard on the dirt. The truck urged on slamming into a pile of iron. The iron bars tumbled down loudly onto the hood of the truck smashing the front-end. Steam came out of the truck's engine. The driver was knocked out from the blow. Lucky not to have been killed.

Well Keith got up from the ground his hoody dirty and jeans. He took out his gun. The guy with the torch came forward.

"I'm going to roast you brother," he said brazenly.

"Not today, bro-bro," Keith stated strongly.

The man waved to blowtorch at Keith several times. And Keith backed away. The man kept charging. Keith danced around looking around him at the two black dudes that were closing in.

Keith shot the man with the blowtorch in the leg and he went down with the torch. The torch still lit caught the man's pants and he was on fire.

The man with the blowtorch got up quickly running and screaming. One of the black men ran after him. The man dropped to the ground and started rolling. The black man grabbed a jacket and began striking the burning man to put out the flames.

Another worker Mexican threw a punch at Keith, missing. Keith did his spin kick into the man's chest and he flew back.

The other black man grabbed Keith from behind because he was trying to defeat the Mexican dude. He was chocking Keith as he held his hand with the gun back so he couldn't shot him as what Keith was trying very hard to do.

The struggle ended when Keith bit the black dude in the arm. The man yelled and let go of Keith. But when Keith raised the gun the man kicked it out of his hand and it flew onto the ground. Keith charged the man tackling him down to the ground. Keith was on top of him punching the punk into the face. The other black man came back and kicked Keith in the face. Keith fell backwards.

While Keith was lying on his back, the black man kept kicking him in the side. Until Keith finally grabbed the man's foot and twisted it, he screamed and fell back.

As Keith was trying to get up the black man swung his leg at Keith's head, missing. And the man seemed to lose his balance when he tried the same thing again that's when Keith rolled under his legs and the man fell backwards.

Well the fight was interrupted when an angry man approached them. He seemed to be of authority. Keith figured it was probably Gady.

"Who the hell are you?" Keith snapped sharply getting up from the ground.

"I'm the damn owner, punk," he snapped sharply.

"Gady?" Keith said strongly reaching to pick up his gun.

"Hell yes. What are you doing on my site fighting with my workers," Gady stated harshly.

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator," Keith stated sharply.

"A private dick?"

"Hell yeh."

"If you're here about my sister I already know," he stated sharply.

"I think you killed her, man," Keith said sharply, brushing the dirt off his clothes.

"Go on get your butts back to work. Look at my truck! And Troy. Get him a doctor!"

"Troy tried to kill my butt!" Keith said bluntly.

"Well you'd better call first before coming."

"For sure."

Then Keith punched him in the face with the gun handle. He yelled out, holding on to his nose.

"You black punk! I think you broken my nose," he said coldly as blood ran through his fingers.

"It takes more than a couple of goons to take me out baby," Keith said coldly.

"I don't dig folks that hassle my workers."

"Bruh I only wanted to talk to you Gee."

"I didn't kill my sister!"

Keith took out the necklace.

"Is this yours?"

"No. I don't wear that sorta stuff."

"So the creepy stuff ain't your seen."

"No dude!"

"The noise!"

Keith put the necklace back in his pocket.

"Let's go into my office."

They strolled over to the trailer where his office was supposed to be. Gady unlocked the door, pull it back, and stepped inside. Keith followed closing the door behind. The soundproof trailer removed the outside noise greatly.

Keith sat down on a dirty sofa by the window. Gady hurried over to a MR. COFFEE Maker, sitting on a white table in the corner by a window. He poured himself a cup.

"You were in Reno?" Keith snapped sharply.

"Hell yeh. I went there to see my sister perform," he said firmly, sipping on coffee.

"You're wanted for a hit & run there," Keith said firmly, placing a joint in his mouth.

Gady's desk was full of papers and stuff. In addition, a cell phone, and laptops were open and running. There was a water machine by an empty coat rack. The place smelled like a thousand hog farts and years of real strong white man's sweat.

"That's right. But nothing will stop me from see my sister sang," he said strongly, placing some Jack Daniels in his coffee.

"Dude I heard you were arguing with your sister."

"None of your business dude!"

"I need to know dude," Keith insisted strongly and took a huge drag from his joint.

"Bug off, dude!" he said harshly and took a long swig of coffee.

"You're getting hella stupid, bruh. Don't let me bust that pretty nose open," Keith said bitterly, blowing smoke in Gady's face.

"Money! Well we argue often about it. See my business is having financial problems," he said sadly and took a sip of coffee.

"I thought iron was in demand."

"Not lately."

"Your sister has money?" Keith said sharply and took a long hit from his joint.

"Hell yes. She got it from touring," he said strongly, pouring himself more coffee.

A black woman in a tight red dress came in a dropped more tan folders on a cluttered desk and walked out with a smile.

"More work? I'll never get out of here," Gady snapped with a smile.

"Do you wear clown clothes?" Keith asked firmly.

"Is that a joke, punk?"

"I'm hella serious!"

"No."

"Do you wear jewelry?"

"Yeh, a cross. But I must have lost it. Certainly not that evil crappy necklace you showed me."

Keith took the bottle of Jack Daniels and took a long guzzle and placed it back on the desk. Gady made an ugly face to show he didn't like that.

"After you finished arguing with your sister what did you do next?" Keith asked firmly.

"I went home. I drove back to Vegas," he stated sharply, pouring more Jack Daniels.

"Open your mouth."

"No!"

Keith hurried over to Gady . He grabbed hold of him as he held a cup of coffee and lifted him out of his chair. He threw his coffee in Keith's face. He yelled, letting go. Keith wiped his face of coffee, which wasn't very hot. Gady struck Keith hard in the face and shoved him into the wall. Then Gady went for a shotgun by his desk. Keith produced a gun, aiming it at Gady's head.

"Don't do it baby! Dude I'll blow off the back of your head," Keith said gruffly.

Gady left the shotgun be and backed away from the desk. He turned around slowly. And opened his mouth no sure why. Keith studied his teeth for a minute and his throat. He made an ugly face because of Gady's breath. Then he let go of his jaw.

"What the hell!"

"All right. You don't have any sharp teeth. So thanks big dog," Keith said strongly, heading for the door.

"Up yours, man!" Gady stated fiercely.

Keith found a McDonald's in Oakland. All the bull-crap made him hella hungry. The place was busy for breakfast. The faces of the workers were mostly brown and black. Keith had an egg McMuffin and coffee. He sat in a dirty place by the window next to a black woman wearing a black dress like she came from a funeral.

"The A's are hella fly, you know?" he said cheerfully.

"The A's suck bro-bro!" she snapped.

"Two black boys ran over to his table and stuck their tongue out at him. And ran back to their fat mother.

# Chapter 36

Well Keith was back at Brook Bear Hospital looking after his aunt Natalie who was still in a cast on her arm, leg and butt. He saw in her face how desperate she was to go home. The doctor wouldn't let her unless someone could watch over her. She didn't like the idea she preferred to be alone.

He was wearing a black jersey with the number 15 on it. A big gold chain around his neck, and faded baggy jeans. He strolled down the hall of the hospital, smacking nurses on the booty as he made it towards the exit.

He went back to the car to fetch the roses he bought his aunt. The rain had started again just then. He retrieved the roses and ran back towards the glass doors of the hospital just like every person was forced to do unless they wanted to get wet.

Keith stepped inside the room. His aunt was in a sitting position. And Hollywood Squares was blasting out of a small black & white TV screen. She was content but more so when she gazed eyes upon Keith.

"Well, well. Look at you, little boo-boo," she said excitedly.

"You look hella fly," he said cheerfully.

"Well I'd feel more fly if these idiots let me go home," she said sadly.

"Well I brought you some roses," he said happily.

"Oh, my. Thank you, baby. They're beautiful," she said cheerfully, smelling them.

"I'm glad you like them," Keith stated cheerfully.

"Put some water in that blue pitcher, and stick them in there," she said sharply.

"When are they going to let you go home?" He asked sharply, placing a joint into his mouth.

"Man, I don't know."

Keith walked over to her bed and sat. He picked up her hand and began stroking it.

"Well I hope soon because we miss you."

"Child, I want to get back on that horse. I've got unfinished business. I've got to practice for the rodeo," she snapped sharply.

"Aunt Natalie! You're not getting back on that horse again," he snapped, kissing her hand gently.

"The hell I am, kid! I don't give a damn what you say," she said coldly.

"Ok! We'll talk about this later," he said strongly, laying her hand back gently.

"Where were you this morning?" she snapped.

"In Oaktown."

"Oakland?"

"Hell yeh."

"You can't smoke that stuff!"

"I don't give a damn about the hospital. I only want you to come home," he said haughtily, lighting up his joint.

"Give me some kid!" she said hotly, holding her hand out.

Keith passed the joint to her. She took a long drag and passed it back. She began to cough for a while.

"See I told you aunt Natalie," he strongly and took a hit from the joint.

"Bug off," she said firmly.

"I was working on a case in Oakland."

"Well did you find the killer?"

"No. Just hella bull!" he said hotly and took a long drag from the joint.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Hell yeh," he said, blowing smoke in the air.

"Watch for cops!"

"I know all them dudes. They don't care," he stated strongly, taking another big hit.

"What time is it?"

"7:45pm."

"Boy, hand me the water!"

He gave her a glass of water. And she took sips with a straw.

"Are you working on that murder?"

"Yeh."

"I'm hella scared. I heard a crazed man is running around eating people's heads," she said sharply, handing back the water.

"Their necks. He or she is cutting them with a knife," he said, putting the water back on the counter.

"Whatever child! It's still gross."

"Don't worry Aunt Natalie I won't let this fool get anywhere near you," he said firmly, taking the last hit from his joint.

A plane was flying over the hospital, making hella noise. It scared Aunt Natalie. He looked out the window. It was dark outside now. He noticed the blue &white helicopter, sitting onto it's platform. And the Mountain Casino looked hella fly with it's beautiful lights.

An Indian nurse came in. She was smiling. She was tall, thin and wearing a light-blue uniform. She straightened up her pillows and took blood pressure. She asked about her health and commented on the roses. Aunt Natalie hated the nurses bugging her every minute about how she felt. And to take blood and blood pressure. And forcing her to eat unsalted foods.

"When I get out of here I'm not going to a casino with a killer running around in there," she said firmly.

"I know whatcha mean."

"Didn't they close the casino down?"

"They won't."

"How's that black policeman?"

"Still a fat-fool."

"Is he on the case too?"

"Hell yeh. I'll be meeting up with him in the morning to play some basketball," he said strongly walking over to her.

"Keith, don't worry! I know you'll catch this punk."

"Aunt Natalie, I'll try like hell. Now you get well soon!"

Keith gave her a big hug.

"Thank you."

"Where is Norma?"

"She's been here and left. She coming back later before I go back to sleep to bring my ribs and greens," she said happily.

"Okay!"

# Chapter 37

It was two am when Keith's phone rang off thee hook. It was from a frantic Lt. James Betha. He was at the Western Plaza Hotel Casino. There was another murder.

HE was barely awake and hella hangover at this point. His head felt like a loud band was performing in it. But he fought with the lions to get his butt up and get dressed. He flung himself into a cold shower hoping that would revive him.

It helped a little as he was trying to get dressed. He put on a white T-shirt over baggy jeans and some bright-red Nikes. He grabbed a huge joint on his way out the door into the chilly September morning.

The Western Hotel Casino was fifteen stories with lots of square windows. The building was a dark-tan color, with a strong western atmosphere. It stood tough on the corner of Arlington and Second Street. It was next to Bob's Jewelry and T.K. Gas Station. There was a number of all-night liquor stores in the area The Baptist Church was down the street and a park farther down. It wasn't the busiest casino do to the fact it was located far away from downtown.

It was very quiet at 2:53am in Reno as Keith drove through town with the roar of his engine of his Dodge Dart, and he'd turned down his Jazz music. A lot of businesses were closed.

The Western casino is a fairly new casino which after eight years is starting to suck. No wonder folks don't come here too much. The food taste like hog barf, the employee's never take baths. And the roulette tables lean too much to one side. The slot machines were very old and noisy. The poker tables were fading, chips were cracked, and many chipped. Mr. Tanner who's the owner needs to remodel the casino soon.

Keith parked his Dodge by a police unit. It's lights were flashing yellow, blue and red. There were mostly emergency vehicle in the parking lot. There were a lot of uniforms and suits huddled in a circle probably where the body was. Crime scene tape blocked off the section where noisy folks were standing.

Keith smoked his joint and got out of the car. He walked over to where everything's was happening. The chilly air smacked him in the face. A couple of dudes came out of the casino, staggering and talking loud gibber.

A black man nicely dressed lay on his stomach, a big puddle of blood underneath him. With his finger, he wrote red in blood. Another body a few feet away was a Miss Rachel Carr. Apparently, she was the lead singer of The Soulful Truth. The group performed very sultry blues. Keith thought they was the best band playing in Reno, or was. And how could they perform in such a foul casino?

Miss Carr's throat was ripped away like some crazed damn animal done it. Blood was all around her head. A vampire would have a field day in this parking lot. Keith figured that no animal would do this. It had to be some crazy punk with a blade. An officer had put of huge light around the scene, powered by some generator. There were photographers trying to get their pictures for the press. And there were several news crews on the spot.

After the photographers got all their pictures for the year, the coroners placed the bodies on stretchers. They wheeled them over to a dark green Plymouth van, waiting near by. Keith watched them shove the bodies in the meat wagon as the news dudes were packing it in. The forensics guys were still working the crime scene area. Things were a little easier to morning because the rain had long stopped.

Well dealers and cocktail waitresses stood there watching as the crime lab folks were packing it in. They all had just finished their shift.

"I see you made it, dog," Lt. Betha said firmly, puffing on his green cigar.

"Hell yeh, gee. I told you I'd be here," Keith said firmly.

"Man, you're high again."

"How did you figure that?"

"I smell weed on you like always."

"You're so smart, bruh. You should've been a scientist not a dumb cop."

"What do you make of this?"

"It's like all the other murders hella messed up," Keith stated strongly. "But the word RED."

"Yeh. I had seen that, bro!"

"Is our killer an Indian?"

"Nah. He's a red man, bruh," Sgt. More stated firmly.

"More, how did your ignorant butt make sergeant? You're such a idiot dude."

"Bug off you two cent PI. We don't need him," Sgt. More said harshly.

"Bug off, white boy!" Keith snapped.

"I believe the man we are looking for is a redhead," Lt. Betha said strongly, puffing on his cigar.

"That's got to be an animal sir," Sgt. More stated firmly.

"Like a wolf?" Lt. Betha snapped.

"Yeh or dog," Sgt. More said strongly.

"It wasn't no animal gee," Keith said sharply.

Sgt. More wore a red suit and looked like a truck driver.

"The lab concluded their investigation on the material retrieved from the trash can's by that casino," Ofc. Taylor explained clearly.

"What's up, gee?" Keith asked firmly.

"The perps Caucasian man probably over six-feet tall and thin built," Ofc. Taylor said strongly reading from a notepad.

"What about the neck wounds?" Sgt. More snapped.

"A knife, sir," Ofc. Taylor said clearly.

"Told you bruh," Keith snapped.

"This killer might not be the same dude," Lt. Betha said sharply, puffing on his cigar.

"He's got to be bro. It's the same crime. It's a serial killer we're dealing with bruh," Keith stated firmly.

"Someone must have seen him because he dresses like a clown," Sgt More said sharply.

"Not the second time ignorant butt. The killer isn't as dumb as you, bro-bro," Keith said strongly.

"Eat me brother," Sgt. More stated spitefully.

"Hell no dude!"

At this time just about every emergency vehicle had split, forensic folks, many officers and bystanders. And it was getting colder too as the night went on.

"We put out an APB on this cat," Lt. Betha said sharply, finishing his cigar.

"What good will that do bro? He probably wears disguises when committing his murders," Keith said firmly.

"Ok. Our jobs will be hella difficult. Nothing easy is worth it. That's the joy of being peace officers. Will just have to stop ever punk wearing a costume," Sgt. More stated strongly, lighting a cigarette.

"That should keep your ignorant butt busy," Keith said sharply.

Well you could see the smoke coming from chimneys. And smell breakfast and coffee coming from casinos. A huge red bus pulled up and a bunch of Chinese folks spilled out into the parking lot in great spirits. He could also redeem their coupons for casino goodies.

A dwarf-looking cop walked up to us.

"I got a call from a buddy in Philadelphia; he said that a man fitting our killer's description was responsible for a dozen murders there. And that this dude may have headed to Nevada a few months ago," he stated clearly.

"All right, man," Keith said sharply.

"Thanks, officer, good work," Lt. Betha said sharply with a smirk.

"At least the killer doesn't discriminate," Sgt. More said sharply with a laugh, and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"This sick-poop has been killing girls but now a black dude," Lt. Betha said sharply.

"May be that black man was killed for just being there," Keith said, pulling up his jeans.

"Yeh. He probably got it trying to save Miss Carr," Sgt. More said firmly and took another drag from his cig.

"Why woman?" Lt. Betha snapped.

"Maybe the punk's mother used to sexually abuse him," Keith said sharply, putting a joint in his mouth.

"Maybe killing woman is easier," Sgt. More said, blowing smoke in the air.

"Or he's just afraid of men," Lt. Betha said.

"Who's ever doing this is some sorta ritual? This dude believes he'll have immortality by slicing into the necks of woman," Keith said firmly.

"How did you find this out?" Sgt. More said clearly blowing smoke.

"My girl told me," Keith said and took a long drag from his weed.

"But every chicks a singer," Sgt. More snapped.

"And they're not even good singers anyway," Lt. Betha said coldly.

"The killer must murder lounge singers to remove some curse gee," Keith said clearly.

"Why lounge singers?" Sgt. More snapped loudly finishing his cigarette.

"The jerk thinks he'll have immortality," Keith said, taking a hit of his weed.

"And remove some curse," Lt. Betha said.

"Yeh. That's right!" Keith said.

"Dude you ought to be locked up in a nuthouse," Lt Betha said firmly.

"I'm just telling you what Tangy said," Keith said, taking his final hit from his joint.

Sgt. Jim More was a detective from Las Vegas filling in for Sgt. Mark Newsham, who's working in LA. The Irish-German punk can't wait to get his butt back here. And he probably sure misses the gang in Reno. And once he finds out a serial killers in Reno he be getting himself back here quickly and they'll really need him at this point.

"Don't knock the Mint bro-bro!" Keith snapped sharply.

"So we stakeout every lousy casino in Reno and Sparks that has a cabaret," Sgt. More said firmly, lighting up another cig.

"Dude I think every casino. Everywhere there's a lounge act," Lt. Betha said sharply.

"Good idea," Keith said, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"The killer could be a drag queen," Sgt. More said clearly.

"Hell yeh, like you baby," Keith snapped.

"Bug off, PI," Sgt. More snapped, shoving his middle finger in Keith's face.

"Bruh I'll check the costume stores in town using the description of this bitch you gave us," Keith said strongly.

"Good place to start," Lt. Betha stated firmly.

"I'll check out all the killers who wear disguises in our data base," Sgt. More said firmly.

# Chapter 38

Well Keith was back at the Western Casino for pleasure and not business. He was dying to play blackjack. Last night after the brutal murders, he wanted to play even then. And the casino was still open despite the ugliness that happened last night. It was 10:00am. It wasn't very busy. The crime scene tape was still across the parking lot area where the bloody death took place.

It was still cold. He wore black hoody and baggy jeans. Everybody he past on the street wore coats and rightly so as fall was approaching. And some of the trees leaves were already changing. It was peaceful except for the noise coming from the tire shop across the street.

Keith sat at the first blackjack table he could find. The dealer was a tall, leggy blond woman, Victoria Secret-looking. She wore a big tan cowboy hat, a brown western-style shirt and blue jeans. As-a-matter-of-fact every employee in the casino was dress like Texans. And loud country music came from the speakers.

Keith exchanged cash for some chips to play with. A nice looking black man, wearing brown western-style suit sat a dark brown desk surrounded by black jack tables. Dealers called out to him, whenever cashing large bills. He was what is called a pit boss. He placed two $5 chips in a betting circle along with everyone else.

The dealer began dealing cards face down. And one face up for her which dealers were required to do.

"Good luck!" she said cheerfully.

"Thanks but no thanks. I don't need luck. I was born with hella skills," Keith said strongly with a smirk.

"Man, I wish I had that confidence," A black woman said firmly with a laugh.

The dealer's face card was an ace of diamonds. Keith and everyone else were sure she had twenty-one. The black woman's face card was a six of hearts. His was a five of clubs and ten of hearts. He needed a six.

The black woman had a nine of spades. She needed a four to win or it would be a push if the dealer had twenty-one.

"Did you hear about the brutal murder of one of our biggest entertainer ever to perform at our casino?" the dealer said strongly.

"Hell yeh. Miss Carr and her boyfriend or worthless bodyguard," he said firmly.

"Isn't safe to walk the streets anymore," the black woman said sadly, shaking her head.

"The police will find this psychopathic punk," Keith said strongly.

"Are you from California?" she asked firmly.

"Hell yeh."

Keith asked for a hit and got it a seven a spade. That card busted him. The dealer flipped her card and it was a king of diamond giving her blackjack.

The black woman got a two of clubs. So now, she had eighteen. So she got another hit which was a two of hearts. With twenty, she stayed and won some money.

"Where in California are you from?" The dealer asked with a smile.

"Walnut Creek."

"Nice place."

"But I'm not a tourist."

"Is that so?"

"I stay out here. I have a detective business."

"So you're a detective?" the black woman said strongly.

"Hell yeh. The Keith Jackson Detective Agency."

"I do believe I've heard of you," the dealer said strongly.

"You're Misty."

"Yes. I'm from Ohio."

Keith played several hands and lost them all. The waitress brought him whiskey the whole time. The black woman won a couple of hands. But the house seemed to have the slight advantage for the time being.

"So what part?" The black woman asked clearly.

"Forest Park."

"Sounds like a nice place," she said sharply with a smile.

"It is."

"Why did you leave?"

"The work of course."

"It's always work."

There was a loud group of men at the crap table chanting. The crap games were always full of folks. Just about in every casino he ever visited. He always liked throwing the dice until he hit a big cowboy who wanted to eat this black man for breakfast.

Every thirty minutes a dealer had to take a break. The jobs stressful he figured. So Binky was the new dealer. A short fat cat dressed in a cowboy outfit.

He dealt Keith a seven of clubs and ten of hearts. The black woman was given an eight of diamond and two of spades. The cocktail waitress brought him another triple bourbon. The dealer's exposed card was a king of clubs.

Keith took a hit, getting a four of clubs. Twenty-one. The black woman got a 10 of hearts, which were twenty. The dealer hit himself getting six of clubs. With sixteen, he hit again receiving a three of diamond. He refused to stay at nineteen and hit one more time for a seven of spades, busting.

This scenario went on for a while until the house finally started to win. The waitress kept bring Keith triple bourbons. Soon the brother would fall off the stool.

"Did you hear about the murders," Binky asked sharply.

"Everybody by now baby," Keith said sourly, placing more bets.

"We may close briefly," the dealer snapped.

"Well if you do I feel you on that," Keith said clearly.

"I don't see why. The killer's all ready gone. Man, I don't think he's coming back," the black woman said sharply.

"Even so we still might have to close," the dealer snapped sharply.

"Well not while I'm doing so well," Keith said strongly.

Well thirty minutes had passed before Misty was back. Keith liked looking in her face better.

"You mentioned earlier that you were a detective," she said sharply.

"Hell yeh," Keith said cheerfully as he gathered his winnings.

"Are you looking for the killer?" the dealer asked.

"Hell yeh."

"I really hope you find this creep," the black woman said firmly.

"We're hella trying are best, ma'am," he snapped sharply and took a long swig from his bourbon.

"Well try harder," the black woman snapped.

"Does anyone dress like a clown in here?" Keith asked.

"I'm afraid not."

Keith shook his head and guzzled his drink down.

"You might try the Circus, Circus," the dealer said clearly.

"For sure."

Keith hadn't had much sleep lately. There a couple of days stubble on his round chin. He hadn't had a bath. And the nightmares came back again. Why was he here gambling? Should he be home sleeping? He could function better well rested.

Keith saw that the carpets had holes in them. The ceiling was coming down any moment. The cocktail waitress wore raggedy outfits. And the drinks tasted hella watered down.

"When are you guys going to remodel this place?" Keith stated sharply.

"It's started to suck a little, huh? Mr. Tanner said in a newsletter that remodeling would began soon," the dealer said firmly.

"Dude I remember a couple of years back when this joint was really popping," The black woman stated cheerfully.

"Those days are coming back you'll see. We're getting brand-new tables, carpets, slot machines, video poker, uniforms...the works," the dealer said happily.

When a new dealer came aboard Keith's luck began to change. He won five hands in a row...two of them blackjacks. He continued to drink bourbon until he finally lit a cactus joint. The sent was hella strange. But he was getting hella high.

Well Keith finally left the table with $9,750 in chips. He cashed them in at the cage. The first time he showed a sign of life. He felt even better when he stretched those legs.

Well he headed up to the Western Grill, which is on the second floor. He could smell the food as he passed the long line of slot machines. There were people with children coming out of the place. His stomach was growling like a vicious animal. He did really care how bad the food would be.

Keith quickly got a seat since it wasn't so busy. He sat in a wobble brown table in the corner and was given a torn menu. The carpets were torn up. He heard plates and hella cursing in the kitchen. He smashed some sorta big bug on the table.

The waitress wore a huge cowboy hat, a western-style blouse and denim skirt and scratched up boots as did everyone else. The place was made up like the old west from 1873. There was a stains in his coffee cup. And a roach floating in his water glass. He ordered a steak sandwich, Coke and fries.

He was not very happy when the waitress complained about him smoking his cactus weed. There were many cracks in the ceiling, walls and tables. He couldn't believe the joint wasn't shutdown by food inspectors or why his butt was still sitting.

The lunch guest was mostly bums and drunks. They left really funky odor. They were hella noisy, arguing about some raggedy lady.

Keith finished his coffee. When the waitress show with his steak sandwich, coke and fries. She sat a bottle of ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, A1 and mayonnaise in front of him.

"Well, is there anything else?" she asked firmly.

"Would you take a bath?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You know what happened yesterday?"

"No!"

"Well this fat man came in here he ordered a steak smothered in onions with mash potatoes. Before I knew it, he had his cat on the table and together they feasted on the food. I told him you can't bring animals in here. He said animal's need to eat too. I told him he must leave now. He became very angry and wanted his money back but my supervisor wouldn't. So him and his furry little beast were escorted out by security. What about that?" She explained clearly.

"Well a man could be able to have lunch with his cat. What is the damn world coming to?" Keith said strongly.

"Well I don't know where you were raised but where I come from animals don't eat off my plate at home or in public," she snapped.

"Animals are the cleanest being on the planet, boo," he said strongly, biting into his sandwich.

"I'm sorry, man. But I'm so done with this conversation," she snapped and stormed back into the noisy kitchen.

"Good don't want to talk to your funky butt anyway."

There were two women and a man began fighting over sex and knocking over tables. They even threw food at each other. Security quickly swarmed on them dragging them out. The man's nose was broken. The ladies dress torn.

Keith finished his steak and fries. The waitress came and removed the plates. She returned with a big slice of orange pie. As Keith was eating it, he watched a blond with the biggest boobs known to man sitting in a booth beside a short man wearing a purple suit. Their baby, sitting in a highchair kept laughing and tossing food on the floor. Keith thought that was funny.

Keith finished his pie. The waitress came for the plate. She poured him a cup of coffee before she rushed off into the kitchen.

When Keith was all coffee out he left a $2 tip and headed for home. He was ready to take a long sleep.

# Chapter 39

The Clown Shop was on E. Second Street. It had been there at least five years. He'd never been inside. He remembered there was a Foto-Mat there before. This was the fifth shop he'd been today.

He wore a green sports jacket, over a t-shirt and baggy jeans with purple Converse. He was well rested and ready for battle. He carried his Beretta Cougar .32.

Keith sat in an alley between The Clown Shop and Barney's Drugs, which has been there since World War11. He had bullshit with Barney many occasions. The dude was always full of stories. He had just finished smoking that cactus weed and now he started on some Vodka. He wasn't quite ready to approach the store.

The Clown Shop was painted white with a lot of different types of clowns pasted on it with colorful balloons. A fancy gift shop was next door. There were several folks standing front looking at souvenirs.

After he felt hella stoned he stepped out of his vehicle and approached the shop. He glanced in the window. There were folks inside looking around at stuff. A man or woman was standing behind a register wearing a clown suit. The people inside seemed harmless.

So Jackson went inside with his Beretta by his side. Then he approached the costumers, pointing his gun. The place smelled like butter popcorn.

"Come on, people. Let's go! We're closing," Keith shouted sharply.

The people soon scattered towards the exit.

"You hear me. Get the hell out!"

"Fine this is the worst store I've ever been in," one said harshly, rushing to the exit.

"Hold it! Come back. We're not closed. This black idiot doesn't work here," the clown said strongly.

But the folks kept moving out of the door. Keith locked the door behind.

"What the hell are you doing?" the clown stated testily.

"Emptying the septic tank babe," Keith said sharply, putting his gun away.

"Those are good paying costumers," he snapped, walking towards Keith.

Keith squeezed his nose. It made a horn sound.

"I don't care boo. I'm looking for a murderer," Keith said strongly, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Well you won't find one here," the clown said firmly.

"My black senses tell me different," Keith said sharply, spitting on the floor.

"Spitting on my floor! What kinda animal are you?" he said bluntly.

"A very pissed off one."

Keith squeezed his nose again. A louder horn sound.

"Don't do that anymore," the clown said coldly.

"Better your nose than your head, boo," Keith stated sharply.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator."

"What interest would a private investigator have here?" the clown asked strongly, with a puzzled stare.

"Like I say I'm looking for a murderer," Keith said strongly as he placed the close sign on the door.

"We sell clown outfits. And toys as well."

"I'm calling the cops Raymond the clown doesn't take crap from no two bit PI," he said harshly, picking up a phone that appeared to be a banana split.

Keith quickly brought the gun back out. "Put that phone down or I'll kill you!"

Raymond put the receiver back and came from around the counter in fear. A tall looking clown came out of a backroom holding a bucket of popcorn.

"What's going on Raymond? Where are all the people?" the clown with the popcorn said clearly.

"We've trouble, Pinky," Raymond said firmly with a frown.

"Who are you?"

"Pinky he's that famous vulgar black PI," Raymond said frigidly.

"Well sir. If you're not here for a clown suit you'd better leave. Have you ever seen a clown get mad?" Pinky said moodily, placing the popcorn bucket down.

Keith picked up some red balls for juggling. He began throwing them hard at Pinky. The first three nailed him in the face. The fourth one slammed into his chest area. Pinky fell backwards to the floor. Keith grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bucket and shoved it into his mouth.

"Bug off, ignorant clown. You just didn't get mad enough," he said chewing popcorn. "By the way this stuff needs more butter!"

Raymond was standing over Pinky who was out cold.

"Pinky, are you all right? I think you killed him!"

"Stop your tripping, Raymond. Pinky's not dead. He'll come around," Keith said cheerfully, sticking a joint in his mouth.

"You're too much, PI," he said strongly.

"I know, bruh," Keith said strongly and took a long hit from his joint.

"No smoking in here my friend," Raymond snapped with a smirk.

"Bug off, bruh," Keith stated sharply.

Raymond watched people stroll by his shop many looking in the windows. Even some tried the door. It was very early. Raymond became very steamed over this.

"Do you know how much money I'm losing?" he said incredulously.

"I don't give a damn, bruh," Keith stated firmly.

"What do you want?" he said exhaustedly.

"I told you. I'm looking for a killer!"

"Clowns are good people."

"Not the one in the Steven King movie," Keith said sharply, blowing smoke in his face.

"We are talking about reality, pal," he snapped.

"Lets cut to the chase. I want to know all the bums who came in this joint recently looking for a clown outfit," Keith said clearly, finishing his joint.

"You're talking about that casino murder?"

"Hell yeh."

"What do you want to know?"

"The tall man that bought that clown outfit a couple of days back," Keith said sharply.

"You do know we have a strict policy," Raymond said strongly, arching his left eyebrow.

"I don't give a cotton picking booty about your policies dude," Keith stated irately, grabbing Raymond by the collar.

"What are you going to do tough guy?"

Keith began slamming Raymond against the wall for a while until he finally gave in.

"You know this man could sue our business?" Raymond cried loudly.

"I'm sorry. We're talking about a killer. This bum could be planning his next kill. Give me a name quick!"

"I'm not sure."

Keith began punching the clown in the face. Then he shoved him down on the floor. And Keith started knocking over shelve of wigs and over merchandise. But Raymond wasn't fazed by this. Keith kept knocking over everything creating a serious mess.

Well he began kicking Raymond in the side. He yelled out in pain. But Keith kept kicking him. But the tough clown wouldn't break. Then Keith took out his gun and shoved the barrel down his throat.

"Give me this sick punks name! Or I'll blow your clown head off. Or maybe stick this barrel up your booty and fire some bullets clown," Keith explained harshly.

"All right!"

So Keith helped him up to his feet. Raymond looked a little battered but still able to get about. His suit was torn.

"Look at my costume. It's torn."

"Your life's going to be torn. Because your butt is going to jail," Keith said strongly, pulling up his jeans.

"That's not possible, friend!"

"You're harboring a fugitive."

"Okay, man. I don't know his name. He comes in his all the time buying wigs and outfits. He always pays in cash. I thought he worked at Circus-Circus. But he works at the Mint Casino in the coffee shop," he explained clearly, panting.

"Why didn't you tell the cops?"

"I wasn't sure he could be the guy."

"All right, gee."

"Whose going to pay for this?"

"Send the bill to RPD. They hired my butt," Keith said sharply, walking towards the exit.

Keith strolled down the wet streets. He saw tourist heavily dressed lugging buckets of money from casinos to casino. Some of them had their umbrellas. It was still sorta cold. There was a serial killer on the loose and nobody seemed to care. They continued to go about their daily lives as if everything was hella tight.

Keith often thought about Aunt Natalie. She lying on that bed watching The Price Is Right which made her very happy. But still she was very home sick. Keith prayed for her.

He found out that Miss Sand's body had already been transported back to LA to prepare for the funeral. Miss Graham wanted Keith to attend.

Well he continued down the street, enroute for his Dodge. He heard a vehicle squeal around the corner of W. Second and Arlington Street a vehicle squealing towards him always meant trouble.

The vehicle was a Starlite Yellow cab. It stopped beside him. The window rolled down and a Heckler& Koch HK 53 5.56mm stuck out.

"Everybody get down!" Keith shouted sharply as he dived to the ground.

The loud machinegun spread bullets everywhere. People ran into building ducked behind cars, screaming. And ran into one another. It was fanatical. The bullets took out near by business windows, disabling vehicles parked on the street, finding some legs and arms.

Keith took out his gun and tried to get a shot off but it was hella difficult to battle against a machinegun.

"Leave Mel alone dog!" the rough voice said bluntly from the cab as it was about to cut.

As the taxi made its way quickly down the street, Keith started firing at it until the bitch disappeared. He took out the back window but wasn't sure if he did any damage to the man. He remembered the number of the cab 111. He wrote it down on a notepad just encase.

He looked back down the sidewalk. He saw several bodies on the ground some folks weren't moving. People came out with terrified looks on their faces. And store people came out to help the wounded frantic folks. There were police sirens approaching. Keith couldn't believe the cops weren't around. Bicycle and foot-patrol police have always frequented this area.

The cabdriver referred to Mel. Who's Mel? Not that pretty dude that works at the Mint Casino Mel looks too soft or easy spirited to do something like murder women. And how could somebody like that hate woman? Why would Mel be friends with a ratty old ugly cabby?

Keith was on his way towards the Starlite Taxi Company. He was looking to bag this sorry bum. He wasn't sure this man was even working there. He probably stolen the taxi.

How did the taxi driver know where to find him? How did he know who he was? Maybe the killer saw him on the news. Maybe the killer was at all the crime scenes like most murderers are. He thought maybe have some friends watch over aunt Natalie and Tangy Miller for their safety.

# Chapter 40

Ray's Coffee Shop was in The Mint Casino. Miss Tangy Miller and Keith had recently had Prime Ribs. The place had a minty atmosphere and everything was green.

Ray the owner was a nice dude. He is always smiling as he walks through the coffee shop. He shakes as many hands and engaged in small talk as he had time to do he was obviously a busy man. He was a very tall man about six-foot ten, dark hair and eyes. He wore an assortment of checkered sports coats and grey slacks.

When Keith finally got there, it was 3:00pm. The lunch crowd was fading fast. The dinner crowd would blow in here in a couple of hours. He learned that the supervisor on duty was Mrs. Brenda Magilly. He for a first didn't see Ray must have be in the office.

He studied the food servers closely but nobody resembled Mel. Mel either left early or hasn't showed up yet.

Keith found Mrs. Magilly sitting in a back booth away from other people. The food smelled good coming from the kitchen. The servers were quietly placing their orders. And there was not much noise coming from the kitchen possibly because the supervisor was near by.

He stopped in front of her table. She was picking at a shrimp salad with a fork. She was drinking ice tea with lemon. The were a stack of tan folders on the table beside her. And schedules for the workers.

"Excuse me Miss. Are you Mrs. Magilly?" he asked clearly.

She looked up at him from her salad.

"That's right, sir. Is there something wrong with the food?"

"No really."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm sorry ma'am. Let me get to the point."

"Please do!" she snapped, stuffing a mouthful of salad into her hole.

But then a blond waiter acting like a homosexual approached the table poured ice tea in to her glass. And with his free hand dropped off a plate with a cheeseburger and onion rings. He then rushed off back into the kitchen. Keith placed a joint into his mouth.

"There is no smoking in this section," Mrs. Magilly said strongly as she took a bit from her cheeseburger.

"It is not lit. It just makes me look hella cool," he said firmly.

Mrs. Magilly looked like a child sitting inside the booth. Her head barely came over the big green table. Her hair was very long and blond, eyes blue accompanied by a soft round face. She wore a light brown wool dress with large guitar earrings. Also wore light-brown leather boots. She seemed very smart and direct.

A black woman waitress came over to the table with a disappointed look on her face. She looked hella sexy in mint green outfit.

"It's the computer," she said harshly.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. It's not excepting my orders. And my ID number either," she snapped.

"All right. Let me check this out," Mrs. Magilly said strongly as she risen from the booth.

Well the blond waiter returned with the pitcher to refill Magilly's glass. He topped off the glass. Before he stormed away, again Keith asked him to fetch him a beer.

He watched two Mexican busboys fighting over a dirty table. They looked much too old to be your average busboys which are usually sixteen.

All the food servers were mostly Spanish except for a black woman and blond dude, which were becoming very common nowadays.

Mrs. Magilly returned to the table sliding into the booth.

"Sorry about that. Computers are like people they get sick too," she said cheerfully.

"I'm looking for Mel," Keith stated sharply.

"You mean Mel Ridken?"

"That's right."

"What do you want with him?" she asked sharply, taking another bit of her cheeseburger. She washed it down with some ice tea.

"He's an old friend."

The blond dude finally returned with the beer. Then he was back off again into the sunset kitchen. Keith took a long guzzle from the Budweiser bottle.

"I didn't catch your name."

"Because I didn't give it baby!"

"Well you're a real sweetheart."

"Keith Jackson," he said sharply and took another long gulp.

"Dude I don't remember you. He never talked about any black friends."

"Hell yeh. We go way back. I guest he forgot to mention it."

Magilly pushed half of her cheeseburger away to the side of the table. She began chewing on her onion rings. He continued to guzzle his beer.

"Mr. Jackson you don't look like the type of man Mel would pal around with. I would think he'd have much better taste," she said strongly and took a long swig from her ice tea.

"Pretty and charming aren't we," Keith stated firmly with a smirk, finishing his beer.

"I aim to please," she said cheerfully as she finished her onion rings.

"Is Mel here?"

"Mel's not here today."

"You know when he will be?"

"I'm not sure. He hasn't been here in a few days. You know the flu's going around," she said sharply as she sipped her tea.

"Where does he live?"

"I would assume that you knew this. Aren't you best friends?"

"We're not connected to the hip bruh."

"Let me see your ID," she demanded harshly.

"Bruh, I told you who I was," he snapped.

"I'm going to call security!"

"All right! I'm a private investigator," he said strongly, showing his ID.

Mrs. Magilly studied it carefully with a big frown.

"Okay. So you're a cop!" she said bitterly, looking away from his ID. "I knew you weren't friends with Mel."

"I believe Mel murdered some women," he said.

"You mean those singer murders?"

"That's right."

A Mexican buser came and took away Magilly's plates. The blond waiter brought Keith another beer. The black waitress returned with a pitcher of ice tea, pouring Mrs. Magilly's glass full.

"Mel a killer!"

"That's right, baby! I don't get off saying it but it's probably true," Keith said strongly and took a swig of beer.

"Mel's one of our best waiters. The ladies love him. Why would he kill them? They come in her by the packs just to see him. We're always busy when he's here," she explained clearly as she finished her icetea.

"Mel's probably not the killer type but he's possessed by some evil curse," he said and gulped some beer.

"Are you crazy, man?"

"Some folks have called me worst."

A chubby Mexican came over to the table just to say hi.

"This gentleman is making me angry," she snapped.

"Is that so mister?" the busboy asked strongly.

"It's my job."

"Get lost bruh!" he said bitterly and hit Keith in the head with his tray.

Keith fell onto his back holding his head.

"Hey dog! You should be fired for that," Keith said weakly, trying to get up.

But the busboy kicked him in the face.

"Stay down black man!" he threatened strongly.

"Slime you, bruh!" Keith snapped.

The busboy tried to kick Keith again but he grabbed the dudes foot twisting it. The busboy yelled out in pain as Keith pushed his leg forward. The busboy flew backward onto his back. Mrs. Magilly sat in the booth frightened.

There weren't that many customers yet. But the one that were present were frightened. And some got up with big frowns heading to the cashier to pay their checks. And some just ran out of the restaurant.

Another busboy who was black came at Keith. He did his spin kick. His foot landed into the black busboy's chest. When the blond waiter came at Keith he punch him in the face. And at that time the Mexican was getting up and Keith picked up his foot and came down hard on the man's face.

Keith jumped up as two more buser came at him with mean-looking face his left foot landing in one of them face. He spun around and caught the other dude in the throat with his right foot.

When it was over, he had every dude on the floor, wincing in pain. The others were passed out.

"Look what you've done!" Mrs. Magilly said sourly.

"Hell yeh! Ain't that cool?"

"You've killed them!"

"Stop tripping! They'll live. I was just playing with them," Keith said sharply with a grin.

"Security must be coming!"

"Let them I don't give a damn, bruh," Keith said strongly, panting.

Very soon, security swarmed the coffee shop. They grabbed Keith. He didn't try to fight. They bent him over the table, putting his hands behind his back and cuffed him. The other security guards grabbed up the busboys and they assisting them and called an ambulance.

"See what happens when you play rough," Mrs. Magilly said sharply with a smile.

"Slime you, ma'am!" Keith stated firmly as security hauled him off.

"See you later creep!" she shouted with a smile.

The security office was nice sized. There were no windows. Three big filing cabinets filled the space in the corner. There were laptops, a microwave, a coffee machine, and a clothes rack with shirts and pants. There were ten radios on the rack stuck to the wall.

So they finally decided to remove the cuffs. And they sat Keith behind a medal table with three dirty coffee cups staring at him. They forced him to fill out a report on the matter. The restaurant help would have to as well. But some of them are most likely going to lose their jobs.

Well the Reno police showed up. They took him and the busboy's to jail. They didn't bother the blond dude. Keith was obviously disappointed going to jail but he probably wouldn't stay long. This left Mel a chance to kill more folks. But there still was the amazing investigators Lt. Betha and Sgt. More. So it wasn't a total loss.

# Chapter 41

Keith did zigzags through the gravel parking lot of the Starlite Yellow Taxi Company. Dust and gravel flew up fifty feet in the air. This move hella pissed everyone off in the area. Everyone was coughing. It was about 3:00pm. Cabs were coming in for the evening. Some were gassing up to begin their shift. There were several Spanish-looking dudes watching taxis. Keith parked his pimpmobile away from the others. He began strolling around looking at taxis a lot were brand-new.

He found the cab with the number 111. It was very clean inside. The window Keith knocked out had been repaired. He figured he'd get a forensic team up here to go through this cab.

"Excuse me, man! What are doing?" a cold voice from behind said harshly.

"I'm looking at a cab," Keith said sharply.

"Oh, a smarty!"

The man, a baldhead, about 50 and was sorta tall grabbed Keith by the collar and pushed him away from the cab.

"What is it? Does every dude have to be butt worm?" Keith said crudely.

He wore a white shirt and blue jeans and black boots. Keith wore a green hoody with baggy white jeans.

"I don't like scum around my cabs," he stated strongly.

"You must be the owner?"

"The dispatcher. My name is John Geis," he said sharply.

Keith held out his hand but the man wouldn't shake it.

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator."

"A private eye, huh?"

"That's right just like in the movies bruh," Keith said strongly, placing a joint in his mouth.

"What do you want soul brother?"

"I want the jerk that took a shot at me driving that cab number 111 earlier," Keith said strongly, lighting his weed.

"What did he look like?"

"Fat face, with no hair and maybe fifty," he said strongly and took a long hit from his joint.

"Maybe he thought you were trying to rob him."

"Who is this poop-eater?"

"I don't know! It could be anyone here."

There was a cabdriver fighting with another driver at the fuel pimp. Five cabs were heading out of the parking lot. There were drivers heading home carrying lunch pails and some carrying jackets over their shoulders. They walked over to their vehicles happily that another day bit the dust.

There were several auto body shops in the area because Keith could smell paint. The horrible buildings around the place were Tim's Auto Sells, Jim's Auto Parts and Rusty's Furnisher store. Down the street were a number of old houses, motorcycle shops and strip joints.

"Bruh I know what I saw," Keith said strongly and took a long drag from his weed.

"Are you sure it was my cab?"

"Hell yeh. It was Starlite yellow slimy cab. The number was 111. That poopy cab I was looking at over there."

"That's our cab all right."

"Well?"

"All right! Let me check the office and see what we can do," he said sharply waking towards the building.

"I want the crime lab to go through your cab, gee," Keith said strongly, finishing his joint.

"No bleeping way! I'm not letting the police destroy my cab."

"They won't. They know this stuff. If they do the City will pay for it."

Keith got on his cell phone to the crime lab after convincing Mr. Geis it was the right thing to do. He wasn't getting his hopes up because even the best forensic folks couldn't tackle a fingerprint gig in a cab with so many passengers. We'll just have to pray.

# Chapter 42

Keith arrived at the Reno Motel a blue & white brick building on Fourth Street. The windows were small and round some were badly cracked. In the back was a fenced-in energy plant. Railroad tracks went along the outside of it. Across the street was Bart's Hotel next to a Saab and Volvo dealer ship. In the area were a huge number of mini-markets and crummy auto repair shops and motels.

Well the doors were all blue. The place was sorta crummy. Many people roughing it at casinos stayed here. There was a ratty-looking barbecue grill in front of one door. A bicycle chained to a pole was in front of the other door and some muddy shoes at the last door.

A funny little man casually came out of the office carrying black plastic bags to the trash bin. He was probably the manager. After he placed everything in the trash and made his way back into the office. The big clouds were moving again.

Keith found Mel's door number 6. He knocked on the door. While he waited for the door to open, he produced a small bottle of Jim Beam. He removed the cap. He then took a huge guzzle from the bottle.

When the door didn't open. Keith began beating on the door like some cop. There didn't seem to be anybody there. There was nobody talking inside or a TV blasting. So Keith got tired of waiting.

He put his whiskey back in his pocket. And he took out his gun and lock picks. He stuck them in the door lock fidgeting a bit inside the lock until he heard a pop sound urged him to twist the knob and the door popped open.

He used his gun to direct him inside and close the door behind him. He looked around the small joint for a while. Mel wasn't there. The spot was hella neat. The girly magazines were in their proper place. Carpets were cleaned. And beds made. Quite the opposite of Keith's joint. Keith mother would love visiting here. The placed smelled dusty and unlived. The folks who live here must be gay. But then the maid could have done this.

On the shelve by the bed were an assortment of wigs. Rock star posters of women and werewolf's were on the wall. Photos of family members were on the dresser. And evil markings on the walls written in blood. Behind the photo was the words We Love You Mel. The photo of an elderly couple was Mel's parents Dave and Alice Ridken.

He went through the dresser draws and kept looking at the door incase Mel showed. He went through his clothes and found a couple of photos. Mel was standing next to the cabdriver in one. In another, Mel was hugging and kissing a beautiful mama. Her name was Nancy McCulloh was living at 211 N. Wells Ave #14. His Parents lived in Las Vegas, Nevada. E. 3rd Street #212. There was a card too from the Mint Casino [775] 321-4527.

Keith hung around most of the night for Mel to show up but he didn't.

# Chapter 43

Keith thought he'd check out Mel's girlfriend first. He didn't really expect to find Mel there. But he could probably force his girl to cop to his whereabouts.

The apartments were baby blue, huge square windows, a patio, bluish pool and surrounded by beautiful maple trees. The place was hella tight. There was banging ranch across the street and Welfare offices. Keith left his car by Peter Park near a bunch of ratty old houses.

As he walked towards the apartments, the wind began to kick up a little throwing in a few raindrops. A woman's hat blew off. The swirl wind kicked up trash and dirt.

When Keith knocked on Miss McCulloh's door kids ran by him playing tag. He wasn't sure why they played tag in this horrible weather. He thought about himself playing tag when he was a little G. And now his son plays these same type of games.

After beating on this door for twenty minutes, still no answer. The rain began to come down a little harder. Many folks walked by with umbrellas. Some walked by with dogs. The demon wind began to kick up hella bad. Keith wanted very much to get in doors.

Miss McCulloh's big red Chevy truck was still parked in space #14. There was nothing inside helpful. The doors were locked. A loud crack of lightening made him jump up in the clouds. On top of all this stuff, the kids continued to play outside.

Keith looked in the windows but the blinds were closed so he didn't see anything. And knocked some more. Maybe she was sleep. Or maybe in the toilet. Maybe she gave birth and baby popped out on the floor.

Well he took out the lock picks. He stuck them in the lock. In a few seconds, he had the door opened. The funky air in the room knocked him back out the door. It smelled like twenty thousand year old pussy. He went back in covering his nose.

The smell seems to be strongest towards the bedroom. When he stepped inside the room, it was a horrid sight. The whole messed up scene made Keith throw up orange foam.

A tall, nice-looking woman, brown-haired, about 26 a chunk of her throat was missing and a lot of blood left over. She was spread eagle on the bed. The broad looked like a werewolf got hold of her.

He used a handkerchief to pick up the phone and dial the cops. He didn't understand why nobody noticed the smell. And would somebody check up on her?

Shortly after he put down the phone Lt. Betha, uniformed officers, lab crew and coroner came through the door. And outside folks gathered around in the rain watching with puzzlement.

"Keith, you didn't touch anything, bruh?" Lt. Betha stated strongly.

"No dumb-butt!" he snapped.

"Great!" Lt. Betha said sharply placing a cigar in his mouth.

"Check out that lady, man."

Lt. Betha took one look in the bedroom and threw up too. An officer opened up some windows.

"Who in the hell does this stuff to woman?" Betha stated harshly wiping barf from his mouth.

"Mel?"

"Who's that turd?"

"A pretty waiter at the Mint casino," Keith said sharply.

"The punk you said was cursed?"

"That's right my brother."

All the officers threw up everywhere, which made the odor evermore difficult to bear. The media came and took their pictures. The coroner took their pictures.

"Well she been dead several days," the coroner said firmly. "I'll know more when I get the body in the lab."

"Did an animal do this?" Betha asked sharply.

"Yeh. A human animal by the name of Mel Ridken," Keith said clearly.

"I'd say a person with a big knife," the coroner stated firmly.

"Is she a singer?" one officer asked firmly.

"I'm not sure," Keith said sharply.

The wind was blowing the blinds in the window like terrible. An office had brought Miss McCulloh's purse and dumped everything. The usual stuff you find in lady's purses. Her money was still there.

"Is she married?" Lt. Betha stated sharply.

"Hell no! she is single, babe," Keith said strongly.

The manager came in. His name was John Padgett. He was a strange-looking whining little man.

"Who the hell are you, man?" Lt. Betha said sharply.

"I'm the manager."

"Miss McCulloh is dead!" Betha said strongly.

"Oh my God!" he said sadly in shock.

At this time, the body was being wheeled out.

"What was she like, dog?" Keith asked sharply.

"She was a cocktail waitress. A nice lady. Too good to be a slut," Padgett said bluntly.

"Did this dude ever come in here?" Keith said strongly with a photo.

Padgett studied it carefully.

"Yeh. This man came a lot. He was her steady," Padgett.

"Where does she work?" Keith asked sharply.

"Mint casino. She's a cocktail waitress," he said firmly.

"What kinda person is she?" Lt. Betha asked, puffing on a cigar.

"She was nice. She paid her rent on time. And noisy parties sometimes," he said.

"Did you see or hear anything?" Keith asked strongly and took a long pull from a joint.

"No!" Mr. Padgett said clearly.

"All right. You can go," Lt. Betha said sharply.

"Where did you get that tie?" Keith said sharply.

"My wife gave it to me," Lt. Betha said sharply with a smirk.

"It's a girlish tie."

"Yeh it kinda is," he said.

"What the hell is that smell?" Lt. Betha stated with lips curling.

"You farted again big sexy," Keith said strongly.

"Not that smell. The stinky thing you're smoking."

"It's this tight stuff. I made it from a cactus. I'm growing the stuff behind my office. And you can't do a damn, bruh. It's not marijuana. It's hella better though. I get hella high and it's as legal as drinking beer," Keith explained clearly.

"You need to improve on the smell black man," Lt. Betha stated strongly.

"Well it smells like nuclear donuts and coffee," one office said sharply.

"Well clean up the barf ignorant butt," Lt. Betha snapped, puffing on his cigar.

"Put out an APB on Mel Ridken?" Keith said finishing his cactus weed.

"That gay waiter?" a dwarf-looking officer said strongly.

"Hell yeh. He's a prime suspect," Betha snapped.

Keith took out that strange necklace. At this time, many of the crime lab people had left. The wind had died down some. The rain had stopped for now, but it will continue throughout the day and night.

"This necklace you stole from the crime scene," Betha snapped.

"Yeh dude!" Keith said harshly.

"It's uglier than your momma's face bruh."

"Slime you, monkey. Since we're getting down on mommas!"

"Well I just got off your momma," one of the officers said.

"Well you better get your horrid wife off the corner again. I'm tired of chasing her away from there," Keith said.

"Bug off homey!" the officer snapped.

Betha placed the necklace in his pocket.

"Mel believes he will live forever and remove some curse by eating the flesh of terrible lounge acts. That's what the folks think if they wear The Bleeder Eye of The Demon necklace," Keith explained strongly.

"This is some bull, boo," Lt. Betha stated coldly. "This is just some creepy necklace. And it gives a man an excuse to murder people and blame the necklace so he can escape prison."

"I agree," the dwarf officer said strongly.

"Yo, ofc. Harrison. I saw your wrinkled mother at the booby-bar shaking her thing again," Lt. Betha said firmly with a smirk.

"I told her to quit, sir," he said sadly.

"Naw, dude. She's showing the town proud. And the old black man running the joint said she pulled in the most tips lately," Lt. Betha said sharply. "A way to go officer."

"Thank you, sir," he said firmly.

"Bruh, I got a couple of officers staking out Mr. Ridken's joint in case he shows up," Lt. Betha stated strongly.

"Good thinking dog," Keith said sharply.

"How's your aunt, dog?" Lt. Betha asked firmly.

"She's blessed. She's holding up," Keith stated happily.

"What happened?"

"She fell off her horse, practicing for the rodeo," Keith said.

"How bout that? This cat's old aunt has more balls than you do Murphy. I'm beginning to smell girl when you sweat baby. I should have her working on vice," Lt. Betha explained strongly.

"Yes, sir," Ofc. Murphy snapped with a smirk.

"I want you to question everybody in this building!"

"Yes, sir," Ofc. Harrison said strongly.

"What about that cab, bruh?" Keith said strongly.

"Yeh man. We checked out that. Most of the fingerprints was hella smudged. There was gun residue on the front seats probably because he sat the weapon down on the seat after firing it," Lt. Betha explained clearly.

"That's some bull! We have the coolest crime team in the world. And you feed me this poop," Keith said bluntly.

"Well yeh that's true. We just fell short. We won't make a habit of that I assure you," Lt. Betha said sharply.

The lab crew began to pack things up. Mostly everyone had left already. Lt. Betha, Ofc. Harrison and Keith had been outside the crime scene talking.

# Chapter 44

At The Walt's Bar & Grill Lt. Betha and Keith had some barbecue rips, fries and a ton of beer. The owner was a tall, thin black man. He'd been in business for over twenty years. He was one of the very few black businesses in Reno. He worked closely with an Indian dude who always wore a lot of jewelry and dress like a Texas star ranger.

The place was a two-story job made of brick, just recently painted red & white. Walt even had the parking lot expanded, since his visitor blossomed so largely. There were the usual butt-kicking food and bar specials. It was always a full house at four. The jukebox always plays blues and the joint gets a jumping.

Keith and Lt.Betha sat in the back booth with pure leather seats. The fine oak wood tables shined. They finish eating a truckload of ribs and fries. They bullshitted about the case, which poured over to their sex life.

It was 6:00pm when the two finally stepped out of the bar. Lt. Betha staggered across the street towards a cab that was waiting. Keith watched the cab take off. Keith walked towards his car parked across the street.

When he stepped into the street a speeding blue Buick came bolting towards him with no sign of stopping. Keith flung forward to avoid the speeding vehicle that past by him. Keith watched it fly down the street. So he tried to get up as he brought out his gun.

The vehicle spun around and came back just as fast but this time the man started firing a .32 auto at him. Keith returned fire as he dove to his right side to avoid the bullets. And being hit by the hateful Buick, the same vehicle that tried to get at him on the courthouse steps. The car flew by him again and they both exchanged bullets at each other. Lucky nobody was outside at the time.

When the vehicle made another attempted to kill Keith this time the black man was ready shooting the front left tire of the Buick making the drive lost control at fifty miles an hour crashing into a peach tree. The huge bang produced twisted metal and shattered glass. Steam and smoke rose from the vehicle.

Keith approached the smoky vehicle carefully as he aimed his pistol at it as it began to catch fire and looked inside but the car was empty. Keith stepped back from the vehicle, which was now being taken over by orange and blue flames.

Then a man with a blue blazer was there in Plainview he started shooting at Keith, missing he quickly returned fire. Keith bullets ripped through the man's chest and head. He flew back on his back. This time he didn't move.

Flames overtook the vehicle. Any moment now the vehicle was going to explode. So Keith retreated towards his car. The vehicle finally exploded as Keith was getting to his ride. Metal and glass flew everywhere. But nobody was hurt.

Keith just drove off down the street enroute to Tangy Miller crib.

# Chapter 45

Keith spent some time at Tangy Miller's house. She was dressed in a sleek black grown, smelling hella fresh. There was several lines of cocaine on the table and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Keith was wearing a double x size white T-shirt with oversized blue jeans. His Wolf Pack baseball cap was on backwards.

They were both pretty high when Keith picked up Tangy and carried her in to the bedroom, sitting her down on the end of her pink queen-sized. She quickly removed his shirt as he took off her grown. She unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down the zipper, and brought his pant down to his knees.

When they finished making love, he rose from the bed with Tangy still laying there. He moved to the edge of the bed to the dresser where a half bottle of Jim Beam sat and four lines of cocaine. Keith took off the bottle cap. He took a long guzzle from the bottle and put it back.

He rolled a dollar bill to look like a stick. And stuck it up his left nostril, lowering his baldhead down to one of the lines. Put his finger down on his right nostril and snorted the first line. Then the next sniffing strongly like it was a girl.

Tangy moved up to the edge of the bed. Keith saved two lines for her. And with the same dollar she snorted the last two lines while he was guzzling the bourbon.

"Did you find Ridken yet?" she asked softly.

"Hell no!" he snapped.

"Where's the necklace?"

"The po-pos have it," he said strongly pulling back his underpants. "It's all bull!"

"It's not, bruh," she snapped.

"Poop-eaters are shooting at me left and right," he said harshly, pulling up his baggy jeans.

"Well Redkin's putting them into spells to control those folks. You feel me?" she stated clearly.

"Hell no, girl!"

Keith was now completely dressed back up. His nose started bleeding. Tangy got him a damp cloth. He lay back for a couple of minutes to stop the bleeding.

"It's some darkness stuff. I hope you kept that knife I gave you with the silver blade."

"Yeah so? Can't kill evil people with no knife."

"The knife will save you against Ridken who's a werewolf."

"That girly-looking dude!"

"Yes, bruh. Trust me."

"Slime that! It's all bull, baby. I need some more weed. I'll just some more behind my office. I just about killed off your bourbon," Keith said sharply standing up.

Tangy went into the bathroom to take a shower. Keith finished off the Jim Beam and left.

# Chapter 46

It was hella early when Keith finally decided get his butt up. He put on a purple hoody over t-shirt, baggy green jeans and white addidas. He placed a Beretta .32 in his back pocket. He smoked some crack cocaine some black dude on the corner last night sold him. He drank a Budweiser. And now was ready to take on the world.

He climbed into his Dodge Dart and started it up. He turned up the jazz radio. His car warmed up as he was heading towards Las Vegas about three hundred miles away. He watched kids on their way to school. They were playing and laughing. It made him think about when he was a kid.

The weather was sorta chilly as we coasted into October. The beautiful dark green leaves were now turning orange-yellow and falling off the tree branches. So every dude would have to get those jackets back out again. Keith was cool with that he was use to the weather now.

After a while on the highway, he saw a number of trucks, Rvs, tour buses, accidents, dumb hitchhikers, motorcycles, horse trailers, and homes. There was sagebrush everywhere. And farms where cattle were eating grass. A ton of noisy factories too.

Keith soon knew when he was getting to his exit he observed the huge casino towers ahead. Downtown Vegas. He might check out a few casinos and try his luck before heading back. But if you'd lived in Reno this casino shit don't mean nothing Like it would be to most folks not from gambling states.

He thought about Mel's parents and how they'd react to a black dude questioning them about their son. And what sorta people bring a psychopath fresh eating punk into this world. What are they witches? Are these folks human?

Keith was parked on E. 3rd Street number 115. There was a large white house that had been tree stories high, with huge square windows, a four-car garage, a red Cadillac, a white Chevy Silverado and a blue Chrysler Voyager were parked inside there. Three huge apple trees stood in front of the house, with leaves turning orange-yellow, many had fallen to the grass along with some rotten apples. The other houses in the neighborhood had been similar. He watched fancy hot ladies walking tiny dogs. People were jogging by in packs.

He sat in his car smoking dope, watching a pit-bull taking a poop on someone's lawn. He saw some brats steal apples off a tree. And some black man steal a radio out of somebody's BMW.

Well he got out of his car, locking it. He heard the sound of a hot engine. He pulled up his baggy jean as he started for a white gate. He went through the gate towards a porch with black plastic chairs. He saw a man wearing a Brook Brother suit carrying a dark briefcase getting into a Grand Cherokee and he quickly drove off. Everybody seemed to be rushing off to work or school.

Before Keith could knock on the door, it suddenly opened. A fragile looking woman stood there wearing a silk white rob. She seemed shock to see a black man standing at her door.

"Are you Mrs. Ridken?"

"Yes!"

"I'm Keith Jackson. I'm a private investigator," he said strongly showing his ID.

She studied for a while and soon nodded in approval.

"An investigator?"

"Hell yeh."

"What exactly are you investigating?"

"Singers are bodying up in Reno."

"Why don't you come in?" she suggest strongly. "This sounds serious."

"All right, then," he said sharply walking inside.

He sat in a green leather chair. The smell of eggs and bacon nearly knocked him out. Everything in the house was a winter green.

"What do you mean by bodying up?" she asked strongly, sipping on coffee.

"I'm mean hella dying!" he snapped.

"What does all this have to do with us?" Mr. Ridken asked strongly.

"I believe your son did it," Keith said clearly, looking at a green piano against the wall. There were loads of family photos on it and a newspaper on the bench.

"That's bull, man!" Mr. Ridken stated harshly and took a long sip of coffee.

"Yes. Our son would never murder anybody. He's a good boy," Mrs. Ridken said sharply.

"I'm sure he was. But he's been curse by a Bleeder Eye. So this dudes flipped the script," Keith stated strongly.

"The Bleeder Eye?" Mrs. Ridken said strongly.

"It's a necklace with an eyeball soaking in blood. It's a horrid piece of jewelry," Keith said firmly.

"Well that sorta thing would be up Mel's alley," Mr. Ridken said strongly with a smile.

"Would you like so coffee?" She asked softly.

"I sure would."

She ran off to the kitchen. Keith stared at Russian art.

"Dude you got the wrong guy," Mr. Ridken snapped.

"No, sir. I know I'm on the right stage bruh," Keith snapped.

"Well Mel is not here!"

"When is the last time you saw him?"

"A year or so."

Mrs. Ridken returned with a silver tray loaded with toast and three steaming cups of coffee. She sat it down on a green marble table.

Keith grabbed a piece of toasted a spread some jelly on it. Mrs. Ridken panting from her trip from the kitchen grabbed a coffee cup.

"Where do you think he is?" Keith said sharply chewing on toast.

"He's in Reno. You know he works there," she said sharply, sipping her coffee.

"The dude ain't there no more!"

"I ought to beat your face in man. But I'm too old," Mr. Ridken stated coldly, drinking his coffee.

"I know your angry old-gee. I don't like coming here and telling you this bad news but it's my job as an investigator," Keith stated strongly, finishing his toast.

Mr. Ridken was eating strawberry jam on his toast. Keith wanted very much to spice up his coffee with bourbon.

"What does he like to do?" Keith asked.

"Well he was very into his uncle Ty. He lives in Arizona, and runs a black magic shop. He's all ways been involved in some type of Satanism of black magic," she explained clearly.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Keith said cheerfully, finishing up his coffee.

"Yeh, that's what scared me about him," Mr. Ridken added.

"Is Mel into wolf like creatures?"

"Probably," she said firmly.

"Won't you eat breakfast?" Mr. Ridken asked sharply.

"All right, old-gee," Keith said sharply.

"I can't believe Mel would go as far as kill someone. Most of this evil stuff he does is just fun and games that's all," Mrs. Ridken said sharply.

They all set in the dining room. Keith soon started shoving mouthfuls of eggs down his throat with yoke running down his chin. Mr. Ridken put lots of salt & pepper and Tabasco sauce on his eggs before he ate them. Mrs. Ridken loaded her eggs and hash browns with catsup.

"Does Mel like clowns?" Keith asked smacking loudly.

"Of course. Like every child loves clowns and the circus. We brought Mel there a lot during his childhood," she said strongly and shoved a forkful of hash browns and eggs into her small mouth.

"Why does Mel hate cabaret singers?" Keith asked firmly.

"I don't know!" Mr. Ridken stated strongly.

"I was a singer that performed in nightclubs years ago," she said strongly washing down her food with coffee.

"All right. There's the connection bruh."

"She wasn't always home to care for Mel. I believe that was the showstopper for him. This upset him deeply," Mr. Ridken said clearly, finishing his eggs and sausage. "He seemed to be closer to his mother than me."

Now breakfast was over and everyone seemed hella full. Mrs. Ridken began removing the plates leaving them in the dishwasher.

"If Mel killed these women we'll help you in any why we can," Mr. Ridken said strongly as he walked Keith towards the door.

Mrs. Ridken was straightening the dining room crying the whole time.

"I must pray for the families that are suffering because of our son," she said sharply sobbing.

"If your son calls you please let me know as soon as possible," Keith stated strongly opening the door.

"We sure will," Mr. Ridken snapped firmly.

"Oh another thing! Where would Mel go? You know to be alone," Keith asked.

"I don't know. Doesn't he like the lake, baby?" Mr. Ridken said sharply.

"Yeh. Mel likes to go fishing. We're a family that was very into camping. Also swimming as well," she said sharply, wiping her tears with cloth.

"That's it...the Truckee River. That's where Miss Sands was found," Keith snapped.

"No! that's where Mel goes when he's in trouble," Mr. Ridken stated strongly.

"That's where Mel would go to think," she said sharply.

"You're going to have to kill our son," he said strongly.

"I hope not. It all depends on Mel," Keith said strongly, stepping outside.

# Chapter 47

Keith Jackson left his pimpmobile a small distance from the Wells Ave underpass. The rain had stopped for now but it was still sorta muddy. He walked around the muddy hill slipping sometimes. He stumbled across a white brick, some sorta shelter. He produced his gun knowing Mel's a very dangerous slime-ball.

Inside the shelter was an Indian dude striking matches to build a fire. He had a bottle of some cheap wine beside him.

"Please don't shoot! I'm just a poor man trying to make a fire," he said strongly with fear on his face.

"Relax I'm not going to shoot you, cuz," Keith said strongly, putting the gun away.

The tense Indian loosened up in his manner. Keith stuck a joint in his mouth. He heard noise from the factories near by. The water made noise too as small waves move swiftly down stream as ducks as well.

"Have you seen a white man?" Keith said lighting his joint.

"Many come through here," he said with a smirk.

"Was anybody wearing a clown outfit?" he asked and took a long drag from his weed.

"Yeh. I saw a clown attack a woman the other night. But this clown was hella evil. I never saw a clown like that before."

"Did he have a big blade?"

"No! He just attacked her like some beast or animal. He bit into her neck and was chewing her flesh. It was horrible sight dude I threw up," the Indian explained strongly.

"Has he been back?" Keith snapped and took another hit.

"Naw!"

"Why didn't you help the woman?" Keith snapped.

"I don't know. My bones just froze bro. I was hella scared."

"Who was she?"

"Belinda!" the Indian snapped.

"So you knew the broad?" Keith asked harshly and took another drag.

"Hell yeh, bro."

"Why did she come out here at 2:30am?" Keith asked firmly blowing smoke through his nose.

"To help me. She's been coming out here to give me money and food."

"How long has this been happening?"

"Quite a while. Belinda is a great lady or was."

"Does anybody else know this bruh?"

"Nah."

"How come you didn't tell the cops?"

"I was scared."

The Indian smelled hella funky. There were stacks of funky clothes in the shelter, old newspapers, pots and pans and stuff. The stench made Keith throw up.

"You're hella nasty dude!" Keith stated strongly with lips curling.

"You ain't so pretty yourself brother," he said bluntly.

"Have you seen this cat?" Keith said strongly showing Mel's photo.

The Indian studied it. Then he nodded his head.

"No. Never seen him. I don't think a while boy like this would dare come around this area," he said sharply.

Well the Indian finally got the fire going. Keith didn't understand the need for a fire it wasn't very cold. Keith took the final hit from his joint.

"Are you sure gee?"

"Why is this so important?"

"He murdered your friend and many more women!"

He took another look but this time a longer one at the photo. Keith took out thirty dollars and tossed it in his lap.

"All right, man. There was this white cat walking down the river. He was messed up, bro. I thought he was going jump in the river."

"What do you mean messed up?"

"He was like me kinda dirty. Like he was sleeping in the streets," the Indian said clearly.

"All right, bruh," Keith said strongly and rose to his feet.

"Hey thanks for the money, bro," he said happily.

The Indian stuck his fist out. Keith tapped his fist against the man's fist. Like some ghetto friend sign.

Keith walked on down the river slipping at times. The trees were changing over here too from orange to yellow and falling onto the muddy hill and some in the river.

The clouds were beginning to show their ugly heads moving in slowly pushing the blue skies away. Well he sure wasn't ready for the down pour. Hopefully he'd find Mel and end the nightmare before the rain hit.

As he walked down the slippery riverbank there was un used condoms, an assortment of beer cans, and bottles, energy drinks cans, used tampons, candy wrappers, Cds, potato chip bags, coin wrappers, milk cartons, stinky clothes, and cigarette butts.

There was a number of homeless encampments scattered about. He saw several homeless folks but not Mel. There were hella nice apartments on the other side of the river with people sitting on patios drinking wine and staring. The sent of urine, poop, motor oil, gas, and prime rib was very strong in the area.

Keith stuck a massive joint in his mouth. When he walked by a concrete box a man dirty looking, leaped out at him with an evil that would scare King Kong. Keith raised his gun up to the mans face, growling he quickly backed away.

He checked some of the shelters along the riverbank, looking for Mel. There was two dirty men having sex in one. A fat man raping a huge turkey leg. There was a man having sex with a black woman. And in another a man raping a funky blond teenager A couple more had nobody just some empty whiskey bottles, funky clothes, crumpled cigarette cartons and an assortment of shoes.

Then when Keith reached the end of the road a dirty man stood there with a hair face wearing all black. He looked like a cheap-looking wolf.

"Well Mel I presume," Keith said cheerfully.

"That's right, homeboy!" he said strongly grinning with hella sharply teeth. "How did you find me?"

"Your loving mother told me."

"Well they say mothers never lie!"

"I'm here to take you in," Keith said firmly.

"I'm not going brother," he said sharply.

"So you understand me. That's great. I know that's not you talking. That poop-eating demon has taken over you. Please bruh this killing has to stop here," Keith explained clearly.

"Yeh bro. And I feel stronger than before. I'm complete now," he said with a growl.

"Why are you doing this dog?"

"Immortality!"

"How's that bruh?"

"Sacrificing the lives of horrible lounge singers that will never get a record deal. I'll need more singers to get rid of the curse," Mel explained sharply.

"I can't let you do that gee," Keith said strongly.

"You can't stop me friend."

"You wanta bet?"

"Evil is much stronger. O I wouldn't bet."

"I'm sorry boo-boo but I'm on God's side."

"Let me show you how you've picked the wrong side dog."

"The girls like you better with your pretty face," Keith said strongly.

Mel growled as he leaped at Keith and struck his face with his claw leaving an awful scratch on the side of his face. Keith did a spin kick high into Mel's chest pushing him slipping on the muddy hillside.

"Be careful bruh!" Keith snapped with smirk.

Mel regrouped quickly rising to his feet. He growled loudly showing lots of sharp teeth. Keith thought Mel was a phony ignorant butt worm.

Mel ran at Keith again swinging his claws at Keith's face missing. Keith kicked him in the stomach hard. Mel just growled. Keith kicked him in the stomach again even harder and in the nuts too. But nothing seemed to deterred Mel.

Mel threw his claw at Keith's chest tearing into it and leaving a nasty scratch with blood coming out.

Keith looked down at his shirt ripped open blood running out of his huge cut. This made him very angry. Mel just stood there laughing.

Keith launched at Mel kicking him in the face, punching him in the face too, but Mel just growled. Keith stopped for a few seconds panting to catch his breath.

Mel hit Keith hard across the face he fell back slipping down the muddy hill. Mel stood there howling like a mad wolf.

Keith got back up and charged Mel. Mel didn't move either he just stood there howling. Keith did a drop kick into Mel's chest and he flew back onto his backsliding down the muddy hill.

Keith ran over to him. Mel quickly rose his eyes were blood red and his hairy face was completely grey. His face looked like a werewolf from one of those late night horror movies.

Keith threw a hard right at Mel he grabbed Keith's arm and bit down into it. Keith screamed loudly. He karate chopped Mel in his hairy neck and he let go of his arm.

Kick punched Mel in the face and chest. Mel just stood there growling. Keith kicked him in the stomach. In the side of the ribs, in the leg, in the nuts and across his hairy, face but nothing. It was no more an affect on Mel than punching on a bag in a gym.

"Immortal, baby! You are no match for me," Mel stated strongly with a laugh.

Keith took out his gun and started shooting Mel. He just stood there like an ignorant punk, growling.

Then Mel spit out each and every bullet. Keith stood there looking in shock at his gun. Not sure what to do next.

Mel leaped on to Keith knocking him down on his back. Then Mel brought his face up to Keith's face, slobbering. He then move down to Keith's throat, mouth opening to show those big sharp teeth. Mel was just too strong for Keith to push away. It appeared to be the end of Keith.

But suddenly Keith remembered that silver blade knife that Tangy gave him. He pulled it out as Mel's mouth was closing in on his neck. He rammed the knife into Mel's heart area if he had a heart to begin with.

Mel howled out loudly like a weakened animal and rolled off Keith. Mel lay the on his back coughing and gagging. Keith stared in horror still not sure what he had done.

Keith battle with Mel wasn't just for his victory but for all the victims and their families. Because of this, it gave him more strength to keep going then he ever knew.

"Hey, dude, you're smarter than I thought," Mel stated weakly.

Then he stopped moving. He was surely dead. Then the hair on his face began to dissipate slowly until Mel's beautiful youthful face returned.

"Now you're at peace bruh," Keith stated sadly.

Surely, Keith didn't plan to kill Mel but he left him no other choice.

Blood was running down those deep scratches on Keith's face and chest. He needed to get to a doctor and clean up before his wounds got infected and the bite mark his arm. He was hoping that he didn't have rabies, But he hung tough waiting for the police to come and get Mel's body.

# Chapter 48

When Keith awaken everything was a blur. He felt like he'd been a sleep for two hundred years. There were two blurry shapes over him. When his focus became more sharper he noticed Tangy and Lt. Betha. They were both smiling.

"Hey, black man!" he said strongly with a smirk.

"Hey, ugly poop," Keith snapped.

"I'm glad you're still alive," Tangy said strongly.

"Me too. Where the hell am I?"

"Brook Bears," Betha said firmly.

"In a damn hospital?"

"A jogger found you washed up down stream almost near Lake Tahoe," Lt. Betha said strongly.

"What was I doing there?"

"How the hell am I suppose to know dog?"

"Where's Mel?"

"He's at the county coroner's office. He's DOA. We found his body at the Wells Ave. Overpass. This white boy had a silver blade through his heart. I never seen a knife like that gee," Lt. Betha explained clearly.

"I never either. Tangy gave the knife to me bruh," Keith said weakly.

"You had rabies dog. But the doctor gave you some medicine," Tangy said firmly.

"I feel pretty horrible bruh."

"How did you get that big ugly scratch on your face?" she asked clearly.

"Fighting with that punk, Mel."

"The homeless people we'd questioned said you were attacked by dogs," Lt. Betha said firmly.

"If you knew the answer why did you ask me gee?"

"I just wanted to hear your side," Lt. Betha said sharply.

"Mel killed those women. The dude tried to kill me too," Keith said weakly.

"Self-defense, bro-bro! We got you," Lt. Betha stated firmly.

"We can't go to the press about a wolf man. Nobody would believe Mel was a wolf, Keith," Tangy said strongly.

Keith was lying on a large bed, with dark green spreads. Just one push of the button below reclines the bed up or down. He had a big bandage on the side of his face. And one even bigger across his chest. There was a small table next to with two diet cokes. There was an IV stuck in him with bluish liquid. A black beam stuck out of the corner holding a color TV.

"So I'm supposed to tell the media my butt was attacked by dogs?" Keith said sharply.

"That's right, bruh," she snapped.

"For now, baby," Lt. Betha said strongly.

"What's that bag that smells so good?"

"Barbecue chicken," Lt. Betha said firmly.

"And some beer," she said.

"What if there is more Mel's?" Keith asked sharply.

"I didn't think about that," Lt. Betha snapped.

"I was bitten by this maggot, man," Keith snapped.

"Don't worry bruh. You ain't turning into a werewolf," she said strongly, handing over a bag full of ribs.

Keith quickly dug into that bag of ribs. He soon ripped through a long meaty rib bone leaving sauce dripping down his chin and all over his hands.

Keith grabbed Olde English out of the bag. He removed the cap. He then brought the can up to his mouth and began guzzling. Tangy sunk her teeth into a beefy rib. Lt. Betha started guzzling a beer.

When the ribs, fries and beer were done. Tangy and Lt. Betha left. The nurse came in and gave Keith some medication. And he when off to sleep.

# Chapter 49

Keith awoke to a noise. He saw a tall dark figure with glowing red eyes standing in the door.

"Who's that?" he asked franticly.

There was silence for a minute.

"It's me!"

"Who is it? Is it Mel?"

"Bingo!"

"I thought you were dead slime-poop!"

"You don't think I'd leave my chocolate friend, huh?"

"Just keep away from me bruh!"

"Don't be afraid, Keith. It will soon be over."

"Keep back gee."

"The dark world needs you homeboy!"

The dark figure moved closer towards Keith until he was able to really see him. It was a man with a grey hairy face. A werewolf. Keith was trying to find his gun like that would help. But they were in his pants too far over on the table.

By this time, the wolf was already standing over Keith's bed. Keith was very scared his heart was pumping so loud rapid. The hairy beast brought his face up to Keith's. Keith's eyes bulging like they were going to pop out of his face any moment. The hairy thing just stared into Keith's eyes, drool ran down it's mouth.

"Please don't kill me, gee!"

"I'm hungry for flesh!"

"No!"

"Please don't resist, dog."

"No, bruh! I don't want to be a werewolf," Keith stated franticly.

"come on, dude. It will be fun."

"Ok. I'll stop doing drugs. I'll stop drinking. Anything but don't kill me."

"Don't be such a baby, gee!"

"No!"

He bit down into Keith's throat ripping the flesh away as he rose up to a standing position. Keith lay there gargling as blood shot out of his neck. Keith put his hand over his throat to stop the bleeding but it was tough.

The wolf stood there chewing the flesh as blood dripped from his lips. Keith finally died with his dark eyes wide open. Then it sounded like a nurse calling Keith. The wolf was spooked and jumped out of the window.

Then Keith awoke he was breathing very heavy and eyes bulged and gob of sweat came pouring down his face like a faucet.

THE END

# About The Author

Hello again. I live in the Bay Area. I have written a few violent stories. The Worlds Greatest Crime Stories and Crimes Of Murder. If you have a copy of this book thanks for your support.

