Brush Creek Charlie, D. B. Reynolds [top non fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

been here at The Rosenburg, you’ve hustled people for money. You’ve lied and told people that you needed money to buy medicine for your diabetes. You’re not a diabetic and you’ve never been one. Everything that comes out of your face is a lie. Those two drug peddling punks were packing pistols. That’s quite okay, because I would’ve taken those pistols from them and buried them up their asses. When I did time in Nam, I ate young faggots like them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
D-Money heard every word Charlie spoke, though he couldn’t speak himself.
The price some had to pay for being addicted to drugs.
“What happened to you tonight, you deserved every bit of it. I hope that you’ll never be able to walk again. I hope they confine you to one of them homes for faggots who can’t walk.”
Police and the ambulance arrived at the scene.
Questions about what happened to D-Money came from every direction. Some of The Rosenburg residents actually felt sorry for him, even though they knew he smoked crack and hustled nice people for money. Derrick and Mitchell were always the nosiest ones out of the group. They wanted to know who did what and what for. Inquiring minds just had to know.
“My Lord, what happened to D-Money?” Derrick asked Mrs. Hazel Robinson, a sixty-six year old widow who lived across the hall.
Hazel contemplated before giving an answer. “Heard someone here in the building mention that he’d been getting dope on credit. People do talk around here. They said he jumped from the third floor to keep from being shot by a couple’a drug dealers.”
“Funny how things happen so fast. Two young guys wearing street gear had asked me if I’d seen D-Money. Mrs. Robinson, did he ever ask you for money to pay for his diabetic medication?”
“Almost everytime I saw him. I knew he’d been trying to scam me.”
“Like myself, you can tell when someone’s stressing to get their next hit. One time, I asked him how much his diabetic medication cost, and he told me that a prescription for fifty pills costed thirty dollars. I figured that if he’d hit everybody up here at The Rosenburg, he’d hustle up enough money to buy his drugs for a week.”
“A quiet fella to say the least.”
“Quiet until he started hustling people for money.”
Charlie stood to the side to scope their conversation. Every word spoken about D-Money was true. Paramedics strapped him to the gurney and lifted him into the ambulance. Gauze was wrapped around both legs to slow up the bleeding. An episode of drug dealers versus drug addicts ended on a semi-tragic note.


CHAPTER—14

Ideas of satanic proportions stirred up Charlie to the point of wanting to go out and create more havoc. His debut murder of Lisa Wallace presented further challenges. Thirsting to create another murder ate away at him like lions tearing into the fat abdomen of a buffalo. The constant mentioning of drugs introduced him with the possibilities of committing another killing. A section of town which came to mind happened to be Independence Avenue. The haven for prostitutes and drug addicts created the ideal roadmap in his mind.
Charlie got inside his car and before long he found himself cruising the busy avenue. Drug addicts were easy to lure to one’s car. Like a child molesting pervert able to lure children to their wicked domain with gifts, Charlie lured hookers to his car with the flashing of either drugs or money. Caution became a privilege of the weary. Undercover lady cops were often posted up on Independence Avenue after the ladies of the night turned up dead in alleys and behind abandoned buildings.
Charlie wasn’t nobody’s fool. If the women looked far too good, if they looked way too clean, they had to be undercover cops. Not to say that hookers and drug addicts weren’t clean or good looking, but only the smart tricks knew to be careful. Charlie spotted a few African American women walking the avenue. They strutted their stuff like they didn’t have a care in the world. Only problem, Charlie wasn’t interested in black women. The caucasian persuasion suited him just fine.
He dared not choose black women as his homicide victims. Black men were left to do such dirty deeds. Many in the black community agreed how no one had killed more black people than black people themselves. They were the biggest murderers of themselves. Charlie recognized how the hookers along the avenue didn’t have an IQ above sub-below zero freezing weather. They were the easiest targets in the world. But where were the white women?
Independence Avenue was usually flooded with white hookers and addicts. White women of every shape, size, and shade frequented the avenue on a regular basis. Charlie rolled further down the street to not look so suspicious. Last thing he needed was to arouse the suspicion of cops. A flashing blue and pink silhouette neon sign pinched a quick nerve with him. He wanted to kill some time. He waited for the group of hookers he truly desired to emerge from their domains.
Charlie parked his car into a lot occupied with Mercedes-Benzs, BMWs, Lexus’, Hummers, and SUVs. The fancy cars were dressed up with sparkling gold rims and tinted windows. The clientele inside the strip club were obvious. He went inside and a sea of thundercats from the urban core were spread out over the club. The world became a different place. Charlie remembered the hippy days of long hair, psychedelic drugs, wild partying, and anti-government protests.
For him, the sixties were the best time to be alive. The strip club rocked with hardcore gangster rap and hip hop. A stable of black strippers with enough hips and ass to shove a hippo aside paraded around the club. A far cry from an upscale gentlemen’s club, the strippers executed every hustle known to man. Charlie paid his five dollar cover charge and faded into the crowded club. Fitting in with the other patrons, he just couldn’t do it. The urban strip club just wasn’t his element. He wanted to kill off at least an hour. Charlie looked like an easy target.
The most attractive stripper in the club approached him. “Haven’t seen you here at the club before.”
The pleasingly curvy dancer had hopeless bedroom eyes with mouth-watering mocha skin.
Charlie sort of blushed. “Uhhhhh, I don’t get to this part of town often.”
“Where’s your part of town?” the stripper asked, quietly scanning his face and mouth.
“South.”
“What brings you to Pink Passion?”
“I’m a guy who likes variety.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little cream in your coffee.”
A woman of her calibre said such things to get inside a guy’s wallet.
“You’re right.”
The stripper got right down to business. “Would you like a lap dance?”
“Lap dance?”
“Sure, let me work this butt and tits all over you.”
Charlie gave it some thought. He had nothing between his legs to get aroused.
“How about it?”
“Well-------.”
“C’mon.”
“Alright.”
The super-built stripper positioned Charlie to where he enjoyed his lap dance. She spread his legs and slumped him down on the padded sofa. A hit rap record pumped through the concert speakers. She started the erotic dance. She tightened her firm buttocks and gyrated them all over his mid-section. Her breasts bounced on top of his head. Nibbling on Charlie’s ear aroused him. She closed her eyes to keep from looking at his face and inside his mouth.
The eye-pleasing dancer wanted to satisfy Charlie in every way. He hadn’t achieved an erection like she wanted. She questioned herself since all of her customers got concrete hard erections from her lap dances. She slid down to his mid-section and grabbed between his legs. Acting on raging impulses, Charlie clamped his hands around her wrists. He squeezed tight enough to break her wrist bones.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again!” Charlie snapped, dark red spread out over his pitted face.
The stripper jumped back with astonished eyes. “Mister, I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Next time, don’t go between my legs without my permission.”
“Don’t you have any privates down there?”
Charlie clenched his teeth. A ferocious growl steamed from his mouth. “How dare you ask me if I’ve got a dick and pair of balls down between my legs. It’s none of your fucking-goddamned business if anything’s in between my legs!”
“When I felt down there, I felt nothing but flatness. Did something happen to you?”
“You’ve got your money for the lap dances. Now, get the fuck out’a my face!”
“But I do that to all my customers.”
Charlie dashed out of the club bumping one patron after another.
The group of young black men followed him out of the club. Using expert timing, he ran to his car. He cranked it up in record time and sped off up the street. Rocks and beer bottles were thrown at him. Things along Independence Avenue were heated up. New hookers showed up and were looking for some action. Charlie looked to the left and spotted a woman more suited to his taste. He slowed down and the cute redhead with a conservatively shaped figure sprinted across the street. She stood at his car while he checked out the goods.
“Looking for a date tonight?” she asked Charlie, her eyes glossy with dollar signs.
“Kinda, sorta,” Charlie smiled, looking her up and down.
“Want some company tonight?”
“Why not? Life sure can be lonely at times.”
“Where you coming from?”
“From the strip joint down the street.”
“White guys rarely go into that tittie bar. Black guys and Mexicans frequent that club.”
“The niggers tried busting out my windows with rocks and bottles.”
“You need to stay away from down there.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name’s Kim. What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Please to meet you, Charlie.”