Crimes Of Murder

by Darryl Harrison

the ones on 9th Street and Sutro, near the Welfare Department. If Felisa’s not there, you’ll find her on a job at the Eldorado, in the coffee shop,” Montoya explained strongly.

  Mr. Jackson headed right down to Ninth Street in his Dodge Dart. His car radio was blasting Get Up On It by Jodeci. The darn blizzard stopped, leaving behind some snow on the streets. He got through ok without chains.

  Mr. Jackson pulled into the driveway. At the French Manor Apartment condominiums and he parked in guest parking. He strolled up to the mailboxes. He examined the boxes for Miss Lopez. He discovered her in Apt. 9.

  There had been a swimming pool, a gaming area on the other side. This place was slamming. How could a waitress pay for this stuff? The broad must be selling dope or her fine booty.

  Miss Lopez opened the door on the eighth knock. He got hard looking at her in those tight red shorts. She was not very tall.

  “What’s up?” she snapped with a smile.

  “Hey, baby, I’m Keith Jackson, a private detective,” Keith stated strongly in a ghetto style, displaying his Identification. “Can I ask you a couple of questions regarding Mr. Joel Luis?”

  “Come in,” she said sharply with a frown, stepping back and motioned him inside.

  The spot was just as nice inside.

  “Thank you, Miss Lopez,” he stated strongly with a smile.

  “Have a seat,” she said firmly, pointing at a pink sofa.

  “Thank you!” he said.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she said strongly.

  “Hell, yeh,” Jackson said sharply.

  Miss Lopez disappeared into the kitchen, 26 seconds later on; she came back with two cans of Cobra beer.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” he said strongly with a laugh.

  “I heard the homeboy’s clock ran out,” she said firmly and took a long swig from her beer can.

  “Yep. It was a terrible scene, baby,” Jackson said strongly with regret and took a long pull from his beer can. “I heard he fronted on you.”

  “Hell, yeh. With this blond!” she said harshly as she took a sip of her beer.

  “So what did you do?” he asked clearly.

  “Nothing,” she snapped.

  “You didn’t check the dog?” he stated strongly.

  “Hell naw!” she snapped sharply, squeezing her beer can. “But I should have.”

  “Where were you at noon?” Jackson asked firmly and took a long swig from his beer.

  “Boo...I was serving folks lunch,” she snapped and guzzled her beer like a man.

  “Mr. Luis hella messed your thing up, boo,” he said strongly, finishing up his beer.

  “Bruh, I didn’t kill the homeboy, but I wanted too. What Joel did to me was hella scandalous,” Miss Lopez said firmly, finishing her beer.

  “How do you feel about Montoya?” he asked.

  “He’s all right. Bruh, I’m sorry that he’s in the cooler,” Miss Lopez said sadly.

  Miss Lopez smelled great. He was thinking about raping her. Nobody else was in the apartment. This woman didn’t even have a dog. However, he decided not to.

  “I’m sorry. Where do you work?” he asked.

  “Eldorado, player,” she snapped.

  “Isn’t that where Montoya works?” he snapped.

  “Yes. I see him every day,” she said dryly with a bored look.

  “Does Mr. Luis have any friends or enemies?” he asked strongly with the shakes again.

  “Xavier Ramos. They came in my coffeehouse a lot,” she said strongly. “They’re real tight now.”

  “Has Mr. Ramos ever been in the kitchen area?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen folks hanging around, people who shouldn’t be there?” he said firmly.

  “I’m not sure. We’re always busy,” she strongly, lighting a joint.

  “Hey, baby, what about enemies?” he said.

  “A lot of folks liked him,” she said and took a long hit from the weed.

  “Well, some slime-butt doesn’t,” Jackson said sharply.

  “So you think the real killers out there?” she said.

  “Hell yeh!” he snapped.

  “I have Xavier’s address,” she said sharply and took another long drag from her joint.

  “Okay!” he said firmly.

  “Yo, player, you can find Xavier at 2200 Sullivan Lane, no. 22,” she said strongly.

  “Where does this dude work?” he asked, standing up ready to leave.

  “At Miguel’s,” she said calmly.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Jackson asked strongly.

  “No!” she said firmly, blowing smoke from her nose.

  “Can a homeboy call you?” Jackson asked firmly.

  “Hell, no,” she snapped.

  “Thanks for the beer,” he said strongly, strolling over to the door.

  Mr. Jackson had taken Wells Ave overpass to downtown. He made a number of right turns and a couple of left turns and he was pulling into the Miguel’s restaurant. He parked by a Chevy truck full of damn chickens, shedding their feathers all over the place. It was 11:30 and very hectic for lunch.

  The place was crafted of cement, with pretty bouquets about. A robust smell of good Mexican food came from the restaurant.

  Jackson opened up the big green solid wood door and went in. Every table was full. The waitresses had been running around just like chickens with their heads chopped off. There was hella noise coming out of the kitchen and sounded like waitresses fighting with busboys and cooks, throwing dishes and silverware at one another. A Mexican woman dressed up like a hostess strolled up to him.

  “If you’ll please wait, sir. As soon as a table is opened, I’ll seat you,” she said cheerfully.

  “You guys are busy today?” Jackson asked strongly with a smile.

  “Yeh. It’s similar to this everyday. As soon as you eat our food you’ll see why,” she explained contentedly.

  “Yo, Miss, I’m not likely to eat today. Man, I’m searching for a buddy. His name is Xavier Ramos,” he stated strongly, looking around.

  “He didn’t tell you?” she snapped.

  “Tell me what?” he shotback.

  “Xavier, quit a few weeks ago,” she stated sadly.

  “I got you, baby. Thank you,” he said strongly and strolled out.

  The man got in his car and headed down Center Street, a one-way street. It started to rain. He stepped on his brakes to decelerate a little bit, yet nothing. He frantically pressed down on the brake petal; but the car didn’t slow down at all. It appeared to be speeding up. There were folks crossing the intersection...vehicles slowing down in front of him. He honked and honked his horn and veered to the right to avoid an accident.

  Mr. Jackson kept honking his horn to warn folks. “Get your butts out of the way! Hey, y’all, I got no brakes!” he shouted sharply and the people began to quickly scatter. The rain came down hard. He had been weaving from side to side, ducking traffic, folks and animals. And the streets being a little wet didn’t help it either. He set foot on the emergency brake, but nothing or it wasn’t enough. He shifted to neutral. This vehicle continued to strut on at 58 mph. Lucky for him there was a field up ahead on the right side; once he gotten to the field, he turned into at 62 mph. The field was abrasive, slick, muddy and he bounced up and down and slid around like crazy. Patches of mud had been kicking up in the air. Following a mile or so, the car skid into sagebrush, which slowed the car down swiftly and it stopped right into a small hill. His forehead jerked forward into the steering wheel and the impact knocked him out.

  When Jackson awakened folks was standing around him with concern looks on their faces.

  “Are you all right, mister,” one stated sharply with a sad face.

  “I’m alive,” Keith said strongly, attempting to get out of the vehicle. A lot of folks came and helped.

  Mr. Jackson staggered away from the car holding a cut on his forehead. He looked back at the car. The car’s f
rontend was smashed and smoke shot up from the hood. He figured that somebody was messing with the brake lines.

  “Hey, brother, your car’s been sabotaged,” the man stated sharply with regret.

  “Yeh, Dog. I know,” Jackson said sharply, shaking his head.

  “Hey, brother, let me get you a doctor,” another man said firmly. “You have a nasty cut on your head.”

  “Yo, man, don’t bother. I’m cool,” Jackson said weakly. “Just a little shook up.”

  Rather than proceeding directly to the hospital, Mr. Jackson had taken a taxi to 2200 Sullivan Lane, where Mr. Ramos lived. He paid the cab and stumbled up to Mr. Ramos apartment. Crest-View apartment’s looked costly.

  Jackson knocked on the door ten times before this cat opened up the door. Xavier Ramos appeared to be a male model. He was a very pretty guy.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?” he stated in a gentle tone. He had been cleaning off motor oil from his hands using a grayish cloth, which smelled like brake oil.

  “Hey, man, I’m Keith Jackson, a private investigator,” Keith stated strongly, showing his ID. “Dog, I’m focusing on Mr. Luis’s murder.”

  “Yeh. Won’t you come inside, man,” Ramos stated politely.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Jackson said firmly with a smirk.

  “Did your old lady hit you?” Ramos said strongly with a laugh.

  “Naw. I was skateboarding and lost control. You feel me?” Jackson said firmly with a laugh.

  “Hey, brother, I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you should give up skateboarding,” Ramos said strongly with regret.

  “Maybe I should.”

  Jackson sat on a zebra skin sofa. There were marble tables and fancy bird lamps. There were many photos on the walls with Ramos cuddling up with men. A purple shelve had been full of encyclopedias; on the pink wood floors next to it sat a basket with Playgirl magazines.