Brush Creek Charlie by D. B. Reynolds (best free e book reader .TXT) 📕

believe the police are still searching for her killer.”
“Well, I’m employed with the IRS.”
“Lisa was also employed with the IRS.”
“Yes, she was.”
“Mind if my girlfriend and I join you guys over at your table?”
Kathy turned and gave Derrick and Mitchell a stare of approval.
When Sandy said girlfriend, she meant it in a literally gay sense.
“I’m sure Derrick and Mitchell wouldn’t mind.”
Sandy and Carol scooted the chairs closer to their table. The vibes among the group of five grew into a welcoming mode.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” Sandy opened up, extending out her hand. “My name’s Sandy Barnholtz, and this is my girlfriend of ten years, Carol Wexler.”
“The pleasure’s all our’s,” Derrick kindly reciprocated. “First, my name is Derrick Thomas. This is my boyfriend and confidant of nearly twenty years, Mitchell McNally. This silly, crazy woman right here, she’s our good friend from the IRS, Miss Kathy Lowell.”
“So, I take it that the three of you all work for the IRS?” Sandy asked.
“Yes we do,” Derrick said, being the spokesperson among the trio.
“That’s cool to have friends to hang out with after work.”
“Do you know what the three letters IRS stand for?”
“Internal Revenue Service.”
“You’re way off.”
“What does it really stand for?”
“Idiots, Retards, and Shysters. I’m only kidding.”
“Ha! Ha!” Sandy chuckled. “If that’s so, then I’ll stay far away from there.”
Kathy penetrated Sandy’s eyes. “Getting back to Lisa, did you know her personally?”
“No, but we did have a strong discussion about her at one of our meetings?”
“What meetings?”
“My girlfriend and I sponsor a woman’s group called S.A.V.E.”
“S.A.V.E.?”
“Yes, it’s an all-female support group for women who are victims of domestic violence, even women who were related to murder victims.”
“What does it mean? What does it stand for?”
“S.A.V.E. is an acronym for Sisters Against Violence Encounters?”
“Cool name for a woman’s support group.”
“It’s a non-profit organization designed to help women recover from domestic violence and lead healthy, productive lives.”
“Lucky for me, I’ve never been a victim of domestic violence.”
“One out of every four women are victims.”
“Too bad Lisa became a victim. We had a special appreciation dinner and prayer vigil for her at work just recently.”
“How coincidental, because S.A.V.E. joined with another women’s support group for a prayer vigil at the fountain in Gillham Park.”
“The same vigil for those two Brush Creek murders and the black women they’ve been finding dead around Gillham Park?”
“That’s the vigil.”
“I saw highlights of it on the news.”
“Would you be interested into coming to one of our meetings?”
“One of your S.A.V.E. meetings?”
“Why not? You don’t necessarily have to be a victim to be in attendance.”
“Wonder if I’d fit in?”
“Sure you would.”
“When do you guys meet?”
“The first and last Monday of every month.”
“Guess it wouldn’t hurt nothing.”
Derrick had ordered his fifth drink. Feeling rather good he was. The time for him to loosen up had come.
“Dr. Bonnett has got the ugliest face in the world,” Derrick blurted out.
“Derrick, honey, where’s that coming from?” Kathy asked, aware that he’s had more than enough to drink.
“Charlie’s got one of the ugliest faces, too, that I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“I’ll ask again, where’s all this coming from?”
“Charlie’s face is ugly enough to drive away a pack of wild baboons.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“My crater-faced neighbor.”
“Why are you bringing him up at a time like this?”
“Because I know that he despises Mitchell and I. Furthermore, I know that he’s always calling us names like ‘faggots’ and ‘sissies’ and ‘punks’ and ‘gaylords’ and ‘booty pirates’ behind our backs.”
The name “Charlie” shot into Sandy’s ear like a nuclear missle. “Excuse me, but where do you know this Charlie character from?”
“I told you, he’s our neighbor,” Derrick said, his words coming out slurpy.
“Hoping not to sound like Sherlock Holmes, but where do you live?”
“On The Country Club Plaza.”
“Where on The Plaza?”
“At The Rosenburg Apartments, just right off J. C. Nichols Parkway.”
“This Charlie, did you say that he had really bad skin?”
“Looks like somebody took an icepick and burst open every pimple he’s ever had. He can call us all the faggots he wants, but with a face like his, I’d be scared to be seen anywhere in public.”
They city was relatively small and everyone just about knew each other.
With those refined details, Derrick described the same Charlie who killed Sandy’s dog Bolo. He had to be the same sonofabitch who tried to attack and kill her.
“Why are you so interested in Charlie anyway?”
“Did you guys follow the story about the two cops who wrestled with some maniac in one of the tunnels down in Brush Creek?”
“Who didn’t follow that story? The news aired it for almost a week.”
“Did you also hear about this creep killing one of their canine dogs?”
“We did.”
“And how he slipped past one of their helicopters by crawling into another tunnel?”
“Yes, we heard about that, too. We’d like to know, where are you going with all of this?”
“Hopefully, someone might help the police find this motherfucker. The streets won’t be safe until he’s taken off them. Would you say that this man Charlie has what is called a ‘nightmare-of-a-face?”
“One look at his face, and you’ve looked at your worst nightmare.”
Apparently, Derrick was drunk out of his mind. He could barely sit up straight.
Sandy dug deep into her soul. She tied her brains into a knot. “Tell me this, did Charlie serve time in the military, like during the Vietnam War?”
“In fact, he did do time in the Vietnam. He’s one of those shellshocked assholes who talks to himself and wanders around all the time. Do you know him personally?”
“We may have met on one occasion.”
“And what occasion is that?”
“One that would’ve been someone’s nightmare.”
“Charlie’s one of the strangest men that I’ve ever met.”
“Strange in what way?”
“I’ve never seen him with a woman. He keeps all kinds of crazy hours. He makes all kinds of weird noises up in his apartment. The man’s obsessed with Brush Creek like no other person in the world.”
Sandy eased her head to the side. Abruptly, she transitioned into a world of complete silence. The psychotic monster Derrick described had to be the same Charlie she faced that fateful night down in Brush Creek. Intermission ended for a second time and the third act jetted up on stage. Missy D’s brought on several more female impersonator acts before the night ended.


CHAPTER—37

How could one best describe Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli? He snacked on danger. He dined on death. Nobody lived on edge more than he did. Women were his primary enemy. The U.S. Government was his secondary enemy. The selfish politicians at the highest level were the ones who helped ruin his life. Serving in combat while in Vietnam created the monster he’d become. Likewise, women ruined his pride and self-esteem. They shook him off more than a wet towel at a carwash. They mocked him with impunity. They ridiculed him for the shortcomings he wasn’t responsible for.
This was how Charlie felt. The government sent him to fight a bleeding war on a foreign battlefield, just to bring him and thousands of others back home, filled with diseases and plagued with severe mental and emotional problems. Medication only sugarcoated him from his many of problems. He saw the government as a bunch of liars who deceived the masses of the people. He saw them as master manipulators who used people to fight their bleeding wars.
“The fucking government don’t care about us veterans! We’ve given our lives for this goddamned country!” Charlie raved, standing in the bathroom mirror with big beads of sweat popping out of his pitted face.
The sounds of heavy ammunition rung loudly through his ears. A swift flashback episode of innocent women and babies being killed raced through his mind. The irritability of a sudden outburst were only seconds away.
“War has no fucking beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie snarled through clenched teeth. “The goddamned government, they use poor people to fight their bleeding wars, so called in the name of democracy, for some type of shitass democracy that the poor don’t even have.”
Why couldn’t the memories be buried like indestructible poltergeists? Why couldn’t those ghostly memories of a nasty war vanquish like a mist of thin fog? The haunting episode of diving onto a dead body filled with countless devouring maggots felt like a javelin being pierced straight into his head. The feelings of worthlessness and guilt jabbed away at him.
“Before I went to Nam, I had one of the most handsomest faces around,” Charlie growled to himself, both hands covering two-thirds of his face. “This government of our’s, they’ve always been part of an ongoing criminal enterprises. Those pricks are nothing but criminals themselves. They get guys like me to do their dirty work, knowing that war has never been about democracy. War has always been about fucking money and power.”