The Carlo Crimson Story

By CharlesTruth1

What unfolds inside this urban literary jewel is a tale of a young boy, Carlo, who loses his father right before his eyes due to an act of brutal revenge. Thereafter, Carlo grows up with no remorse in his heart.

At the age of thirteen, he carries out a vengeful act that lands him a term of juvenile-life behind bars. After being released from custody, Carlo claims a ruthless lifestyle in his fight for position. With the help of Waxey, a childhood friend, and Carlo's cousin, June, who has a detrimental weakness, Carlo rises above the law.

Carlo digs deep into his father's past, finding some disturbing news that adds pieces to his father's puzzling murder. The great betrayal comes when Carlo least expects it, and from a person he would've never thought would betray him. That betrayal causes Carlo to make a forbidden decision that may change the course of his life and his position in the streets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CharlesTruth1
• Release date: May 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463139141

CharlesTruth1

Young Doe, writing as Charles Truth, hails from Denver, Colorado, and has been a musician and writer since his early youth. Now a hip-hop producer, rapper, and label owner, Young Doe has transformed into a well-rounded artist. He’s released multiple albums chock full of his dynamic philosopher’s tone. Years of studying and being privy to street life built his self-fulfilling prophesy and debut project, “Street Philosopher,” released on cassette in 1994. The project came at the height of his hustling days and was the vehicle that allowed Young Doe to use the underground rap game as his pulpit. He built a steady following, lively stage show, and sharp as a sword pen to drive his presence in the rap game, growing his repertoire of collaborating artists. Young Doe has worked with Keak Da Sneak (“We Don’t Do That”), Chali Boy (“Droptop”), J. Stalin (collaborative album “Diesel Therapy”) Messy Marv (“Playin’ My Part”), Philthy Rich (“Let the Money In”), and other Bay Area hip-hop pioneers. Using the imprints of The Brand Factory and Elite Entertainment Group, he’s released over a dozen albums, and amassed an impressive tour resume in cities like Houston, Seattle, and Oakland. Not only is Young Doe an accomplished MC, he’s written and published numerous books, owns and operates a print and apparel business, and garnered numerous awards for his music, including the “True to Life” and “Town Reputable” award from the 5280 Urban Music Awards. Welcome to the Maze was a book written under the pen name Charles Truth. The MC continued adding to his byline with articles published in Fly Magazine and Ozone Magazine, proving his versatility as a writer. More than a participant in the world of hip-hop, Young Doe is a purveyor of the culture; someone who understands the ins and outs of the music business, and applies it to his everyday life to help elevate the movements of young MCs across the country. The Underground Railroad, Young Doe’s forthcoming full-length album of street tales and rising through the ranks, is slated for a release in the Fall 2018. You can learn more about Young Doe by visiting his website www.youngdoemusic.com.

Book preview

The Carlo Crimson Story

A Novel

Charles Truth

* * * * *

Copyright © 2018 by Charles Truth. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For permissions requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Manager, at the address below.

Ordering Information: Quantity sales–Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the Special Sales Department at the address below.

Publisher: Charles Truth

Address: P.O Box 39732

Denver, Co 80239

Web Address: www.youngdoemusic.com

Telephone: [phone]

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905305

The Carlo Crimson Story/Charles Truth

1. Fiction–African American

2. Fiction-African American-Urban

3. Fiction-General

4. Fiction-Crime

Created in the United States of America

SMASHWORDS THING

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Chapter 1

Denver Colorado

MAY 21, 1989

It was near 8:00 p.m. when Reno penetrated the shadowy alley, driving his ‘89, red and crème Corvette Coupe. The mild raindrops finally came to a halt as he then turned off his windshield wipers and began zigzagging to avoid the shallow, watered chuckholes that lay along the mutilated pavement.

Alley cats scattered as the six-speed, 420 horse powered machine growled with class. Not too far ahead, Reno could spot the goldish glow that his headlights caused as they reflected off Reverend Leonard Spinks’ Cadillac, which was partially parked behind a dumpster that sat alongside the church’s back door.

Get up, Reno said while nudging his son, Carlo, who had been asleep in the passenger seat.

Every time Reno looked at Carlo, he was reminded of LeLe, Carlo’s mother. It had been a little over ten years since LeLe’s death, but Reno still felt guilty for putting her on the train that caused a fatal accident. The one thing Reno was thankful for was Carlo; the child of his that LeLe had given an emergency birth to before she passed away.

We at home yet, Dad? Carlo asked as he rubbed his eyes open and fixed his posture to stare out the window.

No, not yet. I have to make one more stop over here to talk to Reverend Spinks, Reno replied.

Hey, Pops? Carlo inquired.

‘Hey, Pops,’ what? Reno responded as he pulled alongside the Cadillac and shut off his retractable headlights. Through the Cadillac window, the shadow of individuals in the driver and passenger seats could be seen.

Carlo gave Reno a prying look. How come every time we see Reverend Spinks, he be with one of them prostitute ladies?

Reno was caught off guard by his ten-year-old son’s inquisitiveness. He be praying for them, son. Reno quickly improvised, and then gave Carlo a powerful gaze of disapproval as he continued, And what did I tell you about sticking your nose in . . .

I know, I know, I know, Carlo interrupted. Don’t spend my childhood years sticking my nose in the dirty details of grown folks’ business.

Reno gave Carlo a light grin of satisfaction before stepping out of the car. He knew Carlo was getting old enough to distinguish the difference between the truth and what people wanted him to know.

Carlo peered through the rain-dappled driver’s side window as his father took a couple of easy steps toward Reverend Spinks, who had stepped out of his car and appeared to be zipping up his slacks. As the interior light in Spinks’ brand-new Cadi slowly began to fade, Carlo stared at the silhouette of the woman in the passenger seat. That confirmed the flawed perception he already had about the preacher, who had once told him, Young man, never do the devil’s work.

When Reno and Reverend Spinks vanished into the back door of the church, Carlo noticed a dark-blue car creeping up the alley with only its fog lights on. As the car slowly approached, Carlo’s heart began to throb in such a way that he could feel it in the base of his neck. The fear of being in a dark alley without his father was not an easy feeling to swallow.

Carlo placed his eight fingertips on the lip of the passenger door. As the dark-blue vehicle continued to worm along, in the backseat, Carlo noticed a haggish-looking man quickly glance his way, revealing a dead eye; not lazy, but completely dead. It seemed to have had no pupil at all. The man tucked his chin in his collar as he held a big, white cellular phone up to his ear. The driver and the other occupant of the car had never noticed Carlo’s presence, but the man in the backseat on the cell phone sent disturbing vibes through Carlo’s body.

***

Inside the church building, Reverend Spinks led Reno to his office as his cell phone rang. He signaled for Reno to give him a second as he exited to take the phone call. Reno took a seat when he entered the well-furnished office of Reverend Spinks. Centered on the wall, he noticed a colorful painting of Bob Marley hanging above the cherry wood bookshelf that sat behind the matching desk. Sitting on the bookcase was a picture of Reverend Spinks’ wife and daughter, who had both died in a suspicious fire that had burned down their home.

Excuse me ‘bout that phone call, Reverend Spinks said while barging into his office. I didn’t mean to be rude or nothing, but it was real important. He suddenly broke his eye contact with Reno.

Reno noticed Spinks seemed a little uneasy, but he didn’t comment. He simply nodded his head to assure Spinks taking that call over tending to their business at hand hadn’t been a problem. Reno thought Reverend Spinks may have been nervous about the fact it appeared he was in the middle of a sexual act when Reno pulled up on him out back.

Reverend Spinks slid his cell phone in the pocket of his leather trench coat and took a seat at his desk.

Reno couldn’t recall a time Reverend Spinks had been that uneasy, so Reno became a little tense and more alert.

So, what’s shakin,’ big baby? Reverend Spinks asked, leaning back in his chair.

Reno clasped his hands and laced his fingers together. He sat back in the chair, partially crossing his legs. You got my money for this month? His demanding expression penetrated Reverend Spinks’ eyes.

Oh yeah, you know I got that for you, Reverend Spinks was quick to respond.

Reverend Spinks was a 300-pound man that wore a slicked-back perm. His skin complexion was swarthy, and he had several razor bumps under his chin. He dressed flashy; wouldn’t be caught without a pair of gators on his feet, or a pair of Gazelle eyeglasses from his vast collection.

Reverend Spinks stood and stepped over to the bookshelf that stood a little bit higher than his waist. He reached up and took the colorful painting of Bob Marley off the wall. Mounted behind it was a stainless steel safe.

Once Reno noticed the safe, his muscles began to relax. He was more concerned about his portion of the dishonest money Reverend Spinks paid him every month than he was about the reverend’s questionable demeanor. Reno was extorting Reverend Spinks, making him hand over a portion of the profits he was collecting from the offering basket; money he was misusing for his own greed and benefits. Reno also got his share of the currency Reverend Spinks collected from the lucrative pimping racket he had been concealing for so many years.

I seen your car parked out front of the life insurance agency last week, Reno stated humorously, attempting to ease the slight tension of his monetary demands.

Reverend Spinks suddenly froze up and lost control of the painting, which plunged to the ground. Damn! he blurted impulsively. He picked up the painting and began checking it for damages. Uh . . . Oh, yeah—yeah, he said, seeming to be at a loss for words. Without facing Reno, he continued, I was uh . . . up at the insurance agency checking up on a check they still owed me from when my wife and daughter died.

There was a brief moment of silence while Reverend Spinks removed a small, brown paper bag from the safe and placed it on his desk.

Check this out, big baby, Reverend Spinks said while arranging the painting back on the wall. I got five thousand for you right there, and—

What the fuck you mean you got five thousand dollars, nigga? Reno questioned with a thick inflection of disappointment in his voice.

Well, I was—

"‘Well,’ not a muthafuckin’ thing, Reno snapped, interrupting Reverend Spinks once again. He stood up and approached the reverend. Looking him dead in the eyes, Reno quickly removed a nickel plated .380 from the right pocket of his crème Gucci jacket. He grabbed Reverend Spinks by his neck. Now listen here, you fat, sloppy, muthfucka! I’ma give you four hours to bring me my other five thousand dollars, and if we have any problems . . ." Reno allowed his words to trail off. He then put the pistol