by Cole Hart
As she pulled a load of clothes out the dryer, the doorbell sounded.
“She didn’t leave a number, but I told her I’d call you to see if you wanted me to give her yo’ number.”
Now at the front door, Summer glanced through the peephole and saw somebody on the porch. “Okay, Mama, give her my number when she calls again. Let me see who dis’ is at the door. I’ll call you back.”
After Mrs. Diane hung up, Summer continued looking through the peephole. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Is Danté home?” The guy asked this question, hoping he could buy some time. He knew Danté wasn’t there.
“He ain’t home,” she said, then went to the window.
To her surprise, she saw the guy remove a handgun from his waist. As she turned and ran upstairs, four shots rang out, the bullets shattering the wooden door. Summer quickly wrapped up Lil’ Danté, who was now crying by the sudden movement. Summer’s heart thumped fiercely inside her chest. She could still hear the gunfire ringing in her ear. She didn’t want to call the police because she knew Danté had drugs and guns inside the house. So, she dialed his cell phone, and he answered on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Danté…” She was breathing hard.
“What’s wrong?”
“Somebody…jus’ shot in tha house.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah. I didn’t call da police yet.”
Danté thought quickly. “Call ‘em now. I’m on my way, okay?”
“Okay.”
She hung up and dialed 911, and as she was explaining what had happened, the dispatcher told her a car was already on the way. A neighbor had called, which wasn’t a surprise.
When Danté pulled up, he parked on the grass because a Richmond County Sheriff’s car had the driveway blocked off. Nervous, he got out his car, with the twins exiting behind him from the backseat. Police made anybody nervous, especially when they knew they were doing wrong. Danté’s nine-millimeter was tucked away in his trunk under some cleaning rags, and two keys of cocaine and a Tec-9 were well hidden in the house.
A short, white officer was examining the door where the bullets had entered. He walked inside the house with the twins holding each of his hands. Summer was sitting in the living room answering questions from another officer. She held the baby in her arms, but stood up when she saw Danté. They hugged, and he took the baby.
“You alright?” he asked her, trying not to show any signs of anger in front of the police.
Thirty minutes later, the police were gone. Before leaving, they told them a detective would come by to investigate the case. Danté and Summer were now alone in the den, with the baby wrapped in blankets and sound asleep on the sofa.
“Did you see how he looked?”
“Not really.” She shook her head. “But he asked was you home.”
“Did you see a car?” Danté’s eyes were fire red.
“It was an old car, primed.”
Danté thought for a few minutes. He knew there wasn’t but three people he dealt with that knew where he lived. He would play everything by ear and reaction. No questions would come from him.
“You ain’t got to get in no trouble, Danté.”
His eyes were staring at the carpet. His hands had started to sweat, and the anger was showing all over his face. He threw his head back and exhaled. He was desperately trying to control himself. Summer threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, but he wasn’t in it himself.
She then got on her knees, began unbuckling his belt, and quickly removed his penis from his pants and boxers. He resisted, almost using a great amount of force. Her eyes met his, and he pulled her back up to his lap. As she sat there holding him, she noticed his eyes had turned moist.
“I don’t be fuckin’ wit’ none of these niggas,” he said between clenched teeth.
“Everybody’s alright. That’s all dat matters,” Summer told him in a soothing tone.
“Ain’t nothin’ alright when my family’s in jeopardy. A muthafucka come to my house shootin’ while my girl and kids at home don’t happen.” He looked around the room. “Where da phone at?”
Chapter 11
Summer drove Danté’s Cadillac down Deans Bridge Road. She’d only been driving a couple of months now, but her skills were near excellent. En Vogue was thumping through the twelve’s in the trunk. She was back to dressing provocatively, with a cut-off t-shirt, tight-fitting jeans, and a small pair of Air Jordan’s on her feet.
She turned into the lot of a hair and nail salon called Yolanda’s and parked next to a red sports car directly in front of the clear glass window. She could see the other women inside craning their necks to admire her boyfriend’s car. She got out, head high, prissy. Moving gracefully like a model, she entered the hair salon. There were between twelve and fifteen women scattered throughout the salon. She scanned the area for a familiar face before spotting a woman to her left waving her hand. Summer smiled and walked toward Ann, who was washing a lady’s hair. The walls were lined with mirrors and a total of twelve stations in the establishment, eight on her left and four on her right.
Summer felt the stares. She knew other bitches were hating on her and whispering behind her back, but at this point, they couldn’t fade her. She reached Ann’s station, and they hugged briefly. They were more than happy to see one another.
“When you came home?” Summer asked, while smiling with her hands propped on her hips. She knew she was well shaped. Even after three kids, her waist was still small. As a matter of fact, her buttocks had actually gotten bigger. Her body was her main asset, and she knew jealous eyes were staring.
“‘Bout three months now,” Ann replied as she sprayed the lady’s hair.
“You know I jus’ had another baby,” Summer happily announced.
Ann gave her a surprised look. “You lyin’, girl?”
The female standing at the next station was ear hustling and couldn’t help but to get into their conversation.
“You jus’ had a baby?” She sounded surprised herself and amazed at how Summer’s body was shaped.
Ann gave the lady a look as if to say, Mind yo’ damn business. Summer caught the look, too, but she laughed it off and answered her. They chatted for more than thirty minutes. After Ann had finished washing and conditioning the lady’s hair, she moved her to under a dryer, then Ann and Summer walked out front.
The weather was extremely nice; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Ann led Summer to the rear of a red Chevy Blazer and opened the door. There were two large trash bags sitting together. Ann opened one and removed a few summer dresses that still had tags on them. Summer didn’t waste any time choosing three colorful ones.
“I got Izod and Polo shirts, too,” Ann told her while going into the other bag. She spread them out for Summer and then placed a couple pair of Guess denim shorts on her arm. “Dey still got da’ dye pins on ‘em,” Ann added. “But, I can get ‘em off if you want ‘em.”
“I need a smaller size fo’ Danté. ‘Bout a thirty-fo’ in da waist.”
“Danté?” Ann said. “What Danté?” Her eyebrows bunched together as if the name rang a bell.
“My boyfriend Danté. You might know him. He from da village, too.”
“Nah, it ain’t dat.” She turned and looked at the Caddy. Everything was coming back to her. She faced Summer and said, “I remember some bitch in da salon sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a dude named Danté.”
Summer gave her an evil look. “Like what?”
“Somethin’ ‘bout a nigga shot his house up.” She paused. “And he had two niggas killed.”
Summer’s heart rumbled, and her adrenaline raced from head to toe. She tried to appear calm. “Is she inside now?”
“Nah, she jus’ came in and got her hair did yesterday.”
“You know her name?”
“Not off hand. I know it starts wit’ a ‘M’,” Ann said. “I tell you what, though. I’ll have a name fo’ you tonigh
t.”
Ann only charged her seventy dollars for the clothes and promised they would talk later on that night. Summer knew this information would be very important to Danté, and she would relay every word to him the way she would get it.
*****
An apartment complex called Trinity Manor sat next to Barton Village, and Danté was in one of the many apartments. For the last three months, the apartment had been under surveillance by a team of undercover narcotic agents. It was a nosy neighbor who had called the police several months ago and told them about all the activity coming from a pathway that connected Barton Village to Trinity Manor. Now, some kind of way, Danté’s full name was neatly typed across a folded warrant.
Detective Child sat patiently behind the steering wheel of an unmarked car which had been confiscated from a drug bust earlier that month. Through the high-powered binoculars, he could see the front door clearly. Danté was in an upstairs apartment and leaning against the open door with a McDonald’s cup in his right hand. He used his left hand to throw the last bite of a fish sandwich in his mouth. After licking his thumb and forefinger, he took a sip from the cup. Another guy appeared in sight wearing a blue, short-sleeved Polo shirt and jean shorts. Two gold rope chains were around his neck.
The two men laughed together while moving inside. When the door closed behind them, Detective Child lowered his binoculars. He checked his watch; it was just past three o’clock. He popped his trunk from the button in the glove compartment, got out, went to the trunk, and removed a Kevlar vest from a duffel bag. He slid it over a t-shirt and then radioed to the remainder of the team to inform them that they were going in. He closed the trunk and removed his Glock 40 from its holster; he held it in a position that meant he was ready for whatever.
Chapter 12
Inside the apartment, Danté sat on the edge of the sofa close enough to count his money on the glass coffee table. He carefully leafed through the bills until it totaled forty-eight hundred dollars.
“Fo’ ounces?” Danté said in a questioning tone.
The guy in the blue Polo shirt nodded. “Can you front me fo’, too?” he asked nervously.
Danté studied him briefly. “I ain’t takin’ no shorts,” he said and stood up.
He walked straight into the kitchen and reached into a cabinet above the sink. As he grabbed a freezer Ziploc bag containing twelve ounces of crack, the front door crashed in. Danté turned at the sound. His gun was underneath the sofa. It was too far for him to reach and now out of the question considering the apartment was crawling with local narcotics agents. Three armed detectives had Danté spread out on the cold tile floor, with the dope nearly at his fingertips. He never had a chance.
Ninety-nine percent of every black male who was in the game took a trip to the Richmond County Jail. This was Danté’s third trip; the other two were only misdemeanor charges that wouldn’t result in him visiting upstairs.
He sat very uncomfortably in the backseat of a black and gray patrol car. The handcuffs that were holding his hands behind his back were actually pinching his skin. Sweat covered his face and stung his eyes. He couldn’t wipe it away either. The car he was in raced and weaved through traffic from Barton Chapel Road to Gordon Highway. He stared out the window at civilian cars, businesses, and other things that wouldn’t have mattered to him if he were in his own car. One never realizes the small things in life could mean so much until they’re locked up.
The final destination was the high-rise county jail, Danté felt even more disgusted now because he was there. One hour later, he was processed and sitting alone in a four-corner room starring at chipped paint on the wall. The wooden square table was scarred. One of the loose legs made it unsteady. There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. The guy who entered the room was Detective Allen. He stood 5’9” and had a medium build, with salt and pepper hair that had been neatly combed. He extended his hand to Danté, but he didn’t shake it.
“Y’all gonna let me call my lawyer?” he snapped.
Detective Allen held both hands out toward him, with his palms facing Danté. “Calm down, son. I’m trying to help you here.”
The cool air blew from the vents. The room was at a good temperature, but Danté was still sweating. He tried to relax himself by taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt.
“I need to talk to my lawyer.”
“No, you need to talk to me,” Detective Allen said, slamming his fist onto the table.
Danté sucked his teeth as if he’d just lost interest in anything the police had to say. The Detective said.
“Twelve ounces of crack cocaine, Danté,” the detective said, shaking his head as if to say, You fucked up. “Can you afford to leave your kids for five to ten years?”
“Ain’t got no kids,” he lied with a nasty attitude.
The detective’s eyebrows bunched together. “No? Well, what about the little lady who was in your black Cadillac, with twins and an infant.”
Danté fanned himself with his hand and then turned around with his hands behind his back, as if telling the detective to cuff him. He didn’t want to answer no questions.
“Trafficking cocaine and possession of a firearm.”
“Who house you found it at?”
“I ask the questions, muthafucker.”
Danté sensed an urge of power start to flow through his body. He could’ve responded back angrily, but then he knew he’d be falling into the detective’s trap. Politely, he sat down, rubbed the palms of his hands on his pants, and shrugged.
“You wanna talk? Let’s talk.”
Now the detective gave an acquired stare, figuring a mind game was about to start. He laughed a laugh that wasn’t real, and Danté caught it as if a pitcher had just thrown him a slider. The detective left the room, and Danté figured he’d won.
*****
When Summer got home, she went straight into the kitchen, while the twins ran upstairs. Carrying Lil’ Danté in her arms, she went into the fridge and pulled a wine cooler from a four-pack container. Lil’ Danté started up like the sound of a motorcycle, and she knew his cries were on the verge of getting louder. She rocked him side to side and took a quick trip upstairs. Inside of her bedroom, she laid him down on his back and unstrapped the shitty diaper. Just then, the phone rang. Luckily, the baby had stopped crying. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Summa.”
“Where you at?”
“Fo’ o’ one.”
She frowned. “Whatcha down there fo’?” she asked, while putting a fresh diaper on Lil’ Danté.
“Look, call my lawyer. His business card is stuck on the mirror in the room.”
“What to tell him?” She was nervous and excited all at once.
There wasn’t an answer from the other end.
“What to tell him, Danté?” she asked again.
Still no answer
“Danté!” she called out again and waited for him to respond. Something’s gotta be wrong wit’ tha phone, she thought.
Finally, she heard a busy signal and hung up. Now she was anticipating the call from Danté. She didn’t need him to be locked up. She needed him there…at home.
“Call back dammit,” she said while staring at the phone. She sat down on the bed, cradled her baby, and kissed his lips. He smiled a toothless smile. Her mind was on him, but within a few seconds, she was back to worrying about Danté. “What was he locked up fo’?” she asked herself.
The phone rang, and she answered quickly.
She felt relieved until a voice from the other end said, “This is the Narcotics Division, and we’re calling all numbers from Danté’s cell phone. Who am I speaking with?”
Her heart fell into her gut. She was speechless, and the first thought that jumped into her head was to hang up. She sat with the baby, her eyes closed. She was feeling stressed out and completely drained.
Call my lawyer, she remembered
Danté saying. Call my lawyer.
So, she did.
BOOK 2
When My Brotha
Comes Home
Chapter 13
When the rain began to fall, Summer instantly thought the party she’d planned for her brother coming home would be canceled. She walked to the patio door, watching as the rain fell relentlessly across the green lawn that covered the fenced-in yard. The rain slapped against the door, and the gray, gloomy sky made her feel dull. At least the grill is covered, she thought. All the food had been bought: steaks, ground beef, shrimp, and lobster. And Danté planned to cook on the grill, which is something she really wanted to see.
She laughed to herself while watching the falling rain. Last year, it rained like this when Danté took her and the kids to Disney World in Orlando. He brought seven keys of coke back with him, also. She basically remembers how the sprays of water landed on them when they walked along the beach together. A smile appeared on her face as she noticed the rain had slacked up until finally it stopped completely.
Summer was doing damn good for herself. She was almost twenty-one years old, her mentality had matured, her body was still shaped to perfection, and her hair was cut in a bob style, one side longer than the other and covering her left eye. She wore baggy white sweats and a tight-fitting halter-top that stopped just below her ribs.
Hearing a sound behind her, she turned around. It was Danté coming toward her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, while wrapping his arms around her waist.
She drew herself to him and wrapped her arms around him, also. “We can’t throw no cookout if it’s raining.”
Danté glanced at the time on his stainless steel and gold Rolex. It was only 8:25 a.m. He softly kissed Summer and said, “Everything will be okay. Trust me.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“We should be back before four.”