by Cole Hart
“Summer is in the hospital.”
Mrs. Diane’s eyes widened and her face stiffened. She stared directly at Bookie, her hands trembling uncontrollably, and she could barely get her words out.
“What…what happened?”
Bookie grabbed her hands. “She was shot, but she’s alright. I wanna take you down to the hospital. She needs some support.”
Mrs. Diane’s eyes filled with tears. “I got to get the kids,” she said.
Bookie hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”
*****
At the hospital, the family waited in the waiting room, while Bookie met with the doctor.
“How long before we can see her?” he asked.
The Indian doctor wore a nametag that was hard for Bookie to pronounce. He had a wiry frame underneath his hospital coat, with shiny black hair neatly combed in place.
He gave Bookie a smile and replied, “She’s a very strong young lady. The surgery was successful, but she’s asleep at the moment. Let her rest for a couple of hours.”
“I understand everything you’re saying, but I need to see her personally right now.”
The doctor wanted to tell him no, but decided against it. He led Bookie down the corridor and through a door to where Summer laid on a hospital bed. She was connected to several wires and tubes, including an oxygen tank and IV. Bookie walked up next to the bed and grabbed her hand. He never thought he would have to see her in a position like this; his anger couldn’t rise any higher. He took a deep breath while massaging her hand.
“Can you hear me, Summer?” he leaned toward her and asked.
Several seconds passed, but she didn’t say a word, not even a limb moved. Then, suddenly, her finger twitched inside his hand. His eyes widened with a glow.
“You smell like weed again.” The words escaped through her lips in a whisper as her eyes slowly opened.
He smiled. “Let me ask you this, who was it?”
“A fat black-ass nigga with braids,” she mumbled. “He shot me for nothing. I didn’t buck or nothing.”
“Anything else you saw?” Bookie asked. His heart was thumping so hard he felt like it was about to explode. His Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat.
“A gray Nova with tinted windows.”
Bookie thought for a second. He remembered a gray Nova parked in Delta Manor a couple of weeks ago.
He kissed Summer on her cheek. “Yo’ mama and the kids are in the waiting room. I’ma leave a few of my boys here, too, okay.”
He started to leave, but suddenly her hand gripped his, causing him to look her in her eyes.
“Whoever’s responsible I want their hands mailed to their mama.”
A tone of aggression rose in her voice, and Bookie knew she meant every word.
Chapter 41
Bookie had patience that was out of this world. He didn’t stress himself for nothing; he was in control and that was for sure. It had taken him nearly six days to find out who owned the gray Chevy Nova. He rode in silence in a blue Crown Victoria with tinted windows. To his right, Terry Pate stared out the window as they cruised past rows of red brick complexes in a project called Delta Manor. Kids rode through the neighborhood on bicycles. Two more cars followed behind Bookie, a black Chevy Lumina with tinted windows and a Chrysler 300. They were ten deep all together, and everybody was strapped and a wearing Kevlar bulletproof vest.
When Bookie turned the corner, the Chevy Nova was parked in front of one of the apartments. He noticed the Chevy had been painted black and was now sitting on chrome rims. Two younger-looking guys were sitting on the front porch passing a blunt between them. He cruised past and parked on the opposite side of the street. The Chevy Lumina and Chrysler continued forward. Thirty yards up the street both cars turned around. One parked on each side of the street, facing Bookie in the Crown Victoria. Terry Pate threw on a six-inch Afro wig, followed by a pair of cheap sunglasses. He watched the porch through the side mirror. Then, with a black Beretta clutched in one of his gloved hands, he looked over at Bookie.
“You ready?” Bookie asked, his dark eyes anxious.
“Let’s do it.”
Bookie dropped the gearshift in reverse and pressed the gas pedal lightly. The rear of the Crown Victoria bumped the front of the Nova hard enough to be heard. This was just a tactic to get the owner of the car to step forward.
Inside the apartment, a guy who went by the name Twan was lying next to a female in a queen-sized bed that was overcrowded with stuffed animals. Twan and the female were naked. She lay with her head on his hairless chest. Twan was nearly dozing off when a knock came from the bedroom door. His eyes popped open. The house belonged to the female’s brother, who was sitting on the front porch.
“Who is it?” she whispered, her eyes barely open.
“Tell Twan some nigga jus’ backed into his car,” the muffled voice said through the door.
Twan nearly tossed the female to the floor. “I jus’ got my shit painted,” he said as he jumped into a pair of jeans, forgetting to grab his gun from underneath the pillow. The female threw on a shirt, slid on a pair of small shorts, and followed Twan out the door.
Outside, Terry Pate was examining the front of the Nova when Twan walked out the front door. Nosey neighbors watched from the apartments next door and across the street. Everything seemed to be a minor accident. Twan walked off the porch talking shit. His thin, chiseled body was covered with chain gang tattoos across his chest, arms, and stomach. Terry Pate was standing up now, and within seconds, the Chrysler 300 had pulled up, but nothing happened.
“You own this car?” Terry Pate asked.
“Damn right it’s mine.”
As Terry Pate pulled the Beretta from his jacket pocket, the trunk of the Crown Victoria popped open. Two guys from the Chrysler 300 were out the car with ski masks and vests. They were strapped with MP-S submachine guns, and everybody was aimed at Twan. Terry Pate poked the gun in his mid-section and guided him toward the trunk.
“Jump in, nigga,” Terry Pate growled.
Twan climbed in the trunk, and within seconds, they were gone without one bullet fired.
*****
Summer had been removed from the intensive care unit and placed in a regular hospital room. Her family came to visit every day. Red Bone never left her side; she waited on her hand and foot.
As Summer lay in her uncomfortable hospital bed, the twins and Lil’ Danté came through the door with four bags from the cafeteria. Another guy walked in behind them, standing right at six feet and powerfully built. Respectfully, he spoke to the family and made his way to Summer while introducing himself as Detective Fuller. He exchanged a brief handshake with her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his eyes penetrating hers.
She smiled. “I’m fine. Ready to go home.”
He flipped open the manila folder he held. “Would you like to take a look at a few of these mug shots?”
Before he could finish his question, Summer cut him off. “I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t see no car or anything. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to talk with my family.” She turned her head toward her mother. “Mama, like I was saying…”
The detective caught on to her coldness. He turned his head and stared around the room. Everybody gave him a look as if they didn’t want him there. He quickly removed a card from his pocket and extended it toward Summer.
“Can you call me if you think of anything?”
She took the card without saying a word and tore it up after he walked out the room.
Jermaine whispered into Jeremy’s ear while removing fried chicken and rice and gravy from the bag. “Mama swears she’s a gangsta.”
Jeremy stared at his mother. “Well, she got to be connected to somebody, because she got our whole case thrown out.”
“What is y’all two talking about over there?” she asked them.
They shook their heads in unison and then started discussing bask
etball. The twins told her that there were scouts at their last game, but they never came and spoke to them. Summer taught all her kids about patience. Lil’ Danté wanted to talk about his boxing career, which was promising, as well. He went on about his left hook, right hook, uppercut, and powerful overhand right. He performed his hand skills in the hospital room, while everybody looked on impressed. He knew he’d put on a show in front of an audience.
Thirty minutes later, the telephone rang, and Summer answered it.
“Hello.”
There was silence in the background before she heard Bookie’s voice.
“How you feelin’?”
A smile came across her lips. Red Bone was looking her dead in her eyes. It wasn’t an envious look; she could never cross her. If anything, she was ready to help.
“I’m good. I wish I could get out of here today.”
Her voice was soft; she was feminine as hell when she wanted to be.
“You just hold tight. I got everything under control. I got two of ‘em in my possession as we speak.”
Summer nodded, her penetrating eyes hardening into a cold stare. “And their hands were in the cookie jar.”
“All the way,” Bookie said calmly.
“Good…good. Just deal with ‘em.”
“Check. I’ll come by and see you first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 42
As usual, Bookie waited patiently. The house they were in sat on fifteen acres of wooded land in Burke County. Thanks to Susan, their real estate connect, they had property everywhere. The living room was L-shaped and combined with the dining room. Twan and Big Freaky were lying face down in the center of the living room floor in their boxers. Both of their hands were tied behind their back, and their ankles were tightly bound with duct tape. Looks of helpless desperation were in their eyes.
Terry Pate walked in with gloved hands and carrying a small surgeon bone saw that Bookie had bought on the black market just for the cause.
“Who first?” he asked Bookie.
Bookie uncrossed his legs and stood up from his seat. His eyes were fixed directly on Big Freaky. “He shot her.” He pointed at him, removed a pair of rubber latex gloves from his pocket, and carefully placed them on his hands.
Big Freaky’s eyes widened with fear and tears begin to fill them. He didn’t know what they were about to do, but it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
His muffled cries were drowned out by the electric bone saw. His mouth was duct taped, so it wouldn’t do no good anyway. Terry Pate jammed his foot into Big Freaky’s ribcage, and his body shook violently. That’s when Terry Pate knelt down beside him with the saw in his hand. They were going to do it without killing them first. The pain would be unbearable.
*****
Three days later, a UPS truck pulled up in front of a small wooden house that was amongst several abandoned houses in East Augusta. The driver got out with a package that was addressed to a Ms. Dorothy Harris. He made it to the small porch and knocked on the wooden front door. A woman’s voice answered from the inside, and then suddenly, the door was opened but stopped by the chain.
“Who you lookin’ fo’, baby?”
The lady examined the driver of the UPS truck. Then she unlatched the chain and opened the door fully. She was a short, stout lady with a head full of pink rollers. Bags were underneath her saddened eyes due to the fact that she hadn’t seen nor heard from her son, but this day, she would.
“I have a package for a Ms. Dorothy Harris,” the UPS driver said cheerfully.
The lady gave a bewildered look. “I’m Dorothy,” she replied, her hands trembling when she accepted it. Her eyes examined the box and noticed there wasn’t a return address on it.
The delivery guy produced a clipboard with a few papers clamped onto it.
“Sign here, miss,” he told her.
She did, and he left just as quickly as he came. Ms. Dorothy Harris walked inside, carefully holding the package with both hands. She closed the door and locked it. Her front room was neatly decorated with antique furniture and covered with plastic. On the coffee table was a photo of Big Freaky, Twan, and two other guys holding super soaker water guns. The picture was old and fading. She sat down on the love seat, placed the package on the table, and began opening it. Her hands were trembling, and when she opened it, she was confused at first. The four hands were wrapped in plastic and ace bandages. When she finished removing it all, she screamed to the top of her lungs and went into shock.
The police arrived on Fairhope nearly thirty minutes later; someone on the outside had made the call. After the officer saw what was in the package, he radioed for backup. Before long, the entire neighborhood was crawling with local police and detectives. Someone had called in the feds, and without question. They took over the situation, simply because the hands were delivered through the mail.
A few weeks later, Summer was released from the hospital. Her and Bookie were dining alone at an exclusive restaurant in downtown Atlanta. This was the first time they had actually gone out together. She was dressed in a two-piece Prada pantsuit. Her neck and ears were sparkling with diamonds. Bookie had on black Gucci shoes. He wore no jewelry except a watch that gave the time in three countries.
Summer sipped spring water from a straw, her eyes fixed directly on Bookie, who had a hard criminal face. His eyes were unreadable and deadly looking.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. His hands opened and shut just as quick.
“I think we look good together.”
“I look at you as a lil’ sister, Summer,” he said sharply and fired up a cigarette. He then turned his head to exhale the smoke away from her.
“I don’t wanna hear that lil’ sister shit, nigga,” she replied, giving him a seductive smile.
He smiled himself. “You crazy, you know that?” He reached and grabbed her hand, massaging her fingers briefly. “Summer, listen at me.” His tone was more serious. “I don’t wanna attach myself to nothin’ that might hinder me in the future. Say I get jammed up on a humbug and money can’t move me? I may have to do ten straight.”
Her hand was on top of his now. “The struggle is over, baby. You need a lady like me in your life. I wanna fuck with you.”
“Let me tell you somethin’ ‘bout me, Summer,” he said. “I’ve already been to prison. I did ten flat. No parole. I had nobody on the street that sent me shit. No mama, no daddy, no sistah, no brotha, no nothin’.” He puffed the cigarette again and snubbed it out in the ashtray.
A maître d’ walked up with a handsome smile on his face. “Is everything alright?” he asked. His tone was professional.
Bookie looked at him. “We good.” Then he thought about it and said, “Hen XO. No ice.”
He was gone within seconds.
Summer continued to stare at Bookie, as she stirred the water with her straw.
“What about the music? The studio?” she asked. “Niggas making money in the rap game.”
“I thought about that, too,” he said. “Are you investing wit’ me?”
“Do you need me to?”
Before he could answer, the maître d’ was back with a bottle of XO and two glasses on a silver tray and two linen clothes. Everything was placed on the table before them. Bookie gave him a two-hundred-dollar tip and nodded his head. The maître d’ left and allowed them to continue with their conversation. Bookie poured himself a drink and sat the bottle back down. He took a short sip, and the cognac warmed his insides quickly.
“We doin’ good together so far.”
“You’re right, but it’s one thing I need.” Her eyes pierced his.
*****
At the Hilton Hotel, Summer climbed on the bed in only a pair of lace thongs. Bookie was on his back, his head propped up on a row of goose feather pillows. Summer didn’t waste any time. She got to his penis, allowing her body to lie comfortably between his legs. She gripped it with both hands and carefully inserted him in her mouth. Her hand cupped his balls while her
tongue went to work. Her technique was perfected from years of experience, even a few when she was in prison.
She felt Bookie tensing up. Her eyes looked up into his and saw he had a look of enjoyment on his face. He began playing with her hair and then slowly reached and caressed her breast. Ten minutes later, he came, and Summer mounted him. Her vagina was tight and hot as her body grinded against his.
“I wanna love you,” she whispered in his ear.
Bookie’s hands were nearly wrapped around Summer’s waist. Her eyes were closed, and she nibbled on her bottom lip, carefully bouncing up and down until she came. But, he didn’t stop there. He flipped her over, laying her on her back. With her legs wrapped around his waist, he proceeded to dig deep down inside of her. She was enjoying every minute of it as they worked their bodies in unison. After they finished, they laid in one another’s arms. With her head resting on his chest, she could feel his heart beating. Summer’s hand moved across his chest to where seven puncture wounds had healed.
“What happened here?” she asked.
Even though she had seen his neck before, it was still a question she’d always wanted to ask. Bookie took her hand and guided it across his stomach, then began telling her what happened, detail for detail.
It was the summer of 1996, and Smith State Prison was congested and hot. Bookie shared a cell with an overwhelmingly huge guy from Rome, Georgia. Bookie was on the top bunk listening to a UGK CD. His eyes were nearly closed; basically, he was high. This was how Bookie did his time, day in and day out.
Through his window he could see the small yard, which contained a half court slab of concrete and rusted basketball rim and backboard. For the moment, Bookie had allowed his mind to drift out into the free world, something often done under the circumstances. He noticed how intense the basketball game was growing. It was five on five, with a majority of Atlanta on one team and Augusta on the other. Often games were played like this in prison, sometimes to keep the tension down. However, this was how it all started.