by Cole Hart
Bookie watched it for a minute, then for another ten. His little homie he knew from the street knocked on the door behind him. Bookie slowly turned and removed the Koss earphones from his head. He stared at Angelo; his features were feminine. He was yellow with high cheekbones, thin pink lips, and hazel eyes, and weighed no more than one hundred and thirty pounds. Angelo wasn’t built for chain gangs at all. As a matter of fact, he’d only been locked up for nine months with a straight fifteen-year sentence to do. And at the moment, Bookie was his Lord and Savior.
“Whatcha up to, lil’ nigga?” Bookie asked, jumping down from his top bunk. He removed a pre-rolled cigarette from a Bugler pack and lit it up with a homemade lighter that hung from the socket over the basin.
Angelo had a slight worried look across his face that he failed at trying to hide it. “Nothin’,” he said in a low whisper, then added, “I mean…I need to borrow yo’ knife.
Bookie’s eyebrows quickly bunched together, and a curious look played across his face.
“Borrow my knife? Fo’ what?” he asked seriously.
Angelo walked to the door and glanced through the window out into the dayroom. His hands were trembling. He finally faced Bookie again. “Dat nigga Chestnut asked me to put some lotion on his back.”
Bookie’s entire demeanor changed. He folded his arms across his chest and slowly breathed through his nose.
“Did you do it?” His eyes were cold, and they beamed directly at Angelo.
“Hell naw, I ain’t do it.” His voice rose a little.
Even under pressure, Bookie appeared calm and cool. He knew Chestnut personally because they’d bumped heads several times in the past. Chestnut was known as a chain gang vet and was considered a predator. He preyed on the weak. Hell, the strong, too.
With no more questions asked, Bookie strapped up in his state issued boots, state stripes, and a sweatshirt. Angelo leaned against the wall while Bookie got dressed, watching Bookie with a look of nervousness in his eyes.
“Man, I don’t want ‘chu to get in no trouble,” Angelo had said.
Chapter 43
Summer slowly massaged Bookie’s neck, his back pressed against her breast. He was relaxed and smoking a Newport, when their business cell phone rang. The ringtone played an old cut from DMX. Summer pressed the send button.
“Hello,” she answered softly.
“Does the name Marcus Cook ring a bell?” the voice asked from the other end.
Summer thought for a moment. A bewildered look masked her face. “Hold for a second,” she said and then whispered to Bookie, “You know anybody by the name of Marcus Cook?”
Without hesitation, he nodded his head. “Yeah.”
Summer spoke back into the phone. “Strong possibility.”
“Okay, listen,” the voice said sharply. “Three weeks ago, this guy got jammed up in Statesboro, Georgia, with seven keys of cocaine. Apparently, he was coming from Florida. Anyway, he’s out and said he’ll cooperate with the DEA. I thought I’d let you know.”
“Good. We’ll check into it,” she said. “And thanks.” Summer pressed the end button and placed the phone down. “Does he work for us?” she asked Bookie.
“He used to.”
“Do you think he could link us to a conspiracy or anything drug related?”
Before he could answer, a loud clap of thunder ripped through the air. Summer flinched, but Bookie continued to casually smoke his cigarette.
“It ain’t nothin’ that can’t be handled.” He blew out a stream of smoke and flipped his head backwards. Staring at Summer upside down, he asked, “Do you wanna hear the rest of the story?”
“Of course,” she whispered while placing her hands wrapped around his chest.
“Where were we?” he asked her.
“At the part when Angelo said he didn’t want you to get in no trouble,” Summer said.
Bookie moved to the rear of the cell.
“Catch the door,” he told Angelo.
Angelo went to the door, nervousness played all over his face. Bookie slid out his bunk and quickly unsnapped the metal cover over the heater that lined the back wall. This is where he kept his prison-made straight razor and a hard piece of steel for a shank. Bookie removed them both and placed them on the metal desk. The metal cover was snapped back on and the bed pushed back into place.
From the cell door, Angelo could see the Sally port downstairs. When the officer entered the dorm, Angelo told him immediately for any mistakes. Unfortunately, this day wasn’t planned. However, he was trained to go. The officer was making his rounds, peeping through every door, making sure nobody was violating the rules.
“He’s three doors down,” Angelo whispered and moved to the desk.
When the officer got to the door, Bookie was standing in the mirror over the sink pretending he was examining his tongue and teeth. The officer looked in and then continued past the room. Bookie went to the door. The officer was on his way back downstairs.
Looking at Angelo, Bookie told him, “Stay here until I get back.”
He left the cell, closed the door behind him, and casually strolled down the top range. He saw Chestnut downstairs at his favorite table playing chess against an older white guy who was sleeved out in tattoos. Bookie got to the stairs, and within seconds, he was at the bottom. Other guys stood around watching television, gambling, and working out. Bookie had a real cocky swagger and an attitude to match it. He prayed he wouldn’t have to slice Chestnut’s throat. Just don’t get fly out your mouth, Chestnut, he thought.
He got to the table where Chestnut and the white guy were sitting. The game seemed intense and carefully organized.
Bookie placed a hand on Chestnut’s shoulder, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, “I need to holla at ‘cha real quick.”
Chestnut was in deep concentration; his eyes never left the board. It was his move, and he wanted it to be the right one. Just when his hand was about to move a piece, Bookie swept his hand across the board and cleared the entire table. Chestnut stood up with a twisted, angry look.
“Get a room, nigga!” he shouted at Bookie.
Inside cell 204, Bookie took the back wall. There were no words exchanged. Chestnut produced a piece of fence similar to an ice pick. He charged Bookie first, stabbing him in his chest and stomach. He swung fiercely before suddenly feeling his stomach unzip. He never saw the razors Bookie had, but he knew something was wrong. Chestnut didn’t stop. He figured since he was stronger and bigger he could take more pain. He charged forward again and punched a hole in Bookie’s neck. Blood flung across the room. The battle didn’t last five minutes.
Summer and Bookie were in the shower together, the hot water spraying over the both of them. Bookie carefully ran a soapy washcloth over Summer’s back. She massaged her nipples while relaxing in Bookie’s arm. Her eyes blinked open when he stopped talking. She turned and faced him.
“So what happened after that?”
“Hmph…I got stuck fo’ nothin’, and I cut Chestnut fo’ nothin’. I stayed in the hole for fo’ months, and by the time I got out, Angelo had been flipped inside out. And he wasn’t forced to do it.”
“So all that was for nothing?”
“Not really. It was jus’ a lesson I learned.”
“Um hum. So what about me?” Her eyes searched his. She was definitely looking for something. She wanted him to open up to her, and she wanted to do the same for him.
Bookie’s fingers massaged her small waist. He had to be delicate with her considering she’d been shot. “I got a position to play, Summer. I’m not really tryin’ to get caught up wit’ no drama….”
“Drama like what?” she asked sharply. “All my kids like you. My mama adores you. And I wanna be loved…by you.”
A small grin played across his face. “I should be able to handle that.”
“Good, because I wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Now what about this guy you know?”
“Yeah…Cook. I’ma deal wit�
� it.”
They stepped out of the shower and towel dried themselves. Before they left, Terry Pate had brought in close to four hundred thousand dollars. He dumped it from a duffel bag and nearly covered the bed.
Chapter 44
“Face ‘em up, Jermaine, and drop his ass off!” someone screamed from the packed bleachers in the high school gym.
Jermaine dribbled casually, his huge hands cupping the ball every time he switched. He had the vision of his brother on the wing with a man tightly guarding him. The twins made eye contact, and before you knew it, Jeremy had taken off and was airborne toward the goal. Jermaine released the ball to his brother on the alley, and when he dunked it, the crowd went crazy.
On the left side of the gym, a scout from Duke University had been observing carefully. The twins were top priority. They were a hot prospect, and everybody knew it. On the other side, another scout from University of North Carolina took notes and pictures on a laptop computer and a high-powered camera. He peered through his binoculars and scanned the other side of the gym. He looked at his opponent, who was dressed in a brown suit, white shirt, and a tie. He watched him get up and make his way toward Summer and Bookie. That’s when he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. The Bluetooth device was hooked around his ear, and the binoculars were still up at his eyes. He saw Summer pick up her cell just as the scout from Duke shook hands with Bookie.
“Hello,” her voice said through his Bluetooth.
“Ms. McKey, how are you doing? I’m Richard Singletary, a scout from University of North Carolina, and our school is very interested in your sons.”
He saw her smile flash beautifully before him. Then her words cracked through the Bluetooth.
“Both of my boys are in their sophomore year, and we’ve had calls and visits from nearly every college on the East Coast. However, I do want the best for my boys, and I mean the best. Unfortunately, I told them that I’d let them decide as long as their grades are up to my standards.”
“Our university produces some of the best. Might I remind you that Michael Jordan graduated from North Carolina, and he’s crème de la crème. The best of the best.”
“I understand that, Mr. Singletary. Check back with me by the summer.”
“I’ll do that, but make sure you keep us in mind. The best of the best.”
The line disconnected.
After Summer sent the scout for Duke on his way, they continued to watch the game. The twins ran the floor. They could play nearly every position and had intimidating defense. When the game was over, Jermaine had scored twenty-seven points, five blocks and eight assists, while Jeremy made twenty-nine points, four blocks, and seven steals. They would definitely be trouble in the future, especially if they were on the same team.
The following week there was a grand opening for Summer’s hotel. She’d arranged for television publicity and major radio play. The girls who worked at her club were being escorts that day. Several sleek limousines filled the parking lot, all driven by uniformed chauffeurs. The ballroom was overcrowded, guests were everywhere, and everybody was casually dressed. Summer and Bookie were dressed as twins in black pinstripe tailor-made suits and black silk ties. They were the shit and looked unstoppable together. Everyone else had to wear white. Terry Pate stood near the rear in a white tuxedo and white gators. He was aware of everything and enjoyed his job.
Summer mingled through the crowd. Her elegant eyes were behind an expensive pair of Cartier platinum frames. She shook hands with several people who commented on how much they loved her hotel. Her appearance attracted males and females, and that was a big advantage she had. Another guy appeared, emerging from the crowd. He was handsome with wavy hair and intelligent eyes. An evenly trimmed goatee wrapped around his lips. He extended a hand toward Summer. She admired his cream linen two-piece suit. She noticed a diamond sparkling from his pinky finger when his hand swallowed hers.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
His voice wasn’t southern, and Summer took a mental note of that.
“Hello,” she responded back. Her eyes never moved away from his. For a moment, their gaze was locked into one another’s. She caught herself, took in a small breath, and then released it.
“I just wanted to say congratulations with your success. This place is beautiful.”
He finally released her hand.
She stood silent until out of nowhere a picture was taken from the crowd. Summer smiled at her success. Then curiosity struck her when the stranger turned and walked away, fading into the crowd. She motioned for Terry Pate to pick up his phone. She punched a number on her cell, and he answered.
“Yeah.”
“That guy who was just here talking to me, will you check him out?”
“I’m already on it.”
After hanging up, his eyes swept the room until he caught sight of the stranger. Terry Pate moved swiftly through the sea of people, but everybody dressed in white made it kind of hard. He bumped into a female, and they exchanged looks for no more than a second.
“Excuse me,” he said and continued to move, while the music blared rhythm and blues.
Terry Pate caught a breath of fresh air. He scanned the parking lot and pulled out a pack of Newport’s. His victim was nowhere to be found as cars and SUV’s passed him by. He squinted his eyes and carefully scanned again. Groups of females were laughing in the far corner. Then he noticed a gold Avalon backing out of a parking space to his left. He saw the guy through the rear window. It was definitely him. He took a mental note of the tag and moved swiftly about ten feet away to a parked Lincoln Town Car. He started the engine and noticed a light sweat had formed on his forehead. When he pulled out, he was three cars behind the Avalon. Picking up the car phone, Terry Pate followed him out onto Gordon Highway.
Chapter 45
The night was hazed, and a light misty rain fell politely to the ground as if Mother Nature was actually showing feelings toward the city of Augusta. Two local narcotic agents were parked in the lot of the Red Lobster on Washington Road. The guy on the passenger side of the old ‘99 Tahoe wore a blonde ponytail and shades. His hands were huge, and he wore a wedding band on one hand and a class ring on the other. They called him Ponytail in the streets, and he actually answered to it.
In the driver’s seat was his four-year partner Damian Moss, the first black narcotic agent who was truly a police officer. He was married with two kids. A girl and a boy, ages nine and twelve. In the station, his fellow officers called him Big Moose instead of Big Moss; he was really a hard ass. He stood six-four and weighed nearly two hundred and seventy pounds consisting of solid muscles. He was powerfully built, a barrel chest and wide broad shoulders. His kids’ names were tattooed on his bulging left bicep; Damian and Trish were their names. His left hand rested on the steering wheel as they monitored the traffic in the parking lot. Ponytail’s cell phone rang, and he answered quickly.
“Hello,” he said in a northern accent.
“The greatest danger occurred at the moment of victory,” the voice said from the other end. “Arrange for a meeting. Two hours.”
Then the line went dead.
Ponytail swallowed and pressed the END button. There wasn’t a worried look across his face. It was more of an agitated mask.
Big Moose looked over toward him. “What’s da matter wit’ da baby?” he asked, referring to Ponytail. It was one of several small jokes they shared amongst each other.
*****
The gold Avalon pulled into the McDonald’s drive-thru on Deans Bridge Road. Terry Pate was directly behind him in the Lincoln Town Car. He couldn’t figure this guy out. Who was he?
He threw the car in park and opened the driver’s side door, the interior lights illuminating the car. Terry Pate stepped out; his gun was in his waistline as he approached the Avalon. Before he could reach the driver’s side door, federal agents emerged from every other car in the drive-thru. More unmarked cars pulled up, the tires coming to a screeching halt.
The guy in the Avalon stepped out and flipped open his wallet, flashing his badge, and when Terry Pate saw the bold letters that spelled out DEA, everything else didn’t matter. He carefully raised his hands above his head. While being shook down, his eyes searched the crowd of agents. They had found the gun. Another minor problem.
Then he saw a face he recognized. They placed him in the back seat of one of the unmarked cars. Several ideas flashed before his eyes and tumbled around inside his head. Terry Pate had started to sweat a little while his heart rate sped up. This is some real fucked up shit, he thought.
Two hours later, Terry Pate called Summer from his cell, but didn’t get an answer. He paced the floor of the hotel room where two agents monitored him. He’d already agreed to a deal.
They wanted Summer.
*****
Summer and Bookie rode to South Carolina in separate automobiles, and they arrived at Mama Elizabeth’s place forty minutes behind one another. Arriving at the estate last, she punched in a numbered code on the electric keypad. The iron gate slowly opened, and she drove in. The gate closed behind her as she slowly cruised down the brick driveway. Bright lights lined it on both sides until she came to the circular area where a convoy of unmarked rental cars were parked. Summer stepped out of a ‘98 Volvo dressed down in plain jogging pants, a dark t-shirt, and Air-Max sneakers.
Once inside, Mama Elizabeth greeted her with a hug, and they exchanged small polite kisses on the cheek.
“You look wonderful,” Mama Elizabeth said. She took Summer’s right hand and adored a huge diamond resting in platinum.