by Cole Hart
“Engagement?”
Summer took a deep breath. “Spur of the moment,” she replied.
“Spur of the tongue,” Mama Elizabeth responded back.
Her facial expression changed as she led Summer toward the huge sitting room where several men sat around in expensive leather chairs, couches, and loveseats. When they entered the room, everyone who was seated rose to their feet and began clapping. Summer paused with a confused look. She glanced around and saw Bookie’s face amongst the crowd, then she looked at Mama Elizabeth.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
“Something I should’ve done a while ago. These are good people here. Everyone has a position, similar to a football team.”
“And what is my position?” Summer asked.
“To make sure neither one of us get sacked.” Her words were clear, and she was always straightforward.
Summer took in her words quickly and tumbled them over in her head. She nodded slowly while keeping an amused expression across her face.
“So who is everybody besides Bookie?” she asked.
She led Summer to the group of men and shook hands with everybody before sitting down. Mama Elizabeth introduced her to a guy that would be running for state senator in the near future. He was a short guy with salt and pepper hair that was slightly balding at the top. Summer looked him over one good time. His eyes were very intelligent looking, and he was definitely groomed and well-dressed.
“Mr. Washington,” Mama Elizabeth said cheerfully, “this is Ms. Summer McKey.”
They spoke briefly, and then they mingled around the long marble dining table where the housekeeper was pouring expensive champagne. Summer stared around in pure amazement. She knew Mama Elizabeth was connected, but not like this. When Summer was introduced to Ponytail, one hard and dirty narcotic agent, she was finally convinced the game was over.
It was nearly one in the morning when Summer and Mama Elizabeth finally had time to sit down and discuss the real situation. They were drinking freshly-squeezed orange juice from glasses, when Mama Elizabeth announced her retirement to Summer and told her that she would now be in charge. The idea sounded splendid to Summer, but when she broke the news to Mama Elizabeth about her own retirement, a small problem suddenly arose.
She stared into Summer’s eyes, hoping she was only joking. Mama Elizabeth wrapped her fingers around her glass and slowly sipped her orange juice, her eyes never leaving Summer’s.
“So what you have planned, young lady?”
“Legit business, hotels, bonding companies, real estate. Bookie wants to deal with the studio, investing in the rap game. Then my kids…I’m not going back to the feds…never.”
“I understand, but you fail to realize I’m well connected. And if I’m connected, you are, too.” She took a deep breath and looked toward the ceiling, her mind working. She looked back at Summer. “We got people on the outside that’s on the inside. You would never have to worry about nothing.”
“Nothing ever goes as planned,” Summer told her.
“Then you’ll have to prepare a backup. You and Bookie can continue with y’all business plans. I strongly advise you to invest in the rap, but you already know how to deal with competition.”
Thinking deeply, Summer pressed the tip of her fingers together. She remembered how Mama Elizabeth had pulled a few strings when the twins caught the murder charge; swept right underneath the rug.
“So taking this responsibility, what type of benefits should I expect?”
“First of all, you’ll have a main line connect. No middleman or nothing. Your price will be ten-five a key, and you wouldn’t have to go no further than Atlanta.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“But, of course, that’s one hundred bricks at a time. You’ll have an older white couple. Their names are the Sattlewhite’s, and they’re professional drug traffickers.” She touched Summer’s hand. “All we need is eighteen months.”
“I’ll only operate nine months in Augusta,” Summer said, then stood up, unfastened her pants, and pulled her t-shirt over her head.
“You know what it is.”
Chapter 46
Marcus Cook stood naked in his shower allowing the hot steaming water to cascade over his body. He had developed a fuck-the-world attitude since he’d been caught on a federal drug charge several weeks ago. Yesterday, he had given the DEA a guy who he sold two kilos of cocaine to. That was something he figured he had to do. But, unfortunately, today he would die an American hero. Or better yet, a local ghetto superstar.
He stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stood in the wall mirror admiring his rose gold grill and diamonds. A half of a blunt was in a glass ashtray on the countertop. Within seconds, it was lit, and the aroma from the strawberry hydro circulated through the air. He stepped into his bedroom and stopped in his tracks when he saw his girl lying face down on the bed. Her hands and wrists were bound together with duct tape. She was already dead.
In the left corner, a stranger sat comfortably in a recliner chair. He was dressed in all black, including gloves and a silk ski mask. Before Marcus could say anything, the stranger aimed a silenced handgun at him. A small flash came from the barrel, and Marcus felt a bullet rip through his intestines. The pain was quick and brought him to his knees. Marcus moaned like a wounded animal. He clutched his stomach as his face twisted into a sour ball. The stranger was now standing over him, the gun clutched carefully in his hand. There were no words exchanged before his death, except for the gun whispering six shots in the top of his head.
*****
Two weeks later, Summer met her new connect in New Mexico at an expensive hotel. Bookie was her escort and confidant. He provided her with a lot of wise choices and corrected her when she was wrong, even though she would never admit to it. At the hotel, Summer and Bookie sat next to one another inside the dimly lit restaurant, a large black candle flickering on a linen tablecloth. A black Cuban sat across from them in a wrinkled linen suit. No jewelry, just a plain-woven string around his neck. The Cuban went by the name of Sandcastle in New Mexico, but in other countries he was just known as the henchman and deadly at whatever cost.
Two of his bodyguards stood about three feet away focusing their attention on no one but the strangers from America. Sandcastle spoke perfect English. His only defect was that he’d been shot in his younger days and had lost three fingers from his right hand and also some nerves. After staring at Summer for several seconds from a set of blue contact lenses, he finally broke the silence.
“So, you’re Someher.”
She smiled. “Summer,” she corrected him.
Sandcastle bowed his head. “My apology,” he replied. “And you’re Bookie.” He looked toward him and extended his left hand since many people were frightened at the way his right hand looked.
Bookie nodded, took his hand, and shook it. He felt the power and energy from the Cuban, and Bookie made sure he sent the same message as they stared into one another’s eyes briefly. Sandcastle released Bookie’s hand and removed a black linen napkin from his inside jacket pocket. He dipped his fingers in a glass bowl of water and dried them.
“Now before we get started, I would like to know have either one of you ever had any run-ins with the federal government in any kind of way?”
Summer cleared her throat and sat upright in her chair. She clearly explained everything to him, basically her situation with her and Bookie. Sandcastle was an excellent listener and told them what he would expect from them. He also told them that he would personally assign them a personal henchman for money differences and for anybody that would comply with the feds. Summer was satisfied, and so was Bookie.
A waiter appeared and filled everyone’s glass with champagne. He brought exotic meals and anything else needed. When he left, Sandcastle addressed them again.
“We will do good business together. My price is ten a key, but at that price you’ll have to get one hundred or b
etter.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem,” Bookie responded, then looked toward Summer as if he wanted a quick verbal agreement.
They knew each other very well, and she responded without hesitation. Her word was solid as a rock because Mama Elizabeth had spoken so highly of her, and of course…well…hmph.
Chapter 47
Back in Georgia, Summer and Bookie took a rental car from Hartsfield-Jackson International to their private two-story condo called the Phoenix on Peachtree. From the 26th floor, they had a spectacular view of downtown Atlanta through their floor-to-ceiling windows. A huge marble bar sat directly in front of the window.
Bookie poured himself a glass of Patron mixed with Red Bull. He looked across the room at Summer.
“You drinkin’ anything?”
With her laptop on the glass table, she jotted on a small notepad and studied the paper with the list of names on it. Marcus Cook was at the top of the list with a line running through it. Her so-called baby’s daddy’s name was listed next; it also had a line running through it. Her facial expression didn’t change, but she was extremely satisfied. She looked up at Bookie and gave him a smile.
“Whatever you’re drinking,” she said, then added, “No Red Bull, baby.”
“You got somethin’ against my choice of drink?” he asked. “It’s an energy drink.”
Summer laid her pad on the table. Her mind was constantly wondering. After a few deep breaths, she allowed her eyes to look directly into Bookie’s. Her smile was impressive; it was the way she allowed it to spread across her face.
Bookie came across the room carrying two glasses, both in one hand and a miniature cigar in the other. He sat Summer’s glass down in front of her and took a seat next to her.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked her.
Summer grabbed her glass and took a quick sip. She had already prepared herself for an unwanted taste, but to her surprise, the Patron was smoother than a strawberry daiquiri.
“Before I went to the feds, I was going through a major struggle in my life. My mama is definitely a real soldier, and she helped me out a lot.”
Bookie sipped his drink and took a pull of his cigar. Then he politely rolled the ashes into the ashtray, a stream of smoke twirling from his mouth as he began to speak.
“Dat’s real talk, Summer,” he said. “But what is you gettin’ at?”
“I’m tired.”
“Of what?”
“This life, Bookie. This shit ain’t worth it no more. All the fun is gone, and the new players are fuckin’ up the rules. I’m not taking a fall for another muthafucka’s mistake.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. “Sixty days and I’m finished. Whatever we ain’t got we ain’t gonna get. It’s just something in my bones telling me the feds are closer than we suspect.”
She stood up; Bookie did, also, while still holding his glass and cigar. He stood behind her and kissed her neck. “Put the pieces on the board. Explain the game to me, and I’ll handle everything.”
“On the chess board, what’s the main piece that has to be protected?” she asked.
“The queen,” he answered.
“Okay. And on the other side of the board there’s another queen that has to be taken out in order for the other side to win.”
Bookie took in her words quickly. He knew Summer was treacherous, and he wouldn’t dare cross her. He loved her unconditionally and was now at the point where he would die for her.
*****
Almost two weeks later, a team of federal agents moved in on an ongoing drug operation that was being monitored by a few local narcotic agents. This night was hot and muggy, and an awful smell lingered in the air. Maybe it was the SRS plant releasing the horrible order.
Three agents stepped down from a dark blue Suburban. All three were casually dressed and carried their firearms in leather shoulder holsters. A surveillance van was parked in the driveway of a house on Grand Boulevard. The house they were monitoring was directly on the corner of Eighth and Grand. Two local narcs were directly behind him. The first federal agent extended his hand to Big Moose first. They shook hands and introduced themselves. When they got to Ponytail, they placed him under arrest, and their sting operation was over.
The feds had taken Ponytail to his house, which was a nice three-bedroom in Columbia County with a beautiful manicured lawn. There were more agents waiting upon their arrival. Once inside, they took Ponytail into his dining room, sat him down, and allowed him to smoke a cigarette while he was being questioned.
One agent said, “Here’s the deal. We’re laying everything on the table. Tell us, what kind of connection do you have with Summer McKey and Elizabeth James?”
Ponytail didn’t appear nervous; he knew the law. He had prepared himself for this situation over three years ago when he and another partner did a raid and secretly took over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash and nearly sixty pounds of marijuana. That was back then. Today, he looked the agent directly in his eyes. He had money stashed, and the feds wouldn’t find it.
Not one word escaped his mouth. When he finished smoking his cigarette, he extended his hands with his wrists together, as if asking them to arrest him. However, for some apparent reason, they didn’t.
*****
Bookie was dressed in fatigues. War paint covered his face as he low crawled through a dark wooded area thirty miles outside of Atlanta. Through a pair of night vision goggles his target was illuminated in a bright neon green. He moved easily through a patch of sticker bushes, one or two pinching through his clothes. He mentally blocked out the small stings and slowly continued to move. Nothing could stop him now. Through his goggles he saw another guy…a bystander maybe.
He paused briefly, listening to himself breathe, his chest rising and falling. He could see the glow of a cigarette, and he figured he was close enough. He raised a small mini assault rifle with a perfect aim on his target. Within seconds, he squeezed off two shots, one in each of their chest. Then he crept off just as easily as he came in.
On the estate where Mama Elizabeth lived, she clutched at the red paint stain that covered her blouse. Her heart was beating rapidly, and she was nearly in shock. She figured no one knew about her getaway house in Jackson, Georgia, or either someone was trying to give her a heart attack. After today, she wouldn’t want any more ties to anything connected to the game.
Chapter 48
All bets were off. Summer had already told herself that she wasn’t going out bad at all. Today everything she owned was going up for sale––houses, apartments, hotels, clubs, and every automobile she had in her possession. She loved her kids to death and her mother, as well. But she wasn’t about to put them through any more pain and suffering than she had to.
She was laying low for a few weeks at a safe house in Wrens, Georgia, a small town on the outskirts of Augusta. Nobody knew she was there except Bookie. He was the only person in the world she trusted. The small two-bedroom brick structure sat far off a main road that ran into a dirt road. This was a wooded and secluded area. On the inside, Summer practiced yoga in the center of a colorful oriental throw rug in the living room. The walls were covered with wood paneling. No photos, no furniture, and basically no food. This was her way of discipline; she wanted to prepare herself mentally and physically. There was a war going on outside, and in her mind, it was her against the world. She’d told Bookie that she needed to get away for a few weeks, but no one expected it to be like this.
Two hours had passed, and finally her session was complete. She removed herself from the floor and stood naked. Her mind was elsewhere. She wanted to prepare herself; she wanted to train her mind for what she was preparing to do. She gave herself a verbal warning every ten minutes just to keep herself in check.
No pressure.
No stress.
No pain.
No gain.
*****
Bookie stepped down the steps of the Augusta Transit. It was nearly two o’clock
on a Wednesday afternoon. He was dressed in dingy blue jeans, a filthy white t-shirt, and a pair of worn down Jordan’s. A week ago his nails were manicured and he had a clean shave. Today he was dusty and disgusted, walking slightly bent at the waist. He wore no jewelry, only a string and a cardboard box given to him several years back in the middle of his ten-year prison sentence. The cardboard was his cross.
He took long strides on Fifteenth Street, passing Castleberry’s and Shiloh Community Center. The humid heat had him sweating, and he felt his t-shirt sticking to his back. Across the street was a church called Williams Memorial CME. He jogged across, swiftly moving through busy traffic. A driver honked his horn at him, but Bookie didn’t pay any attention. He was lost in his own world. He knew there were several different things he could be doing right now, and walking through hoods and traps wasn’t one of them. He made his way along a dirt pathway that led to Douglas Street. Brick and aluminum houses lined both sides.
He thought to himself and then suddenly removed a small bible from his back pocket. He paused directly in the middle of the street in front of a few boarded up houses that were huddled close together.
He heard a deep voice yell, “A partna, you can’t stop there. So, keep it moving.”
Bookie didn’t respond. Instead, he held up his bible and took three more steps while looking toward the house.
“You got a cigarette?” he asked and then began moving quickly toward the house.
Before he made it to the front yard, two male teenagers drew Glocks on him three inches from his face. His eyes crossed.
“All I want is a cigarette.”
“All we got is Glocks and rocks. Which one do you prefer?” an older guy asked from the front porch. He stared directly at Bookie and twisted his face as if he knew him from somewhere.
Bookie stood patiently. He remembered the face, and the guns that were aimed at his head couldn’t break his concentration. His eyes grew dark and anxious, and his anger slowly built up. He wouldn’t allow them to see it, though.