by Cole Hart
“I got ten dollars,” he whispered, then nibbled on his bottom lip.
The two guys escorted Bookie to the front porch and then through a thin sheet of plywood that was covering the door. Their weapons had been put away. Bookie’s eyes searched the front room quickly. A worn loveseat sat near the corner, and a wooden coffee table was in front of it with a scale on top and a box of Ziploc sandwich bags. An X-box was connected to a small color television. Madden was on pause. The guy from the front porch came in. He stood five-eleven and moved swiftly for his size. He placed a glass pipe and about two grams of crack onto the table. He looked Bookie in his eyes and pointed to the table.
“Smoke it,” he told him with a scratchy voice.
Bookie’s eyes darted around the room, and his heartbeat began to accelerate. Then a small razor-sharp knife appeared in his hand, no more than four to five inches long. His grip tightened around the handle. He braced himself under his powerful built legs, and with an overjoyed swing, he slashed the older guy from the front porch directly across his stomach, leaving his wifebeater and gut opened and exposed like a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup.
The guy clutched his stomach and stared down at his abdomen. Fear had grown in his eyes.
What seemed like forever was only a few seconds. Bookie spun around, his mind cloudless, and he knew he should have heard a gunshot by now. But the younger guy was too focused on his injured comrade. Bookie grabbed him with an unbelievable force before he could think about using his Glock. He pierced the younger guy’s skin underneath his neck. He didn’t have any intentions on killing anybody. This was only part of their plan.
Chapter 49
Barefoot, Summer stood outside on the front porch. For the first time in her life the night quietness could be heard. The sky was blanched, no color at all. She was slowly altering herself, playing a mental game within herself. She needed the world to think she’d lost her mind.
No pressure.
No stress.
No pain.
No gain.
She repeated these words in her head every thirty minutes. Summer wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She then went inside and laid out on the oriental throw rug. Her body was fatigued, and at this moment, she was invincible. When she awakened the following morning, she was ready to go through the same routine again.
Three weeks had passed, and Summer had lost nearly twenty pounds. Her face had sunken, causing her cheekbones to sit high. Her hair had begun to frizzle and dry out. She went into the bathroom and stood before the mirror. Her mother and kids would be disappointed and disgusted at the sight of her. This was something she knew and wanted. She grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting her hair off while smiling to herself. Snip…snip…snip.
No pressure.
No stress.
No pain.
No gain.
*****
A white undercover van filled with a mixture of local narcs and federal agents rode through Underwood Projects. Their windows were tinted, but from the inside, they could see clearly. They monitored the drug activity with high-tech cameras and other surveillance equipment. On the inside wall of the van were several photos of Summer and Bookie.
Some of them had been taken in the last eight months. None of them were recent. One detective in his mid-forties was powerfully built up top with huge forearms. His hair had whitened from graying and was combed evenly toward the back. No input was brought to the table unless he invited it. He flipped through a USA Today newspaper while the remaining staff monitored the streets. The van finally came to a slow creep. Agent North glanced up from his paper and looked toward the front of the van. The officer in the passenger seat turned around, and his eyes met Agent North’s.
“The guy that owns the green Chevy Impala right there…” He pointed.
Agent North looked at it through the tinted window. As he nodded, the officer continued.
“This is his sophomore year in the game.” He turned and faced the Chevy himself. Kids were playing hide-n-go-seek around the bumper. “We’re working on a great case against him, and I know he will probably be able to give us some valuable information about Summer.
Agent North looked on, a few thoughts circulating inside his head. One, he wanted Summer off the streets. Two, he wanted Summer off the streets, and three, he wanted Summer off the streets.
Ten minutes later, they were questioning the guy who owned the green Chevy Impala. His name was Jimmy Blue, but everybody called him JB. He was clean cut and in his mid-twenties with a set of evenly white teeth. JB’s eyes were nearly closed from a blunt he’d smoked about thirty minutes earlier.
Agent North stared around the poverty-stricken neighborhood for a moment before his eyes came back to JB. He removed a photo of Summer from a manila envelope and handed it to him.
“What can you tell me about her?”
JB scanned the picture. “I can’t place her.” His tone of voice was eager. He remained calm.
“Take a good look.” A tad bit of aggression rose in Agent North’s voice. He had a powerful intimidation game and was assuming he could use it right now.
JB slowly cut his eyes up at the federal agent. He didn’t want to get too slick out of his mouth. He knew his own position.
Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know her, sir.”
Nothing else was said, but they were getting close.
*****
Summer came out of hiding. She knew it was time for her to show her face, and the face she was showing was rough looking and skinny. She stepped out of a ‘93 Grand Am after parking in front of the Sunset Villa Apartments’ main office. Summer went into the office and carried on a good conversation with the manager. She needed a two-bedroom apartment. She removed a driver’s license with the name Yolanda James, and the manager slid Summer some papers to fill out.
She did it. Then paid up the rent in cash for the next year.
Summer got her apartment in the P section. The complex was rundown. Hustlers patrolled the area; junkies were there just as well. Kids were crawling and combing the neighborhood on big wheels and bicycles. A black Navigator was parked across from her apartment with an overwhelming sound system. Trick Daddy roared from the speakers. She scoped the entire scene before she even got inside.
Once inside, she took in her new place. This isn’t how she wanted to live, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to go to the federal penitentiary again so this is how she had to live. The living room was naked. The place smelled clean; however, she knew she couldn’t fix it up like she would have liked to. She looked up at the dingy ceilings as she stepped into the kitchen, which was nearly combined with the living room.
Several things were going through Summer’s head. She tried hard not to think about her mother and kids, but those people would never be forgotten. Her love was unconditional for her family, but in order for her to keep them safe, she had to separate herself from them.
Summer went to the blinds and slightly parted them. She saw a young guy serving something hand to hand. Crack, reefer, or X pills––one of the three. Then, suddenly, she thought about Bookie.
Chapter 50
His nerves twitched slightly in his left hand, a funny feeling that made his index and middle fingers. It wasn’t the gun that made him nervous. Bookie stared dumbfounded at his reflection in the mirror. A smaller version of a police Teflon vest covered his chest. He ran his fingers through his nappy hair. From Bookie’s appearance you wouldn’t think he’d be worth a couple of million dollars and had a safe spot that was so secure. Nobody would ever find it.
On the dresser inside the hotel room were two special ordered handguns concealed inside of a leather duffel bag. He removed the smaller one, which was a .380 with a homemade silencer that he had ordered from a silent partner in Savannah, Georgia. Today he was in Atlanta and ready to pay a visit to Terry Pate’s family since he wasn’t able to catch Terry himself. He knew he was working fo
r the feds because he’d already gotten the word from his source. Bookie wasn’t dumb by a long shot, and his plan was to try to eliminate any and everybody that he figured would harm him and Summer. It took him fifteen minutes to get dressed in a gray double-breasted three-piece suit that he’d purchased last year. His shoes were expensive, too. He gathered everything and headed for the door.
Downstairs in the lobby, several people moved swiftly. He blended in with the heavy crowd from the convention that was taking place. Outside in the parking lot, a hot breeze blew across his face. He took in the beautiful sunny day as he strolled across the parking lot. Then he ducked off in a parked rental. He programmed his destination in the On-star navigation system and checked all the rearview mirrors before starting the engine.
By the time seven o’clock hit, it was completely dark. “A long night,” he mumbled to himself while cruising through a well-designed subdivision in Stone Mountain. He knew the area extremely well because a week after he’d met Terry Pate and found out where his family lived, Summer had copped the first available house on the same street. It was three houses down, but on the opposite side.
He pulled the rented Camry in the driveway and stopped in front of the two-car garage. He killed the engine, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out. He looked around the neighborhood again. It was quiet, and through a huge bay window in a house across the street, he saw a family eating dinner. Finally, he turned and went inside the house.
From across the street, three federal agents were on a stakeout. They’d also leased a house in the neighborhood. Several photos had been snapped of Bookie from Augusta to Atlanta. They watched his every move because they knew his plan. They knew he was a killer and a drug dealer. Now they wanted to catch him red-handed. An agent stood at the front window in jeans and a t-shirt. The neighborhood knew the black man as James Williams, another average Joe who had his own lawn care service. The other two agents were females, appearing to be a wife and sister-in-law. Agent James Williams held a pair of night vision binoculars up to his eyes, and when he looked across the street, he wasn’t too pleased with what he saw.
Bookie made eye contact through his own set of binoculars. His sight was vivid, and he noticed the guy watching him. Bookie wasn’t aware that it was the feds, but he knew no ordinary neighbor would be watching him. Bookie grinned and slightly nodded his head. He sat his binoculars down and turned up a Red Bull energy drink to his lips followed by a Newport. He never removed himself from the window. He drew on the cigarette and French rolled the smoke through his nose.
Tomorrow he would be back in Augusta.
*****
Summer took a casual stroll through the rundown apartments. She appeared to be nothing more than a cracked out junkie in the eyes of her neighbors. She walked up to three guys leaning up against a black SS Impala that was bumping a cut from T.I.’s Trap Musik CD. Blunts were being passed, and Grey Goose bottles were half filled sitting on the roof of the car. She evaluated the three men’s attire, which was nothing more than Dickie pants, t-shirt, and Air-Force Ones. She noticed the youngest guy, who appeared to be no more than sixteen, looking at her with a strong, intense stare. He didn’t look familiar to her, though.
“You know me?” she asked, hoping he didn’t.
The young stranger cocked his head sideways a little. He knew he had seen Summer somewhere before, but by her hair being cut and with her having lost so much weight she was hard to recognize. Just then a little boy about twelve years old came outside with a basketball and a ferocious dribble game. His ball handle was out of sight. Everybody turned their head in his direction. Suddenly, the young guy looked back at Summer.
“You know the twins?” he asked, sounding unsure, but he was on point with the question.
Summer shook her head and responded, “No.”
If he were unsure, why would she refresh his memory? Summer copped her twenty sack of powder and made her way to a payphone. She dialed home and spoke with her mother and children for the first time in nearly two months. They discussed several issues, such as why she hadn’t call, where she’d been, and so on. Her mother told her about the twins. Jermaine was still dedicated to playing basketball, and Jeremy was slowly turning toward the streets.
“He’s growin’ dreads, Summa, and got a mouth full of gold teeth,” her mother said from the other end.
Summer closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was getting dark, and the passing cars on Olive Road were driving with their headlights on. Instantly, she thought about the possibility of her mother’s phone being tapped, so she ended the call.
A smoke grey Dooley truck was parked across the street from Summer’s mother’s house. Inside were two federal agents dressed down in jeans and t-shirts, and with enough surveillance equipment to hear the inside of the White House from Georgia. The two agents exchanged stares when Summer hung up the phone.
“That was her,” one of them said.
“Twenty more seconds and we could’ve tracked her,” said the other agent. He leaned back in the rear of the Dooley and punched in a number on his cell phone. “We had her. We lost her,” he said quickly.
“She’ll call back. Just stay on her,” the voice said from the other end.
Chapter 51
Summer got back to her apartment, closed the door, and chained it. She flipped off the lights and quickly moved to the window, parting the blinds. The parking lot was crawling with young hustlers carrying big pistols. One guy in particular, who was dressed in a D. Wade jersey and baggy shorts, caught her interest.
Suddenly her mind flashed, and Summer was laid up in MCG Hospital in a private room and surrounded by a web of plastic tubes and oxygen tanks. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her, and it would take them damn near an eternity to find out. Summer didn’t even know what was wrong with herself.
At this point, it wouldn’t do her any good to try to recognize any of the faces around her. Voices weren’t familiar now. Small talk was going on, but it didn’t concern her. Something about a diet Sprite and a chicken salad without cucumbers. Thirty minutes later, she slipped into a coma, her own personal world where everything was important.
*****
Her mother was talking to her from across the kitchen table. Summer was younger, twelve maybe. She looked up at the doorway and saw Rodney standing there. She loved her brother, admired him even more. His swagger stood out from the rest of the boys in the neighborhood. He walked up to her and playfully pulled her ponytail. She frowned.
“Stop, boy,” she said with more love than hate in her voice.
She wasn’t really hard up. However, she saw an opportunity in the younger hustlers. She went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, removed a Tropicana apple juice, and took two good swallows. With her dry throat relieved, she went back to the window and parted the blinds again. The guy was gone from where he was just standing. She scanned the parking lot as far as her eyes could see. Amongst the crowd, the D. Wade jersey wasn’t there. Then from the corner, she noticed four cars creeping through with their parking lights. Undercover narcotic agents, she thought to herself.
“This should be interesting,” she mumbled, then removed a cigarette from a pack that was stuffed in her pocket.
She went into the kitchen and turned on one of the front stove burners. After lighting the cigarette, she put it to her lips and went back to the window. She parted the blinds again and peered out to the illuminated parking lot where high-powered flashlights were moving and controlling the night. Summer put the cigarette to her mouth again. Not once did she inhale. She didn’t smoke.
When she walked outside, the officers were searching everybody who looked like they needed searching. She looked around for a few seconds. It didn’t take her long to scope the scene, and then several shots were fired from the small side of the apartment. Next, there was silence. Within seconds, more rounds were fired. This time it sounded like an AK or an M-16. It was fully automatic and sounded too close for the officers not to
respond. Some left on foot, hoping they could catch the shooters in the midst of whatever action they were in. The rest jumped in the unmarked cars. Summer thumped the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and began walking at a snail’s pace, moving as if she was dysfunctional or something. Her vision started to blur, but she continued to move. She slowly stepped back up on the concrete sidewalk and leaned against the red brick wall.
She heard a voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it. Her hand grasped at something. It seemed like the oxygen was being cut off from her brain. Everything seemed to be spinning now, and when she stumbled, there was nothing there to catch her.
No pressure.
No stress.
No pain.
No gain.
Rodney grabbed a meaty neck bone from her plate and ripped off a piece of meat with his teeth.
“Goddammit, Rodney! Don’t be puttin’ yo’ nasty-ass hands in that girl’s plate.”
Mama sho’ can cuss, Summer thought. She sounded just like a little girl. It was good to be back there. Home. In Barton Village. This was life how she remembered it. Easygoing. Everything was everything, and then it turned.
*****
It was all a blank empty spot. She was breathing, but she couldn’t see anything. She felt several tiny needles pinching her brain and her body. It wasn’t painful to her, though. More like numbness or something. The voices came back again. Only this time, she could hear them clearly.
“Summa, this is Mama, baby. If you can hear me, jus’ give some kind of sign.”
Summer didn’t respond; however, she heard everything clearly. Her kids were there, also. Everybody was grieving around her hospital bed. She heard Lil’ Danté’s voice. How bad she wanted to open her eyes and look at him, but she didn’t know if she could stomach the situation about her being in this position. She wanted to see her family. She enjoyed that part of life with a passion, but she made a commitment. Just one. And that was to never jeopardize her family for her actions.