The Plug's Wife

by Chynna

  “How amused I am by you…Miss Cuban Not Interested. You are one of a kind. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman, so beautiful, yet so unrefined. You’re an original, that’s for sure!” Jesse said, still chuckling.

  Summer blew out a windstorm of breath. She threw her hands up. Now this dude was trying to insult her. Unrefined! You haven’t seen unrefined!

  “Look mister, I really have to go,” Summer said, annoyed. She’d wasted enough time arguing with these men.

  “It doesn’t look like you can go anywhere,” Jesse said, nodding towards the front-end damage on Rex’s Audi. Summer pushed past Jesse and surveyed the damage for herself. The front of the car was a mass of twisted and gnarled metal.

  “Shit!” she muttered, letting out an exasperated breath. The car was going to need to be towed. Summer ran her fingers through her curly, newly dyed auburn locks. Her shoulders slumped. All she could see and hear now was Rex’s reaction—his white skin would turn pink and blotchy, his high-pitched threats not to pay her, and worst of all, his forcing her to suck his tiny, musty dick while she stuck two fingers in his ass for his sick pleasure. Summer shuddered. The things she did to keep a roof over her head. It was never easy and sometimes she truly wondered how she would’ve faired if she had stayed in Cuba.

  “I’m fired for sure. Now what will I do?” Summer gasped, cupping her face in her hands. Jesse touched her shoulder, sending a cool chill down her back. She shrugged away from him, feeling uneasy. Why is he being so nice? Probably already undressed me in his fucking mind! She didn’t trust anyone, especially men.

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything. But first, I need to know your real name,” Jesse asked smoothly.

  Chapter 3 Business As Usual

  Mitch dragged Caralina into the hospital waiting room where his crew had taken up residence since the shooting. “Look, sit down and chill,” Mitch chastised, dumping Caralina into a chair. The raucous spitfire had turned plenty of heads on their way to the hospital waiting room. Mitch had dealt with many a hoodrat in his day, but Caralina took the cake. Her smooth caramel skin, pretty face, flat stomach and huge ass did nothing for her because as soon as she opened her mouth, all Mitch could picture was Sheneneh, the ugly, loud, gaudy dressing character from the sitcom Martin.

  Mitch’s crew – Billy, Doon, Scrap and Marco – jumped to their feet as soon as they entered the room. “What up family?” Mitch greeted each man with the signature handshake.

  It had been almost twenty-fours hours that they’d been holding vigil at the hospital. They were all in different stages of undress. Billy’s tux jacket was gone, probably left at the crime scene, and his dress shirt hung open, exposing his bulging biceps and sweat-stained undershirt. Doon had his shirt and jacket off with only his wife beater on, his tattoo sleeves on both arms on full display. Scrap was still in his complete tuxedo, which was painted brown with Jesse’s drying blood. After the shooting, Scrap was the guy to lift Jesse’s limp body onto his shoulder and raced toward the limo. Waiting for an ambulance to take Jesse to the hospital was not an option. Marco had disrobed out of his tux on the way to the hospital. He wore a sweat suit that he kept stashed in his car trunk. He was one of the few guys that had driven to the wedding instead of taking the limo service. Marco was slightly claustrophobic and he hated group rides, always preferring to go the solo route.

  Mitch noticed the strain on all of their faces right away. A hardened mask of pain, regret and anger. They had all been nearby at the wedding, but not close enough to Jesse when the chaos erupted. Every time Mitch thought about how powerless they were during the shooting, the hairs on his arm stood up. In fact, it was the bride and groom who had insisted that the ceremony be as normal as possible. “No bunch of men in black security guards around,” Summer had warned a few weeks before the wedding. “My wedding is going to be classy…normal. I don’t know why a business man needs so much muscle anyway,” she had said before sauntering out of the room leaving Jesse and Mitch with their mouths agape. Mitch had been even more shocked when Jesse acquiesced. “What can I say…I guess we won’t have a bunch of security. Happy wife equals happy life,” Jesse had conceded. In the end, Mitch agreed to the arrangement, despite his many reservations.

  “What’s good with her?” Marco asked Mitch while the others looked on with curious eyes. They’d all been on edge waiting for the report on Summer’s condition. She was part of their family now. If Jesse loved her, they all loved her. That’s how their family operated.

  “No status, really. She woke up and started fighting them nurses and shit. So they made me and this bullhorn over here leave,” Mitch said, pointing his thumb in Caralina’s direction. She rolled her eyes at his remarks.

  “Somebody gotta speak up…shit!” Caralina spat, folding her arms across her chest defiantly. Mitch shook his head. Ain’t shit attractive about that big ass mouth. “What they sayin’ about the injuries though?” Scrap asked, his head hanging low. He had been the first to react at the vineyard when he heard the assassin’s death call to Jesse. But by the time Scrap had run the length of Summer and Jesse’s wedding aisle, dodging the scattering guests, and returning shots, it had been too late.

  Scrap bit into his lip now, the bunched skin of the raised scar that ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth tingling like it always did when he was stressed. Every time he closed his eyes now, Jesse’s death scene was printed on the backs of his eyelids.

  “I don’t even think she knows she took one to the back and shoulder, but obviously that collapsed lung needs healing. As close as the second dude was, I’m surprised she lived. He could’ve really gotten her in the dome if he wanted to,” Mitch said, pinching the bridge of his nose. His mind was muddled with thoughts. Either the second shooter was a bad shot or he didn’t want to kill Summer at all. It was that simple. Mitch felt like he’d just ran a marathon. He was tired and running on very few hours of sleep. Even the night before he hadn’t rested fully since he’d spent it with Jesse, calming him down when he got a case of the wedding jitters. The bonding time had helped the two men work through some of the business issues that had put a strain on their friendship recently.

  Mitch flopped into one of the small waiting room chairs, physically and mentally exhausted. He couldn’t even stand to look the crew in their faces anymore. These men, who probably never cried in their adult lives, were sporting red-rimmed and swollen eyes, pinched mouths, and worry lines streaking their foreheads.

  Mitch understood their pain. After all, he had been Jesse’s right hand. Jesse and Mitch had come up together as kids. Although Mitch hadn’t always agreed with Jesse’s business decisions, but he always respected his friend as a man. In fact, Jesse had been Billy, Doon, Scrap and Marco’s boss since they were little kids. Jesse had served as a big brother to many young guys who were hungry and lost on the streets. He showed them first how to make money, then how to save money, and later how to invest that money. He treated his crew like family rather than employees. The way they all saw it, Jesse wasn’t trying to keep dudes on hand-to-mouth levels. For that reason alone, they all had genuine love for him.

  Mitch worried about Billy the most. Mitch eyed the six-foot, two-inch, ebony skin giant now as Billy paced the room, his jaw wired with rage. Mitch knew Billy’s mind was busy at work. That’s how Billy was—more patient and calculating, but also more deadly. Mitch didn’t want to imagine right now what Billy would do when he found out who was responsible for killing Jesse. Billy was a hothead and once the fire began to rage inside of him, there was little one could do to put out the flames. Some said Billy wasn’t right in his head, and there was probably some truth to that, but he was as loyal as they came and that’s all Mitch ever cared about. Billy had always been Jesse’s main muscle; he was never usually more than ten steps away from Jesse. Mitch knew Billy would never forgive himself for allowing Summer and Jesse to convince him to be a member of the wedding party instead of serving as their personal security detail. It
was only a matter of time before Billy’s ugly side reared its head.

  “Okay, let me ask all ya’ll big men a question. Ya’ll ever think about how this whole shit went down? I’m just saying, I’m a big mouth girl and I accept that, but I think this shit had to be a set up! I know Summer told me that JB was real particular about who knew about their wedding plans. Plus, it was all the way out here away from the hood in no-man’s-land. Somebody from inside had to give up the goods about the location and such!” Caralina trumpeted her theory to the group like she had just come up with a major scientific fact. Her shrill banter had cut through the silence.

  “Shhh! Yo, Caralina, man. You gotta be easy. These walls have ears. We will talk about this shit amongst ourselves…without you…the neighborhood conspiracy theorist,” Mitch castigated through his teeth, as he jumped to his feet. In his mind, he knew the big mouth girl had a good point, one that he’d already considered. It wouldn’t take long for the crew to come up with a list of possible suspects. Lately, Jesse had created a few tense situations for himself with bad business deals. Hell, he’d even pissed Mitch off lately, and he was his closest friend. Mitch shook it off, he couldn’t think about that now. He had to keep his crew’s minds on the issue at hand—someone had shot and killed their boss and they needed to find the perpetrator before the cops did. Period.

  “Nobody can shut me up! I’m just throwing out some ideas. Shit, maybe it was somebody in this fuckin’ room. We need to think about who stood to gain the most from his death…I’m just saying,” Caralina followed up, smacking her lips together for emphasis.

  Mitch was growing wary of Caralina’s mouth. If she wasn’t Summer’s so-called best friend he would’ve thrown her out of the hospital hours ago. And he would bet one thousand dollars that Summer didn’t know just how close Caralina was to Jesse during their courtship. Caralina was a snake bitch and Mitch didn’t like her or trust her. And if she didn’t shut up soon, he’d let her know just how much he despised her. Maybe when Summer was better, he would tell her the truth about her friend.

  “Yo, didn’t he just tell you to shut up? You ain’t part of this crew. So when we do discuss it…no women allowed,” Billy snapped. Mitch’s stomach knotted at Billy’s words. He didn’t even want to think about their next meeting. Mitch needed to prepare himself mentally for the accusations that would be aimed his way. After all, he was the last person seen disagreeing with Jesse. Not good.

  “What?! Please! My girl’s husband was the boss of Banks and Reid Imports. Ya’ll was just the workers. So who do you think will be the boss when she’s better? I know you don’t think ya’ll will inherit the business?” Caralina snapped, rolling her eyes indignantly. Scrap shot her a look and so did Marco and Doon. Mitch closed his eyes, his jaw rocking feverishly. He pictured himself grabbing Caralina by her neck and choking her until she passed out.

  Jesse’s murder was so fresh in his mind, he hadn’t had time to even consider who would take the helm of Jesse’s business ventures, especially the illegal ones. Mitch shook his head trying to clear his mind. Caralina’s words settled into his brain like newly planted seeds. Something told Mitch once Summer got better, it would not be business as usual.

  *********************

  The rain came down in torrents the day of Jesse’s funeral. The dark grey sky matched everyone’s mood. Summer wrung her hands together as she rode alone in the backseat of her chauffeured ride. She’d requested to be by herself. She’d gotten more than one protest, but Summer insisted on going it alone. She was tired of being surrounded by people every minute of every day.

  Summer hadn’t had a chance to fully grieve. The guys were always in her face or a stone’s throw from wherever she was at any given time. Since she’d been released from the hospital, Summer found the guys to be paranoid and on edge. They were always on the prowl, whipping their heads around at the slightest sound, touching their waistbands with minimal provocation. It didn’t make her feel safe. It made Summer uneasy and jumpy. Summer had even refused Caralina’s numerous invitations to accompany her to Jesse’s funeral. Caralina was too abrasive and loud for Summer’s current state of mind. Even the detective from the hospital had offered a “protective ride along” for the funeral procession. Summer knew better than to agree to that. She didn’t trust the police at all. For all she knew, they thought her a suspect as well.

  As the car came to a stop, Summer’s heart hammered so hard it pushed against the silk of her blouse. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. It’s a funeral. Calm down. Her driver rushed out of the car to open the door, but Mitch had already stepped in to do the honors. He and Billy stood vigilantly outside waiting for Summer to exit. Mitch, dressed in all black, down to his shirt and tie, forced a smile and extended his hand to her. Summer didn’t smile. She slid to the end of the leather seat and extended her thick, shapely legs, one at a time, from the heavily tinted black Suburban.

  Summer decided to bury Jesse at the Lawrence H. Woodward funeral home, which was located not far from the Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn neighborhood Jesse had grown up in. The cool, wet air stung Summer’s face letting her know that she was not dreaming. This was no nightmare. It was her reality. She was about to pay her final respects to her newly acquired and dearly departed husband.

  Standing on both feet, Mitch and Billy flanked her on either side. Doon, Scrap and Marco, also dressed in all black suits with dark shades covering their eyes, had the vehicle surrounded. Their eyes peeled in every direction, looking for suspicious activity or people. Mitch held onto the elbow of Summer’s good arm as Billy shielded her with an oversized black umbrella from the elements. As she made her way towards the entrance, an ominous bolt of lightning cleaved through the strange darkness that engulfed the sky. Summer jumped, still shell shocked from the shooting.

  “Calm down, it’s just lightning,” Mitch patted her hand. Another bolt streaked across the sky. Summer wondered if this was Mother Nature’s way of sending her a message or Jesse’s way of telling her how much he missed her.

  Hundreds of people crowded the funeral home doors. The police were spread out, forming a loose circle around the crowd; manning posts like a politician was lying in state inside. Jesse had some real powerful city government officials as associates, so the heavy police presence didn’t really surprise Summer. It actually made her feel somewhat safe.

  Summer was surprised to spot quite a few Middle Eastern, Hispanic, and Caucasian businessmen dressed in tailor made suits with diamond cuff links and tie pins in attendance. A number of street dudes with their obligatory diamond encrusted Jesus pieces and showy diamond watches shining paid their respects as well. Jesse knew people from all walks of life. Summer made mental notes of the attendees. Inevitably, she’d have to match those faces to names.

  Summer concealed her eyes with black, oversized Tom Ford shades. The brim of her large, black straw church hat left most of her face in shadow. She wanted to be able to hide her thoughts from the guests. Summer knew that most people might not understand the way she handled death publicly—no tears, no falling out over the dead, and more importantly, no signs of weakness. It was a survival strategy, ingrained in her since childhood.

  When she stepped inside the funeral home, Summer held onto Mitch and Billy for support. All of the partition walls had been taken down to make room for the swelling crowd. The inside of the funeral home looked like one big chapel instead of three or four separate rooms. Summer’s stomach swirled and the pain meds she had taken seemed to dissipate as soon as the reality of the situation hit her. Her gunshot wounds seemed to come alive and suddenly her clothes felt too tight, painful even. She stumbled as they crossed the threshold of the room where Jesse’s casket lay. From the back of the room, Summer could see solid oak closed coffin with a large portrait of Jesse sitting on top. She wouldn’t even get to see his face again. Mitch had told Summer, “JB always said when he goes not to have people staring down in his face.” They had respected his wishes.

  “Summer…you s
ure you can do this?” Mitch asked as he clamped down on her elbow, careful not to hurt her injured arm. Summer couldn’t breathe. The air was suddenly so thick it felt like a sponge was in her throat, soaking up all the oxygen. Her nerves were like exposed live wires.

  “I’m fine. I have to pay my last respects. I have be here to represent him,” she gasped, pushing her glasses back into place. Mitch and Billy led her towards the front of the chapel. The room smelled of embalming chemicals and newly bloomed flowers—a stomach curdling mixture. The buzzing crowd parted to allow Summer through.

  “That’s the new wife.” “She got shot too.” “People are saying it was a set up...an inside job.” “She will inherit all of his money.” “I heard he got in bad with the Mexican cartel.” “His partner threatened to kill him right before his wedding.” Hushed, gossipy murmurs filtered through the room. It was impossible not to hear.

  When Jesse’s full face in the portrait came into view, Summer’s legs went slack.

  “Shit!” Mitch exclaimed, catching her before she hit the floor. Summer let out a groan like a wounded dog.

  “Let’s sit her down,” he told Billy. They led her to the first row of seats where Caralina greeted her. Summer eased onto the seat.

  “It’s okay, chica. It’s okay. He’s in a better place…trust me…a better place than this hell we live in,” Caralina comforted, placing her arm around Summer’s shoulders. Summer wanted to push her friend off, but she didn’t want to cause a scene.

  Summer sat painfully erect, her barely healed wounds ablaze. She hadn’t been to many funerals in her lifetime, but she’d experienced a lot of death and loss. Growing up in Cuba, it had been different. There was no pomp and circumstance, no expensive funeral services and burials. Families grieved at home, consoling each other.

  Summer raised her chin and listened to the service. Some learned behaviors were hard to break. She wanted to be seen with her head up, not sniveling and sobbing like some weak woman whose whole life ended when her precious husband died. Summer was sending a message—she wasn’t weak. She was already setting herself up to command respect from those around her. If they saw her as weak, they would take advantage of her or worse, pity her. Summer had learned the hard way that crying was a shameful act and disrespectful to the dead. She’d never forgotten the way she’d been taught that lesson either. Behind her dark shades, no one could see the pain that memory evoked as it crashed in on Summer like a ton of bricks dropped from the sky.