Dear Summer

by Elliott, K.

  “Followed him one day.”

  “And?”

  “Observed what looked like a drug exchange between him and two white boys.”

  “White kids?”

  Sanders said it as if he wasn’t white himself. Had told Pratt before he was Irish and not white. He was only white when it mattered.

  “Yeah. They gave him an Escalade and he’d given them a bag of money.”

  Sanders flicked the pen. “Are you sure it was a drug deal?”

  “No.”

  “Pratt, I want you to leave this alone. We have other shit to worry about.”

  “Leave it alone? I’m not understanding?”

  “Just leave it alone.”

  Pratt stood and was about to walk out the office when he turned to Sanders. “Do you want me to leave it alone because I think his connect is white?”

  ***** Squirt was on his second set of twentyfive push ups, sweating; he wiped his eyes with his shirt when the deputy walked in and announced mail call.

  “Jerome Miller.” He rushed the Deputy, anxious to read his mail. It was the only thing that got him through the day—the thing he looked forward to the most. The letter smelled like perfume. Squirt sniffed the letter and another inmate yelled. “Can I sleep with that envelope, shorty?”

  “Hell fuckin’ no,” Squirt said, disappearing into his cell. He hopped onto his bunk and tore into the letter.

  Squirt, The baby’s getting bigger everyday. He picked up your picture the other day and smiled. I know he wants to know where his daddy is. Q paid the phone bill and he sent someone over here to buy some Pampers and milk, but I need some help with the rent. I really don’t want to ask Q because he’s done so much and I don’t want to go back to Mama’s house. You know how she is. I was over there the other day and you know my stupid-ass sister Tyeisha said some slick shit like you ain’t gonna ever be shit but a drug dealer. I cussed her ass out, but I cried. Baby, I’m trying to be strong for you, but this shit is hard. I cry all the time when you ain’t here to hold me. You know how you be gripping my ass when we sleep…you know I miss that so much. But, baby, you have to get out of there. I’m not telling you to tell on Q because he helps out so much. I’m just trippin’ baby. Do your time like a man. Be a soldier for mommy. You know I ain’t fuckin’ with nobody, so don’t even worry about that shit. This pussy is tight for you baby. I love you and here is a picture of the baby.

  Love always,

  Tia

  Squirt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Jessie, his cell mate, walked into the room. “Stay strong, young brother.”

  Squirt opened his eyes, smiled then handed Jessie a picture of his son. “This is my son, Jaylen.”

  “He’s a cute little fella. You gotta get back out there to him.”

  “I know. I figure if I can get three years I will be okay.”

  Jessie handed him the picture and sat on the bed. “Yeah, sounds about right, if the feds don’t pick the case up.”

  If the feds got the case he would do at least ten years. They would send him to some redneck town with a small population, or maybe Kentucky. He’d had a friend named T-Money who had done federal time, and the whole time he was down he would call Squirt complaining about the redneck correctional officers. He said they’d sent him somewhere far, where his mom could only visit him once a year. He wasn’t cool with his mom, but his girl wouldn’t be able to see him regularly, and his son would be almost ten when he got out. Maybe Tia would find her another man. Another man would raise his son. Damn, he hated to think about that. Didn’t want to think about the feds, but he knew that was a possibility.

  “You think they will pick it up?” Squirt asked.

  Jessie shrugged. “Who knows? But don’t die in here worrying about shit you can’t control.”

  Jessie was right. He couldn’t control his fate. He could only look forward to his future. He knew that if he did get ten years he would be out again, but when?

  Chapter 22

  Tommy stood on the bridge of the Catawba River wondering what it would be like to jump. The river was one hundred feet below. He had never thought about suicide before; always considered it a sin. The old folks always said that was the one sin that God would not forgive. Tommy wanted to be in God’s good graces and he wanted to see his mother again. He had always felt he would see her when he went to heaven. The water down below was shallow. There was nothing but big rocks mostly. He knew that he would die instantly. Did he want to go like that? Did he want to go at all? His life was so troubled. This fuckin’ Mark Pratt was after him again, and Q and his boys thought he was a rat. He knew that this was the worst thing that he could ever be accused of. Those niggas in the SUV shooting at him thought he was a rat. One of them called him a snitch. His cell phone rang—Summer.

  “What’s up?”

  “What you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where are you, Tommy?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s quiet. I’ve never called you and it was so quiet.” “I know.” Tommy looked down below at the rocks. They

  would kill him okay, and he would be found by an old fisherman. It happened all the time.

  “Tommy, are you okay?”

  “Y-yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “I haven’t heard from you that’s all.”

  “You miss me?”

  “Why you asking me that Tommy?”

  “No reason.” He wondered if he were gone who would miss

  him. Who would care? His pops would miss him. He knew it would break his father’s heart if he committed suicide. He was all J.C. had.

  “Tommy, I’ll talk to you later. Or just call me when you get some time.”

  Tommy didn’t say anything. He terminated the call, walked back to his truck and drove off.

  ***** J-Black looked just like Tommy remembered, but only a few pounds heavier. J-Black was sitting on the passenger side of Scooter’s car when Tommy walked up. He was grinning as Tommy approached.

  “J-Black says he will find all them niggas one by one.” “He knows my work,” J-Black said. “He know it very well. Ain’t that right, Fatboy?”

  He didn’t like the tone in which J-Black spoke to him. Sure he’d robbed him a few times in the past, but this nigga was downright disrespectful. “Okay, you come to work or you want to talk about history?”

  “J-Black is on our side.”

  “Yeah, nigga. I just want to get paid.”

  J-Black and Tommy’s eyes met before Tommy turned to Scooter. “So how much money he want?”

  “Five thousand dollars a body. I’m a pro at this,” J-Black responded.

  “I just want Q taken out. You know, if you kill the head, the body dies.”

  “Yeah, but I have to figure out how to get to Q.”

  “You know him?” Tommy asked.

  “No, and I don’t give a fuck about him. When I tell you I’ma get his bitch ass, consider it done.”

  “I don’t have $20,000.”

  J-Black laughed then said, “Well, give me ten since we’re old buddies.”

  “I’m not giving you money before the job is done.”

  Scooter turned to J-Black. “Half before and half when the job is done.”

  “I’ll get started tomorrow.” He smiled a wicked smile but Tommy knew that J-Black was serious. He didn’t like him but he knew that he would get the job done.

  ***** The shoebox wasn’t where he’d left it. Tommy searched frantically for his money. He knew it had to be there. He left it there and nobody knew where it was.

  When he turned the light on, he saw the Nike shoebox under a bunch of old newspapers. He opened it and it was still full of money, but he had to count it. Something wasn’t right. The money wasn’t where it should have been. He knew there should have been $138,000. That is what he had previously, but after counting he discovered there was $4,000 missing.

  He quickly walked into his pops’ bedroom. The room smelled like feet and beer. Empty b
eer cans lay on the floor.

  His dad was lying on the bed watching the Discovery Channel. He looked up and made eye contact with Tommy. Tommy set the box on the dresser that was right beside J.C.’s television.

  An ashtray on the dresser revealed cigarette butts with lipstick on them.

  “Hey, son. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Don’t hey son me. Where the fuck is my money?” Tommy said. He scanned the room, looking for more evidence of a party— cocaine baggies or crack pipes, but he didn’t see either. A tiny pink thong was in the corner of the room next to J.C’s bed. Tommy walked over and picked up the panties. He held them in the air.

  J.C. chuckled. He was proud of his conquest. But when he saw that Tommy was pissed, he stopped laughing.

  “What the fuck are these?” Tommy said.

  “They are panties. I think you know what panties are…don’t you?”

  “Buying pussy, huh?” Tommy said, shaking his head.

  “So what makes you say that?”

  Tommy paced, picked up the shoebox and then put it down again. “Nigga, the kind of women you date wear bloomers, not thongs.”

  “Your point?” J.C. asked. He was in no mood for anybody preaching to him, but he knew he had to listen to him. He had spent the money and there was really no way he could replace it.

  “There was a young bitch here and my money is gone.” He picked up the shoebox again. “I know exactly how much money I had, and you spent it, nigga.”

  “Why you talking to me like that?”

  “I want my fuckin’ money.”

  J.C. stood, not knowing what to say. He wished he could magically replace the four grand that he’d taken, but he couldn’t, nor could he deny taking it.

  “Where the fuck is the money?” Tommy said, holding the Nike shoebox. “I know how I left the money in the attic. Know where it was; the exact spot.”

  J.C. sighed as he put his hands into his pocket. “Son, I’m not going to lie to you. I took your money and I was going to put it back.”

  “Replace my money? You were going to replace my money, nigga? How you gonna replace my money?”

  J.C. reached for Tommy, attempting to hug him, but Tommy pushed him away. “Get the fuck off me.”

  “I’m still your daddy.”

  “I don’t know my daddy, nigga. You ain’t nothing to me. Nothing but a fuckin’ crack head.”

  A single tear ran down J.C.’s face. Tommy regretted what he had said to him. He was the only father Tommy had known; had been with him for as long as he could remember, and had loved his mother more than life. He was the one who’d given the attorney the money to save his ass from his last drug case.

  “Son, I have been there for you.”

  He had visited him in prison, taught him how to be a man and loved him unconditionally, probably more than anything. He was the only person that Tommy had.

  Tommy avoided his eyes. “Why did you steal from me?”

  “I needed the money.”

  “For what?”

  “To save the house.”

  Tommy made eye contact with J.C. “I thought you had gotten the money from the bank; thought you’d refinanced the house.”

  “I did.”

  “And the money’s gone already?”

  Tommy looked up at the ceiling. There was a long silence before J.C. said, “Nobody is perfect.”

  “You’re weak.”

  J.C. had had enough of Tommy’s insults. “And you’re weak, nigga. You’re out here selling that shit again. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I don’t know what you are into?”

  “I ain’t selling shit.”

  “Put your fuckin’ money in the bank then, Tommy. If you got the money legitimately, then put it in the bank. Nobody with justifiable income keeps money in a shoebox, Tommy. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Tommy sighed then looked at his father, but made no comment. The man was pathetic and weak for a piece of ass, and he was a junkie. He was someone Tommy could never respect again. Not only was he a coke head but he was a thief. He imagined the little bitch in the pink thong with maybe 5- or 6-inch heels. She was probably about 25-years-old—a high-class whore or a stripper who made the old man feel young. Maybe she gave him head. A lot of men were suckers for head. While sucking his dick, she most likely asked for the money.

  She was good. She managed to juice his father out of at least a half million dollars. He could imagine her calling him, making him feel young and feeding him sob stories about not having enough money for rent, or needing money for a new car. He was game to the deception of women. He, just like every other man, had paid for companionship at one time or another. But when you blow hundreds of thousands of dollars on drugs and women, you are pathetic.

  Their eyes met and held. “You could have asked,” Tommy said. J.C. dropped his head. “I was embarrassed, son.” “Well, now I’m embarrassed that I even fuckin’ know you.” J.C. knew Tommy was hurting. He eased toward him, attempting to hug him.

  Tommy pushed him back and J.C. fell onto the bed. Seconds later he sprang from the bed and charged Tommy, but was quickly restrained as Tommy pinned his arms down.

  “Let me go,” J.C. said. He continued to try to break free.

  “Fuck you,” Tommy said, then he raised his right hand. He wanted to break his nose but he couldn’t punch his father for two reasons—he had respect for his mother and he knew if she were living she wouldn’t approve of it. Also, everybody would say he was wrong for hitting J.C.; beating up an old man. But he wanted to treat him like any other nigga in the street who had stolen from him.

  “Go ahead and hit me. Everything I’ve done for you…and this is the fuckin’ thanks I get!”

  “How the hell did you become so damn weak?” Tommy said. He then released J.C. from his grips and lowered his hand.

  J.C. got up from the bed, disentangled his shirt and tidied himself up a bit. “I made a mistake, okay? Like you’ve never made a mistake.”

  “How in the hell was that a mistake? You took my motherfuckin’ money!”

  Neither man said anything. Tommy turned his back and was about to walk away.

  “Son, I wasn’t prepared for this. I have never had money before in my life. That’s how I lost the money. I mean, everything was just so overwhelming. I came out of prison going from not having money to having it all, and I wasn’t ready to handle it.”

  Tommy turned and faced his father. He was angry, but J.C. was the only person that he could somewhat trust. The only person that knew him.

  “Son it won’t happen again. I promise you, son.”

  “I know it’s not going to happen again, because I ain’t fuckin’ with you,” Tommy said as he grabbed the shoebox and exited the room.

  Chapter 23

  T

  he first thing Tommy noticed when Summer opened the door were the red Spandex shorts she was wearing, but he wasn’t in the mood for sex. “Tommy, how the fuck are you just going to show up at my house without calling?”

  Tommy looked surprised. What the fuck was she saying? She was his lady. Nobody had ever told him when to show up at their apartment. “Do you have company?”

  “No.”

  “Why you tripping?”

  “Tommy, I don’t even know where the fuck you live, but you can come over my house anytime you want? That shit ain’t cool.”

  He chuckled. “So you want to know where I live?”

  “I don’t give a fuck where you live, but you gonna respect my house.”

  “Can I come in?”

  She moved aside and he entered the apartment. She was watching “Top Model.” She sat on the sofa and he sat across from her. Five minutes after sitting down his eyes were closed. When Summer saw this she said, “Tommy, are you asleep?”

  He raised himself up. “No. I’m not asleep; just thinking.” He closed his eyes again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My pops is a crack head.”

  “Wh
at are you gonna do?”

  Tommy sighed. He really didn’t want to talk about it but he needed to talk to somebody. He needed to get it out.

  Her facial expression said that she didn’t understand. Maybe nobody in her immediate family had ever been on drugs.

  “Tommy, you want to talk about it?”

  “I mean, there is nothing to talk about. The man is a straight up crack head.”

  With the remote control in hand, Summer paused “Top Model” then turned it off. Tommy needed her.

  “He stole from me.”

  “But your dad has money.”

  “You mean had money.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The man has blown all his money on coke and young bitches.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She remembered Tommy telling her that his father was awarded more than two million dollars. Now he was broke? She couldn’t see how, but then, poor people who are awarded that kind of money usually wind up broke again.

  “Yeah, the nigga is broke,” Tommy said.

  “What did he steal from you?”

  “He stole some money,” Tommy said. “I’d left some money in the attic and he took some of it.”

  “Oh.” She felt sorry for Tommy. He looked as if his whole world had come to an end. She moved over to his seat, sat on his lap and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Don’t worry. This ain’t your problem; it’s mine.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing, really…I mean, unless you gonna rehab the nigga.” Tommy laughed, not because what he said was funny, but because he wanted to keep from crying.

  “You think he wants help?”

  “I don’t know if he wants help. I know he needs it.”

  She tried to kiss him again, but he dodged her lips. “What were you tripping for earlier?”

  “What you mean?”

  “You got all fuckin’ bent out of shape when I came.”

  “Because you came without calling or texting me.”

  “I have a lot of shit on my mind. That’s why. But what’s the problem?”

  She stood and walked away. Her ass looked marvelous in those Spandex shorts. Tommy stood and walked behind her, and when she sat on the couch he joined her. She turned the TV back on to “Top Model,” trying to ignore Tommy’s advances. He put his hand on her thigh, trying to feel her pussy, but she pushed him away.