Crazy Summer (32 page)

Jeremy stared at his mother. “Well, she got to be connected to somebody, because she got our whole case thrown out.”

“What is y’all two talking about over there?” she asked them.

They shook their heads in unison and then started discussing basketball. The twins told her that there were scouts at their last game, but they never came and spoke to them. Summer taught all her kids about patience. Lil’ Danté wanted to talk about his boxing career, which was promising, as well. He went on about his left hook, right hook, uppercut, and powerful overhand right. He performed his hand skills in the hospital room, while everybody looked on impressed. He knew he’d put on a show in front of an audience.

Thirty minutes later, the telephone rang, and Summer answered it.

“Hello.”

There was silence in the background before she heard Bookie’s voice.

“How you feelin’?”

A smile came across her lips. Red Bone was looking her dead in her eyes. It wasn’t an envious look; she could never cross her. If anything, she was ready to help.

“I’m good. I wish I could get out of here today.”

Her voice was soft; she was feminine as hell when she wanted to be.

“You just hold tight. I got everything under control. I got two of ‘em in my possession as we speak.”

Summer nodded, her penetrating eyes hardening into a cold stare. “And their hands were in the cookie jar.”

“All the way,” Bookie said calmly.

“Good…good. Just deal with ‘em.”

“Check. I’ll come by and see you first thing in the morning.”

As usual, Bookie waited patiently. The house they were in sat on fifteen acres of wooded land in Burke County. Thanks to Susan, their real estate connect, they had property everywhere. The living room was L-shaped and combined with the dining room. Twan and Big Freaky were lying face down in the center of the living room floor in their boxers. Both of their hands were tied behind their back, and their ankles were tightly bound with duct tape. Looks of helpless desperation were in their eyes.

Terry Pate walked in with gloved hands and carrying a small surgeon bone saw that Bookie had bought on the black market just for the cause.

“Who first?” he asked Bookie.

Bookie uncrossed his legs and stood up from his seat. His eyes were fixed directly on Big Freaky. “He shot her.” He pointed at him, removed a pair of rubber latex gloves from his pocket, and carefully placed them on his hands.

Big Freaky’s eyes widened with fear and tears begin to fill them. He didn’t know what they were about to do, but it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

His muffled cries were drowned out by the electric bone saw. His mouth was duct taped, so it wouldn’t do no good anyway. Terry Pate jammed his foot into Big Freaky’s ribcage, and his body shook violently. That’s when Terry Pate knelt down beside him with the saw in his hand. They were going to do it without killing them first. The pain would be unbearable.

*****

Three days later, a UPS truck pulled up in front of a small wooden house that was amongst several abandoned houses in East Augusta. The driver got out with a package that was addressed to a Ms. Dorothy Harris. He made it to the small porch and knocked on the wooden front door. A woman’s voice answered from the inside, and then suddenly, the door was opened but stopped by the chain.

“Who you lookin’ fo’, baby?”

The lady examined the driver of the UPS truck. Then she unlatched the chain and opened the door fully. She was a short, stout lady with a head full of pink rollers. Bags were underneath her saddened eyes due to the fact that she hadn’t seen nor heard from her son, but this day, she would.

“I have a package for a Ms. Dorothy Harris,” the UPS driver said cheerfully.

The lady gave a bewildered look. “I’m Dorothy,” she replied, her hands trembling when she accepted it. Her eyes examined the box and noticed there wasn’t a return address on it.

The delivery guy produced a clipboard with a few papers clamped onto it.

“Sign here, miss,” he told her.

She did, and he left just as quickly as he came. Ms. Dorothy Harris walked inside, carefully holding the package with both hands. She closed the door and locked it. Her front room was neatly decorated with antique furniture and covered with plastic. On the coffee table was a photo of Big Freaky, Twan, and two other guys holding super soaker water guns. The picture was old and fading. She sat down on the love seat, placed the package on the table, and began opening it. Her hands were trembling, and when she opened it, she was confused at first. The four hands were wrapped in plastic and ace bandages. When she finished removing it all, she screamed to the top of her lungs and went into shock.

The police arrived on Fairhope nearly thirty minutes later; someone on the outside had made the call. After the officer saw what was in the package, he radioed for backup. Before long, the entire neighborhood was crawling with local police and detectives. Someone had called in the feds, and without question. They took over the situation, simply because the hands were delivered through the mail.

A few weeks later, Summer was released from the hospital. Her and Bookie were dining alone at an exclusive restaurant in downtown Atlanta. This was the first time they had actually gone out together. She was dressed in a two-piece Prada pantsuit. Her neck and ears were sparkling with diamonds. Bookie had on black Gucci shoes. He wore no jewelry except a watch that gave the time in three countries.

Summer sipped spring water from a straw, her eyes fixed directly on Bookie, who had a hard criminal face. His eyes were unreadable and deadly looking.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. His hands opened and shut just as quick.

“I think we look good together.”

“I look at you as a lil’ sister, Summer,” he said sharply and fired up a cigarette. He then turned his head to exhale the smoke away from her.

“I don’t wanna hear that lil’ sister shit, nigga,” she replied, giving him a seductive smile.

He smiled himself. “You crazy, you know that?” He reached and grabbed her hand, massaging her fingers briefly. “Summer, listen at me.” His tone was more serious. “I don’t wanna attach myself to nothin’ that might hinder me in the future. Say I get jammed up on a humbug and money can’t move me? I may have to do ten straight.”

Her hand was on top of his now. “The struggle is over, baby. You need a lady like me in your life. I wanna fuck with you.”

“Let me tell you somethin’ ‘bout me, Summer,” he said. “I’ve already been to prison. I did ten flat. No parole. I had nobody on the street that sent me shit. No mama, no daddy, no sistah, no brotha, no nothin’.” He puffed the cigarette again and snubbed it out in the ashtray.

A maître d’ walked up with a handsome smile on his face. “Is everything alright?” he asked. His tone was professional.

Bookie looked at him. “We good.” Then he thought about it and said, “Hen XO. No ice.”

He was gone within seconds.

Summer continued to stare at Bookie, as she stirred the water with her straw.

“What about the music? The studio?” she asked. “Niggas making money in the rap game.”

“I thought about that, too,” he said. “Are you investing wit’ me?”

“Do you need me to?”

Before he could answer, the maître d’ was back with a bottle of XO and two glasses on a silver tray and two linen clothes. Everything was placed on the table before them. Bookie gave him a two-hundred-dollar tip and nodded his head. The maître d’ left and allowed them to continue with their conversation. Bookie poured himself a drink and sat the bottle back down. He took a short sip, and the cognac warmed his insides quickly.

“We doin’ good together so far.”

“You’re right, but it’s one thing I need.” Her eyes pierced his.

*****

At the Hilton Hotel, Summer climbed on the bed in only a pair of lace thongs. Bookie was on his back, his head propped up on a row of goose feather pillows. Summer didn’t waste any time. She got to his penis, allowing her body to lie comfortably between his legs. She gripped it with both hands and carefully inserted him in her mouth. Her hand cupped his balls while her tongue went to work. Her technique was perfected from years of experience, even a few when she was in prison.

She felt Bookie tensing up. Her eyes looked up into his and saw he had a look of enjoyment on his face. He began playing with her hair and then slowly reached and caressed her breast. Ten minutes later, he came, and Summer mounted him. Her vagina was tight and hot as her body grinded against his.

“I wanna love you,” she whispered in his ear.

Bookie’s hands were nearly wrapped around Summer’s waist. Her eyes were closed, and she nibbled on her bottom lip, carefully bouncing up and down until she came. But, he didn’t stop there. He flipped her over, laying her on her back. With her legs wrapped around his waist, he proceeded to dig deep down inside of her. She was enjoying every minute of it as they worked their bodies in unison. After they finished, they laid in one another’s arms. With her head resting on his chest, she could feel his heart beating. Summer’s hand moved across his chest to where seven puncture wounds had healed.

“What happened here?” she asked.

Even though she had seen his neck before, it was still a question she’d always wanted to ask. Bookie took her hand and guided it across his stomach, then began telling her what happened, detail for detail.

It was the summer of 1996, and Smith State Prison was congested and hot. Bookie shared a cell with an overwhelmingly huge guy from Rome, Georgia. Bookie was on the top bunk listening to a UGK CD. His eyes were nearly closed; basically, he was high. This was how Bookie did his time, day in and day out.

Through his window he could see the small yard, which contained a half court slab of concrete and rusted basketball rim and backboard. For the moment, Bookie had allowed his mind to drift out into the free world, something often done under the circumstances. He noticed how intense the basketball game was growing. It was five on five, with a majority of Atlanta on one team and Augusta on the other. Often games were played like this in prison, sometimes to keep the tension down. However, this was how it all started.

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.