Crazy Summer (34 page)

“Good afternoon,” he said.

His voice wasn’t southern, and Summer took a mental note of that.

“Hello,” she responded back. Her eyes never moved away from his. For a moment, their gaze was locked into one another’s. She caught herself, took in a small breath, and then released it.

“I just wanted to say congratulations with your success. This place is beautiful.”

He finally released her hand.

She stood silent until out of nowhere a picture was taken from the crowd. Summer smiled at her success. Then curiosity struck her when the stranger turned and walked away, fading into the crowd. She motioned for Terry Pate to pick up his phone. She punched a number on her cell, and he answered.

“Yeah.”

“That guy who was just here talking to me, will you check him out?”

“I’m already on it.”

After hanging up, his eyes swept the room until he caught sight of the stranger. Terry Pate moved swiftly through the sea of people, but everybody dressed in white made it kind of hard. He bumped into a female, and they exchanged looks for no more than a second.

“Excuse me,” he said and continued to move, while the music blared rhythm and blues.

Terry Pate caught a breath of fresh air. He scanned the parking lot and pulled out a pack of Newport’s. His victim was nowhere to be found as cars and SUV’s passed him by. He squinted his eyes and carefully scanned again. Groups of females were laughing in the far corner. Then he noticed a gold Avalon backing out of a parking space to his left. He saw the guy through the rear window. It was definitely him. He took a mental note of the tag and moved swiftly about ten feet away to a parked Lincoln Town Car. He started the engine and noticed a light sweat had formed on his forehead. When he pulled out, he was three cars behind the Avalon. Picking up the car phone, Terry Pate followed him out onto Gordon Highway.

The night was hazed, and a light misty rain fell politely to the ground as if Mother Nature was actually showing feelings toward the city of Augusta. Two local narcotic agents were parked in the lot of the Red Lobster on Washington Road. The guy on the passenger side of the old ‘99 Tahoe wore a blonde ponytail and shades. His hands were huge, and he wore a wedding band on one hand and a class ring on the other. They called him Ponytail in the streets, and he actually answered to it.

In the driver’s seat was his four-year partner Damian Moss, the first black narcotic agent who was truly a police officer. He was married with two kids. A girl and a boy, ages nine and twelve. In the station, his fellow officers called him Big Moose instead of Big Moss; he was really a hard ass. He stood six-four and weighed nearly two hundred and seventy pounds consisting of solid muscles. He was powerfully built, a barrel chest and wide broad shoulders. His kids’ names were tattooed on his bulging left bicep; Damian and Trish were their names. His left hand rested on the steering wheel as they monitored the traffic in the parking lot. Ponytail’s cell phone rang, and he answered quickly.

“Hello,” he said in a northern accent.

“The greatest danger occurred at the moment of victory,” the voice said from the other end. “Arrange for a meeting. Two hours.”

Then the line went dead.

Ponytail swallowed and pressed the END button. There wasn’t a worried look across his face. It was more of an agitated mask.

Big Moose looked over toward him. “What’s da matter wit’ da baby?” he asked, referring to Ponytail. It was one of several small jokes they shared amongst each other.

*****

The gold Avalon pulled into the McDonald’s drive-thru on Deans Bridge Road. Terry Pate was directly behind him in the Lincoln Town Car. He couldn’t figure this guy out. Who was he?

He threw the car in park and opened the driver’s side door, the interior lights illuminating the car. Terry Pate stepped out; his gun was in his waistline as he approached the Avalon. Before he could reach the driver’s side door, federal agents emerged from every other car in the drive-thru. More unmarked cars pulled up, the tires coming to a screeching halt. The guy in the Avalon stepped out and flipped open his wallet, flashing his badge, and when Terry Pate saw the bold letters that spelled out DEA, everything else didn’t matter. He carefully raised his hands above his head. While being shook down, his eyes searched the crowd of agents. They had found the gun. Another minor problem.

Then he saw a face he recognized. They placed him in the back seat of one of the unmarked cars. Several ideas flashed before his eyes and tumbled around inside his head. Terry Pate had started to sweat a little while his heart rate sped up.
This is some real fucked up shit,
he thought.

Two hours later, Terry Pate called Summer from his cell, but didn’t get an answer. He paced the floor of the hotel room where two agents monitored him. He’d already agreed to a deal.

They wanted Summer.

*****

Summer and Bookie rode to South Carolina in separate automobiles, and they arrived at Mama Elizabeth’s place forty minutes behind one another. Arriving at the estate last, she punched in a numbered code on the electric keypad. The iron gate slowly opened, and she drove in. The gate closed behind her as she slowly cruised down the brick driveway. Bright lights lined it on both sides until she came to the circular area where a convoy of unmarked rental cars were parked. Summer stepped out of a ‘98 Volvo dressed down in plain jogging pants, a dark t-shirt, and Air-Max sneakers.

Once inside, Mama Elizabeth greeted her with a hug, and they exchanged small polite kisses on the cheek.

“You look wonderful,” Mama Elizabeth said. She took Summer’s right hand and adored a huge diamond resting in platinum.

“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.”

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.