Crazy Summer (31 page)

“Bet that, dawg. I’m on the way.”

*****

When the ambulance arrived at the emergency section of MCG Hospital, the rear doors were popped open and Summer was rushed inside on the gurney with two male medics by her side. There was an oxygen mask pressed against her face. Her breathing was labored, and she was losing a lot of blood considering she’d been shot once in the chest and once in the shoulder. The jacking of her SUV was of little concern to her. While being rolled down the long corridor and into surgery, she saw her life flashing before her eyes. Her heart raced rapidly; she was scared for sure. Nothing like this was supposed to have happened to her.

  Now surrounded by a slew of doctors and nurses running in and out, Summer took another deep breath before she drifted into a sedated deep sleep. Two surgeons began working on her immediately.

“The slug is two inches from her heart,” one surgeon informed his medical team.

Summer’s clothes had been cut off of her and her breasts were exposed.

“Very careful,” a nurse said sympathetically.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Standing at the huge kitchen island, Mrs. Diane had cooked an enormous meal. The chicken breast had been cooked in a huge cast iron frying pan, smothered and covered in homemade duck sauce. Her fried yellow rice was from scratch, and the greens, which were now done, had been soaking since yesterday.

Alisa walked in dressed in Baby Phat from head to toe. A smile spread across her face when she saw her grandmother cooking. Alisa looked over at the stove. The aroma smelled so good she had to close her eyes.

  Downstairs, the twins had their own private room with a universal weight set and dead weights. They both weighed about two hundred and twenty-five pounds apiece; they were muscular, strong, and wore their hair in dreadlocks. “Ambitionz Az a Ridah” by 2Pac vibrated from the huge speakers. Jermaine stood behind the bench while his brother positioned himself underneath the bar that was holding two hundred and ten pounds. Jeremy grabbed the bar, with 2Pac geeking him up as he lay flat on his back. He removed the bar with no problem, brought it down to his chest, and lifted it with no hesitation. He completed seven reps, and then his brother got down and did the same. An hour passed, and they’d both worked up an enormous sweat. After leaving their weight room, they entered the garage through a side door, where Lil’ Danté was working fiercely on a speed bag. His hands were quick as lighting.

  A horn blew outside the garage door. Jermaine hit the switch on the wall, and the door slowly rose. Bookie stepped down from a black 2004 Suburban. He was dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and black Gucci shoes. The twins had got close to him; he’d grown on them, and they looked up to him like an uncle. He had a grim look on his face as he walked toward them. The engine from the Suburban roared while idling, and there were two more guys inside waiting patiently. Bookie exchanged a few brief words with the boys. Inside the kitchen, he met with Summer’s mother. They exchanged hellos, and then he broke the news to her.

“Summer is in the hospital.”

Mrs. Diane’s eyes widened and her face stiffened. She stared directly at Bookie, her hands trembling uncontrollably, and she could barely get her words out.

“What…what happened?”

Bookie grabbed her hands. “She was shot, but she’s alright. I wanna take you down to the hospital. She needs some support.”

Mrs. Diane’s eyes filled with tears. “I got to get the kids,” she said.

Bookie hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” 

*****

At the hospital, the family waited in the waiting room, while Bookie met with the doctor.

“How long before we can see her?” he asked.

The Indian doctor wore a nametag that was hard for Bookie to pronounce. He had a wiry frame underneath his hospital coat, with shiny black hair neatly combed in place.

He gave Bookie a smile and replied, “She’s a very strong young lady. The surgery was successful, but she’s asleep at the moment. Let her rest for a couple of hours.”

“I understand everything you’re saying, but I need to see her personally right now.”

The doctor wanted to tell him no, but decided against it. He led Bookie down the corridor and through a door to where Summer laid on a hospital bed. She was connected to several wires and tubes, including an oxygen tank and IV. Bookie walked up next to the bed and grabbed her hand. He never thought he would have to see her in a position like this; his anger couldn’t rise any higher. He took a deep breath while massaging her hand.

“Can you hear me, Summer?” he leaned toward her and asked.

Several seconds passed, but she didn’t say a word, not even a limb moved. Then, suddenly, her finger twitched inside his hand. His eyes widened with a glow.

“You smell like weed again.” The words escaped through her lips in a whisper as her eyes slowly opened.

He smiled. “Let me ask you this, who was it?”

“A fat black-ass nigga with braids,” she mumbled. “He shot me for nothing. I didn’t buck or nothing.”

“Anything else you saw?” Bookie asked. His heart was thumping so hard he felt like it was about to explode. His Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat.

“A gray Nova with tinted windows.”

Bookie thought for a second. He remembered a gray Nova parked in Delta Manor a couple of weeks ago.

He kissed Summer on her cheek. “Yo’ mama and the kids are in the waiting room. I’ma leave a few of my boys here, too, okay.”

He started to leave, but suddenly her hand gripped his, causing him to look her in her eyes.

“Whoever’s responsible I want their hands mailed to their mama.”

A tone of aggression rose in her voice, and Bookie knew she meant every word.

Bookie had patience that was out of this world. He didn’t stress himself for nothing; he was in control and that was for sure. It had taken him nearly six days to find out who owned the gray Chevy Nova. He rode in silence in a blue Crown Victoria with tinted windows. To his right, Terry Pate stared out the window as they cruised past rows of red brick complexes in a project called Delta Manor. Kids rode through the neighborhood on bicycles. Two more cars followed behind Bookie, a black Chevy Lumina with tinted windows and a Chrysler 300. They were ten deep all together, and everybody was strapped and a wearing Kevlar bulletproof vest.

When Bookie turned the corner, the Chevy Nova was parked in front of one of the apartments. He noticed the Chevy had been painted black and was now sitting on chrome rims. Two younger-looking guys were sitting on the front porch passing a blunt between them. He cruised past and parked on the opposite side of the street. The Chevy Lumina and Chrysler continued forward. Thirty yards up the street both cars turned around. One parked on each side of the street, facing Bookie in the Crown Victoria. Terry Pate threw on a six-inch Afro wig, followed by a pair of cheap sunglasses. He watched the porch through the side mirror. Then, with a black Beretta clutched in one of his gloved hands, he looked over at Bookie.

“You ready?” Bookie asked, his dark eyes anxious.

“Let’s do it.”

Bookie dropped the gearshift in reverse and pressed the gas pedal lightly. The rear of the Crown Victoria bumped the front of the Nova hard enough to be heard. This was just a tactic to get the owner of the car to step forward.

Inside the apartment, a guy who went by the name Twan was lying next to a female in a queen-sized bed that was overcrowded with stuffed animals. Twan and the female were naked. She lay with her head on his hairless chest. Twan was nearly dozing off when a knock came from the bedroom door. His eyes popped open. The house belonged to the female’s brother, who was sitting on the front porch.

“Who is it?” she whispered, her eyes barely open.

“Tell Twan some nigga jus’ backed into his car,” the muffled voice said through the door.

Twan nearly tossed the female to the floor. “I jus’ got my shit painted,” he said as he jumped into a pair of jeans, forgetting to  grab his gun from underneath the pillow. The female threw on a shirt, slid on a pair of small shorts, and followed Twan out the door.

Outside, Terry Pate was examining the front of the Nova when Twan walked out the front door. Nosey neighbors watched from the apartments next door and across the street. Everything seemed to be a minor accident. Twan walked off the porch talking shit. His thin, chiseled body was covered with chain gang tattoos across his chest, arms, and stomach. Terry Pate was standing up now, and within seconds, the Chrysler 300 had pulled up, but nothing happened.

“You own this car?” Terry Pate asked.

“Damn right it’s mine.”

As Terry Pate pulled the Beretta from his jacket pocket, the trunk of the Crown Victoria popped open. Two guys from the Chrysler 300 were out the car with ski masks and vests. They were strapped with MP-S submachine guns, and everybody was aimed at Twan. Terry Pate poked the gun in his mid-section and guided him toward the trunk.

“Jump in, nigga,” Terry Pate growled.

Twan climbed in the trunk, and within seconds, they were gone without one bullet fired.

*****

Summer had been removed from the intensive care unit and placed in a regular hospital room. Her family came to visit every day. Red Bone never left her side; she waited on her hand and foot.

As Summer lay in her uncomfortable hospital bed, the twins and Lil’ Danté came through the door with four bags from the cafeteria. Another guy walked in behind them, standing right at six feet and powerfully built. Respectfully, he spoke to the family and made his way to Summer while introducing himself as Detective Fuller. He exchanged a brief handshake with her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his eyes penetrating hers.

She smiled. “I’m fine. Ready to go home.”

He flipped open the manila folder he held. “Would you like to take a look at a few of these mug shots?”

Before he could finish his question, Summer cut him off. “I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t see no car or anything. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to talk with my family.” She turned her head toward her mother. “Mama, like I was saying…”

The detective caught on to her coldness. He turned his head and stared around the room. Everybody gave him a look as if they didn’t want him there. He quickly removed a card from his pocket and extended it toward Summer.

“Can you call me if you think of anything?”

She took the card without saying a word and tore it up after he walked out the room.

Jermaine whispered into Jeremy’s ear while removing fried chicken and rice and gravy from the bag. “Mama swears she’s a gangsta.”