Crazy Summer (10 page)

Summer smiled. “Did she leave a number?” 

As she pulled a load of clothes out the dryer, the doorbell sounded.

“She didn’t leave a number, but I told her I’d call you to see if you wanted me to give her yo’ number.”

Now at the front door, Summer glanced through the peephole and saw somebody on the porch. “Okay, Mama, give her my number when she calls again. Let me see who dis’ is at the door. I’ll call you back.”

After Mrs. Diane hung up, Summer continued looking through the peephole. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Is Danté home?” The guy asked this question, hoping he could buy some time. He knew Danté wasn’t there.

“He ain’t home,” she said, then went to the window.

To her surprise, she saw the guy remove a handgun from his waist. As she turned and ran upstairs, four shots rang out, the bullets shattering the wooden door. Summer quickly wrapped up Lil’ Danté, who was now crying by the sudden movement. Summer’s heart thumped fiercely inside her chest. She could still hear the gunfire ringing in her ear. She didn’t want to call the police because she knew Danté had drugs and guns inside the house. So, she dialed his cell phone, and he answered on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Danté…” She was breathing hard.

“What’s wrong?”

“Somebody…jus’ shot in tha house.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah. I didn’t call da police yet.”

Danté thought quickly. “Call ‘em now. I’m on my way, okay?”

“Okay.” 

She hung up and dialed 911, and as she was explaining what had happened, the dispatcher told her a car was already on the way. A neighbor had called, which wasn’t a surprise.

When Danté pulled up, he parked on the grass because a Richmond County Sheriff’s car had the driveway blocked off. Nervous, he got out his car, with the twins exiting behind him from the backseat. Police made anybody nervous, especially when they knew they were doing wrong. Danté’s nine-millimeter was tucked away in his trunk under some cleaning rags, and two keys of cocaine and a Tec-9 were well hidden in the house.

A short, white officer was examining the door where the bullets had entered. He walked inside the house with the twins holding each of his hands. Summer was sitting in the living room answering questions from another officer. She held the baby in her arms, but stood up when she saw Danté. They hugged, and he took the baby.

“You alright?” he asked her, trying not to show any signs of anger in front of the police.

Thirty minutes later, the police were gone. Before leaving, they told them a detective would come by to investigate the case. Danté and Summer were now alone in the den, with the baby wrapped in blankets and sound asleep on the sofa.

“Did you see how he looked?”

“Not really.” She shook her head. “But he asked was you home.”

“Did you see a car?” Danté’s eyes were fire red.

“It was an old car, primed.”

Danté thought for a few minutes. He knew there wasn’t but three people he dealt with that knew where he lived. He would play everything by ear and reaction. No questions would come from him.

“You ain’t got to get in no trouble, Danté.”

His eyes were staring at the carpet. His hands had started to sweat, and the anger was showing all over his face. He threw his head back and exhaled. He was desperately trying to control himself. Summer threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, but he wasn’t in it himself.

She then got on her knees, began unbuckling his belt, and quickly removed his penis from his pants and boxers. He resisted, almost using a great amount of force. Her eyes met his, and he pulled her back up to his lap. As she sat there holding him, she noticed his eyes had turned moist.

“I don’t be fuckin’ wit’ none of these niggas,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Everybody’s alright. That’s all dat matters,” Summer told him in a soothing tone.

“Ain’t nothin’ alright when my family’s in jeopardy. A muthafucka come to my house shootin’ while my girl and kids at home don’t happen.” He looked around the room. “Where da phone at?”

Summer drove Danté’s Cadillac down Deans Bridge Road. She’d only been driving a couple of months now, but her skills were near excellent. En Vogue was thumping through the twelve’s in the trunk. She was back to dressing provocatively, with a cut-off t-shirt, tight-fitting jeans, and a small pair of Air Jordan’s on her feet.

She turned into the lot of a hair and nail salon called Yolanda’s and parked next to a red sports car directly in front of the clear glass window. She could see the other women inside craning their necks to admire her boyfriend’s car. She got out, head high, prissy. Moving gracefully like a model, she entered the hair salon. There were between twelve and fifteen women scattered throughout the salon. She scanned the area for a familiar face before spotting a woman to her left waving her hand. Summer smiled and walked toward Ann, who was washing a lady’s hair. The walls were lined with mirrors and a total of twelve stations in the establishment, eight on her left and four on her right.

Summer felt the stares. She knew other bitches were hating on her and whispering behind her back, but at this point, they couldn’t fade her. She reached Ann’s station, and they hugged briefly. They were more than happy to see one another.

“When you came home?” Summer asked, while smiling with her hands propped on her hips. She knew she was well shaped. Even after three kids, her waist was still small. As a matter of fact, her buttocks had actually gotten bigger. Her body was her main asset, and she knew jealous eyes were staring.

“‘Bout three months now,” Ann replied as she sprayed the lady’s hair.

“You know I jus’ had another baby,” Summer happily announced.

Ann gave her a surprised look. “You lyin’, girl?”

The female standing at the next station was ear hustling and couldn’t help but to get into their conversation.

“You jus’ had a baby?” She sounded surprised herself and amazed at how Summer’s body was shaped.

Ann gave the lady a look as if to say,
Mind yo’ damn business.
  Summer caught the look, too, but she laughed it off and answered her. They chatted for more than thirty minutes. After Ann had finished washing and conditioning the lady’s hair, she moved her to under a dryer, then Ann and Summer walked out front.

The weather was extremely nice; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Ann led Summer to the rear of a red Chevy Blazer and opened the door. There were two large trash bags sitting together. Ann opened one and removed a few summer dresses that still had tags on them. Summer didn’t waste any time choosing three colorful ones.

“I got Izod and Polo shirts, too,” Ann told her while going into the other bag. She spread them out for Summer and then placed a couple pair of Guess denim shorts on her arm. “Dey still got da’ dye pins on ‘em,” Ann added. “But, I can get ‘em off if you want ‘em.”

“I need a smaller size fo’ Danté. ‘Bout a thirty-fo’ in da waist.”

“Danté?” Ann said. “What Danté?” Her eyebrows bunched together as if the name rang a bell.

“My boyfriend Danté. You might know him. He from da village, too.”

“Nah, it ain’t dat.” She turned and looked at the Caddy. Everything was coming back to her. She faced Summer and said, “I remember some bitch in da salon sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a dude named Danté.”

Summer gave her an evil look. “Like what?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout a nigga shot his house up.” She paused. “And he had two niggas killed.”

Summer’s heart rumbled, and her adrenaline raced from head to toe. She tried to appear calm. “Is she inside now?”

“Nah, she jus’ came in and got her hair did yesterday.”

“You know her name?”

“Not off hand. I know it starts wit’ a ‘M’,” Ann said. “I tell you what, though. I’ll have a name fo’ you tonight.”

Ann only charged her seventy dollars for the clothes and promised they would talk later on that night. Summer knew this information would be very important to Danté, and she would relay every word to him the way she would get it.

*****

An apartment complex called Trinity Manor sat next to Barton Village, and Danté was in one of the many apartments. For the last three months, the apartment had been under surveillance by a team of undercover narcotic agents. It was a nosy neighbor who had called the police several months ago and told them about all the activity coming from a pathway that connected Barton Village to Trinity Manor. Now, some kind of way, Danté’s full name was neatly typed across a folded warrant.

Detective Child sat patiently behind the steering wheel of an unmarked car which had been confiscated from a drug bust earlier that month. Through the high-powered binoculars, he could see the front door clearly. Danté was in an upstairs apartment and leaning against the open door with a McDonald’s cup in his right hand. He used his left hand to throw the last bite of a fish sandwich in his mouth. After licking his thumb and forefinger, he took a sip from the cup. Another guy appeared in sight wearing a blue, short-sleeved Polo shirt and jean shorts. Two gold rope chains were around his neck.

The two men laughed together while moving inside. When the door closed behind them, Detective Child lowered his binoculars. He checked his watch; it was just past three o’clock. He popped his trunk from the button in the glove compartment, got out, went to the trunk, and removed a Kevlar vest from a duffel bag. He slid it over a t-shirt and then radioed to the remainder of the team to inform them that they were going in. He closed the trunk and removed his Glock 40 from its holster; he held it in a position that meant he was ready for whatever.

Inside the apartment, Danté sat on the edge of the sofa close enough to count his money on the glass coffee table. He carefully leafed through the bills until it totaled forty-eight hundred dollars.

“Fo’ ounces?” Danté said in a questioning tone.

The guy in the blue Polo shirt nodded. “Can you front me fo’, too?” he asked nervously.

Danté studied him briefly. “I ain’t takin’ no shorts,” he said and stood up.

He walked straight into the kitchen and reached into a cabinet above the sink. As he grabbed a freezer Ziploc bag containing twelve ounces of crack, the front door crashed in. Danté turned at the sound. His gun was underneath the sofa. It was too far for him to reach and now out of the question considering the apartment was crawling with local narcotics agents. Three armed detectives had Danté spread out on the cold tile floor, with the dope nearly at his fingertips. He never had a chance.

      Ninety-nine percent of every black male who was in the game took a trip to the Richmond County Jail. This was Danté’s third trip; the other two were only misdemeanor charges that wouldn’t result in him visiting upstairs.

      He sat very uncomfortably in the backseat of a black and gray patrol car. The handcuffs that were holding his hands behind his back were actually pinching his skin. Sweat covered his face and stung his eyes. He couldn’t wipe it away either. The car he was in raced and weaved through traffic from Barton Chapel Road to Gordon Highway. He stared out the window at civilian cars, businesses, and other things that wouldn’t have mattered to him if he were in his own car. One never realizes the small things in life could mean so much until they’re locked up.