Crazy Summer (16 page)

“It’s in a safe in the backyard underneath the shed,” she said nervously.

The guy shoved the gun harder against her chin. She felt it on the bone; she just knew they were about to kill her. Her eyes were filled with tears. Then, the twins appeared at the doorway.

“Leave our mama alone.”

They all turned at the sound, each one aiming a gun on impulse. Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the front door, and shots were fired. This time, it was the feds for real.

*****

Summer had her baby, and right after the delivery, it was turned over to her mother. When Summer was well enough, she was transported back to the county jail to await sentencing on federal charges of conspiracy to sell cocaine. She couldn’t believe it, and it was damn sure hard for her to digest. The feds didn’t show her any mercy considering she was the victim.

At this point, she prayed day and night that she could be home with her kids. She’d named her daughter Alisa, a beautiful baby who weighed four pounds, six ounces. Not being able to bond with her newborn baby hurt her badly.

What will happen now?
she wondered. Her heart couldn’t stop racing, and she was about to worry herself to death. The feds had confiscated everything––both houses, the cars, and the salon. She had nothing but her mother and kids.
Was it all for nothing?
she asked herself as she cried herself to sleep.

The following morning, she appeared before a judge in the federal courthouse downtown. She was clad in a bright orange jumper with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She felt like she was cramping, but that was just the butterflies in her stomach. She was escorted by a tall, light-skinned marshal, who directed her to a seat next to Hugh Walton, her lawyer. He smiled and extended a hand for her to shake when she approached. She did.

He whispered, “Considering these goons tried to rob you and I’ve explained the case to the judge, they’re offering you eighty-four months.”

His words hit her like a blow to the stomach. She tried counting eighty-four months in her head. Her hands began to tremble so bad she lost focus.

“Seven years!” she blurted out.

Her face twisted in an angry frown. Near tears, she buried her face in her hands. Problems were coming in a domino effect. She was lost in thought for a minute, until the lawyer’s voice snapped her back to reality.

“Ms. McKey,” he said, “it could’ve been a lot worse. I mean, there was close to a kilo of cocaine and over three hundred thousand dollars in your possession.”  He paused. “Seven is a great deal. Believe me.”

Those were the last words her lawyer spoke to her. She allowed her body to relax, rearing back in her chair and waiting for the judge. She knew this would be a long ride, but in her heart, she would make everybody pay. She would take nothing for granted and leave nothing behind. From here on, it was about her only and nothing else.

Inside an upstairs bedroom in a projects called Sunset, Jermaine packaged two ounces of weed in plastic dime bags, while Jeremy watched the door to make sure Lil’ Danté or their little sister, Alisa, wasn’t coming toward their room. He closed the door and turned toward his brother. Jermaine was sitting on his bed, his hair thick, nappy worn in an Afro. Jeremy stood over him; he was 5’10” tall and Jermaine was 5’11”. They were only thirteen years old and still had a lot of growing to do. Both didn’t consider themselves hustlers, but they knew they had to take care of their younger brother and sister and their grandmother, who was sick and bedridden. They fed and bathed her. She was worse than a child sometimes; however, she was the head of the household. She moved them to the projects three years ago to pay less rent. Food stamps kept the family fed, and the twins helped out a lot. They were the star players on the basketball team for Tubman Middle School, and they felt good about that. But, at home, they had their own personal problems. They were a poor, struggling family.

Outside, the weather was fair and the traffic was heavy. The twins went right into action. Jermaine held the weed sacks, while his brother carried a small, nickel-plated .25 automatic pistol. One bullet was concealed inside the chamber; it was mostly for scare, though. The crowd they blended with in the projects was in an age group of fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen. The twins were the youngest of all of them and also the biggest. Mostly height, their frames were thin and chiseled. They could palm a basketball and dunk without a problem.

They walked into an alley, or the fire lane as it was called. There were several out there, and the majority of them were weed traps. The first guy who walked up to them was a regular face they’d seen several times before.

“Y’all niggas ain’t got no powder?” he asked.

Jermaine shook his head. “We got dat mid.”

The guy moved on, and they watched him until he left their eyesight. A gold Camry with tinted windows came down the fire lane and pulled into a parking space across from where they were standing. The twins knew about the narcs and the unmarked cars they drove. They’d seen enough drug activity and raids in the projects to know the games they played.

The advantage the twins had is that they were identical, and they used it well to play tricks on people, including their teachers, their principal, and even a few young girls.

Almost an hour had passed, and they’d made close to one hundred dollars. Jermaine looked up, craning his neck almost at a 360-degree angle. An older looking guy was about four feet behind them. Jeremy spun around, his hand in his pocket on the pistol. The stranger was tall himself. He stood nearly 6’6”, his jaws were sunken, and he was bony as a pole with long, skinny fingers. He was dressed in filthy clothes, and his shoes were so raggedy that his big toes were visible through the top of them. Both twins stared up at him. He was a junkie; there wasn’t a doubt about that.

“Whuzzup, pimp?” Jermaine asked as his eyes scanned the guy from head to toe.

The guy stood silent for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth from Jermaine to Jeremy. Finally, he whispered, “All I got is ten dollars, but if one of y’all could beat me on da court, I’ll double it.”

“How you gonna double it if you ain’t got but ten dollars?”  Jeremy asked, his hand still on the twenty-five. Then he slowly removed it from his pocket.

The guy looked directly at it. “I don’t want no problems,” he said. “I’m jus’ tryna get some extra money.”

Two other guys came up through the small cut that separated two of the buildings. They were a few years older than the twins, but everybody in the projects knew of them and their bad habits. They smoked weed, sniffed powdered cocaine, sold crack, and robbed anything or anyone they could. They were smoking Newport’s when they approached. One of them looked at the junkie.

The other looked at the gun Jeremy was holding and said, “Fuck y’all lil’ niggas doin?”

Jermaine spoke up first. “Dis nigga tryna run game.”

They looked at the junkie. “Whazzup, bruh. What’s goin’ on?”

The junkie shook his head. “I’m jus’ tryna get a bet on da ball court.”

“Ain’t chu da one who supposed to went pro a few years back?”

The twins were already staring at him to see if they’d seen him somewhere before. Now they were interested.

“You went pro?”  Jermaine asked.

The junkie shrugged. “You can say dat.”

“And you wanna hustla us ‘cause you went pro and fucked up?” Jermaine said with an angry tone, then looked at his brother. “I’ma go get da ball, and I’ma show dis nigga.”

“I got thirty to ten against the twin.”

The deal was sealed. There was a small crowd that went down to the gym behind the project, while Jermaine went to their apartment to grab the basketball. His grandmother was lying on the hospital bed in the living room, Lil’ Danté was putting lotion on his feet, and Alisa was brushing her hair. Jermaine walked over to his grandmother and kissed her cheek.

“You alright, Grandma?” he asked.

Her eyes were weak, and her skin was wrinkled. She tried to speak, but the words barely escaped her mouth as her lips parted slightly. “Where you goin’?” 

“We at da gym. We finna play basketball.”

“Can I come?” Lil’ Danté asked, interrupting the conversation.

Mrs. Diane’s eyes closed as she drifted off to sleep from the medication that kept her drowsy. Jermaine shot upstairs to grab his basketball. He stepped into a pair of sweat pants and went back downstairs. As he headed to the front door, the phone rang, stopping him in his tracks. His little sister answered, and a smile appeared across her face.

“It’s Mama,” she said cheerfully.

Alisa smiled as she spoke into the phone. Her eyes sparkled at Jermaine. He moved away from the door and came toward the phone, with the ball cuffed under his arm.

“Here, Maine,” she said, handing over the phone.

“Hey Mama,” Jermaine said. He was definitely happy to hear from her.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

His eyes darted to Lil’ Danté, who was staring directly at him. “Yes, ma’am. I was on my way to da gym. We got an old dude who wanna play us on da court.”

“Where’s Jeremy?”

“He’s already there waitin’ on me.”

“Is Mama alright?”

He looked over at his grandmother. “She’s asleep.”

“Tell her I called.”

“You still comin’ home in four months?”

“With the Lord’s will, I’ll be home in July.”

Jermaine smiled. “I’ll be glad.”

Lil’ Danté listened in on the conversation, and when it sounded like his brother was about to hang up, he said, “Let me talk.”

“Okay, Mama,” Jermaine said. “I’ma let Tae talk. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Lil’ Danté got on the phone and began talking to Summer about his grades in school. He was a straight ‘A’ student and loved bragging about it. He told her about a few of his friends who were on the boxing team at the Augusta Boxing Club. He wanted to join, but his grandmother told him that he’d have to ask his mother. So, he did.

“Is that what you wanna do?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, ‘cause I already know how to fight.”

“Have you been fightin’ in school, Danté?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “But, I beat up a boy down the street fo’ Maine.”

She laughed on the other end. Lil’ Danté was her youngest son; he’d be ten years old that year, and she knew he wasn’t a baby anymore.

“When I come home, I’ll let you box, but only on one condition, though.”

“What’s the condition?” he asked enthused, a broad smile playing over his face.

“Promise me that you will not get into any trouble.”

“I promise.” He continued to smile.