Numbers (21 page)

“What up, cuz?” Matt bellowed with his strong southern twang. Mel was still a little groggy. He gave his cousin a pound and a hug. They hadn’t seen each other for close to fifteen years. Their eyes couldn’t help but open wider at the sight of Rosa looking like a Latina movie star.

“How long y’all staying?” Matt asked.

“Not sure,” Numbers replied.

“Well, you know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” Aunt Camille said.

They sat down at the table, and Numbers filled his belly to the max, enjoying getting reacquainted with his family.

It was good to finally breathe—do nothing else but breathe.

Numbers cut off all ties with everyone after the funeral. He could not bear to speak to any of his crew, let alone look in their faces. He was sure they blamed him for Ketta’s death. Shit, he blamed himself.

When he last spoke to his mother, she’d said Broz and Jarvis came by regularly asking for him. He hoped they understood that his leaving wasn’t about them, it was something he needed to do for himself. Numbers and Rosa enjoyed the climate and the change of pace of living outside of the city. They decided to relocate to Virginia. Staying with his aunt and cousins was cool for the first three weeks, but then he realized that his family needed their own place. A week later, they found a two-bedroom with washer and
dryer, wall-to-wall carpeting, and other amenities in Virginia Beach. They would never have found anything this proper for the price in New York City. The apartment was about twenty minutes away from his Aunt Camille’s place.

Over the next several months Numbers spent most of his time in their apartment. Rosa enrolled in classes at Norfolk State University. Her sights were set on a degree in business management, and despite her previous attempts, she vowed to graduate this time. Rosa knew how to handle cash and stashed most of the money Numbers gave her for a rainy day.

Numbers didn’t hang out with his cousins much. He didn’t feel up to it. Other than taking Rosa out to dinner and to an occasional nightclub, he wasn’t doing much with his days at all. His mind was unable to rest easy. Waketta’s murder was constantly digging at him. He couldn’t smoke enough blunts or play enough video games to dampen his hurt. He knew what he had to do. Finally he put a call in to New York and set his plan in motion.

“Hello, where are my two favorite men?” Rosa beckoned, coming through the front door and resting her book bag in the foyer. R.C. came crawling toward the sound of his mother’s voice. He was nine months old now. His hair was dark and wavy, and his complexion was light brown like his mother’s.

“There’s my little boobie. There he go,” Rosa said in a small playful voice that made R.C. giggle and laugh. She picked him up and kissed his baby cheeks. “Where’s your daddy?” she continued. “Show me where Daddy’s at. Are you hungry? Did Daddy feed you?” She blew into his belly, making a funny noise. R.C. flailed his little body, laughing and giggling. She walked to the master bedroom.

“Hey, baby, what you up to?” The joy on her face turned to confusion. Seeing Numbers packing, she asked, “You going somewhere?” Numbers was slow to answer, so she continued to press. “Where are you going?”

“I need to get away,” he said, not looking up and continuing to pack.

“You’re leaving us here? Where you going that you can’t take us?” Rosa was getting upset.

“I just want to get away, go to Atlantic City for a day or two or something.”

“How can you just up and leave us?” she said. “That’s some bullshit” was a close translation for what she said to him in Spanish. She turned and stormed out of the room with her son playing with her hair.

Numbers knew she would react unfavorably but hadn’t thought she’d be this upset.

“Rosa, Rosa, you’re right!” he exclaimed following her into the front. “Let’s all go. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Okay?” He hoped this would appease her. “But you know I’m going to gamble, so I’ll be down in the casino awhile. I don’t want to hear no whining.”

She smiled, kissing R.C., pleased that she’d gotten her way. “R.C., we’re going on a road trip. You hear that? We’re going shopping in Atlantic City,” she said in a playful baby voice.

Saturday morning, Numbers went out and loaded up the rental car. Rosa followed shortly after. It was 10:37 when they headed out. It was 3:29 in the afternoon when they pulled into the Trump Plaza parking lot. After setting their luggage down in their two-room suite and freshening up, Numbers took his family out to eat. They were back in the room taking a nap by 7
P.M.

Numbers awoke a little before ten. He threw on his jeans, long-sleeved crewneck, black hoodie, and black Nikes, then put a black cap in his right pocket. Rosa woke up, hearing movement in the adjoining room. Only a sliver of light from the Atlantic City nightlife snuck through the break in the curtains. She covered up the baby, who was sleeping next to her. She saw light coming from the other room and heard the TV.

“Who you going to kill?” Rosa asked jokingly, coming out of the bedroom seeing Numbers dressed in all black.

“I’ma murder the blackjack table,” he answered with a controlled smile. He thought it was ironic she would make that quip.

“When you coming back?”

“Don’t know. When I win enough or get tired.”

“Okay, baby, then win us a lotta money and hurry up back so I can give you some of this good stuff,” she said as she wiggled her sweet ass at him.

If Numbers didn’t have business to take care of, he probably would have stayed there and gotten some of her good stuff. Numbers went into the bedroom, kissed his son on the cheek, and looked at him for a moment. He looked like Rosa, sleeping so peacefully. He came back to the living room and kissed his lady passionately, as if it was the last time he’d see her. Rosa felt something different in his kiss, but couldn’t place it. He left.

In the casino, clouds of smoke hovered above the huge space like an overcast sky. The sounds of bells from the one-armed bandits and coins descending to their temporary resting place in the machines until the casino workers came to retrieve them were never-ending. Scantily clad hostesses bounced to and fro, taking drink orders, putting extra-big smiles on their faces to obtain higher tips. It was Numbers’s second time in Atlantic City. He’d visited once before with Crispy Carl, right after his twenty-first birthday.

He felt at home in the stench of cigarettes, musk, and money. This is where he was supposed to be, and he wondered why he hadn’t frequented the casinos more often. He strolled past the roulette and craps tables. He had no desire to play roulette, but he thought about trying craps later. He breezed by various blackjack tables with their varying rules and minimum bets until he came upon the right one for him—blackjack 21, with one deck of cards. He sat in the last seat, next to the dealer. Crispy Carl told him it
was the best seat, because he would have the last decision to hit or let the dealer take the brick. A Middle Eastern woman, whose name tag read
SEDALIA,
shuffled the deck. In addition to Numbers, there were three other players at the table. The minimum bet was $50; the maximum was $10,000. None of the other players placed a bet lower then $150. Numbers tossed twenty-five $20 bills onto the green-cushioned table.

“Five hundred dollars coming in!” Sedalia called to the pit boss.

An African-American woman in her late thirties walked over, looked at Numbers and then at the table. “Five hundred. Good. Would you like a Trump player’s card, sir?” she inquired politely.

“Nah, not yet,” Numbers replied. Then seeing the dealer reaching for $25 and $50 chips, he instructed, “Hundred-dollar chips are good.”

The dealer slid the chips in front of him. He immediately bet the entire 500 dollars. The cards were dealt.

The first player got a 7 of clubs, the second a 10 of diamonds, the third a king of spades. Numbers caught a 6 of hearts. The dealer’s first card went facedown. The dealer dealt the second cards. The first player caught a 10 of clubs; he had 17. The second player’s card was an 8 of spades; he was dealt an 18 hand. The third person’s card was a 4 of hearts; his hand was 14. Numbers got a 7 to go with his 6; his cards showed 13. The dealer’s faceup card was a 9.

Sedalia looked to the first player; he waved her off, swiping his hand over his cards from left to right; his palm downward. The second player did the same thing. The third tapped two fingers on his cards, signaling the dealer to give him a card. She turned up a 6 for him. His hand read 20; he waved her off. He was good with that number.

Numbers was watching the table; he knew what played. He had 13 and the dealer was showing a 9, which meant she most likely
had 10 in the hole, if you believed the common blackjack wisdom, which said that Numbers should take a hit and attempt to beat the dealer. But Numbers believed the dealer had a 5 in the hole. Even though he hadn’t called cards in a while, it was like second nature. Numbers waved her off of his 13.

“You want to stay with thirteen?” she asked. The other players grumbled at Numbers, feeling he was making a mistake. When Numbers didn’t respond to the dealer, she turned up her down card. It was a 5 of spades, just like Numbers had suspected. She would have to take another card.

Numbers was confident that he was good with the cards he had. He didn’t take the hit because he believed the next card was a brick. The second player was sure Numbers had made the wrong play, and he voiced his opinion. “You don’t know how to play the game.” Numbers paid him no attention.

The dealer took her card; it was a queen of diamonds. The house busted. Everyone at the table won.

Numbers took up his $1,000 Trump currency and cashed in at the nearest cashier. It was time to take care of his real objective.

After a two-hour ride, Numbers paid the toll at the Holland Tunnel. It was 1:03
A.M.,
and there was no traffic. He’d made good time from Atlantic City. Numbers made Jarvis, the only one who knew he was coming, promise not to tell anyone. It was time to take care of unfinished business. He wanted this to be a stealth visit, no hoopla—in and out.

WELCOME TO BROOKLYN,
read the sign coming off the Brooklyn Bridge. Numbers drove to the waterfront, which was dilapidated and desolate. It was 1:22
A.M.
He was right on time to meet Jarvis with the package. He turned the car around and faced the way he came in, then waited impatiently in the rental with the lights off and gun in hand. Ten minutes passed before there was any sign of anyone or anything. Headlights approached from the same direction
Numbers had come from. He waited quietly, praying it wasn’t Jake, though he knew no one came down here much. This was where he used to bring Waketta to get head undisturbed. He missed her more than the civil rights movement missed Dr. Martin Luther King. There was no bringing her back, but tonight there would be retribution.

The car drew near and flashed its headlights twice. Numbers flashed back three times. The signals locked; it was Jarvis. Numbers kept a grip on his gun as he and Jarvis exited their rides.

“What up, brother? Good to see you.”

“Same here. What’s good?” Jarvis asked.

“You tell me. You got that?”

“For sure, Numbs, I got the package.” Jarvis moved to the trunk of the Lexus. He also wore all black with a pair of black gloves; he looked like a Black Panther or a hood ninja. He unlocked the trunk and moved back so Numbers could view the goods. Now that the moment of truth was upon him, Numbers didn’t know how to feel. Initially he’d been resigned to closing this chapter no questions asked. Just end it. That was no longer an option—he wanted answers.

Dude looked as though Jarvis had worked him over good. His body seemed lifeless. His hands were duct-taped behind him, his eyes and mouth were taped shut, and his feet were taped together.

“Damn, did you kill ’im already?”

Jarvis shook his head no.

Numbers nudged the body in the rib cage with the .380 he’d never fired, other than on the roof of the project buildings. The body squirmed and mumbled.

“What up, player? Do you know who this is?”

The body reacted, confirming he recognized Numbers’s voice.

“Yeah, you’re fucked in the game now, you bitch-made nigger. You had to keep fucking with me, right? Who’s the pussy now? I
got one question for you, and if you answer me honestly, I may let you live. You got it?”

The man nodded, now sobbing. Numbers moved closer and violently ripped the duct tape off his mouth.

“Aarghh!”
The captive let out a yell that would only be heard by Numbers and Jarvis. He began to beg for his life. “What the fuck, Numbers? Why it got to go down like this?”

“Shut the fuck up, Crush!” Numbers hit him with the back of his small weapon.

Crush whimpered but didn’t say another word.

“Crush, I’m gonna ask you one time and one time only. Why did you kill Waketta?” Crush heard the click of the weapon and knew it might be the last thing he ever said.

“Let’s just smoke this fool,” Jarvis interjected impatiently, speaking in a lower tone than usual in an attempt to disguise his voice.