Numbers (13 page)

On this night Numbers hadn’t been able to find any of his usual suspects to hang out with; he’d run into Chap at the bodega on Washington Park Place and Myrtle, right across the street from Fort Greene Park.

“What up, Du?” Chap said.

“I go by Numbers, Chap,” he said, giving him a halfhearted pound with an As-if-you-didn’t-know attitude.

“No doubt, they call me Barsheik now,” Chap replied with a
You-know-what-time-it-is attitude. He was one of those asshole niggers giving the 5 Percent Nation a bad name. “I see you just copped some Els. What up with that? I’m down?”

Numbers figured,
What the fuck, it’s better than drinking and smoking alone.
They both bought three 40s of Olde E and walked along Myrtle Avenue to the park entrance leading to the chess/checker tables near St. Edwards Street. They sat in the park reminiscing about when they were kids. It seemed both like a long time ago and like yesterday when they used to walk the fences. Maybe it was the talk of the childhood or maybe it was just the high, but they somehow reconnected.

“Yo! Numbers, you wanna get some bank tonight?” As Chap spoke, smoke escaped from the spot where his tooth was missing.

Numbers was sitting on the back of a wooden bench, one foot on the seat, the other on the stone checkers table, rubbing his headful of waves with both hands. “You bugging,” he said seriously.

“Nah, check it,” Chap said, and passed the blunt to Numbers. “It’s this old Korean that always leaves the store by himself. I been scopin’ him out for ’bout a week. No lie, the other day—like Tuesday—he had more than a thousand dollars in the register. Today is Friday. I’m telling you, he’s gotta have triple that now.”

The more Numbers drank, the more Chap’s plan seemed like it could work.

“Aiight, Cha … Barsheik, let’s get this money,” Numbers agreed, popping off the bench, feeling the effects of the alcohol and weed.

In the cover of darkness, Numbers and Chap crept up behind a tree across the street from the store in the park and waited for the owner to close up.

“So how we gonna do this?” Numbers asked. “I don’t want to hurt dude or nothing.”

“Nah, I’m gonna go up behind him and yoke him off his feet. You rip his pockets and take the dough.”

An hour passed before the owner exited and began rolling down the steel security gate in front of the store. Numbers had just turned his back to take a leak, and as soon as the gate descended Chap sprang into action, not waiting for Numbers to finish pissing.

“Come on, Numbs.”

The streetlight at the corner was busted—perfect for a mugging. Chap quickly skulked from behind the park wall across the street, leaving Numbers behind. For a cool Friday night, the streets were nearly barren of pedestrians, but there was a moderate amount of car traffic. Numbers was just coming out of the park when he saw Chap run up behind the merchant, yoke him up by the neck, and stab him multiple times. Numbers stood frozen, not believing what he was seeing. He knew he shouldn’t have been fucking with this stupid-ass fool.

As luck would have it, a cop car was rushing across DeKalb Avenue on its way to another call when the merchant screamed in anguish. Numbers stood there watching Chap dig in the man’s pockets and pull out a brown paper bag. Numbers figured the bag was filled with money. The cop car came to a screeching halt, nearly getting rammed by the bus behind it. Instantly its lights flashed and sirens squealed. The driver attempted to back up but was blocked by the B38 bus and other cars. Chap dashed across the street toward Numbers, who was standing there stuck, looking at the man squirming in pain across the street. His high was blown.

“Come on, nigger.” Chap tugged Numbers’s arm as he jetted down the block toward the projects.

Numbers almost didn’t run because he didn’t think he could be connected to the crime, but he didn’t want to chance it, so he fled.

•   •   •

Two weeks had passed since Takeisha went in for her biopsy. She waited nervously in the oncologist’s office with her twin, her mother, Numbers, and her Aunt Camille, who’d come up from Virginia for moral support. Dr. Cavalha came into his office. He was an average height and of Middle Eastern descent and spoke with a slight accent. “I apologize, but only the immediate family can be in here,” he said.

“This is my immediate family,” Takeisha notified the doctor apprehensively.

“Okay then.” Dr. Cavalha accepted her answer hesitantly. He made his way behind his desk and stared into a chart for a long moment. It seemed as though no one else in the room took a breath. He looked up and let his eyes bounce off each face before resting on Takeisha’s. “Please hear me out before you jump to any conclusions. I’m sorry to inform you, but the lump is malignant.”

Tears began to well up in the eyes of everyone except Numbers. He wanted to stay strong for his sisters and mother. Lakeisha wrapped her arms around her sister, and Jenny wrapped herself around both of them. Aunt Camille rubbed her sister’s back and wept.

“But I think we caught it in its early stages,” the doctor continued. “It can be overcome with aggressive treatment. I suggest we remove the tumor and then follow the surgery with radiation. It won’t be easy, but I’m confident we can beat this.” He smiled in hopes of providing the family with assurance.

It was a staggering blow. The twins’ father was nowhere to be found, as usual, when they needed him. Jenny would have to take off work to tend to her daughter. She was not about to let Takeisha go through this traumatic time without her by her side. Her benefits would cover most of the medical bills, but she wouldn’t be paid while she was out on leave.

Numbers needed cash and needed it now. He made up his
mind. He would take Coney up on his offer. Messing around with Chap a couple of weeks back had almost landed him in the clink, and Chap only came off with a hundred-odd dollars for all his troubles. If he was going to risk everything, Numbers thought, it would be trying to make some real bank.

The following day, Numbers met up with Coney in Little Harlem. Coney had another dude with him who Numbers had never seen before but had heard his name mentioned by Big John.

“Yo! Gravy, little man right here”—Coney gestured to Numbers—“he’s under your wing. Show him how to get that paper out here.”

“I hope he’s mo’ thorough than that other booty-ass nigga. He ain’t worth the paper I wipe my ass with. I’m about to duff his ass out.” Gravy laughed.

Numbers noticed that Gravy had big lips and little teeth; the teeth were better suited for a baby than a six-foot-two cock-diesel thug with beady eyes and a unibrow. He had a face only a mother could love. His physique was a different story. Gravy looked as though he spent all day in the gym, but he actually got his muscles while serving time for beating up his baby’s mother. He caught the broad going down on a square-ass accountant nigger in the Mustang Gravy had bought for her. He beat her ass like a man and then beat the dude’s ass like a bitch. Gravy almost killed old boy, but his lawyer played the heat-of-passion card. If it wasn’t for his record, Gravy wouldn’t even have gotten the two years. He was as close to being Coney’s right-hand man as there was, since Coney trusted no one. Gravy was a thug, but he was a likeable thug.

“Aiight, Gravy, don’t worry about young. I’ll take care of him, dun.” Then Coney got back into his ride and sped off down the avenue.

“Numbers, huh?” Gravy said, sizing his new worker up. “I’m feeling that hot shit, let’s get some digits.” Gravy smiled, showing the two rolls of Chiclets he called teeth. “This is how it goes down,
par. We keep the product outta our hands unless there’s a sale. Over here, we moving dimes and twenties of that white rock. The stash is over there.” Gravy pointed to the pole on the jungle gym they were standing near.

Numbers looked but didn’t see anything.

“Exactly.” Gravy shook his head, confusing Numbers like he planned to do. “The product is in a paper bag right there by the pole; just in case Jake rolls on us, we can walk away and they can’t pin it on us. That shit could be anybody’s. The main thing is to keep your eyes open. I’ll school you to the fiends and who our regular customers are. After a while you’ll know who’s who. No credit! We don’t do that over here. If they ain’t got the cash, they can’t get a blast!”

Numbers absorbed the ins and outs of the entry level of the drug game, at least all that Gravy had to offer. The shit wasn’t difficult and the money was good; he just hoped his new grind didn’t lead to jail time.

At first it was slow, but as the sun went down, more and more fiends came to get their fix. The pharmaceutical business was truly a grand old hustle.

Jarvis was also a momma’s boy. He loved his mother dearly, and his mother loved him with all her heart—except when she got drunk. Over the last few years she’d succumbed more and more to the call of the bottle. Sober, she was a doting mom, but drunk she was Mrs. Hyde. When she was on the sauce she couldn’t stand the sight of Jarvis, since he reminded her of his good-for-nothing daddy.

Numbers hated to go to Jarvis’s apartment to get him. When he did he prayed Ms. Barbara would be sober. Today he needed his friend. Numbers had static brewing with Crush from the third side. Ever since Coney gave Numbers
his own area to work, Crush had been trying to move in on his clientele. Jarvis had gone to high school with Crush, so Numbers hoped he could squash it. Even if he couldn’t, Numbers knew Jarvis would have no problem watching his back. Numbers wasn’t scared of Crush, but he knew if he faced him alone, he wouldn’t get a fair fight.

Numbers let the metal door knocker hit the worn bronze plate three times and waited for a response. He could hear a raised voice coming from inside. Numbers thought to turn and walk away, but he needed Jarvis.

Jarvis’s oldest sister, Cathy, wearily came to the door. She didn’t bother to greet him or invite him in, just left the door open and headed back to her position on the old sofa in front of an even older TV. She was pregnant again and barely eighteen. Her phat ass kept men swooning. Numbers entered and it was clear the raised voice had been Ms. Barbara’s.

Ms. Barbara sat at the dining table in a blue cotton wash-deprived nightgown in the middle of the day looking like she had nowhere to go fast. Her hair was matted and her right hand was clamped around a glass holding a little bit of ice and brown liquid. Rum, no doubt, her choice beverage. She took a long drink from her glass. “You ain’t shit!” she yelled. “You ain’t never gonna be shit! I can’t stand the sight of your big-head ass! You’re just like your father. Shit!” She ranted, slurring her words at Jarvis, who was in the kitchen.

“Momma, leave Jarvis alone,” Cathy pleaded.

“Shut your little tramp pie-hole ’fo’ I kick your ass out on the street with him!”

“Whatever, Momma. I ain’t going nowhere. You need my welfare check to get your liquor,” she muttered under her breath.

“Big Head, get over here. Ya friend here!” Ms. Barbara ordered.

Jarvis emerged from the kitchen with a full garbage bag in hand, looking defeated.

“Dupree, take your friend somewhere and get his worthless ass a job. He ain’t gonna be shit just like his daddy! He needs to be more like you. You’re a good boy. I knew I shoulda had an abortion!” She gulped down her drink, then reached for the bottle.

Numbers could feel the hurt for his friend deep down in his soul. He wanted to say something to Ms. Barbara but held his tongue.

“Momma, that ain’t right,” Cathy called out. “She don’t mean that, Jarvis.”

“That boy know I love him,” Ms. Barbara said, changing her tune in a sudden moment of clarity. “Come here and kiss your momma, boy.”

Jarvis reluctantly went to her and gave a swift peck to her forehead, fighting back his tears.

“Hey, Jar.” Numbers greeted him.

Jar motioned a greeting, not really able to speak, his vocal cords tied up with hurt. “Momma, I’m going out,” he managed to say in a shaky voice.

“Don’t come back if you ain’t got no got-damn money, shit! You lazy fucker!” That quickly she turned on him again.

Jarvis couldn’t understand why his mother was so hard on him. His brother Marcus had been in and out of juvie and had now landed himself in the big house. His oldest sister was pregnant for the second time, and his other sister seemed as though she would follow that path. Jarvis’s oldest sibling joined the service when he was old enough and rarely kept in touch. Jarvis, on the other hand, did as he was told and never got into trouble other than his frequent fights.

Even though Numbers was his best friend and had seen his mother go off on these tirades before, it still embarrassed Jarvis.
Everyone—the girls he liked, his mother, everyone else—seemed to prefer Numbers over him and made him feel less than Numbers’s equal. Numbers never treated him that way, but it didn’t matter; Jarvis was envious of him. Little did Numbers know Jarvis was still smarting over not getting Waketta. His mother’s barbs fueled Jarvis’s resentment.

Numbers, at the pay phone on the corner of North Portland, dropped the receiver back in its cradle. He crossed Myrtle Avenue against the light, scooting past a B54 bus headed east. He was on his way back to the park wall, where Jarvis and Waketta were posted up making bang-bangs, when his pager went off again. He was less than twenty feet from the wall when he read the screen: 101-911. That was Rosa’s code. The 101 was her building’s number, and the 911 meant there was an emergency.