Numbers (16 page)

“Numbers,” Crispy Carl said. His voice was barely a whisper. “I been waiting for you. You better not be out there fucking with my hoes.” There was a trace of a smile on his face. It probably took all the energy he had to do it, but he was smiling.

“Easy, Mr. Carl, the ambulance is on its way.” At least Numbers hoped it was. Everyone knew that 911 was a joke in the hood. He had called the emergency line more than forty minutes ago.

Crispy Carl wheezed and gasped for air and continued to speak weakly. Numbers leaned as close to his mouth as he could in order to hear him. “You’re like a son to me,” he said. “Thank you for your friendship.”

Does Mr. Carl know how much he’s done for me over the years? What he’s been to me?
Numbers wondered. “I know, Mr. Carl,” he answered, trying to hold back tears, finally hearing the ambulance sirens in the background nearing the projects. “The ambulance is here.” Numbers was overwhelmed. Tears streamed down his caramel cheeks.

“Remember everything I taught you … be better than me … be better than you think you can be. Full circle.” Crispy Carl faded.

The paramedics did all they could do to revive Crispy Carl, but his spirit had already moved on to a better place.

The wake and funeral were short and sweet. It was said that he had a daughter and son, but no one knew who they were or where they lived. Most of the people who attended the funeral were Crispy Carl’s old acquaintances and card-game comrades. The others were Numbers’s friends who knew how close the two had been. Since Numbers was his only real family, he wrote the eulogy.

A player is as a player does. Crispy Carl was the ultimate player because he played the game with no regrets. He believed in being real to
himself first, so it made it easy to be real to everyone else. He may not have walked the straight and narrow, but he walked with his head held high, with integrity and dignity. He wasn’t the type to tell you what to do, but he was sure to tell you what it was.

“Crispy” Carl Stevenson once told me when one door closes, another one opens. Though the chapters to his life have closed, his guidance has opened up endless possibilities for me. I was blessed to be touched by this angel in the pimp suit. He was a father figure, a man of honor. He was my friend. As he would always say to me, I say to him now: I’ll catch you on the full circle. May God be your shepherd. Amen.

“Rosa, come on, I want to show you something,” Numbers beckoned to Rosa-Marie to get dressed and come with him.

“I’m moving as fast I can with this belly, and I don’t want to go out—it’s cold outside,” she complained. She was doing a lot of that these days; she was five months pregnant.

“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“¿Dónde usted que toma a mi hija?”
Ms. Vasquez interrogated Numbers about where they were going. She was still infuriated that Numbers had impregnated her only daughter. And they hadn’t even had the decency to tell her. She’d only found out once Rosa-Marie could no longer hide her growing stomach under her clothing. Of course she blew her top and told her daughter she would have to get out, she disgusted her and disgraced the family. Rosa moved in with Numbers for a few weeks, but it was already too crowded in the two-bedroom with his mother, two sisters, and himself. After pleading with her mother, who did miss her, she was allowed to move back in. Though Numbers had the means to get them an apartment outside of the projects, he thought it best for Rosa to stay with her mother while she was pregnant. He was running the streets all the time, and Ms. Vasquez could watch out for Rosa. As much as Ms. Vasquez wanted to dislike Numbers, she had to admit he treated her baby well and made her happy.

“Jupree”—Ms. Vasquez said his name incorrectly every time—“you hurry and bring Rosa back, okay?” she grumbled.

Before Numbers could answer, Rosa waddled out of the bedroom with her long black hair in a ponytail. She hated doing her own hair these days. Dressed for comfort, not fashion, she wore a pair of white Reeboks, loose-fitting jeans, and an oversized yellow blouse. She went to the closet and grabbed the navy-blue three-quarter shearling coat Numbers had bought for her and put that on. She hated the cold weather. After wrapping her neck with a scarf, she scooped gloves and earmuffs of the same color as the coat out of its pockets and put them on. “I’m ready,” she said, exhausted.

Numbers was exhausted just watching her put on all the garments. He looked at his beautiful future baby mother and held out his arm, bent at the elbow. She smiled at him and put her hand through the opening, allowing Numbers to escort her out the door.

“Este detrás en un poco mientra que la madre,”
Rosa told her mother—she would be back shortly.

“See you later, Ms. Vasquez,” Numbers said.

Ms. Vasquez just huffed at them both.

Numbers and Rosa-Marie walked around building 101, past the basketball court toward Carlton Avenue, arm in arm.

“Where are we going, Dupree?” Rosa queried.

“Right here!”

They were standing in front of building 60. A rough, dirty-looking thirty-something-year-old man came up the pathway from the connecting building, 75, with his coat open, oblivious to the wind.

“Yo, Numbers, can I get a two-oh?” the fiend asked, as if they were old friends. Rosa looked at Numbers. She was aware of his illegal activities, but this was the first time she witnessed it. Numbers gave her that much respect. The deadly sneer he flashed
the fiend, though, told the man he had made a mistake. First off, Numbers hadn’t dealt drugs hand to hand since he formed PWH. Second, his crew only did business by the park.

“You playing yourself,” Numbers said in an even tone.

“I’ll go to the park and see what’s jumping off up there. Sorry, Numbers. Excuse me, miss.” He apologized repeatedly, knowing he fucked up. He picked up his pace as he limped away.

If Numbers hadn’t been with his lady, he might have shown some compassion for the man—after all, he knew Archie from way back. But he was nothing more than another customer now, and it was hard to believe his promising basketball future was all but an illusion.

“Excuse me, baby,” Numbers apologized.

She said nothing about it and continued walking with Numbers into building 60.

“Isn’t this where your friend used to live? Why are we coming here?” She was speaking about Crispy Carl. Three weeks and four days had passed since he was laid to rest.

Numbers smiled at her as the door to the elevator slid open; he ushered her in and pressed the button for floor 3.

When the elevator stopped, Numbers led Rosa to the door directly across from them; he was dangling a key in front of her.

“Take it. Open the door,” he urged.

Looking at Numbers curiously, she took the key and unlocked the door. She stepped inside and was speechless. The apartment was spotless, and other than beige venetian blinds in the windows, it was empty. The walls were painted a matte cream, and beige carpet was installed throughout the one-bedroom apartment. There were no signs that the dwelling was once an old pimp’s palace. Numbers had given all of Crispy Carl’s belongings and furniture to his few friends who were still alive or to the Salvation Army. The housing authority didn’t know Crispy Carl was
dead, and Numbers wasn’t about to tell them. He would continue to pay the $235.32 a month for rent. He spent that much on any given night bullshitting.

“So what do you think, baby? This is our new apartment; we have to dress it up of course, but it’s ours,” he said, and spun around with his arms extended as if presenting the world to her.

She ran into his embrace. “I love it.” She kissed him hard, sticking her tongue in his mouth. Her succulent kiss aroused him enough to peel off their clothing and ravish her childbearing body on the plush new carpet.

“Oooh-weeee! Oooh-weeee!”
a voice called.

“Baby, baby, wake up, somebody’s calling you.”

“Huh … what …” Numbers responded, groggy and disoriented. There was no sun shining through the blinds. The overcast skies gave the early morning the semblance of dusk, and precipitation seemed imminent on this second Monday in January.

“Oooh-weeee! Oooh-weeee!”

Numbers finally heard the call, and he knew by the tone who it was. He looked over at the clock: 7:15
A.M.
Why is Jar waking me this early? It better be important.
He rolled out of the queen-sized bed and made it over to the window.

“Yo!” he called down to Jarvis. “What up?”

Jarvis pointed up, gesturing to Numbers that he was coming upstairs. Numbers nodded. By the time Numbers had stepped into his jeans, Jarvis was knocking on his door.

“What’s popping, Jar?” Numbers said as he opened the door, still not quite fully awake.

“Coney got bagged last night,” Jarvis announced.

“What?” He wasn’t sure if he’d heard Jarvis correctly.

“Coney’s locked up! They said he got caught with weight on ’im, too.”

How could that be?
Numbers wondered. Coney never held any weight—unless he was picking up from his connect. Even then he was extra cautious. He’d have one of his mules float it back to his safe house under his watchful eye. How could he possibly have gotten jammed up?

“Nothing we can do but wait it out. This could be a problem. Gravy already knocked, if Coney under too …” Numbers stopped mid-sentence. Jarvis knew the look on his boy’s face. He was either calculating numbers or coming up with a fresh strategy.

Numbers estimated that if they kept selling at the clip they were going, they’d sell out by Friday. They’d have a little over thirty thousand dollars; 25 percent of that was his and the crew’s take. Hopefully, Coney would be back on the street by then and he could re-up. But what if Coney didn’t get cut loose? Numbers had no idea how or where to get the type of quality product they would need to continue their hustle. Coney never let anyone meet his supplier, nor did he ever mention where he got his drugs from—that was one of the ways he stayed in control. Numbers hoped they didn’t have bigger problems.
What if 5-O was watching Coney’s whole operation?

Numbers sat on his brown Italian-leather sofa and put his feet on the corresponding ottoman. Directly in front of him, next to the door, was a big-screen Sony Trinitron TV.

The apartment was looking like the hood version of
Better
Homes and Gardens.
The living room, dining room, and kitchen were one big space and not that large of an area, but Rosa displayed an interior designer’s touch.

“Who’s working the park wall today, Jar?”

“Broz and Shorty.”

“Okay, tell ’em to be extra cautious. They might be watching us, you never know. Better yet, tell ’em to take a day off. Nobody in our camp pumps anything today,” Numbers decided.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jarvis wasn’t feeling Numbers on this call. Getting money had changed Jarvis considerably, and he wanted it no matter what. He’d become arrogant, touchy, selfish, and greedy.

“We straight, Jar. A day off won’t kill us.” Numbers was smiling at his childhood friend but making sure Jarvis understood what he wanted done.

“I think that’s a mistake,” Jarvis said condescendingly.

“What up with you, Jar? You been acting funny lately. You got a problem with me or something?”

Jarvis avoided Numbers’s eyes. “Nah, we cool. Just got a lot on my mind with my family and stuff,” Jarvis said.

“You know if you need me, I’m here for you.” Numbers put his feet down on the carpet and sat up.

“No doubt,” Jarvis reluctantly conceded.

Numbers knew Jarvis was dealing with his mother’s alcoholism. His oldest sister had just up and disappeared, leaving her two children behind, and his other sister had one on the way, and the brother that was around was a jailbird. Jarvis inherited the burden of taking care of all of them and everything that came with it. Numbers understood the plight of being the man of the house oh so well, although his situation had never been anywhere near as crucial.

“Jar, trust me on this one. Just give the word for everyone to lay
low for today.” He got up and gave his boy a pound and hug. When Jarvis left, Numbers locked the door and went back to bed.

It was 5:15
P.M.
when Numbers’s Sky Pager sounded off. He picked the device up off the nightstand, looked at the numbers, then grabbed the jack immediately, dialing out.

“Yeah, what up? … Who? … Get the fuck outta here!” he said into the phone.

Rosa sat up in the bed looking at her man, hearing the alarm in his voice. She knew Numbers wouldn’t tell her what was happening, but that didn’t curb her curiosity.

“Get at Ketta and Jar. I’ll meet you at my mom’s building,” he commanded before hanging up the phone.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Rosa asked, not expecting an answer.

“Nothing, Rose. Do me a favor and make me some tea.”

She rolled out of bed and waddled to the kitchen to boil water.

Once she left the room, Numbers got up quietly, wasting no time going into the closet to his safe. He moved quickly, opening the safe before Rosa caught wind of what he was doing. He looked over his shoulder to make sure she was occupied before taking out a black .380, which he stuffed in his pants pocket. He locked the safe, then sat back on the bed and began putting on his boots.