Numbers (19 page)

“Hey, Waketta, what the deal, sugar? When we gonna hook up?” Big Mike the bouncer asked, seeing Waketta
walking up looking scrumptious. She wore a pair of form-fitting Sergio Valente jeans and a leather jacket with fur around the collar and cuffs. The boots were leather with fur trim. Waketta knew how to accentuate her God-given gifts. Numbers never got jealous of men trying to get at Waketta; it was expected. She was fine like Naomi Campbell.

“Maybe one day, Big Mike,” she lied. “Right now I’m on that paper chase.” They traipsed past Big Mike into the lounge.

Chubb Rock’s “Treat ’Em Right” was being spun by deejay Quick Rock. On Thursday night, most of the hood hung out at the Lexus on Fulton Street near Ashland Place. The Lexus was by no means upscale, it was just a place where the local hustlers, thugs, and whatnot could hang out, drink, and snatch up something to stroke for that night. The spot didn’t have a sign on the exterior of the building. Most people knew its location from frequenting it or by its address—667 Fulton Street. The Lexus was about seven hundred square feet back to front. The front was the largest part. When you walked into the smoky nook, the bar was located on the left-hand side. Tables were lined up on the right, with a four-foot walkway straight up the middle. In the back was an open area where people danced. The first door on the right led to the deejay’s booth. A few feet farther down, two bathrooms faced each other, with an emergency exit door in between. The Lexus was the straight hood joint. The bouncers were ex-cons or big burly dudes who were known for breaking niggers’ faces. The Lexus had drama nearly every night, but still people persisted in frequenting the establishment.

This Thursday night, the Lexus had its usual thick crowd. Numbers knew most of the people, or they knew him. A lot of them were from the PJs. As they made their way through the crowd, Waketta used the opportunity to hold Numbers’s hand and
caress it. They found a spot near the far end of the bar. That’s where they posted up, ordering a bottle of Moët White Star champagne, which Waketta paid for. Numbers wasn’t tricking off cash anymore—he was trying to save as much loot as possible. That was part of his plan to get out of the game.

“You see Jar in here, Ketta?” Numbers asked, pouring two flutes.

Waketta surveyed the crowd. She caught sight of Jarvis in the far corner, talking to Crush. Under further scrutiny they seemed to be arguing. Waketta wasn’t sure if Jarvis had seen them come in, but he looked mad as hell when he turned and walked up to Numbers and Waketta at the bar.

“What up with that?” Waketta asked, not giving Jarvis time to dap them up.

“It ain’t nothing. I told that nigger not to have them busters selling his shit on our territory,” Jarvis said.

“Yeah, okay,” Waketta replied, not believing him.

“Mind your business.”

Numbers noticed more and more that Waketta and Jarvis were at odds with each other. “What y’all arguing about now?” he said, giving Jarvis a pound, then pouring him a glass of bubbles. As Numbers handed Jarvis the glass, the deejay threw on some Mary J. Blige.

Waketta reacted immediately. “That’s my jam!” she exclaimed.

She began dancing in front of Numbers, sexy and seductive. She rubbed her ass up against him. His nature rose. Numbers bobbed to the music a little, pressing his firmness up on Waketta as she backed it up on him. She always knew how to turn him on. They had intentions of serving each other later on. The deejay followed Mary Jo with the new joint.

“Hold up, Ketta, I’ll be right back. Gotta take a leak.” Numbers put his flute down and turned to walk to the back of the lounge.
Jarvis decided he had to relieve himself too, so he caught up with Numbers.

“What up with Crush? What he talking ’bout?” Numbers asked Jarvis, scoping some of the phat butts dancing by.

“That nigger a clown. He ain’t saying nothing, but he keep asking ’bout Ketta. You need to check Ketta. I think she sweet on dude.”

“How you figure?” Numbers asked.

“I saw them getting at each other, and they looked rather friendly. Something was up.”

Numbers was next on line to use the restroom. The door opened and Crystal came out. Crystal wasn’t a looker, but what she lacked in beauty she made up with booty. Her waist was a petite twenty-four, but her ass was one of the roundest, shapeliest, plumpest rumps God ever created, and she knew it.

“Damn, girl, don’t hurt nobody with all that ass,” Numbers flirted.

She smiled.

“I’d love to put this dick up in you,” Jarvis got at her.

She frowned at him and went on her way, not feeling his pickup line.

“Fuck you, whack ho,” he shot at her over the music.

Numbers tried to reel him in. “Easy, Jar, you too hard on the chicks.” Jarvis was far from a ladies’ man; he was too abrasive most of the time.

When Numbers exited the bathroom, Jarvis was still waiting to use it. The other room must’ve been occupied by females. They always made using the restroom an adventure.

“I’ll see you back by the bar, Jar.”

Jarvis waved him off. He was kicking it to some short ugly chick.

Numbers made his way to the bar. The little spot had gotten crowded that quick, and it was difficult to navigate through. He attempted to slide by Crystal, and she bounced her sexy ass up on him to the beat. He stayed there for a minute, letting her softness make him hard. He looked to where Waketta was and saw Crush all up in her face. His blood boiled. Every time he and Crush crossed paths, whether it was at the dice games or the corner store, Crush always shot some slick shit out of his mouth.

Crush was a light, bright nigger, average height, average weight. He kept his Afro trimmed and neat like he was an Afro Sheen model. With his strong, etched facial features, it was easy to see why women would be attracted to him until he opened his mouth. His overbite protruded so much it made him look somewhat dorky. It looked like the product of years of sucking his thumb.

Numbers walked toward them. Crush was trying to manhandle Waketta, grabbing her around the waist. Numbers really couldn’t tell if she was fighting him off or not, but he didn’t care. He wanted him to back off her.

“Ketta, why you got this dude all up in your face?” Numbers grilled her like he was her father. Waketta wanted to tell him that wasn’t the case as she continued trying to pry herself loose from Crush. “Crush, my man, you playing the lady too close,” Numbers said to Crush in his calm, cool manner.

“Look at this nigger … Captain Save a Ho … This your bitch or something?” Crush smiled, showing his horse dentures.

“Your mother’s a bitch and ho,” Waketta snapped at him, finally getting loose from his grasp.

“Crush, you know we don’t fuck with you. Why you always running your trap, duke? Beat the road up.” Numbers nudged him on his way with his left forearm.

Crush took exception to Numbers touching him. He swiped his arm away like the Karate Kid’s wax-off move. Numbers reacted by coming across the top with an overhand right that clocked Crush on the jaw. All hell broke loose. Numbers didn’t give Crush an opportunity to get a punch off. He rained lefts and rights to his head region. One of Crush’s boys tried to get a sucker punch in on Numbers, and it grazed his dome. Waketta didn’t give him another chance. She crowned the sucker puncher with the Moët bottle, laying him out.

Numbers and Crush wrestled into the back of the lounge near the bathroom and exit. The crowd scattered. Jarvis came out of the bathroom to find his boy beating Crush’s ass something lovely. Seeing that Numbers didn’t need any help with Crush, he made sure no else jumped in. Crush’s face was bloody; he was fighting a losing battle. Waketta was over Numbers’s shoulder screaming for him to stop before he killed him. By now the lights were on. The security rushed over, ready to hem up whoever was brawling in their spot. They saw Jarvis watching over the scuffle. The bouncers knew all too well who these guys were. They did not want it with them, but they had a job to do. They yelled at Jarvis to get Numbers and Crush out of the spot. They weren’t about to violate the two rival gangsters and risk the chance of having beef with these crazy-ass Fort Greene niggers. Jarvis grabbed Numbers up and led him out the back exit, followed by Waketta. Crush lay on the floor, beaten and trying to recover from the thrashing.

“What up with that shit, Ketta? You fucking with that duck?” Numbers screamed at her as they walked back to his ride. Waketta was hurt that Numbers would think she was dealing with dude. Her eyes welled up, but she said nothing.

“You beat that nigger ass, Numbs. What he do to you?” Jarvis said with a chuckle as he walked behind them down Ashland and
across Fulton Street, where their cars were parked. Numbers didn’t answer.

“You know it’s on now! We gotta watch our backs. Crush gonna want payback,” Jarvis said, becoming more serious.

Numbers was unconcerned; he’d tired of dude. If it called for it he would whip Crush’s ass again and again. “Fucker don’t want it!”

“Jar, you gonna be able to pick Rosa up at eight or not?” Numbers spoke into his Motorola brick cell phone. He would have gone to pick up Rosa himself, but didn’t want to be riding around with her dirty.

“Nah, Numbers, I can’t make it over there in time. It’s crazy out here, baby boy. You know Crush is gunning for you? Where the baby at?” Jarvis spoke into his cell phone.

“L’il man’s home with Ms. Vasquez. He’s all right. Okay, Jar, I got it.” Numbers was a little bit upset that he couldn’t count on his friend lately when he needed him.

“You sure you can make it back?” Jarvis asked.

“It’s cool, I got her.” He quickly dialed out to Coney to let
him know he had to pick up and drop off his lady. Coney’s only concern was his product.

Numbers was uptown with Sanchez making a pickup for Coney. Rosa-Marie needed to be driven home from Crown Heights. She was taking evening courses at Medgar Evers College. Numbers hung up and paged Waketta. She called him back in moments.

“Hey, Ketta, I need you to go pick up Rosa from class for me. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, baby, I got you and I got something to tell you. Well, I got two things to tell you. I hope you don’t get mad at me. Can I see you later?”

“Okay, let’s hook up. What you got to tell me?”

“No, baby, I want to tell you in person, okay?” she spoke softly.

“Oh, and I got your car. Take my Acura. Pick her up at eight
P.M.
You know where, right?”

“Yes, I got it. See you later, sexy.”

“Okay.”

Numbers hung up the phone. It was seven-fifteen in the evening. He was completing his transaction with Sanchez and would be headed back down to Brooklyn in a few minutes.

At 7:55, Waketta pulled the silver Acura coup up in front of Medgar Evers College on Bedford and waited for Rosa to come out. Unable to see who was in the car because of the dark limousine tint on the windows, Rosa took it for granted it was Numbers as she opened the door to get in. She was taken aback to see Waketta in the driver’s seat. She scoffed slightly and rested into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Rose,” Waketta greeted her with a smile. Rosa-Marie looked teed off.

“Where’s Numbers?” she asked coldly.

“On his way back from uptown.”

Waketta didn’t understand why Rosa was acting like this. They
were on good terms. They’d never had a problem between the two of them. After all, Waketta was the godmother to her son. Waketta didn’t pry, just chalked it up to Rosa probably having had a long, hard day. She pulled off and headed north back to downtown Brooklyn. They rode home in an uneasy silence.

Crush picked up his home phone. “Yeah, what up, my dude?” He listened to the voice on the phone. “Nah, we not gonna kill duke, just gonna put the fear of God in his ass. Yeah, I told you, we gonna shoot up his tires or something. Word is bond!” Crush assured the caller, meaning his word meant jack shit due to the fact he wasn’t a 5 percenter. “After we done tonight, that nigger Numbers ain’t gonna want no part of this game. That’s my word!”

Crush pressed the button to end the call, then listened for the dial tone and punched in an eleven-digit number. He listened for the beep, then put his code in. In moments, his phone was ringing again. “Yeah, it’s on. Yep, that’s what he’s driving. Do what I told you to do,” he said into the phone. “He should be pulling up on the block in the next fifteen minutes or so, so get over there and get his bitch ass.” With that command, he hung up.

Numbers drove across the Brooklyn Bridge and made a left onto Tillary Street, then a right on Flatbush Avenue Extension, and a left onto Fulton. The dashboard clock, which was five minutes fast, read 8:15. He was making his way to Suki’s to drop off the goods, then he’d do a quick turnaround and head back to the hood. Rosa called him a couple of times, but he couldn’t pick up. He was curious about why she was blowing up his phone and pager.

Waketta was on Myrtle Avenue approaching Adelphi Street when Rosa-Marie finally broke her silence; she was clearly beside herself with anger.

“What’s up with you and Dupree?” Rosa asked, using Numbers’s government name.

The question took Waketta by surprise. She mustered up a smile. “What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to make light of the question.