Numbers (14 page)

Jarvis was watching from the wall when Numbers made a U-turn, heading back toward the pay phone.
Nothing unusual.
Jarvis thought. He was used to Numbers riding the horn.

There was a girl on the jack as Numbers approached. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to go through too much trouble convincing her to give it up, but she hung up before he reached her. He fished some change from the pocket of his 501 Levi’s jeans, fed a quarter into the slot, and dialed Rosa-Marie’s number. The phone barely rang once before Rosa-Marie picked up.

“Rosa, what’s going on, Mami?” Numbers spoke in his usual calm voice—not much rattled him.

“Papi, I need you to come …” was the only part he understood. She was speaking in machine-gun-fast Spanish. Numbers was far from fluent in Spanish, but he understood her when she spoke at a normal pace. Things definitely weren’t normal.

Instead of asking her to repeat herself he said, “I’m on my way.” Then he quickly hung up and walked up North Portland toward her building—she lived two-thirds of the way up the block.

Rosa was a good girl who spoke her mind when she had to, but for the most part she never argued just for argument’s sake. Genuinely sweet, she rarely complained, and it didn’t hurt any that she was beautiful.

To be honest, he was surprised they had lasted this long with all the interference and static from Rosa’s mother. Ms. Vasquez had done everything in her power to keep the two apart, including setting her daughter up to go out on dates with Puerto Rican suitors to make sure she wouldn’t get mixed up with a good-for-nothing black boy. At this point in Numbers’s life, he couldn’t blame Rosa’s mother. He was exactly the type of man she didn’t want her daughter to end up with: a drug-dealing street thug.

It was midway through September, and Numbers could feel the season changing in the air. He was wearing a blue cardigan sweater over a white mock neck and a pair of crisp white-on-white shell-toe Adidas. After greeting a few people who were sitting on the benches outside of Rosa-Marie’s building, he sprinted up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

Rosa answered the door looking like she’d been crying for half her life and mourning for the other. Her eyes were bloodshot when she fell into Numbers’s arms, sobbing heavily. Her body heaved with every labored breath. Numbers held her until he felt like she’d gotten it all out. Unsure what was going on, he looked around the apartment to see if her mother was home. If she was, she’d be right up in their business. He didn’t see her. She was probably at church. Ms. Vasquez was a devout Catholic. She kept a small army of Virgin Mary statues, a handful of Jesus pictures, and candles and holy shrines exhibited around the apartment.

“Baby, tell me what’s wrong.” Numbers said, stroking her silky long black hair. He hated to see his lady crying.

“Where do I start?” she said in between tears. “I don’t know what to do. My mother’s gonna disown me, then kick me out.”

“What are you talking about?” Numbers lifted her chin with his index finger so that he could kiss her softly on the mouth. “Start from the beginning.”

There was a long pause. “I’m pregnant.”

Everything went quiet all at once. The noise outside ceased; the kids stopped playing; the cars were no longer whizzing up and down the street honking horns, and their brakes were no longer screeching. Numbers felt like he was dreaming and the world had come to a stop.

“Baby, you say you’re pregnant?” The world started to come back to life. A smile invaded his face.

Rosa was surprised by Numbers’s reaction. She’d thought for sure he would be upset. But he took the news well, and that relieved her somewhat, but not much. Her mother would be another story.

“What are we gonna do, Dupree? My mother is gonna go loco when she finds out.” He knew Rosa wasn’t exaggerating. Ms. Vasquez only tolerated him because she knew her daughter really
loved him. But a baby without a proposal, ring, and wedding would be more than she could handle.

“Listen, you’re my girl and everything’s gonna be all right, okay? I’m gonna take care of you and the baby. Do you trust me, Rose?”

Rosa nodded, smiling slightly, letting him know she trusted him with her everything. This was the man she wanted, the only man she wanted.

“Mami, how far along are you?” He spoke to her soft and lovingly. She loved when he called her Mami.

“Nine weeks. I’m due at the end of April.” She wiped the tears from her face.

“Okay.” Numbers calculated how much time she had. “I’ll figure this out. Just don’t tell your mother yet. Now go clean yourself up before she gets home and sees you like this. She’ll know something’s up.” He patted her on her butt and sent her on her way. Rosa went to the bathroom to get herself together, and Numbers exited the crib.

“Jar, let me kick it with you,” Numbers hollered over to Jarvis, who was sitting on the park wall watching out for Waketta pumping the product. Jarvis slid off the wall and walked toward Numbers, who was near the entrance of the park. Waketta looked over to Numbers and winked. He smiled back. Jarvis saw the interaction and gave a disapproving stare.

Jarvis and Numbers sat on the benches near the b-ball court, facing the street. Evening was approaching quickly.

“What the deal, Numbs? What’s happening?” He could tell by his friend’s face that something was up. “What’s the dumb look for, dunny?”

“You about to be a godfather,” Numbers said, showing two rows of almost perfect teeth courtesy of New York City dental benefits for employees and their families.

“Who you got pregnant, son?”

“Stop bugging. You know it’s Rosa.” Numbers nudged Jarvis in the side with his forearm.

“Word?” Jarvis was excited for him. “Congratulations, bruh. So what it is, a girl or a boy?”

“Don’t know yet. Just found out, man. I’m amped about it, though. But listen, don’t tell Waketta. I need to break this to her gently or she’ll freaking spaz out.” He was looking in the direction where Waketta was posted up. She was serving a crackhead. Numbers changed the subject. “What the money looking like today?”

“It’s all gravy, as Gravy would say.” Jarvis laughed. “Something I gotta run by you though.” Jarvis was looking off toward Myrtle Avenue. “I think something’s going on with Ketta.”

“Something like what?”

“Man, I don’t know how to tell you this other than coming right out and saying it. I think she’s getting banged by Crush. I ain’t seen her with him, but that’s what I heard. If it’s true, that’s some real bullshit.” Numbers kept his composure, but Jarvis knew that the news affected him. “So what you gonna do?”

“Should I ask her ’bout it? It ain’t none of my business. Though that shit would be foul. She knows there’s bad blood between us and that nigger be trying to disrespect my hustle. What you think?”

“Nah, don’t ask her. Let’s just wait and see what happens. You don’t want her to think you sweating her.” Jar looked his friend in the eyes. “You ain’t sweating that, right?”

“Absolutely not,” he lied, not wanting to let Jarvis know how much he cared about Waketta. He’d decided after Jarvis had blurted out what went down between him and Waketta that he’d keep him out of their affairs.

When Numbers had gotten into the game over three years ago, he promised himself he would only be in it six months, until he stacked enough money to take care of his family through Ta-Ta’s ordeal. They ultimately operated on Ta-Ta to remove the tumor, and the radiation treatment she received over a year’s time proved successful. The cancer went into remission. The day the doctor told them that, a great burden was lifted from the family’s shoulders, mentally and financially. After that Numbers tried to get out of the game on several occasions, but something always kept him stuck in it like cement shoes. Now, with Rosa pregnant, once again getting out of the game wasn’t an option. How
could he support his family, his baby, and its mother without this income?

Besides, he was twenty-three; it was past time for him to leave the nest. His mother knew what he was into, but she turned a blind eye. She understood why he started down this path, but hoped he wouldn’t get caught up in it. Now he was. Almost four years had elapsed since he first started slinging for Coney, and money was rolling in regular like the waves at Jones Beach. He was now one of Coney’s top earners. Coney let Numbers set up his own shop at the park with his own crew, the Park Wall Hustlers. He, Jarvis, Broz, and Waketta were PWH. They were balling out of control, getting money and spending it as fast as it was coming in. Numbers had always been fly, but now they all sported fresh gear and jewels. They all purchased cars except for Broz; he just drove everyone else’s shit. Even though money was coming in fast, it wasn’t easy. Between the rival dealers trying to move in on their territory and the same two corrupt cops, O’Doul and Lockhart (who were now detectives), always trying to lock them down or take their cash, they had to stay on their toes.

Waketta never forgot how Lockhart violated her on the roof all those years ago and how his partner, O’Doul, stood there and watched. If she as much as heard someone call out one of their names, she got heated. She wanted payback, and Numbers shared her pain. Those swine needed to be taught a lesson, and Numbers came up with a plan for reprisal. Never mind that Crispy Carl had advised him years back to let karma take care of it.

Although Broz hadn’t been victimized by the rogue cops, he was down with the scheme. Jarvis chose not to be involved. He said he had other business to attend to. Numbers was cool with it. He didn’t need that many hands in the pot anyway. The plan was to call for the detectives on their night shift to come to Crispy Carl’s building. Lockhart was sexing some cop lover named Tanya who
lived there on the eighth floor with her sixteen-year-old son. Tanya wasn’t a good looker by any means, but to think of her having sex with Lockhart’s foulness was revolting.

Crispy Carl lived on the third floor. His window faced the entrance of the building, perfect for the setup.

A couple of weeks after they’d formulated the plan, it all fell into place. Tanya and her son left the apartment together to go to the movies. From a pay phone, Broz placed a call to Detective Lockhart at the Eighty-eighth Precinct, saying he was Tanya’s son and it was very important for him to stop by. Numbers and the crew had obtained his direct number previously after a shooting in the hood. Lockhart had gone door to door giving out his card in hopes of getting some information that would help solve the case. Crispy Carl was given one of those cards. All Numbers and Waketta had to do was wait.

It was a brisk winter night, and not many people were outside. Dressed in all black, Numbers and Waketta sat in Crispy Carl’s bedroom looking out the window. With all the lights out, the apartment was completely dark. Numbers opened the newly installed storm windows, courtesy of the New York City Housing Authority, about three inches. It was a nice little stakeout. They fooled around, drank, and smoked to kill time.

Besides them, the apartment was empty. Crispy Carl had been admitted to the hospital two days prior for a condition he declined to discuss with Numbers. Numbers was concerned about his old friend, but Carl assured him he was okay. He’d given Numbers a key to his crib a while back so he could come and go as he pleased.

After they’d waited more than an hour, Lockhart and O’Doul’s car finally pulled up. They took their sweet time getting out, as usual. A motherfucker could get murked and buried waiting for these assholes. First, Lockhart managed to hoist his overweight and underexercised body out of the car. Then O’Doul slid his
equally fat ass out the passenger side. They both looked like they were living high on the hog.

Numbers and Waketta positioned themselves in the window, taking aim at the two bully porkers.

“You ready?” Numbers whispered to Waketta.

“You damn skippy I’m ready,” she whispered back.

They slid the barrels of their rifles out the three-inch opening of the window.

Numbers counted them off with a whisper: “One … two … three … fire.”

They let off twenty to thirty rounds each from their rifles.

The first shot hit Lockhart in the face, near his right eye. He screamed like a bitch, not knowing what had happened.

O’Doul yelled, “I’m hit!” He’d taken one in the neck, one in the ear, and several in his upper body. The two policemen almost ran into each other attempting to make it to cover. Shots seemed to be raining from the sky, and they couldn’t escape. Lockhart drew his gun as he made it to cover behind the front wheel of the squad car. O’Doul’s fat ass dove over the front end of the car and nearly landed on Lockhart’s head as he slid to what he hoped was safety. Then it was all over. They stayed hidden behind their unmarked car attempting to peek up at the building, frantically looking for signs of where the shots had come from. “Lockhart, what the fuck, oh shit, you okay?” O’Doul’s hands and body were covered with red.

“O’Doul, I think it’s paint. It’s fucking paint! These fucking porch monkeys shot us up with paintballs.” Lockhart was panting and sweating, both scared and happy to be alive.