Numbers (17 page)

When Numbers exited the building it was close to five-fifty and darkness was creeping in fast. A stiff wind was swirling and whooshing at his back as he walked into the rear of his mother’s building. The first thing he heard was Waketta’s mouth. When he opened the creaky door leading to the first-floor hallway, everyone went quiet for a moment until Waketta, Broz, and Jarvis saw it was him.

Waketta picked up where she’d left off. “Let’s go whip them bitches’ asses. How the fuck they gonna pump in our park?” she said, talking to Numbers now. “Crush’s flunkies pumping product in our spot. What we gonna do?”

“I told you we shouldn’t take a day off,” Jarvis chimed in with an I-told-you-so attitude.

That was fast.
Numbers wondered how they knew PWH was lying low today. Later for the guessing game. Numbers would go to the source, run up on whoever was in the park, and get answers.

“Is everybody packing?” Numbers checked his clique.

“And you know it,” said Waketta, always the first one to speak up.

Broz and Jarvis nodded in affirmation.

“Aiight, let’s roll on ’em.” Numbers led his crew out of the building, glancing at his mother’s first-floor window to see if any of his family members were aware of his presence. The shades were down. PWH walked across the courtyard past the front of building 81 onto North Portland Avenue.

They hurried up the block with Broz trailing. For a big boy, he could move fast, but he always chose to dally. When they reached the avenue it was just as Broz informed Jarvis: Crush’s boys were slinging in their park. Coney had schooled him early on that shit like this was unacceptable.

A medium flow of traffic cruised east and west on Myrtle Avenue, but there were not many pedestrians. The windchill must have kept many people inside. PWH, all dressed in dark garments, marched against the
DON’T WALK
sign looking like the GoodFellas. Two dudes kicked it with their backs to the street, not seeing the crew walk up on them. If they’d known what was about to take place, they might have been paying more attention. They would learn to stay on point after this.

“My man, can I speak with you a moment?” Numbers asked in a calm, civil manner. The crew fanned out into a loose circle around the men.

“What up, par?” The taller of the two guys said thuggishly, unaware he was speaking to the shopkeeper of the area they were peddling on.

“I wanted to know who gave you guys permission to push your product over here.” He was boiling inside, but his demeanor didn’t convey it. He’d built up this location from nothing, and he wasn’t about to let two Johnny-come-latelys move in on his territory.

The tall dude answered indignantly, “Permission? Duke, we sling where the fu—” Before the last word came all the way out, Waketta came down on his skull with the butt of the .380 she had palmed. It was identical to the pistol Numbers was carrying, still concealed in his pocket. Dude folded over, grabbing his dome piece, blood seeping through his clutching fingers.

His partner wanted no part of the business. He jumped up and tried to flee from the loose entrapment, but Broz stuck out his fat foot, tripping him; he fell hard, scraping his face on the sidewalk. He bounced right back up in fear for his life and continued running down the hill toward the third side of the projects, looking back once to see if he was being chased. He wasn’t.

“The man asked you a question,” Waketta demanded.

Attempting to clear his head, the soldier looked up, then at Numbers, and at Jarvis. He was about to fix his mouth to say something when Jarvis rammed his size 9½ Timberland into his gut. The dude moaned in pain. Jarvis hovered over him, daring him to say the wrong thing again.

“Crush … it was Crush,” he whimpered. “He said this was our spot now.”

Numbers bent down so he would be on eye level with the young man. “Tell Crush to respect the boundaries and we won’t have any unnecessary problems. Got that?”

“Let me put a cap in his ass,” Waketta begged.

“Nah, baby, he got the message. Don’t you?” Numbers looked at the dude in a manner that could not be misunderstood.

Dude nodded in compliance.

It was confirmed that Coney was locked up, but no one was sure of the particulars. Everyone speculated it was drug-related. But what Numbers did know for sure was that Coney had been incarcerated for the past two weeks and the PWH were out of product. Shit was dry. Other than Coney’s money, the crew didn’t have much reserve cash. Things were getting tighter than six fat men in a Pinto.

It was early morning; Mike’s Coffee Shop was bustling, as usual. A small, quaint spot on the corner of DeKalb Avenue and Hall Street, diagonally across from Pratt Institute, Mike’s held, at most, fifty people. Numbers and Jarvis used to go there often when they worked the summer youth program.
The PWH sat in the last booth across from the kitchen, near the one restroom in the back, plotting their next move.

A stubby Mexican waiter with a dark mustache approached. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’m ready,” Broz was quick to respond.

“Your fat ass is always ready,” Jarvis ragged on him, and the others laughed.

“Why you always got something to say, Horse Skull?” Broz snapped back, and this round of giggles was with him, not against him.

“Give us a minute. For now just bring us four waters with lemon and four hot teas. Thanks,” Numbers said.

“Make that three teas. I want a hot chocolate with whipped cream,” Broz interjected.

“Okay, be right back.” The waiter scurried off.

“So what’s the plan, ol’ great leader?” Jarvis started the conversation.

Numbers ignored his sarcasm. “I got word from one of Coney’s boys that Coney should be back on the streets in a couple of days.”

“And what if he’s not?” Jarvis asked, challenging. He was pissed off at Numbers because he was remaining loyal to Coney, which meant they weren’t getting paid.

“Then we wait it out,” Numbers replied, weary of his best friend’s contempt for his authority as leader of the crew. “How do you think we should proceed, almighty preceptor? Since it seems as though you have the remedy for what ails us.” Numbers spoke, exhibiting some of the education he was afforded at his premier high school.

“What? Fuck you.” Jarvis knew Numbers was fucking with him, but he didn’t know what that shit Numbers said meant.

“Easy on the testosterone, guys, let’s just figure this out,” Waketta said, endeavoring to cool tempers down.

“Yeah, I got a plan,” Jarvis continued, a bit calmer. “I think we should get weight from Crush.”

“Crush?” Waketta and Broz both burst out, surprised to hear that name. After all, they had just pistol-whipped one of his workers not two weeks ago. “Why would Crush be willing to supply them?

“You not serious, Jar? Crush?” Baffled, Numbers looked at Jarvis. They all did.

“Are you ready to order yet?” the waiter asked after returning with the beverages.

“Give us another minute.” Numbers sent him off again.

“Listen, duke ain’t sweating that ass whipping we gave his worker—he a businessman. He said he’d hit us with a brick for a good price,” Jarvis explained, pouring a ton of sugar into his tea.

“Nah, Jar, we ain’t fucking with dude. I don’t trust that nigger. He foul. Plus Coney ain’t never did us dirty,” Numbers replied.

“You sure ’bout that?” Jarvis raised an eyebrow.

“What you trying to say, Jar?

“Nothing.” Jarvis took a sip from his tea.

“Fuck you mean, Jar? You started this shit. If you know something, just spit it out.”

“Nothing, man. It’s whatever you say.”

The waiter was back for the third time, the irritation obvious in his tone. “Are you ready to order now?”

“Yeah.” Numbers looked over to Waketta, who was sitting next to him on the inside of the booth. It was clear she was thinking the same thing Numbers was:
What is Jar talking about?

Broz ordered first. “Let me get a cheese omelet with mushrooms, green peppers, french fries, extra side of bacon, a Belgian waffle, and more hot chocolate.”

“We not gonna order nothing; we’ll just eat off his plate,” Numbers joked, lightening the atmosphere a little. Before he could order, his pager started vibrating; he looked at the number and
smiled. “Let me get two eggs over easy with home fries. I’ll be right back.” He got up and walked out of the diner to the pay phone on the adjacent corner.

When Numbers returned, the food was there and everyone was enjoying their breakfast. Things seemed back to normal. “We back,” Numbers announced.

Everyone looked up from their food.

“Coney’s out the can, I’ma meet with him a little later on.” It was welcome news. The crew ate, laughed, and enjoyed their meal.

Numbers met Coney at his mother’s place in building 117. He knocked on the door of 11G, one of the largest apartments in the development, with three bedrooms. Only the A, F, and G apartments came with three bedrooms.

“Who is it?” the male voice on the other side of the door asked.

“Numbers.”

A moment later Coney opened the door, looking none the worse for wear. He poked his head out the door to make sure Numbers was alone. Coney seemed a little paranoid. Without a word he waved Numbers into the crib. Numbers had been there before. The shades and curtains were closed; the only light came from the project light fixture on the wall. Numbers followed Coney past the dining room set that was too big for the area into the living room on the right. A sexy female sat on the couch wearing nothing but a white tank top, panties, and a fresh hairdo; she looked familiar.

“Shorty, go in the back,” Coney instructed. When she stood up Numbers couldn’t help but notice the body was crazy. Then he remembered where he knew her from. She was the girl from Farragut Houses who was with the pretty boy Coney duffed out that time.
I guess he was right when he said he thought she wanted him, because she got him, or vice versa,
Numbers thought. The Jayne Kennedy twin smiled at Numbers as she left.
Maybe she wanted
me, too,
he thought. Coney waited for her to leave. After hearing the bedroom door close, he spoke.

“Yeah, Numbers, the law tried to jam me up. They almost had your boy.” Coney was trying to gauge Numbers’s reaction. It was stoic. “If it wasn’t for Spitz, I’d still be down,” Coney continued. “If you ever get into any shit, Joshua Spitz is one slick motherfucker to have on your payroll. He ain’t cheap though. I had to shell out fifteen grand to that Jew-boy attorney, but it’s worth it to be back on the streets.” Coney lay back on the plush sofa and lit up a Dutch. Numbers sat in a recliner adjacent to Coney.

“It’s good to have you back,” Numbers said. “So what up, Coney, how we moving? I ain’t got to tell you we been missing out on major loot.”

“I know, that’s why I called you. This is some serious shit I’m about to drop on you, and I need you to be solid on this, don’t fuck me.” Coney became rigid. He shot a glare at Numbers, letting him know this was life or death. Numbers felt uneasy; whatever Coney wanted from him, he hoped he could handle it. He waited as Coney inhaled and exhaled on the blunt.

“Shit is too hot for me right now. Po-po got it in for me.” He seemed reluctant to say what he really wanted to say, then he just blurted it out: “I need you to get at my connect to make the re-up.”

Numbers knew this was big. One of the initial rules Coney had laid down was never to give up your supplier. Now he was entrusting Numbers to make the pickup.

“You know I don’t trust no-fucking-body,” Coney said, as he’d done many times before. This mantra was as consistent as U.S. taxes and death. Coney didn’t trust his own mother, but he felt Numbers had proven his loyalty in many situations. If he got out of line, Coney would murder him—it was as simple as that.

“So this how it’s gonna go down,” Coney continued, not giving Numbers a choice in the matter. “You gonna meet my connect, Sanchez, up in Washington Heights at this chicken spot near a
hundred-sixty-eighth and Broadway. Take the twenty-four K you got for me and pick up what I got there. When you get back to the hood with the goods, let me know and I’ll tell you what to do with it. Now listen to me, don’t be holding no long drawn-out conversations with dude. He a straight shooter, but he ain’t your friend and he tend to run his mouth too fucking much. So get in and get outta there. And go by yourself! Nigga don’t like crowds. You got me, Numbers?” Coney spoke as if he was giving orientation to a new employee.

“Come on, Coney, you know I wouldn’t shit on you,” Numbers said, wanting to alleviate his concerns. It was true, Numbers was loyal to a fault.

Looking into Numbers’s eyes, Coney believed him. “My nigga.” He smiled, passing Numbers the smoke.

Numbers drove his silver ’89 Acura Legend into Manhattan and up the West Side Highway, blasting the Nas
Illmatic
cassette. He got off on the 125th ramp in Washington Heights and drove to 168th and Broadway. The area boasted a large Latino community. It also flaunted a healthy drug trade. You could cop nearly any drug you wanted up here, from weed to boy and anything in between.

The money was stashed in his long-john pants. Before entering New Caporal, a little Spanish fast-food chicken spot, he paged the connect. He ordered some chicken wings and yellow rice while he waited. The chicken wings were ten times better than the Chinaman’s, but not as good as his mom’s.