Numbers (23 page)

For the next couple of months, Numbers hung out in the Park Place hood. He didn’t try to get too familiar with anyone because southern boys didn’t want city boys moving in on their territory. He didn’t spend much time at Howie’s pad—he didn’t like the look and smell of it. Most of the time he went to John-John’s house. John-John had a good head on his shoulders. With some schooling, he could be a good lieutenant if Numbers ever decided to get back in the game.

One evening Numbers rolled up to John-John’s crib. No one was there except Wynter. He had since moved her rating up to a solid eight. She was looking hot in skin-tight jeans and a form-fitting red blouse.

“Where everybody at, Wynter?”

“Hold up, Numbers.” She paused to listen. “I thought I heard the baby crying.” She went to the back to check her daughter, who looked like her little twin in the crib, and came back. “I don’t know where they at. I’m just glad they not here. Your cousins get on my last nerve,” she huffed.

“Oh, word,” Numbers replied. By now he was used to her complaining about M and M.

“And my brother’s an asshole following after them. They gonna get him fucked up or something. You don’t know your cousins, do you?” she asked. “Them dudes is straight fools. This guy who lived on Thirty-first and DeBree messed up their package and man …” She stopped.

“What?” Numbers was curious.

Wynter looked like she didn’t want to say any more. “Well, this is the story I heard from them, and from all accounts, it’s pretty
much accurate. It’s this one dude, Poppa, who lives on Thirty-first and DeBree, who owed them some money, like two hundred dollars. Poppa is a tough, hard nigger. He used to be a dealer ’round here and had the hood scared of him, but not your cousins. They’d asked Poppa many times to give them their trap, but he kept brushing them off. One thing about your cousins, they can’t stand for nobody to play them like chumps.” Her face showed repulsion as she continued with the story. “M and M caught up with him one day while he was walking his dog and pushing his son in the stroller by the train tracks. Mel held them at gunpoint—this is some crazy shit. Matt poured lighter fluid on all three of them and asked Poppa which one was worth his debt. Poppa didn’t answer, he just stood there crying and trembling like a shaved lamb in the dead of winter, scared for his son’s life, as Matt waved fire in front of them. They told Poppa they weren’t heartless, so this was just a warning not to fuck with them and pay up. They gave him back his son.” She paused and swallowed deeply. Numbers saw she wasn’t finished yet. He waited.

“I don’t know which one of them did it, ’cuz they both take credit for it, but they still set Poppa’s dog on fire and burnt him alive.”

A chill ran through his body. If what Wynter said was true, M and M were fucked up in the head.

“My beautiful baby.” Ms. Vasquez scooped R.C. up into her arms as soon as they came into the apartment, speaking to him in Spanish. She was determined to make sure her grandson knew the language of that half of his heritage, regardless of how little time she was able to spend with him. Numbers was cool with it; he wanted his son to be bilingual. He needed every advantage he could get in this crazy world.

“You’ve gotten so big! You’re such a big boy,” she continued, showering him with affection. R.C. giggled and laughed. “Don’t be like your daddy,” she jabbed, knowing that Numbers understood her.

“Mami, why you got to be like that?” Rosa spoke in English, which she knew irritated her mother. Ms. Vasquez ignored her daughter and kept playing with R.C.

“I love you too, Ms. Vasquez,” Numbers said in Spanish. Ms. Vasquez cut her eyes at Numbers. She would never admit it, but she had grown fond of him because he treated her daughter so well.

“Baby, take the bags into my old room,” Rosa said to Numbers, making sure her mother was watching as she kissed him on his lips. Ms. Vasquez frowned slightly. They were staying with her for the weekend. Numbers no longer had Crispy Carl’s apartment, which he’d given to Jarvis. Ms. Vasquez was tolerable in small amounts. Her barbs didn’t bother Numbers as much as they used to. He was just pleased she didn’t treat R.C. the same way. When they touched down in BK, they went straight to his mother and spent most of the day there. She was overjoyed to see her only grandchild and to see that he had started walking.

The weekend dashed past, and it was already Monday. They needed to get back down low no later then 10
A.M.
on Tuesday, since Rosa had a class to attend.

“Rose, com’ere and kiss Big Daddy,” Numbers beckoned. Rosa came out of the back room in her silk pajamas. It was about a quarter to eight in the morning.

“Big Daddy? Where’s Big Daddy at?” she joked lightheartedly, looking sexy as ever. Numbers watched her prance toward him. She was like fine wine, getting better with time. He couldn’t wait to get her back home. He’d been able to sneak and bust a quick nut last night, but he couldn’t go all out and give her the business, because Rosa was nervous about her mother hearing them. “Where you off to?” she asked.

“I gotta make that run. Stop asking a lot of questions,” he teased, “and give me what I asked for.” He tugged her to him gently
but firmly and stuck his tongue down her throat. “I’ll be back in a few hours, so have everything packed. We leaving as soon as I get here.” He palmed her round rump and headed out the door.

Numbers jumped into the rental car and made a quick stop at the grocery store to purchase two big bags of coffee beans. Then he went to Mail Boxes Etc. and bought two boxes, plastic wrap, and packing tape. After getting all the supplies he needed, he took the Brooklyn Bridge to the FDR and drove uptown.

As Numbers drove he thought about what he was about to do. After nearly a year of being in Virginia and the constant badgering of his cousins, he’d agreed to get some product to distribute. His main purpose in coming north had been to visit his family, but while he was in the city, he could kill two birds with one stone. Maybe Jarvis was right: this was all he knew, and all he could do was hustle in the streets.

Getting off the 179th Street ramp, Numbers came back down to 170th Street to Sanchez’s block. Although they had spoken a few times on the phone, Numbers hadn’t seen Sanchez since the night Waketta was murdered. It would be good to see him. They had developed a great rapport. If they weren’t in the type of business they were in, Numbers might call him friend.

Guadalupe opened the door when Numbers arrived. Numbers followed behind her fine ass carrying his bag of materials, wishing the hallway was longer so he could watch that phat rear end of hers bounce up and down some more. When he entered the living room, he saw Sanchez sitting on the sofa with another Hispanic dude. At the sight of Numbers, he popped up off the couch and greeted him with a hug and kiss on the cheek. Numbers was used to this type of greeting from Latinos.

“Numbers, my
compadre, mi amigo,
it’s been too long, my man,” he said in his heavy Spanish accent.

“Chez, you gaining weight, my dude?” Numbers tapped Sanchez’s stomach with the back of his right hand.

“You know I love Lupe’s rice and beans.” He rubbed his belly and laughed heartily. “Come sit, smoke,” he offered. “Numbers, this is
mi amigo
Manuel. Manuel has the best smoke in the city and the best prices.” Manuel was round and looked like he was straight out the movie
Colors.
He was tatted up and down his arms and neck.

“Word, how much that exotic gonna run me?” Numbers asked Manuel.

“This higher. The other stuff lower price.” Manuel spoke broken English in a Spanish accent even stronger than Sanchez’s.

“Nah, they not ready for that where I’m at. What else you got?”

Manuel pulled out two small sacks of some other smoke for Numbers to sample. One was called hydro, and the marijuana was rainforest green. The other was what the streets of NYC called chocolate. It was a deep, rich, moist blend of brown weed. Both were more potent than what the down-south potheads were used to.

“Aiight, let me get three pounds of each. What can you do for me?”

Manuel mumbled to himself in Spanish as he calculated the numbers in his head. “For you, Papi … fifty-four.”

That was a better price than Numbers expected. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Manuel left and came back within twenty minutes with the merchandise packaged in six individually wrapped bags. They made the exchange. Numbers double-wrapped the ganja with the packing tape and then lined the boxes with bubble wrap and poured coffee beans on the bottom. He placed the trees in the box, then covered them with more coffee beans. His load was ready for shipping now.

“Yo, Chez, where the post office at up here?”

“At a hundred sixty-fifth and Amsterdam, homie, but it’s always a madhouse in there,” Sanchez said, shaking his head.

“Then I may just wait to send it when I get back to BK.” Numbers wanted to ship the stuff off today, so it would be in Virginia when he got back. “Listen, Chez, I’ma be out. Peace, Manuel.” He embraced Chez and gave Manuel a pound, then exited the pad with his packages.

Numbers was nearing Fifty-seventh Street off the West Side Highway when 5-0’s lights bounced off his rearview.

Damn.
Feeling a slight tingle of dread cascade through his body, Numbers pulled over in the lane designated for traffic going to the pier. Two white cops got out of the squad car and approached the rented Pontiac Grand Am from both sides.

“Yes, Officer, how can I help you?” Numbers asked the one on the driver’s side after rolling down his window.

“License and registration.”

“Excuse me, what are you pulling me over for, officer?” He knew he hadn’t committed any traffic violations. The other cop peered into the passenger window looking for a reason to have Numbers step out of the car. Numbers decided to forego any further questions and give the cops what they wanted. He didn’t want them searching his ride. “Here you go. It’s a rental.” He passed the po-po his license and the car-rental agreement.

“Step out of the car,” the cop directed.

“What for? I ain’t done nothing. What y’all stop me for?”

“Exit the vehicle.” This time the cop spoke more sternly.

“This is some bull!” But Numbers knew the routine.

“Can we check your car?” the other officer asked.

“Hell no!”

“Why? You got something to hide?” the flatfoot insinuated, while his pink partner continued investigating the car through the windows. The interior was empty other then a few packing materials in the backseat.

“Walk to the back of the car,” the first cop ordered Numbers. His pink partner came around and watched Numbers, while the other officer popped the trunk.

“This is bogus. Y’all illegally searching my shit,” Numbers said, agitated.

The pink flatfoot looked at his partner, smirking slightly before raising the trunk door. “You’re acting like someone who’s got something to hide. What you got back here?” His smirk turned to a frown as he raised the trunk hood and saw a lone pack of diapers. They had to let him go.

Numbers pulled off from the cops, happy he’d decided to ship the smoke while he was uptown. He believed that racial profiling was one of the main reasons young black men despised cops.

By the time Numbers got back to Norfolk, his batch was waiting for him. He bought little plastic pouches to distribute the smoke in ten- and twenty-dollar increments. Within two and a half weeks, they were nearly out of the potent smoke. His cousins wanted and needed more stock. The clientele did, too. The one trip to the city to score weed would be the first of many. Just like that, Numbers was back in the game.

After several trips up and down the highway, Numbers arranged to send Sanchez the money and have his boy ship it down. They were making two g’s off of every pound, but it wasn’t enough for all the heads that were involved. Numbers needed to bring in more bank, and as always, he had a plan to make it happen.

“I need to holla at y’all niggers for a minute,” Numbers called out. Matt, Mel, and John-John were in the kitchen drinking and smoking, fucking around as usual, playing cards. Numbers was sitting in John-John’s living room counting the paper. They were coming to the end of another load. Wynter was curled up on the
couch, not far from him, looking like a kept woman. She no longer minded M and M being in her place as long as Numbers was present.

“What up, cuz?” Matt and Mel said, speaking almost simultaneously, as they often did. At times it was unnerving.

“I been doing some thinking, and it’s time we step our game up to the next page.”

A perplexed look came over the trio’s mugs. As far as they were concerned, things couldn’t get any better.

“What you got in mind, big homie?” John-John questioned.

“Heroin. Do you think we can move that shit out here?”

“Hell, yeah,” Matt chimed.

“You ain’t got to say that shit twice. Let’s do it!” Mel agreed.

Numbers knew it wouldn’t be hard to convince them. “There’s one catch though: nobody gets paid off the next four shipments of smoke.”

“Why?” M and M asked.

“Because we need every dime we can muster to cop the first brick. So y’all down or what?” It wasn’t really a question.