by Dana Dane
This book is dedicated to the memory
of my great friend Dupree “Du Me Babe” Wells.
You are never far from my thoughts.
In loving memory of my cousin
Shantel Shamik Gray-Robinson:
your strength was an inspiration
to every life you’ve touched.
A Note from Nikki Turner
Dear Readers,
First and foremost: THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!
Friends, family, those who have read all my work, those that have read some, those who have been contemplating it, and even those who criticize my work: I want to say THANK YOU. My team and I couldn’t do it without you.
Most of my tried-and-true readers have been keeping up with my Nikki Turner Presents novels Gorilla Black and Against the Grain and the Street Chronicles short-story collections (Tales from da Hood, Girls in the Game, Christmas in the Hood). I can’t thank you enough for all of your undying support. You have helped me to help others share their stories with the world. I’ve been proud of each and every one of my authors’ tales, but I am even more excited about working with the author of the latest book to be released in my line.
Among many other things, Dana Dane is a first-generation hip-hop icon, and now he adds published writer to the list. Congrats, Dana! Before I make all the formal introductions, let me take you on a trip down memory lane. One of my dearest passions besides writing is music, especially old-school music: Slick Rick, Dana Dane, Run-DMC, etc. (This is ironic, since I can’t even hum in tune. Seriously! They kicked me out of the church choir. But that’s another story altogether.) When Dana Dane’s lawyer called and asked if I would be interested in doing a deal with his client, I could not pass up an opportunity to work with someone whose work I had loved and respected long before I ever picked up a pen to write a book.
After talking to the legendary artist, I found out that he had written a children’s book and a few short stories but nothing, at the time, that would be a good fit for my line. Months later, after talking on the phone about everything from sneakers to hats, books, movies, politics, and the game called life, we both started to realize that though our industries (books and music) were two totally different animals of the entertainment jungle, we both had been through similar highs and lows as artists.
And then Dana Dane sent me the rough draft of Numbers.
This was it. I told him I loved it and thought that it would be an excellent way for him to enter into the book world, and he responded, “Cool! Let’s make it do what it do.” After slashing through all of the red tape with the lawyers, agents, and Ballantine, we worked it all out to make it happen. After the ink was dry I would tell people that Nikki Turner Presents had signed Dana Dane to do a book, and their first response was, “Is he going to write it or are you?” For the record, Dana was such a control freak (and I mean it in a good way) when it came to writing his book, he crossed every T and dotted every I. When it came to the editorial process, the man gave Melody (my right hand and big-city editor) and me hell. We found out that not only was the man smart and charismatic, he was stubborn. But at the end of the day I was very impressed by the pride Dana put into penning his novel. He was a joy to work with. With every round of edits, he would call me and say in his serious voice, “Nikki Turner, I have a newfound respect for you if this is what you do for all of the books you’ve written.”
Through the entire process I soon realized that I liked the man behind the legendary songs “Nightmares” and “Cinderfella” more than I loved the artist. Often times, Dana thought that he was getting insight and jewels from me, but it was he who was passing so much of his expertise on the industry and life in general to me.
Dana is not only my author, he is my dear friend and my big brother. From the bottom of my heart, I really hope you enjoy his book as much as we enjoyed the crazy process of getting it to its finished product.
It gives me great pleasure, honor, and unbridled joy to unveil another Nikki Turner Presents … a Dana Dane classic … Numbers.
Prologue: A Hustler’s Exit Plan
There are not enough … numbers.
Everyone in the hood wants more money, but there isn’t enough to go around. There are endless excuses why financial freedom has bypassed most people. The truth of the matter is that more people spend their time working for money than working toward a goal.
Most think that they will get paid from get-rich-quick schemes or hitting the lottery—the fast-money myth. Many of the young men in the hood think they’ll get rich from selling illegal substances. A majority of the inner-city youth feel they have no other recourse than the street hustle. This mindset is programmed into young people and set in motion by their environment. If I had a nickel for every time I heard somebody say, “I’m just getting into the street-hustle game to make x amount of dollars and then I’m out,” I’d be financially set. It’s rare that they follow their initial plan. This scenario is the one that has plagued street hustlers from the beginning. When is enough money enough? In the street hustle, just as in legitimate business, you have to develop an exit plan. I could tell you a thousand stories of street hustlers believing their own hype and getting caught up, but I won’t. I will only tell you this one.
This is the tale of a young boy who goes by the moniker Numbers.
The Beginning of the End
Numbers was putting on an Academy Award–winning performance, taking Jake through every emotion he could possibly think of: scared, confused, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and victimized. Keyser Söze would have appreciated the level of game Numbers was laying down.
Eleven hours had passed since he’d been taken into custody, six of them under tough interrogation. Although the agents didn’t know any more now than they did when they picked him up, Numbers knew that he was far from out of the fire. Crispy Carl had once told him, “When you stand in the flames, never let them see you sweat.” And Numbers maintained his composure.
The holding room was painted a dull mint green. It was cruel and unusual punishment just to have to look at it for too long. The only furnishings were four metal chairs and a rectangular table. A DEA agent sat on one side of the table with two empty chairs beside him, while Numbers sat on the opposite side. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to beam only on him. Directly ahead of Numbers was a mirror five feet wide by three feet high. It was obvious that there were agents on the other side listening and watching everything that was said or done in the room. Every so often the agent who was with Numbers would turn around and act as if he was looking at himself, asking the same question again and again. This was his way of letting his superiors know he was getting nowhere fast.
“So where are the drugs and money?” Agent Smith asked for what seemed like the thousandth time. Smith had been at the agency for only a couple of years, but his supervisor liked to use him when they interrogated black suspects. They believed another black male could lure the black perps into a false sense of security and thus trick them into incriminating themselves.
Agent Smith fancied himself a good dresser. Today he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a light gray shirt and solid black tie. His top lip sported a well-trimmed pencil-thin mustache. “Don’t make it worse for yourself than it already is,” he said, as if he really cared. “If you play ball, we can knock some time off your sentence.”
Numbers thought it was funny how the agent spoke to him as if they could have been friends under different circumstances. But if he thinks that I’m gonna sit here and implicate myself, this nigger must be the one smoking hot monkey ass through a stem. “I don’t know how many ways I can tell you this, man, but I ain’t done nothing. Y’all the ones that hauled me up in here, got me missing in action, my mom’s probably worried sick. You tell me what’s really goo
d,” Numbers challenged.
“Numbers,” Agent Smith called him by his nickname, hoping to get some type of reaction, “cut the crap. Yeah, we know what they call you in the streets; don’t play dumb with us. We got you on tape with Coney setting up the whole drug transaction. Just tell us where the drugs are, and we’ll make this a little easier on you.” Agent Smith stood up and adjusted his shirt in his pants before walking around to the right side of the table and sitting on its edge. “Little brotha, you think I want to lock you up for the rest of your life? Nah, brotha, that’s not what I want at all, but if you want me to be able to help you, you got to give me something to work with.” This time he spoke in a hushed tone as if the conversation was just between him and Numbers.
Numbers looked straight ahead, his eyes defiant, at the two-way glass in front of him. He spoke, unfazed: “Drugs is not my thing, man! I say no to drugs like Nancy Reagan asked me to back in the day!”
“So you want to be a hard-ass?” Agent Smith hopped off the table. “We can be hard-asses too, you know.” Right on cue Agent Smith’s partner and two other suits Numbers recognized entered the room.
“Dupree Reginald Wallace, I am Agent Flask.” Agent Flask was a tall, well-conditioned, clean-cut white dude, and he spoke with the arrogance of a man who knew something that he shouldn’t. He didn’t bother to introduce the two other suits. Just as well; they needed no introduction. Numbers knew these crooked cops, O’Doul and Lockhart, all too well from the projects. “You’re in more trouble than you realize, kid.” The two detectives smiled, looking sinister. “It would behoove you to cooperate with us. Do you know this person?” Agent Flask cracked a bedeviling smile when he tossed a picture of Coney on the table.
“What kind of rhetorical bullshit is this? You know I do. You just picked me up with him twelve hours ago.”
“Then you should know he already gave you up. He told us about your whole operation. We’ve already cut a deal with him, but we may be able to help you help yourself if you give us your plug,” Agent Flask said.
Numbers wasn’t surprised that Coney had given him up, but that didn’t mean that he was going out like a scrub. He kept his mouth shut.
“Okay,” Flask said, “how about this guy?” He dropped a picture of Sanchez on the table. Sanchez was once Coney’s drugs connect and was now one of the people who supplied Numbers. The agent held several other photos in his hand, waiting for Numbers’s reply.
The stakes had just gone up, and the seat was getting hotter. Numbers had no idea whether or not they had pictures of him and Sanchez together. His next words could implicate him, but if Numbers was nothing else, he was a gambling man. “He looks sort of familiar, but the face doesn’t ring a bell,” Numbers said with an expression as serious as a death sentence. “Isn’t he one of the original members of Menudo?”
Agent Flask frowned. He didn’t think Numbers was funny, and he didn’t like it when perps tried to play him. “Okay then, Mr. Funny Man, who is this … and this … and this … and this?” The agent tossed photo after photo on the steel table. Numbers took a few moments to look at them. It was like seeing a flashback of his entire life since becoming a street hustler, in colored glossy prints. The feds had provided a snapshot of almost everyone Numbers had dealt with in the underbelly of the street game, but what they were unable to do was provide any connection between them and Numbers. He was not in any of the photos, but somehow they knew he knew them—they just couldn’t prove it, so Numbers believed. Why else would they still be digging?
“Come on, this is too much—all the games! I’m not that good at Pictionary, but I’m pretty good with music. Can we play Name That Tune next?” Numbers leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, not showing his frustration, but he was getting vexed with the interrogation. He knew he could ask for his attorney at any time and put an end to the questioning, but he also knew they’d probably try to lose him in the system for who knows how long if he did.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Agent Flask said, his square, chiseled face showing little reaction. He left the pictures spread out on the table and walked out of the interrogation room followed by the well-dressed agent. Detective Lockhart walked over calmly with a smirk on his face and abruptly slammed both of his fat hands down on the table, but Numbers did not react. O’Doul kicked one of the chairs toward Numbers, causing it to fall at his feet, and still Numbers did not flinch. O’Doul followed Lockhart out of the room, leaving Numbers alone with his thoughts.
Numbers began to reminisce about his childhood, recalling the many lessons his mentor, Crispy Carl, had taught him. One of the defining moments, a moment that shined like a beacon in his mind, was during one of the last times he’d seen Crispy Carl.
Numbers went to visit Carl at his one-bedroom hovel in 60 Carlton, right behind the building where he lived. Old Crispy Carl wasn’t doing too well. He was very sick, with no money, no health benefits, and no family to take care of him. Except for Numbers’s occasional visits, he was on his own in every sense of the word. But Crispy Carl never complained about his circumstances because he said his fate was his own doing. Although he never let on, he did look forward to the visits from Numbers; he loved the boy like a son.
“Who’s that?” Crispy Carl called from his bed, alarm in his ailing voice.
“Who else did you give a key, old pimp?” Numbers strode through the door.
“That’s you, Numbers? Where you been?”
“Getting my hustle on, of course. Somebody gotta feed your decrepit ass,” he joked.
Crispy Carl wasn’t offended by the remark—only a foolish man got upset by the truth. “You seen any of my hoes out there, Numbers?”
“They my hoes now, so stop sweating my bitches.”
“Young pimpin’, I taught you everything you know.” Crispy Carl laughed himself into an uncontrollable coughing fit.
Numbers ran to the kitchen, got Carl a drink of water, and then helped him sit up to take a drink.
“Hey, young pimp, it’s okay. We all gotta leave the game one way or another. But let me tell you this so you don’t make the same mistake I made. When you leave the game, you want to roll out with C-Lo as your last number, you dig. See, if you go out with four-five-six, you can make the bank whatever you want it to be when you leave,” making reference to the popular gambling game where three dice are used. “That’s called having an exit plan. Crackers know how the game is played. They got 401(k) plans, pensions, and IRAs.”
Crispy Carl paused to make sure Numbers understood what he was talking about and to gather his breath. “In the streets we ain’t got none of that shit. Shit like that is foreign to cats like us that’s hustling on the street every day. Still, that don’t mean we can’t set ourself up to live comfortable when it’s time to put our cards down. You got to be smarter than the rest of these chumps out here. They think that quick money is gonna last forever, and ain’t nothing lasting forever, feel me?” Crispy Carl sat up in his bed a little more. “See, the problem is these fools start believing their own hype like their shit don’t stink. I’m guilty of that shit myself, young player, so believe me when I tell you, you got to get out when the time is right.”
Numbers thought about what his mentor was saying. “How will I know when it’s that time? I’ve been hustling as long as you’ve known me, Crispy Carl.”
“You’ll know when to get out the game, but you have to start planning for your exit not now … but right now! You come a long way from the little runt I met at the number spot way back when. I’m proud of you for always being the man of your house.”
The Man of the House
It could be said that Dupree Reginald Wallace was a natural-born hustler—he had to be. His father bailed out on him before Dupree was old enough to remember what the man looked like, and his two little sisters’ father was kicked out by his mother when Dupree was eight, earning him the title of man of the house by default.
Dupree lived with his mother and twin sisters
on the first floor of building 79 North Oxford Walk in the Fort Greene housing projects—one of the most frequented and notorious buildings in the hood. Building 79 bustled with activity; the stoop was always overflowing with people entering, exiting, or congregating.
Dupree was outside walking the fence the day his stepfather was banished from their lives. Walking the fence was one of the things the kids did to amuse themselves that summer. The challenge was to keep your balance and walk the length of the gray chain-link fence from the stoop—right under the kitchen window of Dupree’s apartment—all the way around to the Park Avenue side of the building, a good 150 feet, give or take a few. Dupree had become one of the best at balancing himself and walking the fence like it was a tightrope. Even the blare of the boom box on the stoop blasting the sounds of Melle Mel and Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five’s new raw rap street gospel—“It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder”—could not distract him.
But Dupree’s grace on the fence did not come without trial, error, and pain. Three years earlier, when he moved into the neighborhood at the innocent age of five, he attempted to follow after some of the older boys tightroping the gate. Chap, Marcus, and Raymond were eight or nine years old; only Marcus’s little brother, Jarvis, was the same age as Dupree. Dupree wanted to show the boys he could keep up, so he mounted the fence. His first mistake was wearing hard-bottomed shoes, which made his task slippery at best, if not impossible for a novice. His second mistake was not having his shoelaces tied properly. And his third mistake was that he didn’t know any of the boys he was mimicking.
As Dupree began attempting to walk a nearby fence not far from his new building, Chap grabbed the fence and started shaking it vigorously, shouting profanities and anything else he could think of to rattle Dupree’s concentration. “You fuckhead … You gonna fall … You can’t do it with them church shoes on and them big-ass feet.”
