by Dana Dane
Jarvis never said anything about his friend running away; Dupree had told him how scared he was of the twins. He was just happy his best friend overcame his fear and decided to come back to his aid—that’s what counted.
Now the dirty twins would think twice before messing with them again.
Crispy Carl
“Jarvis,” Dupree said, beckoning to his best friend as he skateboarded across the grounds between the project buildings, “watch this trick.” He continued pushing off with his left foot, picking up momentum as he headed straight for the cardboard box in his path. When Dupree was a foot away from the box he applied pressure to the back of his skateboard with his left heel, then he raised his right foot and slid it up the base, causing himself and the board to become airborne, and launched clear over the cardboard box. The landing was perfect; his arms were extended like the wings of a bird as he skidded to a halt.
“Man, that was nice,” Jarvis admitted.
Over the last three summers, Dupree and Jarvis had become pretty good on their skateboards. Though Jarvis was fearless when it came to fighting, Dupree was the daredevil on the skateboard and the more athletic of the two.
“Come on, Jar, you can do it. Just make sure you push off hard enough,” Dupree encouraged.
Jarvis wasn’t as confident as his friend, but he was determined not to let Dupree show him up, even if he broke his neck in the process.
“Dupree!”
Jarvis stopped in his tracks, thinking he heard someone call his friend’s name—it sounded like Dupree’s mother.
“Come on, Jar, I know you not a chicken.” Dupree egged his friend on, apparently not aware that someone had called him.
“Dee!” his mother called again, but the boys were far enough from the apartment window that her voice was barely audible by the time it reached them. “Deeeee!” she repeated. “Come here! Hurry up.” Jenny could see Jarvis but not Dupree from the window. But she knew Dee was out playing with his friend nearby.
“Ya mom is calling you, Du. I know you heard her that time.”
“Stop stalling and do the stunt,” Dupree badgered, thinking that Jarvis was trying to pull his leg.
“Nah, fo’ real—ya mom did call you,” Jarvis said with an I’m-dead-serious expression on his face.
Dupree kicked off on his skateboard toward his first-floor window. Sure enough, she had been searching for him. “Yes, Mommy?” he called up to her.
“Come in the house. I need you to run to the store for me real quick. Hurry up.” She disappeared into the apartment.
Dupree stomped on the back of his skateboard; when it popped up into the air, he grabbed it with his right hand and bounded up the stoop and into the building. “I’ll be right back, Jar,” he said over his shoulder.
“Cool.” Jarvis waited at the foot of the stairs, balancing on his board.
Even with the institution of the New York State Lottery in ’82, most people continued to bet with the underground number holes they were familiar with. One of the most popular spots in the neighborhood was located on the corner of Park Avenue and Cumberland Street—basically a storefront, no sign on the outside—just two big windows covered with a gray coat so no one was able to look inside. It was run by an overweight thirty-something Guido named Louie Provolone. That wasn’t his real last name, but most people called him Provolone or Big Cheese because they said he always smelled like cheese. Dupree thought Louie smelled more like stale milk and the cigar he kept clamped between his tight lips.
Not too many kids had ever seen the inside of Provolone’s number hole—not because it was off limits, it just wasn’t really kid-friendly. There was an excessive amount of drinking, sex talk, and swearing, especially when someone almost hit their number. That was cause to curse the sun, moon, and stars. Provolone’s was a home away from home for a lot of its patrons—their second job, for the few who had a job.
Crispy Carl was a regular at the spot. He was dark, but his complexion wasn’t the reason they called him Crispy. Crispy Carl was a forty-six-year-old ex-pimp, and everything he wore—from his fried-and-dyed hair to his tailor-fit zoot suits—was always crisp and sharp. He might not have been as fly as he was in his prime, and he might have lost most of his hair, but in his age bracket he was still by far the smoothest, slickest-dressing man in the hood.
Crispy Carl lost his whores and money during the Frank Lucas era, when he got hooked on heroin. He was clean now, but the pimp game had passed him by. Now he spent countless hours sipping Jack Daniels and reading the Big Mack number sheet. If anybody was looking, most of the time he could be found perched on the bench in front of the spot, or inside if the weather was foul.
A lot of people fancied hitting him up for predictions on the number of the day, and he was more than willing to oblige them. He always volunteered a tale to validate the reasoning why he liked a certain number. The funny thing was, Crispy Carl didn’t hit his number any more than anyone else—people just got a kick out of the stories he told.
Dupree came barreling across the street with Jarvis on his tail. With only ten minutes or so to get his mother’s bet in, he was in a hurry—so much so that he nearly ran over Crispy Carl’s foot with his skateboard.
“Okay, watch it, young grasshopper!” Crispy Carl exclaimed. “The fastest way to get to ya destination, more often than not, is to be steady and consistent.” He held Dupree by the arm, preventing him from entering the store.
Dupree looked at him, puzzled. “I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Little man, where you think you going?”
“I got to put a number in for my mother,” Dupree answered politely, even though he wasn’t feeling the fact that the man was hindering him from completing his mother’s errand.
“Okay, little player, but be careful with that skateboard. Us old-timers’ bones don’t heal as quickly as they used to.” Crispy Carl released the young man’s arm so that he and his friend could go on about their business.
“You got that right, Crispy Carl,” one of his cronies chimed in.
The main room of the number hole was about fifteen by fifteen feet and filled with smoke. On both sides were wooden counters that took up the entire length of the walls. They were used to lean on and fill out number slips. The once light-gray walls were now mostly covered with scribbled numbers, names, and so forth, written in pen, pencil, and markers. There were metal and wooden chairs scattered about the room, and a wooden bench to the right of the entrance. The five trash cans must have been for decoration, because discarded number slips littered the floor. Straight ahead was a large window; behind that window were two women, one black and one Puerto Rican, whose job was to take the bets. Both were in their late twenties or early thirties and fairly attractive. Hanging on the wall over that window was a large, black-framed, circular clock with a white face and black hands.
The time was 2:45 P.M.
Dupree hesitantly made his way to the opening in the wall, while Jarvis stayed near the entrance looking around. Dupree was the third person in the Hispanic lady’s line. When it was his turn, he removed the number slip his mother had scribbled on and the twenty-five cents from his pocket and placed them on the counter.
“A little young to be betting?” the Hispanic lady said to Dupree through a mouth full of food. Provolone didn’t give his workers lunch breaks.
“It’s for my mother.”
“Then let’s make sure we get it right, baby.” She separated the top white sheet from the bottom yellow copy and then passed the yellow one back to Dupree. With a smile, she placed the white sheet in a box beneath the counter and the quarter in a drawer.
On Dupree’s way out the man who had detained him earlier called, “Come here, little player.”
Dupree walked over to him.
“Do me a solid and take a look at these.” Crispy Carl showed him a list of numbers that had come out over the past week in the Big Mack. Crispy Carl hadn’t hit the number in a while and hoped a fresh perspective would c
hange his luck.
Dupree studied all the three-digit numbers on the list, not sure what he was looking for.
“Well, little dude, what do you think?”
“What do I think about what?” Dupree answered, baffled.
“What do you think is a good number to play today?” Crispy Carl specified.
“How would I know?” Dupree shrugged.
“Come on, little man, just give me three numbers.”
“Two five eight,” Dupree blurted out.
“Two fifty-eight. That sounds like a good one.” Crispy Carl popped off his perch and briskly stepped into the number spot to place his bet.
Dupree was thoroughly confused but didn’t question what had taken place. Instead, he just laid out his skateboard, pushed off, and headed home, with Jarvis in tow.
Although Jenny rarely hit the numbers, she played them religiously. The next day she sent Dupree back across Park to play her numbers again, and when he showed up in front of the store, Crispy Carl was excited to see him.
“Numbers! My little man, what’s going on?” Dupree had no idea who Numbers was, so he didn’t respond. “Yeah, I’m talking to you! That’s your new handle from now on: Numbers!” Crispy Carl told him. “Do you know why I’m gonna call you Numbers?”
Dupree shook his head.
“Then I’ll tell you why.” Crispy Carl gave him a wide smile while removing some bills from his pocket. “My boy, Numbers, this is for you.” He passed Dupree a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Dupree’s eyes grew to twice their normal size.
Crispy Carl read the confusion in his new friend’s eyes. “Remember the number you gave me yesterday afternoon?” he asked.
“Uh-uh,” Dupree said.
“Little partner, the number you gave me, two fifty-eight, it came out straight like that, and that’s your share.” Crispy Carl put his hands on Dupree’s shoulder, giving him a huge congratulatory shake.
Dupree smiled back at his new partner and mentor.
Over the next couple of weeks, 40 percent of the picks Dupree provided Crispy Carl with turned out to be winners. Hitting the number at that rate was exceptional; the average gambler hit the number—at best—10 to 20 percent of the time.
Numbers had been born.
The Knack
Numbers was sitting at his desk doodling in his math textbook when he felt someone hovering over him. It was Mr. Greenstein, his sixth-grade math teacher.
“Come with me,” Mr. Greenstein ordered, looking over his bifocals.
Some of the children snickered and oohed, believing Numbers was in trouble. Jarvis looked at him with an expression that asked, What happened? Numbers gestured with his shoulders and hands to let him know he didn’t know what was going on.
“Children, stay in your seats, complete your assignments, and remain quiet! I’ll be right back.” Then Mr. Greenstein led Numbers out of the classroom. Numbers knew once the teacher left the classroom his fellow classmates would go bonkers. He followed Mr. Greenstein through the school corridors, wondering what he had been caught doing.
Mr. Greenstein and Numbers walked down the stairs to the principal’s office. Numbers felt his heart race a little. He knew he was in trouble for sure, he just didn’t know why.
When he followed his teacher into the office he saw Principal Gordon Mathews sitting behind his desk wearing a navy suit with a blue striped tie. Then he noticed the person sitting across from his principal: his mother. Numbers almost stopped breathing.
Oh, damn, he thought. The last thing I need is for Mom to lay those heavy hands of hers on me. Numbers looked at his mother, trying to read her thoughts, but her expression gave away nothing.
“Have a seat, young man,” Mr. Mathews said; it came out more like a command than a polite suggestion.
Numbers took a seat by his mother, who smiled at him wryly.
“Do you know why we brought you in here?” Mr. Mathews asked.
Numbers shook his head. Mr. Greenstein stood over his shoulder like a sentry assigned to make sure he wouldn’t bolt out of the room.
“Well, it has come to my attention that you may have falsified your tests.” However respectful Mr. Mathews was attempting to sound, there was no nice way to call a person a cheat.
“Dee, you can tell me.” His mother looked him square in the eyes. “It’s okay if you made a mistake. Did you cheat on your math test?”
Is this what this is all about? Numbers breathed a sigh of relief, trying to regain his normal breathing pattern. They think I cheated on my math test.
“No, Mommy, I didn’t cheat.”
“If you didn’t cheat, young man, how do you account for getting a hundred on your last three math tests?” the principal asked in a condescending manner.
Numbers shrugged. “I don’t know, but I didn’t cheat!” He spoke with a little more confidence now.
“Well, there must be some explanation, because Mr. Greenstein informs me that the highest grade you ever scored previously on one of his tests was a seventy-seven. So either you’re a genius all of a sudden, or you’re a cheat,” Mr. Mathews stated bluntly.
Jenny took offense at the principal’s accusations. She believed her son when he said he didn’t cheat—plus, she knew that he knew the consequences of lying to her would be far worse than anything the principal could ever do.
“Hold it now, Mr. Mathews. If my son said he didn’t cheat, he didn’t cheat!” she shot back. “If you don’t believe him, Mr. Greenstein, you can give him some more problems to solve right here and now and we can settle it.” Jenny felt confident her son wasn’t lying but hoped she hadn’t put her foot in her mouth.
Numbers was a bit nervous being put on the spot, but what could he do? It was time to put up or shut up.
“Well, Mr. Greenstein?” Mr. Mathews looked to him for affirmation.
“I guess we can have him answer a few questions,” Mr. Greenstein replied, taking a pencil from behind his ear and walking over to the principal’s desk. He began writing problems on a sheet of paper.
Numbers stole a look at his mother and couldn’t help but smile a little inside. It felt good to have his mother standing up for him. He could see how his sudden abilities in math were puzzling, but he was just never interested in the class. He knew it was only a case of him applying himself.
Mr. Greenstein placed the sheet of paper on a hardcover book and then passed it to Numbers.
Numbers looked over the problems for a moment before glancing up toward the ceiling. He went into a daze for about thirty seconds, something he did when he was in deep thought. Then, with a slight smirk, he began writing. Sixty seconds later he was finished, and he handed the book and the sheet of paper back to Mr. Greenstein.
Mr. Greenstein looked over the problems for five minutes or so, mumbling to himself.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Greenstein?” the principal inquired.
“Well, no, I mean, yes,” Mr. Greenstein replied with his forehead scrunched up, looking through his bifocals intently at the paper.
“So I guess someone wasn’t telling the truth after all,” Mr. Mathews said matter-of-factly, giving Numbers a stern stare.
“No, Gordon, that’s not the problem. The answers are all correct.” Mr. Greenstein was baffled.
Jenny smiled at her son proudly.
“Well then?” Mr. Mathews asked again. “What?”
“Uh, well, uh,” Mr. Greenstein stammered, “they are correct, but I don’t know how he figured them out. He didn’t write anything on the paper. It’s like he figured the answers out in his head. I can’t even do that!” he confessed.
The principal and teacher apologized profusely to Ms. Jenny and would later make arrangements for Numbers to be placed in an advanced program in junior high school.
Over the years of running numbers and errands to the stores for people, Numbers had always been able to keep everyone’s money accounted for in his head without writing it down. It was a knack he’d acquired, and somehow it had carried over in
to his schoolwork. He didn’t understand where his gift for numbers had come from, but Jenny did. She had encountered this uncanny talent for numbers once before. Jenny had thought that other than donating his sperm and his coarse mane, Numbers’s father hadn’t given him anything, but happily, she realized now she was wrong.
When Jenny told her son of his father’s abilities with numbers, Numbers grew curious to meet him. He had only seen his father in a picture his mother had of them when they both attended Sumter High School in South Carolina. He’d always wondered about the man in that picture.
Social Work
Jenny was downtown meeting with her social worker, and then she was going to look for work. She was tired of collecting welfare and working odd jobs off the books at the dry cleaners, the local bar, and at the supermarket. None of them paid much, nor did they offer any benefits. She was determined to find something substantial.
Numbers was now twelve years old, and Jenny left him in charge of babysitting his sisters. He would’ve had Jarvis come down and keep him company today, but his friend was on punishment again, for fighting. Jarvis was more of a reactor than a thinker; for that reason he always got into scuffles.
Numbers decided he would pull out a deck of cards and play a game of solitaire. His sisters were in the back, as usual, playing, and he hoped they would stay there. He loved them, but sometimes they could be real pests.
Sitting at the table in his usual seat with his back to the refrigerator, Numbers started shuffling and flipping over cards. He’d developed an uncanny ability to predict what the next card in the deck would be before he turned it up. It was like he had a sixth sense when it came to cards and numbers in general. When he was focused, he could foretell the correct card 80 to 90 percent of the time. As he sat there calling out numbers to himself, then flipping up the exact card he’d called, his rhythm was interrupted by his sister’s voice.
