by Dana Dane
Numbers often walked through the island because it was a shortcut to his building. It was about four o’ clock in the afternoon on a clear Friday. A big dice game was going on in the middle of the attached buildings at 157 and 158 North Elliott Place. Numbers knew a few of the dudes who lived on the island but seldom hung out with them. The island boys usually ran in their own clique. There were about a dozen steps leading to the stoop landing and about ten dudes in the cipher, but not all of them were gambling. There was one fine-ass chick named Suki, who was half black and half Asian. By the way the dude Coney kept looking to Suki for approval, it was evident that they were together. It was hard to believe that a specimen as fine as she could find solace in a nigger who looked like Grape Ape. But if it was true that money made a nigger look better to chicks, this nigger’s paper was long enough to make him look like Billy Dee Williams. Most of the guys there didn’t know that Suki was a ride-or-die bitch. She would bust her gun for her nigger Coney if directed to do so.
Numbers recognized a few of the locals from his side in the cipher. A couple were there betting grips of loot. One up-and-coming hustler, Crush, from the third side, had just lost a grip, and he was pissed. The bank was being controlled by Coney. Coney was loud and flashy and craved being the center of attention. He had everyone afraid to bet on his line, since he’d just rolled C-Lo then head crack five times in a row before that. When Numbers walked up on the game, Coney had just cut the bank to five hundred dollars. That was more than Numbers’s whole paycheck, which was all he had. Numbers hadn’t rolled dice in a minute, but he wasn’t planning on losing. He always found a way to step up when the pressure was on.
“Shoot four hundred fifty of the bank, player,” Numbers called out to Coney.
“Aiight, it’s a bet, little man, the bank is four-fifty, since nobody else is on the line,” Coney shot back before rolling the dice.
Ace! Just like that, Numbers was up $450. It was now his bank, because he stopped the bank head up. Numbers made the whole $900 bank. Crispy Carl had schooled him long ago: scared money don’t make money.
“Shoot that chump change,” Coney hollered confidently.
“That’s a bet. Yeah, baby, you ain’t ready for this lick right here. These are my freaks, and they love giving me head. Come on, ladies, suck it good!” Numbers yelled, rolling the dice. The dice stopped spinning on 4 … 4 … 6. “Head crack! I told you how my ladies do!” Numbers had thrown a winner, doubling his bank. As he walked up to Coney to collect his cash, he spared a glance over at Suki. She was beaming at him.
Coney waved him off. “Shoot the eighteen hundred.” He dropped the loot at Numbers’s feet and yelled more assertively this time, “Shoot it again!”
Numbers shook the squares, then released the two green and one red clear dice. They danced and rotated over the cracks in the pavement, and when the first one stopped the number was … 6!
Afterward he rolled two more 6’s—four automatic wins in succession. The dice were on fire for him. Each time Numbers rolled a 6, the onlookers reacted—some in disbelief, some in awe, and others in envy. He accumulated over $7,200 in the bank. He needed to roll C-Lo in order to cut the bank down or hope Coney didn’t stop the bank. That was the problem: Coney had long dough. He looked at Numbers and gave him a smile like he approved of his moxie. Numbers thought Coney was done.
“Aiight, taking all bets!” Numbers exclaimed confidently, looking to the cipher of gamblers standing around.
But Coney wasn’t finished yet. “Little man, shoot whatever’s in the bank.”
“Word, no doubt,” Numbers replied cockily. “I got you now! He done fell into my trap! I’m ’bout to double this money up!” He pumped himself up. “My females bigger and better. Make ’em pay!” he hollered, letting the cubes twirl out of his palm.
At the same time, trying to rattle Numbers, Coney screamed out, “Ace!” The first green stone was a 4, the next one to stop was the red die, a 5. The last spun on the cement like a top for what seemed like forever as everyone seemed to hold their breath. If it landed on a 6 it would be C-Lo. Numbers would be able to cut the bank down or even walk away with all the loot he won. The last square finally came to rest on … 2.
Nothing.
Numbers’s heart was pumping. That was the lick he needed. He doubted if Coney would be able to stop the bank again for more than fourteen thou. Numbers corralled the dice, kneeled down, and schooled them in front of him.
“You still got time to save yourself. We won’t think bad of you if you want to change your mind.” He smiled at Coney, hoping he would take him up on his offer, but knowing he wouldn’t.
“Son, this is nothing. You gonna have to roll eight more autos to break me,” Coney said and smiled, revealing a row of gold fronts. Coney did have more money on him but not nearly enough to stop a fourteen-thousand-dollar bank. “Come on, you scared rabbit, school is out. What you gonna do?” Coney said, mocking him.
Numbers nodded at him, as if to say, “Okay, you want it, you got it! All he could think of was what Crispy Carl had taught him about how to finish. This was another opportunity to show he had learned his lessons well. He set up the dice on the ground with 4’s faceup. Then he picked them up, shook them lightly, and tossed them in Coney’s direction.
“My females bigger and better. Ladies, make ’em pay,” Numbers encouraged the dice.
They bounced off across the cement, landing right in front of Coney’s foot: 6 … 6 … 1! An ace!
It was over. Numbers had lost everything. Almost everyone there had their two cents to offer.
“Oh shit, he sold out.”
“Damn, Numbs, you almost got that.”
“Ooh, that hurts.”
“His money ain’t long enough to fuck with Coney Island.”
“That’s all she wrote, burger flipper,” Crush added. “Get the fuck up outta here!”
For some reason this chump Crush had it in for him. Every time they crossed paths, he had something to say. This time Numbers let it go, because that was all she wrote. He was flat broke, but he kept his head up. “That’s it, I’m done,” Numbers said, trying not to sound dejected.
Coney was impressed by Numbers’s heart and hustle. He said out loud to all who could hear him, “That’s how you gamble. Little man got heart!”
“Fuck him,” Crush chimed in, not trying to hide his contempt.
Numbers ignored him, turned around, and started walking away down the stairs. He didn’t care about the haters or the kudos; he needed the cash.
“Yo! Shorty Doo-Wop, let me holla at you.” Numbers waited for Coney to walk over to him. Although Coney called him Shorty, Numbers was at least two to three inches taller than him. “What’s ya name?” Coney asked.
“Numbers.”
“Aiight, Numbers, how would you like to make some real numbers?” Coney inquired.
“How?” Numbers asked.
“Hustling, little man, the best hustle there is.”
“Aiight,” Numbers replied, curious. “What’s that?”
“Meet me tomorrow by the Fort Greene Park wall, and I’ll put you up on e’rything.” Coney beamed as he turned and made his way back to the dice game. “Who want some of this?” he said, waving the greenbacks.
Soldier
“I’m telling you, Jar, all I needed to throw was one more lick or C-Lo, and I had his ass,” Numbers said enthusiastically about his dice-game antics the day before. The sky was slightly overcast this Saturday afternoon. He and Jarvis were sitting on the three-foot-high wall in Fort Greene Park, across the street from the dry cleaners on Myrtle Avenue.
“Numb, you a gambling fool; I can’t believe you bet all ya money. Then again, yes I can. Your ass is crazy, son.” Jarvis shook his head, laughing, while cracking open a bag of Wise onion and garlic potato chips.
“Man, I shoulda finished him,” Numbers said, thinking back to his earlier schooling from Crispy Carl.
“So why he want you to meet him over here?” Jarvis
asked in between handfuls of chips.
“Dude said he liked my style and I could make some real money if I rolled with him. That’s all he told me.” And that was enough. “I need cash. I’m down for whatever, short of killin’ a nigger,” Numbers said seriously.
A red BMW M5 rolled up and beeped the horn. It was kitted up to the maximum with gold BBS rims. Neither Numbers nor Jarvis was familiar with the ride. When the door opened, Coney raised himself up out of the car just enough to get his head over the roof and call out, “Yo, Numbers, let’s roll, son.”
“I’ll catch you on the full circle,” Numbers said, using some of Crispy Carl’s lyrics, meaning he would see his friend later. He gave Jarvis a pound, pushed off the wall, and jumped into the passenger seat.
“So, you a hustling little motherfucker, huh?” Coney said knowingly.
Numbers peered at him. “I always be up in seventy-nine. I know this little freak bitch on the seventh floor.” Coney smiled, seeing he’d caught Numbers off guard with his information on him. Numbers wondered what else Coney knew about him. “Yeah, I did my homework. I’m not just gonna let any nigger up in my ride without knowing the four-one-one on ’im,” Coney said. Numbers was at a disadvantage; he didn’t know anything about Coney except that he had long dough and had beat him for his little cash in the dice game.
“So, you ready to get some real numbers, Numbers?” Coney chuckled at his play on words.
“Yeah,” Numbers answered, figuring that was the answer Coney wanted. He could tell Coney was the kind of nigger who always had to be right.
“Bet. So let’s ride.”
Coney and Numbers pulled off heading east on Myrtle Avenue, leaving Jar sitting on the park wall still chomping on his chips. Coney drove to Adelphi and made a right down that block to DeKalb Avenue. He pulled across the light to the south corner of Adelphi and DeKalb-Rothschild Park, which was still considered Fort Greene. A young black dude about Numbers’s age exited the park and headed toward the car when he saw the red M5 roll up. He walked around the front of the car, not paying any real attention to Numbers, and greeted Coney with his hand and a brown paper bag. The transaction was so smooth, if Numbers hadn’t been staring, he would have missed it.
“What’s this?” Coney said.
“It’s the whole thing, C. I’m done,” dude said.
“Bet, Gravy will be through here in about the next hour or so to hit you off. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I got you, par,” the young black dude replied, and then walked around the back of the car. Coney pulled off quickly.
“This game is supply and demand.” Coney was speaking in riddles and code for all Numbers knew, but he still logged all the info. “Whoever on the streets is the most consistent, with quality product, gets the spoils. Once you create a clientele, you got to make sure you deliver. If you can’t supply, you’re in jeopardy of losing ya customers, you dig?” He looked directly at Numbers to make sure he was paying attention, not seeming to care that he was driving on a busy street in the middle of the day.
Numbers nodded, having an idea of what Coney was talking about but not caring at the moment. He just hoped the nigger would turn around and pay attention to the road.
Coney made similar stops throughout Kings County. He stopped at the Lafayette Gardens, Marcy, Tompkins, and Sumner projects, at Nostrand Avenue, and at various spots in Bed-Stuy and East New York—Numbers counted upward of fifteen stops, not including the times he stopped at a pay phone to answer his beeper. At each spot he was presented with a brown paper bag.
Numbers guessed money was in the bags but was unsure what illegal substance they were selling to get the money.
Now they were back on their side of town. Coney pulled up on York Street and made a U-turn near a johnny pump in the Farragut projects in front of building 111 Bridge. He looked up the block, not seeing who he was searching for. They sat in the ride quiet for about two minutes. Then a fresh-dressed twenty-something light-skinned pretty boy strolled out of building 111 with a bad chick at his side. The broad looked like a young Jayne Kennedy–complexion and all. Numbers thought it was her; he couldn’t keep his eyes off her tight, sexy body. Coney’s facial expression turned menacing. Is the dude creeping with Coney’s girlfriend or something? Numbers wondered. Coney abruptly got out of the car without a word. Pretty Boy was so busy laughing and talking with the dime piece, he never even noticed Coney approaching. By the time he got hip, Coney was two feet away from him. Too late—Pretty Boy had no time to react.
Coney dead-armed him with a right to the chin, and Pretty Boy’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body went limp, like someone had snatched the bones out of it, and he crashed to the pavement. The chick screamed, but didn’t run. “Oh shit,” Numbers said out loud, happy Coney was too far away to hear. Numbers was just as stunned as the girl. Coney reached down and removed the gold chain and diamond-encrusted Jesus piece from the dude’s neck, then dug his pockets out. Still he wasn’t finished. He leaned down again and slapped Pretty Boy in his face several times until he regained consciousness.
“Tony,” he addressed the dazed soldier, “when I come back you better have all my loot, or the next time you won’t be getting woke up.” Coney rose and winked at the hottie. “Baby, you need to get with a real nigga.” He turned and walked away, leaving her to attend to Tony.
Coney got back in the car and placed the chain and piece around his rearview mirror. “That bitch is bad. I think she wants me,” he exclaimed like he’d just came back from spitting some game to her. He was acting like nothing happened; they pulled off and headed back to the Fort.
“So, young ’un, you wanna get some of this money? I’m moving the boy and the snowman. I got most of BK locked, baby.” Coney spoke proudly of his illegal dealings. So that’s what Coney was distributing throughout the borough. Now that he knew what Coney was hustling, it didn’t sound like his cup of tea. Selling death to the hood wasn’t something he felt comfortable with. He’d seen how drugs had ruined people’s lives.
No Choice
Later on that evening Numbers hooked up with Jarvis and Waketta, his two running partners. He wanted to fill them in on his day with Coney. They went to the corner store on Park Avenue and bought a few quarts of Olde E and a couple of White Owls to roll up their cheba. Then they went right up the block to Flushing Avenue to the Sands Junior High School Park to drink and puff. This was another playground that kids barely came to. Most of the time ex-cons would frequent the park to do their upper-body workout. Everyone else used it as their get-high spot when school was out.
“Roll the next blunt, Ketta. I like the way you lick it,” Jarvis quipped. Numbers laughed.
“Homo, you’ll never know how it feel, Little Dick,” she snapped back.
Jarvis was tipsy to say the least. He was sipping on his second quart, and they were about to light up their third blunt. Every time he got too buzzed, he had the tendency to become a jabber-jaws.
“That’s all right, Numbs told me you suck a good one,” he said, turning the quart up to his lips.
Numbers looked at Jarvis scathingly, wondering why he would put him out there like that.
“I ain’t never sucked Numbers’s or nobody else’s dick,” Waketta lied. She wasn’t surprised Numbers would tell Jarvis, but still she gave Numbers a dirty look.
Waketta knew Rosa-Marie was Numbers’s girl, but she didn’t care. Ever since he took up for her on the roof that time with the dirty cops, they had become very close, and she would do anything for Numbers. He always had her back and made her feel special. She loved him and Numbers felt the same for her. If not for Rosa, Waketta would have been his main chick. She had become just as close to him as Jarvis was.
“You just mad nobody want your big-head ass,” she said, wetting the cigar with her tongue, then wrapping her juicy lips around it. The sucking motion she performed on the blunt was her way of teasing Jarvis, showing him what he would never experience from her.
“Fuck yo
u, ho!” he belted out, although he knew the only one who ever penetrated her sexy, chocolate sweet spot was Numbers.
“So are you gonna pump drugs for Coney?” Jarvis asked, changing the subject, turning his attention away from Waketta.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, that’s not my thing,” Numbers replied after accepting the blunt Waketta passed his way. “Most likely not.” He leaned back on the bench, taking in the cool night breeze, and exhaled a circular puff of smoke.
“Numbs, you should do it. If I was you, I would. Later for that money is money,” Jarvis proclaimed.
After unsuccessfully attempting to hustle up some cash, Numbers entered his apartment to find his mother crying hysterically, doubled over the dining room table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry. It was Monday afternoon. She was supposed to be at work.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Pause. “What’s going on? What are you doing home? Did you lose your job?”
She said nothing.
He walked up and put his arms around her, attempting to console her. She forced her head up from the table but sobbed for several moments more before she could utter two words: “It’s Ta-Ta.”
“What about her? What happened to her? Where is she?” Numbers’s heart raced, his eyes watering. Jenny wiped away the steady stream of tears from her face, her almond eyes bloodshot.
“Ta-Ta might have cancer,” she said, finally able to push the words from her throat.
“What?” Numbers was stunned. All at once, as if someone had turned on a faucet, tears cascaded down Numbers’s face. He wrapped his arms more tightly around his mother and leaned his face on the top of her permed head. She held his arms close to her heart and they cried together for a long while.
