by Dana Dane
“I took Ta-Ta and La-La to their first OB/GYN visit, and the doctor found a lump under her left breast near her lung. They sent us to an oncologist at Brooklyn Hospital to run tests. The doctor said it might be cancer, but they aren’t sure.
“Where are Ta-Ta and La-La, Mommy?” Numbers asked, now sitting in a chair across from his mother.
“They went to the store and then were going upstairs to get their hair braided by Ms. Lindsay’s daughter,” she said.
“Does she know?”
“She knows she has a lump, but she doesn’t know the full extent of what it means. I didn’t want to scare her. I’m going to wait until they do more tests.”
“They’re hoping that it’s benign, but either way they may still have to operate. They have to do a biopsy of the lump, Dupree. They said my benefits may not cover everything they have to do. I will still have to come up with some money.” Her round young face drooped with sadness as she spoke.
“When will they know? How much extra money will we need?” Numbers asked, staring off into space, his mind working. He wanted to kick himself for losing his job.
“The test results won’t be back for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry, Dee, it will be okay,” she said, trying to sound positive. She knew he felt it was his duty to take care of them, and he always did.
That night Numbers lay in his bed, restlessly devising ways to hustle up loot. He would just have to start gambling and hustling every day, all day. Chuck-A-Luck, cards, selling dresses, getting another job, it didn’t matter, he would do whatever he needed to do to get money.
His family needed him. He had no choice.
Coney’s M.O.
Numbers needed to get the 411 on Coney, and he knew exactly who to talk to. Big John ran with all the thugs in the hood. He’d been locked down with some of the projects’ most infamous characters, so he had the skinny on most of the official and wannabe thugs.
He told Numbers that Coney wasn’t originally from Fort Greene and that he was transplanted from the Marlboro projects in Coney Island, thus his handle. Coney and his mother and two brothers had moved into the hood after their apartment went up in flames because of a defective space heater or something like that. They lived in a shelter until an apartment became available, and that’s how they ended up here in Fort Greene in building 117 up by Little Harlem. Coney’s two older brothers were serving fifteen- and twenty-year bids for various robberies.
“Coney’s brothers’ rap sheets got him his juice, that and the fact that he looks like a gorilla,” Big John laughed.
“That nigger ain’t hard, but he act the part. He be walking hunched over bowlegged and shit trying to look muscular and tough.” Big John mimicked the way Coney walked.
“He’s just a flashy dude who keeps young boys round him, manipulating them with a few dollars or by letting them wear his dookie gold chains to do his dirt. That nigger ain’t no killer,” Big John said to Numbers. “But me, myself, I’d whip his ass if he got outta line with me. He know who to fuck with. He a shystie-ass nigger, Numbers, believe me. You know Archie got shot a while back, right?”
Numbers nodded.
“That shit happened over a basketball game. Coney, Gravy, and this big young boy named Slade were playing Archie, Archie’s boy Greg, and a little dribbling motherfucker named Hands for a hundred bucks each. Slade was good, but not nearly as nice as Archie. They about the same height, like six-something, and Hands didn’t shoot good, but he can handle the rock and pass his ass off. Archie was the scorer,” Big John recalled.
“Y’all niggers can’t hold me,” Coney said, walking back behind the foul line after scoring. “What’s that, Gravy? Twenty-eight up? Game’s thirty, right? Come on, college boy, D up,” Coney taunted Archie, bouncing the ball to him to check up.
“Next basket wins,” Gravy called out.
“Son, I be serving scrubs like you for fun, so you know I’ma crack that ass for loot,” Archie lashed back.
Archie handed the ball over to Greg, who was matched up with Coney. Coney was good, but Greg could stop him if he wasn’t intimidated.
“Get up in Coney’s ass!” Big John screamed to Greg.
“Yo! Greg, stop his ass. He can’t do shit with you, don’t let him house you!” Archie yelled at Greg, trying to motivate him too.
“I got ’im,” Greg shouted back.
Coney passed the ball to Slade. “Run it back, big man,” Coney ordered. Slade passed the ball right back to Coney, who was at the foul line. He pivoted left, holding the pill in both hands, waving it over his head in front of Greg, who was in his defensive stand.
“Yeah, boy, I’m about to take that ass to the barhar.” Coney started backing him down into the hole.
Greg tried to hold Coney off with his forearm in his back. Gravy was on Coney’s left side, and Slade on the right. Archie’s squad was playing like a man-to-man zone type D. Coney faked left and spun right, leaving Greg frozen, then drove down the middle about to lay the ball up strong. He had a clear path to the hoop—the ball came off his fingers and it looked like game. Then, out of nowhere, Archie came soaring into the picture, booyah—rejected Coney’s shot. Niggers watching went crazy and Big John could be heard laughing his ass off from the sidelines. Coney was pissed. Hands picked up the loose rock and took it back out above the key. Greg and Archie cleared out the middle.
“It’s over, y’all bitches!” Archie screamed at Coney’s squad.
“I got ya bitch,” Coney said, pushing up on Greg, denying him the ball. He didn’t want Greg to score the winning bucket on him.
Hands was at the key, dribbling between his legs and behind his back. Gravy swiped at the ball, but there was no way in hell he was going to steal it from Hands. Now Archie was on the left wing near the three-point mark. He faked right toward the middle, spun off, and ran down the baseline pointing upward toward the hoop. Hands saw Archie in his peripheral vision and heaved the ball up in the air toward the basket. Now Coney got ups like Kevin Johnson. He went up after the ball, and that was a mistake. Archie caught it on the way up and flushed it in his face. The crowd went nuts.
Coney was heated, and to add insult to injury, Archie wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He was walking behind Coney, taunting him, steady screaming in his ear. “Yeah, baby, that how you do it! You bitch-ass niggers can’t stop the Arch. Fuck outta here.”
Coney couldn’t take it. He turned around and swung on Archie, catching his jawbone. Archie took it and let off his own blows.
Big John jumped in the middle of the fight, trying to help control it before it got outta hand. Just then the beat cops showed up, causing everyone to scatter.
“I told that nigger Archie to watch his back ’cuz Coney was a sneaky fuck, but he was like, ‘Fuck that nigger,’” Big John said to Numbers.
“So did Coney pay up?” Numbers asked, wondering what happened next.
“Hell no!” Big John answered. “And he wasn’t satisfied stiffing them for the money either. Later that night, Archie was coming out the back of his building. Some little nigger rolled up and busted a cap in his knee. The little nigger said some slick shit like ‘Let me see you dunk that’ or some shit like that. On the real I know it was Suki who put the hot one in Archie. All I’m saying is watch that fool Coney, aiight, Numbers?”
“No doubt,” Numbers replied, satisfied with the 411 he’d received.
Get Money
The siren from the po-po’s squad car sounded like it was right on their heels as they ran like their asses were on fire the hundred or so yards down the Washington Park Place side of Fort Greene Park toward the PJs. In hindsight, Numbers thought this was the dumbest shit he’d ever done.
The merchant at the deli on Washington Park Place and DeKalb Avenue closed up by himself every Friday and always carried large amounts of cash in his bag to be deposited in the bank the next day—at least that’s what Chap had told him. Chap had turned out to be a two-bit thug and thief who couldn’t be trusted. Desperation has a way
of making an otherwise sane man do dumb shit, but Numbers would have to work that out with himself later; right now he was running for his freedom like Toby in Roots. If he could just make it to the projects, he could get lost in one of the buildings. The cops put their squad car in reverse and tried to maneuver through traffic on a one-way street to get at him and Chap. Numbers heard another cop car up ahead. They were about to be trapped.
Numbers was fast, Carl Lewis fast, and tonight he was not going to jail with Chap’s dumb ass. He had made it to the park entrance at Willoughby when he broke away from Chap. He prayed the cops didn’t see him turn in to the park. He didn’t want to split with Chap, but that was his only alternative if he didn’t want to get knocked. After sprinting up Dead Man’s Hill, Numbers hid under some bushes that smelled like dog shit. Blue and red lights were jumping and sirens wailed as he mumbled a small prayer that if Chap got pinched he wouldn’t snitch.
Chap and Numbers weren’t enemies, but they weren’t friends either. For the most part they tolerated each other because they lived in the same building. Chap was twenty-three years old and a little shorter than Numbers at five-ten, but stockier, weighing about 180. His hair was done in corn rows, and he was missing a front tooth, which had been knocked out in a jailhouse brawl. Chap had served time on Rikers Island and carried those jail stints like a badge of honor; he’d been released not even three weeks prior.
On this night Numbers hadn’t been able to find any of his usual suspects to hang out with; he’d run into Chap at the bodega on Washington Park Place and Myrtle, right across the street from Fort Greene Park.
“What up, Du?” Chap said.
“I go by Numbers, Chap,” he said, giving him a halfhearted pound with an As-if-you-didn’t-know attitude.
“No doubt, they call me Barsheik now,” Chap replied with a You-know-what-time-it-is attitude. He was one of those asshole niggers giving the 5 Percent Nation a bad name. “I see you just copped some Els. What up with that? I’m down?”
Numbers figured, What the fuck, it’s better than drinking and smoking alone. They both bought three 40s of Olde E and walked along Myrtle Avenue to the park entrance leading to the chess/checker tables near St. Edwards Street. They sat in the park reminiscing about when they were kids. It seemed both like a long time ago and like yesterday when they used to walk the fences. Maybe it was the talk of the childhood or maybe it was just the high, but they somehow reconnected.
“Yo! Numbers, you wanna get some bank tonight?” As Chap spoke, smoke escaped from the spot where his tooth was missing.
Numbers was sitting on the back of a wooden bench, one foot on the seat, the other on the stone checkers table, rubbing his headful of waves with both hands. “You bugging,” he said seriously.
“Nah, check it,” Chap said, and passed the blunt to Numbers. “It’s this old Korean that always leaves the store by himself. I been scopin’ him out for ’bout a week. No lie, the other day—like Tuesday—he had more than a thousand dollars in the register. Today is Friday. I’m telling you, he’s gotta have triple that now.”
The more Numbers drank, the more Chap’s plan seemed like it could work.
“Aiight, Cha … Barsheik, let’s get this money,” Numbers agreed, popping off the bench, feeling the effects of the alcohol and weed.
In the cover of darkness, Numbers and Chap crept up behind a tree across the street from the store in the park and waited for the owner to close up.
“So how we gonna do this?” Numbers asked. “I don’t want to hurt dude or nothing.”
“Nah, I’m gonna go up behind him and yoke him off his feet. You rip his pockets and take the dough.”
An hour passed before the owner exited and began rolling down the steel security gate in front of the store. Numbers had just turned his back to take a leak, and as soon as the gate descended Chap sprang into action, not waiting for Numbers to finish pissing.
“Come on, Numbs.”
The streetlight at the corner was busted—perfect for a mugging. Chap quickly skulked from behind the park wall across the street, leaving Numbers behind. For a cool Friday night, the streets were nearly barren of pedestrians, but there was a moderate amount of car traffic. Numbers was just coming out of the park when he saw Chap run up behind the merchant, yoke him up by the neck, and stab him multiple times. Numbers stood frozen, not believing what he was seeing. He knew he shouldn’t have been fucking with this stupid-ass fool.
As luck would have it, a cop car was rushing across DeKalb Avenue on its way to another call when the merchant screamed in anguish. Numbers stood there watching Chap dig in the man’s pockets and pull out a brown paper bag. Numbers figured the bag was filled with money. The cop car came to a screeching halt, nearly getting rammed by the bus behind it. Instantly its lights flashed and sirens squealed. The driver attempted to back up but was blocked by the B38 bus and other cars. Chap dashed across the street toward Numbers, who was standing there stuck, looking at the man squirming in pain across the street. His high was blown.
“Come on, nigger.” Chap tugged Numbers’s arm as he jetted down the block toward the projects.
Numbers almost didn’t run because he didn’t think he could be connected to the crime, but he didn’t want to chance it, so he fled.
• • •
Two weeks had passed since Takeisha went in for her biopsy. She waited nervously in the oncologist’s office with her twin, her mother, Numbers, and her Aunt Camille, who’d come up from Virginia for moral support. Dr. Cavalha came into his office. He was an average height and of Middle Eastern descent and spoke with a slight accent. “I apologize, but only the immediate family can be in here,” he said.
“This is my immediate family,” Takeisha notified the doctor apprehensively.
“Okay then.” Dr. Cavalha accepted her answer hesitantly. He made his way behind his desk and stared into a chart for a long moment. It seemed as though no one else in the room took a breath. He looked up and let his eyes bounce off each face before resting on Takeisha’s. “Please hear me out before you jump to any conclusions. I’m sorry to inform you, but the lump is malignant.”
Tears began to well up in the eyes of everyone except Numbers. He wanted to stay strong for his sisters and mother. Lakeisha wrapped her arms around her sister, and Jenny wrapped herself around both of them. Aunt Camille rubbed her sister’s back and wept.
“But I think we caught it in its early stages,” the doctor continued. “It can be overcome with aggressive treatment. I suggest we remove the tumor and then follow the surgery with radiation. It won’t be easy, but I’m confident we can beat this.” He smiled in hopes of providing the family with assurance.
It was a staggering blow. The twins’ father was nowhere to be found, as usual, when they needed him. Jenny would have to take off work to tend to her daughter. She was not about to let Takeisha go through this traumatic time without her by her side. Her benefits would cover most of the medical bills, but she wouldn’t be paid while she was out on leave.
Numbers needed cash and needed it now. He made up his mind. He would take Coney up on his offer. Messing around with Chap a couple of weeks back had almost landed him in the clink, and Chap only came off with a hundred-odd dollars for all his troubles. If he was going to risk everything, Numbers thought, it would be trying to make some real bank.
The following day, Numbers met up with Coney in Little Harlem. Coney had another dude with him who Numbers had never seen before but had heard his name mentioned by Big John.
“Yo! Gravy, little man right here”—Coney gestured to Numbers—“he’s under your wing. Show him how to get that paper out here.”
“I hope he’s mo’ thorough than that other booty-ass nigga. He ain’t worth the paper I wipe my ass with. I’m about to duff his ass out.” Gravy laughed.
Numbers noticed that Gravy had big lips and little teeth; the teeth were better suited for a baby than a six-foot-two cock-diesel thug with beady eyes and a unibrow. He had a face only a mo
ther could love. His physique was a different story. Gravy looked as though he spent all day in the gym, but he actually got his muscles while serving time for beating up his baby’s mother. He caught the broad going down on a square-ass accountant nigger in the Mustang Gravy had bought for her. He beat her ass like a man and then beat the dude’s ass like a bitch. Gravy almost killed old boy, but his lawyer played the heat-of-passion card. If it wasn’t for his record, Gravy wouldn’t even have gotten the two years. He was as close to being Coney’s right-hand man as there was, since Coney trusted no one. Gravy was a thug, but he was a likeable thug.
“Aiight, Gravy, don’t worry about young. I’ll take care of him, dun.” Then Coney got back into his ride and sped off down the avenue.
“Numbers, huh?” Gravy said, sizing his new worker up. “I’m feeling that hot shit, let’s get some digits.” Gravy smiled, showing the two rolls of Chiclets he called teeth. “This is how it goes down, par. We keep the product outta our hands unless there’s a sale. Over here, we moving dimes and twenties of that white rock. The stash is over there.” Gravy pointed to the pole on the jungle gym they were standing near.
Numbers looked but didn’t see anything.
“Exactly.” Gravy shook his head, confusing Numbers like he planned to do. “The product is in a paper bag right there by the pole; just in case Jake rolls on us, we can walk away and they can’t pin it on us. That shit could be anybody’s. The main thing is to keep your eyes open. I’ll school you to the fiends and who our regular customers are. After a while you’ll know who’s who. No credit! We don’t do that over here. If they ain’t got the cash, they can’t get a blast!”
Numbers absorbed the ins and outs of the entry level of the drug game, at least all that Gravy had to offer. The shit wasn’t difficult and the money was good; he just hoped his new grind didn’t lead to jail time.
At first it was slow, but as the sun went down, more and more fiends came to get their fix. The pharmaceutical business was truly a grand old hustle.
