Numbers

by Dana Dane

  “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 reas
ons 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.

  They all agreed. He knew they wouldn’t like that part of his plan, but if they wanted to make money, they had to make sacrifices.

  Norfolk

  Numbers made a call to Sanchez to let him know he would be coming up top to see him the following week. The first purchase he made was one brick at the cost of $40,000. The more he purchased, the lower the price went. A key of dope could fetch them anywhere from $100,000 to $150,000 on the streets. The challenge was getting the drugs from New York to Virginia. Numbers learned from Coney to only handle the product one time—when he picked it up from his supplier. After that, it would be moved by the mule.

  That’s where Wynter came in. He drove her and her daughter up with him in the middle of the night. He loved this part of the trip because she was always eager to give him head in the whip. She wasn’t Rosa or Waketta, but she fit quite nicely in his stable. As soon as her daughter drifted to sleep in her car seat, Wynter was ready.

  “She’s asleep, Numby, you ready for me?” she asked seductively, smelling like fresh tropical fruit. She unstrapped herself from her seat belt and drew close to Numbers before taking another quick glance at her offspring sleeping snugly in the back.

  “And you know it.” Numbers started to rise in anticipation of her lollipop aptitude. The head she gave was savory and sensuous. She would suck on the dick all night long like it was a Willie Wonka jawbreaker. If Numbers wanted, she would put in work all the way to the Holland Tunnel. She unfastened his seat belt, then his belt, then his zipper. Numbers raised himself a little, so she could shimmy his Sean John pants down around his hips. By the time Wynter put her fingertips on his wood, it was petrified timber. She greeted the protruding Cyclops with a wet kiss.

  “Hi, baby, I miss you.” She spoke to it like it had a brain and personality of its own—and maybe it did—before wrapping her tongue and lips around its length; then she layered it with slobber until it was wet and slippery. Wynter had a talent for making the dick seem as though it melted in her mouth. To heighten the pleasure, she suckled, hummed, and moaned until Numbers thought he was going to lose his mind. The first time she sucked him off on the road, he almost veered into a ditch on the side of the highway. He hadn’t expect it to be so good. Now, every time he was ready to cum, he pulled over on the shoulder. Better safe than sorry.

  Wynter took pleasure in pleasing Numbers with her oral acrobatics because she’d never met anyone like him before. He had a way about him that made her want to do anything for him, including transport drugs across state lines with her baby. This was the fifth time she had made the trip with Numbers. The first time had been a mind-blowing experience she would never forget.

  • • •

  She loved the way Numbers moved. He was definitely a class act. On the initial run Numbers put her up at the W Hotel and took her and the baby shopping on Fifth Avenue. They hit the Chanel, Louie, Gucci, BCBG, and La Perla stores. For baby Wynter, who she called Winnie, Numbers hooked her up with Burberry, Ralph Lauren, Prada, and OshKosh B’Gosh. Wynter was far from a naïve little country chick. Her baby’s daddy was serving time for selling drugs. She knew her position and why she was in the city with Numbers. But his generosity was above and beyond what was necessary to compensate her for her services. He wined her, dined her, and made her feel like a princess. Even after all the money he’d spent on Wynter and her baby, Numbers returned to the suite later that evening with matching sterling silver bracelets from Tiffany’s for her and Winnie. Wynter was overwhelmed; she felt as though she was living a fairy tale that she never wanted to end.

  “Numby, you know you didn’t have to do this. I would have looked out for you for nothing. I mean it.” Tears of gratitude formed in the corners of her eyes.

  Numbers was pleased by her reaction. He wasn’t particularly moved because of the tears, but he could see the truth in her eyes. That’s why he wanted to reward her for being a down-ass broad. Although he knew he would never let her get as close to him as Rosa was or Waketta had been, he wanted to show her he appreciated her. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? I love it!” She beamed, picking up the baby. “Don’t you love it, Winnie? Yes, I know you do, my beautiful little mommy,” she cooed.

  “Wynter,” he said, “make yourself comfortable, order whatever you need from room service. Here’s some cash.” He put five hundred dollars on the coffee table. “I’ll be back in a little while. I gotta make a run.”

  Numbers made his move to Washington Heights and was back at the hotel in less than two hours. He needed to drive back down in the morning and wanted to make sure he got enough rest; he had a long day ahead of him.

  When he returned, Wynter was getting Winnie ready for bed. She took the little one to the living room of the suite and pulled out the sofa bed, placing her in the middle of a barricade of pillows. Baby Winnie was fast on her way to sleep. The Benadryl Wynter gave her would guarantee she would sleep like the baby she was throughout the night, leaving the adults to their own devices, undisturbed.

  “Numby, keep an eye out for Winnie for a minute while I take a shower. She won’t be waking up no time soon, but just in case.”

  Before Wynter had gathered her things and headed into the bathroom to shower, Numbers stopped her. “Hold up. First help me with this.” He pulled a rectangular block of high-grade heroin out of a Louis Vuitton shopping bag. “Get me the diapers from the baby’s bag.” He methodically divided the block into three smaller rectangles, about three inches wide, and rewrapped them in plastic. “Take one of the diapers out and open it.” Wynter extended a Pampers, and Numbers placed one of the rewrapped pieces inside it. After all of the drugs were put away in the diapers, Numbers instructed her, “Make sure you use the diapers from the right package, or we gonna have a problem, you dig?” Wynter nodded.

  After helping him conceal the drugs and taking her shower, Wynter came sashaying out of the bathroom with nothing on but a pair of orange La Perla
boy shorts, her bare petite boobs glistening with moisture. “Are you ready for me, baby?”

  Numbers watched her sexy ass as she made her way over to the bed. He was throbbing with anticipation because Wynter’s pussy always stayed moist, like a sponge dipped in warm K-Y jelly. She climbed onto the king-sized bed, stood over him, and began dancing to music that was only playing in her head. She gyrated and swayed like a seasoned stripper. Numbers grew to even greater heights, stretching the front of his boxers.

  “That’s it, work that ass, you fine bitch,” Numbers encouraged.

  And she did. Slowly and seductively she slid out of the expensive bottoms. Once she was butt-naked, Numbers could see the moisture dripping from her slit. Dancing her way down to her knees, she removed his boxers. Without further ado, she began to swallow it. She took it further and further until it made her gag. Numbers moaned with pleasure; he could stay that way all night, but Wynter had other plans. As much as she loved sucking him off, she loved riding him even more. If he still had the energy, she would swallow his anaconda again after she got hers.

  Before mounting, she opened the Magnum condom that was lying on the nightstand, rolled it on, then rode him like the mechanical bull in that movie Urban Cowboy. Her sweet spot sloshed and squirted all over his balls. Numbers grabbed her by the waist and extended himself up into her until she exploded in ecstasy.

  Numbers’s sperm could no longer be contained. It was time to pull over to the side of the road or risk becoming acquainted with the ditch. He had to admit this was the best part of his trip, other than the money he stood to make. And Wynter couldn’t wait to get to whatever lavish hotel they would be staying at this time so they could finish getting and giving each other what they deserved.

  The next morning, Numbers took Wynter and Winnie to Penn Station and put them on the express Amtrak train to Norfolk. No one would ever suspect a beautiful mother and her gorgeous toddler would be carrying enough drugs to amass a small fortune. Her instructions from him were the same as they were the first time she made the trip and every time afterward. Keep the diaper bag in your possession at all times.