by Dana Dane
Broz continued, “Numbers, man, you better watch yourself. Word is you the one he gave up!” Now Broz had gotten Numbers’s attention. Hearing his name in Coney’s mix after all these years was even more unexpected. If Coney was out on the streets, he definitely had to give someone up. But Coney didn’t know anything about his operation, so how could he rat him out? Broz could tell he’d struck a nerve.
“Dude, I’m glad I ran into you. I miss you and the crew. Man, we need to get back together and get money,” Broz said, starting to drift into a tangent that was as delusional as it was hopeful.
“I hear you, Broz,” Numbers said, not wanting to tell him that would never happen.
“Yo! Numbers, my man, I’m a little light. Can you hit ya peoples off with a little something?” Broz asked.
Numbers peeled off a few hundred bucks and cuffed it into Broz’s hand as he gave him dap. “Take care of yourself, Broz. I’ll see you soon.” Both old friends knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Numbers walked into his mother’s house. It was hard to tell this family was once dirt-poor. He flopped onto the oversized plush couch and stared off into space as he usually did when he was strategizing. If Coney was trying to set him up, he would try to get in touch with him. Numbers would have to think two moves ahead of him.
His mother entered the foyer. “Dee, is that you?” she called out.
“Yes, Ma, just in here relaxing.”
“Did you get my ginger ale?”
“Yeah, it’s right here. I’ll bring it to you.” He rose from the couch and bounced to the kitchen, where his mother was putting ice in a glass. Numbers walked over and hugged and kissed his mother. He unscrewed the soda and passed it to her.
“There’s some food in the oven if you’re hungry,” she said.
“Where’s Ta-Ta and La-La?”
“Ta-Ta’s out with that boy she dating, and La-La’s upstairs in her room. Leave them girls alone, you not their daddy,” she ordered.
“Nah, Ma. I was just wondering where they were.”
“Who asking for me?” La-La bellowed, walking into the kitchen, picking up her mother’s soda and drinking it while Jenny was filling the ice tray with water and putting it back.
“Get your nasty mouth off my glass, I don’t know where them lips been,” Jenny snapped playfully.
“Hey, big brother, I like the new car you got Mommy. What you gonna do with that old one?”
“I don’t know. Give it to charity or something,” Numbers answered her, his mind elsewhere. Numbers turned to walk back to the living room.
“Oh, Du, I ran into Gorilla Man. He asked about you. He gave me his number to give to you,” Lakeisha reached in her back pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to her big brother.
There it was: Coney was trying to set him up. How did he know I was in town? Numbers wondered. Coney wouldn’t deter his plans. Numbers knew he had to be ready for anything. He called up his connect and set up the buy for the next evening. He called his cousins and had them get on point. Then he called up Coney to see what his angle was.
At the beginning of the conversation Coney was the same old Coney, boisterous and arrogant. He went into this whole big speech about how some coward-ass niggers tried to murk him and the alphabets tried to trap him off, but they had nothing on him. Then the conversation turned as Numbers expected.
“Numbers, my man, you know I put you in this game. Now I need you to return the favor.”
Numbers knew where this was going and quickly interjected, “Coney, that ain’t been my game for years!”
Coney became agitated. “Don’t try to play me, duke! I need ya help, this is me you talking to!”
“Aiight, Coney, what you need?” Numbers asked.
“I need for you to spot me a key so I can get straight.”
Numbers knew exactly what Coney wanted: a kilo of cocaine. He stopped him before he could go any further. “I got you, Coney. Tomorrow night, meet me under the El at eight-thirty and I’ll bring you the key.” Numbers hung up before Coney could get another word in.
Numbers was stuck. His mind reeled, but he could not get a single, solitary thought to make sense. He knew Coney was most likely trying to set him up either by robbing him or selling him to the feds—mostly likely it was the latter. Numbers was sure Coney saw him as the scapegoat, at least that’s what he was betting on. If he was wrong, he could very well end up dead. Nevertheless, he was going to meet with Coney and give him what he asked for. He had to; it was the only way to get rid of him once and for all.
“I know that look, Numbers.” Jenny walked into the front room seeing her son staring into nothingness, in a daze. She knew he was figuring out a problem. “Anything I can help you with, baby?” she asked. “Dee, it’s time you leave all that mess alone.” Numbers snapped out of his trance and looked at his mother. Jenny knew what her son had been doing off and on over the years, but she trusted him to make the right decisions for his life. She rarely, if ever, interfered, because she knew her son possessed book and street smarts and, most of all, above-average common sense. “If it’s troubling you that much, maybe you should leave it alone. We’ll be fine, baby, you made sure of that. It’s time to move on and do something else now. Something that won’t have you feeling so down and looking so lost.” She bent down and kissed him on the top of his head. “I love you, son. You’re a good man.”
His mother’s words rushed over him like a full-body massage and confirmed it was that time. His course of action was clear. He would close this chapter in his life, win, lose, or draw. “Thank you, Mommy. I love you too.” He stood up and gave her a long hug.
Before she could turn and leave the room, he said, “Oh yeah. I’ma take the old car and get rid of it.”
“Okay, just don’t mess with my Infiniti, ya momma’s balling,” she laughed.
Numbers picked up the phone and called Jarvis to rework his plans.
The Key
Everything was set in motion. Matt and Mel were meeting up with Jarvis at 9 P.M. to take care of business with the drug connect. Numbers was heading to his rendezvous with Coney at eight-thirty. The meeting was set on Park Avenue, under the El of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Even though there was constant traffic flowing east to west on Park Avenue, under the El where the cars were parked was relatively dark. Numbers arrived fifteen minutes early in his mom’s old sedan.
Numbers listened to Hot 97 on the radio as he waited more than thirty minutes. He looked at his watch. It was now 8:47 P.M.; his cousins would be meeting up with Jarvis in a few to head uptown. Numbers planned on having his cousin pick up only fifteen birds. He didn’t really trust them with all that he had planned to get, plus it was his cousin’s first meet with his supplier. Once he enlisted Jarvis to assist him, he went with his original plan to cop thirty bricks. Numbers did have some reservations about putting all his eggs in one basket. He felt uncomfortable letting his cousins make the buy, but knowing Jarvis was handling it eased his mind somewhat.
Coney finally showed up, looking nowhere near as fly as he used to dress, glancing around cautiously. Numbers was leaning up against the car, surveying the area, hoping it wasn’t a robbery attempt. He didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious.
“’Sup, my brother? You the top dog now,” Coney said as he approached, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“What the deal, Coney?” Numbers replied somberly.
“You know how it is, Numbers. They got a brother on foot,” Coney said, alluding to the fact that he no longer owned a car. The authorities had confiscated everything. “So, Numbers, you moving big weight down low I hear? You should set me up down there, little man.”
“That’s not my bag, Coney. I’m strictly party promoting and real estate,” Numbers insisted.
Coney pressed Numbers further. “So what you pushing, O.T.—”
“Come on, C,” Numbers cut him off. “You want the key I got for you, or what? I gotta make moves.”
“Yeah,
boy, that’s what I’m talking ’bout.” Coney smiled, rubbing his hands together.
“Aiight, Coney, here’s the key to the ride. Everything you need is in the glove compartment,” Numbers said, dangling the car key for Coney.
Coney looked confused. “You giving me the car?” he asked.
“No doubt. I thought after all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do,” Numbers said before trying to turn and walk away.
Coney reached out his hand to give him a pound and pulled Numbers close for an embrace, the kind of embrace one family member would give another if he thought he was never going to see that person again. Coney whispered, “This is a dirty game. I told you before, young buck.”
Was this it? Was Coney going to try and rob him himself? Or was someone about to run up and jack him? Within moments, lights flashed, sirens shrieked, and car tires screeched from all directions. When Numbers looked up, they were surrounded by uniformed and plainclothes officers. Twenty to thirty men from various alphabet agencies, police, and other authorities drew down on them. It was a well-choreographed sting. Cars blocked off the streets—it was a gauntlet of police and task-force personnel. Numbers put his hands up in the air slowly and stood motionless as infrared beams dotted his torso.
Task-force agents swarmed, instructing Numbers and Coney to get on their knees. They complied. Numbers was clearly shaken. His previous run-ins with the law were nothing of this magnitude. They gave Coney the same treatment, even though Numbers knew Coney was their snitch. Coney was a criminal first.
At 8:55, Matt and Mel pulled up on the corner of Jay Street and Willoughby, right near the A-train station. Jarvis was at the corner waiting for them. He had gained considerable weight and was now stocky and solid. His head now looked more like a moose head than a horse’s head. He was wearing all black—black leather, black Levi 501s, Black Timbs, and a pair of black biker gloves. He opened the door of the forest-green Range Rover, jumped into the backseat, and greeted the brothers. They drove north on Jay Street, heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The cousins had met Jarvis a couple of times when he had come to visit in Virginia. They knew Numbers had trusted him like a brother, even though Numbers had never let on to Jarvis the full extent of his drug trade until now.
“Jar, what’s cracking? You got any of that good ganja?” Mel asked.
“You know that,” Jarvis said, pulling out a ready-rolled Backwood.
“That’s what popping, homie.” Matt was pleased to get some of that exotic smoke from New York. Matt was driving the truck. “Which way we going?”
“Just keep driving this way; you’ll see the signs to the Brooklyn Bridge. We gonna cut across Manhattan and go to the West Side Highway uptown,” Jarvis directed. This was the brothers’ first time in the city, and they had no knowledge of how to maneuver around the five boroughs.
“This cat T.I. is killing ya New York rappers.” “Rubberband Man” banged through the car woofers. Matt mimicked the vocals and Mel chanted along.
“Yeah, but they still can’t fuck with Jay-Z.” Jarvis wasn’t about to let these country boys talk bad about New York rappers without him putting his say in. They listened and debated the state of hip-hop all the way up the West Side Highway.
“Yo, Matt! We getting off the next exit,” Jarvis instructed.
Matt veered to the right and onto the 125th Street exit ramp. They came to the stop sign and made a quick right, then a left onto Twelfth Avenue, heading farther uptown.
“Which one of you going in to get the shit with me?” Jarvis asked the brothers.
“I’ma roll with you,” Mel answered.
“You got a piece, right?”
“For sure,” Mel replied assuredly.
“Where the money at? Is it all counted and ready? ’Cuz I want to be in and out of that joint, you feel me?” Jarvis explained.
“The money right under your seat, nine hundred big ones,” Matt said, feeling the intensity building as they got closer to the meet.
They rode under Riverside Drive on Twelfth Avenue past 130th. The area was dimly lit. The bus depot and warehouses lined the blocks on either sides.
“Yo, Matt, pull over here, my dude. I gotta take a leak. I always get a little nervous when I do these big money exchanges,” Jarvis said, pointing to a dark area.
Matt pulled over on 134th Street near the structure that held up the highway. The system was bumping 50 Cent’s “Many Men (Wish Death).”
Numbers sat in the back of an unmarked police vehicle, watching the authorities rip through the car. The car seats had been ripped out, and all the contents of the trunk were on the street. They had been scavenging through the car for the last thirty minutes, looking for their booty, to no avail. There was nothing to be found. No drugs. No guns. Nothing but the title and registration to the car. Coney looked at Numbers from the backseat of another unmarked vehicle, baffled. Numbers stayed motionless and stoic.
A host of agents stood near the car, including Detectives Lockhart and O’Doul. Numbers hadn’t seen them since Waketta was murdered. They were speaking to a white DEA agent. Numbers couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was evident they weren’t pleased. The DEA agent had his hands on his waist, shaking his head in disappointment. He paced back and forth for a moment in disgust. After an hour of searching the car and coming up with nothing, he finally gave the signal for everyone to wrap it up.
Numbers was transported downtown to central booking to be questioned.
Anything’s Possible
The interrogation was wearing Numbers down. They kept moving him from the holding cell and back to the interrogation room every four hours or so. They’d now had him for thirty-nine hours, with no sign of him being cut loose. He managed to get a couple of winks in the holding pen, but every time he got comfortable they brought him back to the mirrored room. He rested his head in his arms on the steel table, secretly praying that this would be over soon.
Agent Flask entered the room with Agent Smith trailing him, holding a recording machine in his hand, looking more confident. They’d apparently had time to go home and rest and change up their wardrobe. Numbers would’ve paid a small fortune for a good meal, a shower, and fresh gear.
“Dupree, this is your last chance. Come clean and you may walk out of here before you’re sixty,” Agent Flask said.
Agent Smith placed the device on the table and plugged it in to the wall socket. He pressed Play.
Numbers listened to the taped conversation he and Coney had a day and a half earlier. Just as he suspected, there was nothing there to incriminate him. The authorities were grasping at straws. Even the wiretap from their meet revealed nothing.
“It’s all right here, as clear as day,” Agent Flask said, pointing at the machine. “You don’t have to confess to being a drug kingpin. We got all the evidence we need. You and Nathan ‘Coney’ Patterson are finished.” This was the first time Numbers had ever heard Coney’s government name.
“Agent Helen Keller, I got no idea what you talking ’bout.” Numbers rebutted Agent Flask’s claim with disrespect, fueling the agents’ contempt. “Y’all ain’t see me do or say nothing illegal. I gave that faggot exactly what he asked for—a key. My mother will vouch that it was her car, and she gave me permission to get rid of it.”
Agent Flask was hot. Partly because he knew Numbers was right and partly because of his slick lip. Flask knew Numbers was precise in his evaluation, but he continued to press, trying to make a case against him, hoping Numbers would slip up. He’d expended too many man-hours on Coney’s information; somebody was going to fry. He had his sights set on Numbers’s ruin.
They harassed and interrogated Numbers for almost sixty hours before he was given his one phone call. He immediately called Joshua Spitz, Coney’s former lawyer. Coney could no longer afford him, but Numbers had put him on his payroll. Numbers was released a few hours after Spitz was called, with no charges levied against him. Coney, on the other hand, was stick-a-fork-in-’im done. Num
bers exited the court building welcoming freedom like a slave completing his trek through the Underground Railroad. He had no money and no phone. He’d left his cell phone at his mother’s house. He didn’t want Jake going through his contacts. That would have surely spelled trouble. They’d taken the measly one hundred bucks he had in his pocket as evidence. The beast would most likely have breakfast on him with that. Spitz offered him cab money, but he opted to walk home. He strolled from downtown Brooklyn toward his mother’s house. On a good day, it would take anywhere from twenty minutes to half an hour. Today was a good day. Numbers was free. There were a few clouds in the sky, but it could have rained, sleeted, or snowed and Numbers would have thought it was a beautiful morning. He couldn’t wait to get to his mother’s place and freshen up. He smelled like he looked—three days old.
Numbers walked across DeKalb Avenue past Fort Greene Park and was coming up on Carlton Avenue, barely five minutes from his mother’s brownstone, when he saw a young lady who made him do a double take. It couldn’t be! The girl he had his eyes glued to looked exactly like Waketta. He continued walking toward her as she strode effortlessly down the uneven sidewalk, seeming to manipulate gravity’s pull. Numbers kept thinking he would wake up any moment.
“Hey, Numbers,” the beautiful buxom brown honey said, smiling at him. “Long time no see. I been meaning to get at you. I got something that I been holding for you for years.” Then, as if she just really noticed how he was dressed, “Damn, boy, you look like you been through some shit. You all right?”
Numbers paused for a long moment, still taken aback by how much this gorgeous young lady looked like her older sister, Waketta. Lateesha had grown up.
“Yeah, I’m good. Nothing a shower can’t handle.” Numbers embraced her like a long-lost love, all the time wishing when he let her go that it would be Waketta, but it wasn’t. She smelled like fruit, flowers, and happiness, the way all women should smell. It was a fragrance Numbers was used to his women having.
