Numbers (22 page)

Crush recognized the voice. He spit blood attempting to speak, “Ja—”

Blam! Blam!
Jarvis put two into Crush’s medulla. He was dead.

Numbers was stunned. “What the fuck, Jar? Why you did that?”

“Numbs, fuck all that talking shit. We came down here to do a job. We ain’t police. That nigger murdered Ketta! That’s it! He got what he had coming to him, period.” Jarvis tossed the gun in with Crush’s body, slammed the trunk closed, and walked toward the passenger side of Numbers’s ride.

Numbers stood there for a moment, staring at the closed trunk. He derived no satisfaction from Crush’s death, though he’d thought he would. But he felt no regret either. The streets had made his heart cold, but not as cold as Jarvis’s.

“Let’s go, Numbs!”

Numbers and Jarvis drove out of the dark, abandoned streets of
the Brooklyn waterfront in silence. Numbers pulled over on the corner of North Portland and Park Avenue, the back of 56 Monument Walk. They sat there for a few minutes.

“When you coming back up top, Numbs?” Jarvis broke the silence.

“Don’t know. Gonna lay low for a while and figure out what I’m gonna do,” Numbers replied solemnly.

“Man, all you know is hustling. What you mean, you got to figure it out? It’s figured out already. You’re gonna hustle on these streets, my nig, ain’t nothing else.”

Numbers couldn’t argue with him. Hustling was all he knew other than his short stint flipping burgers. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he answered, wishing what Jarvis said wasn’t true. Still, he would do whatever he could to stay away from dealing drugs again.

Numbers’s younger cousins wanted to take him around Norfolk and show him the landscape. Why not? Numbers decided his schedule was wide open. Rosa wanted Numbers to get out and do something. He’d basically been cooped up in the house for the six months they’d been down there. He was starting to drive her batty. He opted to use this time to get to know his cousins and find out their angle. Crispy Carl had told Numbers everyone had an angle. They might not reveal it at first, but given enough time and opportunity, you could learn everyone’s angle.

Matt and Mel looked like regular ol’ country bumpkins. They didn’t wear the latest fashions and weren’t at all trendy. They were thick as thieves; it was hard to believe
they weren’t twins. They looked almost identical, to the point that it was difficult for Numbers to differentiate between them for a long time; even their mother would get them confused if she wasn’t paying attention.

Matt and Mel came and scooped Numbers up in an old-school gray Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with cranberry interior.

“Where we off to?” Numbers asked, settling into the cloth-cushioned backseat. He always wanted to know for his own safety where he was going; it was hard for Numbers to trust anyone, even if they were his cousins.

“We going over to the hood, cuz,” Matt replied with a southern drawl.

“Cuz, we been telling them you was down here from the big city and these fools think we lying,” Mel added. “We got some boys who be rapping. They trying to get in that rap game. Maybe you can put ’em onto somebody in the city like Puff Daddy.”

“I don’t do that music shit.” Numbers sat back taking in the sights. It was a cool winter day, about forty-five degrees, but it felt more like sixty. Matt drove out of the complex toward the highway. Numbers studied the route. They departed the Princess Anne section of Virginia Beach proceeding to Virginia Beach Boulevard. They rode the boulevard west. The sign read Route 58. Numbers had traveled this way a number of times to take or pick up Rosa from school.

“Yo, cuz mane, it’s this hot little freak that lives ’round the way name Wynter,” Matt began.

“Mane, that booty is bodacious,” Mel picked up. “I told her my cousin from New York was in town and she been asking ’bout you ever since. She ain’t never been to the city, so she all charged ’bout meeting you.”

Numbers just listened to his cousins ramble on. His instincts cautioned him to take it slow with these family members.

“Hey, Numbers, want a puff on this swisher?” Mel held a
brown cigar over his left shoulder that looked like a blunt and smelled like pot.

“What’s a swisher?”

“It’s the cigar we roll our pot in,” Matt explained. “I hear y’all smoke those El Productos. We got these swisher sweets.”

“Nah, not as much anymore. We smoke Dutch Masters or Backwoods now,” Numbers said. He fingered the blunt, surveyed it, then took a couple of quick puffs; it was subpar weed by Numbers’s standards—worse than what he usually smoked and nowhere near as good as what Sanchez used to hit him off with.

“Man, I’m gonna have to get y’all some real shit next time I go back up top,” Numbers complained, but he continued to smoke.

“Numbers, cuz, if you can get a mess of good smoke—” Matt said.

“—we can make a bank. That’s for real,” Mel finished, excitedly.

Numbers didn’t have any intentions of getting any weight to sell anything. He was resigned to leaving the illegal street-substance hustle alone, although he knew he needed to come up with a new hustle to bring money in soon. His bankroll was a little under thirty thousand dollars, and the cost of living was half the amount of New York. Nevertheless, that money wouldn’t last him forever.

They continued on Virginia Beach Boulevard for about half an hour, give or take, until they reached Llewellyn Avenue. They made a right on Llewellyn north until they reached West Twenty-seventh and crossed over to DeBree Avenue. They were now in the hood they called Park Place. It wasn’t hard to tell they were in the ghetto. Though it wasn’t the concrete jungle Numbers was accustomed to, it was the ghetto nonetheless. There were fewer trees than there were in the Virginia Beach area he now lived in. The blocks were speckled with mostly two-level houses with lawns and driveways. It looked as though the community may have once thrived. Easily half the houses needed painting and repair,
if they weren’t abandoned altogether. It looked as though the landscapers were barred from this part of town. Only a few residents kept their yards trimmed. But even with the run-down condition of some of the properties, Numbers thought they had it good. At least they lived in houses and not on top of each other, packed together like slaves on a ship.

Matt pulled the car up on Twenty-seventh Street and DeBree. There were only three houses on the right side of the block. The rest of the lots were empty. None of the properties were numbered. They pulled into the driveway of the middle house.

“What’s over here?” Numbers inquired.

“Oh, this John-John’s place. He live here with his sister, Wynter, the one I was telling you ’bout with the ass,” Matt said, making a round gesture with both hands. Mel smiled a little, agreeing.

Numbers followed his cousins as they walked into the crib without knocking. They were in the living room; off to the left was the dining room and a door behind it that led to the kitchen. Straight in front of them was a hallway, which led to a bathroom and a bedroom. Next to the hallway, right behind the living room’s back wall, were stairs leading to the second level. The living room was sparsely furnished, but it was neat, except for a few toys tossed here and there.

“Aye, John-John!” Mel yelled.

“He ain’t here and why the hell y’all keep walking in my house like y’all live here?” a mocha-complexioned female screamed at the cousins, coming into the living room, carrying a toddler in her right arm; she seemed to be connected to her thick hip like it was her natural resting position. Numbers was pleasantly surprised to see a fine-ass chick in this battered neighborhood. Even with her hair in a scarf you could see her potential. She traipsed into the living room and sat the baby in the playpen right in front of the TV. She wore a pair of gray warm-up pants that were cut into shorts—her ass wasn’t as plump as his cousins made
it out to be, but he could see why they described it as such—and a tied-up T-shirt showing her belly button. Her stomach was flat and tight.
The baby couldn’t be hers,
Numbers thought. Her waist-to-hip ratio made her look extra curvaceous, though her small titties didn’t seem to match her body. Numbers surveyed what she had to offer the world and rated her a six and a half. He would have to see her dressed up or butt-naked to really assess her point scale. Her numbers could only go up from here. He surely wouldn’t turn down a blow job from those moist, inviting lips.

“M and M, who y’all bringing in my place?” She stood by the playpen with her hand on her left hip. Everyone called them M and M because they were always together, and it was easier than trying to figure out which one was which.

“Girl, be quiet,” Matt ordered, like he was used to hearing her flap her gums.

“This our cousin we been telling you ’bout,” Mel added.

“Y’all wrong for that! Bringing him up in here while I’m looking like this.” It was obvious from the way she attempted to adjust herself that she was a little bit embarrassed.

“You good. I’m Numbers.” Numbers gave her an easy smile.

“Wynter.” Her full lips formed their own smile. “He looks way better than y’all two losers,” she said, poking at M and M and meaning every word.

It was apparent the brothers didn’t appreciate her jab. M and M were fine physical specimens, but Numbers was hands-down more attractive. It was hard to see the family resemblance.

“Fuck you, ho,” the younger spat.

“Get the fuck out my house,” Wynter retorted angrily, tired of the twins already. Numbers could tell she didn’t care for them much.

“Come on, Numbers, let’s go ’round the block to Howie’s. That probably where John-John’s at,” Matt said as he turned and opened the door. Mel and Numbers followed.

“Don’t be a stranger, Numbers.” Wynter’s voice changed instantly, becoming sweet as syrupy strawberries on Junior’s cheesecake.

On West Twenty-eighth and DeBree, the next street up, was Howie’s house. The landscape was a disaster. The two-level houses had the same exact layout as Wynter’s, except this place was a mess. Howie was twenty years old and lived with his elderly grandfather, his mother, and his drunken uncle. It smelled of liquor, cigarettes, and unbathed old people.

“Howie, this is my cousin Numbers,” Mel said.

Howie fit in with the surroundings—he was unkempt and sloppy. His hair was matted, and he still had cold in his eyes, even though it was well into the afternoon.

“Where’s John-John?” Matt asked.

“He’s in the back counting,” Howie said, his southern vocals almost unintelligible to Numbers’s northerner ears.

No sooner had they entered the house than someone was rapping on the screen door. Howie went to answer it. A young man maybe eighteen came in just inside the door.

“Let me get one.”

Howie took his money and handed him a ball of plastic with brown stems. They were selling weed from the crib. Before Numbers could say a word, Matt assured him, “It’s cool. Ain’t no niggers gonna fuck with us.”

How did he know what niggers Numbers was thinking of? Was he talking about the police niggers or the hood niggers? Either way, Numbers never stayed in a spot where they pumped drugs. It was against his golden rule and a sure way to get thrown in the bean, and he wasn’t about to get locked down in Virginia, a commonwealth state. Nevertheless, he went against his better judgment and stayed. They went to the back room, where John-John was counting out some money, mostly ones, fives, tens, and a few
twenty-dollar bills. The furnishings consisted of a queen-sized bed, a TV, a portable stereo, a dresser, and a few chairs.

John-John had the same big lips as his sister, but they looked much better on her. Other than that, there was nothing else really similar about the two. His nose was huge and flat and sat on top of his lips, making his face look smashed-in.

“So this must be the infamous Numbers? Good to meet you, bruh,” he said with a big smile. “Here, light this up.” He passed Numbers a rolled swisher.

“So what you think about the muscle maniacs?” John-John asked, bagging on Numbers’s cousins. They did look like they were feeding on growth hormones. John-John and Numbers laughed, but M and M didn’t. Numbers learned early on that the brothers didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

Over the next couple of hours they bullshitted, smoked, drank, and laughed. Every so often, someone would knock on the front door to cop some smoke. They did have a steady flow of clients, Numbers noticed, but the product was subpar. He took a long toke and thought about the possibilities of coming up in this locale.
This could be a gold mine,
he thought. He quickly shook the idea from his cranium.

“So, what you think, Numbers?” Matt asked.

“’Bout what?”

“About our little production?” Mel offered, as if he was reading Numbers’s mind. “We run Park Place. Cats around here don’t trip because they know we’ll beat a nigger ass,” Mel continued.

“I ain’t got no problem busting a cap either!” Matt exclaimed.

John-John shook his head, agreeing with the brothers.

“Come on, cuz, you gotta have some connection to get some good herbs,” Matt insisted.

“I ain’t never dealt with that shit on no big level,” Numbers lied. If they knew how deep in the game Numbers was once, they’d
probably think they’d met the Messiah. He wasn’t about to let them know. His main goal at present was to figure out his exit plan. The cousins’ angle was revealed: they wanted to get connected.