Numbers (18 page)

He waited there half an hour after he finished eating, and still no sign of Sanchez. He was getting antsy. Numbers did take comfort in knowing he was packing his .380, just in case things got hairy. He wished he would’ve brought Jar or Ketta to back him up. They would have no problem busting their gats if something went wrong.

Every time the restaurant door opened, Numbers looked to see
who was entering. A couple of older Latino men came in, then a lady and her young son minutes later. They got their orders and left. Not long after that, a Latina bombshell came in. Numbers would have bet the $24,000 in his long-john pants that she was the singing sensation Selena. He was content with the two ladies in his life but would have had no problem adding her to the stable.

“Good evening, sweet lady,” Numbers said in Spanish. Rosa would have a fit if she knew he was using what she taught him to pick up other women.

The female was surprised to hear Numbers speak Spanish.

“Hola,”
she replied, giving him a big inviting smile.

“What’s your name?” he continued in Spanish.

“Guadalupe,” she answered. “What’s yours?”

“Numbers.”

“Numbers.” She ran her fingers across his waves and exited out the door. Numbers wondered what that was all about. She hadn’t ordered anything. Though she seemed friendly enough, Numbers speculated that he may have scared her off. He was ready to follow after her but didn’t want to take the chance of missing Sanchez. He was at a disadvantage being in a strange area and not knowing what duke really looked like. He just knew he was Spanish and wore a lot of jewelry.

Moments after the gorgeous Latina girl walked out of the restaurant, a short Latino guy ambled in. He was about five foot six, with dark, close-cropped hair. He wore his black bomber jacket open, showing off no fewer than eight gold chains with Jesus medallions, crosses, and other religious pieces. He wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf, so Numbers deduced he was in a car or he lived close by. It was still rather cold out, and the temperature was dropping by the hour.

“Numbers, my man! I apologize for taking so long.” He spoke English with a Hispanic accent. “I’m Sanchez.” Numbers had a
perplexed look on his face. How did he know who he was? Maybe Coney had described him?

“Come walk with me. My building is right up here,” Sanchez said. Sanchez could see the concern in Numbers’s face that this could be a setup.

“No worries, my friend. I’ve been doing business with Coney Island for ten years—you good here.”

No one called Coney by his full handle unless they knew him for a while. Numbers walked with Sanchez up Broadway and made a right onto 170th Street. They crossed over to the left side of the block. He was leery, walking pass several seedy-looking Hispanic males. As he passed, he could hear them speak Spanish with their own dialect and slang. He understood some of what they were saying; none of it was threatening toward him. Still, he didn’t let his guard down. He kept his hands in his coat like he was cold, but he was really keeping a firm grip on his gat. If Fort Greene had taught him anything, it was to always be aware of his surroundings. Numbers followed Sanchez into the third apartment building on the block, a prewar structure with no visible number on the outside. They walked up four flights to apartment D3. Inside, the apartment was decorated with bright eccentric colors and large works of art. An acrylic painting of Tony Montana in the bathtub with a cigar in his mouth covered one whole wall in the living room. The dwelling was quite comfortable.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Sanchez offered.

“No, I’m good,” Numbers said, just wanting to take care of his business and get back to BK to the fullest. He stood in the long foyer at the entrance to the living room.

Sanchez could sense his uneasiness; this was a deadly game, and stickups were a part of the landscape. “Amigo, I don’t do business like that. You be straight with me, I be straight with you. Come in, sit.” After Numbers did what he was asked to do, Sanchez called out, “Lupe, get in here.”

The brown-complexioned Latina sexiness that Numbers had been cracking on just moments ago in New Caporal came strutting out from one of the rooms carrying a cigar box. Numbers kept his hand jammed in the pocket with the gun, ready for anything. Upon seeing her the second time, it was confirmed: she was fire, no dispute. Numbers couldn’t help but to get a semi-rise imagining serving her.

“You smoke?” Sanchez inquired. “I got some exotic shit from my country. This marijuana will blow your mind.” He pronounced the word
marijuana
like he was saying the name of two girls: Marie and Juana.

Numbers knew that Coney said not to trust him, to get in and out, but his instincts told him Sanchez was all right. His instincts rarely let him down.

“Sanchez, no disrespect, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check; maybe the next time. I need to take care of this and get back. Next time, if that’s okay with you,” Numbers said, not wanting to offend him.

“Comprendo.
Lupe.” He gave her a nod, and she placed the cigar box on the coffee table and went into a back room. Sanchez’s instincts were equally sharp. He got a good feeling about Numbers.

“Can I use the bathroom?” Numbers asked. He didn’t want Sanchez to see where he had the money stashed.

“Yes, right through there.” He pointed to a small corridor.

Numbers went into the bathroom, removed the money from his hiding spot, and came back to the living room in no time. Sanchez was waiting with two bricks of pure white on the table. Numbers laid the money on the table next to the weight. He picked up the kilos and placed one in the back of his waistband and the other in the front, tightening his belt to secure them. After zipping his blue Woolrich coat, he was ready to bounce.

“Hey, Numbre, tell C.I. to come see me sometime. I’ll see you again, no?”

“Most likely.”

“Okay, take this, take it, it’s on me.” He held out a Ziploc bag containing exotic green smoke with bright amber hairs, urging Numbers to accept it.

Numbers took the bag and smiled slightly. “Good-looking.”

“Okay, my friend.” Sanchez walked Numbers to the door and let him out. Numbers kept his hand on his piece until he was safely in his ride.

Numbers met with Sanchez three times in a two-week period. He would get the product and take it to Suki’s place. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment on Lefferts Place. Suki was Coney’s bottom bitch. Whatever he wanted or needed, she’d do it or get it for him. She wasn’t looking as fly as when Numbers had first seen her some years ago, but she wasn’t far off her mark. She looked as though she may have been enjoying the cocaine being stashed at her crib a little too much. Coney was careful not to be seen coming and going from the spot. He believed someone was watching him, he just didn’t know who.

Numbers moved Broz up to product distributor. His new job was to go around the borough supplying Coney’s soldiers
once Numbers got word they needed re-up. Coney would still go around and pick up his trap. He didn’t trust anybody handling his money. Even though the crew was getting money, it wasn’t enough for the risk they were taking. Jarvis complained about the money every chance he got.

Today he called for Numbers from the courtyard outside his building. Numbers came down to the first-floor lobby of 60 Carlton. Jarvis was waiting there for him. The door to the lobby was closed, but you could hear the wind outside whistling like a banshee. “Jarski, what up, son?” Numbers came out the stairwell door in a jovial mood.

“How’s Rosa?” Jarvis inquired.

“Man, complaining ’bout everything. I wish the baby would hurry up and drop already. It’s due in April.”

“You still don’t know what you’re having?”

“Nope, but what up? What you wanted to talk to me about?” Jarvis had left word that he really needed to speak with him.

“Coney is shorting us. He’s giving us a seventy-five/twenty-five when we should be getting a sixty/forty cut,” Jarvis said, getting straight to the point.

Numbers didn’t say anything; he just listened to what his boy was telling him.

“Who told you that?” Numbers wanted to know where he got the 411 from.

“You can ask anybody hustling, they’ll tell you the same shit.”

Numbers thought better than to blow his friend off this time. “Aiight, Jar, I’ma definitely checking that shit out.” As he thought about it more, Numbers began to believe there had to be some truth to what his man was saying. Jarvis had been harping on it for several months now. “But right now let’s go to Lorro’s Deli for a sandwich or to Louie’s to get a slice of pizza. I’m starving.”

“Bet,” Jarvis agreed, happy to have finally gotten through to Numbers.

The whistling wind made it seem much colder than the temperature, but the weather was actually quite bearable for this time of the year. The two friends strolled up Carlton Avenue. Numbers didn’t drive his vehicle when it wasn’t necessary. Walking was cool with him. As they headed to the avenue, Numbers couldn’t help but calculate the difference in what they were getting and what they should be making. It was significant. He would have to address this immediately.

Numbers met up with Coney later on that day. Coney was in a navy blue ’93 Mercedes-Benz SEL.

“What the deal, Numbers? Everything good?” Coney smiled, sporting some new jewels and a new Rolex President. Numbers now understood how Coney was able to afford shit like that—by underpaying him and his team.

“Coney, I wanted to talk to you about my cut.” He gauged Coney for a reaction.

Coney twisted his face. “What about your cut?” he shot back coldly.

“Man, I’ve been doing this for you for the last four years and change. I’ve only been getting hit off with twenty-five percent. I ain’t said nothing before, but with all my new responsibilities it should be a sixty/forty cut instead of seventy-five/twenty-five.”

Coney rubbed his left hand over his face, pulling down his gorilla jaw. He was laughing but not amused at all.

“Son, you bugging! I ain’t splitting my shit with you sixty/forty. You can forget that shit,” Coney said flat out. The tone of his voice and his refusal to give a little vexed Numbers. He was ready to wild out on Coney’s ass. He’d always respected Coney, but now it looked like Coney may have misconstrued that respect for fear. He may have other young niggers petro, but Numbers had vowed to himself long ago he’d never fear no man, ever! Coney had eight years and a few pounds on him, but Numbers was taller. Growing
up with Jarvis, getting in fight after fight, he’d developed above-average skills with his hands. He could handle his own with the best of them.

“Word, Coney, that how you gonna do me?” Numbers didn’t try to conceal his contempt. “That shit’s grimy.”

“Son, I put you on to this game. Now you trying to be greedy, what the fuck,” Coney rationalized, trying to turn the tables and make himself the victim. “Listen, this is what I’ll do: I’ll bump you up to thirty percent, aiight?” He continued as if he was doing Numbers a favor. “You good with that?” Then the nigger had the nerve to change the subject, further pushing Numbers’s ire. “Yo, I been meaning to ask you what’s up with ya bitty Ketta? You should let me get at that.”

Numbers sat there silent, trying to calm himself down, so as not to react before he thought things through. It was almost laughable that Coney was pissed off because he was asking for his just due. But to disrespect him by asking about Ketta—knowing that she was his piece—was too much.
What’s that comment all about? Is he trying to test me to see if I’ll flip on his ass?
Numbers was finally able to see Coney’s true colors, exactly what Jarvis was trying to tell him all along.

“Aiight, Coney you got it.” Numbers got out of the car calm and collected.

Things were tense between Coney and Numbers after their discussion. Numbers’s first thought was to get out of the game, but he knew he couldn’t go back to nickel-and-dime hustling cards and dice. He accepted the 30 percent, but he wasn’t satisfied. Numbers believed he was more calculating than Jarvis. Jarvis wanted to jump ship and roll with Crush. Crush wasn’t an option for Numbers—too much bad history.
But why is Jarvis so keen to deal with him?
That was one thing Numbers couldn’t figure out. He’d have to devise a better plan. He needed his own connect. Although he’d built a respectable rapport with Sanchez, Sanchez
was still Coney’s supplier. It was time to rethink his arrangement with Coney and play it smart until he could get out from under his thumb.

Coney believed he had made off like a bandit, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He was going to keep Numbers on a short leash. He threw him a bone just to keep him content until he could get someone else to make his runs uptown or the heat was off him. When the time was right, he’d eliminate Numbers from the equation. It would be better for Coney to get rid of him than to cut him off.

Numbers and Waketta walked up to the Lexus lounge. Whenever they couldn’t find Jarvis on a Thursday night, he was most likely here. They could hear the music vibrating through the walls as Waketta approached the door first, trailed by Numbers. Numbers had pull at the joint because he hooked the bouncers up with drugs or hit them up with cash when he breezed through. Waketta’s pull was totally different. Her juice was from a couple of the bouncers trying to get up in her. She flirted with them, but that’s all it was because she was only interested in Numbers.