Numbers (9 page)

Jayquan was, for the most part, the quiet type. The one to avoid confrontation, he was more of a diplomat.

“Whose deal is it?” Waketta snapped. She was pissed that Tee had won his fourth consecutive hand and high spades.

“Don’t you see me shuffling?” Broz snapped back.

“I know you not mad because Tee is winning.” Numbers laughed. “This the first time he won in how long?”

“I don’t care! I hate when his broke, yellow-teeth ass win,” Waketta bellowed.

“You’ll be asking me to borrow two bucks in a minute. Now watch,” Tee said. Tee had a way of getting on everyone’s nerves.

“What? You owe me four dollars, and if you don’t give me my money, I’ma kick your ass,” Waketta threatened.

“Later for you,” Tee said, trying to make light of it, knowing Waketta meant what she said.

“Deal, Broz! How many times you got to shuffle the freaking cards?” Numbers was growing impatient with the banter. He was
losing money today. For some reason, he was off his game. Every time he discarded, it seemed to be the one Tee needed to win the hand. Broz dealt out five cards to each player and turned up an ace of spades.

“Nobody’s got the ace-of-spades high card, so who’s got the king?” Broz inquired to no one in particular while picking up his hand.

“Tee, it’s on you, you need the ace?” Waketta asked.

Tee did not respond.

“My pluck,” Waketta said, reaching for the deck.

“Hold up, I need that,” Numbers said, throwing out a matching ace of hearts.

“Nah, I need that.” Tee threw out an ace of diamonds before Numbers could complete his turn.

“Why you playing like that, stupid?” Numbers was upset that Tee had gotten him to reveal his card.

“Your mother’s stupid,” Tee lashed out.

“What? Ya mother’s a whore. Too bad. I feel sorry for you!” Numbers reversed Tee’s snap.

Everyone except Tee laughed.

“Fuck you, bitch! That’s why you don’t know your daddy.” Tee’s attempts to belittle Numbers worked. His comment struck a nerve. Numbers was boiling.

Seeing that Numbers was mad, Jayquan tried to intervene: “Come on, y’all, let’s just play cards.”

“Numbers, you gonna let him talk about you and your daddy like that?” Waketta said. The instigation worked.

“I’ll punch you in your mouth,” Numbers threatened.

“Do it,” Tee said, stepping up the stairs through the game to the landing where Numbers stood.

It wasn’t really the comment about his father that bothered Numbers; Tee had just gotten on his last nerve. He was always trying to act like he was tough, and Numbers wanted to put him in his
place once and for all. Everyone else started talking loud, trying to get Tee and Numbers back to the game. They’d been loud for the last hour, and now the noise had climbed to its peak.

Numbers balled up his fist, ready to make right on his promise to punch Tee in the face. Jarvis was standing up against the wall, finishing up his last Twinkie, amused that someone made his friend so heated that he was ready to fight. Numbers knew that was why his friend was smiling, but he didn’t care. All he cared about right then was putting a whipping on Tee.

Face-to-face, Tee and Numbers stood about an inch apart.

“What?” Numbers challenged.

“What you wanna do?” Tee replied.

“What you wanna do?”

They began to bump and push each other, going around in a circle, neither wanting to throw the first blow.

Bam!

“STAY WHERE YOU AT, DON’T RUN!” an authoritative voice commanded. Someone was busting through the thirteenth-floor hallway door.

Numbers and Tee did the opposite; they dispatched their tiff and sprinted behind Jarvis, who had kicked open the roof door and bolted out onto the roof and into the sunset. Jayquan was fresh on their heels, and after Waketta grabbed up her money, she followed in their tracks. Broz’s fat ass didn’t even bother to run, he just sat there conceding his capture. The uniformed officer hurried up the stairs after the delinquent kids—straight past Broz. “Don’t move!” he said, heading to the roof.

No sooner had the pink-faced officer stepped onto the roof than Broz wobbled his chubby ass down to his twelfth-floor apartment.

Jarvis, Numbers, and Tee darted across the graveled rooftop toward the attached building, 68 Cumberland Walk, with Jayquan and Waketta not far behind. The distance between the roof-access
doors was about 250 feet, give or take. Jarvis was starting to slow down. He had put on some extra weight eating all the junk food.

“Keep running, Jar, don’t slow down!” Numbers shouted. He was about to pass Jarvis.

As they approached the 68 roof access, the door swung open. It was another uniformed cop. He was taller than the other, and overweight. He was breathing heavy and his white face was blushing red.

“Oh, shit!” Jarvis cried out, sliding to a halt on the gravel. Numbers almost ran into his back. The police had them sandwiched in. There was no place to run—they were caught. Numbers knew if his mother found out about this, he would get the ass whipping to eclipse all ass whippings. She had warned him to stay out of the stairwell gambling, but of course he was hardheaded and didn’t listen. Now he’d have to pay the piper.

The taller officer, Lockhart, still breathing deeply, said, “See, Tommy, I told you these little monkeys always run.”

His nightstick drawn, Officer O’Doul was breathing heavily as well. “Okay, you little monkeys—over there.” He pointed to the roof’s edge.

Numbers and his friends were led to the wall with a few nudges from the cops’ nightsticks. Left to right, they were lined up: Jayquan, Waketta, Jarvis, Numbers, and then Tee. Numbers looked at each of his friends’ faces. Fear was evident on all of them.
And rightfully so,
he thought. Numbers knew cops were grimy. He’d learned it firsthand with the Crispy Carl incident.

Officer O’Doul stood back watching while Officer Lockhart paced in front of the kids, twirling his nightstick. He was finally getting his original pink-white color back in his face. “Well, we have a dilemma here,” he spoke with a heavy Irish accent. “We only have two pairs of cuffs, and five of you. So two of you are coming with us, and the other three are getting tossed off the
roof.” Numbers looked at the officers defiantly. Jayquan, Jarvis, and Waketta looked frightened, but nothing like Tee. Tee was trembling so uncontrollably he looked as though he was ready to throw up or pass out.

“How ’bout you, Sambo?” Lockhart walked up to Jayquan and slapped him, squeezing his jaw roughly between his fingers. Moisture welled up in Jayquan’s eyes, but he did not shed a tear. Lockhart shoved Jayquan backward by the face almost into the roof ledge. Then he moved on to Waketta.

“Wow, this jungle bunny’s going to be something when she gets older,” Lockhart said, looking back at Officer O’Doul. “How old are you?” Waketta didn’t answer. He strolled by her and winked. “I’ll get back to you, doll.” Waketta sucked her teeth at him. O’Doul looked on, smirking devilishly.

“Are you eyeballing me, Big Head?” Officer Lockhart ridiculed Jarvis. Goddamn, boy, you got a big-ass head! Your mother has to be a mare to give birth to a horse head like you.” He grabbed Jarvis by the collar and began batting him in the head. Jarvis cowed. Hoping for more of a fight, Lockhart lost interest in Jarvis and let his eyes continue down to Numbers and Tee. Then he backtracked to Waketta.

“Now, where were we, sweetheart?” He grabbed his baton, which was hanging from his left wrist, held it horizontally with both hands out in front of him. He approached Waketta and pressed the stick against her stomach. “You better not move,” he threatened. Slowly he moved the nightstick up her abdomen like he was rolling out pastry dough until it was under her breasts. Tears began to roll down Waketta’s face from the humiliation. Lockhart raised the baton higher until her young, firm breasts were propped up.

Numbers couldn’t take it anymore. “Leave her alone, pig.”

“Oh, your little boyfriend can’t wait his turn, huh? Okay.” He removed the stick from Waketta’s breasts, slowly letting them fall
to their natural position. She sobbed. He moved toward Numbers. Numbers stood tall, with his chest out and head up. Officer Lockhart stood in front of him. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked, pretending to be polite.

“Dupree,” Numbers answered, remembering one of the rules Crispy Carl had taught him. Never give out your street name.

“Dupree,” Lockhart snickered. “You must be a descendant of kings or something.” He looked back at his partner, laughing.

In an instant, Lockhart’s face had turned as red and evil as Satan’s. He shoved the round butt of his nightstick into Numbers’s gut. Numbers let out a gasp and then folded over toward the ground. Lockhart reached out his large white hands, snatched Numbers by the throat, and stood him up straight. Numbers pulled at the big white officer’s hands and arms, gasping for air.

Jarvis wanted to help his friend—they all did, except Tee, who was crying and shaking like a fall leaf. But no one dared to make a move, as Officer O’Doul stood watchful with his hand on his .38 revolver.

“This dirty little raisin wants to go off the rooftop,” Lockhart threatened, his choke hold forcing Numbers back against the roof ledge. Numbers’s head and shoulders were over the ledge, and his feet were off the ground. All he could think about was his mother and sisters. He was the man of the house. What would they do without him? His mother would be devastated. Then all he saw were black spots as he felt himself slipping out of consciousness.

The only thing he could hear was Tee praying, “Lord, please help us, mighty God; you have the power to save us. Please help your faithful servants, Lord, please.”

Just when Numbers thought he was on his last breath and was going to be tossed off the roof, Officer Lockhart released him. Numbers slumped to his knees, coughing for air.

“Deacon Darkie, done pissed all over himself.” Officer Lockhart laughed once again with his partner. Tee had lost all control
of his bladder. The two cops continued to laugh heartily at Tee, whom Numbers believed probably saved his life with his prayers or his pissing on himself or both.

“Let’s go,” O’Doul called to his partner. “Take this as a warning, you little niggers! The next time I won’t be so nice.” He put his nightstick away and walked toward 68’s roof access.

Crispy Carl had once told Numbers that he didn’t need to exact revenge on bad people because karma would take care of their negative deeds. Now as he lay on the ground struggling to catch his breath, Numbers wasn’t sure if he could wait for karma.

As far as Numbers knew, the only other person from the projects who attended his high school was Rosa-Marie—who was now his girlfriend, as long as her mother didn’t find out. Even though the majority of students who attended Brooklyn Tech were white or Asian, it was still one of the most ethnically diverse schools in the borough. When Numbers first entered the school, he experienced culture shock. He was used to being around only blacks and Latinos. He hadn’t ventured out of the Fort Greene projects much other than to downtown Brooklyn, his two trips to Virginia to visit his Aunt Camille and her family, his rare visits to the Bronx to see his uncle, and his frequent trips to Delancey Street to shop for gear.

After his math gift was discovered at P.S. 67 elementary school, Numbers’s mother had enrolled him in the SAMM program (Science, Art, Music, and Math) at Junior High School 258, on the corner of Macon and Marcy. From there he was admitted to Brooklyn Technical, a high school for academic achievers. His mother was so proud of him.

Now in his junior year, Numbers was growing up to be quite handsome. At five ten and about 140 pounds, he’d lost all of his baby fat. He was one of the best-dressed guys in his grade—in the school for that matter.

Jenny was always at work. She worked at the health department during the day and A&S department store at night. Numbers had the run of the apartment until his sisters came home from the after-school program, if they didn’t stay with Ms. Sandy, in Farragut.

Numbers, Jarvis, Waketta, and a girl named Sharon, who lived in building 81, sometimes cut class and rendezvoused at Numbers’s crib. Today they were in his room on his full-sized bed getting drunk off Cisco and playing High Card. The person with the lowest card plucked from the deck had to take off an article of clothing. The girls were down to their panties and bras. Jarvis had on his Fruit of the Looms and a pair of socks. Numbers still had on his pants. Sharon was okay-looking, but she was skinny with no shape compared with Waketta. Waketta, with her nice round 34B titties and plump ass, was a young thoroughbred. Grown men wanted to give her the business. Jarvis had been trying to get into her pants since his first boner. Now seeing Waketta in her bra and panties had his penis Iron Mike Tyson hard. If everything went as planned, he’d get some of that today. Numbers was going to help his friend crack that. The plan was for Numbers to take Sharon into his mother’s room while Jarvis stayed with Waketta. Numbers had no problem with the arrangement.
He wasn’t too particular on which one he got, as long as he got some. When the girls were down to just their panties, Numbers changed the rules.