Numbers by Dana Dane Read Free Book Online Page B

name for a while, until he said the name to his mother and she popped him in the mouth. Everyone in the vicinity reacted with a hearty laugh at what Crispy Carl had to say.
    “Hey, Mr. Carl.” Numbers nodded as he walked up.
    “Numbers, get over here and give your man Crispy Carl some skin.” He beamed, slapping Numbers’s hand. “So, what’s the number for this evening, li’l man? I know you got a fix on it.”
    “No clue,” Numbers said softly, unsure of himself. “Haven’t been feeling lucky lately.”
    Crispy Carl took a swig of his Jack. “Is that right? Well, let’s see what we can do to make some greenbacks.” He got up from his post, placing the half-pint bottle of Jack Daniels in his inside jacket pocket.
    He walked into the number spot with his arm draped across Numbers’s shoulder. The room was smoky with the usual activity. He directed Numbers to one of the nearest counters and joined him with his Big Mack number sheet, pen, and number slip. Carl gazed at the sheet as if in deep concentration. Numbers had grown to recognize that look on Mr. Carl’s face. He knew a story would soon follow.
    “You know, Numbers,” Crispy Carl began, “most of the time when it comes to making decisions, the first thing that comes to mind is the right decision. When you think about stuff too long, you end up making the wrong call. I ’member when I was pimping down by the navy yard back in the days. One of my hoes came to me with a proposition. She told me this punk-ass pimp named Smalley had a sweet lick with some cadets on shore leave. My bitch, Lola, and one of Smalley’s bitches would work three cadets and in one night pull in four thousand dollars. My gut told me all money wasn’t good money, not to go in with the arrangement. But my little grimy bitch was like ‘Please, Daddy, let’s get this money,please.’” He made a bad attempt to speak in a female’s tone. He abruptly ended the story. “So what was the first number you thought of today, Numbers?”
    “Eight.”
    “Why eight?”
    “My birthday is in two days, October eighth, and the number was on my mind earlier.” Numbers looked at the clock on the wall. It read 2:55.
    “How old you gonna be—twenty-one?” Crispy Carl joked.
    “No, thirteen.” Numbers smiled. Crispy Carl always made him laugh. Numbers often wondered how it would be to have Mr. Carl as his father.
    “Are you gonna have a blackmitzvah? You’re a man now.” He was laughing at the confused expression on Numbers’s face. “Okay, that’s the number we gonna play today: 108.” Crispy Carl wrote the numbers on the slip for fifty cents straight. “We playing the one-oh because October is the tenth month,” Carl explained, “and eight is your b-day. Here, take this up to the window.” He handed Numbers some change and the slip.
    Numbers went to the window and placed the bet. By now the ladies at the window were used to seeing him.
    “Hello, honey, how are you today?” Sally, the black lady, asked.
    “Fine, thank you. Have a good day,” Numbers replied.
    “You too, sweetie.” She’d already begun taking the next person’s bet.
    “NOBODY MOVE. EVERYBODY STAY WHERE YOU’RE AT!” a chubby white man commanded. He wore black shoes, blue pants, and a dingy white dress shirt under an old beige-and-brown-plaid suit jacket. The detective was flanked by several uniformed officers.
    A man tried to scoot out the door, only to be hemmed up violently by one of the officers.
    “Didn’t you hear the detective, scumbag?” The white officer pushed the man’s face up against the closest wall.
    The two women behind the window had already gone into action, throwing slips and money into a stash box in a hole in the floor as covertly as possible.
    Lawry, the plainclothes detective, peeped the activity and quickly started making his way to the window. “Didn’t I tell you cunts not to move?” His path was deterred by Louie running interference for his workers.
    “Hey,