Numbers Read Online Free PDF Page A

house. I need you to run to the store for me real quick. Hurry up.” She disappeared into the apartment.
    Dupree stomped on the back of his skateboard; when it popped up into the air, he grabbed it with his right hand and bounded up the stoop and into the building. “I’ll be right back, Jar,” he said over his shoulder.
    “Cool.” Jarvis waited at the foot of the stairs, balancing on his board.
    Even with the institution of the New York State Lottery in ’82, most people continued to bet with the underground number holes they were familiar with. One of the most popular spots in the neighborhood was located on the corner of Park Avenue and Cumberland Street—basically a storefront, no sign on the outside—just two big windows covered with a gray coat so no one was able to look inside. It was run by an overweight thirty-something Guido named Louie Provolone. That wasn’t his real last name, but most people called him Provolone or Big Cheese because they said he always smelled like cheese. Dupree thought Louie smelled more like stale milk and the cigar he kept clamped between his tight lips.
    Not too many kids had ever seen the inside of Provolone’s number hole—not because it was off limits, it just wasn’t really kid-friendly. There was an excessive amount of drinking, sex talk, and swearing, especially when someone
almost
hit their number. That was cause to curse the sun, moon, and stars. Provolone’s was a home away from home for a lot of its patrons—their second job, for the few who had a job.
    Crispy Carl was a regular at the spot. He was dark, but his complexion wasn’t the reason they called him Crispy. Crispy Carl was a forty-six-year-old ex-pimp, and everything he wore—from his fried-and-dyed hair to his tailor-fit zoot suits—was always crisp and sharp. He might not have been as fly as he was in his prime, and he might have lost most of his hair, but in his age bracket he was still by far the smoothest, slickest-dressing man in the hood.
    Crispy Carl lost his whores and money during the Frank Lucas era, when he got hooked on heroin. He was clean now, but the pimp game had passed him by. Now he spent countless hours sipping Jack Daniels and reading the Big Mack number sheet. If anybodywas looking, most of the time he could be found perched on the bench in front of the spot, or inside if the weather was foul.
    A lot of people fancied hitting him up for predictions on the number of the day, and he was more than willing to oblige them. He always volunteered a tale to validate the reasoning why he liked a certain number. The funny thing was, Crispy Carl didn’t hit his number any more than anyone else—people just got a kick out of the stories he told.
    Dupree came barreling across the street with Jarvis on his tail. With only ten minutes or so to get his mother’s bet in, he was in a hurry—so much so that he nearly ran over Crispy Carl’s foot with his skateboard.
    “Okay, watch it, young grasshopper!” Crispy Carl exclaimed. “The fastest way to get to ya destination, more often than not, is to be steady and consistent.” He held Dupree by the arm, preventing him from entering the store.
    Dupree looked at him, puzzled. “I’m sorry,” he offered.
    “Little man, where you think you going?”
    “I got to put a number in for my mother,” Dupree answered politely, even though he wasn’t feeling the fact that the man was hindering him from completing his mother’s errand.
    “Okay, little player, but be careful with that skateboard. Us old-timers’ bones don’t heal as quickly as they used to.” Crispy Carl released the young man’s arm so that he and his friend could go on about their business.
    “You got that right, Crispy Carl,” one of his cronies chimed in.
    The main room of the number hole was about fifteen by fifteen feet and filled with smoke. On both sides were wooden counters that took up the entire length of the walls. They were used to lean on and fill out number slips.