elixir, fingered his money, and said, “Check”; he didn’t bet any money. “Now you know that shit’s not gonna fly over here,” Sybil said, betting twenty dollars.
Mac was eager; Sybil barely got her money into the pot before he raised the bet ten dollars. Crispy Carl called the thirty dollars. Sybil smirked even more, her face saying,
I got them.
She raised the bet twenty. Mac called the bet and then Crispy Carl. Each player had bet fifty on this card alone. It was surely a hefty pot, the best one of the night, Jenny calculated.
“Well, Sybil, we paid to see your hand, let’s see it,” Crispy Carl directed.
Sybil had a pair of 8’s, a queen, and a jack, and she turned up her hole card, which was an 8. “Three eights, three of a kind, you tricks!” she shouted, slapping the card on the table.
“Fuck!” Mac screamed, revealing his hole card: an ace. He had a pair of aces and a pair of 4’s. Two pair couldn’t beat three of a kind on its best day.
Sybil celebrated with a swallow of her beer. “Well, that’s it, Jenny, count up my winnings for me and take the house cut,” she bragged. “Crispy’s ass probably got a pair of queens to go with the tens, he finished, too.”
“Not quite, Cruella De Vil. Hold your horses,” Crispy Carl said, making fun of the gray streaks in her hair. “Numbers, come and turn this card up for me,” he requested. Numbers moved in, reached and picked up the card. Before he touched it, he knew what it was. He turned it up slowly so all could see, and it was just what he’d guessed it would be: a 10. Crispy Carl won the hand with a higher three of a kind than Sybil’s.
“Come to Daddy.” Crispy Carl swept the money toward him after Jenny took the house cut.
Sybil sulked in her chair, pissed off.
Wow, I need to learn how to play this game,
Numbers thought.
How to Finish
Crispy Carl taught Numbers how to hustle Pitty Pat, poker, Tunk, and craps, but there was something about the game of C-Lo that drew Numbers in. Though he knew he didn’t have any real control of the dice, he felt comfortable in this element. This game was more about confidence, your gift for gab and beating the odds. Numbers loved to listen to the rollers talk smack, as Mr. Carl called it. When he watched Crispy Carl shoot dice, Numbers would soak up all of his lyrics.
Crispy Carl and Numbers emerged from the number spot that had since been converted into the corner bodega divvying up the money from the bolita they hit straight for two dollars. The bet netted them $128. People were still bettingnumbers in the back of the store. This business was too lucrative for Louie to give up, so he camouflaged it with the grocery store out front and continued to pay off the powers that be.
A dice game was just getting started on the Cumberland side of the store. Archie, a six-foot-four brown brother from the projects, had the bank. Archie was once an NBA prospect, but he never went to class when he was in college and eventually fell victim to the streets.
“The bank is thirty dollars,” he called out, shaking the three dice in his right hand above his head near his ear. “What you got, old man?” he asked Silver, a brown-skinned old-school cat whose hair had turned white in his teens due to some type of gene disorder.
“I got five of that, young’un,” Silver shouted, placing a five dollar bill under his left foot.
“Ten,” a younger guy called.
“I got the bank stopped,” Crispy Carl said.
“Okay. Bet goes to the bank stopper. All other bets are dead! I done caught me a sucker.” Archie beamed a picture-perfect smile.
Carl leaned over to Numbers. “Numbers, give me fifteen and go half with me on the bank.”
Numbers was still new to the game, but he trusted Crispy Carl’s hustle.
“Crispy, you finished already? You bumming money off shorty doo-wop? Pay up,” Archie taunted, rolling the dice onto the uneven concrete pavement. The dice came to a stop: 4-3-4.
“Oh, that lady Tracy
Mac was eager; Sybil barely got her money into the pot before he raised the bet ten dollars. Crispy Carl called the thirty dollars. Sybil smirked even more, her face saying,
I got them.
She raised the bet twenty. Mac called the bet and then Crispy Carl. Each player had bet fifty on this card alone. It was surely a hefty pot, the best one of the night, Jenny calculated.
“Well, Sybil, we paid to see your hand, let’s see it,” Crispy Carl directed.
Sybil had a pair of 8’s, a queen, and a jack, and she turned up her hole card, which was an 8. “Three eights, three of a kind, you tricks!” she shouted, slapping the card on the table.
“Fuck!” Mac screamed, revealing his hole card: an ace. He had a pair of aces and a pair of 4’s. Two pair couldn’t beat three of a kind on its best day.
Sybil celebrated with a swallow of her beer. “Well, that’s it, Jenny, count up my winnings for me and take the house cut,” she bragged. “Crispy’s ass probably got a pair of queens to go with the tens, he finished, too.”
“Not quite, Cruella De Vil. Hold your horses,” Crispy Carl said, making fun of the gray streaks in her hair. “Numbers, come and turn this card up for me,” he requested. Numbers moved in, reached and picked up the card. Before he touched it, he knew what it was. He turned it up slowly so all could see, and it was just what he’d guessed it would be: a 10. Crispy Carl won the hand with a higher three of a kind than Sybil’s.
“Come to Daddy.” Crispy Carl swept the money toward him after Jenny took the house cut.
Sybil sulked in her chair, pissed off.
Wow, I need to learn how to play this game,
Numbers thought.
How to Finish
Crispy Carl taught Numbers how to hustle Pitty Pat, poker, Tunk, and craps, but there was something about the game of C-Lo that drew Numbers in. Though he knew he didn’t have any real control of the dice, he felt comfortable in this element. This game was more about confidence, your gift for gab and beating the odds. Numbers loved to listen to the rollers talk smack, as Mr. Carl called it. When he watched Crispy Carl shoot dice, Numbers would soak up all of his lyrics.
Crispy Carl and Numbers emerged from the number spot that had since been converted into the corner bodega divvying up the money from the bolita they hit straight for two dollars. The bet netted them $128. People were still bettingnumbers in the back of the store. This business was too lucrative for Louie to give up, so he camouflaged it with the grocery store out front and continued to pay off the powers that be.
A dice game was just getting started on the Cumberland side of the store. Archie, a six-foot-four brown brother from the projects, had the bank. Archie was once an NBA prospect, but he never went to class when he was in college and eventually fell victim to the streets.
“The bank is thirty dollars,” he called out, shaking the three dice in his right hand above his head near his ear. “What you got, old man?” he asked Silver, a brown-skinned old-school cat whose hair had turned white in his teens due to some type of gene disorder.
“I got five of that, young’un,” Silver shouted, placing a five dollar bill under his left foot.
“Ten,” a younger guy called.
“I got the bank stopped,” Crispy Carl said.
“Okay. Bet goes to the bank stopper. All other bets are dead! I done caught me a sucker.” Archie beamed a picture-perfect smile.
Carl leaned over to Numbers. “Numbers, give me fifteen and go half with me on the bank.”
Numbers was still new to the game, but he trusted Crispy Carl’s hustle.
“Crispy, you finished already? You bumming money off shorty doo-wop? Pay up,” Archie taunted, rolling the dice onto the uneven concrete pavement. The dice came to a stop: 4-3-4.
“Oh, that lady Tracy
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