Dutch (15 page)

“That’s a helluva bag, kid. What else you got in there?” Tony joked.

“Mr. Cerone, I know this ain’t much to a man like you, but it’s all I got right now. It’s at least a hundred grand there.
Consider it a gift from me and Kazami.”

Tony looked at Dutch and then at the money. He picked up a stack and examined the blood traces that gilded the edges and corners.
Now this is real blood money,
he thought to himself.

“Mr. Cerone, I saw an opportunity and I took it, just like I did three years ago. I told you I did it then ’cause I consider
Roberto a friend and I know he wouldn’t have brought me here if he didn’t consider me one. So what I ask from you is simple…
your friendship,” Dutch finished and looked Tony in his eyes.

Tony nodded with understanding, knowing his friendship meant protection. He looked up at Roberto and then down at the stacks
of money Dutch had laid before him. He rose from his chair and walked over to a large glass window overlooking the streets.
He measured the gravity of Dutch’s request. Dutch had taken the streets and was asking for his support in keeping them.

He thought of the ambitious and conniving Frank Sorbonno. They were Frank’s hits, because Frank wanted in on the drug trade
in Newark. Tony had never had an interest in drugs or drug money. He considered it too messy. But to back this little black
kid over Frank would show Frank what he really thought of him. He didn’t like Frank. In fact, he despised him because he knew
Frank wanted to be where he was. But Tony was made and Frank wasn’t, so there was little chance of that. He decided to use
this situation to further distance himself from Frank, show him who was boss, and rake in the money all with one nod.

“So, you wanna be the boss, huh? It takes more than balls to be the boss. You think ’cause you kill the head, the body will
die? Not in this game it don’t. Everybody wants to be chief and there’s not enough Indians. You see that head in the bag over
there? You think it can’t happen to you?” asked Tony.

“Anybody can get it, but I promise you, I’ma live till I die.”

“Well, then you got a friend as long as you live,” said Tony as he extended his hand. Dutch gripped it firmly. There were
no more words exchanged between men that night, nothing else needed to be said.

Craze thought back to that night when the streets became theirs. They had done the impossible and come out on top. From that
day on, they reigned untouchable…

But look at us now. Zoom’s dead, Roc and Angel are in prison, and Qwan was on the stand, turning state.
He shook his head in disbelief.

“Times done really changed,” he said to himself and got back into his Porsche.

F
inished with her day’s work in the prison kitchen, Angel walked to her cell and sat down on her bunk. She kicked off her boots
and reached for the pack of Newports on her little desk. She put one in her mouth and struck a match just as her cellmate
came running into the cell with a copy of the
Daily News.

“You seen this?” her celly asked and handed her the paper.

Angel hadn’t seen the
Daily News
in a few months. Danbury, Connecticut, was a long way from Newark, New Jersey. However, several inmates, her roommate included,
had subscriptions to hometown newspapers to keep up with their temple of familiarities while they did time. Angel had no temple
to contemplate, so the
Daily News
was the furthest thing from her mind. But seeing Dutch on the cover walking out of the courtroom piqued her interest.

The headline read: “Gangster Chronicles Continue.” She gazed at Dutch’s black-and-white photo, the drabness of the colorless
flick taking nothing away from the smile he wore. Confident… arrogant… Dutch.

Her celly stood in the doorway waiting for Angel to hand her back the paper, but when she saw how she was just staring at
the picture, she merely sighed.

“Just give it back when you’re through,” said the girl, then she walked out.

Angel hadn’t heard a word she said. She was too preoccupied with the newspaper, looking at Dutch from every angle, even looking
at all the people around him. She memorized the photo, then laid the paper aside, got up, and looked out her small cell window.

The rain fell in torrents, making everything outside a gray blur. She sat back on the bed and lit another match. After she
lit her cigarette, she lay back on her bunk and placed a hand behind her head. In the distance, thunder boomed as she stared
at the cold white of the cell’s ceiling.
Life in prison, how I’m suppose to do life?
she thought to herself, then took a long drag on the cigarette. She hadn’t been down a year and couldn’t fathom the rest
of her life and what the years behind bars would bring.

She had one of the best criminal lawyers filing her appeal, but it would be a long, hard fight. She thought back to the interrogation
tactics they used on her.

“You know you’re going to jail?”

“Prison.”

“A pretty girl like you, mmm, damn shame, too.”

“So, tell us what we want to know.”

It took some time before they realized that she wasn’t a weak link, but the actual cement to Dutch’s solid brick structure.
When the sweet, caring approach didn’t work they began to figure out that Angel was only her name and not her nature. That’s
when they applied force.

“You’re gonna fry for this, you hear me?”

“You think that son of a bitch would be doin’ this for you?”

“You can’t be that stupid.”

The interrogation lasted for days and nights, but Angel never cracked. She kept a sarcastic charm and feigned ignorance in
response to all their questions, and when all else failed, her final response was, “Man, you can suck my dick!”

When the feds realized she wouldn’t cooperate, their final words were, “So, you wanna wear it, huh? Well, we’re gonna make
sure it fits… tight!”

The trial should’ve been held in a kangaroo court, because with one crooked leap and a single unjust bound, Angel stood before
a judge and heard the words “life without parole” cast down upon her young head.

She was twenty-six.

When she was sentenced, she didn’t become belligerent or befuddled. She simply mouthed a silent “fuck you” to the judge, who
nodded and smirked devilishly back at her before banging his gavel and ending the trial.

She crushed the Newport butt in the ashtray that rested on her stomach. She thought about the night she was arrested along
with Roc. The same night they got knocked, Zoom got killed.

It was around the same time that Roc’s wife, Ayesha, was in the hospital in labor with their third child. Of the whole crew,
Roc was the only one who had a wife, or even a steady girl, for that matter. After seeing what happened to Kazami, nobody
was really into broads and babies, except for Roc. But then, Ayesha had been with Roc since before Dutch even knew him.

Zoom and Angel had taken Roc out to celebrate the birth of his new baby. They had stopped by one of Dutch’s after-hours lounges
he had tucked away on the low and left with a case of Henny. They were riding in Zoom’s S600 when Roc’s phone rang. Angel
and Zoom could tell by Roc’s conversation that he was obviously not where he was supposed to be. He had told Ayesha before
that there was no way he was doing that baby thing ever again after seeing the way the first one came out of her vagina.

“Ain’t no way I’ll be there for the next one.”

“Ain’t gon’ be no next one, nigga,” she playfully responded.

But Ayesha was wrong. However, Roc wasn’t, because he was riding and wasn’t going to that hospital and he didn’t care which
one of Ayesha’s family members rang his phone.

“Zoom, what you ’posed to say ’bout a murder-type nigga who can dead twelve niggas before dinner, but scared of a pussy!”
Angel laughed. “I told y’all the nigga was bitch!”

Zoom and Angel laughed while Roc emptied his second bottle of Hennessy to the head.

“Y’all can call me what the fuck y’all want, that shit opened up like a wide-ass door,” Roc remarked, dead-ass serious.

They arrived at the hospital completely drunk, laughing and joking as they entered the emergency doors. They made their way
to the paternity ward after Angel had cursed out two nurses and cracked on a third. When they got to the room, Ayesha was
sitting up in her bed, her sister, Jamillah, next to her eating an apple.

“Where you been?” she asked angrily.

Roc stumbled over to her and tried to kiss her on the lips.

“And you drunk? You must be crazy, nigga! I’m in here cryin’ my eyes out tryin’ to get your baby out me and you runnin’ ’round
galavantin’ with your friends?” Ayesha pushed him off her and looked at him with wide eyes, shaking her head in disgust.

“Naw, boo, check it,” Roc slurred, then tried to touch her face as she smacked his hand away.

“Naw, boo, shit! My whole family was here, but not you! What the fuck is that shit? You don’t even care. No tellin’ where
the fuck you been,” she said, looking like she was ready to either burst into tears or fight.

Roc stood up straight as he could, wobbling a little, but sobering up quick. He turned to Zoom and Angel.

“Ay, yo, y’all wait outside, i-ight.”

They complied and began to exit as Roc saw Jamillah still sitting in her chair, munching on her apple.

“You is y’all, too,” he said giving her the boogly boogly eyes.

“This is my sister’s room. You don’t be tellin’ me to get out!” Jamillah spat, her head rolling like it was about to come
off.

Ayesha looked at Jamillah and Jamillah got the message. She got up, rolled her eyes at Roc, and went out the door.

All three of them stood there and listened to Ayesha curse out Roc. Roc attempted to reply. He was a deadly brother, but he
respected women, especially his wife. Angel had heard them argue like that for years. So this was nothing new. Ten minutes
later, Roc came out of the hospital room sober, as if the visit with Ayesha was a big, strong, black cup of coffee.

“Y’all ready?” he snapped.

“Nigga, don’t come out here and be gangster after coppin’ pleas in there,” Zoom said, standing up as everybody laughed at
Roc.

“I know. I don’t know who this nigga think he be talkin’ to, right, Zoom?” said Angel, smacking high fives with Zoom.

Outside the hospital, walking to the car, a breeze caught Angel and a sensation made her grip the butt of the pistol she carried
at her waist.

“What’s wrong with you?” Roc asked.

Shaking her head, Angel just looked around the crowded parking lot, “Nothin’.”

They walked across the lot to the S600, and as Zoom pressed his ignition key to unlock the doors, an unmarked federal car
skidded up as two other cars threw on lights and lit up the parking lot. It seemed as if federal agents were everywhere.

“Freeze! Get down on the ground! Now!”

The feds had waited too long to make their move. Angel, followed by Roc and Zoom, pulled out their weapons and began to open
fire as they ran between parked cars toward the S600.

Bullets ricocheted, barely missing her as she dove into the backseat of Zoom’s car. She turned around as she saw an agent
firing his weapon at Roc. The agent’s gun was aimed straight for Roc’s back, and Angel could see the bullet in slow motion
hit its target. Roc’s eyes opened wide, and he bellowed in agony as he looked at her, collapsing face-first on the ground.

Zoom slammed the driver’s door as he saw Roc go down. He screeched away from his parking spot, hopped the curb, and drove
down the sidewalk until he got to an opening where no car was parked and skidded into the street.

Accompanied by Newark narcs, the remaining federal agents followed in hot pursuit although they would have been no match for
Zoom’s inner-city driving skills… had he been sober.

Angel learned the wisdom of Dutch’s ways that night: He had always stressed no drugs and no drinking. But it was too late
to take heed. Zoom tried to lock the Benz up and split two oncoming cars but he misjudged and was sideswiped by the second
car. The S600 careened into a parked car and crashed head-on into a fire hydrant.

Angel, who was in the backseat, was instantly knocked unconscious. Suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness, she
could vaguely hear the shouts of muffled voices and far-off gunshots. She later found out that Zoom had emerged from the car,
firing against the law as he tried to escape. He shot and killed two agents before being shot in the back of the head and
in his spine, dead before he hit the pavement.

Roc lay facedown on the concrete in the parking lot, bleeding from the gunshot wound. The federal agents handcuffed him behind
his back and left him lying on the ground for over an hour before calling an ambulance. He passed out several times from pain
and loss of blood, but to the feds’ dismay, he didn’t die.

Angel lay on her mat thinking how fate would deem her fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on how you looked at it. Had she
not been unconscious that night, surely she would have battled to her death, just like Zoom. She would’ve seen to it. No way
would she have chosen prison over death. Fuck an appeal. But the decision was not hers; it was made for her. She wondered
why God had opted to spare her that night. Was it another chance or just torture for the life she had led, the lives she had
taken… the lives she had ruined.