Dutch (11 page)

“Hell naw! I wanna live like live-ass niggas live, but, yo, killin’ Kazami?” Zoom twisted up his face. “That muhfucka would
murder us if he even thought we was thinkin’ ’bout stickin’ him, let alone killin’ him,” he finished.

“And? Shit, every time you pull out your gun, Zoom, you make another enemy. Ain’t no way you remember every face, every car,
or every cat you lick, nigga. Who’s to say a nigga don’t catch you slippin’ one day? Then what? They gonna kill you, that’s
what. Murder you over a petty-ass coat or hundred-dollar chain, so do it matter who kill you? Naw, nigga, it only matters
what you die for. At least if we do die tryin’ to kill Kazami, it’s better than dyin’ for a nigga coat, Zoom. Or ’cause you
came short on his money, Roc,” Dutch added as the room remained silent for a moment.

“But, if we do get this off, we can live like muhfuckas ’posed to live, like we always dreamed. I can see that shit, yo, taste
that shit, and I can’t see no muhfucka livin’ the life meant for me. I’d be a goddamn coward if I did,” Dutch said, speaking
to his clique but remembering his mother’s words to him.

Everyone studied the floor or took little looks at one another until Angel stood up.

“I don’t know why y’all taking so long. Fuck is you thinkin’? Y’all a bunch of bitches or somethin’? Y’all scared of that
pussy-ass nigga? Fuck, he bleed just like you!”

Dutch watched Angel check the room as everyone exchanged glances, denying that they were scared. Dutch just smiled. He knew
the tide was rolling his way.

“Man, I see what you sayin’, but what can we do?” Roc asked.

“No, the question is, what can’t you do, Roc? That’s how muhfuckas think when they hungry, ya dig?”

“Like you said, man, I’m just a runner. I don’t even know where the nigga rest at,” Roc admitted.

“I do,” Angel announced proudly, willing and able to aid Dutch in any way he needed. “He rest in Roselle. He used to fuck
wit’ this bitch named Sheryl, own a beauty parlor downtown. But, now he fuck wit’ Sheryl cousin and Sheryl’s hot over that
shit and she stay volunteering 411 as it is.”

Dutch paced the floor, stopping in front of the living room window overlooking the streets that would soon be his.

“You say he got a girl?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Angel nodded.

“Then we go at her.”

“What? Kidnap her or somethin’?” asked Angel. “ ’Cause she might be his girl and all that, but a nigga like Kazami cancel
bitches like bad checks and cash in on others. So he ain’t breakin’ his neck for a bitch.”

This was true and everyone would agree on it, but Dutch had other ideas, other plans.

“Naw, not kidnap the bitch. We get her to set him up,” Dutch replied, as everyone digested what he was actually saying.

“How?” Zoom understood but wanted to hear more.

Dutch just smiled as he looked at Craze, then at Roc, and then back at Zoom, “Sugar Ray.”

That fine, smooth-talking, chocolate-brown-velvet, caramel-tasting black man was something else with the women and a sure
way to the girl.

“Yeah, but if Sugar Ray find out what we doin’ he ain’t gonna want no parts in that!” said Roc, knowing Sugar Ray’s bitches
bent backward for him.

“Look here, it ain’t a nigga alive gonna stop me from gettin’ this nigga—not her, not the mob, and damn sure not Sugar Ray.
So, if he don’t do it, I’ll murder him and any other muhfuckas standin’ between me and Kazami,” Dutch said, dead serious,
meaning every word.

Qwan looked into Dutch’s face and there was no doubt he meant it.

Qwan retold the story of that first meeting in great detail, almost word for word, as he sat on the witness stand. It was
easy for him, as he had played that scene out over and over in his mind for a long time, berating himself and regretting that
he didn’t get up and leave when he had the chance. He also questioned why no one else got up and left that day. But they were
seventeen-year-old kids with no foreseeable future until Dutch gave them one. The have-nots would have and if they didn’t,
then they’d die trying. But God had other plans for Qwan, and he knew that as he sat very still in the witness stand thinking
of past demons.

“Reverend Taylor! Reverend Taylor, are you okay?” asked Jacobs. He needed Qwan’s full attention and focus. The reverend did
not realize just what his testimony had done for his case, but Jacobs was acutely aware.

“I’m okay, yes… yes… I’m fine,” Qwan said, coming back to the reality of the courtroom in which he was sitting, where he was
telling his deepest secrets, secrets he had harbored all his adult life.

“I realize this must be difficult for you to relive, Reverend Taylor. Should you like, we could take a short recess?”

“Well… If it isn’t too much to ask, I think I need a moment,” Qwan said weakly, which, unsurprisingly, annoyed Jacobs. His
offer was one of courtesy, not one he expected to be accepted.
What the fuck,
he sighed to himself before turning to the judge.

“Your Honor, I ask for a short recess on behalf of my witness.”

“This court stands for a fifteen-minute recess on behalf of the reverend,” Judge Whitaker said, banging his gavel.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” replied Jacobs, not grateful at all.

Qwan, on the other hand, was relieved. He needed a cigarette, and he badly needed to get out of that room. He had felt Dutch’s
eyes on him throughout his testimony and it felt good to be away from him.

As soon as he began to walk out of the courtroom, he caught Dutch smiling at him. And for the life of him, he knew he’d never
be free.

Nigga, them demons you carrying around wit’ you ain’t goin’ nowhere! They gonna be there for the rest of your life. You think
your testimony gonna change something in this life, nigga, ’cause you confessed something for who, for who, them crackers.
Naw, that’s all you did. Think you doing something for yourself, nigga you ain’t!
Qwan heard just what Dutch’s smile meant.

Outside, Qwan was puffing on his Newport, thinking incessantly, trying to calm down. He remembered how he’d first met Dutch,
how they got locked up together. Man, it was all Dutch’s idea, and he ended up in Jacksonville fighting a bunch of demons
from Newark.

He lit another Newport from his first and thought back to the day they went to see Sugar Ray.

“Man, you little niggas done went crazy,” Sugar Ray said in his slow, smooth, southern drawl.

Qwan, Dutch, and Craze had gone to see Sugar Ray at his favorite hangout, a poolroom in Elizabeth on St. George’s Avenue.

Sugar Ray wasn’t only a ladies’ man, he was also an expert pool hustler who would take young rich white boys hanging out at
the poolroom for hundreds of dollars at a time.

“How the fuck you think of some shit like that? Why would you think of some shit like that?” Ray drawled as he chalked up
his cue stick and eyed the next shot.

“Anybody could get it,” said Dutch.

“Yeah,” Ray answered back, banking the nine ball in the side pocket, then looking up at Dutch. “That shit goes both ways.”
Then he walked around the table to analyze his next shot. “Look here, youngun, you know the man you talkin’ ’bout hittin’
done had two hits put on him? By the mob at that, and guess what? They missed both times. So what the hell makes you think
some lil’ niggas like y’all gon’ get this muhfucka?”

“ ’Cause they hittin’ at him the wrong way. That’s why we need you,” Dutch explained as Sugar Ray sat back, lit a Newport,
and listened. “That’s why we need you, Sugar Ray. His broad is the weak link.”

“They always are,” chuckled Ray.

“So I figure if anybody could bag this chick, it’d be you. Shit, the mob might miss, but everybody knows Sugar Ray don’t!”
Dutch said, smiling and stroking Ray’s ego. Ray knew he was being stroked too, but his vanity was too stimulated not to bite.

“Ray don’t never miss no ho he go after, ’cause he don’t go after every ho,” Ray stated, speaking about himself in the third
person.

Dutch took out two thousand dollars and handed it to Ray, whose eyes lit up like the tip of his cigarette every time he inhaled.
He smoked out of the side of his mouth, holding the cigarette with his lips as he thumbed through the wad of money.

“That’s just a little something to think about, to show you we dead-ass. And even if you swing on the girl and miss, my word,
the BM’s yours,” Dutch promised.

“The BMW?” Ray’s interest was definitely perking up. Ray sat back, rubbing his chin, and inspected the young man in front
of him.
Who is this nigga?
he thought to himself. He knew Craze and liked the little dude, and Craze had told him a lot about Dutch while he was locked
up. He knew the cat had heart trying the port.
But this nigga is crazy, trying to knock that nigga, Kazami, and I know he not really gonna bet his BMW, is he?

Kazami was the biggest heroin dealer in North Jersey. So far, he was untouchable. Ask the mob.
What the hell, I’ll just tell the lil’ nigga I missed and cop the Beemer. If he try to get funny, I’ll whoop his lil’ ass.

“Okay,” Ray finally stated. “Show Ray this bitch, but I’ma tell you lil’ niggas something ’bout baggin’ broads, especially
the kind that fuck wit’ niggas like Kazami. See, that nigga can give a bitch everything she want, except that understanding,
which niggas like him ain’t got time to provide. That’s where Sugar Ray come in at, lil’ man. I’m the shelter in a bitch storm.
But see, Sugar Ray need a storm,” said Sugar Ray, continuing to talk about himself in the third person.

“A storm?” asked Dutch.

Yeah, muhfucka, you in over your head. Maybe, I won’t even have to crack on this bitch. I’ll just talk this nigga out his
head.

“Yeah, a storm. Some emotional shit that Kazami can’t buy his way out of. A storm.”

“Like what?” Craze asked, not understanding.

“I don’t know, youngun, shit,” said Ray, taking a long drag on yet another Newport. “Go kill the bitch daddy or somethin’.”
Ray chuckled, blowing out smoke, knowing these young asses couldn’t pee straight, let alone be crazy enough to do something
like what he had just suggested. He started laughing a little harder.

Dutch just smiled at him as if they were sharing the joy.

“We’ll call you,” he said before turning and walking away. Craze shook Ray’s hand, then he and Qwan rolled out behind Dutch.

“Yeah, lil’ man, you do that,” he said, stuffing the two grand Dutch had handed him into his pocket.

Back on the stand, Qwan felt a little more relaxed from his cigarette break until Jacobs began questioning him about the story
of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

“So, you say that Sugar Ray suggested it, even though he wasn’t serious about you doing it?”

“Yes, Dutch knew Ray wasn’t taking him serious, so he did it to show Ray and us that he was prepared to do anything to get
Kazami.”

“Can you tell us about the murder of Mr. Smith?”

Dutch listened as Qwan began to tell his story, but Dutch was there and knew what Qwan was about to say. He remembered how
he felt killing Mr. Smith. That death served as a message not only to Kazami, but to Ray and his clique as well. But the stronger
message he sent was that he proved to everyone that he could do anything to get what he wanted…

Anything.

The Smith family lived in Paterson, New Jersey, a small town compared to Newark, but with the same kind of people. The poor
and working class rubbed elbows in the daily struggle for survival. But compared to Newark, Paterson was a suburb.

Simone came from a respectable home. Her mother was a schoolteacher and her father was a mechanic who owned his own garage.
Angel had found out the address, through one of Sheryl’s customers at the hair salon.

Dutch, Craze, and Qwan drove up to the house and parked down the block. The street was dark and deserted, in a neighborhood
where nightfall represented dinnertime and quality family time before bedtime. No one expected that the serenity of the street
would be shattered the way it was on that night. Afterward it would never be the same.

Craze carried a nine-millimeter handgun, the only gun among them. They had driven down to Paterson in silence, Craze in anticipation,
Dutch in deep thought, and Qwan in a state of suspended disbelief.
I’m not doing this. As soon as the car stops, I’m jumping out. Fuck! I can’t kill this girl’s father, I can’t.

Qwan couldn’t stomach the thought. The man was innocent, had never done anything to them. Murdering Kazami was different.
Qwan wasn’t for that either, but he was from the streets. If his number came up, nobody cried foul. But, Dutch wasn’t playing
fair.
I wonder what he will do if I just tell him I don’t want to go. What if he thinks I’ll go to the police? I better not say
nothing.

Qwan didn’t either; he just rode into the night praying for a miracle that would never come. He was too scared to speak—he
didn’t know how. When they were separated and they went to their separate jails, Qwan lost time with Dutch and no longer knew
him or trusted him.

Dutch got out of the car first. He was carrying a plate of chicken wrapped in aluminum foil. It was the decoy Dutch said would
get them in the door. Craze and Qwan stood out of sight on both sides of the front door while Dutch rang the doorbell.

No one came.

Qwan hoped and prayed no one would answer.
Be asleep, God let them be asleep or not here.
But the sound of footsteps on the stairs bottomed out his heart of all hope.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Smith asked, pushing the door curtain aside to peer out of the glass design.

“Hi, Mrs. Smith? I’m the friend Simone told you about. She said you’d be expecting me.” Dutch spoke like a choirboy.

“No,” Mrs. Smith’s face contorted in confusion, “I’m not expecting anybody.”

“I swear that Simone said she’d call you and tell you we’d be stopping by. My grandmother’s birthday is today and we were
visiting. She asked if I’d drop you some chicken by,” he said, holding up the plate. “She musta forgot to call you.”

“Well, that girl is always surprising me with things, God bless her heart. You say it’s fried chicken, huh?” she asked as
she unlocked the door. She opened the door and Dutch held out the tray and smiled.