Dutch

  He had slipped, but it was the sweetest mistake he had ever made. Looking at the mural one more time, he shook his head. This all your fault, you know that, right? he asked, hoping one day, maybe, that Nina would change her mind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CROOKED

  Detective David O’Neal,” said the one-eyed white man sitting on the stand, identifying himself before the court.

  The man on the stand looked normal. Except for the black patch over his right eye. Jacobs had made sure, however, that O’Neal made a grand entrance in his wheelchair. He had no legs.

  Michael Glass pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb as O’Neal rolled by. The jury uncomfortably watched as he climbed onto the witness stand with exacerbated labor.

  Dutch found it ironic that O’Neal had lost his legs. The old man had never stood on his own anyway. He was like a leech, and Dutch regretted that the blast hadn’t killed him. Now here he was to testify.

  “And how long have you been on the police force, Detective?”

  “Twenty-three years, but I’m retired now,” O’Neal answered.

  “Can I ask why? Was it age?”

  “I’ll tell you why! ’Cause of that sonofabitch over there!” O’Neal roared as the judge banged his gavel.

  “Counselor, please control your witness.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, I really am. But how would you feel if one day you wake up, kiss your wife, and go to work and before you’ve finished your morning coffee, your whole body is being ripped apart and you wake up like this?” O’Neal asked, gesturing to his nonexistent legs.

  “I understand, sir, and I empathize with you, but this is a court of law,” advised the judge, feeling pity and sadness for the fallen police detective.

  “I understand, Your Honor.”

  Jacobs allowed a moment to pass so O’Neal could adjust himself, then began again.

  “Now, Mr. O’Neal, you claim Bernard James is the cause of your early retirement?”

  “Yes, he ordered that the Twenty-ninth Precinct be blown up. He had a psycho walk into the station, strapped with C-4. He blew up himself and my fellow officers,” claimed O’Neal as he fought back his tears, remembering the horrific afternoon.

  “Now, Mr. O’Neal, how can you be sure that it was Bernard James who was responsible for the explosion on November 11, 1998?” asked Jacobs.

  “The suicide bomber was named William Brent. He also went by the name Bill Blass. He was a small-time hustler. I had known him for quite some time. Apparently mailed his wife a letter prior to entering the station that morning,” O’Neal explained.

  Jacobs walked over to his table and returned with an envelope and a sheet of paper.

  “Is this the letter to Mrs. Brent postmarked November 11, 1998?”

  “Yes, that is the letter,” said O’Neal as he inspected it.

  “And would you read the letter to the court, please.”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Glass bellowed as he stood from his desk. “Defense has never received a copy of this letter during discovery, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor, the letter was obtained by my office from Lieutenant Service of the Twenty-ninth Precinct two weeks ago. It was too late to admit the letter into discovery,” Jacobs explained.

  “Overruled. You may proceed, but this letter better be taking us somewhere relevant, Mr. Jacobs,” Judge Whitaker said, allowing the testimony to proceed.

  O’Neal looked at the letter and then looked at the jury. He fixed himself to be more comfortable then began to read.

  “Dear Monique, by the time you get this, I’ll be dead, but I wanted you to know that it’s because of Dutch. He said if I don’t do what he say, he gonna kill you, the kids, and my whole family. So, this is my sacrifice. I gladly make it, too. All I ask is that if you get this letter, you deliver it to the proper authorities, the DA or somebody like that. Don’t give it to no regular cop, though. I love you, pray for my soul. Love Always, Billy,” O’Neal concluded, then looked up. Jacobs took the letter from him, thanking him for reading it to the court.

  “Your Honor, the state moves to introduce this letter as State Exhibit J-43,” said Jacobs, with the case all figured out.

  Michael Glass stood up and exclaimed, “Objection, Your Honor, the letter did not once mention my client’s name, and secondly, that letter doesn’t give a clear portrait of him being instructed by anybody to blow up a police precinct.”

  “It said Dutch! Everybody knows who Dutch is!” O’Neal blurted out.

  The judge banged his gavel and looked over at the witness.

  “Mr. O’Neal, I’m not going to warn you again. Strike the last comment.”

  “Your Honor, I believe it has been established beyond a reasonable doubt that Bernard James is in fact known by the moniker Dutch.”

  “No, we may have established Bernard James as a Dutch, but we cannot say beyond a reasonable doubt that Bernard James is the only Dutch in the city. How many people could there be with the same nickname?” asked Glass, looking confused over the subject matter.

  “May I see the letter, please?” asked the judge.

  He took the letter and decided he wanted to eat the slice of banana cream pie his wife had sent with his bagged lunch.

  “Court will take a ten-minute recess while I review this letter in my chambers.”

  He banged his gavel as Dutch thought of Bill. His name used to ring bells everywhere. He had longevity, which gave him a respected notch on the urban ladder. He had seen the rise and fall of many a young hustler, so Dutch respected Bill Blass for his expertise and street-savvy wisdom, even though he was not a major player.

  Angel had walked into Dutch’s used-car lot on Elizabeth Avenue to find Dutch and Craze playfully arguing while they sat in an ’84 Volvo.

  “Man, you ain’t never stole no Accord wit’ out poppin’ the neck, lyin’ muhfucker.” Dutch laughed.

  “Nigga, fuck you,” Craze retorted.

  “Y’all still two little kids,” Angel said, leaning into the car.

  “Yo, tell this dumb-ass nigga, you gotta pop the neck on Accords,” Dutch instructed Angel.

  “Fuck that, listen, I got somebody in the car wantin’ to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Bill Blass,” Angel responded.

  Dutch looked at his watch. “What he want?”

  “A job.”

  Dutch looked at Craze, then slowly got out the car. He approached Angel’s droptop Lexus. Bill was sitting in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette. Dutch shook his hand, leaning on the door.

  “What up, Bill?”

  “You, baby. Of course, I ain’t gotta tell you that,” he said as Dutch chuckled. “Yo, I’m hurtin’. It’s hard down my end in J.C. Them young bucks forgettin’ who put the G in this here game, Duke.”

  “And?” asked Dutch.

  “And,” Bill responded as if to say, you know what I want.

  Dutch knew Bill had a good reputation for putting in work, but Blass was also known for taking long addiction sabbaticals. If he hadn’t had a crack monkey riding around on his back, he would have been rich a long time ago. He could get the loot, though. Problem was what he did after he got it. Dutch knew both sides of Bill’s rep and he knew Blass knew his.

  “Who he fuck wit’?” he asked Angel.

  “Blitz from Bergen,” she answered.

  They both knew Blitz was on the run from the feds.

  “You in luck, B, my man Blitz on vacation,” said Dutch, and just like that, Bill Blass found himself a lieutenant in Jersey City.

  For seven straight months Bill Blass operated like the vet Dutch respected him for being. Bill handled his business like a champ. He had Dutch’s money on time. He had the spots in check, and he was available at Dutch’s beck and call.

  But then word got around that he had started smoking crack again. Dutch told Roc to keep a close eye on him, even though Roc stressed to him to fire Blass.

  “Man, that n
igga smokin’, man. I’m tellin’ you the other crackheads be knowing some shit. Somebody said he was in the bodega buying boxes of matches,” said Roc.

  “Roc, stop trickin’ crackheads. I’ma call Ayesha,” Dutch said jokingly, but at the same time he knew what Roc said needed to be investigated.

  It was a Tuesday at three-fifteen in the morning when Roberto called Dutch.

  “Uh, Dutch, I don’t know how to tell you this. Fat Tony died in a car accident last night.”

  “Wha’ you say?” Dutch asked Roberto as he gave him the horrible news.

  “We don’t know nothing yet, just that he’s gone,” said Roberto as Dutch solemnly stood at the window, watching the moving traffic.

  Dutch was a part of Fat Tony’s funeral service. He was, and had always been, Tony’s guy. Everyone knew Dutch was the black kid that Tony had taken under his wing. It was also at Fat Tony’s service that Dutch started to understand.

  “Now that Tony’s dead, I guess you’ll be retiring, huh?” Frankie Bonno asked with a smirk on his face.

  Dutch’s heart ached for the old guy, but he got the gist of Frankie’s question. Dutch knew in his heart of hearts that Fat Tony’s death was no accident.

  “Why would I, when I inherit what me and Fat Tony built?”

  These words from Dutch boiled Frankie’s blood. Who the fuck does this nigger think he is? I’ma show him. And it was then and there in DiQuallo’s Funeral Home that a war began. Dutch just didn’t know it had been declared. But he would soon enough.

  After the services, Dutch flew to France for business, consumed by the loss of a man he dearly loved and respected—Fat Tony, his mentor. He had learned the politics, as well as the streets, from the man. Fat Tony and the entire Cerone family backed politicians like horses based on their ability to run… and win. Thanks to Fat Tony’s influence and the strong arm of his army, the Zoo Crew, who were fast becoming legends themselves, Newark had a new mayor and his name was Dutch. Nothing would ever change that. Frankie Bonno could try, but Dutch would die before he let him take what he had built. The forces that be, however, would change his destiny.

  Slowly.

  In less than ninety days after Frankie Bonno made a phone call, Dutch’s entire world began to crumble, just like that. His neighborhood nightspots were raided, one after the other, night after night. No one wanted to go to a spot if the police were coming in after them, and the police were coming. The cost to Dutch was considerable.

  His street team, the Zoo Crew, was getting knocked so often that there was no one left to hustle on street corners. If they opened a spot, it was raided and shut down as fast as it was opened.

  Then, just when Dutch thought things could get no worse and his luck was about to change, he got a phone call from Roc.

  “Yo, Duke, I don’t know how to tell you this, man,” he said, nervously. “That nigga Blass missing and so is the coke and the heroin out both houses. The shit is gone and he done drilled the entire safe up out the floor, man. It’s… it’s gone, Dutch.”

  Roc did not know how Dutch would handle the news, and that was why he told him over the phone. Fuck tellin’ that crazy muhfucka in person, Roc thought.

  Dutch, however, couldn’t think. His mind raced. Close to $875,000 worth of money and drugs was gone.

  Gone.

  He started sweating as he thought of how to get his money back. He needed it right now. Half his army was in jail, and the cops confiscated more of his money every time they raided one of his nightspots. So far, they had taken close to $470,00 in cash and $150,000 worth of drugs.

  Dutch was getting more money than the Italians thought he should have been allowed to get. That’s what it boiled down to. Had he been Italian, Fat Tony’s wishes would have been respected in death. But Dutch wasn’t Italian. He was a nigger. Frankie Bonno had permission and the police were on his payroll. Dutch was screwed.

  All the money he had made before Fat Tony died was enough to pay his army and the mob. Everything was fine until Fat Tony died and Frankie Bonno decided it was time to collect what should have been his all along. The other families agreed. It was the Italian way, and Dutch was up shit creek with no paddle.

  Fat Tony, Bill Blass, his missing money, his missing coke, his missing heroin, Frankie Bonno, his army locked down, as if on D-block with Jada, and no Nina. The ball was dropping, fast, yet the only thought spinning in his mind… Where is Bill Blass?

  After Dutch put out a bounty on his head, it only took two weeks to find him. Bill Blass was hiding out in Ohio. One of Angel’s Charlies got a call from a cat named Jesus from Brooklyn. Jesus was in Cleveland putting in work and spotted Blass in a bar, buying out the motherfucker.

  Dutch sent two Charlies with a bag of “thank-you” money for Jesus, and the Charlies brought Bill Blass back to Newark tied up in the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car.

  When Dutch finally saw Bill, the Charlies had him tied, naked, to a chair in a small room at the Irvington Motor Lodge. Bill begged for his life through duct tape taped over his mouth. Dutch sat on the bed and looked at him eye level while ripping the tape from his mouth.

  “My man Bill Blass. I’m sayin’ you gonna just leave and not even say good-bye, after all I did for you?”

  The two Charlies who had retrieved Bill from Ohio stood on both sides of him with guns drawn to his head, even though he was tied up.

  “Listen, Dutch, whatever you thinkin’, man, it ain’t like that. I swear. I mean, you seen how shit was gettin’ in J.C. It was on fire, so I just went to lay low for a minute, my word. I was bringing the money and your shit back. I only took it in case of a raid, so it wouldn’t get lost,” said Bill as he felt Dutch remove the diamond bezel Presidential Rolex from his wrist, which was tied behind him.

  “All the way to Ohio, Duke? I mean, damn, Roc said the safe all out the floor and you protecting me from the law. That shit make you look fucked up, Blass, especially since you holdin’ my fuckin’ paper.”

  Dutch had retrieved a little over six hundred thousand dollars when Blass was captured, and he also took possession of a brand-new Range Rover Blass had bought. The Rolex watch was his now, too.

  “Naw, Dutch, I’m your man, an—”

  “That shit you sayin’ ain’t important right now. What’s important is that you here now and I got some of my fuckin’ paper back. We’ll talk about my coke and dope later. What’s important is that I need you to do something for me and only you can handle this shit for me, Blass.”

  Blass was relieved to hear Dutch’s tone. He just knew Dutch was buying into the story. All he wanted was to be untied so he could put his clothes back on.

  “Do you think I can get dressed, first?” asked Blass.

  “Naw, nigga, hold up.”

  “Dutch, whatever you need me for, man, you don’t have to worry. I got you. I’m your man,” Blass said with assurance. Dutch cocked his head to the side.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said as he nodded to one of the Charlies. The girl went into the bathroom and came back out with a suitcase. She placed it on the bed next to Dutch and popped the lid to reveal a strange vest with blocks of what looked like clay attached. Blass refocused, saw the wires, and realized the blocks weren’t clay. They were C-4 explosives.

  “Wha… what’s that for?” he whispered meekly, not fully understanding but knowing deep down that what he had done would cost him his life.

  “What’s that for? Nigga, that’s the option vest! Option one, I kill your wife, your kids, your mother, your father, your grandfather, your cousin in West Bubblefuck workin’ in that fuckin’ supermarket to save money, whoever, wherever. If I find a nigga with your last name, I’m murderin’ they asses, from babies to their late eighties, you hear me, nigga? Your whole fuckin, family. You think I’m playin’? You ever known me to play, nigga?”

  Blass slowly shook his head.

  “And option two is you strap on that vest right there and walk into the police station offa Bergen during the morning shift and detonate yours
elf.”

  Dutch sat back and waited for Bill’s response. All Bill could think of was his family. The life he had led had put him in this position and he cursed himself for allowing anyone to have power over him. Who the hell does he think he is threatening me like this? Blass thought to himself. But Dutch had spoken and Bill knew he was a dead man. He didn’t even need an afterthought.

  Yet, as a hustler, Blass knew the hearts of men. He could pick a young wolf out of the pack and would know if the kid would last a year in the game. He had watched Dutch come up since the nigga had been stealing cars and always saw the potential in young Dutch. He also knew Dutch was far from playing games. Chances were that the motherfuckers were parked outside his house this very moment waiting for a call from Dutch.

  “Why me?”

  “Nigga, why you? Why not you, muhfucka? Why you? Like you didn’t drill my safe out the floor and take my fucking money and my fucking coke. Nigga, is you fuckin’ crazy? Nigga got a brand-new Range Rover and Rolex and he gonna ask me, why him?” Dutch asked, looking at one of the Charlies before looking back at Blass.

  “Muhfucker, that wasn’t you in Ohio buying out the bar with my fuckin’ money? Nigga, shut the fuck up before option three is no option and I just start cutting off your kids’ heads while you watch, pussy.”

  The tears streaked down Bill’s cheeks as he agreed to commit suicide in the name of Dutch and in order to save his family.

  Dutch returned to the present, to O’Neal on the witness stand. The former detective was describing the events of the day when Bill Blass walked into the police precinct and detonated himself.

  Dutch wondered what Blass was thinking before he detonated himself. Probably wished he had left my money and my coke the fuck alone, thought Dutch as O’Neal continued to dramatize the incident.

  O’Neal then pulled out a list of the fallen heroes and called their names, so the jury would know who had died.

  This nigga got some nerve, thought Dutch. Tell ’em about yourself and how you was on the payroll for the mob all your life. Tell ’em how you had no honor or loyalty to a muhfucka that was feeding you. Tell ’em that’s why you ain’t got no legs.