Dutch

  “Because, you a goddamn fool and a coward, that’s why.” Delores glared as she blew out a gust of smoke.

  Her words caught him by surprise. She had never cursed him. It didn’t anger him or add to the pain he already felt, but he was shocked.

  “That’s right, you heard me. Yous’a goddamn fool and you damn right I was mad, not at what you did, at what you didn’t do. You let them muhfuckers lock you up like a damn dog?” she said with her voice a little higher. “And then you expect me to write you?” she asked again with that crazy look she’d fix her face with. “Nigga, you must be crazy, the words I had for you. Shit, better I didn’t write,” she said, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray.

  Dutch stood quiet in the middle of the floor, head bowed. She was right; he had let them lock him up. He thought back to the night at the port, how they surrounded him with guns drawn. He gave in without a fight. Animals fight back when they’re cornered, they fight to the death, but he had given up without a fight.

  “You let them take you from me and you didn’t do a damn thing about it. So, you damned right I left all that shit you bought me right where it was to rot, left it. All that bullshit you traded your freedom for, you expected me to keep it?” she screamed at him. He felt nervous, wondering if she would hit him. She was so emotional, yet her insanity was crystal clear to him. His mother’s eighteen-month silence now spoke volumes. Every visiting day, every letter unanswered, even the unannounced change of residence said to him, Nigga, be a man. All that shit he had wasn’t worth the time he had spent locked in a cage.

  “I ain’t goin’ back,” he said, repeating what he’d told himself earlier that day in the prison cell.

  “Nigga, you goddamn right you not, ’cause I’ll kill you myself before I let you. You hear me?” she screamed. “I’ll kill you myself!”

  Her voice was cracking as tears rolled down her face in torrents. She had emptied her heart of the bitterness and it now lay unprotected from her emotions. Dutch felt the pain and hurt released by her words. He reached and tried to embrace her, but she shoved his hands away.

  “Get off of me! Don’t hug me!” she hollered at him and twirled around so he couldn’t hold her. “Nigga, go on out there and take back what them people took from you!” she yelled.

  Dutch had never seen his mother like this. She was always strong-willed, but she now sounded like a gang leader. He didn’t know about his father and how the years without his father had worn on her. Delores had sacrificed her heart to set that man free so long ago, and for Dutch to go out and give his life away to those people was, to her, the ultimate betrayal. For everything their union represented, for all her heart’s pain and for all the years of loneliness and sacrifice, she had Dutch to compensate. But she wouldn’t let him disappoint her again. He turned to walk out the door.

  “Bernard!” his mother called out to him.

  He turned to face her, ready and willing to do anything for her.

  “I just wanted to say the name,” she said, turning from him.

  Dutch walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Craze turned the Prelude onto Dayton Street, and they saw Angel yelling at a cop car that was pulling off. She was screaming curses in Spanish like a madwoman, waving her arms up and down.

  “Usted siempre estan jodiedo con nosotro. Por que no sevan a otra la do a joder. Marditos idiota!” Angel could be heard up and down the block.

  “Same ol’ Angel,” smirked Dutch, happy to see her again.

  “Naw, she worse,” said Craze, shaking his head.

  “Ahhh, Poppi, you’re home,” she said, running to Dutch with open arms. She hugged him close. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it, I missed you so much,” she said while holding him.

  “What’s up, baby girl? How you been?” Dutch asked as she let go.

  “Man, I’m chillin’, but look at you,” she said, admiring the difference a year and a half had made.

  “Damn, you got mad taller and you done got all diesel and shit,” Angel chimed.

  “You too,” Dutch replied, referring to the fistful of dollars she was gripping.

  “This? This ain’t shit, man. Them fuckin’ punk-ass police got shit hot as a firecracker on the Fourth of July round this bitch. But, what’s up with you?” she asked. Angel was smiling from ear to ear. She had missed Dutch like crazy and was happy he was home. Besides, she had a surprise waiting for him.

  “So, what you about to do?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Why?” inquired Dutch.

  “ ’Cause I got a surprise for you,” she said with a devilish grin.

  “I hope it’s some pussy,” cracked Dutch as Angel playfully hit him and blushed.

  “No, Poppi, it ain’t no pussy. It’s better than that,” she retorted.

  “Better than a shot after eighteen months?” asked Dutch, as if to say “no way.”

  “Better! Just come on,” she said, grabbing his arm, leading him to Craze’s car. “And you better not have told him, either,” she shouted to Craze with an evil eye.

  “Girl, I ain’t told no body nothin’,” Craze said, flagging his hand at her to be quiet as he started the car.

  “So, what’s up with this Kazami nigga you workin’ for?” asked Dutch.

  “Nothin’, but the nigga’s definitely strong. He gettin’ it from Newark to Linden. His stamp is everywhere. Bundles don’t move unless it’s Wild Cherry or Tango and Cash. I got that Dark Angel ’cause that Tango and Cash shit was killin’ niggas and shit. So, I changed the stamp. These niggas still runnin’ around lookin’ for that Tango shit. Ain’t they crazy?” she asked, shaking her head, not understanding a dope fiend’s logic.

  Dutch silently agreed as they pulled into a large junkyard off Frelinghuysen. They all got out as Mr. Ramirez came out of the garage, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

  “Que tal, Angel?” he asked.

  “Que pasa? El ese de quien yo te able,” said Angel.

  “Hello, Dutch, I heard a lot about you. Good to meet you,” said the older Dominican man.

  “And the same,” said Dutch, shaking the man’s hand as Craze greeted Mr. Ramirez.

  “I’m ready for it,” Angel said as Mr. Ramirez went back inside the garage with the three of them close behind.

  “Now, we gonna do this right, so close your eyes,” Angel said as she covered Dutch’s eyes and navigated him to the rear of the garage. She stopped him and removed her hands from his eyes. Dutch saw a black BMW 745il with peanut butter leather interior and gold-dipped BBS rims.

  “Surprise!” yelled Angel.

  Dutch just looked at the BMW, then at Angel as she jumped into his arms and kissed him on the cheek. Dutch couldn’t speak. For the first time in his life, he was speechless.

  “Guess where it came from?” she questioned.

  “Where?” Dutch asked, barely getting the word out.

  “From the port that night; it’s one of the cars we stole.”

  “This stolen?”

  “Yeah, nigga, but it’s tagged,” she said, smiling proudly.

  “Tagged?” Dutch had never heard the term before.

  “Yeah, this car got the serial numbers on it from a demolished BMW out in the junkyard. We got this, don’t worry.”

  “How the fuck I’m suppose to register it?” asked a skeptical Dutch.

  “We did that already. I took care of that, don’t worry,” said Mr. Ramirez, patting Dutch on the back.

  “And one more thing,” she said, holding up a driver’s license with Dutch’s picture on it, just not his name.

  Dutch took the license and looked at his picture in awe. He had never expected this kind of homecoming.

  “Yo, how the fuck did you…”

  “ ’Cause, nigga, I love you, man. I missed you,” said Angel with tears in her eyes, so happy he was happy.

  “Thank you, both y’all, man. Nobody’s ever did nothing like this for me, ever,” he said pulling her close and tight.

  ??
?Aww, man, this ain’t nothing but a jazzed-up jack move,” Craze complained as he watched the two get all sentimental.

  “Shut up!” spat Angel.

  “I don’t know who she think she be talkin’ to,” grumbled Craze with aggravation.

  “So, is you gonna be out today or tomorrow?” Craze asked Dutch as Mr. Ramirez held out the key. Dutch took it and walked around to the driver’s side, admiring his new whip. The panther-black paint reflected from the lights in the garage. The car sparkled like it was covered in diamonds. Angel took the passenger seat as Dutch breathed in the new-leather interior smell. He backed out of the garage and Angel waved good-bye to Mr. Ramirez. He drove slowly to where Craze was parked in the Prelude.

  “Yo, Duke, I gotta few things to do. I’ll holla at you later, i-ight?” said Craze.

  “I-ight,” said Dutch.

  “Welcome home,” Craze said, pulling off with a smile and love for his man.

  Dutch started his car and headed back around to Dayton Street with Angel riding shotgun. He pulled over on the side of the street.

  “I got something else for you, too. Stay here,” said Angel, climbing out of the car. Dutch watched her walk across the street as she started hollering.

  “Vita! Yo, Vita! Ven aqui!” Angel hollered up the block.

  The young Dominican girl heard her name being called and turned around to see it was Angel and began waving. Her hair was long, stretching down her back. She had on a skirt and a halter-top, revealing as much as could be revealed outside in the streets.

  “Vita, this is Dutch. Dutch, this is Vita,” she said, making an introduction.

  “Que pasa, Poppi?” Vita asked as she leaned her fat ass against the frame of his BMW.

  “Te gusta?” Angel asked her.

  “Si,” Vita answered, giggling and smiling.

  “She doesn’t speak much English, but she speaks body language like a muhfucka,” Angel told Dutch before turning to Vita.

  “Quiero que lo agas sentirse vien?” said Angel, questioning Vita’s capabilities to please Dutch.

  Vita eyed Dutch seductively as she received Angel’s orders. Dutch was erect just watching Vita standing there with her voluptuous body hanging out of her skirt and halter-top. Vita had beautifully toned legs and the perfect waist to finish her perfect frame. Dutch licked his lips and smiled, jerking his head calmly for her to get in the car with him.

  “Make sure you save me some!” Angel said, walking away.

  Dutch turned around and looked at Angel, wondering if she was talking to him or Vita.

  It was 3:13 A.M. Dutch lay on his back with his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling in the cheap hotel room. Vita was curled up beside him under the covers. He lay deep in thought as cool, soothing air breezed over his bare body. The sweet release of eighteen months had come and gone several times during the course of the night. And like a man with a ravishing hunger who eats until he’s full, he no longer desired food.

  Dutch thought of where he was and where he wanted to be. He contemplated his next move, knowing that stealing cars was a thing of the past, a past he didn’t want to return to. He would always love the thrill of the chase, of stealing cars, of speeding. But the short bid he had served brought on an accelerated maturity, and he realized that the rewards were no longer worth the risks. He wanted bigger rewards, which would mean bigger risks. His mother’s unusual and unexpected talk had convinced him of what he had already known.

  He could never go back to prison.

  He thought about an offer Angel had made to get Barrett to put him on. Dutch couldn’t see it though, nickel and dimin’ for somebody else. Hell no! That wasn’t for Dutch, but the lines had been drawn while he was away.

  Kazami had made his presence felt and feared. Then on the other side, there was Frankie Bonno. Frankie Bonno represented Fat Tony. They were the same family. To work for Kazami would be to choose the opposition, not that he felt loyal to Fat Tony. It was more than that. He knew Kazami wasn’t the kind of ally he needed in this war. It was only a matter of time before Frankie Bonno made good on a hit. Dutch shook his head and got up out of bed and pulled on his pants.

  He stood over Vita, looking down on the imprints her curves made under the covers, and felt himself starting to harden again, but he quickly pushed her out of his mind. He thought about his mother and what she had told him. Go out there and take back what they took from you! She’s right, he thought. He was young, black, and free, with nothing to lose, and there was nothing more dangerous than that combination.

  Just then an idea hit him like a brick in the face, so hard it almost physically staggered him.

  Kill Kazami! Fuckin’ Frankie Bonno don’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Take Kazami and his blocks, Dutch thought as he sat down, thinking of the money that would be his by knocking Kazami off and taking over his turf.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REVEREND TAYLOR

  The State calls Reverend Eqwan Taylor, Your Honor,” Jacobs announced, as proud as a peacock, staring over at Dutch.

  I know you’re scared now, thought Jacobs as he looked over at Dutch, hoping to catch a glimmer of fear or a slight wince of pain at the sound of one of his closest friends’ being called to the stand. But, to Jacobs’s dismay, Dutch maintained the same nonchalant aloofness as he had throughout the trial. You won’t be so goddamn smug after this, I betcha, you black bastard.

  Reverend Eqwan Taylor, aka Qwan, slowly made his way to the stand. It had been years since he had seen Dutch, but he was still the Dutch he remembered. He was richer, but had the same attitude, the same demeanor. Qwan had left New Jersey right after the “Month of Murder,” or so the newspapers had called it. It was actually Dutch’s murdering spree. Truth was, Qwan was never the murderous type. He only rolled with Dutch in the beginning because he was young, bored, and liked to drive cars, fast. So he stole them. Prison was a turmoil that seemed to escalate into freedom for Qwan as Dutch’s murder spree carried Dutch to the top of Newark’s drug trade. It was more than Qwan could stomach, to say the least.

  “Yo, Dutch, I need to talk to you,” Qwan remembered saying to Dutch, as he approached the witness stand. He remembered how Dutch had looked at him; how he never said more than a few words their entire conversation.

  “Dutch, man, I,” he stopped, trying to find the words. “I wake sometimes at night in a sweat and tears and I can’t tell the difference between the two. It’s so many people dyin’, too many. I keep thinkin’ somebody’s gonna kill me or my mother or my sister. Don’t you ever think like that?” Qwan asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, I do, man. I think about it a lot. And, yo, I couldn’t live with myself if something I did caused my family pain, I mean…” Qwan drifted off thinking about the last murder, the last death, the blood all on him. “It ain’t in me, Dutch. It ain’t. I can’t do it no more. If I said it was in me, I’d be frontin’.”

  “Ain’t no future in that,” Dutch said, real short.

  “Naw, it ain’t. So, yo… I’m out. I’m gonna go out to Cali and stay with my aunt, Duke.”

  Dutch just looked at him for a moment, and Qwan knew what Dutch was thinking. Should I let this nigga go or should I… But Dutch broke the silence by reaching into his pocket and handing Qwan a large roll of money. Qwan later counted it out to be over five thousand dollars.

  “One love,” Dutch said before he walked off. Qwan hadn’t seen him since.

  • • •

  Now, look at him, up on the stand, testifying with his hand raised up in the air.

  “I do,” Qwan said as he took a seat on the witness stand.

  He tried to avoid looking at Dutch, but it was like his eyes were magnetized by Dutch’s and he couldn’t help it. Dutch locked in on him for a split second, and, surprisingly, Dutch’s gaze was ambivalent but welcoming. It made Qwan more nervous than he already was.

  Jacobs stood up slowly and made a ceremony of putting on his glasses as he approached the witness stand. br />
  “Sir, please state your name for the court.”

  “Reverend Eqwan Taylor,” Qwan said as he leaned toward the microphone.

  “And can you please tell us where you are currently residing?”

  “In Los Angeles, California.”

  “And what do you do in Los Angeles, if I may ask?” Jacobs asked, as if the title “reverend” weren’t obvious enough.

  “I’m the reverend of the First Street Baptist Church, and I’m also the founder of an organization called Mindstate for Youth Against Drugs,” Qwan proudly stated.

  Jacobs inwardly smiled at the irony, while Dutch outwardly grinned at the same time.

  “How long have you been in California, Reverend Taylor?”

  “About ten years,”

  “Where did you live prior to California?” inquired Jacobs.

  “Right here, in Newark,” Qwan replied.

  “Were you in Newark in April of 1987?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And were you in any way connected to the defendant, Bernard James?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what way?”

  “We were friends,” Qwan stated, hearing himself say those words and questioning for the first time his own presence at the proceedings.

  “Reverend Taylor, is it true that you and Bernard James went to prison together for grand larceny?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacobs turned slightly to the jury, then paced the open floor of the courtroom.

  “Now Reverend Taylor, for the record, you are aware that the testimony you are about to give has been granted total immunity?”

  “I am aware of that,” Qwan replied.

  “Then, Reverend, on or about April of 1987, could you please tell the court what you and the defendant discussed?”

  “We discussed killing Kazami, a local drug dealer,” Qwan said hesitantly.

  “Please speak up, Reverend, so the court can hear you,” said Jacobs as he riffled through a file on his desk while Qwan repeated himself louder for the court.