Dutch (10 page)

“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.

T
he 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.

“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.

“Reverend Taylor, could you, for the court and to the best of your ability, tell us what was said in that discussion regarding
the murder of Ojiugo Kazami?” Jacobs asked, struggling with the Nigerian’s name.

Qwan readjusted himself in his chair and began to tell the story that had incessantly haunted him for the last ten years.
It was the story that had chased him to California and had summoned him back to relive it.

•   •   •

Dutch pulled up in the black BMW. Qwan recognized it and knew Angel had saved it for him from the port. Dutch had asked everybody
to meet him in front of Craze’s building on Sixteenth Avenue.

“Is your aunt home?” Dutch asked Craze.

“Naw, come on.”

No one really knew what Dutch was up to, but all Qwan could think was that the last time Dutch had called a meeting, he ended
up with a fourteen-month prison stay. Everyone was there just like before, Zoom, Roc, Angel, Craze, and Dutch. They entered
Craze’s aunt’s apartment and everybody took seats around the living room and dining room, which occupied the same floorspace,
while Dutch remained standing.

“Listen, what I’m about to put y’all up on ain’t like nothin’ we ever did before. So, if you not gonna be ’bout it, leave
now, ’cause ain’t no need for you to know nothing.”

Dutch looked around the room and stopped his gaze on Qwan. It was then that Qwan first felt the urge to leave, but since no
one else made any attempt to, he didn’t want to be the one to look scared, even though he was.

“Before me and Qwan fell, we was together, all of us, like a family, you know what I’m sayin’? We ate together, slept together,
wore each other’s shit, the whole nine. But it ain’t like that now. Everybody doing their own thing, which is nothing wrong
with that, but you doin’ it for somebody else. The way I see it, this nigga is the cat to see. His whole clique clockin’ the
type of ends muhfuckas only see in a lottery and anybody on the opposing team is gonna starve, bottom line. That’s where we
come in. We the opposing team, so it’s us that’s gonna starve.”

“How you figure that? Me and Angel on the nigga team. I’m on Prince, Angel on Dayton, and we got the shit sewn up,” said One-eyed
Roc.

“Naw, Roc, he got shit sewn up. You ain’t got a damn thing. You aint’ got shit and you ain’t shit to that nigga. You just
some young nigga pushin’ his packages, sweatin’ his nickel and dimes. You probably ain’t never even talked to the nigga, have
you?”

“Naw.”

“How ’bout you?” Dutch asked Angel. She shook her head no.

“Regardless, we gettin’ ours and he gettin’ his. Ain’t much to discuss,” Roc stated.

“Roc, who you think gonna take the fall when the shit start to stink? You! The way I see it, we got two choices.Either get
a job and join the choir, ’cause if we gonna play the game ain’t no need in half steppin’, or we bring the family back together
and go all the fuck out,” Dutch said with authority.

“So, what? You sayin’ we cop and go for self?” asked Angel.

“Go for self! How we gonna do that? See what happened to Lil’ Nicki from Seventh Avenue and Smiley from Bergen when they tried
that shit? Kazami murdered them niggas and they been gettin’ money,” Zoom said.

“I ain’t sayin’ we compete with Kazami. I’m sayin’ we kill Kazami,” Dutch said as he looked around the room and made sure
he had everyone’s attention.

“Kill Kazami?” Roc exclaimed, right before he burst into laughter.

“Nigga, you been gone too long! Yo, Dutch, I love you to death. But goddamn, son, what the fuck is you on?” asked Zoom between
laughs. “Even the mob can’t kill this nigga and you expect us to?” he said, slapping fives with Roc.

Dutch hated to be laughed at, but since he had expected derision and disbelief, he maintained his composure. He looked around
knowing that whatever he did, Craze and Angel would be with him. Qwan would roll with the tide, but Roc controlled it. So
Dutch turned his attention on Roc.

“Dig, Money, the shit sound crazy, real crazy. But, let me tell you, while you out grindin’ and sweatin’, duckin’ 5-0 and
shit, what you think that nigga’s doin’?”

“Man, I don’t know,” said Roc, wondering where this all came from.

“I’ll tell you, he spendin’ your ends, fuckin’ wit’ bitches that won’t even speak to you. Pushin’ whips you can’t even steal
and when you get knocked, get stuck, or get killed, what is he gonna do? He’s gonna get another nigga to replace you. Now
tell me that shit ain’t crazy, too,” Dutch said and watched as his words penetrated Roc’s thinking cap.

“Zoom, me and you, we go way back, right?” Dutch asked, now turning his attention to Zoom.

“Yeah, no doubt, you my man,” Zoom answered, shaking his head.

“So, out of everybody in here, you know me like I know you. So, you know I know you ain’t tryin’ to be no petty-ass stick-up
kid vickin’ niggas for coats and gold chains, seein’ a grand here and a grand there. Fuck kinda shit is that?”