by Teri Woods
But Dutch didn’t answer.
“Come on, son, it’s a baby,” Craze said as Dutch just looked at the baby, sighing
“All right, all right, just help me set this muhfucker on fire so we can get out of here.”
They pulled out ten minutes later in the van, leaving the house ablaze. Flames leaped into the twilight sky. They left the baby on a neighbor’s porch screaming for his parents as his home burned.
Craze watched the moon from the New Jersey parkway on their way back to Newark. It was the first time the moon seemed to follow him, as if it, too, had witnessed the night’s atrocities. He glanced down at the garbage bag between his feet. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life, but it seemed he had sold his soul to get it.
He looked over at Dutch, who was driving quietly, focused only on the road. Craze wondered what was going through his mind. He loved Dutch like a brother and he wondered about him, but only sometimes.
Craze reached to turn on the radio. A cassette was playing Kool G Rap’s “Road to the Riches.” Craze turned the volume up as he and Dutch nodded to what would be their theme song.
Twenty minutes later, Dutch pulled up to Roberto’s Pizzeria. Dutch went inside while Craze stayed in the car. A half hour passed before Dutch and Roberto walked out and got into Roberto’s dark blue Riviera. Craze followed them as he glanced at the bag on the passenger-side floor. They drove into the Italian section of Newark and headed toward Fat Tony’s restaurant, Sophia’s. It was a large restaurant, complete with its own parking lot and outdoor patio area.
He followed Roberto around back to the service entrance and stopped. Dutch got out and came over to the passenger side of the car.
“Come on, leave your gun,” he said as he grabbed the bag off the floor. Craze tossed his gun under the seat, then closed his car door. He followed Dutch and Roberto in through the service entrance.
Inside, the kitchen was busy with the rapid movements of waiters and chefs and the zesty aroma of Italian food. Roberto spoke in Italian to an elderly woman and stole a piece of sausage she was cutting. She hit his hand with the flat part of the knife and cursed him in Italian.
Roberto led them up a flight of stairs that led to a long, darkened hallway and ended at a set of double doors. He knocked and in moments the door was opened by a middle-aged Sicilian man with a long scar down the left side of his face.
Roberto spoke to him in Italian and the man let them in. They followed the man into a plush mahogany and leather interior office where two more Italians sat on the couch. Fat Tony sat behind his desk, puffing a cigar.
Dutch looked at the two guys on the couch, who sneered at him with hard and steady eyes. One of the men, whom he didn’t know at the time, was a man he’d come to know well…
Frank Sorbonno.
Dutch and Craze kept a respectful distance from Tony’s desk while Roberto went up to Tony and shook his hand.
“Dutch, is that you, kid?” asked Tony.
“Yeah, Mr. Cerone, it’s me, and this is my man, Chris,” Dutch answered.
“Well, come the fuck over here, let me look at cha. It’s been a long time, huh?” Tony jovially remarked.
Dutch walked up to Tony, carrying the garbage bag, and shook his hand.
“You lookin’ good, I see. Prison brought the man outta ya, huh? That’s good, ’cause sometimes it’ll bring out the bitch, if there’s any there. But you, look at the shoulders, huh?” joked Tony, his heavy chuckle shaking his gut. “How you been?”
“Can’t complain,” responded Dutch.
Tony nodded as he surveyed Dutch, then glanced down at the bag he was holding. “What’s that?”
Dutch looked at Tony silently until Tony got the message.
“Frank, this here’s Dutch, an old friend of mine. Gimme a sec, will ya?” asked Fat Tony of his two guests on the couch.
Frank reluctantly nodded and slowly got up. He and the other man walked by Craze, eyeing him condescendingly, then exited. The doorman looked at Tony, who nodded in his direction, and he too walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“So what’s up wit’ the stone face, kid? Where’s that smile my grandma would die for?”
“You had a problem and I solved it, now I got a problem,” Dutch explained.
Tony sat back and puffed his cigar before tapping his ashes. “I’m an old man, Dutch, and I don’t do so good wit’ riddles, so ahhh, what’s the problem?”
Dutch looked back at Craze, then at Tony. He set the garbage bag on the edge of the desk and began to peel down the bag until Kazami’s decapitated head came into full view. The sight of Kazami’s head made Tony jump out of his seat and drop his cigar.
“Jesus! Are you fuckin’ crazy? You bring a fuckin’ head in my fuckin’ restaurant? Roberto, what the fuck is wrong with this kid?” asked Tony as he sat back down and picked up his cigar. “Put that shit away,” he added as he relit the cigar. “I take it this is part of your problem, huh?”
Dutch nodded, as he covered the head back up, but left the bag on the table.
“So who is it anyway?”
“Kazami.”
Tony’s jaw dropped as one word came out. “Who?”
“Your problem—I said I solved it,” Dutch responded.
Tony thought how Frank had tried to kill the Nigerian twice, missing both times, and Tony wondered to himself how the hell the young kid in front of him had managed to pull it off.
“So, ahh, I’m sure you didn’t just find it rollin’ down the street?” Tony signified, trying to lure Dutch into a play by play.
“Naw, let’s just say it fell in my lap.” Dutch smiled.
“Fell in his lap,” Tony repeated, laughing hard. “You hear this fuckin’ guy, Roberto? Where’d you get this kid, Roberto?”
“Sweeping floors,” Roberto said as he shrugged his shoulders.
Craze finally relaxed at the sound of the men’s laughter. He had never been in the company of Fat Tony or men of his ilk, so he didn’t know what to expect. But he knew laughter was a good sign, although he still didn’t fully understand what Dutch was here for.
“So, Dutch, you bring me a fuckin’ head in a bag, set it on my desk, and tell me you got a problem. Now, I suppose this is the part where you ask me to solve it?” Tony concluded.
Dutch didn’t answer. He again dug in the bag and began to take out stack after stack of money and began placing it in neat rows in front of Tony’s greedy eyes. He continued to produce stacks until he felt Tony’s greed was appeased for what he was about to present.
“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 Fra
nk 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.
CHAPTER NINE
ANGEL’S SONG
Finished 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.
