Dutch Page 12

  Accompanied by Newark narcs, the remaining federal agents followed in hot pursuit although they would have been no match for Zoom’s inner-city driving skills… had he been sober.

  Angel learned the wisdom of Dutch’s ways that night: He had always stressed no drugs and no drinking. But it was too late to take heed. Zoom tried to lock the Benz up and split two oncoming cars but he misjudged and was sideswiped by the second car. The S600 careened into a parked car and crashed head-on into a fire hydrant.

  Angel, who was in the backseat, was instantly knocked unconscious. Suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness, she could vaguely hear the shouts of muffled voices and far-off gunshots. She later found out that Zoom had emerged from the car, firing against the law as he tried to escape. He shot and killed two agents before being shot in the back of the head and in his spine, dead before he hit the pavement.

  Roc lay facedown on the concrete in the parking lot, bleeding from the gunshot wound. The federal agents handcuffed him behind his back and left him lying on the ground for over an hour before calling an ambulance. He passed out several times from pain and loss of blood, but to the feds’ dismay, he didn’t die.

  Angel lay on her mat thinking how fate would deem her fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on how you looked at it. Had she not been unconscious that night, surely she would have battled to her death, just like Zoom. She would’ve seen to it. No way would she have chosen prison over death. Fuck an appeal. But the decision was not hers; it was made for her. She wondered why God had opted to spare her that night. Was it another chance or just torture for the life she had led, the lives she had taken… the lives she had ruined.

  She looked back at the newspaper’s picture again. She had only been worried about Dutch twice in her life—the night they killed Kazami and now.

  “I don’t care what you say, I’m going.”

  “Come on, ma. You know the plan. You, Roc, and Qwan will hit the safehouse in Newark, while Zoom and the Zoo Crew hit the one in Elizabeth at the same time, no matter what, you hear me?”

  “What if something happens to you? Then what?”

  “Then y’all some rich niggas,” said Dutch, as if he was predicting the future.

  The safehouses were easy targets, because none of Kazami’s people expected or were ready to be hit. They were running their operation based on reputation, since everyone feared Kazami and his wild African organization. Everyone, that is, except Dutch.

  That night they came back with over twenty kilos of heroin… and became millionaires in less than a few hours. Angel sat and waited for Dutch and Craze to return. Nervously, she paced and thought the worst until they walked through the door, Dutch wearing the massive medallion that had once belonged to Kazami, not to mention his bag, which she later learned the contents of.

  The celebration that ensued lasted for three days and four nights before it was time to move into the final phase of consolidating Kazami’s organization. That phase became known as the Month of Murder. Within twenty-seven days, sixty-three people were killed. The majority of those individuals were remnants of Kazami’s Nigerian force, and the rest were other hungry young teams of wolves that Dutch knew would try to come out in the melee to take part in the free fall of the streets. So before they even thought about it, Dutch shut them down.

  It was like a military coup in some third world country, except that the country was the streets and Dutch was the army. Dutch had niggas gunned down wherever they stood, and then had his clean-up teams of youngsters invade wakes, funerals, and hospitals to finish off whoever was left.

  The heroin was distributed by Dutch, to outfitted operations with enough guns for guerilla warfare and enough jewels to draw the envy of ancient Mayan kings.

  Despite Fat Tony’s connections in the police and political arena, the cops were heated and haters. Too much paper for one black man to be getting, so there was heat. But Dutch had that covered, too. He opened up after-hours spots from Linden to Jersey City.

  He would convert abandoned three-family homes in quiet neighborhoods into hot gambling and liquor dens. He sectioned off the floors. The basement was for card games or dice games. The first floor was the bar and kitchen. The second floor was reserved room by room for VIPs of the club who were entertained by dancers Dutch employed, who wore half of nothing.

  The attic was the lookout, where vigil was kept for raids and stickups. It was like being the Maytag man in the commercials. With Fat Tony’s protection from law enforcement and the fear Dutch had instilled in the grain of the streets, raids and hits were highly unlikely.

  And as Dutch planned, the spots were his way to keep his ear to the streets. Everybody who was anybody came through. Rappers, sports figures, and the nation’s biggest hustlers all came like it was Vegas, and the smallest scramblers frequented the spots too, trying to catch the crumbs of the fortunate and bask in the light of the players.

  Angel’s job was easy. She never had to touch heroin again. Her job was to play and trick on the customers. She would gather information off the streets through the pillow in the freaks. Angel was a bad bitch. She had broads working for her, running for her, fucking niggas for her, sticking niggas up for her—the whole nine. She called her clique Angel’s Charlies. And Diamond was her angel, her first lover at the age of fifteen. Diamond was older and more mature about her desire for pussy, calling it just that.

  “I can’t help thinking about sucking your pussy, Angel. Can I?” she asked as she bent down and kissed Angel’s lips.

  Angel didn’t need to answer. The moment that she had been waiting for had finally come. While she was too shy to approach the subject, Diamond did what Angel was afraid to do: make a move. And Angel never looked back.

  All the girls whom Angel met and fucked through Diamond were young, beautiful, and deadly, moving with drugs, pussy, and paper, moving in silence. All down with getting money and playing positions. There was no way to know who were Charlies and who weren’t, and Dutch loved them all, sometimes all together.

  Angel stood up and stretched her arms over her head, then checked her watch. It was almost chow time.

  She leaned over the table to grab another cigarette and looked at the picture of her and Dutch. It was the only photo she had in her cell of just the two of them. It was her twenty-first birthday, a night she’d never forget.

  Dutch had rented a club in Manhattan called Kilimanjaro’s for a private birthday party. Private in the sense of exclusive, because it was far from intimate. Ghetto superstars from Brooklyn’s notorious Kendu to Miguel Navarro and Peter Shue were in the house, along with Mike Tyson and rappers Heavy D, Craig Mack, and some kid from the Same Gang who got hold of the mic and wouldn’t let that shit go.

  Faith sang like a hummingbird, a beautiful happy birthday melody, for Dutch, ’cause she didn’t know Angel, and an unknown group from Staten Island that we’d later know as the Wu Tang, was in the motherfucker tearing everything up. It was a party of all parties. Even the mayor sent twenty-one long-stemmed white roses, representing her age.

  Dutch, Craze, two Charlies, and Angel were seated in a large corner booth while player after player and gangstress after gangstress lined up with good wishes and cards filled with currency or gifts in wrapped boxes. For the first time in her life she felt special, really special. She looked around the crowded room.

  Craze was onstage performing, drunk, holding a bottle of Dom in his hand and some girl’s ass in the other. Zoom and his Zoo Crew were out on the floor trying to get shorties to strip for hundred-dollar bills. Roc had come through with Ayesha. Dutch loved to see them together. It was a wonderful night. Dutch sat next to Angel, playing with her silliness, enjoying her drunkenness, and watching her every move. She even got him to drink.

  “Come on, Dutch, do it for me, please,” she whimpered like a sick puppy.

  “I’m only doing this for you,” he said, looking at her mouth open as he turned the bottle up and wondered if Angel could kiss or suck a dick.
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br />   “I wanna take a picture, come on.”

  “A picture?” he repeated, looking at her bending down on his kneecaps getting all in his face with her chest all in his view.

  “Yeah, I’m only twenty-one once. I’ve known you my whole life, now, let’s go,” she said, pulling him up and out of the booth and toward the front of the club.

  She and Dutch stood in front of a backdrop that read, in graffiti, “Happy Birthday Angel,” as the photographer prepared to take the picture.

  “You know, Dutch, you the only nigga I want to fuck me,” she said as she quickly turned around and cheesed a big grin at the cameraman. The thought went through Dutch, hard.

  She placed the picture back on the table, savoring the memory. It was her night to be a princess. What she had told him was true, too. Angel hated, or better yet, despised men. She didn’t trust them, and while Dutch didn’t trust women, they trusted each other, completely.

  There was no second-guessing the lengths they would travel for each other. Angel was proving that by standing in the nine-by-seven cell she called home. She knew that there was no other woman who loved Dutch unconditionally like she did, no other woman, except for Nina.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NINA’S ONLY NO

  In the seven years since his release from prison, Dutch had accomplished more than most people do in a lifetime. He was only twenty-five at the pinnacle of his reign, diversifying from drugs into entertainment, restaurants, and fashion. Even his team at Rucker’s Park seemed unbeatable.

  Dutch couldn’t lose, he wouldn’t lose. He would always win. He was in charge of the streets and of everything that flowed through them and around them. He had everything, except a wife.

  When it came to women, Dutch was much too choosy. He liked the complete package, complete. And although he had traveled all over the world, he still hadn’t found her.

  From Venice to Aspen, from Harrod’s in London to the French Riviera, Dutch had his pick of the most exquisite women. For his enjoyment, he would take one with him to Nassau and dine at the Fish Fry or Negril, just to watch the sunset. Or he would fly another on a private jet to the French Riviera for a few days, then abandon her when he returned home.

  Dutch always played fair with his women by letting them know not to expect more than what he offered at that moment. He never lied about his intentions and never made false promises. He was a gentleman to those he chose to share his time and his bed with.

  Dutch selected these women very carefully. They were strong women who could mentally challenge him, though none were on his level. He didn’t want drama or fatal attractions, and damn… she’s missing. So, he avoided jilted lovers and demanding femmes fatales. If a woman played by Dutch’s rules, he would do anything for her. But if she didn’t, he would end the game.

  Dutch was six-three, muscular, with a handsome face and puppy dog eyes. He was proud of his unblemished, jet-black complexion and completely aware of his effect on the ladies. He could melt hearts with a glance and turn women to puddles of wetness without saying a word. Dutch’s power of attraction never failed.

  But she was different…

  He had one rule: Never get involved in any way whatsoever with someone inside his sphere of influence or within the realm of his businesses.

  But she was different…

  He made his rounds to his after-hours spots, and had seen plenty of women who he wouldn’t dare bother… dime joints, at that.

  But she was different…

  Plenty of women from all over the world, beautiful women like a breeze blew them from New Orleans, creole style. And, yes, his rule had been strained, but never broken. And, yes, his willpower had been tested by physical attraction and lust, but only in his mind.

  But she was different…

  His heart was lonely for love, even though he wasn’t, and it had been like that all his adult life. He said he’d never let anyone in. He said he’d never let anyone get too close.

  But she was different.

  She was at one of the card tables gambling on spades. Her skin was the color of Camay, if Camay had been born brown. She radiated, and her skin glowed. She was surrounded by the Tri-States’ best-looking women, yet she didn’t have to compete with anyone. She merely succeeded where others failed without even trying.

  Dutch inched closer to the table to get a chance to hear her speak.

  “Y’all went what?” she said as she looked in her hand and recounted.

  “I got one and a pimp, Nina,” said her partner, staring at some Puerto Rican cutie, drenched in ice, over at the bar.

  “Hello? Tamika! Girl, is you playin’ or what? Shit, I got money on this and you over there ho’n?”

  “Hold up, that nigga’s about to leave. I’ll be right back,” Tamika said, running off toward the door.

  “Look at this shit,” said Nina as she looked at Tamika, knowing she was crazy.

  “What you gonna do, Nina, pay or play? I ain’t got all night,” lisped a fat man who was playing against her.

  “I’ma play, damn. You see my partna ho’n in this motherfucker, damn.”

  “I can play,” Dutch stood behind her partner’s chair and said with a smile.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, I can play till your partner gets back.”

  She looked him up and down disapprovingly and frowned. Who he think he is, with his fine ass? she couldn’t help but ask herself.

  “You can play?” she asked, but was really asking, Nigga, who the fuck is you?

  He cocked his head to one side and gave her a “duh” expression. Dutch hadn’t played spades since he was locked up for stealing cars eight years ago.

  “All right, come on,” she said, and Dutch sat down.

  At first, because of the dim light, Dutch couldn’t really see her. But after he sat down under the hanging overhead lamp he saw her face. He was in love, just like that. Nina had him and hadn’t done a thing.

  The fat man looked up to see who he was about to open up his can of whoop-ass on.

  “Dutch!” the fat man exclaimed, surprised to see Dutch, especially sitting next to him at the same table. Awwwww, mannn, damnnn, the fat man thought to himself.

  “I got five and a possible,” she told Dutch, who for the first time could not maintain his composure. He simply could not do anything but stare at her and wonder if she was as wonderful as she appeared.

  The fat dude trembled. What was he to do? Let Dutch win and lose five hundred dollars? Or win five hundred dollars and lose something immensely more valuable? With Dutch, there was just no telling. What should I bid? Just go board, right? Damn, what the fuck should I do?

  “How many you got?” Nina asked Dutch.

  “Huh?” he asked, not thinking about books.

  “Is you deaf or something?” she questioned, now pretending to be speaking to a deaf mute, making sign language and talking slowly to him as if he were deaf. “How… many… do… you… have?”

  The fat man’s eyes shot over at Dutch. Is this bitch crazy? Don’t she know who the fuck she clownin’? She must not know this nigga will kill us all, he kept thinking to himself.

  “Oh, damn, my fault. I got two,” Dutch said, still not taking his eyes, or his smile, off her.

  “Give us eight,” said Nina turning to the fat man. He looked at her and wrote down an eight for them and a five for himself and his partner. The lead was on the fat man’s partner, who played a four of hearts. Dutch followed suit with a ten, the fat man played a queen, and Nina took the book with an ace.

  She then brought hearts back to the board and Dutch won the book with his king. He then played a low diamond to the board.

  “Fuck is this dumb muhfucka doin’?” Nina said, almost having a fit. She rumbled under her breath loud enough to be heard.

  Just my damn luck, hafta play this nigga and a crazy bitch! She gonna get us both shot the fuck up, the fat man thought as he looked up, hoping that Dutch didn’t hear what the crazy girl said.

&n
bsp; The hand played out and Dutch and Nina ended up being set with seven.

  “Didn’t you see me play back hearts? I thought you said you could play?” she huffed at him while she shuffled the cards.

  “My fault,” Dutch replied in a monotone.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled, and rolled her eyes at him.

  The game played out and Nina ended up losing. The fat man’s partner collected the money as the fat man watched Dutch. Dutch watched Nina get up from the table but didn’t say a word.

  “How much she lose?” Dutch questioned the fat man.

  There it is, now the nigga gonna take my shit, the fat guy thought, but softly responded, “Five hundred.”

  To his surprise and relief, Dutch got up and walked away in Nina’s direction and the fat man’s asshole loosened.

  Nina was furious as she scanned the crowd for her partner. She finally spotted her.

  “Tamika! Tamika!” she shouted, “You ain’t shit!”

  Tamika turned around, quite tipsy, to see her best friend staring at her. She burst out in laughter.

  “You look so funny when you mad,” she said as she threw her hand on Nina’s shoulder.

  “Get off me, man. I lost my fuckin’ money. Fuckin’ wit’ you, I got stuck playin’ wit’ some dumb motherfucker and you over here tryin’ to trick niggas.”

  “Oh, sour puss! Live a little, bitch, you need to mingle, Ms. Single.”

  “Um, unlike you, I don’t work on my back. I gotta get up in the mornin’,” Nina said with a flaccid smile.

  “Oh, fuck you, Nina,” said her friend with a smile. “Let me tell Derrick I’m leaving. I’ll meet you outside, okay, shmuckums?” she said, pinching Nina’s cheek.

  “You better bring your drunk ass on, nigga, before you be left out here, and you giving me my two-hundred and fifty dollars back off that five I lost,” she said as Tamika agreed with her.

  Dutch searched the crowd and spotted Nina heading out the door. He bumped into people in the crowded after-hours spot as he rushed to her.