by Teri Woods
Dutch remembered his last conversation with O’Neal. It was at Eleganza, a strip bar on Sixteenth Avenue. As usual, he was drunk and partying with his usual stripper girl up on the stage. He had been there for over an hour, consuming much beer and liquor. His full bladder had forced him to make his way to the men’s room.
O’Neal staggered in and found it empty. He was humming a Donna Summer tune to the thumping bass that vibrated the bathroom walls. He was unzipping his pants at the urinal when he heard the door open. He paid no attention until he felt his collar yanked up, jerking his body to the floor. He was dragged to an empty stall.
It all happened so fast. He suddenly found himself on the floor of the stall with his head between the partition and the commode, his pants still unzipped, his penis dangling out of the slit in his zipper.
“Fucked-up way to die, with your dick in your hand.”
He looked up at Dutch, groggily, with blurred vision. Craze stood over him. Both men held guns pointed at him.
“Wha-what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he slurred, still dazed from his fall. He tried to get up, but Dutch punched him in the face, hard, sending him back between the wall and the commode. He put his gun to O’Neal’s face and clicked the clip, loading his weapon.
“So, after all these years, this is how you do me, muhfucker, huh?” asked Dutch.
“Wait a minute,” O’Neal hollered, realizing the gravity of the situation.
“Nigga, you ain’t got a minute! You think I don’t know what you doin’?! You raided all my spots and my teams gettin’ bagged and you think I don’t know what’s going on?”
“Okay, okay! You want the fuckin’ truth! It’s over for you, Dutch, and I’ll be damned if I’m going down with you! Fat Tony is dead and I’m going with Frank!”
Dutch gripped the gun tighter, on the verge of pulling the trigger, and O’Neal felt it. He saw his life flash before him.
“Oh, you think just ’cause Tony dead you can roll over on me? Nigga, I’m Dutch, you fuckin’ sellout. Fuck Tony, fuck Frank, and fuck you! I’m Dutch. Nigga, I say when it’s over.”
O’Neal could see the cold, bitter hatred in Dutch’s eyes, but he was determined to meet his death like a man.
“Then go ’head, kill me. Go ’head, but it ain’t gonna change nothing. Everybody’s goin’ wit’ Frank. So what, you kill me, won’t change nothing. You might as well kill us all ’cause nobody’s on your side no more,” said O’Neal in a drunken stupor, yet speaking the truth.
The alcohol made him braver than he would normally have been.
“Yeah, I might as well,” said Dutch, deciding to take O’Neal up on his offer. But then he turned and walked out of the bathroom with Craze behind him, keeping an eye on O’Neal.
“You was Dutch! You nobody now. You hear me? Nobody, nigga!” O’Neal said, laughing, until he glanced down at his uncovered genitals and realized he’d pissed on himself.
“Shit!”
The story he told the jury was pretty much the same, except for peeing on himself. When he finished he looked directly at Dutch. Betcha’ wish you’d killed me, don’t cha, motherfucker? O’Neal thought but said with his eyes. Dutch nodded to him as if reading his mind.
Jacobs walked back to his table, but before he sat down, he had one more question.
“Mr. O’Neal, you’ve been on the force for twenty-three years, decorated several times in uniform, and you are a highly respected member of the police force. So, I ask you, why would you sacrifice your reputation after all these years when you have nothing to gain and literally everything to lose?”
“I know my dealings with the Cerone family were wrong. However, this man murdered twenty-eight officers to send a message to only a few. I’d sacrifice my life to bring him to justice,” said O’Neal with honesty and sincerity.
“I have no more questions, Your Honor,” said Jacobs with a smile on his face.
Dutch watched as O’Neal climbed back into his wheelchair. He definitely regretted not killing O’Neal when he had the chance. Yeah, I should have killed him when I had the chance, Dutch agreed to himself.
Frankie Bonno was playing dirty, applying pressure, waiting for Dutch to break. Dutch thought of Fat Tony’s death. He thought of how everything had changed, as a result of that one man no longer breathing. He had enemies now, and he knew they meant business.
Frankie Sorbonno had it all figured out: how Dutch would go to jail, how the streets of Newark would be his, and how he would take back what he believed to be his.
And while Frankie had it all mapped up, he neglected to notice that Dutch did, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FRANK’S PLACE
Frank Sorbonno, aka Frankie Bonno, sat in his Sportsman’s Club across the street from Fat Tony’s Italian Restaurant. Frank was on top of the world. The car accident and death of Fat Tony was a bright sunny day after forty days and forty nights of rain.
It had been a long road for Frank working under Tony for so many years. And he had the nerve to give my spot to Dutch, a nigger, at that, was how he felt about it. But in truth, he hadn’t always despised Tony. Although he considered him fat, lazy, and dumb, in his heart, Frankie believed the only reason Tony had such a powerful position was his family ties to Nevada. But now that Tony was gone, Frank felt that the throne was finally in its rightful hands…
His.
He and his cronies sat around the bar watching a New Jersey Devils hockey game. The mood was light until Frank heard the door and looked over to see Dutch, accompanied by Craze, carrying a briefcase.
Frank stared at Dutch with hatred and disgust. Who the hell does this guy think he is coming in here? He thought back to the night Dutch had walked into Fat Tony’s with the garbage bag. Dutch had the same stone-cold look tonight.
One of the bodyguards nearest the door approached Dutch in an attempt to frisk him, but Dutch eyed him so coldly it froze him and caused another bodyguard to stand up with his hand on his gun.
“Hey, hey, calm down. Don’t you know who this is? Dutch, the black Al Capone,” Frank sarcastically remarked, laughing at his joke.
He remembered the garbage bag Dutch had brought with him that night. He later discovered that it contained Kazami’s head. It humiliated and angered the seasoned mobster that this little black kid had done so easily what had twice eluded him. But that was not the extent of his hatred. It had grown deeper when he learned that Fat Tony had given Dutch his protection and support. Fat Tony knew Frankie wanted to take over the drug trade in northern New Jersey.
So, here was Dutch, and he knew that Dutch had come to ask for mercy…
But Frank had other plans.
“Come on in, Dutchie,” said Frank.
“You got something against me, Frank?” Dutch asked, wanting to clear the air.
“Whatever would make you think that?”
“O’Neal.”
“You know how it is, Dutchie. You win some, you lose some, the sun can’t shine forever,” said Frank as he poured himself another drink.
Dutch looked at Craze. He knew the game Frank was trying to play, but he was in no mood to spar. If Frank wanted a war, he would get one. But the foreplay was about to end.
“So, how long we gonna play this word game?” Dutch asked.
“I got all day,” Frank said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at his watch.
Dutch walked over to the table Frank was sitting at and set a briefcase on top of it. He flipped it open to reveal that it was filled with money, a hundred thousand dollars.
“What’s that suppose to be?”
“A start.”
“You hear this guy? A start,” he said, looking at the crony seated nearest to him.
He picked up a stack of money and riffled through it, then pulled out a cigar. He bit off the tip, spat it on the floor, and turned to his crony.
“You got a light?”
The guy handed Frank a lighter. Frank held it up to one of the stacks of money from the
briefcase, eyeing Dutch as he put the lighter to the money and watched the stack catch fire. When there was a decent flame burning from the stack, he lit his cigar, fanned out the burning money, and threw it back in the suitcase.
He pointed the cigar at Dutch and said, “Let me tell you something, you stupid black son of a bitch. You know what your problem is? You wanted too much, too fast, too easy. You tried to take what another man earned, then tried to turn around and build your foundation on another man’s name. But you forgot the first rule of this shit; you live and die by you and you alone. Sure, you were a little crazier than the rest, a little more ruthless, but you had to be.”
Frank stood up and walked around the table. He stood face-to-face with Dutch, even though Dutch was a head taller.
“You thought you were sooo smart, didn’t cha? Thought you could say, fuck the rules, and play by your own, huh? I gotta give it to ya, kid. You got balls, but you see, now I got your balls right here in the palm of my hand. Tony can’t save you now, so I’m squeezin’, and here you come wit’ fuckin’ candy money and expect a hug and a fuckin’ nigger parade! Well, I don’t know what you and Tony had going, but I ain’t Tony! I’ma keep squeezin’ until you squirm, until I get bored with you sufferin’, and then I’m gonna crush you like the piss-ass-nigger you are, capisce?”
Dutch and Frank locked eyes, and Dutch understood why he was reacting the way he was.
Fear.
Frank feared Dutch. Dutch had finally seen through his facade, to the insecure little man that Frank really was. But he also knew Frankie was a coward behind a brick wall, a dangerous coward behind an almost impenetrable brick wall.
“Finished?”
“Yeah, and so are you,” Frank responded.
Dutch just smiled, turned on his heel, and headed for the door.
“Hey, Dutch, if you be a good little moulie, maybe I’ll let you be my lawn jockey.”
Frank and his cronies rolled to that, their fat bellies shaking, doubled over with laughter. But Dutch didn’t even turn around. He kept on walking. Craze lingered momentarily and caught Frank eyeing him, then Frank threw Craze a kiss.
The kiss of death.
Craze nodded slowly, then walked out behind Dutch. Frank watched as the door closed behind them. He meant every word of what he had said. He had every intention of eating away at Dutch’s foundation until he had reduced him to the status Frank thought he deserved, a no-count black bum.
Frank secretly feared the repercussions of killing Dutch. So instead, he settled on making him suffer. But Frank made one fatal mistake. He underestimated Dutch.
Two weeks later, he got the picture, and he realized just who he was playing games with, and it hit him like a hard, black fist.
Frank had just woken up. He turned on the television to Channel 9 as he usually did and prepared to start his day. As he poured his morning coffee, he couldn’t help overhearing the news broadcast.
“Yes, George, I’m standing here about half a block away from where police have blocked off the area. We’re not yet exactly sure what has happened here. What has been confirmed is that a man, apparently strapped with explosives, walked into the police precinct during the morning shift change and detonated the bomb he was wearing.”
Frank stared at the screen in disbelief. The background behind the reporter was rubble and smoke. He couldn’t even recognize the building at first. He saw EMT workers pulling body after body out of the wreckage. The whole area buzzed with activity as police, firemen, and ambulance workers combed the scene for survivors. His phone rang, and it took several rings for him to realize it. He walked over to the phone and picked it up.
“Yeah… yeah, I see it. Who the fuck you think?… No… no, gimme a minute, nine-thirty,” he said, hanging up the phone as he gazed at the screen…
He had underestimated Dutch.
The nigga was definitely playing by a different set of rules, which forced Frank to revise his. He knew if he didn’t act quickly, Dutch would instill fear in any and all who were woven into the city’s fabric. He who controlled the fabric would control the city, and Frank couldn’t let Dutch destroy his plans. He went over to the phone and started dialing a number. A young woman answered.
“District attorney’s office,” the voice smoothly said.
“Yeah, I need to speak to Anthony Jacobs.”
Frank took one last look at the screen. Yeah kid, you definitely got balls, but I can still squeeze.
Three months later, Dutch was arrested in his restaurant on Clinton Avenue.
The streets went crazy when news of Dutch’s arrest hit the airwaves. People came out their homes and were crying in the streets, others cheered, some thanked God, and others came out of hiding.
No matter what the reaction, everybody was talking. The police precinct bombing was a tragedy. Twenty-eight police officers dead, and many others severely injured. No one walked out of the building that day, no one.
It was terrible. The mayor called a press conference in front of the bombed police precinct where so many had died.
“When the criminals representing the drug element in our society feel free to use terrorist tactics in order to fight their drug wars or to send a message, then we must come together in this tragic time and send them a message right back, that this won’t be tolerated!”
The bystanders and family members of the fallen officers applauded the mayor until a young, eager reporter stepped in.
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor, isn’t it true that Dutch played a major role in your campaign for election, sir?”
Across town on Irving Turner Boulevard, in a small bar, the press conference played out on TV as a ragged old man in a war-torn fatigue jacket sat at the bar watching the mayor stutter during the press conference. He sat sipping on some Jim Beam liquor when he heard his name, Bernard James, on the television. He looked up to see Dutch being led in handcuffs from a detective’s car into 32 Green Street.
“He fightin’ the war, too. But dat dere boy, see, he gonna win. We gonna win this war yet!” he exclaimed in a drunken slur.
“Huh?” The bartender looked at him.
“I said, we gonna win this war yet,” he repeated, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp.
The bartender knew the old soldier well. He had been coming in for as long as he could remember. He knew the old man was shell-shocked from the war. He often talked to himself, cried to himself, even laughed to himself, but he never got excited the way he was now.
“Ain’t no war, old man. The Vietnam War ended damn near thirty years ago,” the bartender said as he walked down the bar, shaking his head.
“Man, it’s a war going on out here. Listen to Marvin Gaye.He knew, too,” the old man said, lighting another cigarette. “How the hell you gonna tell me. I know it’s a war going on out there and we gonna win it yet.” Then he smiled, and anyone who knew would have said he smiled just like Dutch.
Even Cherry Martinez spread the news on the radio.
“Yo! Y’all ain’t gonna believe this, but guess who just got bagged? Dutch! Yes, y’all heard it here first, they done got Dutch. But you know how it goes. So Dutch, darling, if you’re listenin’ just know the streets is wit’ you, baby. Matter of fact, I’ma play a joint a little birdie told me used to be your theme song, Kool G Rap’s ‘Road to the Riches.’ Stay up, Poppi, from your girl, Cherry ‘Da Bomb’ Martinez, droppin’ it for you like that on your favorite radio station.”
Kool G Rap must’ve played for an hour on various stations in New York. It was crazy. You would’ve thought the man had died. Dutch probably couldn’t hear Cherry or any of the other radio stations, but Craze certainly did.
He turned up the volume as he headed toward Chancellor Avenue in his Porsche, a five-car convoy behind him. He had business to handle.
Young street wolves were smelling blood…
Dutch’s.
And they were prepared to feast. While Dutch was in jail for two weeks, Craze handled the business and he
ld it down. Everyone knew what was at stake, but no one was really in position to make anything happen.
No one except Rock and Roll.
Rock and Roll were two aspiring rap artists who had just gotten a record deal with a major label. Basically, they were two ex-stickup artists who got in the game around the same time the Zoo Crew was coming up. They had a strong team with enough heart and enough money to become a formidable opponent to try to fill the void Dutch was about to leave.
But Dutch wasn’t gone yet, and Craze was that crazy nigga to dig all up in your ass. He had found out from one of the Charlies who was tricking the nigga Roll that they were planning to kill him and some of the members of the Zoo Crew once Dutch was safely behind bars. Once Craze got wind of that information, he went into action immediately.
He rounded up one of Dutch’s favorites from Prince Street, a young kid by the name of Young World. World was up and coming, and Dutch was real big on that nigga. World’s murder game and his rep in the street was remarkable.
Within an hour of Craze’s call, he and his own street team pulled up to Roll’s candy store on Chancellor Avenue. When Craze walked in, Roll had his back to the door and was talking on the pay phone. By the time he noticed Craze’s presence, Craze had his gun drawn. Young World and his twelve-man army guarded the streets and the door. When Roll finally turned around, he found a nine-millimeter pointed at his face.
“See how easy it is, muhfucka! How you gonna kill somebody if you already dead, huh?”
“Craze, wha—” His sentence was cut short by a hard backhand. Craze followed with a blow from the pistol handle to his head. Roll fell up against the counter.
“Fuck you think, this shit’s a game? You think you gonna kill me, nigga? What you waitin’ for, pussy?” Craze shouted.
“Naw, Craze, please don’t kill me. It ain’t like that, I swear.” He was once again cut off by a blow from Craze. This time, Craze pressed his foot into Roll’s midsection so hard it made Roll crumple into a fetal position on the floor and gasp for air.