“Who?”
“Bill Blass,” Angel responded.
Dutch looked at his watch. “What he want?”
“A job.”
Dutch looked at Craze, then slowly got out the car. He approached Angel’s droptop Lexus. Bill was sitting in the passenger
seat smoking a cigarette. Dutch shook his hand, leaning on the door.
“What up, Bill?”
“You, baby. Of course, I ain’t gotta tell you that,” he said as Dutch chuckled. “Yo, I’m hurtin’. It’s hard down my end in
J.C. Them young bucks forgettin’ who put the G in this here game, Duke.”
“And?” asked Dutch.
“And,” Bill responded as if to say, you know what I want.
Dutch knew Bill had a good reputation for putting in work, but Blass was also known for taking long addiction sabbaticals.
If he hadn’t had a crack monkey riding around on his back, he would have been rich a long time ago. He could get the loot,
though. Problem was what he did after he got it. Dutch knew both sides of Bill’s rep and he knew Blass knew his.
“Who he fuck wit’?” he asked Angel.
“Blitz from Bergen,” she answered.
They both knew Blitz was on the run from the feds.
“You in luck, B, my man Blitz on vacation,” said Dutch, and just like that, Bill Blass found himself a lieutenant in Jersey
City.
For seven straight months Bill Blass operated like the vet Dutch respected him for being. Bill handled his business like a
champ. He had Dutch’s money on time. He had the spots in check, and he was available at Dutch’s beck and call.
But then word got around that he had started smoking crack again. Dutch told Roc to keep a close eye on him, even though Roc
stressed to him to fire Blass.
“Man, that nigga smokin’, man. I’m tellin’ you the other crackheads be knowing some shit. Somebody said he was in the bodega
buying boxes of matches,” said Roc.
“Roc, stop trickin’ crackheads. I’ma call Ayesha,” Dutch said jokingly, but at the same time he knew what Roc said needed
to be investigated.
It was a Tuesday at three-fifteen in the morning when Roberto called Dutch.
“Uh, Dutch, I don’t know how to tell you this. Fat Tony died in a car accident last night.”
“Wha’ you say?” Dutch asked Roberto as he gave him the horrible news.
“We don’t know nothing yet, just that he’s gone,” said Roberto as Dutch solemnly stood at the window, watching the moving
traffic.
Dutch was a part of Fat Tony’s funeral service. He was, and had always been, Tony’s guy. Everyone knew Dutch was the black
kid that Tony had taken under his wing. It was also at Fat Tony’s service that Dutch started to understand.
“Now that Tony’s dead, I guess you’ll be retiring, huh?” Frankie Bonno asked with a smirk on his face.
Dutch’s heart ached for the old guy, but he got the gist of Frankie’s question. Dutch knew in his heart of hearts that Fat
Tony’s death was no accident.
“Why would I, when I inherit what me and Fat Tony built?”
These words from Dutch boiled Frankie’s blood.
Who the fuck does this nigger think he is? I’ma show him.
And it was then and there in DiQuallo’s Funeral Home that a war began. Dutch just didn’t know it had been declared. But he
would soon enough.
After the services, Dutch flew to France for business, consumed by the loss of a man he dearly loved and respected—Fat Tony,
his mentor. He had learned the politics, as well as the streets, from the man. Fat Tony and the entire Cerone family backed
politicians like horses based on their ability to run… and win. Thanks to Fat Tony’s influence and the strong arm of his army,
the Zoo Crew, who were fast becoming legends themselves, Newark had a new mayor and his name was Dutch. Nothing would ever
change that. Frankie Bonno could try, but Dutch would die before he let him take what he had built. The forces that be, however,
would change his destiny.
Slowly.
In less than ninety days after Frankie Bonno made a phone call, Dutch’s entire world began to crumble, just like that. His
neighborhood nightspots were raided, one after the other, night after night. No one wanted to go to a spot if the police were
coming in after them, and the police were coming. The cost to Dutch was considerable.
His street team, the Zoo Crew, was getting knocked so often that there was no one left to hustle on street corners. If they
opened a spot, it was raided and shut down as fast as it was opened.
Then, just when Dutch thought things could get no worse and his luck was about to change, he got a phone call from Roc.
“Yo, Duke, I don’t know how to tell you this, man,” he said, nervously. “That nigga Blass missing and so is the coke and the
heroin out both houses. The shit is gone and he done drilled the entire safe up out the floor, man. It’s… it’s gone, Dutch.”
Roc did not know how Dutch would handle the news, and that was why he told him over the phone.
Fuck tellin’ that crazy muhfucka in person,
Roc thought.
Dutch, however, couldn’t think. His mind raced. Close to $875,000 worth of money and drugs was gone.
Gone.
He started sweating as he thought of how to get his money back. He needed it right now. Half his army was in jail, and the
cops confiscated more of his money every time they raided one of his nightspots. So far, they had taken close to $470,00 in
cash and $150,000 worth of drugs.
Dutch was getting more money than the Italians thought he should have been allowed to get. That’s what it boiled down to.
Had he been Italian, Fat Tony’s wishes would have been respected in death. But Dutch wasn’t Italian. He was a nigger. Frankie
Bonno had permission and the police were on his payroll. Dutch was screwed.
All the money he had made before Fat Tony died was enough to pay his army and the mob. Everything was fine until Fat Tony
died and Frankie Bonno decided it was time to collect what should have been his all along. The other families agreed. It was
the Italian way, and Dutch was up shit creek with no paddle.
Fat Tony, Bill Blass, his missing money, his missing coke, his missing heroin, Frankie Bonno, his army locked down, as if
on D-block with Jada, and no Nina. The ball was dropping, fast, yet the only thought spinning in his mind…
Where is Bill Blass?
After Dutch put out a bounty on his head, it only took two weeks to find him. Bill Blass was hiding out in Ohio. One of Angel’s
Charlies got a call from a cat named Jesus from Brooklyn. Jesus was in Cleveland putting in work and spotted Blass in a bar,
buying out the motherfucker.
Dutch sent two Charlies with a bag of “thank-you” money for Jesus, and the Charlies brought Bill Blass back to Newark tied
up in the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car.
When Dutch finally saw Bill, the Charlies had him tied, naked, to a chair in a small room at the Irvington Motor Lodge. Bill
begged for his life through duct tape taped over his mouth. Dutch sat on the bed and looked at him eye level while ripping
the tape from his mouth.
“My man Bill Blass. I’m sayin’ you gonna just leave and not even say good-bye, after all I did for you?”
The two Charlies who had retrieved Bill from Ohio stood on both sides of him with guns drawn to his head, even though he was
tied up.
“Listen, Dutch, whatever you thinkin’, man, it ain’t like that. I swear. I mean, you seen how shit was gettin’ in J.C. It
was on fire, so I just went to lay low for a minute, my word. I was bringing the money and your shit back. I only took it
in case of a raid, so it wouldn’t get lost,” said Bill as he felt Dutch remove the diamond bezel Presidential Rolex from his
wrist, which was tied behind him.
“All the way to Ohio, Duke? I mean, damn, Roc said the safe all out the floor and you protecting me from the law. That shit
make you look fucked up, Blass, especially since you holdin’ my fuckin’ paper.”
Dutch had retrieved a little over six hundred thousand dollars when Blass was captured, and he also took possession of a brand-new
Range Rover Blass had bought. The Rolex watch was his now, too.
“Naw, Dutch, I’m your man, an—”
“That shit you sayin’ ain’t important right now. What’s important is that you here now and I got some of my fuckin’ paper
back. We’ll talk about my coke and dope later. What’s important is that I need you to do something for me and only you can
handle this shit for me, Blass.”
Blass was relieved to hear Dutch’s tone. He just knew Dutch was buying into the story. All he wanted was to be untied so he
could put his clothes back on.
“Do you think I can get dressed, first?” asked Blass.
“Naw, nigga, hold up.”
“Dutch, whatever you need me for, man, you don’t have to worry. I got you. I’m your man,” Blass said with assurance. Dutch
cocked his head to the side.
“Oh, yeah?” he said as he nodded to one of the Charlies. The girl went into the bathroom and came back out with a suitcase.
She placed it on the bed next to Dutch and popped the lid to reveal a strange vest with blocks of what looked like clay attached.
Blass refocused, saw the wires, and realized the blocks weren’t clay. They were C-4 explosives.
“Wha… what’s that for?” he whispered meekly, not fully understanding but knowing deep down that what he had done would cost
him his life.
“What’s that for? Nigga, that’s the option vest! Option one, I kill your wife, your kids, your mother, your father, your grandfather,
your cousin in West Bubblefuck workin’ in that fuckin’ supermarket to save money, whoever, wherever. If I find a nigga with
your last name, I’m murderin’ they asses, from babies to their late eighties, you hear me, nigga? Your whole fuckin, family.
You think I’m playin’? You ever known me to play, nigga?”
Blass slowly shook his head.
“And option two is you strap on that vest right there and walk into the police station offa Bergen during the morning shift
and detonate yourself.”
Dutch sat back and waited for Bill’s response. All Bill could think of was his family. The life he had led had put him in
this position and he cursed himself for allowing anyone to have power over him.
Who the hell does he think he is threatening me like this?
Blass thought to himself. But Dutch had spoken and Bill knew he was a dead man. He didn’t even need an afterthought.
Yet, as a hustler, Blass knew the hearts of men. He could pick a young wolf out of the pack and would know if the kid would
last a year in the game. He had watched Dutch come up since the nigga had been stealing cars and always saw the potential
in young Dutch. He also knew Dutch was far from playing games. Chances were that the motherfuckers were parked outside his
house this very moment waiting for a call from Dutch.
“Why me?”
“Nigga, why you? Why not you, muhfucka? Why you? Like you didn’t drill my safe out the floor and take my fucking money and
my fucking coke. Nigga, is you fuckin’ crazy? Nigga got a brand-new Range Rover and Rolex and he gonna ask me, why him?” Dutch
asked, looking at one of the Charlies before looking back at Blass.
“Muhfucker, that wasn’t you in Ohio buying out the bar with my fuckin’ money? Nigga, shut the fuck up before option three
is no option and I just start cutting off your kids’ heads while you watch, pussy.”
The tears streaked down Bill’s cheeks as he agreed to commit suicide in the name of Dutch and in order to save his family.
Dutch returned to the present, to O’Neal on the witness stand. The former detective was describing the events of the day when
Bill Blass walked into the police precinct and detonated himself.
Dutch wondered what Blass was thinking before he detonated himself.
Probably wished he had left my money and my coke the fuck alone,
thought Dutch as O’Neal continued to dramatize the incident.
O’Neal then pulled out a list of the fallen heroes and called their names, so the jury would know who had died.
This nigga got some nerve,
thought Dutch.
Tell ’em about yourself and how you was on the payroll for the mob all your life. Tell ’em how you had no honor or loyalty
to a muhfucka that was feeding you. Tell ’em that’s why you ain’t got no legs.
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.”