the hair salon.
Dutch, Craze, and Qwan drove up to the house and parked down the block. The street was dark and deserted, in a neighborhood
where nightfall represented dinnertime and quality family time before bedtime. No one expected that the serenity of the street
would be shattered the way it was on that night. Afterward it would never be the same.
Craze carried a nine-millimeter handgun, the only gun among them. They had driven down to Paterson in silence, Craze in anticipation,
Dutch in deep thought, and Qwan in a state of suspended disbelief.
I’m not doing this. As soon as the car stops, I’m jumping out. Fuck! I can’t kill this girl’s father, I can’t.
Qwan couldn’t stomach the thought. The man was innocent, had never done anything to them. Murdering Kazami was different.
Qwan wasn’t for that either, but he was from the streets. If his number came up, nobody cried foul. But, Dutch wasn’t playing
fair.
I wonder what he will do if I just tell him I don’t want to go. What if he thinks I’ll go to the police? I better not say
nothing.
Qwan didn’t either; he just rode into the night praying for a miracle that would never come. He was too scared to speak—he
didn’t know how. When they were separated and they went to their separate jails, Qwan lost time with Dutch and no longer knew
him or trusted him.
Dutch got out of the car first. He was carrying a plate of chicken wrapped in aluminum foil. It was the decoy Dutch said would
get them in the door. Craze and Qwan stood out of sight on both sides of the front door while Dutch rang the doorbell.
No one came.
Qwan hoped and prayed no one would answer.
Be asleep, God let them be asleep or not here.
But the sound of footsteps on the stairs bottomed out his heart of all hope.
“Who is it?” Mrs. Smith asked, pushing the door curtain aside to peer out of the glass design.
“Hi, Mrs. Smith? I’m the friend Simone told you about. She said you’d be expecting me.” Dutch spoke like a choirboy.
“No,” Mrs. Smith’s face contorted in confusion, “I’m not expecting anybody.”
“I swear that Simone said she’d call you and tell you we’d be stopping by. My grandmother’s birthday is today and we were
visiting. She asked if I’d drop you some chicken by,” he said, holding up the plate. “She musta forgot to call you.”
“Well, that girl is always surprising me with things, God bless her heart. You say it’s fried chicken, huh?” she asked as
she unlocked the door. She opened the door and Dutch held out the tray and smiled.
“Surprise.”
Before Mrs. Smith could thank him, Qwan and Craze came around the door as Craze stuck a gun in Mrs. Smith’s face and shoved
her against the wall. Dutch put on his gloves and proceeded into the living room, where Craze had Mrs. Smith in a chokehold
with the gun to her head and where her husband stood in the middle of the room.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Mr. Smith, all 235 pounds of him raging, his bull kept at bay by the gun to his wife’s head.
“I’m here for Simone, but since she’s not here, one of you will do.”
The large man didn’t understand what Dutch was talking about. He didn’t catch the true gravity behind the words. All he knew
was that three hoodlums had barged into his home and were holding his wife at gunpoint. Every muscle in his body flexed, the
vein that ran down from his forehead to his neck pulsated with rage, but he remained as still as a stone.
“Take what the hell you want and get the hell out of my house!” Mr. Smith bellowed.
“I intend to, but before I do, I want you to know about your daughter, Simone.”
“What about my daughter? What have you done to her?”
“It’s not what I did to Simone, it’s what I’m going to do to you,” Dutch said as he walked over to Mrs. Smith, as Craze pushed
her into the wall and took aim.
Mr. Smith never had a chance to react.
Craze squeezed the trigger three times,
Dutch, Craze, and Qwan drove up to the house and parked down the block. The street was dark and deserted, in a neighborhood
where nightfall represented dinnertime and quality family time before bedtime. No one expected that the serenity of the street
would be shattered the way it was on that night. Afterward it would never be the same.
Craze carried a nine-millimeter handgun, the only gun among them. They had driven down to Paterson in silence, Craze in anticipation,
Dutch in deep thought, and Qwan in a state of suspended disbelief.
I’m not doing this. As soon as the car stops, I’m jumping out. Fuck! I can’t kill this girl’s father, I can’t.
Qwan couldn’t stomach the thought. The man was innocent, had never done anything to them. Murdering Kazami was different.
Qwan wasn’t for that either, but he was from the streets. If his number came up, nobody cried foul. But, Dutch wasn’t playing
fair.
I wonder what he will do if I just tell him I don’t want to go. What if he thinks I’ll go to the police? I better not say
nothing.
Qwan didn’t either; he just rode into the night praying for a miracle that would never come. He was too scared to speak—he
didn’t know how. When they were separated and they went to their separate jails, Qwan lost time with Dutch and no longer knew
him or trusted him.
Dutch got out of the car first. He was carrying a plate of chicken wrapped in aluminum foil. It was the decoy Dutch said would
get them in the door. Craze and Qwan stood out of sight on both sides of the front door while Dutch rang the doorbell.
No one came.
Qwan hoped and prayed no one would answer.
Be asleep, God let them be asleep or not here.
But the sound of footsteps on the stairs bottomed out his heart of all hope.
“Who is it?” Mrs. Smith asked, pushing the door curtain aside to peer out of the glass design.
“Hi, Mrs. Smith? I’m the friend Simone told you about. She said you’d be expecting me.” Dutch spoke like a choirboy.
“No,” Mrs. Smith’s face contorted in confusion, “I’m not expecting anybody.”
“I swear that Simone said she’d call you and tell you we’d be stopping by. My grandmother’s birthday is today and we were
visiting. She asked if I’d drop you some chicken by,” he said, holding up the plate. “She musta forgot to call you.”
“Well, that girl is always surprising me with things, God bless her heart. You say it’s fried chicken, huh?” she asked as
she unlocked the door. She opened the door and Dutch held out the tray and smiled.
“Surprise.”
Before Mrs. Smith could thank him, Qwan and Craze came around the door as Craze stuck a gun in Mrs. Smith’s face and shoved
her against the wall. Dutch put on his gloves and proceeded into the living room, where Craze had Mrs. Smith in a chokehold
with the gun to her head and where her husband stood in the middle of the room.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Mr. Smith, all 235 pounds of him raging, his bull kept at bay by the gun to his wife’s head.
“I’m here for Simone, but since she’s not here, one of you will do.”
The large man didn’t understand what Dutch was talking about. He didn’t catch the true gravity behind the words. All he knew
was that three hoodlums had barged into his home and were holding his wife at gunpoint. Every muscle in his body flexed, the
vein that ran down from his forehead to his neck pulsated with rage, but he remained as still as a stone.
“Take what the hell you want and get the hell out of my house!” Mr. Smith bellowed.
“I intend to, but before I do, I want you to know about your daughter, Simone.”
“What about my daughter? What have you done to her?”
“It’s not what I did to Simone, it’s what I’m going to do to you,” Dutch said as he walked over to Mrs. Smith, as Craze pushed
her into the wall and took aim.
Mr. Smith never had a chance to react.
Craze squeezed the trigger three times,
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