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gunman’s
     attention, but before he could turn around…
    His brains sprayed all over the cabinet and the walls and on Roberto’s dirty white apron. He slumped over dead before he hit
     the floor. Roberto looked up completely astonished to see the automatic .32 in Dutch’s hand and a smile on his young black
     face.
    “What the fuck?” was all Roberto could stammer out as Dutch retucked his gun and leaned against the wall calmly. Mrs. Piazza
     stared blankly at Dutch. Her heart told her it was all over, but her mind couldn’t compute the chain of twisting events that
     had left a dead black man lying at her feet quickly enough. Just moments before, she would’ve paid anything to see Dutch lie
     in a pool of his own blood. But now she found herself thanking Mary, mother of Jesus, that he had been there. No one spoke
     but Dutch.
    “Gimme the keys to the van and I’ll take care of the body,” Dutch told Roberto.
    Roberto was still too shocked to say anything. He merely reached into his pocket and handed Dutch the keys.
    When Dutch returned, Mrs. Piazza was sitting behind the counter sipping a cup of black coffee. She had calmed down by then.
     It wasn’t the blood or even the body that shook her up. She had seen more than her share of those, being married to the mob.
     It was the way this young black boy had so correctly calculated the situation and moved so swiftly. Dutch approached the counter
     and dropped the keys by her hand.
    “Roberto in the back?” he asked politely.
    She nodded. It was then that she knew this young black child was a cold-blooded killer. Only the cold-blooded could do what
     he had done and return with the innocence of youth. As Dutch went toward the back, she called to him.
    “Hey,” was all she said because she didn’t know his name. Dutch turned to face her.
    “Thank you.” She smiled.
    Dutch returned her smile and then disappeared in the back.
    Two days later, Dutch was on her front porch. She answered the door to find him standing there.
    “Hello, Mrs. Piazza. How are you?”
    “Fine, young man, fine. Please, come in,” she said, standing aside to allow him to pass. Her husband had invited young Dutch
     over for dinner and to meet Fat Tony Cerone, to whom the safe and its contents belonged. She walked Dutch into the living
     room where Tony and Roberto were sitting waiting for dinner. She returned to the kitchen, which was separated from the living
     room only by a cabinet-counter partition. Roberto stood up to shake Dutch’s hand. Fat Tony, who was too fat to get up even
     if he wanted to, sat through the introduction.
    “So, this is him, huh? This is the kid we owe sixty-five thousand to?” Fat Tony asked through teeth clenched tight around
     an equally fat cigar.
    “What’s your name, kid?”
    “Dutch.”
    “Dutch? Strange name for a black kid; how’d you get a name like Dutch?” Tony asked.
    Dutch just shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t know, but he knew it just wasn’t important. Young as he was, he realized
     he was in the presence of power and knew the potential of such a situation.
    He’d learned from Roberto that Italians may be clannish and not particularly fond of his kind, but he knew they could recognize
     a thoroughbred at first sight.
    “Sit down, Dutch. Take a load off,” Roberto suggested, gesturing to the love seat across from Fat Tony.
    “How old are you, Dutch?”
    “Fourteen.”
    “Fourteen, huh? When I was fourteen, I had a BB gun, a hard dick, and both were shootin’ blanks,” Tony said and they all shared
     a laugh.
    “I guess times have changed since then,” Dutch replied, wearing what would become his trademark smile.
    “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, I want you to know I really appreciate what you did for me,” Tony said as his expression lost its
     humorous touch and became serious. “But, of course, I wouldn’t have to be here if you hadda kept your mouth shut, huh?” Tony
     concluded, but Dutch didn’t answer because he