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knew Tony had answered his question himself.
    “So, let me ask you somethin’, Dutch. What were you thinking about when you just fuckin’ blurted out to the fuckin’ guy about
     my safe, huh? What the hell was on your mind jeopardizin’ my fuckin’ money for fuckin’ pizza money, huh?” Tony was huffing
     from the energy he expended, so he sat back, puffed his cigar, looked at Dutch, and waited for a response.
    “I like Roberto,” Dutch simply stated.
    “You what?” Fat Tony asked as if he didn’t hear Dutch the first time.
    “I like Roberto,” Dutch repeated.
    “Izzat so? Well, what would’ve happened if the fuckin’ guy didn’t take your suggestion, huh, then what? Suppose he hadn’t
     believed you and ran out leaving you to deal with the fact that Roberto trusted you and you fuckin’ betrayed that trust, then
     what? You think Roberto would’ve liked you then?”
    “To me, it wasn’t just pizza money. It belonged to Roberto, and since I consider Roberto a friend, stealing from him was like
     stealing from me, and any man is gonna do what they gotta do when what belongs to him is threatened. So, I did what I had
     to do, but if I woulda been wrong, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and I’d probably be dead,” Dutch explained
     as Fat Tony just sat there looking at him like he was crazy.
    “You afraid to die?” Tony asked as he paused for a moment, intensely studying Dutch.
    “You askin’ me am I afraid to die or am I afraid of you?” questioned Dutch as he stared Fat Tony in his eyes, never blinking,
     never looking away.
    “Whichever one’s more appropriate to the question,” Fat Tony responded with a smirk as he looked at Roberto.
    “Then no,” Dutch replied, his eyes locked on Fat Tony.
    Cigar smoke drifted between the two and the eye contact was broken. Tony dumped his ashes in the ashtray as he looked back
     at Dutch.
    “But,” Dutch continued, “I do respect you, Mr. Cerone.”
    Dutch stood up and held out his hand to Tony. Tony looked up at the small, black hand extended to him, then up into the eyes
     of the young man it belonged to.
This kid’s gotta future,
he thought to himself.
    After a few lingering moments he placed his hand in Dutch’s and grasped it firmly.
    “I like you, kid. You got balls.”
    “Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Piazza called out. It had been ready for over five minutes, but she had waited and listened to every
     word and saw every gesture between the men and the boy. She thought about her childless womb, and how she wished it had been
     filled with a son like Dutch. That was the first time she wished Dutch was Italian.
    Brought back to reality by a bunch of rowdy young black kids walking past with a handheld radio blaring, she placed the key
     in the ignition of her Volvo.
    “Moulies,” she remarked and pulled off.

CHAPTER FOUR

LOCK DOWN
    C raze looked up from the blunt he was rolling in his money-green 911 Porsche Turbo to see Mrs. Piazza’s blue Volvo drive by
     as she left the courthouse. Dutch had Craze outside in the parking lot watching everything and everybody. Dutch wanted to
     know who came and left the courthouse, what time, who they was with and what they was driving. Craze understood the importance
     of his assignment, but that didn’t make it any less boring. He needed the weed to break the monotony. And his Dutch-style
     Coronas and Scarface CD.
    He looked around self-consciously as he lit the blunt thinking how Dutch felt about his people and drug use. Dutch didn’t
     get high and was so tight on his people about using drugs, Craze thought he might even implement a piss test or some shit.
     Craze knew the golden meaning of getting c.r.e.a.m.
Don’t get high on your own supply,
but he sold or rather oversaw the sale of heroin, not weed, for Dutch’s organization.
    It had been years since he had actually touched the brown powder that gave him the ability to retire at twenty-eight. But
     to Dutch, drugs were drugs, no