Read Dutch for Free Online Page B

matter what kind.
    “How many crackheads you know started drugs wit’ weed?” Dutch would ask in anger whenever he found Craze’s stash or caught
     him smoking.
    “Nigga, you sayin’ I’m a crackhead?” Craze would shoot back.
    “Shit, neither was G-Money at first,” referring to
New Jack City
. “And you know what happened to him,” Dutch would jokingly add.
    “Muhfuck you, nigga. You can’t kill me. You’d go crazy without me, baby. That shit would be like Tony without Manny, Bonnie
     without Clyde, the Rat Pack without Sammy and shit. Just wouldn’t be right, nigga.”
    Dutch knew he was right. Not only because Craze was so instrumental in Dutch’s organization, but because the two men were
     like brothers. They had grown up from being babies together, even rode in the same baby carriage together. Craze’s mother
     died when he was only eight and he went to stay with his aunt. Up until then, if you saw one, you saw the other. Craze, aka
     Christopher Shaw, had gotten his nickname just trying to keep up with Dutch. Dutch’s craziness was psychotic and only those
     who were truly close to him knew the risks he took. But Craze’s insanity was worn on his sleeve like stripes. Everybody knew
     Chris was crazy, so there was no need to call him Chris anymore. Crazy shortened to Craze over the years and he eventually
     mellowed out. Actually he hadn’t mellowed, but everybody felt he had because he had fewer and fewer opportunities to prove
     his nickname.
    But seeing Mrs. Piazza again after so many years stimulated Craze’s mind with vivid pictures of how he and Dutch got in the
     position to be attempting what they were now planning to carry out.
    As Mrs. Piazza’s taillights faded into traffic, he thought back to the first time he saw her at the pizza parlor. He saw her
     as a nasty old bitch who was always running them off from her video games if they hung around too long without buying anything.
     He hated Roberto, too, because of the way he handed him his change whenever he did buy something. He would half throw it or
     half drop it in Craze’s hands, like he was contagious with color.
    That’s why he questioned Dutch whenever Dutch would be sweeping the floor or helping Roberto unload trucks.
    “Man, why you always doin’ shit for that muhfucker? You know he don’t even like us?”
    But, even at such a young age, Dutch was able to see an opportunity in even the most insignificant situations.
    “I don’t give a fuck about him. He’s just a pizza man. It’s who he fuckin’ wit’, and you don’t hang around shit like that
     without something falling your way.”
    “Well, damn, you can at least get a couple of dollars or somethin’, like some free video games, fuckin’ somethin’. You damn
     near workin’ for free,” Craze complained.
    “Naw, man, that’s what he expects, some little petty-ass black kid starvin’ for chicken change. Naw, when you dealin’ with
     cats like him who outweigh you, always keep ’em off balance. ’Cause then the weight don’t mean shit to a muhfucka wit’ leverage.”
     Dutch would always philosophically explain shit.
    He had always been smart. In school—whenever he and Craze actually went—he would ace tests without even studying and devour
     books while Craze chased girls and fought over candy money. But it got to a point when Dutch got bored and graduated himself
     from school at the age of twelve. For Craze, school didn’t matter to him one way or the other. So when Dutch stopped going,
     so did he. While Craze ran the streets doing the things ghetto kids do, Dutch put in time gaining Roberto’s confidence.
    Craze didn’t know what to do with himself, and his small life felt monotonous. He was bored with stealing cars, joyriding,
     and ducking the truancy officer, who had placed Craze on a 9:30 P.M . curfew.
    As he sat in his bedroom window smoking a cigarette one night, he heard Dutch’s bird-call from outside. He looked down and
     saw