Indigo
Everybody thought Dutch lived in Brooklyn, but I knew he laid his head in Queens in a two-story brick house on a quiet block full of people who probably thought he owned a chain of laundromats or something. The lawns were trimmed. Cars were washed. It was the kind of neighborhood where the biggest drama was whose kid dinged whose mailbox with a baseball. I had learned his address from his brother one night when he was up in the club drinking and telling his brother’s secrets to me and Diamond.
Guys like him always hid in neighborhoods like this. I knew from experience. My daddy had one of these houses where he kept some woman he actually cared about—someone he didn't want in the life he lived.
I’d been standing on his porch for thirty seconds, listening to the TV through the walls. He had some sports game on, by the sound of it.
It was just after seven. Right before he'd normally head to the club.
I rang the bell.
I could hear footsteps inside. Heavy. Unhurried. The deadbolt slid open. The door cracked. Dutch stared at me.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. Didn't blink. He just stood there with one hand on the door and the other holding a half-empty bottle of beer, his whole body frozen mid-motion. His eyes moved over my face like he was checking if I was real—like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Midnight?”
It was in his voice. Pure, unfiltered shock. Not surprise at seeing me at his door, but surprise at seeing me at all. Surprise that I was still breathing, still standing, still capable of showing up unannounced and watching his world crumble behind his eyes. He hadn't expected to see me again.
I leaned against the doorframe. “Surprise.” I made sure my smile looked ominous. The HK in the small of my back felt heavy.
Dutch blinked twice. Three times. His mouth opened and closed like a fish that forgot how to water.
“You're... here?”
I smiled bigger. Showed teeth. “Yeah. I am.”
He still hadn't opened the door all the way. His body was half-blocking the entrance, like he could physically prevent me from coming in if he just stood there long enough. His eyes darted down the block behind me. I suspected he was checking for backup, checking for witnesses, checking for anyone who might be watching this little reunion.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Can I come in?”
He hesitated. Then that smug little half-smile of his came back. The one he wore at the club when he was about to tell a girl her cut was smaller than expected. The one that said, I’m in charge here and we both know it.
“Midnight, this really isn't a good—”
I used my weight, shoved the door open, and stepped inside. He stumbled back. Beer sloshed over his knuckles. The house smelled like cologne and fried food. I took a slow look around the living room.
There was an expensive big-screen TV mounted on the wall like a trophy. Leather sectional. Expensive room, but it still looked ugly. Cheap gold-framed artwork covered the walls. Landscapes. Abstract splotches. A print of Times Square at night that you could probably buy at Target for forty bucks.
“Nice place,” I said.
Dutch shut the door behind me slowly. His hand was shaking.
“Looks like three bedrooms?” I asked.
“Four.”
“Nice.” I nodded toward the kitchen.
“How do you know where I live?” he asked.
“Malik gave me the address.”
That wiped the smugness right off his face.
“My brother talked to you?”
