Corporal, anything else in the car?
Not a thing, Sergeant. Not a thing. Not a thing but this .38 revolver somebody think them was going hide under the passenger seat.
But what the bombocloth. .38? ’Pon the floor? Not you, Papa? Not a fine upstanding son of the soil lacka you. Is who fer gun fi real, your mother’s? Inspector, go take a look at the gun, while me and the constable watch them four. Is a real .38?
Real like me wife pregnant belly, Sergeant.
Kiss me neck. .38. Here is what me wondering now, Officers. This .38 we have here. This here .38. I wonder if is the same .38 Papa-Lo and him cronies use to fire at the police.
Hard to tell, Inspector.
Yeah, man, yo nuh remember? When Papa-Lo and him three cronies fire ’pon the police in what was only supposed to be a simple spot check? You four, keep you hands up.
Me no remember that.
Think ’bout it good and hard. Inspector, I see you already feeling what me talking ’bout. You nuh remember when Papa-Lo open fire ’pon the police? Fire from this same .38 and the poor police them did have no choice but to fire back?
When him do that?
Right now. Fire!
He fire from me own .38 and bullet burst a hole through me lip and blast away two teeth graze burn the tongue and the back of my head let air rush in and my blood rush out but we was just hanging two man, yes we hanging two man and the prophet Gad asking me where is the bloodcloth ring like me know anything about the Singer’s hands bullet YKK a zipper down me chest one two three four five six seven eight and there in him house is Peter Tosh on him knees after one bullet go through a woman mouth and blast ’way her teeth and Leppo push the gun ’gainst Tosh forehead and pow and pow again two more bullet for the man on the radio one bullet for the next man right in him back where it staying forever but is me getting shot me forming river of blood and piss between me legs and Carlton me see you, Carlton ’pon the rhythm while the wife behind you wrapping her pussy ’round the man who going kill you, Carlton! And the Singer have no hair anymore the Singer on a bed the Singer getting a needle from a white man who have a German Hitler sign burning in him forehead bullet pop me finger off and mark me like Jesus Christ in my left palm no pain just quick burn me body have two dozen little fires but air rushing through me hear me body whistle Trevor and Lloyd doing the bullet dance they whip whip whip and turn and jerk and scream and cough and shake like they have fits bullets make them jump and me jumping too and me skipping gun shot like firecrackers from far away me neck speaking blood me mouth can’t open the angel of death sitting on the Singer shoulder the angel is a white man me see him already me know that now see him standing on a stage like Seaga and Manley and promise poor people sweet thing and then me neck crack me seeing meself doing the bullet dance like me watch theatre from a seat upstairs rising higher and higher, high over the causeway and sea and high above the seven cars coming and they all swarm down like flies the police all come out and they all walk up and fire one two three shots me down on the ground sinking into the asphalt and another police fire two shot take that pussyhole you not so bad now and another police and another police and another one pow pow pow get up and shoot we now nuh pussyhole gunman and police on the walkie-talkie saying guess who fer case we just deal with and more police come and everybody paying them tribute and this one aim for me neck pow and this one aim for me kneecap pow and this one aim for me balls pow and how come no car passing no car but police them block the road from far off they knew me was coming somebody in the ghetto is informer and tell them me was coming and Trevor face eat off and Lloyd chest and belly burst open and my head split open and me heart still pumping and another policeman stoop down and say this is for Sebert and fire straight through the heart and the heart burst and dead then he get up and go back to him car and the other policeman go back to them car and me rising higher and higher but me still on the road and I can see them all in a line the police cars they leave me and they driving with they sirens on so people shift out of the way and they drive as one animal a siren snake all the way up to the block that have the Minister of Security office and they circle the block ’round and ’round and ’round all the while laughing loud and me can see everything around and above and below and what happen ten year ago Peter Nasser with the first gun 1966 when me take in Josey Wales and when me kill that school boy by mistake and what happening in a grey place as if me can do something and change it if I shout loud enough cut off the toe skip cut off the toe don’t listen to no bombocloth idiot Rasta who just sucking your blood through the chillum pipe cut off the toe and don’t make no Nazi touch you but the white man standing across the road the white man I know and I don’t know and he looking over through the bush right by the road the little swamp and in the swamp the driver swimming no blood from the shot good so no crocodile going after him and he swim and swim and swim and a fishing boat see him and motor over to pick him up and he climb in and shaking and bawling that all him do is drive taxi and the fisherman sail away and me not in the gully no more proclaiming judgment me wasn’t in the gully at all that was over a year ago and every thing was over a year ago and all that take place between the shot to my head and the shot to my heart in one blip all the last things me do in me life play out at once happening then and happening now and happening one after the other and also all at once but there is Trevor spooling blood still and Lloyd with death rattling in him throat and there is me, gentlemens. There is me.
Alex Pierce
Do it light, do it through the night. Shit’s gotta work. Cut that fucking song loose goddamn it, what the fuck. Keep this shit up and you’re gonna move, you’re gonna jerk or you’re gonna—I don’t know, I don’t fucking know—it’s going to make him know and you’ll end up a fucking murder scene, chalk line baby dig it, because you woke up with that fucking song shaking its polyester sweating ass in your head. Sooner or later, a cracker’s gotta pay for being the one white man who can move. Right side of my brain’s saying at least you bit it for a greater cause than “Disco Duck.” At least I might be still asleep. I must be. Tapping my fingers one by one against the pillow, four means dream, five means real. One two three four five.
Motherfucker.
But what if I’m dreaming this is real? What if I’m dreaming in a dream? I read somewhere that this is what happens when you die. Freaky shit, Jesus Christ. Breathe slow. Don’t breathe at all. No, breathe slow. Stop breathing. No, he will feel it, he will know you’re not asleep. I know what this is. I mean, gotta be, man, you’re just tripping off bad shit. You’re just crashing hard off bad shit, this is what you get for hitting C anywhere but 42nd and 8th, that’s where the steerer on 41st and 5th sent me. But hold up, I’m not tripping. I never trip in Jamaica. Jamaica is a trip all by itself, and Jesus Christ stop thinking so hard. Keep this shit up and you’ll start to think out loud—have I said anything? Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jeezuzchriiiiiist, stop it, stop it, fucking stop it, Alex Pierce. Chill out right now, chill the F.U.C.K. out. Close your eyes and try to catch up to that dream that got away from you, go off and catch that dream, and when you wake up there will be no man sitting on the edge of your bed. Better yet, there will be no man opening your door, walking in just as you’re waking up, because you never really went to sleep and couldn’t really sleep on this torture-chamber bed. No man walking in, going over to the window to pull in the drapes, reaching in his shirt for—don’t look, don’t fucking look, and sitting on your bed. No series of clicks and clacks and ticks and locks. Close your eyes. Simple as that, this will work, THIS WILL WORK.
I am at the Skyline hotel. I got in two days ago, though I’ve been in Kingston five months and Jamaica for eight. Eight months since Lynn gave me an ultimatum, Jamaica or her. Fucking woman, I didn’t expect her to understand my work but I at least hoped for some respect for what I had to do. It’s not that she didn’t like it. Hell, I could have dealt with her hating it. Hating it at least is something. But she was just so fucking indifferent it dr
ove me batshit, worse she was giving me an ultimatum over something that she really didn’t give a shit about. Yeah, I’m finding a way to take all this shit out on her. But honest to God I think she said the book or me as a fucking fact-finding mission, just to see what I would say.
And here’s the fucked-up part: either answer would have been satisfactory. So right now? Yeah, I kinda hate her for not hating me. I hate her for walking into my study back in Brooklyn, fine, my bedroom with the saddle horse desk, and saying, It’s your lucky day, honey. You get to choose between this Jamaica book of yours that is going nowhere or this relationship that is going nowhere, because one of the two has gotta get somewhere. I said, Jesus H. Christ, have you been listening to Slow Train Coming? because you couldn’t have picked a lousier time to become a Dylan fan. She called me a patronizing jerk who should answer the question. I said I’ve been reading a lot of new stuff on psychology recently and that is what they’re now calling emotional blackmail, so I refuse to answer the question. She looks at me and says, Well, there’s your answer then, and walked out of my bedroom, our bedroom. Jesus Christ, I would have given anything for a slap, maybe I should have slapped her.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. I should have chosen her, fine, happiness would have turned into an act of will and we would have waited another two years to finally admit that we’re bored out of our skulls but maybe that’s what I deserve, to be a bored content house-husband working on a sympathy pregnancy belly, maybe then I wouldn’t have woken up to a man sitting on the side of my bed staring at the floor. Bored in Brooklyn—that’s funny. Hey, Dear Abby, I’ve got myself a handle even before I got myself a problem.
Truth is I went back to New York knowing that there was some Third World–sized hole in me that I already knew she wouldn’t fill but I tried to make her fill it anyway. And maybe I resented that she didn’t try, give me the drama about how she can’t be Superwoman and break up with me with a bucket of tears and writing some bad Carly Simon song about me. Instead I got a girl who treated me the same way Jamaica, my other girl, treats me, meaning what we have may be good, but you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m ever going to care beyond a certain point. Maybe I fell for her for the same reason I fall all the time for Jamaica. I knew from the get-go that it wouldn’t work but that doesn’t stop me from going after it anyway. Why? I don’t fucking know. Would I still be doing it if I knew why? Shit, probably.
Meanwhile there’s a man sitting on the side… on the left side of my bed looking down on the floor. I feel he’s looking down on the floor. I only lifted my head once and freaked the fuck out when I did it as soon as I did—surely he must have felt it. Maybe he didn’t. There’s a man sitting on my bed so light that I barely feel the dip in the bed except that he’s on top of the sheets which are now tight and trapping my right leg right behind his back. God knows where my left leg is, just don’t move it. Just don’t. You’ll be fine. Dude, you were supposed to go back to sleep, remember that was the plan. Fine, just close your eyes, pretend to go to sleep until you’re asleep for real and when you wake up he’ll be gone. Stop thinking it won’t work, spazz, you haven’t tried it yet. Just close your eyes. Close them so hard you’ll squeeze a tear out. Close hard and count the seconds, 12345—too fast, too fucking fast—1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . .—slower, slower and when you open your eyes he will be gone. He’ll be gone—nope, still here.
He is still here. Look at him with your eyes ¾ closed. Did he turn a light on? The fucker turned the light on? Who the hell turns the light on? No, don’t look. Black pants, no navy blue, I’m sure it’s navy blue and blue shirt? Is his head bald? Is he holding his head with his hands? White guy? Light brown? Is he resting his head in his hands? Who wears matching navy blue shirt and pants—don’t look. If I snore will he go away? Shit. I should roll. Everybody rolls, if I don’t he’ll know I’m not sleeping. But what if rolling spooks the fucker and he does something? Jeans still on the chair by the desk, the desk where I’m getting no work done. Wallet almost falling out of the pocket. Bus ticket, condom, thirty bucks no fifty bucks why am I viewfinding my fucking wallet? Empty box of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a fucking food cult in Jamdown, where’s my fucking bag? Does he have it at his feet? Is that what he’s doing, looking through it? Alex Pierce, you fucking coward, just get up and say what the fuck brethren, does this look like your fucking room?
Say what? Oh shit, buddy, I thought this was my room.
Does this look like your room?
We’re in a hotel, bro-ski, what do you think?
You got me there.
Man, I got myself wasted last night, ooh boy, I don’t even know how I made it upstairs and it’s your fault anyway for leaving your door unlocked so that a drunk fuck like me could just mosey on in. Good thing you ain’t a fox or you’d have woken up with my cock in ya all the way up to Sunday.
Good thing I ain’t a fox.
Ain’t that the truth.
You gonna get out—holy shit, who am I talking to? Did I think it or say it? He didn’t move. He’s not moving. He’s still not moving.
Get your shit together, man. Just get your shit. Breathe slow, breathe slow. Maybe if I kicked him just a little. I mean, this is a secure hotel. Maybe he’s in room 423, a simple mistake really and maybe I did leave the door open, or maybe the hotel was being a cheap shits and gave every door the same key thinking we’d never have a reason to find out, because Lord knows white men hunting for good times with no questions asked in a Third World country could never ever end up drunk.
God, I wish I could stop thinking. Just go back to sleep, man, go back and when you wake up for real he won’t be here. It’s like, it’s like, you know what it’s like? Leaving a window open when you see a lizard in the room. Close your eyes please. Beside the Colonel Sanders box, the banged-up typewriter that’s too fucking heavy. Maybe I can just mutter under my breath how much money it’s worth and he’ll take it and go? Just like a writer to think the thief gives two shits about books. Jesus Christ. Mannix would have grabbed this lamp and swung it by now. Just grab the base and swing right for the back of the head. Life doesn’t move at twenty-four frames per second. Barnaby Jones would have tried something. Police Woman would have tried something and she never does anything.
On my left is the desk, on my right the bathroom and between us is the man. Bathroom, five feet. Six feet, can’t be more than eight feet away. Door’s open. Was there a key, there has to be a key, every bathroom door has a key, no they don’t. I’ll just jump from this bed, pull my foot out from almost under him and leap out, maybe scram for the doorway—I could be in the bathroom before he gets the jump on me. Or maybe it would be two steps, three steps tops. Carpet on the floor so I won’t slip. It’s right there, the fucking bathroom door is right there and all I have to do is run to it and slam the door, hold the knob tight if there is no key and there is a key, there has to be a key, there must or else I will fucking . . . I’ll do what, exactly?
I’ll get up to run just as he leans back and pins my fucking foot under his butt and he’ll have just enough time to swing that cutlass because Lord knows he must be Jamaican so motherfucker must be holding a cutlass, just enough time to chop me in the thigh so I can’t run and he’ll hit that artery I heard about, the one where if it’s cut you bleed to death in seconds and there’s nothing not a damn thing anybody can do—please don’t roll back on my foot, you son of a bitch. Maybe I could just leap up like I just woke up from a nightmare in a horror flick and kick him hard in the back, well, side, and while he tries to do whatever it is hoods do, collect himself, reach for the gun, whatever, I run straight for the door at twelve o’clock, which will be open since he came in, run straight out in these tighty-whities and just start yelling rape murder police anything because here’s the deal: he couldn’t be here for me.
Brethren, you ah hear me? Is time fi the I fi think ’bout getting a piece.
Piece?
Piece. You look like a Beretta sorta
man.
What the fuck? No, Priest, I don’t want any fucking gun. You know what happens with guns? People get killed.
Then that no the point, brethren.
The wrong people.
Depend on who in front and who behind the trigger.
What am I doing with a gun? Hell, why do I need a gun?
Better you ask how quick the I can get a gun and how easy it going be to use it.
Fine, how quick could I get a gun then?
Right now.
Holy sh—
Take this.
What? No. Fuck no.
Brethren, take the piece.
Priest—
Take the piece me ah tell you.
Priest—
Brethren, hold this and control this.
No, Priest, I don’t want any fucking gun, Jesus Christ.
Me say anyting ’bout want?
Jamaican men and their talking in riddles. One day I just want to say to him, Look, Priest, all that cryptic bullshit doesn’t make you smart one bit. But then I’d lose the most useful informer in Kingston.
How much year me know you now?
Dunno, two, three years?
Me ever tell you anything that don’t make no sense?
No.
Then get a gun. Or a knife, get something, brethren.
Why?
Because after Tuesday come Wednesday. And what you do on Tuesday change the type of Wednesday that going come to you.
Jesus Christ, Priest, can you give me a straight sentence for once?
You think me wouldn’t find out? Is me tell you everything that going on, remember? Me know everything that going on about everybody. Even you.
Don’t sink further in the bed please, don’t roll, don’t touch my leg, is he crossing his legs? Nobody crosses their legs, only British faggots cross their legs. He’s looking at me now, I can feel it, that thing, when the back of your neck tingles because you know somebody is looking at you. Now it’s twitching and it won’t fucking stop. How is he looking at me? Tilting his neck like a dog thinking how come you look so funny like those Jamaican kids who do a double take when they see me and wonder if Jesus was actually coming would he be wearing tight jeans? Is he going to reach and grab my balls? Can he see me through the sheets?
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 38
