Shotta Sherrif is the man who approach me about being the chairman of the peace council. First he and Papa-Lo and some other man all go to England to convince the Singer to come back and do a concert to raise some money for the ghetto. Now ask me why with all these politicians in the ghetto every day, we still had to launch a concert to raise money. Anyway, him put up my name to be chairman and nobody object. Shotta Sherrif, man, I never see a man so sad to give me a gun, like me disappoint him or something. Even among the gunmen he always giving me non-gunman things to do, like organize dance and arrange funeral, and even have me talk couple time to whichever politician come through the ghetto. One time some white people with camera come through to do some story about Coronation Market and he just say Tristan, coolie boy, go show them white people the market, and talk you talk. Me don’t know what him talking ’bout but when the white woman turn on her camera me see say she don’t just expect me to show her Coronation Market, she also expect me to talk about it. Them all give me the mic like me about to host Soul Train. Shotta Sherrif, man. Him was something else. Him was . . .
him was . . .
I . . . I . . .
stop the tape.
Just stop the tape. Stop the fucking tape.
Where you going? Sit youself down . . . and make me tell you a story. The Singer readying for the second peace concert. Lighting set up, microphone, stage, everything, the Singer even do one more sound check. Me in the office and get a call from Josey Wales that one of the lighting equipment boxes still at the wharf and they need it onstage now. So me call the Minister of National Security to clear the box. Wales send one of him man from the JLP to go deal with the equipment, this man who call himself Weeper. You spend one minute with this man you smell that he performing, something about him not there, something about him that you just know all you seeing of him is all he set out to show. Him even say yes like he acting in front of audience. So here me was in the meeting when somebody tell me that this box of equipment never reach the concert, even though me have documentation sitting on me desk. When somebody say that plenty man in Copenhagen throwing their old guns to the Wang Gang because brand-new guns show up all of a sudden me look straight at Weeper who didn’t even blink. Me end the meeting early and remind them that some of the money from the concert don’t come in yet.
—Weeper, one second, me say and he hold back. —What the bombocloth a gwaan?
—What the bombocloth ’bout what? him say.
—What this fuckery ’bout the lighting equipment? You did know it was gun in there?
—Phillips, no you choose me to go pick it up? You ah ask me?
—Don’t try play cute, pussyhole, it don’t suit you, me say. Him screw up him face like him smelling something bad. Then he say to me,
—Look, brethren, you in ah the peace runnings, gwaan through with that, me not going stop you. Me a deal with peace too, but it don’t spell your way.
Then him walk ’way. Funny, I don’t think he would have talked like that to any other man in the ghetto. I still don’t know if he was trying to show me that him dangerous or him smart. Him definitely didn’t like me telling him that he wasn’t cute.
But enough of that pussyhole for now. Tell me the truth, Alex Pierce. Why you can’t go back to Jamaica?
John-John K
As for the gig, batshit crazy Colombian bitch was nothing if not specific. Ice him slow, but let him know though she didn’t set up the hit, niggers from Biscayne Bay to Kendal West are gonna learn to respect the mamajama—her words, not mine, since the wetback dyke never learned Yankee-speak too good. That’s it, I’m supposed to let that sink in while the motherfucker bleeds out. And she said a whole bunch of other shit too that I didn’t understand either, maybe because she couldn’t remember the original message. Bitch spent a lot of time acting like the orders came from her, when she was just being the fucking receptionist. But fuck Griselda Blanco. I’m in New York and everything is motherfucking ace.
Dig this, I was back in Chicago, after promising a few goons I would never come back, because this last rubout, five years ago, was kind of a mess. This made man from Southside that grew into a bloated check that the mob wanted cashed. Picked up the tab at Denny’s and talked business. They said how’s about five hundred bucks and you and your broski Paco rub out this dude named Eustace. Eustace? Him some kinda faggot? Paco said. Mob guy didn’t answer. It was simple enough: At nine-ten on Tuesdays his wife stepped out for choir practice while he sat down with his own projector, in the basement, cigar in one hand dick in the other, while he jacked himself silly to Cherry Poppers 1–4. Paco bailed because he said he’s a thief, not a killer. Made it halfway down the basement before the guy heard me, but with one hand on his johnson and the other way up somewhere most men don’t think about, there was no hand to draw for the gun. I couldn’t stop shooting. The noise was so loud at first I didn’t hear the wife screaming. She ran away and I ran after, praying she did not reach the door. She reached the door and ran out screaming. So there we were, running down Martin Street, she in her nightie and bunny slippers screaming like her throat half cut, me behind her. Popped her off in the middle of the road, just as two station wagons passed. One stopped so I fired into the rear windshield and kept firing until they drove off and crashed into a tree seventy yards or so. With shit done I had to leave Chicago.
But then after cooling out in New York for six months, I got a call. Seems word got around. Southside hit was sloppy and messy, but no failure. Collateral damage was hefty is all. I was young but not stupid. Brash but will listen and this one was easy. Kike that cooked the books for the mob for the past ten years suddenly got hit with a nasty case of second thoughts. Who knows, all anybody knew was they’ve got pics, pics of him heading inside the Fed building and coming out of the Fed building three hours later. Whatever, the Hebrew had cashed in. And I was about to shoot a rat in the bathtub, that’s how much I was bored when I got the call.
December 14, four p.m. Two Hundred Seventh Street, Jewish Bronx, but some of those Jamaican niggers who talk funny and never mess with anybody else already started infiltrating uptown. Two floors and an attic. I’ve been picking locks since I was seven. The real trick was the steps, I was hoping they had all that tacky fur shit, which would mask any creaks. They didn’t give me any details, like how many rooms were in the house, so I had to do this the hard way.
First door was the linen closet, like who the fuck has their linen closet right by the stairs, second door was the bathroom, third door looked like a bedroom so I went in, feeling slightly off with the extra weight of the new gun. Empty. I went down the hallway and pushed open the last door. This boy sat upright leaning against the bed head like he was waiting for me. No shit. The boy was looking straight at me and I couldn’t shoot. Then I realized he wasn’t looking at me or anything at all. Kid was looking straight through me and jacking off. This was fucked up. If I shot now he would wake up the house.
—They sleep in the attic now, the boy said. —You know how old people start to always want everything at fifty degrees?
Within a week, New York Post is shitting over a supposed new Son of Sam. Then Paco called and said to come visit him in Miami. Fuck New York and the rest of suffering America, it was fucking Gomorrah down here. Down here they froze diamonds and used them as ice cubes. I was on the first flight out.
So we’re at the Anaconda, and I’m realizing word got around about the New York hit, police reports of a double homicide, husband and wife killed in their sleep, both shot in the head. At the Anaconda I’m checking out the nightlife and there was Donna Summer in the green room and some other people who looked like they were famous. A brother named Baxter who I knew was cool came up to me. You motherfuckers all here catching up on some rays? he laughed then looked at me serious.
—Cleaned up nice in New York.
—My mama, you know I gotta make that bitch proud. Paco knows you’re here?
—Fuck that little putito.
—So
that’s a no then.
—Watchu doin’ here, John-John? Seriously.
—Chillaxin’. Brother brought me down from New York, too much heat in New York, came to chase some ass, really.
—Yeah, well you might want to take that shit to another club, check out Tropic City down the street.
—What so bad about this one?
—Ancient Chinese secret.
—Huh?
—Look, I’m only telling you this because I like you.
—What? Fucking music so damn loud.
—See those Cubans back there? Big table sitting six?
—Yeah.
—We’re gonna wet those motherfuckers.
—How do you know they’re Cuban?
—Buddy, look at those jackets. At least Colombians show some class. Anyways, we’ve been tailing them for a while but they’re never together. Now we got all of them packed in one spot, I swear it’s like when your girl sucks your dick and eats out your ass the same night. Two at the table rubbed my boss the wrong way, and she don’t put up with that shit. Motherfucker’s about to go down like My Lai up in here. You know what’s good you better skit. Like now.
—Sure brother, thanks for the tip.
I ran into Paco at the bar with some bitch, his hands cupping her left tit like a bra.
—Dude, we gotta fly, some serious shit’s about to blow.
—Funny you should mention blow. Wanna hit it now? We could do two hits off Charlene tits, whayousay?
—Dude, we gotta jet.
—Blow it out of yer ass, JJK. They got Donna Summer. Rumor is Gene Simmons in the back room with Peter Criss and they got some Chinese chick in a sandwich. Dude, chill, just chill, can’t you see I’m busy?
—Do I look like I’m fucking with you? Shit’s about to blow, so you might wanna quit finger-fucking this pro and listen to me.
—Who you callin’—
—Chill, sweetie, he’s one of them queer boys, dunno what to do with a lady.
—Yeah, I dunno what to do with a, Paco, what the fuck?
—Fuck is wrong with you, baby?
—Just ran into Baxter.
—Baxter? That bitch is here? Fuck that bro, man, I—
—He’s here on a job, you idiot. Him and about twelve hoods.
—Fuck! Why here? This is a fucking nice club they’re gonna ruin.
—Dunno, some shit between the Cubans and Colombians. They’re about to wet some table.
—Holy shit, I better warn my boy.
—Do what you gotta do, I’m cutting this place loose.
I went outside leaving Paco, who I guess went around to tell his buddies the place was about to blow up. At first I’m wondering if I’m deaf or something. Less than five minutes later people come running out of the club, but there was still no gunfire. Fire alarm went off, Paco said when he came out.
—You told your buddy to get out?
—Yeah. Good thing too because he came with like five cousins from overseas.
—One? Five? A table with six Cubans?
—Yeah, how did y—
—You fucking idiot. You fucking retarded motherfucker.
I book a flight back to New York the next day. They were waiting for me as soon as I jumped out of the cab at the airport. Four men, one in a brown suit with collars flaring like wings, three in Hawaiian shirts, one red, one yellow and one pink hibiscus. Didn’t make any sense to fight. They take me far out to the Gables, past lots with nothing but trees, roads with street signs and light posts still reeling from the last tropical storm, two clubs dead in the day. They passed the empty Coral Gables high school, two stories high with a Mustang parked out front.
—We’re supposed to bring you in alive, but that don’t mean we gotta bring you all in one piece, Pink Hibiscus said.
—Is this about last night?
—Uh-huh.
—This shit is on my buddy Paco, you know.
—Don’t know no Paco. Baxter said he gave you the heads-up.
—So why don’t you take this shit up with Baxter?
—Already spoke to him. Spoke to him real good.
—Oh. Your boss, is he going to . . .
—Who knows what that loca’s gonna do?
I said she like a loud question mark, but since nobody in the car responded, I guess nobody heard it. I just looked out the window at Florida getting more one color by the second.
—We still in Coral Gables?
—Nope.
—If she’s going to kill me, why not have you guys just do that shit now and feed me to some gator or something.
—She’s got too much respect for gators, that’s why. Now just shut the fuck up. Fucking Noo Yawk accent driving me up the fucking wall.
—Chicago.
—Whatever. We’re here.
Here still looked pretty much like Coral Gables. They parked up in the driveway, just as two shirtless boys ran outside, one chasing the other with a water gun. The street was sleepy and empty. Across the road, a blue Chevy was waiting behind a Mustang. I’m from New York and Chi-Town, I could never get with the suburbs and all this shit spread so fucking wide, one house, two cars, three trees all the way down to the end of the road to pick up the exact same shit on the other side. The house was so much like the one before and the one after it that it seemed deliberate, like maybe chico or chica was trying too hard to be all apple pie. Except these houses were bland and motherfucking big. All one floor up, like going upstairs would mean losing air. They all had Spanish tile roofs and they all had different shades of pastel, this house in blue. You notice this pretty early on in Coral Gables, the difference between a mansion, which just winked a kinda class, and a really big house which popped up extra rooms like a nerd popped up zits. Tacky-ass shit that never stopped screaming yeah muthafuckas, I got me some money, I’ma buy this house right now.
This was one long driveway. Both sides flanked by palm trees like the house was some coconut plantation. Not that this house was so crass. With its stone archway instead of just a front door and wide glass panels all around so you could see the living room from outside, it was downright classy. Brown suit guy pointed to the front door which relieved me a little. Maybe they only wanted to talk, or at least talk first. Civil, refined, maybe there was some kind of class that Colombians got from being on a continent that fucking graceless Cubans never got. Only brown suit guy followed me.
Home cooking. I was hungry. I can’t remember when I stopped walking, but Brown Suit pushed me so hard I nearly stumbled.
—Fucking hell.
Brown Suit cut me off with the threat of a gun butt.
—Mistress don’t like no swearin’ in the house, he said. On the left was another stone archway that led to a living room and little boy with a huge head of black hair, watching we all live in a capital I on Sesame Street. Bacon and pancakes. We were following the smell of bacon and pancakes.
Josey Wales
Bad man don’t make note in a book. I tell you something as sure as I know that the sun outside only about to get hotter and heavier. You write it down in your head and you train your head to remember. Forgive and forget not in my book. Not because I don’t forgive, if I didn’t forgive a river would run red from National Heroes Park all the way down Kingston Harbour. But remember, wait, and move is how I operate. That batty-boy Boy George on the radio just ask do you deal in black money? I deal in black everything.
Weeper is in New York telling me he too old to break-dance. He just wasn’t the type of brother for Miami, even I know that from when he was in Jamaica. Weeper like to think he’s a thinking man, but the man don’t think, he just read a few books. Just like how some of these boys think they mature and experienced when they’ve only been through some fuckery. I give Weeper one thing to do. Maintain the link between Jamdown and Griselda Blanco. She need to get shit quick time to Miami so it can get to New York. We take shit from Kingston to Miami through either North Coast or Cuba.
But Weeper have this thing where
he just can’t get along with any woman, or rather this thing where no woman can tell him what to do. Then again Griselda is not a woman. She a vampire who cock drop off a hundred years ago. She lose her patience with him and when a madwoman like her lose her patience with you she would make even a hardcore Jamaican rudie go, Bombocloth bitch yuh wicked no fuck. Was just a matter of months before she kill Weeper herself.
But in church they talk about the gift of discernment. Is not just preachers or the spirit filled that have it, it’s anybody who think they can jump in these pants and lead for long. The second I meet Blanco I know this was a brute, who don’t really have that much sense, but have enough determination to knock down a bull. Like me she realise that right and wrong is just two word some fool invent and what really matter is what I have over you and what you have under me. But she don’t figure out what to do with it yet and sometimes an ignorant naigger is an ugly woman from Colombia too blank to know that me deal with both Medellín and Cali and at least boys from Cali been known how to think.
Discernment. I could always look at a man and read him. Like Weeper. Is years now I know the man not only fucking man but is really the one getting fuck, and no matter what he say, he still sorry to leave prison. Is years now I supposed to kill him for that, but why? It move my brain better to watch him fuck pussy after pussy as if battyman behaviour is something pool up in him sperm and if only he shoot out enough he will finally shoot out the need to put a cock in him battyhole. I don’t know much ’bout them things and I don’t read Bible. But if there is one thing I do know is when a man fooling himself. Is something to watch though. Who knows what him up to in New York. I can’t set a man on him tail because that man would find out. And there are some things that only Weeper can do.
Yesterday me woman ask how me get visa to go to America and laugh. She right to laugh. But this year I have things to do. I couldn’t tell the last time I care about what happen in a Kingston street. JLP want the country so bad and now they have it. Both of them can choke. Other street want me attention now, and all I have to do is look. Bad man don’t take note. Bad man write it down in him head.
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 48
