A Brief History of Seven Killings

by James, Marlon

  Eubie in the Bronx. People can’t understand why I check for that brethren, people in this case meaning Weeper who can’t stand him. Hard to like a man who cut him hair every two week, talk like he stay in a posh high school for the full seven years and always wear a silk suit no matter the weather. But here is the reasoning nobody catch: If people busy thinking that you is a pimp nobody going think you is a drug dealer. Eubie is a school boy, and that make him think he have class. And him do, a little. Boy all set for Columbia law school but leave because he wise up about the law. Eubie perfectly fine in Queens and the Bronx and I let him take over Miami from Weeper. Didn’t tell Weeper, so he call me that week.

  —Brethren, what the bombocloth this?

  —You look like you need a change. Miami too country for you, you need New York. Plenty book in New York. Plenty nighttime park too.

  —What the r’asscloth that mean?

  —It mean what it mean, pussyhole. Me stationing you in Manhattan, maybe Brooklyn.

  —Me no know them place deh.

  —Then buy a bombocloth atlas and learn yourself.

  Brethren, you know me have a feeling ’bout them things, and I just don’t trust the brother, he say every week in almost the exact same sentence. But Weeper is not a thinking man, he only read a few books, whereas Eubie think far and wide. He leave Columbia to sell weed because there was nothing Columbia could teach him about making money he don’t already know. He almost too smart. One hundred thousand pounds of weed and ten thousand pounds of white wife in just one year. I know and he know it and Weeper know it too, which is why he still can’t stand him. That man’s brain was making us rich. But that man brain need my supply and although me sure he already try to contact Escobar himself, they never going to trust any man that slick. Don’t even care that he do it, even expect him to, but I didn’t tell Weeper. Weeper call me another time just to say that Eubie must be the only man from Jamdown to get pedicure and he must be a battyman or something which make me laugh so long that Weeper start say that him didn’t make joke. I tell Weeper to cool it. I didn’t tell him that Eubie, when he was not killing man himself, have two brothers, real relation too, who already take out more than fifty man for him, that I hear about. Me sure there be a name for man like Eubie, but only head doctor know it.

  Bad man don’t take note. Instead I recall name like how some people recall great men. I make list and remember like a song, like a nursery rhyme. If anybody find out, nobody would take me serious. So I send Weeper and a boy to pick up some equipment in Florida and then put him on another truck to round up some more in Virginia and even Ohio. But the police intercept a truck in West Virginia. Before long gone boys bussing shots in D.C., Detroit, Miami, Chicago and all over New York.

  And in all of this the boy still won’t leave off Eubie.

  —Think him is a cha-cha boy just because he wearing him mother curtain as suit. I tell you, Josey, mark my word, that man going turn ’gainst you.

  —I watching him, Weeper.

  —Well you better watch him harder. I don’t trust him too much. He always have him hand on him chin, like he thinking how he can get over you.

  —You serious? He not the only man I watching, Weeper.

  —What the fuck that mean?

  —It mean what it mean. Why man from Queens telling me that supply spotty between you and Eubie? No link in New York?

  —Things not spotty, a man need to learn to bombocloth wait.

  —You really think a man going wait? What the fuck wrong with you?

  —How you mean?

  —Brethren, New York look like a monopoly to you? Ranking Dons, Blood Rose Crew and Hot Steppers all want a piece of each street and that’s just the Jamaicans. You don’t supply, they find another supplier, simple as that. And then thanks to people who think like you, I have to come to New York and put everything back in its natural order. Jesus Christ, Weeper, you mean I going have to come to New York? Or maybe I should just make Eubie deal with Queens too and bring you back to Jamai—

  —No! No, Josey. No, man. Me can’t . . . me can do this. Me was just . . .

  —You was just what? Don’t make man in Queens call me again. Couldn’t even understand half of what the fucker was saying.

  —Yes, brethren, me will deal with that business, Weeper say. But what he didn’t say was that he was over him head, not with low business but because new man from a new posse move in on him turf, the same posse that trying to move in on Miami. People forget that when JLP win election in 1980, plenty man take flight to USA quick. Now they in Blood Rose, Hot Steppers but especially Ranking Dons, and they gunning for territory like everybody still in Kingston. Again this call for thinking and Weeper is not a thinking man, he just read a few book.

  Something else. Truth is I don’t demand that much, but I say to Weeper, Hey, you remember that pussyhole, Tristan Phillips? The one from the peace council with Papa-Lo, and Shotta Sherrif, and the Singer? The one who just disappear like magic trick even though I send not one but two man to deal with him case? He living in Queens now and me want you to put a case of vanishing cream ’pon that brother. Before he do something like join this PNP gang, although he the same one who go on American TV to talk about the peace movement.

  Nineteen eighty-two I dispatch Weeper to deal with that man. Tell him to buy a plane ticket and head to New York, then get a gun and close that Jamaican chapter. One week later I get a call not from Weeper but from Benny, one of Weeper’s runner boys, with the message that it was done. I don’t bother ask Weeper how high he was when he give this little shit my phone number. Worse, to have somebody who think he can speak to me this way: Weeper say fi tell you that the vanishing cream done, y’hear? Later. This is why I don’t bother. Because if ask, why the bloodcloth you just do that, he will say do what? Not because he is a pussyhole, but because he honest to God wouldn’t know. Whatever, I make it roll off me because Phillips was dead and that chapter closed.

  Two Thursday ago, one of my men who just get let out of Rikers ask me if I ever know a Tristan Phillips because he say he know everything about me. I say, what you mean by know, don’t you mean, did know? He say no, Josey, the brethren don’t dead, him in Rikers and just serve two out of a five-year sentence for armed robbery. He used to be in Attica but they transfer him to Rikers. And he running with the Ranking Dons now.

  Me can send word to take him out, my man say, but I say leave the man be. I call Weeper the Friday.

  —You know who me run into what day? Tristan Phillips’ baby mother, she come all the way over to the JLP side looking for money, she say Tristan just up and left her so and won’t send money for the baby. Funny, eh? I say.

  —Yeah that funny, he say.

  So now I packing a sports bag for New York City. Don’t plan to stay long. Eubie already make all the arrangements. I look and see my boy in school uniform watching me from the doorway.

  —Bombocloth, Daddy, is where you just come back from? You look like you high.

  —You standing there like you like to watch man. Go to school, my youth.

  —School ah fuckery.

  —Me look like one of them parent that allow them pickney to cuss in front of me?

  —No, Daddy.

  —Good. So you better stop screw up you face and get you bombocloth backside to school. You think Wolmer’s Boys’ School free?

  —All education free, Daddy, so no bother come with that.

  —You know what also free. A fucking gun-butt in you head for feistiness. So you better stop block me doorway and get you bloodcloth batty to the high school before them lock the gate.

  —Daddy, how me going know what to—

  —Know? Know what? You mean your education? I thought it was school you going to, so why me still seeing you damn ugly face? Looking more like you r’asscloth mother more and more every day.

  I smile with the boy so that he don’t feel like I threatening him too much, but he is sixteen now, and I still remember sixteen, so I know hunger gro
wing in him. All this talking back is moving from a little cute to a little threat. Part of it sweet me, seeing this little shit puff him chest out. He turn to leave when I say,

  —Next trip, for real.

  The boy don’t smile or anything, just nod once and leave, and I watch the blue backpack moving away from me. One year, maybe two year from now, I won’t have the strength to hold him back.

  Tristan Phillips

  Is lie you a tell me. Two Friends night club never deh ’bout in 1977? It didn’t open till ’79? Then is which club me run into Rawhide, Turntable? No star, me can’t imagine it being Turntable, boy, even the Prime Minister used to go there so. People from the good side of life mingling with middle-class people to feel like them connect to some culture, you know how it go. You sure? How you so sure? For a man who say him don’t go to Jamaica since 1978 you know a whole fucking heap about 1979. You same one tell me that is a book ’bout the Singer you writing, but what any of this have to do with the Singer? You know the man check out 1981, right? Or you lock up in a battyhole till now? Me must look like me born behind cow. You writing a ghost story? The Singer duppy haunting Rose Hall? Come to think of it, if you really writing about the Singer, why the fuck you talking to me? You think me is a fucking idiot, Pierce?

  You’re sorry for wasting my time—what the fuck, sit down, Pierce. Look ’pon you, one little question and you huff and puff and blow your own ass out the room. This might be the first interesting thing you do all day. Look how your face turn red like some choking pig. Sit the fuck down, Alexander Pierce. Fine, how ’bout this: you don’t tell me why you want to know about the peace movement and Josey Wales and Papa-Lo and Shotta Sherrif and I won’t tell you when I eventually figure it out. How that sound? Deal?

  The peace council even had a office. The Singer open up him own house to it, ground floor, around the back. We get along so good people used to think we was brother. In a way, we really was brother. The two of we coming out of ghetto life in Jamdown. Whole heap of people don’t know, but me used to be big with the music thing too. Used to play with some boys at the Prime Minister’s—sorry, former Prime Minister’s—father house. Even grow up with the Singer best friend. Me always think myself smart but I don’t know, maybe the Singer smarter. Some people just have this thing ’bout themselves, maybe is a ghetto thing where even if another man don’t destroy you, you going destroy yourself. Every man in the ghetto born with it, but somehow the Singer cure it. You look ’pon the two of we in a picture, both of we smarter than the ghetto, but only one really get out. Some people just fated to fuck up even when them smart enough to know better.

  So the Singer give me a room to set up office for the peace council. I still figuring out what we going to do, but the first thing to do was collect all the money from the peace concert. One afternoon Papa-Lo send Josey Wales to the house to drop off some money from the west side entrance ticket sales. The Singer outside near the entrance, him just done playing football. Josey Wales park him white Datsun and step out and the Singer look at him as him pass, then look through the office window straight at me. Brethren, lemme tell you, if eyes really did have beams like that boy in X-Men comic, him would have blast me to kingdom come and take the house with him. So as soon as the man leave the Singer march straight into the office. Before me even ask what a gwaan, him say, who was that brother? Me say Josey Wales, man, community activist in Copenhagen City, almost like Papa-Lo deputy. Boy, in that short time me get to know the Singer very well, so me see him lose him temper once or twice. But me never see that man or any man get so furious, that him start shake, he couldn’t even talk for a few minutes because every word in him mouth too ragged to come out. Me just sit there and watch the Singer pant and choke, the way he furious. Him say,

  —Tristan, me know that brother. Him was here, right here the night I get shot. You want to know when I knew this peace thing wasn’t going to last? From right there.

  So I fly to Canada to talk to some organizations about the peace council, and go check a brethren in Toronto. Him telling me all this stuff about the concert, so much that me say brethren, is like you was there. Him say no, man, me see it ’pon the TV, the channel that show cultural programming. Me wondering how the hell people in Canada seeing the concert when nobody come talk to me ’bout rights only to hear some company name Copenhagen City Promotions was selling footage to TV stations in Toronto, London and Mississauga. So of course me call Papa-Lo right away and say, brethren, what di fuck a go on? Him say him never know nothing ’bout no footage, since the whole time him was just watching out for Mick Jagger. But why would somebody name them company Copenhagen City Promotions if he didn’t come from the area? Then him say, Maybe is from the original Copenhagen in foreign, like me born with the name idiot on me forehead. I didn’t bother tell him that no white crew was filming the concert. Look, both him and me know who was behind this. Then him say maybe is Shotta Sherrif. Me laugh and go to hang up the phone, but before he go I say, Pull your leash on Josey Wales or me will do it for you. WLIB New York want me to come back as guest ’pon them talk show, so me tell Papa-Lo me changing my flight from Toronto to JFK. As soon as me hang up me change my mind and go to Miami instead. Plenty Jamaicans in Miami don’t even hear about the council yet, plus me can talk to the station ’pon the phone.

  Four days later me in Miami. I go check me brethren A-Plus from Balaclava days. When me knock ’pon the man door and he open it, the man scream like a girl. You hear me. Man ’bout fi run since is must duppy did deh ’pon him. Duppy is a ghost, by the way. I tell you, the man couldn’t decide to piss or shit himself. He grab me like me was him pickney and you know the rules, bad man don’t hug. Definitely not no other man. The man hug me and say, Jesus Christ, Tristan, what you doing here? How you survive that one?

  —Survive what? me say.

  —How you mean, bredda? Man just done tell everybody say him kill the I.

  —What? What the bombocloth you a talk ’bout?

  —Josey Wales’ four-eye deputy, Weeper. Him tell people only two day ago he just fly to New York and cancel you.

  —Cancel me? Then A-Plus, me is a duppy or what?

  —You have me a ponder the same thing right now, fi true.

  —Brethren, not only did this pussyhole not kill me, but me never go New York.

  —What?

  —No star, change me mind when me realise me can talk to this radio station by phone. Too much people in Miami wanting to hear ’bout the peace council anyway.

  —Boy, brethren, is good thing you show up, ’cause me was just about to grab two man and discipline that pussyhole.

  —Hold on, what you mean? Him still in Miami?

  —Yeah, man, him deh yah a palaver ’round him friend house on 30th and 46th. You know where Lincoln Memorial Park deh?

  —Yeah, man. What kinda hardware you have here?

  A-Plus show me a Thompson submachine and a nine. Me take the nine and him control the submachine gun and we drive out to Lincoln Memorial. So we park the car two block away and forward to this friend yard. You ever see that part of Miami? One story house, with verandah to the side and sometimes glass window. Dead grass and dry-up dirt is what them call a lawn. This house with a mash-up car right on the lawn, might as well be East Kingston. Anyway, we draw down on the house, A-Plus taking the front, me skipping ’round the back. Of course the pussyhole them have the door open. Of course me hear Weeper voice loud and clear. Coming from the left side of the hallway. Me take two step and there him be, him back to me pissing in the toilet. I jump the boy, push him past the toilet so that me and him bust through the shower curtain and a ram him into the wall. Him face go right into it, so hard him stunned. Him glasses fall off. Before the boy could do thing me put the gun right to him temple and make him hear the click. Weeper start tremble so hard he nearly shake the gun out of me hand. The man still a piss. Me say,

  —Pussyhole, imagine me come off the plane in Miami only to find out say me dead and everybody in the world h
ear but me. How you imagine that?

  —Woi, woi, me nuh know, Tristan, me no know how you fi dead. You, you deh right yah so.

  —You no know? But brethren, no you going ’round telling people say you kill me? When you kill me? Last week? Yesterday?

  The same time him friend come in the bathroom with him hand up in the air and A-Plus behind him with the machine gun at him neck.

  —So Weeper, me brethren, tell me how you kill me, ’cause boy, me have to tell you, me no feel dead at all.

  —Who tell you say me kill you, boss? Who a spread lie?

  —Me just want to know how you so previous. I mean, brethren, at least kill the I first before you start boast ’bout it?

  The pussyhole don’t say a thing. He start to cry and the other man start to cry too. Then again is not cry them was crying. Them two was weeping. Of course whoever don’t kill I today, will kill I tomorrow so I put the gun to him temple to take him out. The other man bawl out and start beg for him. I mean, him really start beg and plead, all drop to him knees which was too much but still. Me still can’t get over how much the man cry and beg, like Weeper was him pickney or something. Before me pull off the gun Weeper glance ’pon the man quick. Me never see a man so furious. We gun-butt the two of them and leave.

  You very at ease with all I just say, Alex Pierce. You pissing yourself underneath the desk? Then again, something tell me that you don’t frighten too easy.

  ’Fraid of what? Reprisal? Trust me, Weeper is the last person in the world that would come after me. But in the meantime police kill Copper. Then Papa-Lo. You have to understand something. This peace was between JLP ghetto and PNP ghetto. The police never sign no treaty nor the JLP or PNP. Except police in Jamaica not known for any kind of thinking. You too young to know ’bout old-time movie. You ever see a movie with Keystone Kops? Yes? Well Jamaican police constabulary is a bunch of Keystone Kops. Both Copper and Papa-Lo smart enough to know police have way too much vendetta on the street to be a part of no fucking treaty. But them way too stupid to track down a man like Copper who evade them for ten years. You have some sense, Alex Pierce, surely you must know where I going with this. Anyway, then Jacob Miller crash. Shotta Sherrif soon realize what a gwaan and take one of the five flights to Miami. But then him thief cocaine stash from the brother of a man in the Wang Gang and skip to Brooklyn. But what you know, there in the Starlight ballroom man from Wang Gang New York brethren, track him down and kill him. Shoot him dead right there in the club. Before you know it, everybody involved in the peace council dead but this woman, and me. Whether accident or deliberate, I don’t bother wait to find out. Me fly back to Jamaica to bury Copper, then fly out again. And no, me didn’t go back.