—This is Queens, by the way.
—I know.
—You do?
I don’t answer him. We hit a pothole and I jump.
—Betram, what the fuck, man, you just run over a goat?
—Pothole, boss.
—Imagine the don, man, leave Jamdown to run into pothole, what a ting.
—We didn’t want him to feel like stranger, Eubie.
—Haha.
I’m hoping that nobody see me jump in the dark, or I might have to do something.
—My boy Josey jump like he hear duppy.
Everybody laugh. I don’t like how he’s parring with everybody like he and them is size. I don’t like when any fucking man disrespect me, even as a joke. This man really thinking me and him is neck and neck. He really think so. I wonder if this would happen if Weeper was managing Manhattan and Brooklyn the way he seem to be managing Queens and the Bronx. We need to talk as soon as we get out of this van. Meanwhile I’m wondering what the man in the back doing. Then we on another highway, and I look over and there is the sea or the river and there is a neon sign of the old Pepsi label, old from when I was a boy.
—So, Josey, I was thinking. I—
—You going talk business in the van?
—What, this? I trust my men implicitly, Josey, meaning—
—You not about to tell me what implicitly mean.
—Woi, Josey check you out, nuh? Man bad like sin! But ah nuh nothing. We can wait until we reach Boston Jerk Chicken. Funny, eh? What are the odds, Boston Jerk Chicken from Portland would land on Boston Road in New York? That is what me son would call irony, from him lit class. They grow up fast, eh? How old you big son be now?
—Fourteen. All this can’t wait till we get out of the van?
—Just making convo, but suit yourself.
The van stop. I didn’t even notice that we was in the Bronx. I know it was after nine but the street still busy, with people moving up and down in the middle of the road, along the sidewalk and in and out of store like it’s still daylight. Cars park on both side of the road and all of them either Buick or Oldsmobile or Chevrolet. Miss Beulah’s Hair Technique, Fontaine Brothers shipping, Western Union, another Western Union, Peter’s Boutique Men’s Clothing, Apple Bank, and then Boston Jerk Chicken. The place look like they was about to close, but somebody must did see Eubie, because a light from the back just go on. So now I’m wondering if Eubie forget that I say no Jamaican food, or if this is another cute disrespect. We sit down, just me and him at an orange plastic booth near the door with him directly in front of me. One of his men by the cashier and two stand up outside.
—How much security you usually need ’round here?
—Not too much, Ranking Dons know better than to try move in on Boston or Gun Hill Road. Last time they try a thing they drop two of me dealers. Now you know this nigger wasn’t going take that shit lying down, right? We hear that a party going on in Haffen Park with plenty of Ranking Dons. We just drive down in three car, jump out and shower that whole park with bullet. We didn’t even shoot to kill even though one or two man did suck salt that day. All me care ’bout was that at least one of them was going shit in a colostomy bag for the rest of him life. That was the last time them fucking batty boys mess with the Bronx. Pushing smack in Philly is the best move they ever make. Still, them getting bolder in Brooklyn. Too bold, if you ask me.
—Tell me.
—What?
—Tell me how bold.
—Well, your man Weeper can best tell you—
—I didn’t ask Weeper, I ask you.
—Okay. Okay. Real talk then. You boy fucking around in more ways than one, while Ranking Dons, driving up and down in a triangle on Broadway, Gates and Myrtle, watching your boy fuck up. Spotters can’t find runners, dealers shooting up, meanwhile them boys and they Chevrolets patrolling all over because they know they can’t set foot in the Bronx or in Queens. My man report all this to me.
—Your man? How he know so much?
—Don’t take this no way, but I have one of Weeper’s runners on the lookout for me.
—What the bombocloth, Eubie, you a spy ’pon the man, ’pon me?
—Oh for fuck’s sake, Josey, like you don’t have man spying on me. Or Bricks run to phone booth every night to make collect call to him woman. Me no care. I actually don’t mind at all. It keep me on my toes and remind me not to fuck up. My man report to me twice a week. I mean, I can’t imagine he finding out anything you don’t already know.
—Like what? Test me.
—Like how your boy Weeper is a user.
—Weeper sniffing coke from as early as ’75, that not nothing new.
—But new it is, Josey. Now him smoking crack and you and me know that crack is not coke. Can a man do good business even when him deh ’pon coke? Of course. Every man me know in the music biz a lick coke. Hookers and blow them call it, my youth. Back then the biz did even have a sort of class. But crack is different business. Every single dealer who switch from coke to crack mash up. You can’t hold a single thought on crack. You can’t do no fucking business. Crack is you business. You can’t add number when you on crack. You can’t separate what to sell and what to buy. Shit gone to hell and you don’t even care. When you see Weeper ask when last he go to Bushwick. Ah smoke up crack and . . . well . . . them other things is fi him business, but the man is a r’asscloth crackhead, and this is a r’asscloth business.
—How you know him smoking crack?
—My man see him do it.
—Fucking lie that, Eubie.
—Brethren, what make you think him hiding it? You no understand. When a man ’pon crack him don’t fucking care. Is damn slackness, man. The man a shoot up crack like some crack bitch, and messing up him spots, and when him not doing that, going on with all sorts of nastiness that him must did catch from Miami ’cause there’s no way he could be doing that shit in Jamdown—
—Enough.
—And Ranking Dons is nothing but john-crows, before a body even dead they start to hover close.
—Me say enough, Eubie, to r’asscloth.
—Alright, brethren, alright.
—Enough of this bombocloth fuckery, make we go.
—Brethren, the food don’t even come yet.
—Me look like me bombocloth hungry? What me want to do is go to Bushwick. Right now, Eubie.
John-John K
So there was this time in Miami way down on Collins in South Beach. I was smoking Parliaments in a Mustang that already smelled like ass, bitching over being given bad info on a pot pickup that was just not going to fucking happen (yeah, the aim was to jack the stash and then sell it), when like moths sniffing out the new chintz, some boys started to come over. A blond one, hair long and curly like he spent most days posing as Farrah Fawcett, glided his way, jeans split at the side and cut like hot pants, so high that white pockets poked out. He was singing too, voice deep enough to kill the Farrah vibe, more, more, more, how do you like it, how do you like it. I wanted to say, Faggot, it’s nineteen eighty fucking three.
Motherfucker’s roller skates stopped somewhere in that girly middle between pink and purple. Lilac maybe, something that fags would know. Rollerbitch never saw him coming, the dirty one, black hair so ashy that it seemed grey, sliding up through the blindside of the car like he’s following shadow. I didn’t even see him until the rollerbitch glided straight into a kung fu kick to the side from kid’s combat boots. Rollerbitch went rolling, teetering, tottering like a drunk dancing queen, trying to regain footing but unable to stop the skates without wiping out on the asphalt. Bitch screamed and cussed and tried to stay up but barreled backways on one foot then the other until he went butt first into a pile a trashbins by the wire fence. Take your clap and your stanky ass to Hialeah, the boy said. Spic of course, but a cute spic, maybe not long from Cuba, not long enough for the dirty pinguero to know that The Wild One was one fucking old movie and leather wasn’t the coolest bet for what was still the tro
pics.
Spic bent down into the car window smelling like he was smoking only thirty minutes ago. His left canine was missing, but his eyes were black and hungry, his chin strong like Vinnie Barbarino’s on Welcome Back, Kotter. Kid stuck his hand in the car and I grabbed him—hunter’s instinct. Smokes, the kid said, and I let him go. The kid said nothing else, just went around to the right side and got in the car. I would have let him blow me there, but shit I had to jet, these run-down art deco–style hotels were becoming a major downer. Kid said, What the fuck, Papi, I don’t travel. I said, Well get the fuck out of my car then. Kid changed his mind and said drive me someplace nice. He took another cig out of the pack and stuck it behind his ear. I’m thinking that hopefully the rifle wasn’t on the bed or this kid would get scared. Kid was just staring at my cowboy boots.
—You some ranchero, Papi?
—Take off my fucking hat.
And the fucked-up thing is all I could think about was Rocky. Even with my hand in this kid’s dirty hair, as his head bobbed up and down, I thought about Rocky’s rules. We had certain rules. Or maybe we thought we did. If you’re gonna make it with somebody, fuck guys on the sofa because on the bed is cheating. And only if the guy is really, really cute, because the memory gem said we only pass this way but once and then you just have to make it with him, because we’re queers and bullshit rules don’t apply. Well, straight rules.
But fucking hell, man, stuff I had put to bed years ago has been staging a fucking reunion in my head these past few days. Fuck if I know why, I’ve never been to New York. Here, it’s like this, see, suck my finger and suck and suck until you’re a vacuum, see, like when you suck on a plastic bag till all the air’s gone out? suck so hard. Suck so hard that I can’t pull my finger out—I know how to do it. Nobody told me NYC was a place overrun by ghosts. You’re a fucking freak, John-John. I never meant to push the boy. Yeah I did. I never meant for the boy to get hurt. Yeah I fucking did. I never meant to kill him. What does meant mean? When he landed facedown on the train track and I pulled him up, just to position his head over the beam so that his loose mouth bit into it and then kicked him hard at the back of his head again and again until I heard the crunch, all I could think about was summer camp. Is it in? Oh yeah. All the way in? Uh-huh. Fourteen, back from summer camp and my pop punched me in the stomach once and told me I was a fucking wimp who needed to get hard. Summer camp was all about bad food, calamine lotion and counselors walking around with rulers to stick between dancing couples to make space for Jesus. Me and Tommy Mateo, all red-haired whiteboy Afro, sitting on the sidelines hissing that this was bullshit. Hey, you wanna smoke? Uh, yeah. Two weeks after camp all I could think of was seeing Tommy again. On the phone he seemed different, busy, like he was talking to somebody else. You know the old train tunnel over by Lincoln? I get there and he’s staying far back, like he wasn’t the boy whose butt I was stuffing every night in the fucking woods. Tommy blew smoke in my face when I got too close.
Tommy, you wanna, you know?
What? No, you fucking fag.
You’re the fucking fag, getting cornholed.
Fuck you, that’s because there weren’t no fucking girls.
Girls to fuck you in the butt? Camp was full of girls.
Not any girls I would want to fuck, shit, even you were cuter than all of them. But we’re back home and girls here are cute.
I don’t want fucking girls.
You’re supposed to, or else you’re a fag. You’re a fucking fag and I’m gonna tell your pop.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Why am I thinking all this shit right now? The light in this guy’s bedroom went on, then off, the bathroom light went on for half an hour and off. It’s been off for half an hour now. Give a man half an hour give or take to fall asleep. He could be fucking some chick with the lights off, but then same rules still apply. He’ll either be asleep or distracted. I would climb the fire escape but it’s three floors up and that’s a pretty fucking tricky thing to tip-toe all the way. Griselda gave me a set of keys but coming through the front door just seemed like a really stupid thing to do. This is New York, he’s gotta have locks on that shit. Or maybe he’s fucking some chick and don’t want her to stay.
Crossed the street and I’m in the building. Every now and then I get some hint that I’m really just a stereotypical fag, for example, who the fuck had the great idea to paint this whole hall area mustard? Ten, fifteen feet and the first stairway still has carpet on the steps. Three floors up I know that’s not sweat running down my back. At the door and before I know it I’m sweeping my hands across it like I’m checking if it’s real wood or some shit. Given how much I don’t trust that Colombian bitch, I’m half expecting the key not to work. I push it in and turn hard, expecting it to break or something, but it works, it works with a fucking bang. Fuck this shit, first I think to abort. Maybe it was louder out here than in there? Either way it’d be wise to take the fucking safety off.
Door creaks and opens and there’s no living room, I guess people in NYC don’t really need one. Right in front, a dining table and two chairs, or maybe the other chairs are someplace else. Little light’s coming out from outside, so all I can see is a couch pushed up against the wall and the bed pushed up against the other side. TV right by the window. Can’t tell if it’s black sheets or if by the bed is just dark. Either way, I walk up to the bed, look for the slightest lump under the sheet and let rip seven shots from the clip. Three things: the zoop-zoop of the silencer, the slight pop of the bullets bursting the pillow, and the gasp behind me. I swing around to see a naked white man with red hair maybe. Can’t tell in the dark since he left the bathroom light off. Bitch gave me the wrong fucking apartment. I raise the gun to get him in the head but he throws something straight into my eye and it’s like I’m outside myself hearing myself when I fucking scream. It runs down my face and I taste it. Motherfucking mouthwash. By the time I run into the bathroom and wash out my eye he already pushed up the window and jumped out on the fire escape. And I’m after him, this naked white man running down each step screaming and me trying to get a good shot. I fire and it blasts the metal, shooting off sparks. I’m barely running three steps in the flat before I’m down another staircase, firing at the screaming naked dude, I don’t know what he’s screaming but it doesn’t sound like help. And all I’m shooting is this fucking fire escape. He jumps down the rest of the way instead of taking the ladder.
There we are running down the alley, him screaming like his throat half cut, me behind him, half blind and my right eye still fucking killing me. Worse, we’re kicking up this shit-rot-sour-dead stink with each step. I’m trying to get shots off, but only movie motherfuckers can run and shoot straight, and that’s with two working eyes. All my shots keep disappearing in the dark, not ricochet no nothing. He’s pretty fast barefoot and hopping and zipping through this dark alley, hot with potholes and trash cans everywhere. I step on something squishy and don’t bother to check if it was a rat. We hit a cross street and the sudden headlights and streetlights stop him cold for too long. Pop him off right as he starts running again, just as two cars pass on both sides of him. One stops for a second then peels out, swerving right, almost hitting a light, then left then right again, disappearing down a street. Nobody on the street at all, which was fucking strange for New York, I think. First I thought the wall looked weird, black, bulby and shiny. Then I realized that it was garbage bags, one on top the other making a fucking wall that covered both sides all the way down into total dark. I walk up to the man, grab him by the left ankle and drag him back into the alley.
Dorcas Palmer
Seriously have you taken a good look at this shit? At the cover? A pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a big pink nose. Who’s it by, Groucho Marx? And my God, look at the other publications from this place. Improvised Weapons of the American Underground, and this, Professional Homemade Cherry Bomb, and what’s destined to be a classic, How to Lose Your Ex-Wife Forever. What is this really? I’d think
you were militia but you’re not in Texas and far as I know militias haven’t relaxed their no niggers policy.
Meanwhile I’m trying to figure out why exactly this man has started to think he has the wherewithal to act out in my own house. Yes he’s been acting familiar all day, but this shit like he’s my father or husband or something is a whole new level. No, he’s a bored old man who finally gets a mystery to solve and acting like it is such a hassle. No, he thinks he knows me because I have some obligation to him, and he’s so disappointed. Whatever it is this man have some nerve.
—Calm down.
—Whaddya mean calm down? You some kinda fugitive? Why would you need such a book?
—Not that I owe you any explanation, but I saw it in a bookstore and was curious.
—What bookstore, Soldier of Fortune? Those wackos read?
—It’s just a book.
—It’s a manual, Dorcas, if that’s your real name. Nobody buys a manual unless they plan to use it. And judging by the dog ears, you’ve used it lots.
—I don’t have to answer nothing to you.
—Then don’t. But come on, surely this book is a crock of crap?
—Yeah, total junk as you would say. That’s why I don’t use it for—
—I said the book was crap. I didn’t say you weren’t using it.
Why am I not kicking him out of my house for getting angry with me? It’s my fucking house. I pay the rent.
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 57
