—I think people are more concerned by what you might say these days.
—Going to say, Luis. Going to say. People dig me this hole. I didn’t tell them to make it so big it swallow all of them. I don’t know what your boss worried about. All he need to do is make a call to the DEA—the Feds, right? Make a call and part of the story squash.
—DEA aren’t Feds. And they don’t control either.
—They? So somebody did send you.
—I liked our conversations more when we were on the same side.
—There is the gate and there is the lock. Come over.
—You’ve gotten all witty in your old age, man.
—Still younger than you. What you want, Doctor Love? You have some stash of money lock ’way to give me when me come out of prison if me keep quiet?
—I didn’t say that.
—Well let me say it for you and answer. What make you think I coming out of prison?
—The deal you’ll probably sign with the DEA.
—Still don’t know what you worried about. Doctor Love is blur, no you tell me that? Most people don’t even know him exist. Maybe you die in Bay of Pigs, maybe you blow your own self up on the plane in Barbados, maybe you working for them Sandinistas now.
—Contras.
—Same difference. Or maybe you is just something people make up from scratch when they need a duppy.
—Maybe I’m a ghost talking to you now.
—You might as well be. Man like you the world don’t need no more. You know from when I see that? From 1976. Politics don’t mean shit. Power don’t mean shit. Money mean something. Give people what they want. Peter Nasser think he can send man to talk to me about the error of my ways, but which man in Kingston I don’t own?
—You sure about that, Josef? Every man?
—Yes.
—Every single one?
—What, me need microphone in this place or you deaf?
—Every single one?
—Yes, to fuck.
—Even in New York?
—Especially in New York. Must be why them hungry for me over there.
—Who do you think off’d your boy Weeper?
—You mean other than he himself? This argument getting tired, Doctor Love. You don’t have to look hard to find out what happen to Weeper.
—Hmm. Before she flew the fuck off the grid I had a nice chat with Mrs. Griselda Blanco.
—Didn’t Medellín already sort out that mad cunt business?
—Before, Josey. Listen to me, will you? This was back when she saw the writing on the wall and was looking for friends. She’s telling me about this gang, er . . . posse named Ranking Dons, ever heard of them? Most of them are Jamaicans.
—Yes, Luis, I know about the Ranking Dons.
—Oh. Didn’t know if you knew them or not. Anyway, so she was telling me how they almost took over the Miami racket at one point. Yet within like a month they all vanished.
—So?
—So, while Griselda certainly had the desire to get rid of them she sure as fuck didn’t have the smarts to pull it off. Or the manpower to deal with you Jamaicans. To deal with Jamaicans she needed a guy from the rock. Preferably one already in the States who could mobilize quick and who had a vested interest. And that motherfucker ain’t you, Josef. Not like you to underestimate a guy, mijo. He gave her back South Miami. She gave him Weeper. And then he just decided to wait out the mighty Josey Wales. Just waiting on you to fuck up. Enter the crack house. Why didn’t you just let it go, man?
—Because I hate the taste of piss.
—What?
—Nothing.
—No, you said something.
—Ah never say bombocloth nothing, Doctor Love.
—One man, Josey.
—Eubie?
—Eubie.
Eight
I’ve just never been around a, you know, before . . .
—A what?
—A man. I mean, one of these men.
—What a way you facety. Me tell you that me man is one of these man?
—You said he was with those Ranking Dons.
—Not everybody in church ah Christian.
—I’m not sure I get your point.
—You not sure you get my point. For serious, you did always talk so stoosh or is white people you ah take showoff with?
—You think anybody speaking proper English trying to take after white people?
—Trying to take after something.
—Oh so chatting bad must mean you is a real Jamaican then. Well if it make you feel better white people love hear you people talk much more than me.
—You people.
—Yes, you people. Real Jamaicans. All of you so damn real. And you . . . you know what. I’m way out of line here, and this could get me fired. Bad enough I’m talking to next of kin, now I’m getting in an argument. Next thing you know complaints are lodged and I’m reprimanded if not fired. I really hope he recovers.
—What you mean you never see a gunman before? Why you want to see gunman?
She’s looking at me like she really wants to know. Her eyebrows raised and her mouth open a little, like she’s really curious. I wish I could attack her defensiveness, but it’s like she really just wants to know. And I don’t have any answer that makes any sense. Mostly because I don’t really know either. She gets up from beside him and goes over to the window. This day is going nowhere, and it’s March?
—I can’t think of anybody else in the whole world who me never want see, she says.
—I understand.
—Where you come from original?
—Havendale.
—Then you don’t understand. And you never see one up close.
—No.
—Well . . . hold on. Listen to we nuh, talking like we in zoo and him is gorilla. Me should laugh since it funny. Is long time now this thing boiling up between Ranking Dons and Storm Posse.
—But why it come here?
—How you mean? Where else it fi come? No yah so people want the drugs?
She looks at me like she’s some mother who just run out of patience with her kid. I want to tell her I’m not some idiot, but I go over by the window and stand beside her.
—At least it almost done.
—What? That came out so quiet I wonder if she heard me.
—The killing.
—How you know?
—Not too much people leave to kill. And Josey Wales going end up in Yankee prison for a good while. Although me believe it when me see it.
—I didn’t know he was in jail.
—Well what ’bout Jamaica you know? News ’bout Josey Wales was all Jamaican newspaper could write ’bout. Yes me read. Every day was a new story about court and trial and witness and delay and privy council. All the people him kill and how America want him bad. Turn on the TV and even American news talking ’bout him like him was movie star. Just Josey Wales, Josey Wales, Josey Wales and . . . you alright? Jesus Christ, lady . . . hold on . . . me have you . . . me have you.
I nod and realise I’m sitting on the chair beside the Ranking Don. It almost flies out of my head how I got to the chair, but I’m not dizzy enough to forget.
—You alright now?
—I don’t need a glass of water.
—Wha?
—In TV show them always ah give people a glass of water.
—Rahtid my girl, you haffi faint fi talk Jamaican? What a ting.
—I didn’t faint.
Then she laughs really loud, loud enough I think she might wake up the Ranking Don. Long enough that it turns into a grin, then a cackle, then her chest just heaves. Something tells me that at some point in the laugh she stopped laughing at me.
—When last you talk Jamaican?
—How you mean, I talk Jamaican all the . . . you know what? Last week when this little bloodcloth fatass who run the Rite Aid in the Bronx ask me how far up me legs the white stockings go.
—Rahtid, wha you tell him?
<
br /> —Further than you ever going reach, you big fat slabba shithouse.
My head has stopped spinning, I think. I don’t know. Not sure why it was spinning in the first place. But then she says,
—I wonder if the trial going be ’pon TV?
—What trial?
—You never hear me the first time? Josey Wales.
You know when a woman puts on a show that something’s not bothering her? How she straightens a back already straight, and starts to play with her necklace and looks away even though nobody is looking at her, and how she smiles like some ghost gave her a joke? Smile until there is no smile anymore, just her feeling her lips pull back over her teeth? Yeah I’m spying that woman in the mirror on the other side of the Ranking Don’s bed.
—That man should hang. Somebody shoulda shoot him inna jail, you hear me.
—For this? I say. I really didn’t want to point to the man in the bed, that just seemed too damn dramatic, so I nodded instead. Subtle.
—What, Ranking Dons don’t kill anybody? I say.
It’s funny, I try to shut all that shit out but I remember, though, not long ago the New York Post carried some headline . . . yeah . . . the Jamaican who got New York hooked on crack and it was the head of the Ranking Dons. I remember ’cause it was the last time I picked up a Post.
—Ranking Dons don’t have no leader.
—Of course not, him in jail.
—No, me mean they don’t have no leader like Josey Wales. That man different. One time some man bump him car—no, he bump the man car and chase after him. You believe that? The man run right into police station.
—The police drive him home?
—No. They stand back while Josey march into the station with some other man, pull him out and kill him right in the street, right in front of the police station.
—Oh Lord.
—Oh Lord is right. But you know, you going be so wicked you can’t surprise when wickedness come back to you. Both him daughter and his son, the one him was sending to Wolmer’s Boys’ School ’cause he think he can make him posh, get shot dead. Boy, as mother me sorry when pickney dead. But as me, it serve the fucker right. But is this one start all the kasskass. Can you imagine, nothing happen when they kill the girl but them kill the boy and Kingston erupt with wildfire. What a thing. And the fire spread all the way to Miami and New York. My man tell me smoke even blow all the way to Kansas. You know where Kansas deh?
—Uh-uh.
—Me neither.
—So he in prison then. And he’s not coming out.
—Him can’t come out. If he was going to come out he should a come out in Jamaica. But from what me hear, him start chat too much. Too much people scared and stupid. If me was him me would a board plane to ’merica from yesterday.
—So he in prison then? Him not coming out?
—Not for now. Why you business so much ’bout Josey Wales? After ah no ghetto you come from?
—I . . .
Not even Christmas yet, barely December and somebody is already bursting firecrackers but I run and run and run again, then hop, then walk right up to just ten or so feet from the gate 56, walking stiffer, the firecrackers getting louder, especially the rapid ratatatatat ones I don’t like so I turn and the gate 56 is already open welcoming me for once open wide like the gate is two arms saying come in daughter only loving and oneness here until firecracker run right past me. Man running backwards nearly knock me over man in mesh sleeveless man almost stumble man with machine gun in two hands and shaking from recoil? Recoil recoil they call it recoil on TV. Machine gun hip shake ratatatattat, no papapapapapapap man run past me then behind me and I follow him with my eyes to the white car like a Cortina bombocloth a man says I look around two more men running one frontways and shouting other man backways with two handguns that firing up and down and pap-pap and my body’s jerking with each pap and one man knock me sideways when he run past me and other man knock me on the other side and me spin ’round and ’round and ’round and another man fire two shots and screech white car gone and other car pull up I didn’t see that other car it just pull up and I still feel like I’m spinning though I know I just stopped because I stomped my foot in the ground to stop and sirens wake me up or maybe it’s mosquitoes and right there near the guardhouse a woman spread flat in the dirt, blood spreading near her head and screaming people screaming too much screaming and I turn and walk into his chest tall man taller than me and thick like a man but thin too and skin dark or maybe is the evening and him eye narrow like a chineyman but he’s black no he’s dark and right up in me right up to my face right up to my neck and he sniffs sniffs sniffs like a dog Josey get inna the bombocloth car the white car says and he brings the gun right up to my face and it’s hole no an O no it’s an O with a hole and it smells like matches just as you strike it Josey get inna the bombocloth car the man in the car is shouting but he still in front of me waving the gun closer and closer and right in front of my left eye but the sirens getting louder and he walk away backwards looking at me and pointing the gun and he walking further and further but getting closer and closer and he’s in the car but I feel him breathing down my neck and he’s driving off but I smell him still here and I can’t move the woman is still in the dirt but a bunch of children run to her screaming and some people coming around from the back must be more people to shoot me run and run and run and a car horn blow and a siren and a whoosh and keep running and a bus slow down at stoplight and run and jump and land on the step people looking at me. Reach home have to grab my suitcase no my grip no my handbag damn woman you don’t need no damn handbag, grab the small suitcase under the bed the one you took to Negril with Danny, foreign white man grab the suitcase grab the suitcase r’ass bombocloth lizard lizard lizard lizard you r’asscloth so much dust under the bed no time for that now, red dress, blue skirt, blue jeans skirt, Fiorucci jeans, Shelly-Ann jeans, jeans halter top so much jeans but where you going? Calico dress no, purple dress no, velvet skirt no that was a stupid purchase say it just like your mother: purchase panties top drawer, socks who need socks, makeup who need makeup, no lipstick, rouge eye liner Jesus Christ young girl he coming with a O with a bullet in it but where you going? Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash who have time for r’asscloth mouthwash go go go go girl pocketbook—to write what? Bible—to read what? the strapless heels, the Adidas maxi-dress that can wear anywhere, change? I should change, I should change so he can’t recognize me he following me he at the door he drive off before me so no no no no too much dress can’t run fast in dress need more pants and track shoes no I can’t . . . no . . . just stay put. Just stay in your place is not like he know you. Is not like he could ever find you. Where he going to look? But Kingston small. Jamaica small but Kingston smaller him going hunt like a dog that must be why he was sniffing me he’s going to hunt me down and shoot me like a dog tonight. Think for God’s sake Jesus Christ think. The police going call you a witness and they not going protect you. Take the Bible. No. Yes bitch take the Bible. Don’t turn on the radio, don’t turn on the TV he will find you through the TV he will smell you out and kill you, that O with a hole and a bullet in it I know. Who don’t know about the ghetto, this is why we have state of emergency because man in the ghetto can get anywhere he wants, if man from the ghetto can break into my mother’s house and beat my father and rape her then they can find anybody anywhere don’t think about them, shut them out, shut them out, shut them out.
Shut everybody out.
Shut everybody down.
Just go.
But I still smell him. I smell him now.
—Nurse? Nurse?
Nine
A Brief History of Seven Killings
—A Crack House, A Massacre and the Making of a Crime Dynasty
Part 3.
By Alexander Pierce
Monifah Thibodeaux meant it this time. Her mother knew she meant it because there was something final in her voice. Except she had heard that final before, and such is the trick
y dance of somebody like Monifah, that final is fluid, final means a different thing each week and just when you think a person could not sink any lower, they fall to new depths that a poor mother could never have dreamed of. But this “meant it” somehow felt different from the others even if the stakes didn’t seem all that different. She was going to kick her habit tomorrow.
She said so to her mother, Angelina Jenkins. She repeated it to her best friend Carla, who had cut her off three years ago when she found Monifah in her bathroom with a needle stuck between her toes. She even told her ex-boyfriend Larry, who wanted to marry her once, and went as far as picking out a ring at Zales to surprise her. It was as if she had just returned from a twelve-step program and was on a mission to repair the damage done to loved ones hurt.
Monifah was going to kick tomorrow. But kick meant overcoming her self-devouring drug habit and turning back from being what her own mother called a crack ho. And with Monifah tomorrow was always a day away. She was going to kick tomorrow only two months ago. And five months before that. Seven months before that one. Sixteen months before that. But this time, tomorrow, was August 15, 1985.
August 14, 1985, Monifah had been straight for almost a week. A high school dropout from Stuyvesant and pregnant at seventeen, she would have been a cliché’s idea of a ghetto cliché had she not complicated her own narrative so much. Dropping out of school after scoring 1900 on her SATs and staying clean for most of her pregnancy. Growing up shuffling between her mother’s apartment in Puerto Rican Bushwick and her family in Bed-Stuy and the Bronx, she was, according to her sister, hell-bent on escaping the life that fate had all but drawn up in lines with just numbers left to color.
—With just numbers left to colour? You did feel really cute when you write that, don’t?
—Boss, what him mean by straight? Him mean the gal was a fucking sodomite too?
—Ren-Dog, you think any woman not fucking you is a sodomite. One: the proper term is lesbian and two: straight here mean she leggo the coke. So my girl stop licking the crack pipe for a week.
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 66
