A Brief History of Seven Killings

by James, Marlon

  —You’re Storm Posse, though. Don’t you work for him?

  —Boy, me no work for bloodcloth nobody. Least of all some ghetto mouse in Kingston. Motherfucker can’t even read a spreadsheet but think him fucking smart. I not asking you a third time, white boy.

  —I . . . I didn’t realize until years later that he sent the guy. There was just so much going on in Jamaica, so much bullshit, it could have been anybody, even the fucking government. A guy made me realize . . . shit, shit. I don’t know why you asking me this, you work with him so you already know. You probably planned that shit with him.

  —What shit? What shit?

  —The Singer. Killing the Singer. He’s the one who shot the Singer.

  —What you just say?

  Before I answer he gets up quick and starts walking around me.

  —Motherfucker, what you just say?

  —He’s the one that shot the Singer back in 1976.

  —You mean he was in the gang? Boss, even me did know that is must Copenhagen City boys try kill him. Though I would never expect that from—

  —I mean, he fired the actual shot. Shots.

  —How the fuck you know?

  —I interviewed the Singer some months after. Everybody knows he was shot in the chest and the arm, right? Right?

  —Right.

  —At that time only three people knew that had he inhaled instead of exhaled the bullet would have gone straight through his heart. The doctor, the Singer and me.

  —So?

  —I went to Copenhagen City to interview the dons about the peace treaty in ’79. When I spoke to Wales, the Singer came up. He said it was fucked up that they tried to shoot the Singer right in the heart. He couldn’t have known that yet, not unless he was the doctor, the Singer, myself or—

  —The shooter.

  —Yeah.

  —Bombocloth. Bombocloth, my youth. I didn’t know.

  —Now you’re shocking me. I thought everybody connected to Wales knew.

  —Who tell you I connected to Wales? When me was building business in the Bronx where the fuck was Wales? You know for the longest while me did think it was somebody else who was behind this thing.

  —Who’s that?

  —Funny, and him is the only one me know that not dead.

  —Wales?

  —No, not him.

  —What do you mean by—

  —Did you know, Mr. Pierce, that the Singer did forgive one of them boys? Not only forgive him but take the man ’pon tour, bring him closer than a brother into him inner circle.

  —What the fuck, seriously? I think my already considerable admiration for the man just jumped by leaps and bounds. Shit. What happened to him?

  —Disappeared right after the Singer died. He knew shit wasn’t safe.

  —He just vanished. Just like that.

  —Well, nobody ever really vanish, Pierce.

  —I have some Chilean families to introduce you to.

  —What?

  —Nothing.

  —You good with German?

  —I listen to some Kraut rock . . . No.

  —Pity. You want a story, there’s a story. Every single man but one who go after the Singer end up dead.

  —But Josey Wales not—

  —The only one who might be alive, disappear in 1981 and nobody seem to know where he gone. But me.

  —And where is that?

  —You no seem too interested.

  —No, I am. Really. Where is he?

  —As I said, you not interested.

  —And I’m saying I am. How do you know I’m not interested?

  —Because I just tell you where him is. But don’t fret yourself. This probably too big for you. One day somebody going need to write a book ’bout it.

  —Oh. Okay.

  —You go back to writing your Brief History of Seven Killings.

  I almost say thank you but it hits me just as quick that I would be thanking the man for not killing, but merely extorting me. I’m so fucking tired of sitting on this stool like I’m the school dunce but I don’t get up. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m about to ask if by writing this shit does it mean I may never get the pleasure of seeing him again, but remember that Jamaicans rarely get sarcasm and fuck knows this is not one of those situations where you want them to misinterpret it as downright hostility. Better to just not think of any of this shit—a day this surreal couldn’t have happened anyway. Ren-Dog comes back in and they stand not too far from me mumbling some shit I guess must be kept secret.

  —One more thing, white boy.

  He turns around. His hand. A gun. Silencer. His hand. A gun silencer. His—

  —NOOOOOO! Holy fucking shit! Holy fucking shit! Oh my God. Holy fu—Holy fuck.

  —Yes, one more thing.

  —You fucking shot me! You motherfucking shot me!

  Blood is fucking spurting from my fucking foot like I was just fucking crucified. I grab my foot and know I’m screaming but don’t know that I’m off the stool and rolling around on the floor until Eubie grabs me and sticks the gun in my neck.

  —Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck, pussyhole, Ren-Dog says and grabs my hair.

  —You fucking shot me! He fucking shot me.

  —And the sky blue and water wet.

  —Oh my fucking God. Oh God.

  —You know it’s funny. Nobody ever says anything original after getting shot. It’s almost like everybody read a guidebook just in case.

  —Fuck you.

  —Aw don’t cry, big baby. Twelve-year-old boy get shot in Jamaica all the time and they don’t bawl like bitch.

  —Oh my God.

  My foot’s fucking screaming and he’s stooping down and fucking cradling me like a fucking infant.

  —I need to fucking call 911. I need to go to the hospital.

  —You also going need your woman to come clean up this mess.

  —Oh God.

  —Listen, white boy. This is to remind you, because hey, we was getting along so sweet that you probably forget, this is the wrong motherfucker to fuck with, you see me? Josey Wales is the most psychotic son of a bitch I ever come ’cross in my life, and I just fucking kill him. So what you think that make me?

  —I don’t—

  —Is a rhetorical question, pussyhole.

  He reaches down and touches my foot. Rubs around the bullet hole in my sock then sticks his finger in. I scream into the palm Ren-Dog just slapped over my mouth.

  —As much as I like your present company and much as I love my subscription to The New Yorker, make sure you don’t give me a reason to fucking come here again. You see me?

  He moves his hand but all I can do is cry. Not even weep, fucking cry.

  —You see me? he says and reaches for my foot again.

  —I see you. Goddamn it, I see.

  —Good. Goody goody gumdrops. My woman love to say that one.

  Ren-Dog grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me over to the couch. This going hurt like a bitch is all he says before he yanks my socks off. I have to slap my own mouth to keep the scream in my throat. He throws the socks away, rolls my kitchen towel into a ball and places my foot on top. I can’t even bear to look. Ren-Dog leaves and Eubie grabs my phone.

  —Call 911 when we leave.

  —How the fu . . . how the . . . bullet in foot, how do I explain . . . bullet in the foot?

  —You’re the writer, Alexander Pierce.

  I block my balls so it hits my knuckles when he throws the phone in my lap.

  —Make something up.

  Twelve

  Every time I pass on the subway to take the bus I forget that the bus is so much slower. Price I pay for hyperventilating whenever I’m underground. At least I’m awake. Last week I slept past seven stops and woke up to some man in the seat across looking me over, like he was trying to figure out which body part to touch to wake me up. No men on the bus today.

  Eastchester is empty too. Maybe the Jamaican football team is losing a game somewhere. It
says something about me that even in my own thoughts I’m such a considerable bitch. I’m sure the average person is just as rude, racist, irritable and nasty in their own thoughts too, so I don’t know why I’m beating up myself. I just need to get home, make some ramen noodles, throw myself on the couch and watch America’s Funniest Home Videos or some other no-commitment TV.

  I really need to stop thinking about Jamaicans. Or maybe I really need to up the Xanax. I mean, I don’t feel bad right now, I really don’t, but common cold is not the only thing you can feel coming.

  At Corsa. There’s no food in my house. I ate the last ramen two days ago, threw out all the Chinese this morning, and those McNuggets were a bad idea, even when they were fresh. I’m looking at my door and the window that looks like I left it open, even though it’s March and know there’s no food in my house. I really don’t want to go to Boston Road, but this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to sit inside and watch TV until the hunger I’m not feeling now gets worse, and then end up going anyway.

  So I’m walking down Corsa to Boston still hoping for my Mary Tyler Moore moment. The dumbest idea ever on a street packed with people not making it, but I still imagine. This is what happens when your life is work, TV and takeout. It’s almost like I’m living like an American, damn it, and screw all of you and your rules. I don’t know. But I do know if I had popped a Xanax I wouldn’t have been thinking so much already. I like to believe that everything in my house, from towels all the same colour, to the coffee machine where I press one button, is there just to make my life simple, but I’m realizing that they are all there to make sure I don’t think. Imagine, my mother thought I could never put my life together.

  Boston Jamaica Jerk Chicken. Jamaican Chicken and Food, Hot and Ready. Two rows of orange plastic booths with ketchup, salt and pepper on every table. Eat here? The thought is gone as soon as I think about it. On the counter right beside the cash register, coconut drops are in a cake dish reminding me of country. Never liked going to country—too much coconut drops and pit toilets. Right beside it another cake dish with what looks like potato pudding. I haven’t had potato pudding since 1979—no, longer. The more I look at it the more I want it, and the more it feels like I should think it’s a sign of something deeper, that what I really want is to taste Jamaica and that just sounds like some psychological bullshit. Funnier to think I just want something Jamaican in my mouth that’s not a penis. Damn dirty woman—no, damn dutty gal.

  Now me feel like me want chat patois all night, and it’s not because I was hanging around that woman and her gunman boyfriend all afternoon. Maybe it’s because I’m looking at damn coconut drops and feel like asking if they have any dukunnu, asham or jackass corn.

  —What I can get you, ma’am?

  Didn’t even see him sitting behind the counter, but then I see why he didn’t see me. Cricket on the small black-and-white TV on the plastic chair beside his.

  —West Indies versus India. Of course we doing nothing but bare fuckery again, he says.

  I nod. Never liked cricket, ever. Dark skin, big belly in between two muscular arms and a white goatee. This might be the first Jamaican man I’m speaking to in weeks and his eyebrows are raised—fed up with me already.

  —Can I get a roast chicken no fry chicken yes fry chicken and rice and peas if you have rice and peas and some fry plantain and shredded salad and—

  —Woi, lady, slow down. The food nah run nowhere.

  He’s laughing at me. Well, more like grinning and I don’t mind except now it making me wonder when last I make a man laugh.

  —You have ripe plantain though?

  —Yes, lady.

  —How ripe?

  —Ripe enough.

  —Oh.

  —Lady, don’t worry, it well ripe. The plantain going just mash up in your mouth.

  I resist telling him I really mean it when I say that’s the most delicious description of food I have ever heard ever, and say,

  —Three servings please.

  —Three?

  —Three. Second thought, you have any oxtail or curry goat?

  —Oxtail on the weekend. Curry goat just finish.

  —Fry chicken is fine. Leg and thigh thank you.

  —What you want to drink?

  —Is sorrel that on the menu?

  —Yes, ma’am.

  —I thought you could only get sorrel at Christmas.

  —But wait. Is where you deh the last umpteen years, lady? Everything Jamaican boxed up and on sale.

  —It taste good?

  —It don’t taste bad.

  —I’ll take one.

  Didn’t feel like taking all this food back to the house. I don’t know but I loved the idea of just sitting in this little restaurant overhearing the announcer on TV get excited over cricket and eating fried chicken. There’s a Jamaica Gleaner and a Star newspaper in the booth right across. Also Jamaica Observer, which I’ve never heard of. The man turns on the big TV mounted from the ceiling, and the first thing that comes on is cricket.

  —That JBC? I say.

  —Nah, some hurry-come-up Caribbean network, maybe Trinidad, the way everybody sound so sing-songy. Is ’cause of them why Jamaica have carnival now.

  —Carnival? With soca music?

  —Eehi.

  —Since when Jamaicans like soca music?

  —Since uptown want reason to dance in them brassiere and panty ’pon the street. Then hi, you no hear ’bout carnival?

  —No.

  —You must no go back too much. Or you no have no family ’pon the rock. You read the newspaper?

  —No.

  —Is forget you a try forget.

  —What?

  —Never mind, me love. I hope you raising your children like Jamaica and none of them American slackness, you know.

  —I don’t have—I mean, yes.

  —Good. Good. Just like the Bible say. Train a child how he should grow and—

  And I’m already tuning out. I’m in a little Jamaican food shop tuning out a man giving me granny wisdom. But damn this is good fry chicken, light brown and almost chunky and soft inside like he fried it then baked it. And rice and peas together, not the separated shit from Popeyes I have to mix together. I’m already a third of the way through this plate of plantains and was this close to anointing sorrel my favourite processed, possibly toxic, chemical lab re-creation of an original drink.

  —Bombo pussy r’asscloth.

  Couldn’t remember the last time I heard those words coming out a mouth that wasn’t mine.

  —Bombo pussy r’asscloth.

  —What going on?

  —Look, me love. R’ass.

  All I’m seeing is bad video of a Jamaican crowd, probably the same stock footage they’ve been using for the past fifteen years whenever anybody does a story on Jamaica. The same black men in t-shirts and tank tops, the same woman jumping up and down, the same placards made out of cardboard from people who can’t spell. The same army jeep moving in and out of camera. Seriously.

  —Bombo pussy r’ass—

  I’m about to ask him what so special about this report when I read the streamer at the bottom of the screen.

  JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL.

  The man turns up the volume yet I’m still not hearing a thing. There only the slab on the screen. Some man naked from the waist up, skin shiny like it was melting from all the heat, chunks of his chest and side blackened, large spots white like only his skin was burned off. Skin peeled off his breast like a suckling pig. I really couldn’t tell if the photo was out of focus or he really did melt.

  —Copenhagen City burning down now. And the same day they go bury him son? Lawd a massy.

  It’s running across the screen now: JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL

  —No sign of forced entry, no visitors all
owed in the cell today, nobody can say how the man get burn up. Maybe him just catch fire ’pon himself. Rahtid me can’t believe—

  —They sure is him?

  —Who else it going be? Some other man in General Penitentiary name Josey Wales? Shit. Fuck. Excuse me y’hear, lady, a nuff people me have to call now. Me can’t be—Lady, you alright?

  I make it through the door just before the vomit burst my lips open and splatters all over the sidewalk. Somebody across the street must be watching me hack fried chicken while my own belly is contracting the life out of me. Nobody is coming but I still left a mess right near his door. I’m trying to stand up straight but my stomach kicks itself again and I bowl over hacking but no vomit. At least the man is back behind the counter. I go inside, pick up my bag and walk out.

  I’m on my couch and the TV has been on for two hours but I still don’t know what I’m watching. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look cooked. I really should get a cover for this sofa. And maybe a painting or something for the living room. And a good plant, no a fake plant, any living thing would die under me. The phone has been in my lap for minutes now. Just as the credits start to roll it rings.

  —Hello?

  —Putting you through now, ma’am.

  —Thank you, thanks.

  My hands are shaking, making the phone rattle against my earring.

  —Hello? Hello? Hello, who’s speaking?

  My hands are shaking and I know if I don’t say something now, I’m going to slam down the phone before she speaks again.

  —Kimmy?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Even before I knew I had a novel, Colin Williams was doing research for it. Some of that hard work appears in this book, but more of it will appear in the next. By the time Benjamin Voigt took over as researcher I had a narrative, even a few pages, but still not quite a novel. The problem was that I couldn’t tell whose story it was. Draft after draft, page after page, character after character, and still no through line, no narrative spine, nothing. Until one Sunday, at W.A. Frost in St. Paul, when I was having dinner with Rachel Perlmeter, she said what if it’s not one person’s story? Also, when last did I read Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying? Well maybe not in those exact words, but we also talked about Marguerite Duras, so I went and read The North China Lover as well. I had a novel, and it was right in front of me all that time. Half-formed and fully formed characters, scenes out of place, hundreds of pages that needed sequence and purpose. A novel that would be driven only by voice. At the very least I knew what to tell my other researchers, Kenneth Barrett and Jeeson Choi, to look for. In the meantime, thanks to a travel and research grant from Macalester College, where I teach, I was able to do quite a bit of research on my own. Without brilliant and creative students to challenge me all the time, and a strong and supportive English Department, the four years spent on this novel wouldn’t have been quite as successful or rewarding. That one-year sabbatical didn’t hurt either. Quite of bit of that sabbatical was spent writing at a French café in South Beach, Miami, thanks to awesome support and free room and board from Tom Borrup and Harry Waters Jr., who (knock wood) have yet to charge me rent though I invent reasons to use their place all the time. In fact, the draft that I eventually showed to my wonderful agent, Ellen Levine, and fine editor, Jake Morrissey, was written not far from the actual beach. Before them of course was Robert Mclean, my first-draft reader, and still the only person I trust to read a manuscript even as I am in the process of writing it (though he is still mystified as to why). Jeffrey Bennett, my brilliant last-draft reader, line-edited the whole thing before it went off to the publisher and corrected, among other things, my wildly erroneous depiction of the drive from JFK airport to the Bronx. And thanks to Martha Dickson, who translated my loose English into Cuban Spanish when I made the mistake of thinking Mexican Spanish would do. A writer can go through days of distraction and self-doubt, so thanks to Ingrid Riley and Casey Jarrin for unwavering friendship, support and an occasional kick in the ass. Thanks to my family and friends, and this time around maybe my mother should stay away from part four of the book.