Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

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.