Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

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 hear 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?