Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— You short.

— Wha? Excuse me.

— Excuse me? Did I utter, mutter or stutter?

The older kid groaned. — You’re killing us, Ma, he said. She smiled.

— You like that, Guapo?

— Yeah, Ma, all the groovy cats be digging it.

— Don’t be no jiving turkey on my ass.

The older kid groaned again while the other held his plate up for more yuca.

— You, sit down for breakfast, she said, and pointed the frying pan at me.

I kinda stood still. I wasn’t sure who she meant, until Brown Suit pushed me, more like double-punched me in the back. Older kid looked at me once then turned away, younger kid sucked up what looked like albino fries and the man said nothing, not once taking his eyes off the paper. Go get him a plate, she said to no one. The man got up and grabbed a plate from the cupboard, then went back to the paper. She spooned out yuca into what I assume was my plate, and chorizo from a red frying pan.

— You the motherfucker who messed up my business, she said.

— Excuse me?

— Again with your excuse, excuse, excuse. Do you need to go potty?

The younger kid laughed.

— How does it hang?

— It’s how’s it hanging, Ma! Fuck!

— My muchachos , don’t think I talk English too good. I tell them I am businesswoman in America and I need to sound more American, right? Keep on truckin’.

— Righteous, Ma.

— Anyway, you — yes, I mean you, I’m talking to you. You the bitch who messed up my hit.

— I didn’t mean to. Your boy—

— That boy is historical.

— History, Ma!

— History. That boy is history. Got sloppy. Always happen when you give a job to a black-black. No discipline, no nothing, all they do is talk your business yap yap yap yappa-doodle. What he tell you?

— Nothing, really. Said he was going to wipe out a table full of some wetbacks—

— Mind your fucking mouth, putito .

— Sorry. Said he and his boys were going to wet some Cubans in the club. Tipped me off to get out of there. Told my buddy Paco that we got to go. He said he was going to warn his friend. Figured it was some bouncer or something, not some—

— Enough talking. Your side of the story is… not interesting. You know what’s interesting? Them maricones haven’t been in the same place in six months. Six months, honko.

— Honky, Ma, Jeezus sakes—

— Enough with your disrespect at the table, she said and pointed at the boy. He lipped up quick.

— Back to you. You know what I am? I am American businesswoman. You just cause me a lot of money. Lots and lots of cash. Now what I wanna know is what you plan to do about it.

— Me?

I bit into a yuca. Figured if this was my last meal it makes some sort of sense it would be breakfast. The sound of the TV finally drifted into the room, something about a forty-foot gorillillillillilaaaa! The man was still deep in the newspaper. I never thought anything interesting happened in Miami that somebody would sit down to read about it. But this was good yuca. Not that I’ve ever had yuca before, but this was a home-cooked meal and that must mean it was good, even though my ma’s food sucked.

She slapped me hard. Said something about me not paying attention, but the slap struck me fucking blind. I reached inside my jacket so quick I forgot I didn’t have a gun. Before the sting burned my fucking face, before Griselda pulled back with a hot pan full with oil ready to strike, before I jumped up and the chair fell backward, before I could even call her a motherfucking cunt son of a mangy wetback bitch, I heard the clicks. Five, ten and fifteen all at once. I couldn’t remember when the Hawaiian Shirts came into the kitchen but there they were. And the man in the brown suit. And the man at the kitchen table. And the older boy, all looking at me with the same furrowed brow, all pointing guns at me, 9mm’s and Glocks and even a six-shooter with a white ivory handle. I raised my hands.

— Sit down, the man at the table said.

— You all better fucking learn to respect this mamajama, she said.

Pink Hawaiian Shirt gave her a manila envelope. She ripped it open and pulled out a photo. Griselda giggled hard and started to wheeze and shake. Fucking thing must have delighted the shit out of her. She handed the photo to the man at the table who looked at it with the same stone face that he read the newspaper. He threw it at me. It spun in the air for a few whirls but landed, almost perfect and straight, right in front of me.

— Looks like el gator prefer to kill his own meat, no? Next time I feed them an alive motherfucker, not a dead one, eh?

It was Baxter. Alligators couldn’t figure out what to do with his head. Try not to vomit, say try not to vomit over and over and you won’t.

— What was the point to rubbing Baxter out?

— Sending a message. Who have ears let him hear, that’s what the sister use to say at the what they call it here? Convent? Uh-huh. Baxter fucked up and you did too. But my boys been doing some checking around, eh? Word is you did a job in New York that even the police thought was clean.

I nearly laughed. Everybody knew I was sloppy. How bad Miami boys had to be where I can come off like a smooth operator?

— This is what you gonna do for me.

I must have blacked out for hours when I hit the sack. Didn’t have a clue that somebody was in the bed until,

— No I don’t know what I’m gonna do for you.

The greasy-haired trick from last night. God, I hope I didn’t take this faggot home only to pass out under him. But he’s still here so either he liked it or he couldn’t find my wallet and wants to get paid. Or maybe he got nowhere else to go. Well this is one mess, me on the floor with just my t-shirt on, this Colombian bitch jumping in on my dreams with her shitty directions and me not even remembering my flight from Miami to New York City. Let’s see, landed at seven p.m. Checked in hotel room in Chelsea at nine (why you wanna go to Chelsea? Pink Hawaiian Shirt asked me. I didn’t ask why his eye popped open when I said Chelsea), scoped out this little trick wearing tight running shorts and a Ramones t-shirt like he meant it in the meatpacking district at eleven-twenty.

— Eh? What now?

— You said you want me to do something for you. Unless you paying extra, I gotta go.

— You gotta go? Action on the pier too busy to miss?

— The pier? You old, man. That place you’ll fall through the floor and get tetanus or some shit. Besides, nobody really goes there now ever since they start calling that gay cancer shit AIDS. They been closing some of the baths too.

— Oh really? Well how about we do this. You take those pants off, wait, wait, hold the fuck up. First take my fucking wallet out of your fucking back pocket, because this thing I got in my hand, you know this thing I just pulled out from under the bed, don’t have no flag saying bang when I pull the trigger.

— Jesus, Daddy.

— No Daddy bullshit. There’s a good boy. Next time you pick a guy’s wallet don’t wait around to make breakfast, you dumb fuck. Now about that something you’re gonna do.

I rolled over on my back, legs up in the air. Locked them both in the crook of my arms and spread open like a fucking flower.

— You better make sure you use tons of spit.

Fine, I wasn’t expecting a dossier or nothing but she was so sketchy on the Jamaican that he became mysterious by default. First I asked why not just let me take on Baxter’s hit and finish the job, but she said no, I gotta earn that shit first (yeah I noticed that she said first, making it clear by just hinting it, that there would be a second and maybe a third and who knows how much more). There was a Jamaican I had to rub out in New York and today was the once-in-a-lifetime chance to get it done right, her dramatic effect, not mine — Jesus I’m a fag. She wasn’t one for physical description other than saying he was a black-black and he’d probably have a piece on him. Brown Suit filled in with his address and basic M.O. One day in 1980 he just popped up with a fucking Cuban calling himself Doctor Love and there he was. Griselda didn’t work with any fucking Cubans, not when she was trying to kill them all, so orders to work with the Cuban and the Jamaican must have come from Medellín. So here he comes like he owned Miami already with a deal to put Jamaica as the best middle point between Colombia and Miami, especially now, with fucking Bahamians fucking up the link and shooting up their own stuff. Griselda found out the Jamaicans have also been working with the Cali cartel and that was some fucked-up shit. But Medellín was okay with the Jamaicans and even showed their chain of command respect. She had work with them, something she didn’t like but couldn’t say no to. Just in the way she talked you could tell she didn’t like his posse sandwiching her, controlling the shipment from Colombia to the States and moving in on the boys selling crack in packets on the street. He said the Jamaican got his training from the CIA, which was probably bullshit but still something I had to watch out for.