Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

Ten feet away, a phone booth.

— Hello?

— Rocky? Where the hell were you? You gonna answer me goddamnit?

— John-John.

— I called you. More than once.

— I really need to sleep.

— I guess you had a fucking busy day.

— No, not really. Was figuring out what birthday card to send to Dad. I do every year. Why did you call me, John-John?

— What? Huh? What do you mean?

— I’m always pretty clear about what I mean. Why are you calling?

— Well because, because.

— I just watched one depressing episode of M*A*S*H and an even more depressing episode of One Day at a Time . It was either Lou Grant or bed. Although this episode had to deal with some spazzy suicide chick but then it was only part one, One Day at a Time , I mean. What do you want?

— What? What do I want? I don’t want anything.

— I really need to get some sleep.

— Then fucking sleep then.

— Huh? You’ve got a problem, don’t you?

— I don’t have a problem. It just takes the fucking cake, huh? How somebody who does nothing all day can be so tired.

— And here I thought my stepmother was dead. Turns out she’s right here on the phone talking to me.

— Fuck your stepmother.

— You miss me, don’t you?

— Don’t make me fucking laugh. What a stupid fucking question.

— Yeah stupid. Also makes you sound like a homo if you say yes.

— You’re the homo.

— And you’re clearly twelve years old. Either way, I don’t care.

— You don’t care if I’m a faggot?

— No, I don’t care enough to have this conversation. Anything else?

— Why are you so fucking…? You know what? No. Fucking no, Rock.

— Well then, good night.

— Good night. Wait! I mean, wait.

— What?

— I… um… I… you… you made it with anybody?

— What’s it to you?

— Fucking hell, Rock, what the fuck!

— No, the answer is no. I don’t see why it matters, we’re not together or anything. And you do whatever you like. You made it with anybody?

— No.

— Don’t see why not. You are in NYC, faggots, fogies and foreigners and you’re still pretty young. Either way, I’m going to my bed.

— It’s not your bed.

— Good night.

— Wait.

— What now, Jesus? Would you like some phone sex? You want me to say fuck me Daddy until you beat yourself off. Fuck me, oh fuck me with your big fucking cock Daddy, ooh cum on my face, treat me like a bitch, oh—

— Jesus fucking Christ, can’t you say something nice? For once.

— I’m sorry. I’m… whoa that was a big yawn. Where were we?

— Good night.

— See you la—

It felt good to hang up on the bitch. Focus. I’m across the street waiting to take this Jamaican out. Except I haven’t figured out how exactly yet. I don’t even know if this should be a one-man job, in fact it shouldn’t when so many things are up for grabs. I don’t even know if he’ll be alone in his house. Nobody has come or gone for hours, I think but I don’t know since it’s still too dark for the lights to come on. I’m really walking in there blind and stupid, as if this wasn’t part of Griselda’s fucked-up plan to begin with. Take the man out, but if he also takes me out that’s just a fucking bonus. It’s only eight. Even if he’s there he couldn’t be asleep. The best thing to do was wait until he leaves and take him out in the street. But if he is what she said he is, there’s no way he’d be alone on the street, which might be why these Miami boys gave me the Uzi after all. This was getting fucking complicated. Nothing to do but wait till a reasonable hour and move in. Screw on the silencer. Pick the lock, scope out the room, sweep and take him out. Maybe all you need to be a pro is to think like one. All Iceman-like.

Instead all I got is nerves. This isn’t supposed to be my fucking hit anyway, I’m just trying to keep myself alive for a few days. Jesus Christ, what kind of hit man’s got daddy issues? Ten years ago, at a corner 7-Eleven in Chicago. The day before I walked twenty blocks before I found one. Sweating in my father’s fat slob leather jacket. The day before when I was scoping the place, an old man was at the counter listening to talk radio. This time it was a girl in a maroon t-shirt that said Virginia Is For Lubbers, grooving to “Love Train” on the radio. She didn’t bother to look up when I came in. At the far end of the mag rack, Penthouse, Oui, Penthouse Forum, Penthouse Letters. Hustler was fine since they had dicks even though I didn’t know that I wanted dick, but behind that, Honcho, Mandate, Inches, Black Inches, Straight To Hell . But Blueboy wasn’t sealed and nobody came down the aisle. For a while I wondered who the fuck was breathing like Darth Vader until I realized it was me. Twenty blocks away, nobody would find out, right? This guy was telling her that this Iran thing is really getting out of hand and President Bubba better do something. On the cover the boy’s cowboy hat put everything in the shadow but those wet lips kinda kissing a cigarette. Blueboy March 1979. OUTLAWS: The Bad Boys Who Love It Anytime.

Sick, was what Pop called me too, one day when the man went through my shit looking for cash so that he could buy cigs and soda and chips to balloon his fat ass even bigger. I wish I coulda been there when he found Super Nova Cocks, Super Hung Cocks, Cock Tease, Cock Hungry and Super Surge Cocks , that one with Al Parker looking like a spurting Jesus. Did he throw up after that one? Did he shake his head and say I knew something was fishy about that boy? Did he sit down and read a few? So I finally come home not ready to take any crap for nobody, least of all that loser, only to see the man hobbling out to the living room, holding the mag with the pink cover, Super Nova Cocks , and shouting you fucking dirty little faggot! You fucking dirty little faggot! There’s a special part of hell for people like you. Can’t believe a fucking son of mine, a son from fucking normal blood, is out there fucking the fudge out o’ some fucker’s ass. This must be from your mother’s side of the fucking family. That’s what you do, fag, fuck ass all night long?

— Got it wrong, Pop. Usually it’s my ass they’re fucking. All night long.

— What the fuck did you say?

— Don’t you know, Pop? I’m the hottest piece of ass on the whole east side. They line up around the block to see me, specially them black dudes. This one time this black guy fucked me so raw I couldn’t even—

— I oughta—

— You oughta what, man?

Pop stepped to me but I wasn’t ten years old. Sure he was bigger, and fatter, but I’d been waiting on this for years.

— I oughta—

— You oughta go back to your fucking room and watch All in the Family and stay out my fucking business, Pop. You want two bucks for some Fritos?

I walked right past him to go to my bedroom but Pop grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back.

— I oughta kill you for the disgrace you bring to this family.

— Take your fucking hand off me.

— You’re gonna fucking burn, you—

— Take your fucking hand off me.

— I oughta—

I pulled the Beretta out of the holster. Fuck yeah I was carrying a gun by then, just in case one of those cars still had the driver in it and he started to make a fuss. Pop jumped back, holding his two hands stiff, like some bank clerk in a stickup.

— You oughta what, you son of a bitch? Do I look like I’m scared o’ you?

— You, you…

— I’m one of those men you only pretend to know, talking your shit all the time. I’m going into my fucking room and fucking sleep. Don’t ever come in my room again, you hear me?