Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

You know what, forget Green Bay. Even though you know too much about that too, it say something that is Tony Pavarotti that try to kill you. That means is definitely Josey. No question about it, Josey Wales realize that you know he try to kill the Singer. Or at least you was going to find out, though me don’t know if you as smart as he thought you were because for six years none of this ever even strike your mind.

Now this make sense. So this is why you come pay me a visit. I must be the only person in the world who have this kinda something in common with you. What a thing, the only two man Josey Wales try to kill who still living. And any hour now he soon land in New York.

T his plane land twenty-five minutes ago in JFK and we’re just leaving customs. Some bird tell me that this only happens when Jamaicans land. I don’t know how I know, I just know. Last time I fly to Bahamas the customs pussyhole actually say, Will all the Jamaicans stand to the left of the line. No, I didn’t stand to the fucking left and not one idiot say a damn thing when I go straight through customs and give them my passport. Didn’t even open my suitcase. Didn’t the Singer do that one time? Standing in line when the customs officer start to deal him some customs fuckery. He just grab him bag and walk straight out. Two Jamaicans in this line already get cart off by customs, one of them have three guards escort her. Fucking idiot, I hope she put the coke up her asshole and not up her pussy or worse swallow it, because all that time in there will cost her. Listen to me, thinking all Jamaicans must be drug mules.

Pity they stop the girl who look like she a mule when they should have stop the idiot embarrassing the country in first class. There we are, thirtytwo thousand feet in the sky and the air hostess announce dinner service. My girl took one look at what they was offering and say, No to backside a food you call that? A good ting me bring me owner bickle . Then I have to watch this damn buttu open her bag and pull out an ice cream bucket with fry fish and rice and peas. Damn fish stink first class so bad that I almost asked if I could move to a seat in the back — I’d even pay for it. Either that or whip out a gun and pistol-whip some class into her, if I brought one.

— Welcome to the United States, Mr. __________

I pass through the door into the baggage area only to glimpse two officers grab the young woman they pull out of line and throw her down to the floor. Outside of customs and we’re still inside the airport, one more thing that’s different from Jamaica. And there is Eubie. Standing right in front of the crowd of people, a lot of them black, a lot of them Indian looking, waiting on people to come out. Royal blue silk suit with white kerchief in the front pocket like he is the black man in Miami Vice . I really need to watch that show. Something tell me that if I call him Tubbs, Eubie would like it, uptown boy trying to play hardcore, except he really hardcore. I spend a lot of time thinking about Weeper too, but not in the same way and not for the same things. And what the hell this man have in his hand?

— Eubie.

— Mah man! Mah main man, he say like an American black man. He’s still holding up the sign saying Josey Wales, just like the signs the two chauffeurs beside him are holding up.

— What is this?

— Haha, this? This is a joke that we call a Josey Wales.

— Oh. I not laughing.

— Jesus Christ, Josey, where you sense of humour gone? Or you ain’t never have one?

I hate when Jamaicans start to pick up American ways of talking, and when they flip back and forth it put my teeth on edge. I laugh.

— That more like it, although you heart not in it.

Then he flings the paper into the air just like that, grabs my bag and starts to walk out. I’m following him but still watching the paper sail through the air and land near a rent-a-car booth.

— Should be interesting landing in New York at night. Is a totally different city than in the day.

— How soon before we get to Bushwick?

— Just cool, man, Josey. The night young and you just come. You hungry?

— There was food on the plane.

— Which me sure you didn’t r’asscloth eat. Boston Jerk Chicken on Boston Road.

— Seriously, you think me leave Jamaica to go eat second-class Jamaican food? That’s what you think?

— Fine, you want a Big Mac? A Whopper with Cheese?

In the parking lot, a black minivan pull out and stop in front of we. Maybe is a good thing I didn’t have my gun or I would have it out already. But then it’s not like this is downtown Kingston. The door open and Eubie point. For some reason I don’t move until he get in first. He’s nodding him head.

— Good old Josey, still trusting nobody after all these years.

He laugh, but I still don’t know what he talking about. I can’t remember Eubie from the old days. Outside we seem to be driving through lights, although I thought we would be passing mile-high buildings right away. So far New York looking like Lejeune in Miami, but I thought the streets would have been wider. Nothing but cars speeding past on the highway, which was strange since Eubie himself said nobody drives in New York. Maybe this wasn’t New York. I would ask, but Eubie already thinking he too smart. The van slow down and for the first time I realize that another man in the back. Stupid, stupid Josey Wales, you know better than this. No gun, surrounded by a crew from a man I work with but for real don’t trust, I should have at least asked for a gun as soon as we step out of the airport. We turn off the big highway and I see a sign saying Queens Boulevard. Strange this boulevard is much wider than the highway. We rolling down this street with brick townhouses, all of them three floors and sometimes four with a verandah and plastic chairs and bicycles outside.

— This is Queens, by the way.

— I know.

— You do?

I don’t answer him. We hit a pothole and I jump.

— Betram, what the fuck, man, you just run over a goat?

— Pothole, boss.

— Imagine the don, man, leave Jamdown to run into pothole, what a ting.

— We didn’t want him to feel like stranger, Eubie.

— Haha.

I’m hoping that nobody see me jump in the dark, or I might have to do something.

— My boy Josey jump like he hear duppy.

Everybody laugh. I don’t like how he’s parring with everybody like he and them is size. I don’t like when any fucking man disrespect me, even as a joke. This man really thinking me and him is neck and neck. He really think so. I wonder if this would happen if Weeper was managing Manhattan and Brooklyn the way he seem to be managing Queens and the Bronx. We need to talk as soon as we get out of this van. Meanwhile I’m wondering what the man in the back doing. Then we on another highway, and I look over and there is the sea or the river and there is a neon sign of the old Pepsi label, old from when I was a boy.

— So, Josey, I was thinking. I—

— You going talk business in the van?

— What, this? I trust my men implicitly, Josey, meaning—

— You not about to tell me what implicitly mean.

— Woi, Josey check you out, nuh? Man bad like sin! But ah nuh nothing. We can wait until we reach Boston Jerk Chicken. Funny, eh? What are the odds, Boston Jerk Chicken from Portland would land on Boston Road in New York? That is what me son would call irony, from him lit class. They grow up fast, eh? How old you big son be now?

— Fourteen. All this can’t wait till we get out of the van?

— Just making convo, but suit yourself.

The van stop. I didn’t even notice that we was in the Bronx. I know it was after nine but the street still busy, with people moving up and down in the middle of the road, along the sidewalk and in and out of store like it’s still daylight. Cars park on both side of the road and all of them either Buick or Oldsmobile or Chevrolet. Miss Beulah’s Hair Technique, Fontaine Brothers shipping, Western Union, another Western Union, Peter’s Boutique Men’s Clothing, Apple Bank, and then Boston Jerk Chicken. The place look like they was about to close, but somebody must did see Eubie, because a light from the back just go on. So now I’m wondering if Eubie forget that I say no Jamaican food, or if this is another cute disrespect. We sit down, just me and him at an orange plastic booth near the door with him directly in front of me. One of his men by the cashier and two stand up outside.