Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— I’m not going—

— Ken, now!

The wife comes over to me. That armchair, is it Danish Modern? she says. I say no, but I really wanted to say it’s so modern it was tossed out on the street only days ago. She’s just like rich women everywhere, including Jamaica. If it wasn’t for the string of pearls they’d never know what to do with their hands. Ken finally comes out, though nobody has to tell me that I don’t get to call him that anymore. He looks the same, except that his hair is not behaving like a movie star’s anymore. Some of it is hanging above his left eyebrow. He stands up straight and begins to walk out of my house with his hands in front like somebody cuffed him.

— Gail, darling, could you walk Dad to the car?

— Really, darling, I do think I have a few words to give—

— I’m not walking anywhere with this bitch.

— Both of you get the fuck out of this woman’s house and go to the fucking car now.

The wife leaves tugging the pearls and it looks like she’s using the necklace to pull herself. Mr. Colthirst stops to look at me, not the up and down summing up that snobs do, but straight in the eyes. I look away first. I don’t watch him leave. The son sits down.

— I don’t think we’ve met, he says.

— No. You were gone to work.

— Right. And you’re Dorcas, right?

— Yes.

— How did he get here?

I don’t know if I should answer him or take in more of how he looks like Lyle Waggoner too. I wonder if he would be happy or angry if I said they looked like brothers.

— Is he that wanted to leave. It’s not like I could stop him, all I could do was follow him and make sure he didn’t get into trouble.

— But the Bronx. Your house.

— You know I don’t have to answer that. You people called the wrong agency — at least that was how it looked. He was the one who wanted to get food in the Bronx. I didn’t have to follow him.

— Hey, I’m not judging you, ma’am.

— Not a thing happened.

— Miss Dorcas, I really don’t care. So do you know the deal with my pop?

— The Miz never got ’round to explaining anything, but I figured there must be something if you called the agency.

— Every day is a new day for Pop.

— Every day is a new day for everybody.

— Yeah, but everything about it is new for Pop. My father has a condition.

— Not sure I following you.

— He doesn’t remember. He’s not going to remember yesterday, or today. Not meeting you, what he had for breakfast, by noon tomorrow he won’t even remember being in your bathroom.

— That sound like a condition in a movie.

— A very, very long one. He remembers other stuff, like how to tie his tie and shoelaces, where his bank is, his Social Security number, but the president is still Carter.

— And John Lennon is still alive.

— Huh?

— Nothing.

— Doesn’t matter if you tell him, doesn’t matter what you tell him, by the next day he forgets. He can’t remember anything since around April 1980. So he remembers his children, he remembers hating my wife because of an argument they had the same day it happened, but every morning the kids are this surprise we sprung on him. And to him Mom died two years ago, not six. He also doesn’t believe it when you explain all this to him and, I mean, why should he? Who wants to be devastated every morning? At least thank God he doesn’t remember that either. I mean, you saw how he walked right past you, somebody he just spent the whole day with. In the fucking Bronx.

— What happened to him?

— That’s such a long story. Accident, disease. After four years it doesn’t matter at all.

— He never remembers that he forgets.

— Nope.

— Is it getting worse?

— I really don’t know.

I’m thinking that’s not so bad.

— You should know that’s why the last one before you quit.

— Really? That’s not what…

— Huh?

— Never mind. She quit?

— Yeah, I guess it got to her after a few weeks, having to introduce herself every day to a cranky old man who doesn’t know why she’s there. And even with that she couldn’t get past not treating him like he was sick, even though that’s what she was there for. You’re pretty much waiting for a bomb to go off every day.

— He’s not old.

— Huh? No… I guess he’s not. Anyway, we’ve got to take him home. We’ll call the agency tomorrow and let them know it was no fault of yours that we need a new—

— No.

— Huh?

— Don’t call the agency. I want the job.

— You sure?

— Yes I’m sure. I’ll take it.

C hrist, what a sloppy motherfucker. Took him out as soon as he stepped through the door. Well, knocked him out. Maybe he should have switched the light on as soon as he came in. Now I have him sitting on his own stool like a school dunce, hands tied behind his back. I thought about roughing him up a little. But I dunno, maybe it was because he just stepped in, or maybe I just wanted to… I dunno.

— You Weeper? I say.

— Who the fuck is you? he says.

I screwed the silencer back on.

— Oh, that is who you be. You look like somebody me know. Me know you?

— Nope.

— You sure? Me no forget people. Once a man enter the room me mark him face, just in case him…

— Something funny?

— Just in case him have a gun. What kind o’ gun that?

— Nine millimeter.

— Pussyhole gun. That me come to, going get kill with a battyman gun.

— Battyman?

— Samfie business.

— What? Why don’t you stop talking?

— Then why you didn’t gag me if you didn’t want me to talk? I mean, I could bawl out for murder.

— Go ahead, Kitty Genovese.

— Who that?

— Never mind.

— Something you want me to tell you, don’t it?

I pull up a chair in front of him.

— Smoke? I said.

— I man rather lick the collieweed, but put a cigarette in me mouth, nuh?

— I’m gonna take that as a yes.

I stick a cig in my mouth, another in his and light them both.

— You must be the first white enforcer me ever see. And me never see you ’round them place. Though me know me see you. Maybe you come to Jamaica as tourist.

— Nope.

— Me know everybody who work for Griselda and me no know you.

— How did you know Griselda sent me?

— Subtract those with a desire from those who have means.

— Hah. What’s the skinny on you and Griselda?

— That samfie, stinking cunt, madwoman bitch. She know who she ah fuck with? Long time Jamaica send me to set up the distribution link from Colombia to Miami. I couldn’t stand working with the fucking bitch. But I should have known that when I told her to shove her baby foot up her cunt that she would take it personally. Bitch think she could slap me because shipment was late just one time. When word get out that she start bite hand that feed her, them going string her up by her bloodcloth clit, you hear me. She goin’… but hold on. She don’t fuck with no white man. She don’t trust none of them. How come she dealing with you?

He coughs and I pluck out the cig. When he stops and takes two deep breaths, I stick the cig back in, to the side of his mouth, like a movie gangster.

— My mind just don’t cater fi that deh bitch, you know.

— Huh?

— Griselda! Me no understand how she move. If it wasn’t for me, she would have to deal with Cubans still. I mean, she know what she going bring on herself killing me? What she think going happen to her when Josey Wales hear this? Fucking woman. And who you again?

— Nobody. Somebody doing a favor.

— You can’t be nobody and somebody at the same time. Maybe you is some nobody, haha.