Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— What kind of a name is Weeper?

— Better than four eyes.

— Funny. Want another cig?

— No, them fucking sticks goin’ kill you. That bitch. That bitch. How much they paying you?

— Plenty.

— Me’ll double it. You want coke? Me can give you two house full o’ this. You live like Elvis for the next ten year. You want pussy, me can get you any pussy you want in New York, even pussy that don’t turn pussy yet. Or maybe is batty you want.

— Batty?

— Anus. Rectum. Shit hole.

— Oh, I see.

— Me no care what people want to do. Plenty ah chuck badness then spread for man to fuck out the batty. People do what people do, me just want the money. Hear this, a man who run one PNP district? This man they call Funnyboy? Have man suck him cock and eat out him battyhole all the time, then him shoot them dead right after.

— Say what?

— That me say.

— Damn waste of a mouth if one of them eats him out so good, though. You laugh, but that’s some serious shit right there.

— How old you be?

— Old enough.

— You a pickney. You just a start. This business here. Me tied up for you to kill me, this don’t make no sense. And don’t think they goin’ make you leave this house alive. After the killing must come the cleanup and you goin’ stink like last week garbage.

— I’ll live.

— You dead as soon as you pull the trigger. What she paying you? Me will double it, triple it, you know.

— See that’s the problem, you could double, triple, quadruple, quintuple, the figure is still the same.

— What? She nah pay you nothing? You doing this for free? You is a sicker cunt than that ugly bitch. The whole of unu crazy. Crazy, crazy. Me kill nuff people and not a single one wasn’t business. You people get too used to having endless supply o’ bullet. In Jamdown, Jamaica, you make them bullet count, because shipment don’t always come on time. Tell me this, eh? Who goin’ do the transshipment now that she rubbing out the Jamaican connection? She think she goin’ work with them fucking Cubans again? She try to kill six of them in some club two weeks ago.

— You know about that?

— Of course me know ’bout that.

— And you doin’ this for free. What them have ’pon you? You catch her eating out pussy?

— Griselda’s a dyke?

— Johnny Cash wear black? She chum up to them gogo girl all the time and then when she get tired of them, one bullet, thank you, ma’am. She and Funnyboy should form a singing group.

— That’s some funny shit.

— She one crazy cunt, you know. But she never let that get in the way of making bills before.

— That’s cuz it’s not her hit.

— What?

— She’s just setting it up, buddy.

— How you know that?

— You’re the same one who just said that a hit from her made no sense. Seems somebody is covering up their tracks to get to you.

— No sah. Fuckery you ah talk. Nobody from Jamdown behind this. Even if is so it go, them wouldn’t go ’bout it like this.

— You could say somebody made her an offer that she couldn’t refuse. Nothing personal. I hear she has nothing but kind words to say about you.

— She can go fuck herself with a Pepsi bottle.

— No, really. It’s probably not my business. Somebody made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Get it? The Godfather ? No? You’re crushing my groove, Pops.

— So is money?

— Fucking Jamaicans. You guys not big on irony, huh?

— Is the money or no?

— Not the money. For her or me. I just got caught in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. You just ended up with the wrong fucking enemy.

— Bigger than she? Boss in Colombia? Them don’t need me dead. Them more ’bout business than she. Josey contact them first years ago, not she.

— Guess they’re bigger than Colombia too.

— That only leave God. Is God, don’t it? Hah, which angel you be? Gabriel? Michael? Maybe me shoulda put some lamb blood ’pon me door.

— Haha. Wished somebody warned me about this fuckin’ city.

— What’s so bad about New York? Living the dream here, brethren.

— Lived.

— Pussyhole.

We both laugh.

— Can’t wait to jet from this fucking city, I say.

— Who you running back to?

— Huh? Why’d you ask that?

— Pum-pum must be tight like fuck.

— Pum-pum?

— Pussy.

— Oh. I guess you could say that.

— So you love the bitch?

— What? Shit, what a fucking question.

— Look like yes.

— You’re stalling.

— Tell me about the girl.

— No.

— What me goin’ do? Tell National Enquirer ?

— You’re stalling.

— Tell you before. Me not the only man in here on borrowed time.

— Shut up, you.

— She cute?

— No.

— You like them homely?

— No.

— So she a sweet little thing then. What she name?

— Rocky. Thomas Allen Bernstein, but I call him Rocky. Can you shut up now?

— Oh.

— Yeah, and I don’t need your fucking shit.

— So him cute?

— What the f—

— Well if you goin’ be a battyman, at least get the best batty.

— Batty? Oh right, you told me. Hah, he does have a cute batty, come to think of it.

— Batty is the first thing you check for? Maybe you really is Jamaican.

— His batty is cute. And his face. Dimples, the boy’s got dimples. He always wants to shave but I wish he wouldn’t at all. And his hands, they look like he’s tough but he’s never put in a hard day’s work in his life. But he laughs like a fucking weasel. And he snores. And—

— Alright, man, too much of the batty boy business.

— Good stall though. Shame. You’re the first man in this fucking city worth talking to.

I get up and go behind him. I push the gun through the hair until it touches his skull.

— Anybody was here when you let yourself in? Anybody was in here?

— No.

— Oh. Oh good. Good.

I’m about to pull the trigger.

— Wait! Wait! Just wait. How unu fi do me like that? Me no get last request? Gimme a hit, nuh? Just one last hit. Have a bag right there behind the TV stand that already cut. One last one. At least make me no care if I get shot or not.

— Fuck, man, I gotta get out of this city.

— You can’t cut one fucking bag open and give a man a hit? Give a man a hit nuh, man. Give me a hit.

— That how you Jamaicans roll? In Chicago nobody uses and deals, at least not their own supply. Always the beginning of the end when that happens.

— That why you new whiteys always look so sorry all the time. Unu not having no fun. You not going tell me who take out contract ’pon me if is not she?

— Don’t know, buddy. You gonna sniff that?

— You cut me a line? Two hands kinda occupied, if you didn’t notice.

I find the bag, actually a sack of bags between the TV stand and the wall. I cut one open with a Swiss Army knife, and throw the pack down. Cocaine spills out.

— Then make a line, no boss, he says.

I scoop out some cocaine with two fingers, and shaped a line the size of a cigar on the desk.

— You have some elephant ’round here you want to kill or something?

— That should get you high.

— That would get all of Flatbush high.

I separate a new line the size of a match.

— This goin’ be hard with me hand them tie.

— Improvise.

The Jamaican bends down on the desk and lean his head left trying to sniff through his left nostril. He give up and lean right. — Fucking shit, he said. He tried again, sniffing harder, two, three times.

— Shit, I really need to shoot this up.

— Can’t help you there.