Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Pussycloth. Still can’t believe this bitch. Have a flight coming in only tomorrow night. Tomorrow fucking night. East Village and Bushwick ready, worse, Josey in New York. What going happen tomorrow when there is no me?

— I dunno, Pops.

— Them goin’ kill her for this, you know. Is all-out war between the Jamaicans and she over this.

— I told you, I don’t think it’s her.

— But she tell you ’bout it. Is she you goin’ confirm this too. Is alright, everything cool. Who the fuck bigger than Griselda? Must be bigger than Medellín too. Me is just a humble businessman. Is who me piss off so?

Don’t know why but I go over to the window to see if anybody was standing by the curb. I need another gun. Then I remember.

— Almost forgot. She wasn’t talking to me but she said the guy lived in New York. Some shit about him neutralizing the Ranking Dons in Miami in exchange.

— What, Storm Posse don’t have no problem with Ranking Dons in Miami.

— Clearly somebody does, and he lives in New York.

— And? Man who live in New York who have it out for Ranking Dons. Brethren, that is only me. Me and…

Shit.

He looks at me but his eyes go blank.

— Eubie. Me and Eubie.

— I was going to say that his name sounded like Tuba.

The Jamaican stares at me his eyes wide open, spooked like Stepin Fetchit, but not funny. Not funny at all. His bottom lip hangs loose like he was about to say something but couldn’t. It twitches. His shoulders slump. He looks at me and bows his head.

— Fucking pussyhole want all of New York to himself. And Josey never going know. He never going know because this will look like a Ranking Dons hit.

— Sorry, man.

I go back to the window.

— Yow, my youth, come here.

— Whassup?

— If you going take me out, at least make me go out ’pon the sky, no man?

— Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

He points with his head at the bag of coke. That didn’t work so hot the last time, remember? I say.

— That’s why you going help me shoot it up.

— What now?

— Shoot up. Injection. Sniffing is an idiot way to lick coke anyway. A pussyhole hit. Unless you have crack which you should smoke but me no have no rock in here.

— Dude, I ain’t got time for…

— For what, you boyfriend outside or something?

— Fuck you.

— Fuck yourself and give a dead man his dying wish. Needle in the bathroom cabinet. Bathroom, over by your—

— I know where the bathroom is, I say.

— A new needle.

I open his cabinet and tear one from the wrapper.

— What am I supposed to do with this? I say, heading back to him.

— Just mix up some from the bag and suck it up with the syringe.

— Right, buddy. What am I supposed to use, spit?

— Any water will do. You never do this before?

— Believe it or not, not everybody and his mother does coke.

— Just say no, eh? Good, good. You can just mix some in water.

— I can’t believe I’m doing this.

— Just do it.

— Don’t get fucking demanding on me, motherfucker.

I grab the bag and walk over by the sink. Coffee cup okay? I say, and he nods.

— How much coke? Dude, you need to talk me through this.

I had the tap on and the coffee cup. He looks my way and says,

— No, use the tablespoon.

— Suck up some water with the syringe, he says. Then press it into tablespoon. Then add like how much would be a line of coke. Then use like your finger and stir it a little, it shouldn’t take long since coke dissolve quicker than sugar. Then suck the whole thing back into the syringe.

— Where, buddy? I mean, like, your hands are kinda occupied.

— Batty.

— Fuck you.

— Not like I could stop you.

— Haha. You don’t need an arm, brethren. You could go between me toes but that just hurt. Feel for my pulse in my neck and just shoot.

I touch his neck.

— You not going feel much if you touch it like a pussy.

I feel like gun-butting him, but grab his neck like I’m about to strangle it. His pulse pounds under my index finger.

— Just push in and press?

— Yeah, man.

— Okay, if you say so.

I stick in and start to press. Blood pops up in the needle and I jump.

— Dude… blood… shit…

— No, no, blood is a good thing, don’t stop. Yeah… yeah… yesssss.

— That’s it, man. Shit. What did they cut it with, B vitamin?

— Haha, no cut, me brethren, this is—

Weeper’s eyes change. Something running through him like a pinball hit the wrong sensor and tilt. Motherfucker starts to shake. Small like an electric jolt first, then harder and louder like he was having a fit. His eyes roll back white but don’t come back, and foam pools at his mouth, running down his chest. Sounds push out his mouth like breaths, uh uh uh uh uh uh. His head starts to shake so hard that I jump back. His crotch just explodes piss. I grab him, wanting to shout Son of a bitch you made me give you pure coke , but his eyes open wide open and scream. He pushes himself off the stool and we both fall backways. Weeper’s kicking something awful, as if some monster’s grabbing for his legs. I can smell his breath all beer stink and ass and something else. He’s still jerking, choking and hissing, like ssssssss is the only thing that could come out of his mouth. And me I don’t know why, I don’t fucking know but I grab him around the chest and clutch him even though he was on top of me. I don’t know why but I was hugging and holding him and squeezing him and he was just shaking, man, shaking and shaking some more with the back of his head bumping into my forehead, foam bubbles popping out of his mouth. I grab his neck but don’t squeeze. Weeper wheezes three times then quit.

F our priests cover their faces with lightning, speaking a liturgy nobody out in the congregation knows. Every disciple wrote a testament, but not every testament is in the Bible, a man says to a woman who does not understand, ten metal seats down, thirty seats across in the National Arena. The Singer’s funeral. Gospel and heresy go in a dog fight over the body. Rastaman chants from Corinthians even though the elders told him to speak from Psalms, and all ten sit while he calls a king, God. Heresy. The Ethiopian archbishop says, Why go to Africa when it would profit you more to work together for a better life in Jamaica? The Rastafarians seethe and cuss. The archbishop came with weapons too — every Rastafarian wants to wake up in Shashemaneland, five hundred acres of lands bestowed by a deposed emperor. Defiant Rastas shout Jah Rastafari, only a few asking why is this an Ethiopian Orthodox funeral when the Singer was Rasta. Hundreds sit, stand and watch. The old Prime Minister still beloved by the sufferahs sits still, hunched over in loss. The new Prime Minister sits until called up. He gives a eulogy for a man he barely knew, but closes with a benediction, May his soul find rest in the arms of Jah Rastafari. Gospel versus heresy; heresy wins.

How do you bury a man? Put him in the ground or stomp out his fire? They give the Singer an honour on his deathbed, the Order of Merit. The black revolutionary joins the order of British Squires and Knights, Babylon in excelsis deo. A fire that lights up Zimbabwe, Angola, Mozambique and South Africa doused out by two letters, O and M. Now he’s one of us. But the Singer is sly. In time people will see that he prophesied over the very thing, singing of the false honour before it was even bestowed. Before the sickness took him. I hear him sing in his sleep, about Negro soldiers in America. Black American soldiers of the 24th and 25th Infantry, and the 9th and 10th Cavalry under the command of the paleface to butcher Comanche, Kiowa, Sioux, Cheyenne, Ute, and Apache. Fourteen black men in dirty boots take the Medal of Honor for killing a people and an idea. The Indians called them Buffalo Soldiers. The Medal of Honor, The Order of Merit, the same sounds flipped. Meanwhile I see the Singer coming in and going out in the top right side of parcels and letters. I’m already out of time.